The Alien MEGAPACK®

by Talmage Powell

  The first time I noticed the showbills, I was on my way to the office one cold, blowy morning with a spate of rain in it. I had just parked my machine at the downtown ’copter park and was walking to Eighteenth and Raleigh.

  The bills had gone up the night before—there were six of them, all the same. Each showed a headshot of Coleman the Great. He looked as if he was in his early thirties. He had long, platinum-colored hair that swept back from a clean, wide forehead. His eyes were gray and cold, with that penetrating look of the professional wizard. His nose was thin, slightly flaring at the nostrils. The lips were neither full nor bloodless, but firm; the jaw sternly modeled.

  “Take a look, boy!” I told myself. “There, but for Fate, soars yourself, Gil Bradley…”

  For, under that massive headshot of Coleman was a full figure display of Cleo Parker in her G-string—beautiful, talented, and her name in letters six inches high. Big red letters. Even without the letters, I would have known her—by the go-to-hell smile on her full mouth, the light in her golden eyes, the flaming mop of hair…

  If the closest I would ever see Cleo again was a seat down front, I’d revel in it, for Cleo Parker was the greatest cardiac stimulant ever devised in the history of man.

  Much as I wanted to go backstage and see Cleo face-to-face, I was afraid to. I doubted that she wanted to see me again. Some people seem to get a lot out of me in a short time, after which I seem to become persona non grata. That’s how it had been with Cleo.

  And so, I was really shaken up when Cleo called me on the videophone. My name’s in the book.

  “Gil!” said her image from the screen. I just looked into her golden eyes and felt myself swimming there, speechless. Viewed even this close, by the uncomplimentary video scanner, her skin was without flaw or blemish.

  “Didn’t you know I was in town?” she laughed.

  “Know it! Kid, I haven’t missed a show!” My voice was husky.

  “Good boy!” A shadow gathered in her tawny eyes. “Gil…I didn’t call to rake over…old times!” I’d swear she’d been about to say “dead ashes.” Old times—that sounded better. “I…we want to see you, Gil. Important. Can you come over?”

  I looked at the clock. It was 12:30 a.m. I had just got in myself a half hour and two shots of rye ago. I signified assent.

  “The Carlton…” She gave me the room number. “As soon as you can.”

  That would be tonight. She nodded, broke the connection. My head was whirling.

  The atomic jets on the ’copter blades rumbled, cutting a circle of flame overhead. I flew low, under the drenching scud, practically on instruments. The wipers clicked and squealed, and water gushed on the windshield. Pretty soon, I made out the smoky flare of downtown neons.

  I set down in the ’copter park and went out through the variety section of the supermarket, which was open all night. The grocery section was locked and dark, but the bar and the restaurant were still doing business.

  I thought longingly of stopping in for a quick one but resisted.

  Cleo wasn’t alone at the hotel. Three tall, blond young men were in the room when she let me in. They were pleasant, even affable—nothing sinister about them, but they gave me the heebie-jeebies. Who wants an audience at an unexpected reunion?

  Cleo introduced me briefly. “These are Willie, Tom and Joe,” she said. I could see there was something on her mind, and it wasn’t old times.

  If the trio had other names, Cleo didn’t mention them, and I never found them out. She nodded them toward the door, and they went out.

  She strode nervously back and forth with that lean-hipped, long-legged gait I knew so well. Her skirt, strictly formal, swished about her ankles. At every third step, she drew explosively on a long, filter-tipped cigarette, making it pop. She talked urbanities—so nice to see me again, et cetera—insincere. I stood, holding my hat so that it dripped on the hotel’s rug instead of my new, hundred-and-twenty-five-buck topcoat.

  “Sit down and collect yourself,” I said.

  She flashed me a grateful look, as if the idea of relaxing hadn’t occurred to her. I tipped my head toward the door. “Bodyguard?”

  She looked at me queerly. “Yes.”

  The simple affirmative knocked the wind out of the silly comment I had readied to follow my supposed joke. I tried to look wise, as I thought she would expect.

  “How would you like a job, Gil?”

  This wasn’t like Cleo at all. “I’ve got a job,” I said cautiously.

  She shrugged, a delicate weave of bare shoulders. “This job pays real money.”

  “They don’t pay me in trade-outs at the agency.”

  “We need a publicity man…to take Frank Henderson’s place.”

  “I’m thinking of three years ago, Cleo.”

  “Let bygones be bygones, Gil.” She waved her cigarette and the smoke writhed in blue coils. “I’ve told Roy about you—your talents. He’s willing to give you a trial.”

  “What happened to this Henderson you mentioned?” She searched me with tawny eyes. “He died…in New York.”

  “Occupational hazard?”

  She flushed. “I’m overlooking that, Gil. If you’re really interested, it was pneumonia.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said drily.

  “You’re a first class publicity man, Gil. Why are you wasting your life with account work?”

  It was my turn to flush. “What’s wrong with being account exec? It pays.”

  “You gave up publicity…because of what I—?”

  “As a matter of fact, I lost the job I had when you knew me. I got into an argument with the boss over a bottle.”

  “I’m sorry, Gil. I really am.” She sounded like she meant it. My heart, which had begun to freeze, thawed a little. God, she was lovely!

  “Liquor was never strictly my weakness,” I confessed bitterly. “It was a lump of flesh called Cleo Parker.”

  She got up, strode quickly to the sideboard.

  “Drink?”

  I could still taste the rye, thick and fuzzy on my tongue, like the aftermath of a ham sandwich. I didn’t want any more.

  “Thanks. Let’s get down to cases.”

  “I’m offering you a job, Gil, as Coleman’s publicity man.”

  She had pressed her back to the sideboard; her arms were outspread along the top; her tawny eyes were wide, clear of guile. A perfect theatrical pose. She named a salary that made me suck in my breath.

  “You could hire real talent for money like that!”

  “I am. Moreover, we can trust you.”

  “Any danger I’ll die of pneumonia?”

  Her jaw set. “If you need time to think it over, it’s all right. Can you make up your mind by tomorrow?”

  I looked at my wristwatch. “You mean today.”

  “Have it your way. How about after the evening performance—backstage? Roy will want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. I turned to leave.

  The door opened and Willie, Tom and Joe filed in. I figured they had been listening and resented it. I scowled as I went out. The trio smiled affably and Joe held the door open, then closed it gently after me.

  I walked the rainy, neon-lit streets, deep in thought. It was too late to buy a drink. I wandered back to the ’copter park and found the restaurant still open.

  The coffee tasted flat, but it was hot. I sat in a booth, far back in a corner, and puzzled the situation. Cleo hadn’t, after all these years, precisely fallen on my neck, but she had offered me an excellent job. Good pay, too. Why me, considering what had passed between us? Was she really sorry, as she had hinted? Did she want me to come back to her? I’d never find out if I didn’t accept her offer.

  For three years she had haunted me, and now the ghost was coming alive. Maybe…old things weren’t dead things…ye
t.

  Of course, the trouble was, when I last knew Cleo, I hadn’t been able to do anything for her. She had thought I could, with my publicity angles and all. It was her ambition that had upset our apple cart. She had wanted to go on the stage. The man she left with was able to give her a better show than I. Corny Vaquero—the South American cornet fiend. She warbled with his band, in night clubs, but it got old, so she left him. Then she had chased two or three other opportunities—a Hollywood actor, then, probably, a director or two. Now she had settled on Coleman the Great, and was doing nicely at it, too.

  The men in Cleo’s life meant nothing to me. The farther she traveled, the more welcome she’d be when she returned to papa—if she returned…

  I didn’t notice the man until he leaned over my table. He was short, bald-headed, with ears cupped like flower petals in the rolls of fat at the base of his skull. His eyes were blue and questioning. “Mr. Gilbert Bradley?”

  I resented being yanked out of my reverie. I gave him a truculent look. I’d never seen him before, so manners didn’t matter. “Who wants to know?”

  He smiled, satisfied, and slipped into the seat opposite. I didn’t like the smile on his piggish face, as if I was a pail of slop, and he was enjoying the thought of gobbling me up.

  “I have a proposition…”

  I buried my face in my coffee mug, ignoring him as well as you can ignore a man in one of those dinky restaurant booths.

  “…that will mean a great deal of money for you. All you have to do is accept the job offered you tonight.”

  I set the mug down with a bang. Coffee slopped on my hand. His smile drew thin, a weirdly improper look on such fat chops.

  “Money talks, does it not, Mr. Bradley?”

  “I’ve been quoted a salary. It’s quite enough!”

  “There is still more to be had…if you work also with us. I represent an organization willing to pay well to have a man on Coleman’s stall.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I stared at him; I knew what he was driving at—Coleman’s professional secrets. I had heard more than hints of the efforts that had been made by the competition to discover how Coleman performed his illusions.

  “Henderson worked for you,” I accused briefly.

  His eyes narrowed. He shrugged, then gave with that thin smile again. “Have it that way. He was, however, of no value to us.”

  I laughed harshly. “Pneumonia! And Henderson died…”

  He raised piggy little eyebrows, shrugged. “I don’t know how Henderson died. It is not important. You aren’t afraid to take over his job?”

  “What’s your organization?” I wanted to know.

  “I am not prepared to reveal that. You need have no fear, however of its solvency—” I leaned toward him, sloshing coffee again. “Solvency be damned! I’m not interested in your solvency, or your proposition, either! Now, get the hell out of here and let me alone!”

  I lifted the mug threateningly, and his face whitened under its pink, sweaty sheen. His eyes went the color of agate and his lips tightened. I decided the man was dangerous. Then he smiled, jeeringly. He stood up and looked down at me, possessing himself, calmly impassive. “If you change your mind, you’ll find me at the Carlton. Ask for Mr. Gregor.”

  The Carlton! I stared at his retreating back, wondering how much he had paid somebody to tap Cleo’s videophone—maybe plant a visaudio pickup in her room.

  I didn’t have much time to kick the thought around. A big man, muscled, brushed past Gregor on his way out. He made straight for my booth, squeezed in without an apology. His topcoat was wet, and the brim of his brown Stetson dripped a dismal pool on the plastic table top.

  “This is getting monotonous,” I said uncordially.

  “Sorry, Bradley.” He fumbled in his breast pocket. His face was lean; the nose sharp; hazel eyes were shadowed under shaggy brows. When he spoke, I caught a glimpse of snaggy, yellow teeth.

  He flipped his hand toward me, displaying credentials, and a curious thrill wriggled through my nervous system. “I’m Johnson,” he said flatly. “Bureau of Internal Security.”

  I couldn’t resist being an advertising man, of the cute type. I said, “I’ll confess. You don’t have to beat it out of me.”

  It was weak repartee, and both of us knew it. “Smart!” said Johnson with a hungry smile that showed his big, yellow teeth. “Do I have to tell you what I want?”

  I thought, standard procedure, B. I. S. handbook, page number so-and-so—quote to throw the suspect off balance and render the impression that his guilt has been discovered, et cetera, et cetera unquote.

  “I’m not a menace to national security,” I said, “and I don’t know why you should give me the impression you think so.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted, pushing ridges of flesh against his high cheekbones. It made him look wolfish. “The Bureau has a funny way of thinking that people who look innocent on the surface are guilty as hell underneath.”

  “Guilty of what?”

  “Maybe you can answer that better than I.”

  An intense man, Johnson, capable at his job. The country is safe in the hands of men like Johnson. But what was he pushing me for?

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said.

  Johnson’s lupine grin twitched wider. “We’ve had our eye on you for two years, Bradley. You and a lot of others.”

  The statement staggered me. Had anybody even faintly hinted I was under surveillance by the B. I. S., I would have laughed in his face. I began to worry, going over past sins. I had never done anything I couldn’t explain and right now, I couldn’t think of anything that needed explaining.

  “What do you mean by ‘a lot of others’?” I wanted to know.

  “Everybody Cleo Parker has ever known.”

  He triggered his bomb right in my face, just like that. I stared, the blood draining slowly, leaving me white with anger. My cheekbones felt on the verge of splitting the covering skin.

  “What’s Cleo got to do with it?”

  He saw I was mad, and it didn’t faze him. “How much do you know about Coleman the Great?” he came back with equal savagery.

  I saw I’d never get anywhere dueling with this expert. He could hammer me all night, brain-dazzle me into pliant mush. I spread my hands. “I’ll level. Coleman’s a stage magician—a good one. I’ve seen him perform. I’ve read his reviews. Raves. I admire his ability and showmanship. Anything more I can tell you?”

  “About twelve-thirty tonight,” Johnson thrust coolly, “Cleo Parker called you, at your apartment, on the videophone. You were in. You took the call. She asked you…”

  “That’s enough,” I interrupted sulkily. “So Cleo called me. I went over to see her. Is that a criminal act, affecting the security of the United States?”

  Johnson grinned tightly. “It could be. Let’s stop kidding around, Bradley. I’m serious. Could the Parker woman have called you over to offer you a job?”

  “You were listening; you ought to know.”

  “All right, she did. She asked you to fill Frank Henderson’s shoes.”

  I alerted. “What’s about Henderson? He died.”

  “Sure, he died. Doesn’t it worry you?”

  “Not so you could notice it,” I lied.

  “Henderson worked for the wrong people.”

  “Coleman.”

  “And somebody else.”

  “Gregor?”

  “Exactly—until he got in Gregor’s way. He took Gregor’s money, Bradley, and failed to kick through with what Gregor wanted. That was dishonest.”

  I got his drift. “If you know Gregor killed Henderson, why is Gregor still walking around?”

  “We’ve got use for Gregor…yet.”

  The image of Gregor rose up in my mind, fat and shining.

  “Did you take his proposi
tion?” Johnson asked.

  “Hell, no!”

  “I thought not; he went out of here looking murder. Look, Bradley, we know you’re clean. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Thanks,” I said drily. “I travel with a clean crowd.”

  “Keep it that way. Stay away from Gregor, and take that job Coleman has offered you!”

  “I don’t think I want it,” I protested. “Cleo and I didn’t get along too well before…”

  He nodded, grimly. “We know about that, too. She ran out on you.”

  “I don’t hold that against her…”

  “You’re a poor liar, Bradley.” His tone turned friendly, confidential. I wondered on what page of the B.I.S. manual that tactic was recommended, and under what circumstances. “It’s natural you’d resent it, but I’m asking you to forget it. Play up to the woman. Take that job—and do your country a good turn for a change.”

  I said, “I don’t like this…”

  Johnson gave me a level stare. “It’s Coleman we’re after, not you or the girl. By working with them, you may be able to find out what we want to know.”

  “What have you got on Coleman?”

  A queer look crossed his craggy features and he shoved his hat to the back of his head. “Nothing—that’s the hell of it. If we were sure, even, of what we suspect, we wouldn’t need you. We’d nab him right now. I’m suggesting that you forget your own feelings for the time being and work with us.”

  “I don’t take pay from two masters.”

  “You’ll get no pay from this one. The United States government doesn’t pay for what we want you to do. It’s your patriotic duty. You work with us because you want to.”

  “Suppose I don’t?”

  He stood up, smiling grimly; his hazel eyes danced under bushy brows. “It’s immaterial. We want you to. That’s the point!”

  * * * *

  I flopped and tossed in bed, listening to the wind throw rain in sheets against the glass as it howled around the fire escape outside my window.

  I must have dozed, finally. The next thing I knew, the lights were on. It seemed preternaturally quiet, and I thought perhaps the rain had stopped. There was a big, foreign-looking man sitting in my bedroom chair. He was thick through the shoulders and waist—not fat-thick, but muscle-thick. He seemed to be about fifty, his hair gray as a day-old crust of snow, crew cut, and his ears looked as if they stuck out farther than they really did, because the sides of his skull were practically shaved. His eyes were black, and they did something to his expression, loaned an air of restrained fierceness to the thick jowls that flowed into his bull neck.