He and Smith were walking along a foggy sidestreet in the Poverty Hollow sector of Metro North, the capital city of this particular Zegundo Territory. The buildings were low, huddled close together, made of brix and glaz. They were grey, dingy, bleaklooking. The derelicts, drunks, mewts, welfs and zanies who shuffled, drifted and staggered by in the yellowish fog all looked moderately familiar to Smith. He realized he might well have been down and out in this very ghetto, although he had no clear recollection of it.
“Liz Vertillion worked in this area up until the time she dropped from sight two months back,” Smith said.
A frail bedraggled little girl with three hands held them all out. “Give us a coin.”
Saint obliged. “Get yourself some food, child.”
“None of your frapping business what I does with it, greenie.”
“A pity the blooming universe is so awry,” observed Saint as they turned a corner. “No possible way to put things right, eh? Thoughts like that are what drive one into a life of nefarious deeds.”
“A true scoundrel wouldn’t have given that kid money.”
“Perhaps, old man, I’m only conning you with seemingly decent behavior.”
Smith nodded. “There’s the mission where Liz was working.”
“Deuced inspiring name. Last Faint Hope Mission,” said Saint. “Conveniently located twixt the Skullpop Saloon and the Lower Depths Diner.”
As they moved by the swinging doors of a saloon, a three-eyed blue mewt looked Out.
“Bless me! It’s old Smith,” he chuckled. “Ain’t seen you in a grout’s age, pal.”
Smith paused, studied the mewt. “Hi, Trio. How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain. All your drinking buddies miss you, though.” He narrowed all three eyes. “You’ve took a rise in the world. And you’re buddying with a real swell. You happy?”
“Happier.” Smith waved and moved on.
Saint said, “One hadn’t realized how low you’d sunk.”
“I don’t even exactly remember coming back to this planet,” admitted Smith. “I wandered around quite a bit for a while.”
“’Twould be ironic if you’d once been plucked out of the gutter by the now missing Lieutenant Liz Vertillion of the Salvation Squad.”
“Think that would’ve stuck in my memory.” Smith reached out to push open the narrow neowood door of the narrow brixfront mission building.
They entered into a low, beam-ceilinged dining room. Only about half of the ten long bare tables were in use.
A rusty cyborg huddled at the farthest table came rattling to his feet. “Smitty,” he hailed in a thin, rough-edged voice. “It’s been a spell.”
The gaunt man’s name came back to Smith. It was Scrapyard Slim. “Good to see you again, Slim.”
“You’re looking good, Smitty. Like you picked youself up.”
“Had a little help.” Smith, trailed by Saint, crossed the steamy room. “Is Lieutenant Zucco around?”
Slim pointed with his pitted chrome left hand. “Back in the kitchen you’ll find him,” he said. “The soup-maker’s on the fritz again.”
“Thanks.” They went through the doorless doorway.
“Ah, the memories of thousands of past kettles of soup linger,” said Saint, touching his plyochief to his round nose.
Squatting in front of a robotstove, a spanner in one furry hand, was a thin catman in a one-piece nightblue Salvation Squad unisuit. “Smith, isn’t it? We’ve missed you these past months. You appear, however, to have been eating well;”
“Lieutenant, we’re looking for Liz Vertillion.”
Rising gradually up, Zucco said, “Several people have been seeking her.” He touched a wide bandage on his fuzzy forehead. “One of them was rather persistent in his inquiries.”
“I don’t remember much about my last stay on Zegundo,” Smith told him, “and I have no idea what you think of me. But I’m trying to find Liz before somebody kills her.”
Lieutenant Zucco said, “You may be too late, Jared.”
“Hell, she isn’t dead?”
“I truly fear she may be,” the catman answered. “Just before she disappeared two months since, she’d antagonized Boss Nast.”
“Who might he be?” asked Saint. “The bloke who looks after all the crime and graft hereabouts?”
“That’s he. Liz was concerned about some garment sweatshops he owns and…I fear she may have been too outspoken in her criticism.”
Smith asked, “Did you tell the other inquirers this?”
“I did not, no. And none of them bothered to use truth drugs or devices on me, being satisfied that violence would provide all the information I contained.”
“These chaps may well have found out about Boss Nast elsewhere,” mentioned Saint, who was squinting into the kettle that held the soup of the evening.
“Nevertheless,” said Smith. “we’ll look the gent up.”
“He’s dangerous,” cautioned the Salvation Squad lieutenant.
“At this point,” said Smith, “so am I.”
CHAPTER 19
Metal hand and real hand held out palm foremost, Cruz emerged from the skycar cabin. “Gents, this is a peaceable mission we’re embarked upon,” he assured the surrounding band of junglemen. “No need to cudgel or-”
“See, Kaanga? I told you we were coming on too strong,” said one of the junglemen who’d charged across the clearing.
“But isn’t that what they expect, Samar? What I’m saying is, the public expects jungle heroes such as us to be ferocious and-”
“Ferocious is one thing. Scaring the billybounce Out of them is-”
“Fellas,” cut in Cruz, “am I to assume you mean us no harm?”
“Oh, heck,” said Jazz from the skycar doorway, “I recognize them now. They’re just here for the Junglecon.”
“Isn’t that why you people dropped in?” asked the large blond Kaanga.
“Not exactly, no,” said Cruz. “We want to visit someone who resides here at Jungleland.”
Samar kicked at the sward with his bare foot. “What a flop this convention is turning out to be. I left a lot of responsibilities in my home jungle to come here and be a Guest of Honor,” he said. “I had a party of black-hearted ivory hunters to scare off, a lost city to find, not to mention-”
“You know who all these lads are?” Cruz asked the young woman quietly.
“Sure, being a newswoman I have to keep up with the celebrities in the Trinidad System,” Jazz answered. “Besides Samar and Kaanga, there’s Zago, Tabu and Wambi. Wambi’s the cute teen with the turban. They’re all of them well-known junglemen, or jungleboy in Wambi’s case. The park officials hoped having famous jungle personalities here would cause people to come flocking to their convention.”
“Seemingly it hasn’t worked.”
“…and wrestle crocodiles,” concluded Samar, brushing back his long yellow hair.
“Tell you what,” offered Cruz. “If we conclude our business rapidly, why, we’ll give your convention a quick look-in.”
“I even brought my elephants,” Wambi said. “Did you ever make a space shuttle flight with three cranky elephants?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Cruz, “once, when I was romancing a circus star who billed herself as Princess Pantha the Jungle Queen, I escorted not only three elephants but an entire-”
“Mr. Cruz,” reminded Jazz, “we’re on a rather tight schedule.”
