The Pedestal Read Online Free PDF

saved.
    _exit;
    Marilyn gives me a rueful sigh and a great, invisible wind billows her white skirt around little hands that only just protect her modesty. With an indignant Hmph! she blows off my retinas like a deflating balloon.
    Where was I? I’ve lost my train of thought, but fortunately, Dr. Seymore is right here to keep me on track with another brilliant witticism. “You see, Mr. Billings left us no medical records or living will, and there’s a small problem with his NanoPrint.”
    I breathe a deep, therapeutic sigh through my nose and project a flat smile. A security guard appears at the door and begins to hover patiently. A moment later, when he’s joined by another, my eyes begin to narrow suspiciously. “Okay, I’ll bite. What sort of problem?”
    Dr. Seymore looks me sharply in the eyes, sustaining the glance as if it might say something all on its own—although exactly what is beyond me—and shifts his attention to the officers at the door. For a split second he seems frightfully uncomfortable. I guess I can understand, even if I can’t personally relate; getting the dress-down in front of a corpse probably hasn’t been the highlight of his day. Then again, I’m not exactly having the best of days either.
    Then, just when I’ve begun to think he has forgotten about me altogether, the doctor opens his funny moustached mouth to speak, and the words that come out plunge into my chest like little auditory fingers, squeezing the breath from my lungs with flesh-like dexterity.
    “Well, I guess there’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Abby, so I’ll just say it. It’s gone. His implant has been, uh ... well, somebody removed it.”
    At once, I understand with horror why Art was left uncovered, why hospital security is waiting to pounce on this room as soon as I depart it. Looking once more upon Arthur’s inanimate body, my inner lens starts to come into sharper focus.
    Good Lord, this isn’t merely Arthur’s deathbed—it’s a crime scene.
     

 

     
     
    I push past Keisha—dang it, Keith —and into the racks. The whine of servers and auxiliary fans is so intense here that most don’t dare venture inside without hearing protection. Actually, on most days, I’m quite careful to heed this precaution—it’s been somewhat of a belabored point at IDS since one of our interns sued us a few years ago, back before it occurred to us to mandate the use of earplugs.
    Under the circumstances, a little hearing loss is the least of my concerns.
    I make a beeline to the back wall, where Ryan and Tim—our resident server and database gurus—are locked in heated debate over nonsense.
    “There’s no way Telia is hotter than Gillian—she’s got a crank third arm!”
    “I’m not talking about on the show, idiot. I’m talking about in real life. Besides, you’re not considering the potential of a third arm, Ryan.”
    “Ugh! You’re a lonely man, Tim. A sad, lonely man who needs a pet. And a therapist. A three-armed therapist with a license to lobotomize.”
    “ I’m lonely? The last time you went on a date ... wait, I’m sorry—have you ever been on a date?”
    Tim’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful; hate me because I’m smarter than you,” and I almost crack a smile. On any other day, you know?
    I wait patiently for a polite break-in, but their volley is as fluid as it is juvenile. I realize a few minutes in that my presence is somehow prolonging their exchange rather than drawing it to a close—I’ve given no sign of amusement, but apparently they consider a bored audience to be better than none at all. At four minutes and twenty seconds, I can wait no longer.
    “Listen up, guys,” I bark. The whining of fans is already rousing a headache. “We have a big problem.” The banter falters; they both look at me with deadpan eyes and—as if sharing one brain—ask in unison, “Where’re your earplugs?”
    Ignoring the jab, I hastily explain the mystery