Alien Harvest (aliens)

by Robert Sheckley

  Spaceship pilots were important men, like star athletes, and most of them had, in addition to solid abilities, good-to-excellent connections. Hoban didn't have any of that. Just top marks in his class throughout the university and Space School after that. He was the corps' token poor boy; proof that anyone could make it in the corps if he was smart and diligent. But when it came right down to it, after the accident, the company didn't want to pay out on the higher figure of the insurance and Hoban didn't have any friend in high places to keep a watch over his interests. Juries had been known to be bribed, and Bio-Pharm had been known to bribe them.

  The case had faded quickly from the news. There were lots of other things to get excited about. No one was even interested in doing a vid special on the Hoban case. But if they'd looked into it, they might have been surprised.

  7

  Callahan's Sporting Club near Delancey Street was an illegal club. The authorities were always closing it down, but Callahan's always managed to open again in a day or two. Many city mayors and police commissioners had sworn to close the place once and for all, but somehow they never got around to it. Too much money changed hands. It was nice to know that some things, like the power of bribery, never changed.

  A panel slid open in a reinforced door, and a face looked out. “Whaddyaa want?”

  “I want to gamble,” Julie said.

  “Who do you know?”

  “Luigi.”

  “Then come on in.”

  After they were inside, Stan whispered to her, “Who's Luigi?”

  “I have no idea,” Julie said. “In a place like this, looking like you know someone is worth almost as much as really knowing.”

  Callahan's was filled with well-dressed, prosperous-looking people, most of them crowded three deep around the horseshoe-shaped bar. The general depression and malaise that seemed to grip so much of America didn't operate here. Here, things were booming.

  Stan could see people sitting in the adjoining dining room, eating as though there were no food shortages. It looked like they were eating real steaks, too. From beyond the dining room he could hear the excited sounds of people betting. The gaming rooms would be right down there, and that was where Julie led him.

  “What game are you going to play?” he asked.

  “I'll try Whorgle,” she said.

  She pushed her way into the circle, and they made way for her. There were a dozen men and three women betting on the action. They waited while she set out her cash. Then the game went on.

  Stan found he couldn't figure out how Whorgle was played. There were cards, of course, and a small ivory marker, and something made it spin and jump between the numbers painted on the table. How long it resided in a square seemed to decide who won, but the cards had something to do with it, too. There were also disk-shaped markers with odd symbols on one side. The money, thrown down on the painted stake lines, passed back and forth too quickly for Stan to figure out what was happening. He knew he could work it all out if he just applied his mind, but right now he was feeling light-headed. It had been quite a while since his last shot of Xeno-Zip. The artificial fire that had enlivened his nerves and dulled his senses was fading out of his system. He was beginning to feel very bad. The pain was simply too hard to handle without something to help it like essence of royal jelly.

  At last the pain became too much for him. He had to go into a nearby room and lie down on a couch.

  After a while he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed of grinning skulls dancing and bobbing in front of him.

  After a while Julie came and woke him. She was smiling.

  “How did you do?” Stan asked her.

  “Nobody beats me at Whorgle,” she said, riffling through a stack of greenbacks. “Let's go home and get some sleep. Then I need to see Gibberman.”

  8

  Gibberman was a small man who wore a tweed cap pulled low on his forehead and crouched behind his Plexiglas-protected desk in his Canal Street pawnbroker's office, looking for all the world like an inflated toad. He wore a jeweler's loupe on a black ribbon around his neck and spoke with some indefinable Eastern European accent.

  “Julie! Good to see you, darling.”

  “I told you I'd come,” Julie said. “I'd like you to meet a friend of mine.”

  “Delighted,” said Gibberman. “But no names, please.” He shook Stan's hand, then offered Julie a drink from a half-empty bottle of bourbon beside him.

  “No, nothing,” she said. “Look, I'm going to get right to the point. I need plans for a job, and I need them quickly.”

  “Everybody's always in a hurry,” Gibberman said.

  “I've got places to go and things to do,” Julie said.

  “Rushing around is the curse of this modem age.”

  “Sure,” Julie said. “You got anything for me or not?”

  Gibberman smiled. “A good job is going to cost, you know.”

  “Of course,” Julie said. “Here, check this out.”

  She took an envelope from her purse and put it down on the desk in front of Gibberman. He opened it, looked inside, riffled the bills, then closed the envelope again.

  “You got it there, Julie. All you've got, that's the price.”

  “Fine,” Julie said. “Now what do you have?”

  “A piece of luck for you,” Gibberman said. “Not only have I got a first-class job, probably worth a million or more, but you could do it tonight if you want to move that fast.”

  “Fast is just what I want,” Julie said. “You're sure this is a good one?”

  “Of course I'm sure,” Gibberman said. “There's an element of risk in all these matters, as you well know. But with your well-known talents, you should have no particular difficulty.”

  Gibberman twirled around in his chair and pushed a wall painting out of the way. Behind it was a small safe set into the wall. He twirled the combination, blocking Julie and Stan's view with his body. Reaching in, he pulled out half a dozen envelopes, looked through them rapidly, selected one, put the rest back, then closed the safe.

  “Here's the job, my dear. Set for New York, and on a street not too far from where we are just now.”

  “This had better be good,” Julie said. “That's every cent we've got in the world.”

  “You know how reliable I am,” Gibberman said. “Together with my accuracy goes my well-known discretion.”

  9

  “What is this?” Stan asked. They had gone back home and had opened the manila envelope that Gibberman had given her. Inside was a map, a floor plan of an apartment, several keys, and a half-dozen pages of notes neatly printed in a tiny handwriting.

  “This, my dear, is what any successful thief needs — a plan.”

  “That's what you got from Gibberman?”

  “I've used his plans for several years,” Julie said. “He's very thorough.”

  “So who are you going to rob?” Stan asked.

  “A wealthy Saudi oilman named Khalil. He arrived in New York two days ago. He's going to the Metropolitan Opera tomorrow night to watch a special performance of The Desert Song. While he's away I'll relieve him of certain items he usually keeps in his apartment.”

  “Where is this to take place?”

  “He's staying at the Plaza.”

  “Wow,” Stan said. “I never thought I'd be doing this.”

  “You're not,” Julie said. “I am. You'll have to wait for me at home. I always work alone.”

  “But we're partners now. We do everything together.”

  He looked so crestfallen that Julie felt a pang of sorrow for him.

  “Stan,” she said, “you know that robot you've built? Would you trust me to do micro-soldering on his interior circuits?”

  “Of course not,” Stan said. “You haven't had the training…. Oh, I see what you mean. But it's not really the same thing.”

  “It's the exact same thing,” Julie said.

  “I just hate to see you going into this alone.”

  “Do
n't worry about me. Nothing ever goes wrong with my plans. And if it does, I can take care of it.”

  10

  The Plaza Hotel had suffered some damage during the recent time of the aliens, but had since regained at least a semblance of its former elegance. Julie went there that evening wearing a stunning red cocktail dress. She looked, if not exactly like a celebrity, then definitely like a celebrity's girlfriend. The doorman opened the door for her, bowing deeply. She entered the big, brilliantly lit lobby. The reception desk was straight ahead. She didn't want to get too close to it yet. She glanced at her watch as if she was expecting to meet somebody. All the time she was taking in the details.

  People were very well dressed. This was a place where money was in very good supply.

  To one side a small orchestra was playing a quaint song from olden times called “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” People were coming in and out of the bar with its glowing mahogany paneling and its soft indirect lighting. She would have liked a drink now, but she had an unbreakable rule: no alcohol or any other kind of drug while she was on a job.

  She looked around the bar and then the lobby. Her practiced eye picked out the security men, two of them near the potted palms. She could always tell who they were. They just didn't look like the guests, no matter how well they dressed. She counted five of them. They gave her admiring glances but there was nothing suspicious in their looks. So far so good.

  The big hotel was in full swing. There were lights everywhere, and elegant people, and the accoutrements of success. You could smell it in the five-dollar cigars and the expensive perfume on the white shoulders of the women; in the aroma of roast beef, the real thing, wafting out from under silver servers as black-coated waiters brought the well-laden plates around; in the very carpet, permeated with expensive preservatives and subtle-smelling oils.

  Julie went to the elevators. One was reserved for the penthouse suites. There was a man standing near it, rocking back and forth on his heels as he surveyed the passing crowds. Julie made him for a plainclothes cop, maybe somebody's bodyguard. She walked on past and went through a set of corridors back into the main lobby. She was pretty sure the guy at the penthouse elevator hadn't noticed her. She was also sure a frontal assault on the apartment wasn't the best idea.

  Gibberman had taken this possibility into account. Next door to the Plaza was the Hotel Van Dyke. Khalil's apartment was a penthouse in the Plaza. If, for any reason, Julie didn't want to use the elevator, Gibberman had indicated an ingenious alternate way of gaining entry. It involved swinging from an unoccupied top-floor apartment in the Van Dyke, and going in through Khalil's window. A cat-burglar act, but that was one of Julie's specialties. She wished Stan could be here to watch her. But it wouldn't be safe, and it might distract her.

  She had no trouble slipping into the Van Dyke with a group of people going to the top-floor restaurant. When they got off at the top floor, Julie got out with them, but instead of entering the restaurant, she ducked into the short flight of service stairs that led to the roof. From there she had a fine view of upper Manhattan, with the dark mass of Central Park directly in front of her and traffic crawling by a long way below on the street. A cutting wind blew her hair around, and she slipped on a knit cap to hold it in place. “Here we go!” she said aloud.

  She fixed her ropes and swung over to the roof of the Plaza. From there she tied her rope to a cornice and, taking a deep breath, swung out again into space, bracing herself with one foot so as not to spin. The stars and the street seemed equally distant as she lowered herself to the level of the apartment windows.

  They were open, saving her from having to cut through them with a vibrator tool.

  She swung in through the billowing white curtains, landed soundlessly inside the darkened apartment, and rolled to her feet. She could see pretty well with the infrared-enhanced goggles she now snapped on. Her feet were set in a defensive pose, but there was no one there. She gave the rope a snap and it came free from the cornice. She wound it around her waist. Now there was no evidence of her means of entry.

  She looked around the apartment. It was large, with a drawing room and a separate bedroom. She checked out the kitchen. The refrigerator was filled with a very good brand of champagne, and there were tins of caviar in the pantry. This Khalil seemed to live on the rarest of fare. The question now was where did he keep the jewelry?

  She knew that Gibberman had chosen this mark carefully. Ahmed Khalil was renowned as an international playboy. He loved to give expensive gifts to his ladies of the evening. But where did he keep the trinkets?

  She had already learned from inside sources that he didn't entrust them to hotel safes. He wanted them close at hand for the moment when he chose to reward his current lady.

  She moved quickly around the apartment Although the place was big, it was still only a hotel suite. The stuff has to be here somewhere….

  And then, suddenly, the lights came on.

  “Good evening, my dear,” a deep, resonant voice said.

  Julie saw a tall, very thin, dark-faced man leaning negligently against the wall. He was wearing a checked headdress. He had a short beard and luxuriant mustache. His face was narrow, and he had a hawk's nose with a large mole in the left corner. Standing beside him was another man, also an Arab, but large — in fact, huge — with a full head of fuzzy black hair and so much facial hair that his features were all but obscured. Julie, however, had no trouble seeing the knife he held in his right hand.

  “What are you doing here?” Julie asked. “You're supposed to be seeing an opera.”

  Khalil, the tall thin man, smiled. “Your information is reliable, but so was my counterintelligence service. We always keep an eye on Gibberman when we come to New York. He's stung us before. We knew when you visited him to set up the job. Didn't we, Sfat?”

  The giant smiled and touched the point of his dagger with the ball of his thumb.

  Khalil said, “Gibberman was happy to tell us what he had set up for this evening.”

  Julie nodded. Talk about luck.

  “You mustn't hold it against Gibberman for talking,” Khalil said. “When Sfat takes the knife to somebody, secrets are shouted from the rooftops. His skill is better than a surgeon's. With that knife he can lay bare a single nerve, in the arm, for example, and play on it as if it were the string on a violin. It is an unforgettable experience, my dear, and one I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss.”

  Julie thought of how she had told Stan that nothing ever went wrong. What a laugh! Of course, it was all bad luck. How could she have guessed that Khalil would find out about Gibberman? She had discounted the efficiency of the counterintelligence corps these rich Arabs employed.

  “Well, Khalil,” Julie said, “looks like I'm foiled and caught in the act. Have your man step away from the door and I'll leave quietly.”

  Khalil smiled. “I'm afraid it's not going to be so easy, my dear.”

  “You're going to turn me over to the police?”

  “Eventually. If there's enough left of you. First, however, it will be necessary to teach you a lesson. Sfat!”

  The big man took a slow step toward her.

  Julie said, “I thought it would be like that. Thanks, Khalil.”

  “For what?”

  “For freeing me of any scruples. If I ever had any, you've put them completely out of my mind.”

  She turned to face Sfat, and took two steps toward him while Khalil folded his arms and waited for the fun to begin, a small smile on his lips.

  Sfat lifted his arms, hands formed into blades. He bent his knees, feet pointed outward, and Julie recognized the typical fighting stance of a Saudi karate fighter. It was a technique that had its limitations. Sfat advanced, mincingly for so large a man, and his bearded face was set in a mask of cruelty. As he came within range his left hand darted out, the finger's shaped like a hawk's head.

  She was ready for it, had been anticipating it. She ducked under the swooping blow and, with a short, economica
l kick, connected with Sfat's left kneecap. He had been turning as she kicked, and some of the force of the blow was lost. Nevertheless, it was enough to take his feet out from under him. He fell heavily, and Julie pounced.

  But this time he caught her unawares. Sfat's clumsy fall had been feigned, and as she came leaping at him his arms and legs were drawn up cat fashion, and he lashed out, expecting to catch her in the solar plexus. She had seen her danger a moment before his counterstroke, however, and turning in midair, managed to avoid his flailing limbs. Her stiffened elbow caught him in the pit of the stomach, knocking the air out of him, and in the second it took him to recover, she rolled away and regained her feet.

  Khalil had been watching all this dumbfounded. Now, belatedly, he stirred into action. He stepped forward, crouching in a classic knife fighter's pose. The weapon he carried in his right hand and low against his body was a yata, a traditional Yemeni dagger, about eight inches long, slightly curved, and sharpened to a razor edge. It was made from a Swedish saw blade, and fitted with an elaborate rhino-horn handle. Arabic letters were engraved on the blade. Julie's eyes widened when she saw the weapon.

  “You do well to fear the yata” Khalil said, advancing, light twinkling off the point like the gaze of a one-eyed basilisk.

  “Oh, I wasn't exactly afraid of it,” Julie said. “Just surprised to see it. Rhino horn is not legally traded. Is it genuine?”

  “Of course,” Khalil said, feinting and then making a lightning stab at her. “I always kill with the genuine article.”

  “I'm sure glad to hear that,” Julie said. That makes that knife extremely valuable!”

  The blade darted toward her midsection. Julie spun, and the thing passed harmlessly along her left side. As it passed, her arm snapped down, trapping the weapon. Khalil began a long and elaborate Arabic curse in the guttural dialect of Omdurman, but got out no more than a couple of syllables before Julie's left elbow crashed with piledriver force into the middle of his face.