Alan Dean Foster

  After a suitably theatrical pause he placed it back in the case, next to its siblings.

  The eyes of the two Newcomer visitors had grown wide as they realized what the contents of the suitcase might be. Only their human colleague sat with a puzzled expression on his face, wondering what all the silent excitement was about.

  "What is it?" he finally asked.

  Harcourt smiled lazily. "A sweet indulgence from our past, resurrected for our future. A delight we thought had been lost to us forever, a simple pleasure once allowed us only on another's whim. Something for which we hungered daily and over which we now can exert control. Our own destiny in a test tube, if you will."

  He observed the expressions on the faces of the two Newcomer dealers, knew what they were going through. They weren't strong enough to handle something like this. No one was strong enough except for him. That was why he had control. That was why he was the one in charge. That was why he would always be the one with the power.

  He let them stare, let them drink as much as they could with their eyes, knowing that wouldn't be enough. When he thought they couldn't stand it any longer, he graciously spared them the indignity of having to ask. Removing one of

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  the plastic dispensers from the case, he slid it across the table.

  "Please feel free to sample the quality. The experience will be everything you remember it to be. So that there can be no doubt in your minds, I have gone to the expense of doubling the active ingredients in this particular dispenser. Therefore, a small amount will be sufficient to bring back memories, physical as well as mental. For those who are on top, only the best, yes?

  "If anything, I believe this product to be of higher quality than what we were used to receiving prior to our journey, because it was produced by us and for us and not by the Masters. You would be surprised to learn, as they would themselves, of the skill of these humans at chemical engineering.

  Some of the ingredients are not readily available here, but that is only a matter of money. The necessary equipment is easily obtained and the manufacturing process surprisingly simple." He grinned by way of reminder.

  "None of which matters unless one has access to the formula and concomitant methodology. That remains secure with me. "

  "If you're telling the truth, Harcourt. If you're telling ha~f the truth.

  . ." The alien dealer nearest the dispenser picked it up and put it to his lips, squeezing out a tab of the blue gel. His companion tried not to display his anxiousness as he waited his turn, occupying the interval with conversation.

  "Where'd you get it, Harcourt? The formula and the methodology?"

  Harcourt reminisced. "I arranged to spend some time with three very resourceful people. I had made the necessary inquiries, forbidden of course, before we were placed in deepsleep, and sought them out subsequent to our arrival here. I did not expect anything to come of my inquiries, so you can imagine my surprise when my contacts suggested there might actually be one among the Travelers who had some knowledge of the supposedly forbidden formula. With a certain amount of coaxing, he was indeed able to reconstitute it for me.

  "Mere access to the formula was not sufficient, of course.

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  Our touchdown on a world of comparative freedom and relative scientific sophistication was an unexpected bonus, as I did not have to try and steal equipment or improvise it from the ship's stores. But there was still a great deal of work to do. Funds had to be acquired according to this world's laws, and the team I was putting together had to be kept secret.

  "I have worked very hard, gentlemen, and made something of a success of myself. I ingratiated myself to our hosts, whom I could naturally not ask for help in this matter (both Newcomer dealers chuckled knowingly) and achieved wealth and notoriety among them. They believe such things to be adequate ends unto themselves. They could not imagine I was doing all that I had done merely to achieve a means to a much greater end.

  "My three associates worked well together. Unfortunately they are no longer with us, but I was lucky enough to reap the benefit of their endeavors."

  No one inquired as to why Harcourt's three associates were no longer around. It would have been impolite.

  By this time the first alien Dealer was swaying gently in his chair as he experienced the indescribable rush the drug produced. His companion took the dispenser and squeezed out a hit for himself. The rush swept through him even faster than it had his colleague. No fool, the human dealer grabbed the plastic container and blued his own tongue.

  "Let me try some!" As soon as the taste reached the back of his mouth he spun to his left and spat. Only after he'd cleared his palate did he look disgustedly at Harcourt. "Jesus! This crap tastes like detergent."

  Harcourt was grinning at the man's reaction. "And it will affect you about as strongly. It may even clean your mouth out-it has certain interesting side-effects-but there are mouthwashes available for human use at considerably less cost. Your physiology is not attuned to it."

  The man was still spitting, wiped the the back of his mouth with the sleeve of his silk coat. "You can say that again. "

  " I arn no chemist, though I have been forced by recent 177

  developments to acquire some small knowledge of that branch of science. As I understand it, human physiology is so different from ours that there is no possibility of this having any effect, benign or detrimental, on any human being. Not even on a child. This will prove useful since humans are reluctant to interfere when their interests are not directly at stake. I have learned that much about human society. You are a very self-centered people."

  "As opposed to altruists like yourself, right, Harcourt?" The human dealer displayed a greater command of the language than Harcourt would have given him credit for.

  "I am merely pointing out some of the advantages of the mutual enterprise in which I think you will desire to participate. When my fellow Newcomers learn they can obtain this drug, they will work very hard to make as much money as they can, to give it to me. If necessary, they will lower themselves to do the kind of work which is to our particular advantage, much as do human addicts. This drug represents much more than money, my friend. It is power."

  "You haven't told him all of it." The voice came from the shadows near the door that led to the adjoining office.

  Harcourt crouched slightly as he reacted. Everyone else spun in the direction of the pronouncement. Caught off guard and resting, Quint jumped to his feet while Kipling's hand edged toward his shoulder holster.

  A silhouette appeared in the door and resolved itself as it entered the room. Cassandra, with Francisco right behind her.

  Quint had his gun out and was starting to take aim when his eyes widened as he caught sight of what the detective carried cradled in his right hand.

  The bundle was compact and fwniliar: the plastic explosive he'd intended to connect to the ignition wires of a certain human detective's automobile.

  The wires had been properly run from the explosive pack to the detonation switch, an uncomplicated pressurerelease button. You squeezed it tight and when the ignition was turned, it let the switch bounce upward and ...

  Francisco held the switch depressed, his thumb heavy on the sensitive trigger.

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  " He's got the C-4 charge!" Quint yelled, incriminating himself while warning his companions. Kipling's hand hesitated and Harcourt lost the rest of his smile.

  - What is a C-4 charge?" one of the Newcomer dealers inquired through the haze induced in his brain by the drug he'd just ingested.

  "Human plastic explosive." Quint's eyes were locked on Francisco's right hand. "Primitive but impressive stuff. That's a real bomb he's carrying there. And the way he's got it set, if he moves his thumb it's gonna go off real easy. "

  The dealer started to rise. Francisco turned on him, holding out the charge. The Newcomer got the idea fast and sat back down.

  Francisco was sweating profusely and the room rapidly filled with the
odor of alien perspiration as the others joined him. He advanced by nudging Cassandra gently ahead, keeping her where he could see her.

  Despite what she'd already done for him, he didn't trust her. Right now he didn't trust anyone. He couldn't afford to.

  Quint had slowly put his pistol away and was making reassuring motions with both hands. "Just take it easy, buddy. Nobody here's gonna do anything stupid. Keep your finger on that button and don't do nothin'

  squirrelly. Whatever you want, I'm sure we can talk about it, right?"

  The detective nodded slightly. "Right. We'll talk."

  Harcourt was watching the intruder, not the lethal device in his hand.

  It was the detective they had to disarm, not the bomb. The detective who had to be rendered harmless.

  "if you release that button," he said as he gestured toward the depressed detonation switch, "you will not only kill us, but yourself as well."

  "That's for sure." Francisco's expression was grim, his tone unwavering.

  "This will not merely demolish this room, it will level the entire floor of this building."

  "No joke," the edgy Quint said confirmingly. "There's enough stuff there to bring the whole place down."

  "That does not make any sense," Harcourt observed softly.

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  "No," Francisco shot back, "it makes perfect sense, since you're the only one who knows how to make the ss'jabroka. To finish you, and that," and he nodded in the direction of the open suitcase and its gleaming contents, "I would do it. "

  As he spoke he stared straight at the Newcomer entrepreneur, and Harcourt knew he wasn't bluffing.

  "Everyone up against that wall." When Francisco gestured with the C-4

  everyone moved. "Slowly." They rose from their chairs and walked in slow motion. Quint moved more slowly than anyone. "Except you."

  Complying with the order, Harcourt halted behind the conference table.

  Her face alight with fear, Cassandra remained where she was, watching the others as they lined up against the wall. Kipling was having an especially tough time. His pistol hung heavy against his shoulder, within easy reach yet untouchable. He wanted to break the detective's face.

  Slowly. But the thumb depressing the trigger controlled them all. He glanced in the direction of his boss, saw that Harcourt was not giving any signals, and decided quite correctly that now was not the time for improvisation. Wait.

  Trying to watch all of them at once, Francisco approached the table. He picked up the sample dispenser and tossed it back into the open suitcase.

  With his free hand he succeeded in closing the case and latching it tight.

  Harcourt watched him silently, his emotions seething inside him. He experienced actual physical pain as he watched the detective pick up the suitcase on which so much effort had been lavished.

  "One small matter seems to have escaped your attention, sir. " Harcourt nodded at the luggage. "Just as it has escaped the attention of my friends here. What you hold in you hand is not listed on any human law books as a controlled substance. Legally it might as well be fifty kilos of grape jelly."

  Francisco shook the suitcase and Harcourt stiffened as he heard the precious glass cylinders clinking inside.

  "This? The ssjabroka is a bonus, an extra. The charge against you, Harcourt, isn't dealing. It's murder and con-00

  spiracy to commit. Hubley, Porter, Strader, probably others. You got to the top too fast, Harcourt. You should have shown more patience, should not have been so ready to kill. Murder makes human police angry and persistent. I've learned what that means. It is an ethical thing with them. So they will not show you any compassion simply because you are a Newcomer who has murdered only other Newcomers. That's the wonderful thing about their system of justice. Once you join their society you find yourself subject to their laws even if you try to maintain your own. You have to live up to their standards even if they fail to themselves. -

  For the first time a glimmer of concern showed behind Harcourt's icy blue eyes. Meanwhile Cassandra had joined the detective in staring hard at the Newcomer entrepreneur, but for a different reason. Francisco's diatribe had contained an unexpected shock.

  - You--you killed Strader?" With both hands full Francisco couldn't prevent her from rushing forward to grab Harcourt by his jacket. "Where's Todd? Did you do something to Todd?"

  Harcourt gazed down at her in irritation. "Todd? Who is this Todd?" Then he remembered, and smiled ever so slightly. "Ali yes, Todd. The unfortunate Mr. Watson."

  Cassandra's eyes widened in horror as she made the obvious connections.

  Meanwhile Francisco had come around the table and was nudging Harcourt with the suitcase. Together they started for the door. Cassandra watched them for a moment, then darted to her left. With his attention focused on Harcourt and the detective, Quint didn't see her coming. She moved with a dancer's speed and assurance to snatch the .357 from his holster.

  She let out an unintelligible shriek as she aimed the pistol in Harcourt's direction.

  Francisco let out a violent "No!" as he saw her intention and lunged for the weapon, striking it with the suitcase as she fired. The bullet slammed into the wall behind the flinching Harcourt.

  It took only a couple of seconds, but that was all the time the waiting Kipling required. Striking with both hands, he grabbed the lead wires on the C-4 bomb and tore them free

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  of the plastic. Quint shut his eyes and swallowed his heart, but nothing happened.

  "Got it!" Kipling yelled triumphantly before throwing himself at Francisco.

  The two Newcomers crashed to the floor. Quint moved on Cassandra as she pointed the gun at Harcourt a second time, yanking the Magnum from her hand and slamming her across the side of her head. As she dropped to her knees he hit her a second time.

  Francisco was fighting to get back on his feet. As he started to rise, Kipling hit him hard beneath the right arm, folding the detective instantly. Taking his time and savoring the experience, Harcourt's assistant then brought his knee up into the detective's face, blasting him backward. Breathing hard, he lifted him bodily and slammed him face-first into the wall, pinning him in place.

  Harcourt was as calm as ever as he straightened his suit. "Kill them both."

  Kipling looked uncertain. "Here?"

  "Do it!" the entrepreneur said sharply. "If you try taking them somewhere they're liable to get away. Do it here, now. We'll worry about the cleanup later."

  Stepping close and raising his gun, Quint placed the muzzle against the base of Cassandra's skull and squeezed the trigger. The explosion was loud in the enclosed office, but it didn't come from Quint's weapon. Cassandra flinched, then looked up in surprise as Harcourt's henchman staggered away from her.

  Sykes stood in the doorway, the Casull smoking in his right fist.

  Quint stumbled hard into the window overlooking the back alley and went through, propelled by the force of the heavy slug. After that everything happened very quickly.

  Before Quint hit the ground outside, Kipling had shoved Francisco aside and drawn his own weapon. Sykes saw him just in time and dove for cover inside the adjoining office. Newcomer and human alike, the three visiting drug dealers tried to press themselves into the carpet. This was not their fight.

  Harcourt grabbed the suitcase and made a dash for the 182

  door that led to the office on the other side of the conference room.

  Kipling covered his retreat, firing rapidly and pinning Sykes down until the two Newcomers could escape to the hallway.

  Still unsteady on his feet, Francisco rose and took off after Harcourt and Kipling.

  "George, wait!" Francisco ignored him, as Sykes suspected he would. Until the drug had been recovered again the detective knew his partner was unlikely to listen to him or anyone else.

  Straight-arming the Casull back into the conference room, he saw the three dealers slowly rising behind the table. They had their arms in the air and the expressions o
n their faces were sufficient for Sykes to write them off as potential threats.

  "Don't shoot, man-we're unanned-look!"

  Sykes already had turned his attention to Cassandra. She was leaning against the conference table, supporting herself with one arm and holding the side of her head where Quint had socked her.

  "You okay?"

  "Yes-I think so."

  Sykes left her to her own devices as he rushed out into the hall.

  Harcourt was pounding down the fire escape, the dim light giving him no trouble. Kipling was right on his heels with Francisco barely ten feet behind and Sykes bringing up the rear. All of them could hear the approaching police sirens.

  The first cruiser pulled up outside the club and disgorged two officers who sprinted for the back door, guns drawn. The car sat empty, its lights circling lazily in the night. The uniforms burst inside just as Harcourt and Kipling were abandoning the fire escape. Harcourt saw the idling cruiser and grinned, The luck that had sustained him ever since he'd regained consciousness on this world was still with him. He beckoned to his assistant.

  "Here!" Kipling saw, and followed.

  Throwing the suitcase into the back seat, Harcourt slid in 180

  on the passenger side while Kipling climbed behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and thromped the accelerator, burning rubber as he pulled away from the curb.

  Sykes saw them fleeing as he caught up to Francisco. The Casull shattered one taillight and put a couple of holes in the trunk, but his aim was too low. The car kept going.

  "This way!" Francisco headed for the shiginobile.

  This time Sykes made sure he reached the car first, got behind the wheel.

  Another police unit screamed past them as they pulled out of the club lot.

  A cursing Sykes scraped brick as he squeezed by.

  They were maybe three-quarters of a block behind Harcourt. Not bad, Sykes thought with grim satisfaction, considering the head start their quarry had taken on them.

  Kipling swerved wildly around a slow-moving car in the lane ahead, swearing in his own language. Staring through the rear window, Harcourt could see the slugmobile dogging their tail.