Levels: The Host Read Free Page A

physicals, right?” Oldyer looked up from the papers and resumed his scrutinizing gaze. “You know how to talk, firstface?”
    “That’s right, sir. Been here all day.” Watly’s hands were damp again. They’d been going damp like that on and off since he’d first gotten on line at five that morning. The whole thing had been much more an ordeal than he’d expected. The enormous queues, the tension, the waiting, the shuffling, the forms, the prodding, and the endless, endless questions .... Yes, sir-ree, the admissions procedure at Alvedine Industries’ Hosting Building was. .. less than soothing.
    Watly surreptitiously wiped his clammy palms across his pants legs on the pretext of smoothing the fabric. A conspicuous dark stain of sweat was left behind.
    “So you want to be a host—is that it, Mr. Watly Caiper?” Oldyer’s voice now had a tinge of sarcasm to it.
    “Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”
    “A fade-out host? A final host?” Oldyer’s sunken eyes gleamed.
    Watly’s stomach did a complete half turn. Something bubbled in his throat. “No, no, Mr. Oldyer. Not a fade-out host, sir. Just a host. A regular host.”
    The huge man was playing with him. Any other circumstances and Watly would have socked him in the jaw. The guy was a secondkissing bolehole. But it was all too important. This was the big time.
    “We’re always in need of a good fade-out host, Mr. Caiper,” Oldyer said slyly, leaning back in his chair. He was smiling. The man was showing off his power. He was threatening Watly— trying to intimidate him, trying to make him hinky and more.
    Watly allowed himself a tight little smile back. “I’m not interested in dying just yet, sir. I understand fade-out hosting pays very generously but I’d have no one to leave the money to. Right now, sir, I’m just interested in hosting.”
    “And why would that be, Mr. Watly Caiper? Why do you want to be a host?” Mr. Oldyer lifted his pencil again and began to slowly—almost sexually—caress it with his fingertips.
    Watly picked out a particular Oldyer nose hair to focus on before answering. A gray one. “I need the money, sir—Mr. Oldyer. It’s the only way I know of to make a lot of it fast.”
    The huge jowls reared up to form a smile again. A big one. “Oh, you’re a treasure, Mr. Caiper. A real treasure. Need the money, do you? That’s precious. I’m stunned. Imagine my surprise. Kelgar! ” Oldyer’s voice boomed out—directed over the half-wall to the next office. “Kelgar! This unique fellow’s in here because of financial considerations! He needs the money!” The big man rose with great exertion. His fat wobbled asymmetrically over the top of his pants as he rounded the desk toward Watly’s side. The floor shook slightly under Watly’s feet. “Imagine that!” There was clipped laughter from beyond the half-wall. “Needs the money!” Oldyer moved closer and held his face just a few centimeters away from Watly’s. Watly could smell the stale alcohol-infused breath, the rancid skin. He saw that Oldyer’s swollen nose and cheeks were covered with a fine latticework of blood vessels that grew more engorged by the minute. A map of blood. The guy was flushed. “Mr. Caiper,” he said. “Mr. Caiper, in the entire history of hosting—since it first began—there has never been a sofdick subspawn of an applicant like you who came across my desk, or any other terradamn desk. .. who didn’t need the raping money.” Oldyer accented each of the last few words by poking Watly in the stomach with his blunt index finger.
    Watly Caiper remained as still as possible. He wanted to strangle this Mr. Oldyer. This bole- hole. He wanted to knock him down and see how high he’d bounce. He didn’t. He didn’t budge. He breathed. In-out. In-out.
    Oldyer moved even closer and Watly thought for a moment the big man meant to kiss him.
    “You’d like to hit me, wouldn’t you, catbreath?” Oldyer asked softly. “You’d like to knock