Giant Killer: 8/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
16
The little boy escorted them through dense jungle, treading lightly. They met with no more mishaps and made relatively good time, especially, Alan thought, in comparison to their previous progress. The last of the daylight was just fading when they arrived at Las Cavas.
The town was a small agricultural community, set deep in a valley and surrounded on all sides by the dense growth of jungle. Billy chattered happily to Alan as he led them down a narrow street, past small, neat houses. At the end of the road was a larger building with a light shining from the front window. A few villagers glanced curiously at them as they passed and one or two paused to ask Billy about his companions. Billy replied importantly that he had to talk to his dad right away and didn't have time. He'd explain a little later ...
"Where are we, anyway?" Mark asked. "South America?"
"Yes sir," Billy said. "Brazil, near the western border." He ran up the steps of the large building and the doors slid open before them.
"Dad?" Billy called.
Alan and Mark entered a small, modest lobby. A stocky man with straight, dark hair and a bushy mustache entered from an adjoining doorway, glancing at them questioningly. "What is it, Billy?"
"I found these men lost in the jungle," Billy told him. "They said their ship crashed."
Dark, bushy eyebrows shot up. "Good Lord! Are you both all right?"
"Fine, thanks," Alan said. "Your son was very helpful."
"Come into my office." Billy's father ushered them through a door and they found themselves in an even smaller room, occupied by a littered desk, three straight backed chairs and a bookshelf. "I was just about to close for the day. Sit down. Billy, get the gentlemen something to drink."
"Thanks." Alan said, sinking into a chair. Mark followed suit and Billy grinned, vanishing through a doorway.
Sheriff Santos sat down at his desk. "Can I get your names?"
"I'm Alan Woodruff and this is Steve Lawson. We're traders, and had just arrived from Ceregon. We were heading for the Brasilia Spaceport when our engines just seemed to go out in mid-flight. I thought we were done for."
Santos shook his head, jotting their names down on a slip of paper. "Typical."
Billy reappeared, accompanied by another boy who, although smaller, resembled him closely.
"My other son, Jimmy," Santos said.
Alan was doing a quick scan. Neither the sheriff nor the second child were psychics, which meant that Billy had undoubtedly inherited the talents from his mother. She had died, Billy had said, three years ago. It might be interesting to examine the circumstances of her death. Carefully, he extended a probe into Santos's mind.
The man was an easy read. Alan's probe met no resistance at all and moments later he had the information he sought. Billy handed him a frosted glass. "Here. Had a real coke lately, Mr. Woodruff?"
"Real thing?" Alan asked. "I was born and bred on Terra, you know. I can tell the difference."
"Genuine," Billy said.
Alan accepted the glass and sipped. "Mm, that's great." He watched the little boy cross the room and hand Mark a glass. Linley grinned at him.
"Thanks, kid," he said.
"Run along now, kids," the sheriff said.
"Aw, Dad, can't we stay?"
Santos considered, then gave in. "All right, but sit down and no noise." He turned to Alan again. "We heard the explosion from here," he said. "It sounded bad."
Alan stiffened. "What did they say?"
Mark was looking at him, sensing the tension. Santos shrugged philosophically. "No one was sure what had happened. Typical city slickers -- getting all excited and mixing up their info. There was some crazy talk about the Viceregal Patrol and that girl, Julia Austell -- you know, the one that was supposed to have killed a Jilectan on Riskell. People thrive on things like that." He shook his head. "All nonsense, no doubt, but I suppose I'd better contact Brasilia anyway, and let them know you're here. It's just a formality, you know." He reached for the desk videophone.
Alan stood up and drew the blaster from underneath his shirt. "Just a minute, Sheriff," he said quietly.
The man froze, eyes fixed on the weapon. Mark stood up and went quietly to the door, closing it and sliding the locking bolt into place. He turned, drawing his blaster as well. "Sorry, Sheriff," he said quietly. "What's the dope, kid? I followed some of it, but not all."
Alan told him quickly. Mark sighed and gestured to the children. "All right, Billy. You an' your brother go over there beside your dad. Go on."
Billy's eyes shone. "It's a holdup, Jimmy!" Jimmy's mouth opened wide in fright. He began to sob.
"Come over here, boys," the sheriff said tightly.
The two children obeyed, Jimmy still weeping noisily.
"Get his blaster," Mark said.
Alan went over to the man and carefully removed the weapon from his belt. "Don't worry, Sheriff," he said quietly. "We won't hurt you or your kids unless you give us trouble. Do you have an aircar?"
The sheriff nodded.
"Okay, let's go." He gestured with the blaster.
"What about my kids?"
Alan hesitated, but Mark shook his head firmly. "He askin' about his kids?"
"Yes," Alan said.
"We can't leave 'em here. They'll have to come along."
"They'll have to come, too," Alan told the sheriff.
Santos took his children's hands. "Calm down, Jimmy. We'll do as they say. Understand?"
Billy and Jimmy nodded, the younger boy gulping back sobs. Alan nodded toward the doorway. "Walk ahead of us. Take us to your aircar. If you try anything, I'll have to shoot."
The sheriff didn't reply, but led the way out the back to a small aircar parked at the rear of the building. The sun had vanished behind the hills and the sky above was speckled with tiny, pink clouds. The small village looked still and sleepy in the evening light.
"Get in," Alan said.
The sheriff climbed behind the controls and Alan got in beside him. Mark took the rear seat, placing a child on either side of him. He nodded to Alan. "Let's go."
The aircar lifted quietly and moved away toward the east. Jimmy began to sob again and Alan glanced back at him, feeling miserable. Mark patted the boy's shoulder. "Don't cry, kid," he said comfortingly. "We ain't gonna hurtcha."
The little boy flinched away, his sobs growing more violent.
"Don't cry, Jimmy." It was Billy, speaking with firm confidence. "They aren't going to hurt us."
"H ... how d ... do you know? They're crooks! They're going to kill us!"
"No they aren't," Billy said stoutly. "Alan's a nice guy, and they aren't going to hurt us. I know it."
"Billy's right, Jimmy," Alan said, speaking with as much sincerity as he could. "We won't hurt you, or your brother or dad. Honest."
The younger boy became still, his lower lip quivering. Mark picked him up and lifted him over beside the older boy. Billy put his arm around his brother. "It's okay," he said again. "We're going to be okay."
"This looks like a good spot," Mark said.
Alan glanced down. They had come perhaps five kilometers from the village, and below them was a clearing surrounded by thick forest. He spoke to the sheriff. "Take us down, Mr. Santos."
The aircar settled slowly to the ground.
Mark spoke to Billy. "You ain't far from the village, kid, an' you can hike back in the mornin'. Sorry t'leave you out here without any dinner, but it can't be helped."
Santos apparently understood some of Mark's Basic, for he turned in the seat, eyes blazing. "Damn you! Damn you both! Do you mean you're going to just leave us out here all night?"
"An' all day tomorrow, unless you hike back," Mark told him cheerfully. He glanced at Billy and grinned. "Pretend you're campin' out, kiddo. Okay?"
"You won't get away with this!" The sheriff's Basic was broken, but understandable. "If you give yourselves up now, I might be able to get you a lighter sentence --"
Mark snorted. "Thanks, but no thanks. Get outta the car, Sheriff. You too, kids."
"Just a second," Alan said. "I need to talk to Mr. Santos."
Linley frowned. "What're you gonna --"
"Mark." Alan glanced meaningfully at Billy. "Take the kids out and shut the door. It'll only take a minute."
Mark nodded. "Okay. Make it fast. Come on, kids."
Jimmy was weeping again. "He's gonna kill Dad! Billy, he's gonna kill Dad!"
"No he isn't." Billy sounded tolerant. "Come on." He pulled his younger brother out of the car and Mark followed, shutting the door behind him.
Santos was watching Alan uneasily. "What do you want? Look, I'm sorry I lost my temper a minute ago --"
"Never mind that," Alan said. "I want to talk to you about Billy."
Santos looked disconcerted. "Billy? What about him?"
"Their mother's dead, isn't she?"
The sheriff looked confused for a moment. Alan sensed anger and long ago hurt. "No!" he said, defensively.
"Yes, she is," Alan said. "You're remarried, of course, and your new wife is named Juanita. But your first wife, the children's mother, was named Alice."
"How did you learn this?" There was suspicion here, now, as well as anger. "Did Billy tell you?"
Alan continued without pause. "Alice found a child in the jungle -- a child that had been missing for two weeks and was presumed dead."
Santos had gone white. "Billy didn't know about that! How did you --" He stopped abruptly.
Alan spoke gently. "I'm a psychic, Sheriff."
"A Terran psychic?" Santos sounded almost puzzled. "I thought that was a myth. Terrans aren't psychics."
"That's what I thought, too," Alan said. "Until about three months ago, that is -- when I found out I was one. There are Terran psychics scattered throughout the population. I'm one of the, and so was Alice."
"You're crazy! How could you know?"
"Because psychic talents are inherited. You aren't a psychic, but one of your children is -- so their mother must have been one, too."
"*Billy?*"
"Yes."
"That's crazy! *You're* crazy! Billy's only nine years old!"
"Psychics are born psychics, Sheriff, Just like the Jils are."
"It can't be! I don't know what your game is, but you're lying! I've heard rumors about Terran psychics, but I never believed there were such things! But if you *are* one, you're just like the Jilectans say -- a born criminal!"
"I'm a criminal because they made me one," Alan said. "They ordered me killed because I'm a psychic, and no other reason. People like me -- and Alice and Billy -- threaten their supremacy. That's why they want us dead, and that's why Alice was killed."
"Alice died in an aircar accident!"
"An accident arranged by the Jilectans. It probably happened less than two weeks after she found that lost child. Am I right?"
"Ten days," the sheriff said, in a low voice. "She'd gone to visit her brother."
"I thought so. Listen, Sheriff, if Billy somehow manages to draw attention to his talents, the same thing will happen to him. He'll die in a convenient accident, or, like what happened to me, the Patrol will show up on your doorstep and take him away. Eventually, he's bound to do something spectacular. When he does, please don't broadcast it. Keep him off the video and out of the newsstrip."
"You're lying! I won't listen to you! Billy's only a child!"
Alan sighed. "Ten years ago, Sheriff, I was very much like your son. I was so smart -- golly, I spoke three languages, and I could find things that people lost without half-trying. I always beat my friends in any games of chance. Once, when I was eight, I guessed the exact number of jellybeans in a drugstore fishbowl -- won twenty credits. Boy, was I proud! Then, ten years later, I did the same thing on a much larger scale, and it made the newsstrip. Six days later, the Patrol showed up looking for me."
"Stop!" Santos pressed his hands over his ears. "You're lying! I won't listen!"
"I'm *not* lying!"
"You have no proof!"
"Trained psychics can sense other psychics, Sheriff. I sensed Billy coming before I ever saw him. He's a psychic, all right -- a powerful one."
"Prove it!" the sheriff snapped angrily. "If you're a psychic, prove it to me! You seem to know a lot of things about me, but I've never kept my life a secret. That business about Alice was broadcast all over Terra -- a human interest story. Maybe Billy found out about it and told you, or maybe you read it, yourself! Maybe you've been spying on me and my family! Maybe *you* killed Alice and you're blaming it on the Jils! Is that it?"
Alan sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. I have no interest in your family and I never met your first wife. My only concern is Billy, and if you want proof that I'm a psychic, it's easy enough to supply." He glanced around, noting the small, slender stylus protruding from the man's shirt pocket. Easily, his mental fingers closed around it and lifted it. The stylus rose smoothly from the shirt pocket and dropped into Alan's extended palm.
"Telekinesis," Alan said to the staring Sheriff. "I'm also a clairvoyant and am able to read minds -- a telepath. That's how I found out about Alice."
"You read *my* mind?"
"Yes." Alan handed the stylus back. "Remember what I said about Billy, Sheriff. It could mean the difference between his life or his death."
Santos didn't answer and at that second Mark tapped on the window. "C'mon, kid, let's go."
"Mr. Santos," Alan said, "you must believe me. I don't want Billy to be killed."
Still no answer. Mark slid the door open. "Let's go."
"All right." Alan opened the glove compartment and removed a packet of concentrated rations that must have been placed in the official car for emergencies, and, to his surprise, a bottle of mosquito repellant. "Here, Sheriff, take these with you."
Santos took them without a word.
"There were blankets in the trunk," Mark said. "They'll be okay. Hurry up."
Alan nodded to the sheriff, who climbed out, his face expressionless. Billy and Jimmy stood hand in hand, watching. Alan got out behind the sheriff and spoke to the children. "I'm sorry, kids. Maybe you'll understand, someday."
Billy shrugged, and his lips curled in a faint smile. "That's okay, Alan."
"C'mon, kid." Mark was already behind the controls. Alan climbed back into the passenger seat, and once again glanced at the children's father.
"Remember what I said, Sheriff."
No response. Alan let the door slide shut and they lifted off without lights. Linley turned the car east once more. "Okay," he said, "What the hell did you say to him?"
**********
They arrived on the outskirts of Brasilia two hours later. Linley set their stolen aircar down in the far corner of an enormous parking lot and they both climbed out, flexing stiff joints. Alan glanced at it. "How long before somebody finds it, do you suppose?
"Mornin' at the earliest. We'll be long gone."
"I suppose so." Alan followed him across the lot and fell in beside him as they strode down the still-populated streets. Ahead, flashing blue lights announced Arnaldo's Diner. Mark stopped, regarding it for a moment.
"Whatcha think?" he asked. "We can get somethin' to eat and call Phil."
"Sure."
Linley glanced sideways at his partner. "You're gonna attract some attention," he remarked. "The swellin' from the stings is startin' to go down, but you still look awful bunged up."
"You do too," Alan pointed out.
"Yeah, I suppose." Mark sealed his shirt and ran a hand over his hair. "I'll be -- here's another one!" He discarded a dead wasp on the pavement beside him. "There. How do I look now?"
Alan laughed. "Terrific, as always."
"Shut up, squirt. Okay, I guess there's no law against bein' a little dirty. Let's go."
They entered Arnaldo's Diner as quietly as possible. Faces turned toward them, and eyes followed them as they made their way to a small, corner booth. A waitress approached, looking distastefully at their soiled, tattered clothing. "Coffee?"
"Two," Mark said.
She set mugs before them, deposited menus on the table and departed. Alan picked up the menu and opened it. "Mm, everything looks good."
"Yeah," Mark agreed, his face buried in the menu.
"I think I'll have the ham sandwich and potato salad. And some milk, too."
"Yuk," Mark said, not glancing up.
"To each his own." Alan grinned at him. "I grew up on ham sandwiches and milk."
"It'll stunt your growth," Mark said.
Alan kicked him under the table. Mark glanced up, a grin on his lips. "I'm gonna have a steak."
"Sounds good. Look, order for me, will you? I'm going to make the call."
"Sure."
Alan stood up and went over to the videophone booth in one corner of the café. Quickly, he punched in the code for Station Seven: Finnian's Imports, Dublin Ireland, and waited. A computerized voice spoke over the line, requesting money, and Alan deposited the coinage. He flicked off the screen and snapped on the privacy field. There was a soft bleeping sound and a voice responded. "Finnian's Imports. This is Phil."
"Hi, Pop," Alan said.
"Kid! Holy space! We've been worried sick! Where are you? Are you all right?"
"Fine. We're in Brasilia."
Alan could hear a loud "Whew!" at the other end of the line. "You must have bailed out, then."
"Yes."
"Barb saw your ship go down -- she wasn't far behind you. She didn't see you bail out, though. We were beginning to wonder."
"I know. We're fine, though."
Phil heaved another sigh. "Do you have transportation?"
"No. We'll need a lift."
"No problem. I'll send someone right away. Should be there in about three hours. Where'll you be?"
Alan thought a moment. "We'll get a taxi to the spaceport, I guess. Tell whoever you send to page us."
"Got it."
Alan hesitated, wondering how much he should say over a public videophone. Oh well, the Jils couldn't tap all the lines and the chances of this call being overheard were extremely slim. "Any word on Julia?"
There was a silence. Then: "We think she's dead. Her ship apparently crashed and blew up on impact. We've had people all over the area, but nobody's seen a trace of her, and to make it more difficult, Canada's having one of its worst snowstorms in history. The temperature's well below freezing, and the wind's blowing like crazy. If she did get out in time, which I doubt, she's probably frozen to death by now."
"No," Alan said.
"Huh?" There was a pause. "You're sure?"
"Positive," Alan said.
He could almost sense the relief in the silence that followed; then Phil spoke again, sounding suddenly much more cheerful. "Kid, you're terrific! Did you know that?"
"Thanks," Alan said.
"Help'll be there soon, and we'll keep looking for her."
"Great. Thanks."
"Thank *you*! See you soon."
Alan hung up. An elderly woman went past him, glancing at him askance. He hesitated, then headed for the restroom.
Once inside, he surveyed his reflection in the mirror with awe. His face was coated with grime and streaked where sweat had run through the dirt. The scratches that he had picked up during his flight from the Patrol were still very apparent. One of his eyes was surrounded by a dark, purple bruise and his upper lip was swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
He cleaned up as well as he could, then went back out to rejoin Mark. Linley was relaxing against the padded seat, a glass of pale yellow liquid in one hand. A flask of the same liquid was in the center of the table.
"Siddown, kid. Have some wine."
Alan seated himself, shaking his head. "I'm underage. On Terra, the legal drinking age is 21."
"No kiddin'?" Linley looked shocked.
"No kidding."
"That's awful! Here, have a sip o' mine. She won't notice."
Again Alan shook his head. "If she does, it'll draw attention. A restaurant can lose its license for something like that." He picked up the water glass that sat in front of his place and took a swallow. "Besides, I'd rather drink water. I'm still thirsty."
The waitress reappeared, a number of plates loading her antigravity cart. She began to set them onto the table, glancing at Alan. "You two look like you've had a hard day."
"That's for sure," Mark said. "Don't ever kick a wasp's nest when you're on a hike."
"Oh my goodness! Is that what happened?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
She giggled. "I was wondering! I guess you'll never do that again! That must have been awful!" She finished setting out their dinner. "Well, I hope the rest of the evening goes all right."
"Me, too," Alan said.
The waitress departed and Mark met his eyes across the table. "Well"
"He's sending us a ride. It'll take about three hours. We're to meet at the Brasilia Spaceport."
"Good. Guess he must be comin' from the base in LA, huh?"
"Probably." Alan picked up his milk and took a long drink. Mark stuffed a healthy bite of steak in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of wine.
"Mm, great! What about Julia? Any word?"
"They haven't found her. They thought she was dead."
"I figured that."
"So I told them she wasn't and Phil said they'd keep looking. He seemed awfully relieved."
"Hmm. Sounds like that info Ducati passed to her was really important. Figured it hadta be with you-know-who stickin' his nose in an' all. How's the sandwich?"
"Great." Alan felt suddenly very tired. Mark grinned at him.
"You look shot, youngster. Here, have some o' my steak." He sawed off a piece and deposited it on Alan's plate. "Next to marshhopper, I like steak best of all."
"Thanks." Alan ate the meat and then languidly finished his sandwich. Mark drank three glasses of wine, chased the last of the baked potato onto his fork and sat back with a deep sigh.
"Man, I feel like I could sleep for a week."
"Me, too."
The waitress reappeared. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
"No thanks, honey. Bring us the check, willya?"
"Right away, sir." The waitress looked embarrassed but pleased at Mark's familiar address, and placed the requested item on the table. Mark glanced at it, produced credits and handed them to her.
"Here you go, baby. Keep the change."
"Thank you, sir."
Alan stood up. "You really ought to go clean up a little."
"You think so? Okay, wait for me." Linley headed for the restroom and Alan relaxed back in his seat.
He must have dozed off, for the next thing he knew, Mark was shaking him. "Man, you must be tired. I ain't been gone five minutes."
"Sorry." Alan stood up, feeling silly. The waitress passed again, looking a little amused.
Together, they exited the café, looking around for a taxi. One approached within minutes and Mark waved it down. The driver glanced at them as they climbed into the rear seat. "Where to, mister?"
"Spaceport."
"Right." The vehicle soared upward.
**********
tbc
