An Alien Affair

"Details," said Bury. "Don't bother me with details. Tell the Chief Security Officer. Say, you wouldn't like me to send you a couple of these nice snakes, would you?"

  Hastily, I said, "I'll get on Madison right away!"

  "All right," said Bury. "You make sure you do. I've got to go deeper into the mountains now to find General Hatchetheimer and get some of these peace treaties violated to get things going again. I won't be available for a while: I also want more time with these great snakes. You sure you don't want some?"

  "I'll be too busy on Madison!" I said quickly.

  "Well, give my best to Miss Agnes, (bleep) her."

  He rang off.

  I signalled the Signal Corps people on the terrace. They blew shrill whistles. The MPs went into Red Alert.

  They rushed the closely guarded equipment away.

  Sirens began to scream in the streets.

  With very precisely executed maneuvers, they were gone.

  Utanc crawled out from under her bed, white-faced and shaking. She slammed and locked her door with extraordinary force in my face.

  The hotel resident doctor was giving the first bellhop an emergency transfusion in the hall.

  A hotel repair crew timidly came in and began to put the breakage together as best they could.

  The manager appeared. He said, "There are two questions, if you please. A: Are you a Russian defector? Or B: Are you a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in disguise?"

  I was kind of upset. I gave him the wrong answers. "It's no to both," I said, irritated.

  "Good," he said. "Then here's the bill for the damages."

  It was for $18,932.27 plus one expended bellhop, value to be determined later.

  That decided me right then and there!

  Chapter 2

  First things first.

  MONEY!

  I would go see the Chief of Security at once. The problem was how to get there. It is sort of suicidal to get into a New York cab with only thirty-five cents in your pocket. I knew better than to approach Utanc, the way that door had slammed in my face. I would jog.

  Wrapped warmly against the cold day, I was shortly sweating and puffing my way southward toward Rockecenter Plaza. It was only a few blocks.

  I turned at Saks and wheezed my way through the Channel Gardens, shivering at the sight of all the unovercoated statuary sporting in the iced pools, and finally got to the Octopus Oil Building.

  The Chief of Security had his feet on the desk, easing his several stomachs after lunch.

  I flashed my Federal I.D. at him. "Inkswitch," I said. "I have a problem of the greatest importance to the company."

  He punched the computer and it came up blank. "What's the problem?" he said, taking his feet off the desk.

  "Your Miss Pinch on Petty Cash Window 13 has not been trained on her job. Miss Grabball did not tell her the procedure in handling a family 'spi'!"

  "Ho, ho!" he said. He checked his revolver, picked up a thick billy club and we were on our way.

  I hung back. He went right into the cages like a lion trainer. He seized Miss Pinch by the shoulder and with a yank, hauled her into a back closet.

  There were some sharp sounds coming out. Blows.

  Very shortly the Chief of Security emerged. He said to me as he passed me, "That's the way."

  I went promptly to Window B. Miss Pinch was sitting there in her mannish clothes and thin lips. She had the beginnings of a black eye.

  "Inkswitch," I said, "I want $20,000."

  She punched the computer keyboard. It came up blank. She made out a voucher and handed it to me to sign. I wrote Thomas Jefferson. She took it and carefully counted $20,000 from her cash drawer.

  She put the whole $20,000 in her purse!

  She didn't have it right.

  I said, "Are you sure that is correct?"

  "That's the way," she said with hostility.

  I went out. Maybe she was just a bit rattled. I should give her a chance to get settled in on her job.

  I came back in.

  "Inkswitch," I said. "I want $20,000."

  She punched the computer keyboard. It came up blank. She made out a voucher and handed it to me to sign. I wrote George Washington. She took it and carefully counted $20,000 from her cash drawer.

  She again put the whole $20,000 in her purse!

  I said, "Wait a minute, Miss Pinch. I don't think you have this right!"

  Her eyes were very, very hostile. "That's the way," she said.

  I went out. Maybe I was giving her the wrong figure!

  I went back in.

  "Inkswitch," I said. "I want $40,000."

  She went through all the motions. Only this time, I signed it Benedict Arnold as a kind of threat.

  She took the money out of her cash drawer.

  Yes, she put the whole $40,000 in her purse!

  "AND THAT'S THE GOD (BLEEPED) WAY!" she shouted.

  I gave it up. I made my way outside and thought about it. I really didn't have any time to waste. If I delayed too long, Bury might phone again and I'd get another hotel bill for $18,932.27 for damages. I couldn't risk it.

  I walked around a while. And then inspiration came to me. I'd go back and see the Chief of Security.

  I walked straight in.

  He had a pile of money on his desk.

  He covered it up with his cap.

  "So that's the way," I said.

  I left. I rapidly walked across courts and down hallways I had memorized before. As a family "spi," I really had something to report. Crooked employees! I found the private door to the office of Miss Peace.

  I knocked.

  She opened it a crack.

  I said, "As a family "spi," I have something about employees to report to Mr. Rockecenter."

  I have seen a few faces twist in rage in my time. Hers went more so.

  "You think I'd let you in here to spill the beans about me? Get out of here, you (bleepard)!"

  I left.

  None of this had gone well at all!

  As I could think of no way to handle any of this on the spur of the moment, I left.

  Chapter 3

  How in the Hells was I going to get down to 42 Mess Street? It was far too far to jog.

  I walked along a street. Suddenly, inspiration! I saw a cop car. I went up to it. I flashed my credentials. "I have to make an urgent raid on Mess Street. Take me there."

  "We ain't no errand boys for no God (bleeped) Feds," said one of them with a hostile glare.

  That didn't work.

  I went up a side street. There were some cars parked. I relaxed. Crime was the best way after all. I realized I had become slack on this planet, even to the point of relaxing my Apparatus reflexes. I walked along beside the cars, looking to see if anyone had left his keys in the ignition.

  No luck. I had heard cars could be jump-started but I did not know how to do it.

  A few doors along, a moving van, huge, was standing. They were just taking out a sofa and carting it into a house.

  Aha!

  With stealthy speed I crept to its cab. When the driver and helper went inside, I leaped into the van. There were the keys! I started it up, engaged the gears with a clash and roared away!

  Behind me I could hear some sliding. In the rear-view side mirror, I saw that I was depositing furniture at intervals on the street.

  Then there was a big crash as a grand piano went out!

  After that there was a sort of banging behind me on the pavement as I roared along. I didn't know what it was. But nothing must deter me from stopping Madison. I might get another phone call or even a couple of snakes!

  The truck was pretty hard to drive, being fifty feet or more long and being pretty high. But after many a narrow escape I made it within a block of 42 Mess Street. The street was too narrow to admit the moving van so I parked it. I found what had been banging behind me was the tailgate hitting the pavement. The grand piano must have busted its hinges. I got it closed. I walked the rest of the way.


  The old loft was a beehive. Reporters were rushing about. Typewriters and telex machines were roaring. Outgoing mailbags full of releases to every paper in the world were being passed like fire-bucket lines through the window to sail down into waiting trucks.

  A huge new banner stretched across the room:

  THINK COVERAGE AT ANY COST!

  Another said:

  Front Page or You're Out!

  Madison was in the end office, so surrounded with reporters taking dictation I couldn't get near him.

  Close to hand a reporter was bellowing into a telephone, "I don't want page two. I want page one! Look, Mr. Vitriahl, you may be managing editor of the St. Petersburg Grimes today, but you won't even be a copy boy on the Smearwater Shun, the dinkiest paper in Florida, tomorrow! You cooperate, you (bleepard), or you-know-who will be onto your board of directors to find a new God (bleeped) managing editor before dawn.... That's better. Headlines it is." He hung up.

  The reporter was muttering over a dogeared notebook. He put in another call. "Los Angeles Grimes? Give me J. Blithering Bonkers, please.... Hello, Bonkers. This is Ted Tramp of the you-know-who organization. You didn't give us front page yesterday.... All right, all right. So your God (bleeped) managing editor's wife is head of the National Association of Mental Stealth. Don't cry on... All right. I agree that her embezzling the NAMS funds and running off with the head psychiatrist was news. But God (bleep) it, Bonkers, you got to assert your control over that board! Why the hell do you suppose you-know-who got you on as chairman of the Grimes-Smearer Corporation, anyway?... Ah, that's better. ... That's better, Bonkers.... Well, (bleep), you don't have to shoot the (bleepard). Just make him put the Whiz Kid on the front page!"

  The reporter hung up and got out some dirty tissue and scrubbed vigorously at his ear. "I can't stand slobbering!" He saw me. "Who the hell are you? You don't look dirty enough to be a reporter. You some kind of a spy?"

  "Precisely," I said. "Tell Madison, Smith has got to see him."

  "I dunno," he said, glancing at the mob around Madison in his office.

  "Smith from you-know-who," I said.

  "Jesus," said the reporter. He grabbed the handle of a fire-engine siren close to hand and began to turn it briskly. The reporters all rushed out looking for the fire.

  I walked in.

  Madison looked at me with aplomb. "Oh, hello, Mr. Smith. Fifteen point quote Madison Triumphs unquote! We've seized the initiative! And I'll bet you're here bearing rave notices from Bury!"

  "I'm here bearing an axe, Madison," I said sternly. "You have trod upon sacred toes. You forgot that Octopus isn't your client so save your ruin for the Whiz Kid!"

  "Ruin? Madison can't get it on the pica stick! What are you talking about, Smith? Mr. Bury gave me specific and direct orders to make the Whiz Kid's name a household word and to make him immortal!"

  "He didn't give you any orders to PR Swindle and Crouch!" I said. "You link them up in the news with Boggle, Gouge and Hound and Bury will have your telephone disconnected!"

  That got to him. "Oh," he said, slumping. "It is so difficult to work with nonprofessionals. You don't really understand PR."

  "I understand it very well," I said. "It's Confidence, Coverage and Controversy. And the Coverage in my penthouse today cost $18,932.27. And you and I are going to have an awful lot of Controversy if you don't get Swindle and Crouch out of it and if you think Octopus needs your PR. You mend your ways or you'll shatter my Confidence!"

  "It was front page!" he wailed. "I have had the front page day after day! PR is like marksmanship! It's the number of times you can hit the front page! And Madison has been riddling it!"

  "It and everything else!" I said. "Now settle down. Get on course and do what you're supposed to do! You repair this damage to Swindle and Crouch and Octopus! No more wild bullets slaughtering innocent bystanders! Get rid of these suits! They're too close to home."

  "But PR should have a little bit of truth in it," said Madison. "It sort of spices it up!"

  "I'm adamant," I said.

  Suddenly he smiled. "Great! Absolutely great! I got it. I can see it now! Suits are only good for one day of front page. They usually sag to page two and right on down the drain. It doesn't change my general program."

  He walked up and down his office, sort of dancing. I watched him suspiciously. He was far too happy for a man who has just been chewed up Apparatus style!

  He stopped. His honest, earnest face grew sincere. He took my hand. He shook it. "Thank you for a great idea, Mr. Smith. You may not be a professional but I can assure you that a fresh viewpoint is like warm air to the overworked wits."

  He rushed out. "STAFF! STAFF! Everybody gather round. I've just had a GREAT idea!"

  I left. A little of Madison is an awful lot.

  Chapter 4

  I had my own problems.

  I was broke.

  I myself had just had a marvelous idea. I was anxious to get going with it.

  I looked at my watch. I had ample time if I hurried.

  At the corner of Mess Street, I looked about.

  The moving van was gone!

  Some (bleepard) had stolen my transportation!

  Now I would have to hurry. It was far too close to five o'clock.

  With an anxious eye, I looked about. There was a stoplight near to hand. An idea! I raced across the street against the light, dodging traffic. I got alongside the northbound lane.

  The light went red. The traffic stopped. I raced down the line of waiting cars.

  I saw an old lady behind the wheel of a rattletrap Ford. I grabbed the door handle, opened it and leaped in.

  I snapped my derringer out of my sleeve and shoved it into her side.

  She gasped!

  "This is a pickup!" I grated. "Drive at once to Rockecenter Plaza or get raped!"

  She let out a thin scream.

  "Drive!" I said.

  The light changed. Trailing a thin scream behind us we rushed north.

  I looked at my watch. I still had time. But this woman was driving all over the road.

  "Drive straight!" I ordered her.

  "I can't see without my glasses!" she screeched. "Get my glasses out of the glove compartment!"

  "Drive!" I ordered her with a jab of the derringer.

  Erratically, following my directions, we got onto and raced northward on the Avenue of the Americas. We were within four blocks of Rockecenter Plaza but the streets were all torn up. It was like threading a needle.

  We swerved and almost went into a construction ditch!

  She jammed on her brakes! I almost went through the windscreen!

  "I can't see without my glasses!" she screamed. "They're in the glove compartment!"

  All right! Gods! Anything to keep from being wrecked. I opened it.

  POW-SWISH!

  I got a full blast of Mace straight in the face!

  I screamed! I was stone blind!

  She must have opened the passenger-side door. Sharp-heeled shoes crashed into my side.

  Out I went on the pavement! Right in the gutter!

  I heard the Ford roar away.

  I fumbled around, hoping to find my derringer and take a shot at her. And then I realized that (bleeped) (bleepch) had even stolen my gun!

  I got some tissue out. I tried to wipe out my eyes.

  Gods, they stung!

  I could see some light now but the day was all washed gray, without details.

  I fumbled along. I was afraid I would be late. I couldn't read my watch.

  Things were becoming a little plainer. A trick and novelty store! I staggered in.

  "Do you have any water pistols?"

  Dimly I could see four or five being put on the counter in front of me. "How do I know they work?"

  Whoever it was got a glass of water and filled them. I grabbed one and shot myself in the eyes. I grabbed another and did the same. I shot another one up my nose. I shot the last one into my mouth.

  I could see!
r />   "They don't work," I said and rushed out.

  The water glass shattered on the door frame as I left.

  I sprinted for my destination.

  I ran into the right hall.

  I hauled up, panting and spent.

  My Gods, it was difficult trying to get around New York! They were laying for you at every turn!

  But thank Gods, I was on time!

  Chapter 5

  Right on schedule, tightly packed in the mobbed rush of quitting time, the target-subject was in view.

  Miss Pinch! She was wearing a bulky, mannish overcoat. The target-object was swinging from her arm: her purse!

  The flooding wave of workers crested against the traffic of Seventh Avenue.

  Hat down, coat collar up, I had target-object in close view. An old hand at such campaigns, trained by the Apparatus to the keenest possible edge, I foresaw no trouble in obtaining target-object. A quick snatch, a fleet run, a stuffing of target-content into my pockets and a flinging of target-object into nearest trash can and victory would be mine!

  I quivered with the thrill of the chase.

  A $80,000 quarry does not every day enliven the spirit of the hunt.

  I could see that the purse, black and hanging from her arm by a strap, was bulky, aching to be gutted by the skilled hunter. And after that, in victory, I would not have to steal moving vans or get hit in the face with Mace just to get around upon my duties.

  Her masculine stride marked her. The heavy, light gray overcoat could not be missed. The gray slouch hat was like a beacon calling to the storm-tossed mariner adrift on the heaving and pitiless seas of New York.

  She was heading, obviously, for a subway station. This gave me a sudden panic. I did not have enough to buy a token and get through the gate.

  But fortune smiled. She was lingering before a newsstand.

  Buffeted by hurrying humanity, I crept behind her. She was trying to choose between Muscle Making for Men Complete with Full Nude Photos and Panthouse Magazine with Full Nude Cover Folds. It seemed to be a difficult decision. She picked up one and then the other and then back to the first.

  With $80,000 at stake, why delay?

  With an expert hand from behind her, I removed the purse from her shoulder with an expert twist!