“Secure the scene?”
“An endangered species is being slaughtered right under my very nose!” she said. “You can be sure there’s not going to be another yeticide on my watch! Which is why you’ll have to vacate this cabin ”
“What? I’ve still got more than a month’s rent paid on it!”
“That’s your problem, Mr. Krusden, not mine. My problem is protecting biodiversity, which is why I’m having the forest around this cabin declared a sanctioned protection zone. You should just be glad that I don’t charge you as an accessory to an environmental felony. You have ten minutes to pack up and leave!”
Speed stalked out of the cabin and slammed the door behind her.
Bob looked around the cabin in dismay. How the hell was he supposed to get everything packed in ten minutes?
Suddenly, from outside the cabin, there was a deep-throated cry, soon joined by a woman’s scream, both of which were cut off by a loud, wet WHUMP.
Bob opened the door to find out that Speed had been crushed by yet another falling yeti.
****
“Mr. Krusden, do you know what the penalty is for killing an agent of the federal government?” asked Agent Rollins.
“Look, I did not kill Ms. Speed. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That’s what you say. We have not ruled out foul play in Ms. Speed’s death, and we still consider you a suspect.”
“She was crushed by a yeti.”
“Even if that is the case, we can’t necessarily rule out that you used the yeti as an instrument of murder.”
“Do you think I’ve got secret catapult or yeti-firing cannon out behind the cabin?”
“Never underestimate the devious byways of the criminal mind.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little crazy?”
“Crazier than yeti falling out of the sky?”
He had a point.
Two hours after Ms. Speed’s demise, two FBI agents had shown up at the cabin and had become quite perturbed at the most recent turn of events. Now Agent Hernandez was busy examining the bodies while his partner questioned Bob.
Hernandez walked up, shaking his head. “It certainly looks like she was killed by a falling yeti.”
Bob spread his hands. See?
“And the others?” asked Rollins.
“It looks like they fell too. You can still see the indentions in the loam.”
“Are you sure they’re yeti?”
“Heck if I know. I’ve never seen one before. But they ain’t guys in funny suits.”
“That’s aren’t guys in funny suits. You’re an FBI agent now, Hernandez. We speak proper English. And don’t say ‘heck.’”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Just then another SUV pulled up and two men climbed out, one of them carrying a camcorder.
“Oh, great, just what I need,” groused Rollins, moving off to intercept them.
“Tightass,” muttered Hernandez under his breath.
“Rollins, FBI,” he said, flashing his badge, “This is a crime scene, you’ll have to leave immediately!”
“Agent Rollins, Dan Parker, FOX-31 News. Is it true that this cabin is the sight of a bigfoot killing spree?”
“No, it’s not, and get that camera out of here!” he said. The cameraman kept filming the FBI agent for a moment, then panned to take in the dead yeti on top of Speed.
“How many people has the murderous bigfoot killed so far?”
“Only one! No, strike that! No comment! How the hell did you hear about this anyway!?”
“Oh, you came through loud and clear on the police scanner! We were out doing a spitting tree spider story when word came across, but nine or ten other news crews are on their way.”
“I said, get that camera out of here! This is a crime scene! Do you want to be arrested?”
Parker shut off his microphone for a moment. “Oh, could you? Please? That would look so cool on my resume!” He turned the microphone back on. “Agent Rollins, before arresting me, you should know that this audio and video is being fed live to FOX-31’s web site, but if you need to do your duty, so be it.”
Rollins muttered something under his breath as he walked away and pulled out his phone.
“Sir, are you the owner of this cabin?” asked Parker, sticking the microphone in Bob’s face. Bob looked uncomfortable and unconsciously sucked in his gut.
“Uh, not the owner, the renter.”
“And your name?”
“Uh, Bob Krusden.”
“And your profession?”
“Uh, I’m a screenplay writer.”
“And did you witness the murderous bigfoot attack?”
“Uh, well, actually it’s more of a yeti than a bigfoot.”
“Yeti?”
“Yeah. You can tell by the silver pelt. And it wasn’t really an attack, it just fell out of the sky.”
“Fell out of the sky?”
“Yeah, like the other four.”
“Four?”
Bob pointed and the cameraman bounded over to the side of the cabin to film the other dead yeti.
“Mr. Krusden, how can we believe that five bigfoots-”
“Yeti.”
“That five yeti just fell out of the sky?”
“Hey, now I remember!” said Hernandez suddenly. “Bob Krusden! You wrote the script for Autumn Light, right?”
Bob smiled. “Yeah, actually I did! How did you know that?”
“I knew your name sounded familiar! Yeah, there’s an excerpt from that in Mastering Screenplay Basics! I’ve always wanted to be a screenwriter! See, I’ve got this idea for a script about these two FBI agents. One of them’s cool, but the other is really a tightass-”
“But back to the yeti, what the public wants to know-”
At that moment, they all heard a loud, guttural cry, and turned just in time to see another yeti plowing into the ground.
Finally, Bob had an idea. He pulled out his phone.
“Ed’s General Store, Hunting Emporium and Internet Caf, how may I help you?”
“Hi Ed, this is Bob. Listen, I wanted to see if you had some things in stock…”
****
Night had fallen, but the area in front of the cabin was brightly lit by an array of floodlights. Bob, Agent Hernandez, Ed, and Mike were busy tying the last of the lines in Bob’s makeshift net. Rope, bungie cord, several hunting slings and a couple of real nets were tied to several pine trees and the top of the cabin’s porch some ten feet off the ground. Between the ropes and the lights, Bob had ended up putting more than a thousand dollars on his Visa card, all of it at Ed’s exorbitant prices. When Bob had pointed out that his business would probably quintuple after tourists got wind of the yeti story, Ed had generously knocked off five percent.
“Is that end tight?” asked Bob.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Mike, already climbing down the ladder.
Bob carefully walked across the makeshift net and back,
uncomfortably aware of the dozens of cameramen filming his every move. There were now a good fifty to sixty reporters milling around outside the FBI’s tape barrier, all covering “The Great Yeti Mystery” and all being scowled at by Agent Rollins. Rollins hadn’t been wild about Bob’s idea, but hadn’t been able to think of anything better.
Though it shifted alarmingly under his feet, Bob was reasonably sure the net would at least break the next yeti’s fall, assuming another one came tumbling. Bob carefully climbed down, waved off a batch of shouted questions, and stepped into his cabin to grab a cup of coffee. While it was brewing he checked his phone calls. Twenty-two requests for interviews, two more friends and an ex-girlfriend calling to say they had seen him on the news, his agent Sid calling with the latest offers for the movie rights to his story, and his mother, asking why he couldn’t wear some nice pants for the cameras instead of those ratty old jeans. He called Sid.
“Bob, you’re golden! Sony’s upped the offer to $750,000!”
“Creative control?”
“No, they’re balking at that. They say they’re not sure you have the proper perspective to do the story right. They think the protagonist needs to be a beautiful, twenty-something half-Native American veterinarian who’s capable of speaking to the spirits of the dead yeti.”
“Of course they do. That’s why you’re going to tell them No. Call back when they’re willing to offer two million and creative control.”
“Well Bob, you’re the man! But are you sure they’ll go that high?”
“Wait until we capture a live yeti.” He rung off and stepped back outside.
Bob looked up at the net. One of the strands Mike had tied seemed to be loose. Bob picked up the ladder and moved it to the next tree, painfully aware of the cameras capturing his every move. Upon closer inspection it was coming loose, but there wasn’t enough rope left at the end to loop it around the tree again.
“Do we have any more rope down there?” he asked.
Before anyone answered, there was another guttural scream as another yeti fell, this one straight into the ropes. The makeshift net bowed in the middle, almost touched the ground, then held and rose back up, sending the ladder tumbling to the ground in the process. Bob grabbed the edge of net nearest him, then, with some difficulty, pulled himself up.
Dozens of live camera feeds captured the sight of the new yeti scrabbling to its feet in the netting, shielding its eyes against the floodlights’ glare, fearful and disoriented. It seemed to be wearing the same brown uniform as the last few yeti and it carried some sort of flashlight. It let out another long cry.
Bob got unsteadily to his feet, unsure what to do next. “Uh, hi there!” he said, raising his hands, then wondering if that would really be seen as a peaceful gesture. The yeti turned to look at him, then slowly backed away.
Bob edged closer, painfully aware of the fact that the yeti probably weighed a good two hundred pounds more than he did. “Hi there! My name is Bob,” he said, lowering one hand and pointing to himself.
The yeti made no reply, its gaze darting back and forth between Bob, the ground, and the assembled crowd. It was a good thing they had moved all the dead yeti back behind the cabin.
“My name is Bob,” he repeated, still pointing at himself.
The yeti zeroed in on him.
“Bob!” he said again, still pointing.
The yeti seemed to get the idea. It pointed a finger at him and growled “Brrraaaab.”
“Yes, that’s right!” said Bob, nodding his head and edging closer. “My name is Bob,” he said, pointing at himself again, “and your name is…” he said pointing at the yeti.
“Yawragrowroh!” said the yeti pointing at himself.
“Yahhgrawow,” said Bob, pointing at the yeti.
“Yawragrowroh!” said the yeti, then it stiffly mimicked Bob’s nodding.
Bob nodded in return. “Nice to meet you, Yawragrowroh” he said, slowly and carefully extending his hand to the yeti. Yawragrowroh looked at the hand for a moment, then, under the glare of a hundred camera flashes, cautiously reached out and grasped it.
****
“Are you there, Bob?”
“Yeah, Sid, I got you on the speakerphone.”
“How about the Y-Man?”
Yawragrowroh growled in assent.
“What’s the score?” asked Bob.
“Sony bailed at two million, but ViaDream’s willing to go two point five mil, plus a one percent contingent compensation gross kicker when it exceeds one hundred sixty million.”
“Crrrrrreeeeeeaaaative?” asked Yawragrowroh.
“Wellll, sorta,” said Sid. “They’re willing to give you ‘substantial’ script consultation, but no final cut approval.”
“Did they ditch the chase scene with the nuclear warhead?”
“Yeah, that’s gone.”
“How about the dinosaur attack?”
“Turns out Paramount is doing a ‘Dinosaurs vs. Robots’ movie next year, so they agreed to cut that as well.”
“And just to make sure: I’m still not a hot Indian veterinarian psychic, right?”
“Well, not exactly, no. You’re still a male Hollywood scriptwriter, but now the half-Native American veterinarian is your girlfriend.”
“ I wish. Who’s going to play the girlfriend?”
“They’re talking Reese Witherspoon with dyed skin.”
Bob pounded his head ever-so-softly against the wall. “Does she still speak to the dead yeti?”
“Yeah.”
“I can live with the girlfriend. But they have to drop the psychic crap. That’s a deal breaker.”
“Drrrreeeealbrrrreaaaker?”
“If you can live with the girlfriend, I think they’ll budge on the psychic part.”
“And if we can’t get a real Indian, can we at least get a real brunette?”
“See what I can do. Oh, and they’re also offering ‘personal casting approval.’”
“Personal casting?”
“Yeah, just for the actors to play you two.”
“Who do they want to play me?”
“Jason Alexander.”
Bob sighed. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Did they try Bob Hoskins?”
“He’s playing the villain in a Jet Li film.”
“I can live with Jason Alexander.”
“Mrrrreeeeee?”
‘For you they want Ben Affleck.”
“RRRRRRRRRRAWWWWWWRRRRR!”
“Okay, I’m sensing a little resistance to the Affleck idea. Who would you prefer?”
“RRRRRReeebaaacaaa?”
“Sorry, Y. Peter Mayhew is in the hospital following a golf cart accident.”
“Rrrraaaawww, crrrrraaap.”
“Anyone else they have lined up?” asked Bob.
‘Well, unofficially, they’re saying George Clooney is up next after Affleck.”
Yawragrowroh made his hopeful noise. “Goooood deaaal.”
“No problem with the Feds?”
“Nah, now that the gate’s up and running they’ve got dozens of live yetis to work with, and they’re too busy hammering out an inter-dimensional trade agreement to worry about some movie deal.”
“So we got it? We in agreement here?”
“Yeah, let’s do it. Pull the trigger.”
“Y man?”
“Rrrrrrroooock aaaand Rrrrrrrrroooollll!”
“All right! I’ll get ViaDream to fax over the contracts. Hang onto your seats, gentlemen. I think this one could be a monster!”
****
Slanted Jack
Mark L. Van Name
Nothing should have been able to ruin my lunch.
Joaquin Choy, the best chef on any planet within three jumps, had erected his restaurant, Falls, just outside Eddy, the only city on the still-developing planet Mund. He’d chosen the site because of the intense flavors of the native vegetables, the high quality of the locally raised livestock, and a setting that whipped your head around and widened your eyes.
Falls perched on camo-painted carbon-fiber struts over the center of a thousand-meter-deep gorge. You entered it via a three-meter-wide transparent walkway so soft you were sure you were strolling across high, wispy clouds. The four waterfalls that inspired its name remained visible even when you were inside, thanks to the transparent active-glass walls whose careful light balancing guaranteed a glare-free view throughout the day. The air outside filled your head with the clean scent of wood wafting downstream on light river breezes; a muted variant of the same smells pervaded the building’s interior.
I occupied a corner seat, a highly desirable position given my background and line of work, that let me easily scan all new arrivals. In the clouds above me, Lobo, my intelligent battle wagon, monitored the area surrounding the restaurant so no threat could assemble without my knowledge while I ate. I’d located an exterior exit option when I first visited Choy, and both Lobo and I could reach it in under a minute. Wrapped in a blanket of security I rarely achieved in the greater world, I could relax and enjoy myself.
Jim Baen’s Universe Page 17
