Suicide, Inc.

by Ron Goulart

  Reaching out and catching hold of the young woman’s hand, Saint bowed and kissed it. “It’s a distinct pleasure, my dear, to meet you.”

  Blushing again, Jazz slowly withdrew her hand from his. “Mr. Smith mentioned you’d be like this. Courtly and polite.”

  “He described me to you, eh?”

  “Yes,” she replied, nodding. “If you’ll come along

  now I’ll take you to where everybody’s waiting.”

  “How exactly did he describe my appearance? Did he

  use such words as dapper, winning, attractive—”

  “He just said you were green,” said Jazz.

  * * * *

  Smith was pacing the cleared area at the center of the storeroom. “Those assholes,” he said, the pilfered pages Saint had brought fluttering in his hand.

  “Be more specific,” requested Cruz, who was sitting in a lamé slingchair with his booted feet up on a neowood packing crate labeled Tapdancing Androids/ One Pair.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Smith said. “Triplan first off. They made up a false damn list for—”

  “Not logical, old man,” Saint pointed out. “They’d have to give the Whistler Agency the true list. Otherwise, don’t you know, they wouldn’t be certain of getting hold of you.”

  “They could’ve told the Whistler folks to hire me, insisted on it,” said Smith. “Once I brought in the missing alums, they’d pump what I know out of my head and—”

  “My feeling would be our bosses know considerably more than they’ve thus far confided,” commented Cruz. “They went to a hell of a lot of effort to recruit you. Granted you’re a splendid operative, but they probably could’ve found a good one right here on Zegundo.”

  “Yep, I think the agency knew, too.”

  Saint stood up to dust the seat of his slingchair a second time. “One feels deuced awkward asking this, old fellow,” he said. “Yet one feels one must. Why aren’t you considering Jennifer Westerland Arloff’s part in all this?”

  “I am.” Halting, Smith sat on a crate. “She lied to me when we had our stroll along the ocean. And she gave me a fake list, too.”

  “Look on the bright side,” suggested Cruz.

  Smith slapped the handful of papers. “What bright side would that be?”

  “She was concerned enough to tell you something of the real purpose of our treasure hunt,” Cruz said. “Further, she warned you it could well be a lot rougher than you’d been led to believe up to that point.”

  “You’re too sentimental when it comes to women.” Cruz shook his head. “What I’ve learned in a colorful and fun-filled life, old chum, is most people do the best they can with what they’ve got,” he said. “Jennifer can’t…and I’ve no idea why…do more than she did. Therefore you have to accept what—”

  “It’s a little hard to accept her not telling me that I’m carrying part of a secret worth…hell, billions of trubux…around in my skull.”

  “She’s married to Arloff and his goals aren’t yours.”

  Standing, Smith held the papers out toward Cruz. “Westerland came up with a cheap transmutation process,” he said. “A simple way to turn base metals into valuable metals for a cost of just about nothing. Whoever ends up with the whole secret…Triplan, Syndek or the Trinidad government…they’ll be able, if they go carefully, to become as rich as they want. Because this is something that can be utilized and exploited in different ways all over the universe.”

  Saint asked, “What exactly is our position at the moment? Are we still working for the Whistler blokes?”

  “What I’m trying to figure out, and that’s why I’ve got Ruiz stashed here, is what comes next,” answered Smith.

  “I’d be interested in hearing about that, too, Smitty.” The Whistler terminal had materialized a few feet to his left.

  CHAPTER 17

  “You don’t have a trusting nature,” said Whistler. “A handicap such as that can seriously—”

  “You folks have lied to me from the—”

  “Nope, not so,” said the floating terminal. “First off, take a squint of this, Smitty.” It whirred faintly and then a sheet of faxpape came fluttering out of its underside.

  Smith caught the sheet before it hit the storeroom floor. “List of five names. Oscar Ruiz, Bryson Winiarsky, Annalee Kitchen, Liz Vertillion and Thomas Yanayir,” he said. “This is the same list you gave me when I signed on to—”

  “What you hold in your mitt is a dupe of the very list Triplan gave us,” said the terminal. “Compare it with the typography on that stuff Saint swiped.”

  Smith did. “Okay, they match.”

  “Furthermore, Triplan never told us anything about a secret process for making gold, silver and what have you,” continued Whistler. “Not being dimwits, however, we realized there was more to this caper than a sentimental urge to get the old gang together again. We told you so at the start, so did Doc Winner.”

  Cruz shifted his feet atop the crate. “You contend you didn’t know that Jared and not this Yanayir lad was the one they wanted?”

  “We were only told it was important to have Smith work on the case, not that—”

  Tippy tap tap! Tap tap tappy!

  Saint sat up straight. “Jove! What’s that deucedly odd noise?”

  Cruz kicked the crate and the sound ceased. “Must be my tapdancing androids awakening. Continue, Whistler.”

  “You galoots are blaming us for the duplicities the client pulled,” the computer terminal told them.

  “Even so,” said Smith, “I don’t see how I can keep on working for you.”

  “Whyever not, Smitty?”

  “Because what I want to do is find the three others on this damn list,” he explained. “Tell them what’s going on, keep them from getting grabbed or killed. Then we can see about making a deal with Triplan.”

  “You can cross Annalee Kitchen off the list, by the way.”

  “She’s dead, too?”

  “No, fit as a fiddle and happy as a snerg,” replied Whistler. “It’s only that the lady walked into Horizon House late yesterday and announced she’d heard they were looking for her.”

  Smith said, “Then maybe she’s safe.”

  Watching the floating terminal, Cruz inquired, “You won’t bitch if the three of us keep on with the hunt? Doing it Jared’s way?”

  “We were paid our fee long since,” Whistler answered. “And we’ve been treated badly by our client. Do what you want to do and we’ll stay on the sidelines and observe. If it looks like you’re doing something too shady, we’ll pop in on you.”

  After a few seconds Smith said, “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  “Just because some people call us Suicide, Inc.,” said Whistler, “doesn’t mean we can’t be amiable.” He flickered and vanished.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I’m sorry, but I guess I better tell you this right off, Mr. Cruz,” said Jazz, watching the rainy misty afternoon their skycar was whizzing through. “Since we two will be alone together for a spell.”

  Cruz was in the driveseat of their aircraft. “You can confide anything you like in me.” He reached out to bestow a friendly pat on her nearest knee.

  “Yikes!” Jazz swung her leg out of the way and Cruz ended up slapping the plaz trim of the passenger seat with his metallic fingers. “That’s what I was leading up to. The fact that I’m averse to physical contact of any kind.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Well, it’s just something you have to learn to live with, as my family physician used to say.”

  “He didn’t touch you either?”

  “Oh, him I didn’t mind, because he was a robot. It’s really only flesh and blood contact that gives me the willies.”

  “How fortunate for you, then, Jazz, that you ran into me.” Smiling, Cruz held up his metal right hand. “You won’t be able to tell my deft and delicate touch from that of your trusted medico robot.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Cruz. You
see, the rest of you is all too human.”

  “Here, allow me to stroke your cheek and you’ll note that—”

  “Calamity! You’d best not. I might start screaming and howling, which would distract you from piloting our skycar.”

  “True.” Cruz smiled and dropped his hand. “Duty comes first.”

  “Are you terribly mad with me? I suppose on most of your adventures and escapades you indulge in all sorts of physical excesses.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I do want you to know, Mr. Cruz, that it’s not you yourself I find loathsome and disgusting but rather the idea of being touched by you. I wouldn’t like that even if you were twice as attractive as you are.”

  “That puts my mind at ease.”

  “Besides, even if I enjoyed being pawed and mauled, that’s not what I’m here for, is it? No, I’m along to help you establish contact with Professor Winiarsky so you can persuade him to come away with you to the safety of the robot museum.”

  “You are certain he’s at this Jungleland Park we’re fast approaching?”

  “Unless he’s been abducted,” answered Jazz with a nod. “I have to apologize for being dense, Mr. Cruz, but I don’t think I’ve got all the opposing forces sorted out yet. I’m not clear on who’s trying to kill Winiarsky and who just wants to kidnap him. Fact is, I don’t even know for sure why they—”

  “Even we aren’t completely certain about everything.”

  “But as a newswoman I ought to be able to unravel—”

  “Jazz, this isn’t something you’re going to be able to report for your network. I explained the sit—”

  “I know, this is strictly off the record.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sighing, she smiled over at him. “It was nice, don’t you think, of the Trinidad Wallview News people to give me a leave? Especially after they thought for a while I’d been abducted by rebel forces and that Mr. Merloo was lost in combat and not just dumped in that dry canal next to—”

  “They sound like exemplary employees. Now, hold on while I set us down.”

  She looked out at the swirling mist. “Are we at Jungleland already?”

  “We are.” Cruz punched out a landing pattern on the control dash.

  “It’s awfully difficult to tell their artificial jungle from the real jungle surrounding it.”

  “One good reason, no doubt, why the park has never exactly thrived.”

  Their skycar landed smoothly on a mossy landing area to the right of the high sewdowood entry gates to Jungleland Park. There were no other vehicles to be seen on the rainswept field.

  Jazz was staring out the window. “I wonder if these five men running toward us are friendly,” she said. “Those animal skins they’re wearing and those clubs and knives they’re brandishing make you doubt it, don’t they?”

  * * * *

  Saint brushed at his nose with his plyochief. “A most fragrant neighborhood, eh?”

  He and Smith were walking along a foggy sidestreet in the Poverty Hollow sector of Metro North, the capital city of this particular Zegundo Territory. The buildings were low, huddled close together, made of brix and glaz. They were grey, dingy, bleaklooking. The derelicts, drunks, mewts, welfs and zanies who shuffled, drifted and staggered by in the yellowish fog all looked moderately familiar to Smith. He realized he might well have been down and out in this very ghetto, although he had no clear recollection of it.

  “Liz Vertillion worked in this area up until the time she dropped from sight two months back,” Smith said.

  A frail bedraggled little girl with three hands held them all out. “Give us a coin.”

  Saint obliged. “Get yourself some food, child.”

  “None of your frapping business what I does with it, greenie.”

  “A pity the blooming universe is so awry,” observed Saint as they turned a corner. “No possible way to put things right, eh? Thoughts like that are what drive one into a life of nefarious deeds.”

  “A true scoundrel wouldn’t have given that kid money.”

  “Perhaps, old man, I’m only conning you with seemingly decent behavior.”

  Smith nodded. “There’s the mission where Liz was working.”

  “Deuced inspiring name. Last Faint Hope Mission,” said Saint. “Conveniently located twixt the Skullpop Saloon and the Lower Depths Diner.”

  As they moved by the swinging doors of a saloon, a three-eyed blue mewt looked Out.

  “Bless me! It’s old Smith,” he chuckled. “Ain’t seen you in a grout’s age, pal.”

  Smith paused, studied the mewt. “Hi, Trio. How’ve you been?”

  “Can’t complain. All your drinking buddies miss you, though.” He narrowed all three eyes. “You’ve took a rise in the world. And you’re buddying with a real swell. You happy?”

  “Happier.” Smith waved and moved on.

  Saint said, “One hadn’t realized how low you’d sunk.”

  “I don’t even exactly remember coming back to this planet,” admitted Smith. “I wandered around quite a bit for a while.”

  “’Twould be ironic if you’d once been plucked out of the gutter by the now missing Lieutenant Liz Vertillion of the Salvation Squad.”

  “Think that would’ve stuck in my memory.” Smith reached out to push open the narrow neowood door of the narrow brixfront mission building.

  They entered into a low, beam-ceilinged dining room. Only about half of the ten long bare tables were in use.

  A rusty cyborg huddled at the farthest table came rattling to his feet. “Smitty,” he hailed in a thin, rough-edged voice. “It’s been a spell.”

  The gaunt man’s name came back to Smith. It was Scrapyard Slim. “Good to see you again, Slim.”

  “You’re looking good, Smitty. Like you picked youself up.”

  “Had a little help.” Smith, trailed by Saint, crossed the steamy room. “Is Lieutenant Zucco around?”

  Slim pointed with his pitted chrome left hand. “Back in the kitchen you’ll find him,” he said. “The soup-maker’s on the fritz again.”

  “Thanks.” They went through the doorless doorway.

  “Ah, the memories of thousands of past kettles of soup linger,” said Saint, touching his plyochief to his round nose.

  Squatting in front of a robotstove, a spanner in one furry hand, was a thin catman in a one-piece nightblue Salvation Squad unisuit. “Smith, isn’t it? We’ve missed you these past months. You appear, however, to have been eating well;”

  “Lieutenant, we’re looking for Liz Vertillion.”

  Rising gradually up, Zucco said, “Several people have been seeking her.” He touched a wide bandage on his fuzzy forehead. “One of them was rather persistent in his inquiries.”

  “I don’t remember much about my last stay on Zegundo,” Smith told him, “and I have no idea what you think of me. But I’m trying to find Liz before somebody kills her.”

  Lieutenant Zucco said, “You may be too late, Jared.”

  “Hell, she isn’t dead?”

  “I truly fear she may be,” the catman answered. “Just before she disappeared two months since, she’d antagonized Boss Nast.”

  “Who might he be?” asked Saint. “The bloke who looks after all the crime and graft hereabouts?”

  “That’s he. Liz was concerned about some garment sweatshops he owns and…I fear she may have been too outspoken in her criticism.”

  Smith asked, “Did you tell the other inquirers this?”

  “I did not, no. And none of them bothered to use truth drugs or devices on me, being satisfied that violence would provide all the information I contained.”

  “These chaps may well have found out about Boss Nast elsewhere,” mentioned Saint, who was squinting into the kettle that held the soup of the evening.

  “Nevertheless,” said Smith. “we’ll look the gent up.”

  “He’s dangerous,” cautioned the Salvation Squad lieutenant.

  “At this point,” said Smith, “so am I.”

&nb
sp; CHAPTER 19

  Metal hand and real hand held out palm foremost, Cruz emerged from the skycar cabin. “Gents, this is a peaceable mission we’re embarked upon,” he assured the surrounding band of junglemen. “No need to cudgel or—”

  “See, Kaanga? I told you we were coming on too strong,” said one of the junglemen who’d charged across the clearing.

  “But isn’t that what they expect, Samar? What I’m saying is, the public expects jungle heroes such as us to be ferocious and—”

  “Ferocious is one thing. Scaring the billybounce Out of them is—”

  “Fellas,” cut in Cruz, “am I to assume you mean us no harm?”

  “Oh, heck,” said Jazz from the skycar doorway, “I recognize them now. They’re just here for the Junglecon.”

  “Isn’t that why you people dropped in?” asked the large blond Kaanga.

  “Not exactly, no,” said Cruz. “We want to visit someone who resides here at Jungleland.”

  Samar kicked at the sward with his bare foot. “What a flop this convention is turning out to be. I left a lot of responsibilities in my home jungle to come here and be a Guest of Honor,” he said. “I had a party of black-hearted ivory hunters to scare off, a lost city to find, not to mention—”

  “You know who all these lads are?” Cruz asked the young woman quietly.

  “Sure, being a newswoman I have to keep up with the celebrities in the Trinidad System,” Jazz answered. “Besides Samar and Kaanga, there’s Zago, Tabu and Wambi. Wambi’s the cute teen with the turban. They’re all of them well-known junglemen, or jungleboy in Wambi’s case. The park officials hoped having famous jungle personalities here would cause people to come flocking to their convention.”

  “Seemingly it hasn’t worked.”

  “…and wrestle crocodiles,” concluded Samar, brushing back his long yellow hair.

  “Tell you what,” offered Cruz. “If we conclude our business rapidly, why, we’ll give your convention a quick look-in.”

  “I even brought my elephants,” Wambi said. “Did you ever make a space shuttle flight with three cranky elephants?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Cruz, “once, when I was romancing a circus star who billed herself as Princess Pantha the Jungle Queen, I escorted not only three elephants but an entire—”