Starman

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Boys will be boys,” Jenny murmured.

  “They are going on their honeymoon? If so, why does she run from him?”

  “So he’ll chase her. This isn’t what you think. Honeymoon’s later. This is more like your basic primitive mating ritual.”

  “Mating ritual?”

  “Like boy meets girl.” She eyed him sideways. “The things I end up explaining to you. Don’t you have that either? No sleep, no food, and no that? What do you do with your nights up there, anyway?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Never mind.” She turned her attention back to the room, trying to penetrate the swirl of activity surrounding them. “The sign outside did say that the office was in here. Ah.” She spotted the desk and started toward it, wending her way through swaying beer-drinkers. “I don’t see a clerk. He’s probably hiding somewhere in the back.”

  Students and the occasional older celebrant made way for her. Sure enough, the clerk popped into view an instant after she rang the desk bell. At the same time the recorded music was turned off in favor of the makeshift dance band and she had to shout in order to make herself intelligible above the renewed roar of the dancers.

  “My husband and I—I say, my husband and I would like a room. As far away from this as possible.”

  The clerk grinned ruefully. “I can get you one in Lincoln.”

  “Very funny. We’ll take the best you can manage. We’ve been on the road all day and we’re both dead tired.”

  “You’ll have to be, to sleep through this.” He shoved a register full of preprinted forms across the desk. “King or double?”

  “Anything, so long as it’s halfway quiet.”

  “Ain’t got no such animal tonight, but I’ll do the best I can. Here.” He handed her a pen. She filled out the registration slip and handed over her credit card, waited as he ran it through the machine, then accepted her receipt and the room key.

  “You’re down at the end here,” the clerk told her, pointing to a map of the motel layout. “Second floor. Maybe this bunch’ll run down around two or three in the morning, but I doubt it. Good luck.” He turned and vanished into a back room.

  She turned. “Okay, we’re all set. Maybe if we turn the air conditioner on high it’ll drown out some of this noise. We can—” she broke off, looking around anxiously, suddenly aware she was talking to empty air. “Hey?”

  The starman had disappeared.

  “Great,” she muttered. At least he couldn’t incite those around him to riot, like he had the hunters. The riot was already in full swing. She started hunting through the crowd for him.

  Under the tutelege of and direction from the band, most of the celebrants had formed a line and were snake-dancing their way out into the motel’s central courtyard, heading for the big swimming pool. The starman was in the lead, mimicking the steps and swaying perfectly in time to the music. Jenny wasn’t surprised to see that he appeared to be having himself a fine old time.

  Unfortunately, the line was twisting straight toward the pool and she didn’t know if he had the vaguest idea how to swim. She rushed toward him.

  He stopped by himself, however, breaking away from the head of the line to stare down at the water. The cheerleader and her pursuer were standing in the shallow end, locked in a damp embrace. He stared at them intently. They were much too involved in each other to notice the attention the stranger was devoting to their activities.

  So absorbed in study was he that he didn’t notice that he was about to be run down by the rest of the snake dancers. Jenny grabbed him and dragged him, still staring at the pool, out of the way. She led him up the stairs toward the second floor of the room complex across the way. He followed unquestioningly, though he kept glancing back over his shoulder toward the water.

  Up on the second floor she pointed toward the end of the walkway. “Go on, go stand over there out of the way and try to stay out of trouble while I check out our room.”

  Obediently, he turned and moved to the end of the walkway. Once there he found himself staring at a big blue soda machine which was receiving the angry attentions of one of the Nebraska lettermen. The kid was whacking it repeatedly with one hand. He glanced up at the starman’s approach, indicated the machine and explained.

  “Damn thing’s busted. Ate my sixty cents.”

  “Broken?” The starman examined the device.

  “Yeah. That’s what I said.” He jerked a thumb down toward the central courtyard and the mass of milling students. “Sometimes a guy wants something besides a beer, y’know?”

  Instead of replying, the stranger ran a finger along one side of the dispenser, then passed his palm over the front. Satisfied, he put his hand against a chosen spot and pressed lightly.

  Something deep inside the machine went whang. This was followed by an echoing, clanking sound, following which Cokes and quarters began erupting from their respective slots. The letterman gaped at the machine, then at the solemn-faced stranger.

  “Hey, how’d you do that?” he asked, even as he was dropping to his knees to start grabbing up quarters.

  The man gave him a thin but pleasant smile. “Yeah, Cornhuskers.” Before the letterman could reply a young woman appeared, took in the scene, and started dragging her companion back up the walkway. The astonished football player was too busy clutching at coins and drinks to follow.

  “For God’s sake,” she snapped at him, “can’t I leave you alone even for a minute without you getting into some kind of trouble?”

  “Yeah, Cornhuskers.”

  She sighed. “Right, that makes everything okay. Please try and stay out of trouble. For my sake, okay?”

  “I am sorry if I did something wrong, Jennyhayden.”

  She glanced back down the walkway. It was deserted except for the letterman, who continued stuffing his pockets unaware that he was the recipient of that evening’s dose of interstellar largesse.

  “It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.” She pushed in the door, led him into their room. It was clean, spacious, and more expensive than necessary, but on this trip the last thing she was concerned about was exceeding some imaginary budget.

  “Look, I’m going to take a bath. Soak myself in water. As hot as I can stand it.”

  “Why?”

  “To get clean and to try to relax a little.” She stepped past him, made sure the safety latch on the door was hooked. “You stay put.” She glanced around the room once more, then crossed to the television and turned it on. “This knob controls the channels, see?” She demonstrated for him. “And this is the volume. Think you can watch TV and stay out of trouble while I’m in the tub?”

  “I think so, Jennyhayden.”

  “Fine.” She headed for the bathroom.

  Class place, she decided after closing the door behind her. Free shampoo, shower cap, the works. She turned on both taps, adjusting flow and temperature until they were just as she wanted them. Steam began to rise from the tub.

  Better double-check on him, she told herself, just to make sure.

  She was worrying needlessly. He was sitting just as she’d left him, in the chair opposite the TV, watching the late night news. She wondered what he thought of it but was too tired to ask him.

  “Good,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Oh boy, am I whipped.” She began to undress, kicking off her shoes, pulling off her blouse and then wiggling out of her jeans.

  “My mother always told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with the world that a hot bath, a good night’s sleep, and . . .”

  She had her thumbs hooked under the waistband of her panties and had them half shoved down when she stopped. The starman had turned from the set and was staring at her. His expression was unreadable.

  “What the hell am I doing?” she mumbled. She scanned the room before crossing to the bed and pulling the spread off. It made a bulky but serviceable sari. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “It’s just that in this light you’re so much like him. I guess
I’m getting punchy. I . . .”

  “You said the nose is different.”

  “What?”

  “You said.” He hesitated briefly, then repeated her words. Words she’d all but forgotten. His inflection and pacing were identical to her own, but at least he used his Scott-voice now instead of mimicking hers. “Your nose is different cause he broke his twice and there’s something else, I dunno, something spooky about your eyes.”

  “Word for word.” She stared at him in wonder. “Do you remember everything you hear like that, word for word?”

  “Everything I hear. Everything I see. Everything I—this body—feels. It is my job.” Suddenly a splashing sound made her eyes go wide. She turned and charged for the bathroom, the bedspread flapping like a cape around her half-naked form.

  “The tub!”

  The door slammed behind her. The starman stared after her, listening to the sound of faucets being hurriedly turned. The distant flow of water ceased. He stared at the door for several moments before turning his attention once again to the flow of two-dimensional images appearing on the front of the video device.

  Still the news. Sports now, including slow-motion replay of the conclusion of a bloody prizefight. Football scores, then footage of a hotel fire with brave men rescuing children and old people. The weather, with satellite photos of cloud formations scudding across the continental United States. The starman didn’t move, his eyes never wavered from the screen. And all the time he spent watching he was analyzing as well as storing.

  Because his job involved more than the mere acquisition of information. He would be expected to render opinions as well.

  Half an hour later Jenny emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in the bedspread, and promptly collapsed on her side of the bed. She crawled under the covers, discarded her temporary covering, and in minutes was sound asleep.

  On the TV the news made way for commercials, then a movie. The starman recognized the film as a simulation, rather than a realistic representation of reality. Frequent commercial interruptions further confirmed his initial deduction.

  On the screen, two figures were rolling about on an unknown beach. They were entwined in one another’s arms, kissing passionately. Now the starman’s attention shifted back to the sleeping Jenny. Back to the scene unspooling on the TV, then back to Jenny again. Television, bed, television, bed.

  The scene concluded, made way for a fat man in a funny hat hawking used cars. He was talking a mile a minute from his perch atop an elephant. The starman noted the elephant for future reference. Then he rose and moved over to the bed, sitting down on the side next to the somnolent Jenny. He ran the scene he’d just watched back through his memory, wanting to be sure of the details. Then he bent toward her.

  She turned over in her sleep. He crossed to the other side of the bed, sat down again, and lowered his face toward her.

  There was a thunderous knocking at the door. He jumped off the bed and stared at it in alarm.

  “Hey there, buddy! You in there?” It was a voice he’d heard before. He recognized the speech pattern and tone of the young human whose cents had been eaten by the red machine.

  Jenny was sitting up in bed now, blinking sleepily and clutching the sheet to her chest as the starman crossed to the door.

  “Wait—no.” She was trying to will herself awake.

  “It is all right. I know who it is.” He opened the door. The letterman stood framed in the portal.

  “Listen buddy, it’s none of my business, but if that’s your green Mustang out there in the lot there’s a couple of cops trying to jigger the door.”

  Tripp worked the wire through the weather stripping, started easing the loop on the far end toward the door latch.

  “Hurry it up.” Dusseau was looking nervously toward the motel.

  “Why? What’s the rush? They’ve just checked in. They ain’t going anywhere except maybe to beddy-bye. Take it easy. Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  As he finished this there was a loud scraping sound from the vicinity of the motel courtyard which was followed by a tremendous splash.

  “What the hell was that?” Dusseau muttered.

  “I dunno. Better check it out.” Tripp left the wire dangling through the weather stripping as he followed his partner toward the motel.

  The central courtyard was drenched and everything smelled of chlorine. It was Dusseau who spotted the big Coke machine lying on the bottom of the pool, bubbling forlornly. The courtyard was deserted.

  From the parking lot came the sound of a big engine turning over. The two men exchanged a glance, then turned as one to race back through the breezeway that led into the motel. They reached the lot just in time to see the green Mustang swing off the pavement and out onto the highway.

  “The bastards ran one on us!” Tripp led the rush to their cruiser, threw himself into the driver’s seat. Sirens and lights flashing, they peeled out in pursuit.

  Peering into the rearview mirror, the starman detected the trailing lights. “What means?” he asked Jenny.

  She turned and looked through the rear window. “Oh, crap! The police are after us. Authorities.”

  He nodded and floored the accelerator.

  Dusseau picked up his mike, spoke into it as Tripp tried to keep the taillights of their quarry in sight. “Papa Charlie Three. Suspects in green Mustang heading south at high speed on U.S. two-eight-one. We are in pursuit intending to overtake.” He shut off the receiver before anyone could think to order them not to.

  Utilizing all his newly learned driving skills the starman wove in and out of traffic expertly. Two more patrols cars manifested themselves in the rearview mirror, joining the chase behind Dusseau and Tripp’s cruiser.

  They were nearing the on-ramp leading to Interstate 80. The starman never slowed, squeezing into the southbound lanes barely in front of an eighteen-wheeler.

  Jenny covered her eyes. The starman straightened out, just missing the stern end of another big truck, and stepped on the gas again as the police car accelerated to parallel them.

  He reached beneath the seat to bring out the forty-five. Tripp saw it immediately.

  “Watch it! He’s got a gun.”

  As the starman raised it, Jenny looked over and saw what was happening. She knocked his arm down, leaned out her window and screamed, “No!”

  Too late. Tripp had the riot gun aimed and let fly. The blast blew a hole through the passenger side of the Mustang, shattering metal and glass and sending splinters flying through the car. Somehow the starman retained control. The door absorbed most of the force of the shot—but not all. Jenny caught the rest. She slumped against the starman. Blood was already starting to stain her blouse.

  “Jennyhayden!” Her eyelids fluttered as she stared blankly up at him. She made an attempt to speak but nothing came out. Her mouth moved soundlessly. She looked more surprised than hurt.

  As the highway split, the Mustang pulled away from the police cruiser. Dusseau was trying to drive while arguing vociferously with his trigger-happy partner. The eastbound lanes became separated from the westbound by a steep rocky island. The glint of a river was visible far below and pine trees began to forest both sides of the road.

  The starman fought the wheel as the highway twisted around a stony bluff, tires screaming. They were speeding uphill now. Both pursued and pursuers were forced to slow as their respective engines labored against the sharp gradient.

  Far ahead, atop the crest of the hill where the road leveled off, were six stationary vehicles. The starman saw them, glanced again into the rearview mirror. There were now four police cars on the Mustang’s tail. He made a quick appraisal of the route ahead. Yes, there ought to be room on the side of the road, there between the pavement and the first big boulders.

  The Mustang whipped past the first stopped car, cut into the shoulder on the highway’s flank and threw up a huge cloud of dust and gravel. A few of the occupants of the parked vehicles had seen the Mustang coming. One man jump
ed into its path, waving his arms and trying to stop it before it went over the rise. When it became clear the oncoming Mustang wasn’t going to stop for anything, the would-be samaritan dove for safety. The other drivers gaped at it as it rocketed past.

  From above came the sound of a descending helicopter.

  Looking down and out, Shermin could see the Mustang nearing the crest of the hill. He was cursing hopelessly. He was too far away, too late, and helpless. Then there was no more time left anyway, no more time at all.

  When the Mustang reached the top of the grade it was doing a hundred and fifteen. It left the pavement and sailed into the sky, started downward in a slow, graceful curve. Twenty yards from the crest lay the cause of the lineup of stopped cars. The big gasoline tanker was lying jackknifed across both lanes. Unleaded trickled from a broken valve, running across the highway into a ditch on the far side.

  The starman saw it looming ahead of him like a beached whale. As the Mustang descended he reached into a pocket of his windbreaker and grabbed convulsively at one of the gray spheres.

  That was all there was time to do before the Mustang smashed into the tanker’s side. As the horrified drivers of the parked cars shielded their eyes, a gigantic fireball erupted toward the heavens. The big tanker spasmed. The chassis of the Mustang was thrown skyward, a flaming pinwheel that soared downhill.

  Lemon was leaning over Shermin’s shoulder, all thoughts of chain of command forgotten, peering out the window of the chopper at the inferno below. “Jesus,” he muttered softly.

  Sirens fading, lights still spinning, the pursuing police cars slowed to a halt among the stopped vehicles. Troopers piled out of their cars and joined the other spectators in gazing in horror down at the roaring blaze. Tripp stumbled forward until the heat forced him to halt. Then he turned away and started throwing up.

  The helicopter circled over the wreck for a minute, illuminating it with its big belly light. Then it descended, touching down dangerously near the flaming tanker and the skeleton of the burning Mustang.