Alan Dean Foster

  Sykes came rattling down the fire escape, far behind but moving fast. He duplicated his partner's fifteen-foot jump to the pavement, bending his knees to cushion the impact. He still would have lost track of both aliens if not for the fact that Francisco's high, bald skull stood out like a forlorn basketball above the roofs of ranked cars.

  He couldn't match his partner's stride, and he was older, but he'd always had fast feet and stamina. Dodging through the vehicles required more agility than pure speed.

  Watson reached his Alfa Romeo and fumbled with the lock. Flinging the door open, he threw himself inside and fought to insert the key in the ignition. The engine finally rumbled to life.

  Francisco heard the engine catch and skidded to a stop ten feet behind the car, aiming his pistol carefully. In his massive hands the gun looked like a toy.

  The backup lights winked on on the Alfa and the car started to move.

  Francisco stood like a rock, the gun leveled, and hesitated. Because the shooting of a fugitive by a Newcomer cop would make headlines. Because there might be another, better way to do this. Because he was running on education but not experience.

  While he hesitated, Watson floored the accelerator, tires screeching as the sportscar wailed in reverse. Francisco threw himself to one side as the car sped over the spot where he'd been standing. Relieved, the assistant manager of the Encounters Club jammed the five-speed into first and looked for the nearest exit.

  What he saw instead was Sykes, standing right in front of him. Again he thromped the gas. The detective jumped, but 107

  not to the side, as his partner had done. Instead, he threw himself spread-eagled onto the hood of the car, blocking the driver's view.

  Trying to see around the grim-faced detective, Watson lost control of himself as well as the car and plowed into a couple of parked sedans before picking up much speed. Sykes slid halfway off the hood, scrambled to his feet and around to the driver's side of the stalled car.

  He was delighted to find that the panicky manager had forgotten to lock the door. Watson's head had struck the steering wheel and he wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. A big, gnarled fist reached through the open window and grabbed a handful of expensive suit, yanked hard.

  The manager stumbled out of the Alfa reluctantly, started to gather himself when he saw that his captor was only a mere human. He drew back a huge fist to flatten the detective. As he did so, Sykes swung both arms around in a couple of wide arcs, his fists parallel to the pavement. Both landed squarely on the nerve centers beneath Watson's arms.

  The manager let out a dull "oomph" and clutched at his armpits as he fell to his knees. Sykes stood over him, both fists still clenched, panting hard and ready to strike again. It wouldn't be necessary. Right now Watson had no interest in fighting, or trying to run, or much of anything else except working through the pain that had paralyzed his body.

  "I'll be damned." Sykes sucked in cool night air. "It worked." Noticing motion out of the comer of his eye, he looked up sharply, relaxed when he saw it was only Francisco. "How'd you like that, huh? Whammo! Both barrels.

  Dropped him like a sack of cement."

  Francisco studied the immobilized Watson for a moment, then spotted something lying on the ground next to the Alfa. Walking over, he bent to recover the manager's wallet, flipped it open to examine the contents.

  Sykes looked on, keeping a wary eye on the kneeling Newcomer.

  "Who is he, anyway?"

  Francisco spoke absently while flipping through the wallet. "Todd Watson.

  The assistant manager of the club."

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  The individual Sykes had downed was still crouched over clutching his armpits, trying to draw enough wind to speak. "I don't believe this. ~~ho the hell are you guys? What do you want with me? Look at my suit. Look what you made me do to my car! Do you have any idea what bodywork costs on those Italian jobs? I'm gonna sue your whole damn department. "

  "Fine. The LAPD's got a whole herd of lawyers sittin' around looking bored ever since they settled the Handley accidental murder suit. One of 'ern will be glad to accommodate you." Sykes shook his head in disgust. "Your girlfriend Put up a better fight than you did, pal."

  Watson grimaced up at him. "What makes you think she's my girlfriend?"

  ' ' Gimme a break, Todd. You don't bowl over a cop holding a gun unless you're trying to protect somebody who's more than a casual acquaintance.

  I'd take real good care of her if I were you. That's some woman, even if she is bald as a bat tinder those wigs she wears."

  "This small talk is most enjoyable," Francisco commented evenly, "but we have business to discuss." He tossed the wallet to Watson. "We are looking for your employer, Joshua Strader. "

  Watson tried to stand, found he couldn't quite make it yet, and hunkered over to wait it out. "He's out of town," he muttered glumly.

  "Why should we believe you?"

  "Because it's true, and there are ways you can check up on it. Besides, what else would I be doing working out of his office?"

  Sykes made a rude noise. "Trying to get the feel of the boss's chair?"

  Watson glared up at him. "It's easier to take phone calls and run the operation from there. That's all. What do you care?"

  I I I don't.

  "Why did you run?" Francisco asked him caln-fly.

  "Because you two were chasing me."

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  Sykes shook his head sadly. "We were chasing you because you ran, you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Isn't that obvious?"

  "Look, I don't know about you, ss'loka', but when somebody comes sneaking up on me I react defensively, especially if he's carrying a gun. And if he and his buddy start chasing me, I run."

  "When will Strader return?" Francisco refused to let the injured Watson change the subject.

  The assistant manager shrugged. This time he managed to rise, breathing deeply as he straightened. Slowly he let his hands fall from beneath his arms.

  "Who knows? He's the boss. He doesn't have to check in with me. "

  "I find it difficult to believe," the Newcomer detective went on, "that your employer would go off and leave the operation of his enterprise to his assistant without so much as hinting where he might be located in the event of an emergency. "

  "Strader's like that. Every now and then he just takes off without telling anyone where he's going. I think it's a weird way to run a ship myself, but what can I do about it?" He smiled wanly, seeking sympathy.

  He wouldn't get it from the likes of Sykes. Sighing wearily, the detective adopted his best lecturing tone. "Watson, this here's my partner's first coupla days on the job after making Detective grade, and he wants to make a good impression. So he's being real polite to you, sort of handling you with kid gloves like, you understand?

  "Me, though, the way I feel, this could be my last day, know what I mean?

  I could show up to clock out tonight and find an early retirement notice waiting in my box. Or I might just decide to chuck the whole rat race and take early re voluntarily, catch the red-eye for Miami or the Bahamas or someplace."

  The Newcomer manager frowned at him. "I don't follow you. "

  "What I'm sayin*, Slag," Sykes told him as he took a belligerent step forward, "is that if I don't start getting 110

  some real cooperation out of you right now, I'm ready to rain on you like a cow pissin' on a flat rock."

  Watson swallowed, glanced in Francisco's direction. To his credit, Francisco's expression did not change. This added to the alien manager's increasing discomfort. Who knew what an edgy human might do when pressed, especially a half-mad policeman?

  " Look," he said placatingly, glancing around as if someone might overhear him in the middle of the parking lot, "Mr. Strader hasn't been around for a couple of days. I'm telling you the truth. He didn't tell me where he was going or when he'd be back. I know that doesn't make much sense, but that's how it is. I swear it."

  Sykes locked eyes with the Newcomer for a long moment
before turning to his partner. "What do you think?"

  Francisco's tone had not changed at all. "I believe very strongly that he is most probably lying."

  Sykes nodded agreement. "Through his ass." He turned back to Watson. "Next time you see Strader, tell him to call me. Unless you want us to keep coming down on you like a bad case of herpes. Or whatever it is that you guys get. "

  Walking over to the bigger alien, he shoved a business card into Watson's breast pocket, flicked a little dirt off the expensive material, and smiled up at him before turning away. Francisco followed.

  Watson followed their departure with his eyes, then staggered over to his battered Alfa and slumped against the dented hood.

  As thev made their way back to the waiting slugmobile Sykes su~denly felt very tired. He ran over the events of the previous hour in his mind: the interview with Cassandra, his rejection of her advances, prowling the club, trying to bail George out only to let himself get knocked silly by an alien broad, and then the race down the fire escape and through the parking lot.

  His legs were throbbing from his calves up to his ass, his throat was raw, and the end result of the evening's stress and strain was little more than zero.

  Francisco noted his partner's mood but didn't have sense enough to keep quiet. "Matthew, I feel that I must point out 111

  that you do not look at all well. Would it be impolite of me to inquire how you are feeling?"

  "Not at all, George. I feel like old shit." He favored his partner with a lopsided smile. "Satisfied?"

  "I wish it were otherwise."

  "Thanks for the sympathy. I wish I was ten years younger. How you doin'T'

  "I am doing well, thank you, though I am frustrated we could not learn more. I still think he was lying."

  "So we agree on a coupla things. Watson was lying and I look like shit. And we got nothing for our trouble. Cripes.

  He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

  "What does procedure suggest we do about it?"

  Sykes looked sharply at him. "Procedure?" Suddenly he found himself grinning. "Official procedure--or Sykes procedure?"

  Francisco considered the choice thoughtfully. "Following official procedure has not produced much in the way of results this evening, has it?"

  "No, George, it ain't."

  "Then I would think it would be in order to try any alternative. "

  Sykes looked pleased. "'Mat's real good, George. Real good. You're leaming."

  "I am a fast study, Matthew. So they told me at the Academy." He opened the door on the passenger side and slid in.

  "One more thing, George." Sykes flopped down behind the wheel. His lower back was killing him again, but he didn't have time to visit the chiropractor.

  Francisco eyed him expectantly. "What's that, Matt?"

  "From now on you handle the women, you mind?"

  He put the slugmobile in gear and pulled out of the lot, not bothering to check his mirrors to see if anyone was interested in staking a claim to the same piece of pavement.

  Watson heard them leave but paid no attention. He was far more interested in the damage to his Alfa. The right front side was crushed in, and the door on the passenger

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  side had buckled in response. Damn! Broken glass everywhere, both headlights gone, the windshield popped, and he'd probably have to order a whole new paint job to make any of it match. And no telling what was busted beneath the hood. Sss'malki' cops!

  The sound of footsteps reached him, but he didn't bother to turn. He could care less what anyone might think if they saw him bent over his ruined car. Which was too bad, because if he'd shown more interest he might have been able to avoid the butt of the shotgun before it slammed into the back of his skull.

  The assistant manager crumpled like used foil. Five figures surrounded the unconscious form, gazing down at it like handlers in a meat-packing plant. Four of them were human.

  The other wits Kipling.

  The human in charge was named Quint. Without having to wait for orders, he gestured to his companions. "Okay, scrape him up."

  One of the men grunted as he hefted a heavy alien leg. "You want us to be careful with him or not?" He took his directions from Quint, but he put the query to the Newcomer.

  The alien was holding the sawed-off shotgun loosely by its stock, handling it as easily as a human would a handgun. He studied the limp body of the club's assistant manager.

  "Take it easy with him-for now."

  ---Vill

  California beaches are occupied around the clock except during the winter, and even in cold rainy weather an occasional beachcomber or necking couple will claim a section for their own. The farther from the city one travels, the less chance there is of running into any of these hardy sand-lovers.

  Zuma Beach lay on the fringes of the great metropolis, north of Malibu and a good drive from the San Fernando Valley. This morning the waves were rolling in from the Central Pacific unobserved by any save the crabs and gulls.

  Th~re was no one to see the big black limo as it oozed down the narrow access road that led to the lip of the beach itself. It was the northernmost end of Zuma, the part of the beach least likely to be visited on a good day, much less this early in the morning when the moon still usurped the sun's position as dispenser of fight and the fog hung cold and damp over the driftwood.

  The limo cruised past a lookout car occupied by two aliens who could have been kin to the types Sykes and Francisco had encountered in the X-Bar, except that this pair was alert and well-dressed. Acknowledging their presence, the driver took the limo right down to the sand's edge, parking alongside a nondescript late-model van.

  Cutting the engine, he emerged and opened the rear door on his side, allowing William Harcourt easy egress. Polite as always, Harcourt thanked his driver and walked over to

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  the waiting van. In order to get 'round to the rear he had to walk through some sand. Interested in everything new, he studied the granulated surface with fresh delight.

  Kipling, Quint, and the rest of the little gang were waiting for him behind the van. Watson was there also, chained to the van's back bumper facing the rumbling sea. Quint held a bloodied tire iron in his right hand. Anyone wishing to know the origin of the dark stains could have easily divined them for themselves by taking a look at Watson's battered face. Quint prided himself on his work. The assistant manager was bloodied but still conscious.

  Harcourt ignored the unhappy victim of Quint's attentions as he addressed his tormentor. "Any progress?"

  The human rolled a shoulder, gesturing with the iron. "My arm's getting tired and so far we got zip. He's either real stubborn, real tough, or real dumb." He stared down at the sullen, frightened Watson. "Me, I'd guess the latter, but maybe you know more than I do, sir. "

  Harcourt smiled pleasantly. "I would consider that a rhetorical question, Mr. Quint." He turned to his assistant, raised an eyebrow.

  "He is ss'verdlatya ss'alo to Strader," Kipling informed his boss.

  Quint's expression contorted. "What's that mean?"

  "Duty-bonded," Harcourt informed the man. Not that he owed Quint any explanations, but an ill-informed employee was an inefficient one. "His allegiance to Strader is above pain or life. It is not something you would be likely to understand, though friends of mine who have made a study of human history have found societies where such a concept would not only be understood but would have been valued. Your present-day society is not among them, however."

  "You tellin' me this guy would die before he'd screw his boss and work for us? Nobody's that dumb."

  "it is not a question of intelligence, Quint. It is something you can't comprehend." Kipling glared at the human. Quint stared right back at him but chose not to make an issue of it.

  Harcourt went over to Watson and knelt beside him, 115

  careful to keep the knee of his designer slacks clear of the sand. He examined the bruised face sympathetical
ly.

  "I am sorry for this, Mr. Watson. I would much prefer to have it another way. It distresses me when I'm compelled to resort to such methods.

  Clumsiness offends my sense of aesthetics, and this way is clumsy. You must believe me when I tell you that I find this kind of business distasteful."

  Watson managed to lift his head high enough to glare at Harcourt out of his one open eye. The other one had swollen shut. "Yeah, you look like you're real upset."

  Harcourt pursed his lips. "You doubt me. Well, given the present circumstances I suppose I cannot blame you for that. I understand you have for some time now been rejecting my offers. Your sense of duty to Mr. Strader is noble, but no longer an issue, I'm afraid."

  "I don't follow you."

  "Then I will explain so that you will understand, and in such a fashion that you cannot doubt." He looked at Kipling and nodded once.

  Two of the humans climbed into the van and pushed something out the back.

  The large, bulky mass landed heavily on the sand. It was Strader, shot twice through the front of his silk suit at close range. Watson's eyes widened in fear.

  "There. You understand now, don't you?" Harcourt was smiling; that famous, ingratiating smile that charmed human and Newcomer alike. It was wasted on the terrified Watson. "So you see why you no longer need feel bound in any fashion to Mr. Strader, since Mr. Strader no longer has need of your allegiance.- His voice was all oil and sympathy.

  "I will not make this offer another time. I want you to work for me, to manage the Encounters Club as Strader's successor and to handle a little side business for me during the day. It is a natural enough change. None will question it. I could of course put one of my own people in Strader's place and ease you out, but your experience in runiiing an establishment that caters to both humans and Newcomers is unique. I know of no other such establishment of such caliber, which is why I require it to be part of my expansion plans.

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  " My interest will become clear to you at such a time as I feel you can be trusted with my confidence. Right now you need only know that you will be given a free hand in the Club's operations. I am not in the least interested in the details of its day-to-day functioning. I am not even particularly interested in whether or not it makes money, though that would be nice. I need it for something else.