“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, careful to keep the knee of his designer slacks clear of the sand. He examined the bruised face sympathetically.
“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 running 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.
“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.
“I am afraid this is not an either/or situation, Mr. Watson. I cannot allow you to work for someone else in a similar capacity since your talents applied elsewhere could conceivably jeopardize the success of my own operations. If you agree to work for me you will come to know a wealth and comfort our people never dared imagine.”
Watson was still frightened, but managed a halfway defiant glare as he replied to Harcourt’s offer.
“SS’kya’ta!.”
Kipling bristled and stepped forward, but Harcourt waved him off. The big Newcomer halted reluctantly.
The alien entrepreneur studied Watson for a long moment, perhaps admiring his resolve, perhaps reconsidering the offer. It didn’t take long for him to reach a decision. It never did,
“There are still some of us who have things to unlearn. It is a pity to perish for such an outmoded value.” Straightening, he turned to the expectant thugs. “Mr. Quint, I believe it is time for our friend’s swimming lesson.”
It took a few seconds for the words to settle in Watson’s brain, for him to understand what was going to happen to him. When he did he went crazy, screaming and bucking wildly against his chains. Harcourt watched him silently. The smile was still on his face, but it was different now, a smile few people ever saw. There was no humor in it, and those who saw it never forgot it. Kipling had seen that smile, and Quint, and one or two others, and despite their hardness it made them shudder inside.
“It is important to learn new skills,” Harcourt was saying. “Essential to your growth as a person. That’s one of the marvelous things about this world. There are so many opportunities for education, for enriching our inner selves. I firmly believe we should avail ourselves of every chance to do so. Don’t you agree, Mr. Watson?”
Quint and his helpers had freed the assistant manager from his chains. It took all five of them to control the twisting, lunging Newcomer as they dragged him across the sand toward the surf. Despite the trouble they were having, Kipling did not offer his help. He remained next to Harcourt, just a suggestion of fear in his own cold eyes. Harcourt was talking to him; light banter, inconsequentialities. He didn’t really hear what his boss was saying, though he nodded affirmatively when he thought it was required of him. He was too fascinated by the drama unfolding before him.
Watson kept digging his feet into the sand until two of Quint’s people finally lifted his legs into the air. Blood appeared beneath his fingernails as he fought for a purchase in the beach, clutching at rocks and driftwood. The sand was too deep, the rocks and bits of flotsam too small.
Quint spoke to his newest recruit, who was having a tough time maintaining his grip on Watson’s right leg.
“You never seen this before, have you, Billy? Oh, man, you ain’t gonna believe it.”
“Believe what?” the man wondered aloud. “What’re we gonna do, stick his head under?”
Quint grinned nastily. “Somethin’ like that. See, seawater is like battery acid to these guys. Not everybody knows about it. It ain’t the sort of thing that shows up on the six o’clock news a lot. I don’t know what it is that actually does it, myself. Some kinda chemical reaction. Mr. Harcourt, he says it has something to do with the kinds of salts and trace metals that are dissolved in the oceans, whatever the shit that means.” He glanced down at the struggling, helpless Newcomer, mock concern in his voice.
“What do you think it is, Watson?” A leg kicked free, thrashing wildly as two men fought to bring it back under control. “Whoa, hold him!”
They were below the high-tide line now, where the water polished the dark sand slick as new linoleum. A wave rolled in, foam crawling up the slight decline toward the approaching men.
“What I love about the surf,” Quint mused aloud, “is that you can never tell how far up it’s going to come until it—whoops, got a little wet there.” A wavelet had broken over his shoes.
The second one barely touched Watson’s lower legs as they waded into the water. He let out a piercing scream, a high-pitched howl that could not have come from any human throat. As he flailed madly one of his hands dipped below the roiling surface. He howled and yanked it clear. Water dripped from the exposed skin. Seconds later a thousand miniature droplets of purplish blood began to appear on the backs of his fingers, hand, and on his palm, oozing out through his pores as his body reacted to the touch of the seawater. The beads swelled and ran together. Watson was crying now, moaning and sobbing as the men halted.
The water sloshing around their hips, they began to swing the Newcomer back and forth, building up momentum.
“All together now,” Quint urged his people. He sneered at the pitiful form of Watson. “Last call, sucker. What’ll it be?” When the best the alien could produce was little more than a sucking sob, Quint raised his voice. “Ready? One-two—THREE!”
The five heaved simultaneously, flinging Watson far out into the water.
Harcourt and Kipling had crossed the beach until they stood close to the waterline. They stared out across the moonlit sea. Watson continued screaming awhile longer, then there was once more only the sound of the waves.
Quint and his men studied the placid surface, hesitating in case their efforts would be needed to finish t
he deed. They were not. Watson made no more sounds, nor did he appear above the surface even though the water was barely chest-deep where he’d landed.
Kipling had to fight down his unease. He was only partly successful. They were much too close to the water for his liking. Harcourt appeared unperturbed as he gazed out toward the horizon. He was no longer thinking about Watson. The assistant manager of the club was, so to speak, a dead issue.
The longer they stood there the more nervous Kipling became. He’d read about freak waves that slammed unexpectedly into otherwise calm beaches and sucked people out to sea. It was peaceful and calm and the surf was running less than a foot, but he was still uneasy. Maybe a word or two . . .
“When we picked him up,” he told his boss, “he’d just finished talking to those two cops. The ones who tried to question you about Hubley. It was sheer luck we showed up when we did or we’d never have known.”
That brought Harcourt out of his reverie. “You’re sure about the cops? That they were the same two we encountered outside the hotel that night?”
“Absolutely. No way would I forget that ss’loka’.”
The entrepreneur’s expression was unreadable as he kicked lightly at the sand. “This is getting out of hand. I want you to deal with it. Immediately.”
“Any suggestions, Mr. Harcourt?”
The Newcomer again favored his assistant with that unpleasant smile. “Use your imagination. That’s what I pay you for. If I had any specifics in mind I’d use Quint. I value you for your independence of thought, Kipling. That’s why you’re my assistant. I can’t do all the thinking and planning. I have too many far more important matters that require my limited attention.”
Kipling came to attention. “Yes sir. I understand.”
Amazing, Harcourt thought, how useful a little flattery could be when dealing with primitive types like Kipling.
A wave rushed up the beach toward them. The sun would be up in an hour and the tide was starting to come in. Kipling didn’t like to think about things like tides, and waves. No Newcomer did. The world they’d been dumped upon was a difficult enough place to live without pondering the most discomfiting reality: the fact that three-quarters of its surface was covered with a deadly, caustic liquid. Dwelling on such things risked one’s sanity. A healthy Newcomer couldn’t even watch the smaller humans as they frolicked in the horrid stuff. It brought sickness to the stomach.
Instead of dying and retreating, the wave continued to rush up the incline toward them. Kipling stood it as long as he could before jumping convulsively backward. Harcourt held his ground, gazing placidly at the onrushing fluid. The foam halted less than an inch from his highly polished, sand-encrusted dress loafer. He continued to watch with interest as the water sank harmlessly into the absorbent sand.
“We must team, Kipling, to embrace that which we fear. From that we grow strong. Mental adaptation to a new world is as important to eventual success as is physical adaptation. Humans respect such things.”
You adapt to this, Kipling thought. Not for the first time he wished fervently that the people had been settled somewhere like Kansas City or St. Louis instead of L.A. But Los Angeles was near where their ship had landed, and Los Angeles was where the most extensive immigration and resettlement facilities were located, so that’s where most of them had settled.
Harcourt had no trouble with the city’s proximity to the ocean. In that respect he was special. To Kipling’s knowledge, no other Newcomer voluntarily went within a mile of the Pacific except on a dare from some friend or enemy. Newcomers did not enjoy family excursions to the horrible places called “beaches.” They went to the desert and the mountains.
Maybe we can throw the next one off a cliff somewhere, he thought hopefully. Harcourt gave him a lot of leeway in his work. He would suggest it. The sooner they were away from this place the better. No matter when they departed he would still have to hear the agonizing roar of what Quint referred to as the “surf” for days to come. He knew he would dream about it.
Harcourt spun on his heel and started back toward the waiting limo. In passing he motioned at Strader’s body. Quint and the others had emerged from the water to join the two Newcomers.
“There are signs posted everywhere here, Mr. Quint. We don’t want to be seen breaking the law.”
Quint frowned. “What law is that, Mr. Harcourt, sir?”
“Why, littering, of course.” He gestured a second time at Strader’s corpse.
Quint grinned. He enjoyed working for Harcourt. “I understand, sir. No littering.” What a card, he thought. A Newcomer with a real sense of humor.
Together he and his men hefted the body and walked it toward the water. Harcourt didn’t bother to turn and watch as they heaved the heavy corpse far out into the waves.
Francisco eyed the receiver of the wall phone with distaste. It was dirty and grease had collected in the cracks where the different parts of the phone were cemented together. He reluctantly placed it against his aural opening and dialed. As soon as the phone at the other end was picked up he began speaking quickly in his own language, having to bend slightly to clear the low ceiling in the kitchen alcove.
Sykes flipped on a second light, let his eyes flick through the kitchen. He opened the fridge and examined the contents, removing only the bottle of vodka and a tray of ice. While his partner earnestly addressed the phone, Sykes mixed booze and cubes in a tall glass.
Still on the phone, Franciso turned and watched his partner work. His gaze shifted to the still-open refrigerator, where his eyes came to rest on the carton of milk sitting on the bottom shelf. The last time it had been used it had not been properly closed at the top.
Bringing the receiver to the end of its cord as he listened to the voice on the other end, he leaned toward the fridge and sniffed. His eyes widened. He concluded the conversation, leaving his wife with an elaborate phrase that denoted both love and reassurance, and hung up. Sykes was taking a long pull on the vodka as Francisco came up beside him to peer into the refrigerator.
Eventually Sykes noticed his partner’s intent expression. “You want something or what?”
Francisco reached in to extract the milk carton. He took a long whiff of the contents and sighed. “Would you mind?”
Sykes shrugged and found him a glass. Francisco filled it and took a long swallow. The odor that filled the tiny kitchen made the human grimace. He nodded toward the phone.
“So, she keeps you on a pretty short leash, does she?”
Francisco considered thoughtfully. “My wife? She worries about me. I find her concern reassuring. Your tone implies disapproval of the situation. I find it quite the opposite.”
Sykes regarded a chair, chose instead to lean against the kitchen counter, cradling his glass in one hand. His tone was more weary than bitter.
“Yeah, I know the routine.”
The Newcomer studied him closely. “You are married? You have never mentioned having a mate.” He studied his surroundings. “I see no signs of a mate’s presence.”
“That’s because she ain’t here. Never was. That’s the operative word, George. Was. I’m divorced.”
“We mate always for life, though I am familiar with the relationship you describe. I was required to learn about it while at the Academy, as part of a course on dealing with domestic violence. Divorce is a strange concept for us. That kind of separation usually comes only with the death of one partner. To induce such a parting voluntarily is a new and difficult idea to grasp.” He leaned forward. “What is the feeling like? Can you phrase it in terms that I might comprehend?”
“I dunno. Can you comprehend having an eleventh finger removed? It hurts like hell, but you realize later you never really needed the damn thing in the first place.”
Francisco pondered this explanation, finally nodding even though he didn’t understand. What was obvious was that it was important to Sykes that he did understand. So, he nodded. Sykes slugged down another shot as his partner sipped so
ur milk and examined the apartment in detail. The effects of the rotten cow juice were beginning to make themselves felt.
“Your home is quite disorganized. I thought perhaps you had been burglarized when I first walked in.”
Sykes growled over the lip of the glass. “I appreciate your honesty, George. Tell me something: in that class on dealing with domestic violence, didn’t they teach you anything about tact?”
“A great deal, which I memorized as carefully as everything else I was taught. Procedure.”
“Yeah, you’re a real shitkicker where procedure’s concerned. So if you know all about tact, how can you say something like that about my beloved domicile?”
The Newcomer eyed him innocently. “I do not need to employ tack with you, Matthew. You are my partner.”
Sykes made a face and nodded at nothing in particular. “Right. That explains it.” He held his glass up and out. Francisco stared dumbly.
“What are you doing with your glass?”
“Making a toast, stupid. Haven’t you ever seen a toast before?”
A bewildered, slightly hurt expression came over his partner’s face. “There is neither bread present, nor a means for carbonizing it.”
Sykes muttered something under his breath. “A toast is when you drink to each other. To your friend’s health, to his future, his girlfriend, his dentist, whatever. Kind of a salute. You each have your own poison and you clink glasses together.”
Francisco nodded. “Now I understand. You must be patient with me, Matt. With all of us. Our education was hasty and uneven. We acquired a lot of useless knowledge along with missing some important things.” He touched his glass of old cold milk to Sykes’s. Then they both drank.
It was a pleasant custom which Francisco found he both appreciated and enjoyed. They worked on the fine points all night. By the time the Newcomer had it down pat, Sykes had removed his wallet and was showing his partner a rumpled, dogeared photo that had been crumpled and restraightened too many times.