The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK®. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ This Stillwell was a nice kid—green and lonesome and it’s pretty sad, really, but there’s a yak in it, and—as I say—we got to keep a sense of humor.

      Well, this Stillwell—a really green kid—is unhappy and just plain drooling for his gal back home. He talks about his mother, of course, and his old man, but it’s the girl that’s really on his mind as you guys can plainly understand.

      He’s seeing her every place—like spots in front of his eyes—nice spots doing things to him, when this Ruskie babe shows up.

      My gun came up without any orders from me just as she poked her puss over the edge of the pit, and—huh? Oh, thank you kindly. It sure tastes good but I don’t want to short you guys. Thank you kindly.

      Well, as I was saying, this Ruskie babe pokes her nose over the edge of the pit and Stillwell dives and knocks down my gun. He says, “You son-of-a-bitch!” Just like that. Wild and desperate, like you’d say to a guy if the guy was just kicking over the last jug of water on a desert island.

      It would have been long enough for her to kill us if I hadn’t had good reflexes. Even then, all I had time to do was knock the pistol out of her hand and drag her into the pit.

      With her play bollixed, she was confused and bewildered. She ain’t a fighter, and she sits back against the wall staring at us dead pan with big expressionless eyes. She’s a plenty pretty babe and I could see exactly what had happened as far as Stillwell was concerned. His spots had come to life in very adequate form so to speak.

      * * * *

      Stillwell goes over and sits down beside her and I’m very much on the alert, because I know where his courage comes from. But I decide it’s all right, because I see the babe is not belligerent, just confused kind of. And friendly.

      And willing. Kind of a whipped-little-dog willing, and man oh man! She was sure what Stillwell needed.

      They kind of went together like a hand and a glove—natural-like. And it followed—pretty natural—that when Stillwell got up and led her around a wing of the pit, out of sight, she went willing—like that same little dog.

      Uhuh. No, you guys. Two’s enough. I wouldn’t rob you. Well, okay, and thanks kindly.

      Well, there I was, all alone, but happy for Stillwell, cause I know it’s what the kid needs, and in spots like that what difference does it make? Yank—Ruskie—Mongolian—as long as she’s willing.

      Then, you guys, Stillwell comes back out—wall-eyed—real wall-eyed—like being hit but not knocked out and still walking. I know what it is—some kind of shock. I get up and walk over and take a look at the babe where he’d left her—and I bust out laughing. I told you guys there was a yak in this. I laughed like a fool—it was that funny. As much as I had time to, before Stillwell cracked. It was enough to crack him—the little thing that pushes a guy over the edge.

      He lets out a yell and screams, “For crisake! For crisake! Nothing but a bucket of bolts! Nothing but a couple of plastic lumps—”

      That was when I hit him. I had to. He was for the birds, Stillwell was. An hour later we got relieved and a couple of medicos carried him away strapped to a stretcher—gone like a kite.

      They took the robot too, and its clothes, but they forgot the brassiere, so I took it and I been carrying it ever since, but I’ll leave it with you guys if you want—for the coffee. Might make you think about home. After all, like the man says, we got to keep our sense of humor.

      Well, so long, you guys—and thanks.

      HEIST JOB ON THIZAR (1956)

      Anson Drake sat quietly in the Flamebird Room of the Royal Gandyll Hotel, listening to the alien, but soothing strains of the native orchestra and sipping a drink. He knew perfectly well that he had no business displaying himself in public on the planet Thizar; there were influential Thizarians who held no love for a certain Earthman named Anson Drake.

      It didn’t particularly bother Drake; life was danger and danger was life to him, and Anson Drake was known on half a hundred planets as a man who could take care of himself.

      Even so, he wouldn’t have bothered to come if it had not been for the fact that Viron Belgezad was a pompous braggart.

      Belgezad had already suffered at the hands of Anson Drake. Some years before, a narcotics gang had been smashed high, wide, and handsome on Thizar. Three men had died from an overdose of their own thionite drug, and fifty thousand credits of illicit gain had vanished into nowhere. The Thizarian police didn’t know who had done the job, and they didn’t know who had financed the ring.

      But Belgezad knew that Anson Drake was the former, and Drake knew that Viron Belgezad was the latter. And each one was waiting his chance to get the other.

      A week before, Drake had been relaxing happily on a beach on Seladon II, twelve light-years from Thizar, reading a newsfax. He had become interested in an article which told of the sentencing of a certain lady to seven years in Seladon Prison, when his attention was attracted by another headline.

      VIRON BELGEZAD BUYS ALGOL NECKLACE

      Thizar (GNS)—Viron Belgezad, wealthy Thizarian financier, has purchased the fabulous Necklace of Algol, it was announced today. The necklace, made of matched Star Diamonds, is estimated to be worth more than a million credits, although the price paid by Belgezad is not known.

      Such an interesting bit seemed worthy of further investigation, so Drake had immediately booked passage on the first space liner to Thizar.

      And thus it was that an immaculately dressed, broad-shouldered, handsome young man sat quietly in the Flamebird Room of Thizar’s flashiest hostelry surveying his surroundings with steady green eyes and wondering how he was going to get his hands on the Necklace of Algol.

      The police couldn’t touch Belgezad, but Anson Drake could—and would.

      “Hello, Drake,” said a cold voice at his elbow.

      Drake turned and looked up into the sardonically smiling face of Jomis Dobigel, the heavy-set, dark-faced Thizarian who worked with Belgezad.

      “Well, well,” Anson said, smiling, “if it isn’t Little Bo-Peep. How is the dope business? And how is the Big Dope Himself?”

      Dobigel’s smile soured. “You’re very funny, Earthman. But we don’t like Earthmen here.”

      “Do sit down, Dobbie, and tell me all about it. The last I heard—which was three hours ago—the government of Thizar was perfectly happy to have me here. In fact, they were good enough to stamp my passport to prove it.”

      * * * *

      Dobigel pulled out a chair and sat down, keeping his hands beneath the table. “What are you doing here, Drake?” he asked in a cold voice.

      “I couldn’t help it,” Drake said blandly. “I was drawn back by the memory of the natural beauties of your planet. The very thought of the fat, flabby face of old Belgezad, decorated with a bulbous nose that is renowned throughout the Galaxy, was irresistible. So here I am.”

      Dobigel’s dark face grew even darker. “I know you, Drake. And I know why you’re here. Tomorrow is the date for the Coronation of His Serenity, the Shan of Thizar.”

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