Nodding, Smith trotted around the landvan and opened the rear door. From within he took two stun-rifles. “Let’s try to palaver first.”
“I don’t need one of those. I’ll rely on my trusty arm.”
“Don’t kill anybody unless-”
“I know the Whistler Agency code of ethics, never fear. Fact is, it matches that of the Cruzes. For untold generations no Cruz has…” His voice trailed off as the slavers reined up some two hundred yards away.
One of the snakemen left the group, urging his sturdy sixlegged mount toward the landvan.
“Hail, scum,” he called out in his raspy voice.
“He’s not getting off to a very cordial start.” Cruz rubbed his real fingers along his glistening metal arm.
Smith narrowed his eyes. “Is that you, Rudy?”
The snakeman chuckled. “Glorioski! It can’t be Smitty?” He came galloping right up to him, dropped free of his ornate saddle. “Talk about a small darn universe. I heard you’d gone to pieces…broken heart, was it?…and had become a pathetic stewbum off on some hick planet.” Hands on hips, he surveyed Smith. “But, heck, you don’t look all that terrible.”
“I’m on the road to recovery.” He lowered his rifle. “What happened to your miniature golf course in the capital?”
“Aw, I overextended myself, for one thing,” the robed slaver admitted. “When I added the Venusian-fried poutfish franchise, that was the shagarat that busted the snerg’s back. And the fact, which the son of a gun I bought the golf course from forgot to tell me, that the neighborhood gorilla men liked to stage their tribal dances on the fourteenth hole. You ever try to play through a couple dozen gorilla men giving out with the victory cry of the bull ape?”
“I had that experience once out on Murdstone,” put in Cruz. “’Twas while I was pursuing the blonde and marginally virginal youngest daughter of an archeology prof who specialized in defiling ancient tombs and-”
“Rudy, this is Cruz.”
The snakeman held out a green scaly hand. “Any friend of Smitty’s.”
“I’m here on business,” explained Smith while the two shook hands. “You and your cronies weren’t planning to attack us?”
“Heck, no,” said Rudy. “You can just go on your merry way. And, say, if you get anywhere near my old place, look up the new owner. Mention my name and he’ll fix the both of you up with poutfish dinners. But don’t go, a word to the wise, on any night there’s a double full moon. Gorilla nights.”
“Appreciate the thought.”
“Listen, it was darn nice seeing you again.” The big snakeman, bright robes flapping, swung back up onto his grout. “Pleasure meeting you, too, Cruz.” He turned his mount, waved at them and rode off to rejoin his associates.
“Fix the engine,” said Smith quietly, “fast.”
“Is Rudy likely to go back on his word?”
“Nope, but Rudy’s never been able to keep in charge of anything for very long.”
“I’ll hasten,” promised Cruz.
The catman’s crimson turban rose straight up off his furry orange head, unraveling in the process.
“Begone,” suggested Cruz, lowering his metal hand.
“Ah, effendi,” the catman attempted to explain as the unfurled turban settled back down, festooning his head and shoulders, “I merely brushed against you on this foul and crowded thoroughfare. I am not a dip nor a member of the lightfingered gentry. Nay, rather I-”
“Depart,” advised Cruz, “or I’ll use my built-in shockrod yet again, chum.”
“As you suggest.” Bowing, smoothing down his on-edge fur, the man went stumbling away through the afternoon crowd.
“Where were we in our lively conversation?” Cruz asked Smith.
“You were about to intrude in my private affairs.”
The street was paved with cobblestones of a faded gold color; it was narrow and twisting. Striped awnings hung out over many of the sandcolored buildings, and wrought iron balconies were much in evidence.
“In my earlier policy statements,” resumed Cruz, “I mentioned I wasn’t reluctant to talk about money or women.”
“So I noticed.” He dodged a peglegged lizardman who came lurching along.
“It occurs to me that the wife of our client may once have played a somewhat important part in your life.”
“She did.”
Cruz smoothed his moustache with real fingers. “Is that likely to affect this undertaking in any way?”
“Nope.”
“Keeping all your glum thoughts to yourself isn’t always the best-”
“Do you ever talk to yourself?”
“Rarely. I usually have no trouble rustling up an attentive audience.
“I do. Did anyway,” said Smith. “I talked to myself…seems like it was for months. I talked to myself about Jennifer and what happened until there isn’t anything more I feel like saying. Even to me.”
Cruz’ broad shoulders rose and fell. “Should the situation change.”
A few yards up ahead, a pair of swinging doors snapped suddenly wide open. Three apemen in checkered suits, a cocktail robot, a stuffed blue parrot and most of a full course fish dinner came flying out into the Street.
Nodding at the flapping doors, Smith said, “This is the place we want.”
CHAPTER 10
The owner of the Cafe Frisco brushed his knuckles on one spotless lapel of his two-piece white tuxsuit. He was a middle-sized human, sandyhaired and roughhewn, about forty. “Anybody else got any complaints about the soup du jour?” he inquired of the patrons of the main dining area.
One of the two pale lizard bishops at the table nearest him said, in a subdued voice, “Actually, sir, lukewarm is much nicer than hot. As we were about to point out to the unfortunate gentlemen who just left.”
“And these floating blobs of grease,” added his colleague, “enhance the flavor.”
“Rocky!” shouted the big catman bartender. “Behind youse!”
Rocky Jordan spun, gracefully, to meet the attack of the pair of angry spacewallopers who’d come charging out of one of the gaming rooms.
Dodging deftly, he slugged one and then the other, both square on the jaw.
The men, both big shaggy fellows, collapsed and fell onto the remains of the table that had been occupied by the catmen who’d been unhappy with their Plutonian Gumbo.
Jordan wiped the palms of his hands on his immaculate white trousers. “Thanks, Chris,” he called to the grinning bartender.
“Drink, Rocky?”
“The usual.”
“One sparkling water with a twist of chokaa coming up.,”
“Even these fat unidentified bugs swimming in our tepid soup are a delightful addition,” said one of the bishops. “We have nary a complaint, Mr. Jordan.”
“Those are cockroaches,” said Jordan. “Anything you want to know about our recipes, just ask. But politely.” He nodded to the huge snakeman near the doorway. “Haul these gents out into the sunshine and fresh air, Sam.” He poked one of the unconscious gamblers with his foot.
When Jordan reached the bar, Smith walked over to him. “Hi, Rocky.”
Stiffening, the cafe proprietor brought up both hands. “Damn, it’s Jared Smith,” he said, relaxing and smiling.
