The Man Who Melted Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mediterranean. Torn pieces of newsfax capered toward him in the wind like pigeons chasing bread. He passed an old woman cleaning the street in front of a dingy bistro called “Club California.” She gave him a nasty look and stirred dust devils into the air.
    He nodded to her and walked toward the old La Castre Museum. He would be home soon. The sea was behind him; the streets noisy with vendors and children and congregating neighbors. He passed his friend Joan's apartment and felt the old pangs of guilt. But he didn't stop. He would make amends later. She would understand. She always had.
    He could feel a sort of electricity around him, as if a storm were brewing. Yet, there was not a cloud in the sky. But today would be a good day. It would bring him closer to Josiane. Perhaps Pretre would finally call to grant him permission to hook-into a dead Screamer.
    Perhaps Mantle could find Josiane inside a dead man's mind.
    Carl Pfeiffer stood outside Mantle's house in Old Town.
    Mantle lived in a faded, dirty-looking yellow house with common walls and noisy neighbors—just under the clock tower, the grand machine that ruled ancient Cannes. Before the close-packed, tile-roofed, chimneyed houseswere the square and the Church of Good Hope; then more houses and shops, less deteriorated and with a better view of the harbor and the misted island of Ste-Marguerite.
    Before Mantle could change direction, Pfeiffer saw him and was shouting and waving his hands.
    What the hell is he doing here ? Mantle asked himself, already feeling trapped. Too late now to turn back on the Rue Perrissol, to try to find Joan and kill time until Pfeffer grew tired and left. He wouldn't even have to miss Pretre; Mantle would have an excuse to call him .
    â€œI've been waiting here for an hour,” Pfeiffer said, taking a backward step as if Mantle had given him a push. Indeed, the thought had crossed his mind. “I left a message on your telie yesterday,” Pfeiffer continued. “Haven't you been home? Don't you check the Net for messages?” He gave Mantle a condescending look.
    The Reverend Pretre refused to leave any messages on the Net, so Mantle had not bothered to check it.
    â€œYou could at least pretend to be happy to see me,” Pfeiffer said. “It's been a long time.”
    â€œThis is a surprise, Carl,” Mantle said, worrying his keys out of his pocket. His voice was still hoarse. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
    â€œYou're still angry about the past, aren't you?” Pfeiffer asked—more a statement than a question. “After all these years, let things die.”
    â€œI can't remember the past, remember?” But Pfeiffer could, and Mantle hated him for that.
    â€œWhatever you may think, I was always your friend.”
    â€œLet's not go into that.” Their friendship had been ruinous, built upon the premise that Pfeiffer would succeed and Mantle would fail. Pfeiffer had always done his part. Now that Mantle's life had caved in, he was making an entrance.
    â€œThis is just a visit, not work-related at all,” Pfeiffer said as if Mantle had asked a question. Again that condescending look, but that was Pfeiffer's way. He was a stout man with a boyish face and a shock of blond and silvery-gray hair. Pfeiffer looked like the successful reporter: expensive clothes that seemed slightly worn, sureness of manner, steady stare—an apple-pie, good-old-hometownboy, definitely a media man, not a shut-in newsfax technician like Mantle, but an actor, a holographic image seen every night in the millions of American living rooms. Pfeiffer was the good doctor who could make the daily dose of bad news palatable to his patients. Mantle, on the other hand, looked too menacing to deliver news. He had a tight, hard face, high cheekbones, deeply set pale blue eyes, and a strong, cleft chin. He looked younger than his forty years.
    Mantle was surprised that Carl had not yet recited his latest