by Ron Goulart
Nodding, Smith trotted around the landvan and opened the rear door. From within he took two stun-rifles. “Let’s try to palaver first.”
“I don’t need one of those. I’ll rely on my trusty arm.”
“Don’t kill anybody unless—”
“I know the Whistler Agency code of ethics, never fear. Fact is, it matches that of the Cruzes. For untold generations no Cruz has…” His voice trailed off as the slavers reined up some two hundred yards away.
One of the snakemen left the group, urging his sturdy sixlegged mount toward the landvan.
“Hail, scum,” he called out in his raspy voice.
“He’s not getting off to a very cordial start.” Cruz rubbed his real fingers along his glistening metal arm.
Smith narrowed his eyes. “Is that you, Rudy?”
The snakeman chuckled. “Glorioski! It can’t be Smitty?” He came galloping right up to him, dropped free of his ornate saddle. “Talk about a small darn universe. I heard you’d gone to pieces…broken heart, was it?…and had become a pathetic stewbum off on some hick planet.” Hands on hips, he surveyed Smith. “But, heck, you don’t look all that terrible.”
“I’m on the road to recovery.” He lowered his rifle. “What happened to your miniature golf course in the capital?”
“Aw, I overextended myself, for one thing,” the robed slaver admitted. “When I added the Venusian-fried poutfish franchise, that was the shagarat that busted the snerg’s back. And the fact, which the son of a gun I bought the golf course from forgot to tell me, that the neighborhood gorilla men liked to stage their tribal dances on the fourteenth hole. You ever try to play through a couple dozen gorilla men giving out with the victory cry of the bull ape?”
“I had that experience once out on Murdstone,” put in Cruz. “’Twas while I was pursuing the blonde and marginally virginal youngest daughter of an archeology prof who specialized in defiling ancient tombs and—”
“Rudy, this is Cruz.”
The snakeman held out a green scaly hand. “Any friend of Smitty’s.”
“I’m here on business,” explained Smith while the two shook hands. “You and your cronies weren’t planning to attack us?”
“Heck, no,” said Rudy. “You can just go on your merry way. And, say, if you get anywhere near my old place, look up the new owner. Mention my name and he’ll fix the both of you up with poutfish dinners. But don’t go, a word to the wise, on any night there’s a double full moon. Gorilla nights.”
“Appreciate the thought.”
“Listen, it was darn nice seeing you again.” The big snakeman, bright robes flapping, swung back up onto his grout. “Pleasure meeting you, too, Cruz.” He turned his mount, waved at them and rode off to rejoin his associates.
“Fix the engine,” said Smith quietly, “fast.”
“Is Rudy likely to go back on his word?”
“Nope, but Rudy’s never been able to keep in charge of anything for very long.”
“I’ll hasten,” promised Cruz.
* * * *
The catman’s crimson turban rose straight up off his furry orange head, unraveling in the process.
“Begone,” suggested Cruz, lowering his metal hand.
“Ah, effendi,” the catman attempted to explain as the unfurled turban settled back down, festooning his head and shoulders, “I merely brushed against you on this foul and crowded thoroughfare. I am not a dip nor a member of the lightfingered gentry. Nay, rather I—”
“Depart,” advised Cruz, “or I’ll use my built-in shockrod yet again, chum.”
“As you suggest.” Bowing, smoothing down his on-edge fur, the man went stumbling away through the afternoon crowd.
“Where were we in our lively conversation?” Cruz asked Smith.
“You were about to intrude in my private affairs.”
The street was paved with cobblestones of a faded gold color; it was narrow and twisting. Striped awnings hung out over many of the sandcolored buildings, and wrought iron balconies were much in evidence.
“In my earlier policy statements,” resumed Cruz, “I mentioned I wasn’t reluctant to talk about money or women.”
“So I noticed.” He dodged a peglegged lizardman who came lurching along.
“It occurs to me that the wife of our client may once have played a somewhat important part in your life.”
“She did.”
Cruz smoothed his moustache with real fingers. “Is that likely to affect this undertaking in any way?”
“Nope.”
“Keeping all your glum thoughts to yourself isn’t always the best—”
“Do you ever talk to yourself?”
“Rarely. I usually have no trouble rustling up an attentive audience.
“I do. Did anyway,” said Smith. “I talked to myself…seems like it was for months. I talked to myself about Jennifer and what happened until there isn’t anything more I feel like saying. Even to me.”
Cruz’ broad shoulders rose and fell. “Should the situation change.”
A few yards up ahead, a pair of swinging doors snapped suddenly wide open. Three apemen in checkered suits, a cocktail robot, a stuffed blue parrot and most of a full course fish dinner came flying out into the Street.
Nodding at the flapping doors, Smith said, “This is the place we want.”
CHAPTER 10
The owner of the Cafe Frisco brushed his knuckles on one spotless lapel of his two-piece white tuxsuit. He was a middle-sized human, sandyhaired and roughhewn, about forty. “Anybody else got any complaints about the soup du jour?” he inquired of the patrons of the main dining area.
One of the two pale lizard bishops at the table nearest him said, in a subdued voice, “Actually, sir, lukewarm is much nicer than hot. As we were about to point out to the unfortunate gentlemen who just left.”
“And these floating blobs of grease,” added his colleague, “enhance the flavor.”
“Rocky!” shouted the big catman bartender. “Behind youse!”
Rocky Jordan spun, gracefully, to meet the attack of the pair of angry spacewallopers who’d come charging out of one of the gaming rooms.
Dodging deftly, he slugged one and then the other, both square on the jaw.
The men, both big shaggy fellows, collapsed and fell onto the remains of the table that had been occupied by the catmen who’d been unhappy with their Plutonian Gumbo.
Jordan wiped the palms of his hands on his immaculate white trousers. “Thanks, Chris,” he called to the grinning bartender.
“Drink, Rocky?”
“The usual.”
“One sparkling water with a twist of chokaa coming up.,”
“Even these fat unidentified bugs swimming in our tepid soup are a delightful addition,” said one of the bishops. “We have nary a complaint, Mr. Jordan.”
“Those are cockroaches,” said Jordan. “Anything you want to know about our recipes, just ask. But politely.” He nodded to the huge snakeman near the doorway. “Haul these gents out into the sunshine and fresh air, Sam.” He poked one of the unconscious gamblers with his foot.
When Jordan reached the bar, Smith walked over to him. “Hi, Rocky.”
Stiffening, the cafe proprietor brought up both hands. “Damn, it’s Jared Smith,” he said, relaxing and smiling.
“This is Cruz,” said Smith. “We’re working on something.”
“Yeah, for Whistler. I heard.” Jordan leaned an elbow on the bar. “Bay you guys a drink?”
“Sparkling water,” said Smith.
“Same,” said Cruz.
“Whoops, my dear,” snickered a cyborg at the other end of the bar. “Two more pansies heard from.”
“Friend,” advised Chris the bartender, “you better bid everybody farewell and gather up your effects.”
“Huh?”
“You’re leaving.”
“No, I’m waiting here to meet a chap who’s going to sell me a tenant’s insurance policy for my desert yurt…ooofooo!”
Jordan had lifted him clear off his stool. After tossing him aside, he said, “One more for the egress, Sam, when you get the time.”
“Gar!” A huge lizard stormtrooper popped up out of his chair. “What in the blue blazes is the big idea, Jordan? I don’t mind a little broken crockery in my Waldorf salad, but I resent your dropping this gink smack in my tub of avocado dip.”
“Are you complaining?” Jordan eyed him.
“Well, not exactly.”
“Sit down then.”
“Okay, but…well, listen, Rocky, my mother brought me up to be a fastidious eater,” explained the big green man as he settled into his chair. “Having a stranger’s nose and chin resting in my dip makes me uneasy. Fact is, I doubt the health department would want me to dunk my rice crackers into this stuff now that—”
“Chris, have Susan bring this gent a fresh bowl of dip. On the house.” He sauntered back to the bar. “Can I help you, Jared?”
“I’m hoping so.”
“I can try.”
Cruz was glancing around the big room, taking in the customers and then the view of the canal you got through the high tinted windows. “I heard you were tough, Jordan, but…”
“I’m a little cranky today,” explained the owner. “It’s the height of the pollen season and that always riles me. Most other times I’m gentle as…what are you staring at, buddy?”
A handsome cleancut blond young man in a three-piece travelsuit had stepped in out of the bright day. He had three cameras dangling around his sunburned neck and a slim blonde young woman on his arm. “Sorry, if I’m annoying you, Mr. Jordan. It is Mr. Jordan, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I’m Wilson Teanegg, Jr. From Mars in the Earth System,” the young man explained, smiling nervously and guiding his companion closer to the bar. “This is my lovely wife Wanita…don’t step on that man, dear. We’re on a tour and…well, we’ve heard so much about you that I was wondering if I could get a picture of you. Here in your natural habitat, so to speak.”
“I guess so.” Jordan was frowning. “One picture.”
“Gee, thanks. That’s swell, isn’t it, Wanita?”
“It’s really terrific.”
Cruz rubbed at his nose with his metal forefinger, studying the couple.
“This’ll only take a second, Mr. Jordan.” Smiling, Teanegg raised one of his cameras and clicked off a picture. “Thanks a million.”
After he and his wife had departed Smith asked, “What’s the matter, Cruz?”
“Something about that guy…”
“Most tourists are strange,” observed Jordan.
Cruz drummed on the bartop with his real fingers for a few seconds. “I ran into somebody like him before,” he said. “Yes, it was while I was pursuing the wife of a used android dealer over on the planet Tarragon in the Barnum System. He called himself Crackpot Charlie, this dealer, and insisted his wife go around telling all and sundry her name was Mrs. Crackpot Charlie. At the time I came along to brighten her life she—”
“Does this lusty narrative have some point?” asked Smith, reaching for his just-arrived sparkling water.
“It does indeed.” Cruz nodded toward the doorway. “I’m pretty certain Crackpot had several fellows just like Brother Teanegg in stock.”
“In stock?”
“They call them Alfies,” continued Cruz. “Which stands for Artificial Life Form. They’re youthful looking humanoids that haven’t been on the market for several years. Used to be manufactured by—”
“Syndek,” finished Smith. “Triplan’s chief rivals. This lad was disguised some, but you could be right.”
“Why the heck,” inquired Jordan, “would a sinth want a picture of me?”
“He wanted us,” said Smith.
* * * *
From the high, wide one-way window of Jordan’s private office you could see the vast gambling casinos across the canal shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.
“More of them than ever,” observed Smith from his lucite hiphug chair.
“Those new bastards over there have no ethics.” Jordan was perched on the edge of his tin desk, his dangling right leg swinging slowly to and fro. “Take the way they run the Fatal Illness room, for instance. It’s a sin and a—”
“That’s a new game to me,” said Smith.
“You bet,” put in Cruz, who was standing near the window, “on the exact second a terminally ill patient’ll die. It’s a variation on the old Teenage Orgasm dodge.”
“Leaving the poor taste angle out of it,” said Jordan,
“these bozos get my grout with the way they fake things. Hell, last week they rang in a zombie as the patient. Two nights ago they planted a resurrectionist in the crowd, bringing some withered old biddy back to life on the sly every time she croaked. You can make a stewpot of profit off gambling without resorting to cheating or sorcery.”
Smith said, “We’re looking for a fellow named Oscar Ruiz.”
Gesturing at the pleasure domes across the hazy water of the Grand Canal, the Cafe Frisco owner said, “Ruiz used to work in the Faulty Parachute room over in MacQuarrie’s Pavillion. You know, that’s where you bet on whether a skydiver’s chute’ll open or not. Never thought that one was much fun.”
“Especially for the divers. Did Ruiz quit?”
“Three weeks back, yeah.”
“We’d like to know where he is now.”
“So would MacQuarrie.”
Cruz asked, “He skip with some funds?”
“A hundred thousand trubux.”
“Any idea where he is?” said Smith.
Jordan wandered around behind his desk, sat on the edge of his tin swivel chair. “I’ve never much cared for MacQuarrie,” he said finally. “Which is why I didn’t bother to mention to the bastard that I happened to find out about Ruiz’ present whereabouts.”
“But you know where he is?”
Jordan answered, “The guy went on a pilgrimage to the Shrine.”
“You were right,” Cruz said to Smith.
“Ruiz didn’t come back,” said Jordan. “Instead he holed up at a place called the Red Desert Oasis. A tourist trap.”
“Didn’t MacQuarrie’s boys look for him there?”
“Hell, yes, but not in the right places.” Jordan pointed at the floor. “Ruiz is under the joint. There’s a hideaway setup under there that very few people know about. Expensive.”
Smith said, “Heard of anyone else looking for Ruiz?”
“Gent from Triplan, couple weeks back.” Jordan shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe how small their bribes are.”
“You tell him anything?”
“Quite a few things, none of them true. Hell, for a lousy thousand trubux you don’t get the truth. Not from Rocky Jordan.”
“Besides Triplan, anyone else?”
Jordan smiled. “This is about more than a missing hundred grand, isn’t it?”
“Yep, it is.”
“Our old buddy, Deac Constiner.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Think he found out anything?”
“Not from me, and I’m just about the only one who knows where Ruiz is holed up.”
Cruz stroked his metal arm. “We ought to take bets,” he suggested. “Who’s going to find Oscar Ruiz first.”
“My dough’s on you and Smith,” said Jordan.
CHAPTER 11
The plump blonde woman giggled. “That’s absolutely marvelous,” she told Jack Saint.
“Yes, isn’t it, rather?”
“I’m not at all musical myself.”
“Ah, I find that deuced hard to believe, Esme.”
They were drifting along a quiet, treelined stream in a plaz gondola. A metal-bodied twelve-string guitar was floating in the air some three feet above the green man’s dapper lap, seemingly plucking itself.
Esme sighed contentedly, letting a plump hand trail over the robotpowered gondola edge into the w
ater. “This is, beyond doubt, the most wonderful lunch break I’ve ever spent since I began work in the Confidential Records Department of Triplan nine weary years ago.”
“Jove, you must’ve commenced your drudgery while still a wee babe,” he said.
“I’m a bit older than you imagine, Jiggs.”
He’d told her, when he manufactured a meeting last night on the esplanade, that his name was Jiggs Sandington. “The years have been kind to you then, my dear.”
“May I confess something to you?”
“Do, dear girl,” he invited.
“Until I met you, I’d never dated anyone who was…um…tinted as you are.” Esme lowered her eyes. “Mostly because I didn’t think I would go well with green, because of my blondeness. Wasn’t that silly of me?”
“All I can say is that I’m deuced glad you overcame your qualms.”
She said, “I’ve never cared much for men with red hair either. Yet, in your case, Jiggs…”
“My hair is orange.”
“Orange, red. You know what I mean.”
“One hesitates to state the obvious,” Saint said, letting the guitar settle into the bottom of their gently drifting craft, “yet an inborn honesty compels me to point out, fair lady, that love knows no boundaries.”
After giggling yet again, she said, “You know, that’s absolutely true. Because I didn’t even much fancy short men until you came into my life. No matter what color they were, since I’m rather a tall, fullfigured woman myself.”
“Actually, Esme dear, I’m not short,” Saint clarified. “If you take the height of all the myriad denizens of the universe into account, then the average male is only four foot six.”
“He really must be a shrimp,” said Esme. “You’re taller than that, aren’t you?”
“By nearly a foot, yes.”
“Well, it just goes to show what my grandmother used to say. ‘Never judge a vombis by its snoog.’”
“What does that mean precisely?”
“Well, it’s supposed to indicate that…I’m not exactly sure what a vombis is, but they had scads of them on the planet where granny grew up.”
“Some sort of beast, eh?”
Esme rubbed at her dimpled chin. “I think so, unless it’s a vegetable,” she replied. “Granny was a vegetarian in her final years and a good many of her maxims had a vegetable slant. Anyway, the proverb sort of means, the way she used it, that someone may well be repulsive on the outside but marvelously attractive on the inside.”
