Page 27 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Two

Heliopolis

Bent and stiff, a wizened old man in baggy blue overalls pushed
open the door to Farrell Pygge’s plush office suite with a janitorial
cart.
The director looked up from the desktop monitor and scowled,
his tan young face caught in a rainbow of cathode rays beaming from
beneath it. “Could you come back later? I know it’s after hours, but I
have a meeting scheduled now. Didn’t you see the notice on the
outer door?”
Mance A. Megra, master of disguise and agent extraordinary for
the Heliopolis directorate, grinned, straightened up, and pulled off his
mask and wig.
“Got you again, Boss.”
“Mance! You dog! All right, you made your point: you’re still the
best in the business. Come in, close the door, have a seat. We’ve got a
problem down in Sector thirty-four. Do you want a vitaslurp?”
He pulled open a drawer in the credenza behind him, revealing a
refrigerated compartment full of bottles. “I’ve got Rootie-Fruitie,
Fizz ‘n’ Wizz, and Cherry Bomb.”
“Thanks.” Mance sauntered over to the armchair in front of the
executive’s desk. He was a few years younger than Farrell, and
considerably lower on the pay scale, but his demeanor displayed little
respect for the man or his office. “Give me a Fizz. Oops, have to
take out this fake denture first. There. So, what’s the problem?
Rejuvies feeling their oats a bit too much? Need a party-pooper?”
Pygge took a swig of his optimized beverage and shook his
head. “No, this time you’ll have to take the chance of blowing
your cover once you get to the guy. He needs a bit of truth
drummed into him. Our truth. He won’t respond to electronic
messages from the directorate, and there are certain things we
wouldn’t want to commit to a backup tape.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s he up to? Organizing a sky-dive for the other
rejuvies in his block?”
“You wish. Nope, this dear citizen of Heliopolis—whose name is
Bud Farcy—is showing signs of turning into a gracer.”
“Seriously?”