Alan Dean Foster (16 page)

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 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 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.

"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'tX-

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

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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.

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- 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 highpitched 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 the deed. They were not. Watson made no more sounds, nor did he appear above the surface even though the water was barely chestdeep 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.

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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'."