I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the next applicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door popped open and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.
“Come here, you!”
“Stebbins?” I said gently.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and he came running in—”
“Please, please,” squeaked the little alien pitifully. “I must see you, honored sir!”
“It isn’t his turn in line,” Stebbins protested. “There are at least fifty ahead of him.”
“All right,” I said tiredly. “As long as he’s in here already, I might as well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.”
Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.
The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-looking creature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been a lustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. His tail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even at full volume.
“Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am a being of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travel to Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview with yourself.”
I said, “I’d better tell you right at the outset that we’re already carrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and a female now and—”
“This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?”
I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulian entry. “Yes, that’s her name.”
The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. “It is she! It is she!”
“I’m afraid we don’t have room for any more—”
“You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress, she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my life and my love.”
“Funny,” I said. “When we signed her three years ago, she said she was single. It’s right here on the chart.”
“She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendors of Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry, languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You must take me to Earth!”
“But—”
“I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I must reason with her. Earthman, can’t you see I must appeal to her inner flame? I must bring her back!”
My face was expressionless. “You don’t really intend to join our organization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?”
“Yes, yes!” wailed the Stortulian. “Find some other member of my race, if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a dead lump of stone?”
It isn’t, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed by sentiment. I felt sorry for this being’s domestic troubles, but I wasn’t going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrel happy—not to mention footing the transportation.
I said, “I don’t see how we can manage it. The laws are very strict on the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be for scientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose in coming isn’t scientific, I can’t in all conscience lie for you, can I?”
“Well—”
“Of course not.” I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam right along. “Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up, I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden your heart to me.”
”I thought the truth would move you.”
“It did. But in effect you’re now asking me to conspire in a fraudulent criminal act. Friend, I can’t do it. My reputation means too much to me,” I said piously.
“Then you will refuse me?”
“My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can’t take you to Earth.”
“Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?”
There’s a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison an unwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer of scientific interest, and the World Government will deport the undesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn’t pull a low trick like that on our female Stortulian.
I said, “I’ll ask her about coming home. But I won’t ship her back against her will. And maybe she’s happier where she is.”
The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed halfway to mask his tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like a living dishrag. In a bleak voice he said, “There is no hope then. All is lost. I will never see my soul mate again. Good day, Earthman.”
He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping. I watched him shuffle out. I do have some conscience, and I had the uneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about to commit suicide on my account.
About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then life started to get complicated again.
Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reason or another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for the day so far was close to two dozen new life forms under contract.
I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian’s outraged pride and the Stortulian’s flighty wife when the door opened and the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIII stepped in.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded.
“Your man happened to be looking the wrong way,” he said cheerily. “Change your mind about me yet?”
“Get out before I have you thrown out.”
Gorb shrugged. “I figured you hadn’t changed your mind, so I’ve changed my pitch a bit. If you won’t believe I’m from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose I tell you that I am Earthborn, and that I’m looking for a job on your staff.”
“I don’t care what your story is! Get out or—”
“—you’ll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second. Corrigan, you’re no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yours outside is. He doesn’t know how to handle alien beings. How many times today has a life form come in here unexpectedly?”
I scowled at him. “Too damn many.”
“You see? He’s incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead. I’ve been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is to know about alien life forms. You can use me, Corrigan.”
I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling of the office before I spoke. “Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is, I’ve had a hard day. There’s been a Kallerian in here who just about threatened murder, and there’s been a Stortulian in here who’s about to commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it’s troubling me. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up, and go home to Earth. I don’t want you hanging around here bothering me. I’m not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back to claiming you’re an unknown life form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer is that I’m not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or—”
The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian, came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glittering metalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster he was wielding a sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck came dragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately on to his belt.
“Sorry, Chief,” Stebbins gasped. “I tried to keep him out, but—”
Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him out with a roar. “Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!”
Sitting with my hands poised near the mesh-gun trigger, I was ready to let him have it at the first sign of actual violence.
Heraal boomed,
“You are responsible for what is to happen now. I have notified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing the death of a life form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!”
“Watch it, Chief,” Stebbins yelled. “He’s going to—”
An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the mesh-gun trigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged it savagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with the sword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets of bluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.
Before I could react to the big life form’s hara-kiri, the office door flew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in the green sashes of the local police force.
Their golden eyes goggled down at the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.
“You are J. F. Corrigan?” the leader asked.
“Y-yes.”
“We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaint being—”
“—that your unethical actions have directly contributed to the untimely death of an intelligent life form,” filled in the second of the Ghrynian policemen.
“The evidence lies before us,” intoned the leader, “in the cadaver of the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us several minutes ago.”
“And therefore,” said the third lizard, “it is our duty to, arrest you for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than a hundred thousand dollars Galactic or two years in prison.”
“Hold on!” I stormed. “You mean that any being from anywhere in the Universe can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I’m responsible?”
“This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield to this late life form’s request lies at the root of his sad demise?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.”
Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of them away. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it was going to put an awful dent in this year’s take. And I shuddered when I remembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely to come bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000 per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.
I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannounced arrival.
The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorway and stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynian policemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for a moment and turned to eye the newcomer.
I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. I resolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself against crackpots.
In heartrending tones, the Stortulian declared, “Life is no longer worth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for me to do.”
I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackers going down the drain. “Stop him, somebody! He’s going to kill himself! He’s—”
Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked me flying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire the mesh-gun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, I guess I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.
Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous hole in the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and I saw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. The man who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dusting himself off.
He helped me up. “Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But that Stortulian wasn’t here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to get you.”
I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flying fragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashed plaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning the struggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.
“Evidently you don’t know as much as you think you do about Stortulian psychology, Corrigan,” Gorb said lightly. “Suicide is completely abhorrent to them. When they’re troubled, they kill the person who caused their trouble. In this case, you.”
I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than a full-bodied laugh.
“Funny,” I said.
“What is?” asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.
“These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye and killed himself, and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek and pathetic damn near blew my head off.” I shuddered. “Thanks for the tackle job.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gorb said.
I glared at the Ghrynian police. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take that murderous little beast out of here! Or isn’t murder against the local laws?”
“The Stortulian will be duly punished,” replied the leader of the Ghrynian cops calmly. “But there is the matter of the dead Kallerian and the fine of—”
“—one hundred thousand dollars. I know.” I groaned and turned to Stebbins. “Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have them send down a legal adviser. Find out if there’s any way we can get out of this mess with our skins intact.”
“Right, Chief.” Stebbins moved toward the visi-phone.
Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.
“Hold it,” the Wazzenazzian said crisply. “The Consulate can’t help you. I can.”
“You?” I said.
“I can get you out of this cheap.”
“How cheap?”
Gorb grinned rakishly. “Five thousand in cash plus a contract as a specimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That’s a heck of a lot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn’t it?”
I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn’t be much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless they were really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officials ever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand, giving this shyster a contract might be a risky proposition.
“Tell you what,” I said finally. “You’ve got yourself a deal—but on a contingency basis. Get me out of this and you’ll have five grand and the contract. Otherwise, nothing.”
Gorb shrugged. “What have I to lose?”
Before the police could interfere, Gorb trotted over to the hulking corpse of the Kallerian and fetched it a mighty kick.
“Wake up, you faker! Stop playing possum and stand up! You aren’t fooling anyone!”
The Ghrynians got off the huddled little assassin and tried to stop Gorb. “Your pardon, but the dead require your respect,” began one of the lizards mildly.
Gorb whirled angrily. “Maybe the dead do—but this character isn’t dead!”
He knelt and said loudly in the Kallerian’s dish-like ear, “You might as well quit it, Heraal. Listen to this, you shamming mountain of meat—your mother knits doilies for the Clan Verdrokh!”
The supposedly dead Kallerian emitted a twenty-cycle rumble that shook the floor, and clambered to his feet, pulling the sword out of his body and waving it in the air. Gorb leaped back nimbly, snatched up the Stortulian’s fallen blaster, and trained it neatly on the big alien’s throat before he could do any damage. The Kallerian grumbled and lowered his sword.
I felt groggy. I thought I knew plenty about non-terrestrial life forms, but I was learning a few things today. “I don’t understand. How—”
The police were blue with chagrin. “A thousand pardons, Earthman. There seems to have been some error.”
“There seems to have been a cute little con game,” Gorb remarked quietly.
I recovered my balance. “Try to milk me of a hundred grand when there’s been no crime?” I snapped. “I’ll say there’s been an error! If I weren’t a forgiving man, I’d clap the bunch of you in jail for attempting to defraud an Earthman! Get out of here! And take that would-be murderer with you!”
They got, and they got fast, burbling apologies as they went. They had tried to fox an Earthman, and that’s a dangerous sport. They dragged the cocooned form of the Stortulian with them. The air seemed to clear, and peace was restored. I signaled to Auchinleck and he slammed the door.
“All right.” I looked at Gorb and jerked a thumb at the Kallerian. “That’s a nice trick. How does it work?”
Gorb smiled pleasantly. He was enjoying this, I could see. “Kallerians of the Clan Gursdrinn specialize in a kind of mental discipline, Corrigan. It isn’t too widely known in this area of the Galaxy, but men of that clan have unusual mental control over their bodies. They can cut off circulation and nervous-system response in large chunks of their bodies for hours at a stretch—an absolutely perfect imitation of death. And, of course, when Heraal put the sword through himself, it was a simple matter to avoid hitting any vital organs en route.”
The Kallerian, still at gunpoint, hung his head in shame.
I turned on him. “So—try to swindle me, eh? You cooked up this whole fake suicide in collusion with those cops.”
He looked quite a sight, with that gaping slash running clear through his body. But the wound had begun to heal already. “I regret the incident, Earthman. I am mortified. Be good enough to destroy this unworthy person.”
It was a tempting idea, but a notion was forming in my showman’s mind. “No, I won’t destroy you. Tell me—how often can you do that trick?”
The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction Megapack(r) Page 5