Alan Dean Foster (17 page)

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 120

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?"

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"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 pirts 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 122

took a long swallow. 'Me 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 sour 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 120

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 concemed. 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.

"Ignore the bitch on the left," he muttered across the table. "That's Edie.

I call her Edie Amin."

"If you don't like her, why do you carry her picture around with you?"

Francisco inquired curiously.

"Because I can't cut her out of the photo because she's 124

standing too close to Kristin and she's got her arm around her. Beauty and the Beast." He tapped the picture. "That's Kristin there. My daughter.

It's kinda an old picture, but you know how you get about old pictures.

You always have this one special image of your kids, when they're a certain age, when they look a certain way. When you're seventyfive and they're fifty you'll still see 'ern that same way." He stared moodily at the photo.

"Old picture. She's twenty now. Hard to believe, lookin' at this. Always hard to believe. Twenty. Geezus. Gettin' married, in fact."

"When is the happy occasion?"

"Sunday. This Sunday."

Francisco took the photo gently between his thick fingers and gazed at the fading color. As he did so he was swaying ever so slightly from side to side. Sykes didn't sway, but he no longer sat erect in his chair. Each sip of vodka bent him a little lower. Eventually his head would make contact with the top of the table and he could finally relax.

"Human children can be very beautiful, if one can manage to ignore the fur that distorts their skulls." He returned the picture. Sykes resumed his staring. "Getting married, you say? Congratulations. A most important time. You will be taking Sunday off, then."

His voice thick and uneasy, Sykes laid the picture down. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. I'm not sure I'm gonna go." His voice fell. "She doesn't need her burnout of a father there. Lousy cop, never made Lieutenant, probably never will. Her fianc6's family's got money.

Important people. They don't need me there either. Spoil the family portrait. Don't wanna embarrass nobody. 'specialty Kristin. She says she wants me there, but that's just the way she is. Loves everybody. Even her bum of an old man."

Francisco found himself staring at his partner, seeing something he never expected to see there: vulnerability - Any minute now, Sykes looked like he might start crying. That was something unexpected that Newcomers and humans had in common, perhaps one of the most important things. To break the mood, Francisco fumbled in his jacket until he 125

located his own wallet. He was mildly surprised that it took him so long to find it.

" I must show you." lie flipped open the leatherette case. Inside were four crisp, recent photos of an alien woman. Each pose was different. All had obviously been taken in a studio, with flat background and professional lighting.

"This is Susan, my wife."

Sykes hesitated, then peered curiously at the pictures in their plastic holders. "Yeah, I saw her the other day when I picked you up. Not bad."

His partner flipped through the plastic holders, past credit cards and various forms of identification, until he came to a series showing a young Newcomer male.

"And this is Richard. My son. He's three years old. We named him after one of the former presidents, Richard Nixon. "

Sykes stared at the photos on the table. Gradually his glum expression was transformed into a grin. This became a wide smile, and then he was laughing out loud at Francisco. His partner gazed back confusedly, his face full of sincerity and puzzlement.

"Is there something wrong with naming a child after a prominent leader?

Susan and I thought it was a common and respected custom. "

Wiping at one eye, Sykes forced himself to quiet down. Samuel-George, Susan, and Richard. Ozzie and Harriet. The Martians next door. And now this. Damned if he wasn't starting to like the guy.

"You open to a piece of friendly advice, George?"

Francisco smiled pleasantly. "I am always receptive to good advice, Matthew. I believe it is one of our better qualities. "

"Swell. Then if anybody happens to ask, you tell them you named your kid after Richard Burton, the actor. "

"I do not understand the reason for such a deception."

Sykes was making calming gestures with his left hand. "Just take my word for it. Have I ever given you bad advice before?"

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_ Well, Matt, as long as the subject has come up, I should remind you.

. ."

"Exactly," said Sykes, interrupting his partner. He raised his glass.

Francisco did not hesitate to respond appropriately. He hadn't hesitated in some time. Vodka and milk slammed together.

Despite continued practice, Francisco was surprised to find that his new skill at toasting was growing progressively worse, not better. A couple of times he and his partner managed to miss each other's glass entirely.

It required increased attention and concentration simply to place their glasses in proximity. It was also getting very late, but since Sykes chose not to comment on the time, Francisco felt it would be impolite of him to do so.

The Newcomer had doffed his jacket and tie, but it still struck him as too warm in the apartment. He was concentrating single-mindedly on what his partner was saying. Concentrating hard. This was imperative, because his ability to concentrate on anything at all was rapidly fading.