Before I could react to the big life form’s hari-kiri, the office door flew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in the green sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled down at the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.
“You are J. F. Corrigan?” the leader asked.
“Y-yes.”
“We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaint being—”
“—that your unethical actions have directly contributed to the untimely death of an intelligent life form,” filled in the second of the Ghrynian policemen.
“The evidence lies before us,” intoned the leader, “in the cadaver of the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us several minutes ago.”
“And therefore,” said the third lizard, “it is our duty to arrest you for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than $100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.”
“Hold on!” I stormed. “You mean that any being from anywhere in the Universe can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I’m responsible?”
“This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield to this late life form’s request lies at the root of his sad demise?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.”
Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of them away. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it was going to put an awful dent in this year’s take. And I shuddered when I remembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely to come bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000 per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.
I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannounced arrival.
The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorway and stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynian policemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for a moment and turned to eye the newcomer.
I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. I resolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself against crackpots.
In heartrending tones, the Stortulian declared, “Life is no longer worth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for me to do.”
I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackers going down the drain. “Stop him, somebody! He’s going to kill himself! He’s—”
Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked me flying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire the meshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, I guess I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.
Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous hole in the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and I saw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. The man who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dusting himself off.
He helped me up. “Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But that Stortulian wasn’t here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to get you.”
I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flying fragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashed plaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning the struggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.
“Evidently you don’t know as much as you think you do about Stortulian psychology, Corrigan,” Gorb said lightly. “Suicide is completely abhorrent to them. When they’re troubled, they kill the person who caused their trouble. In this case, you.”
I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than a full-bodied laugh.
“Funny,” I said.
“What is?” asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.
“These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye and killed himself, and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek and pathetic damn near blew my head off.” I shuddered. “Thanks for the tackle job.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gorb said.
I glared at the Ghrynian police. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take that murderous little beast out of here! Or isn’t murder against the local laws?”
“The Stortulian will be duly punished,” replied the leader of the Ghrynian cops calmly. “But there is the matter of the dead Kallerian and the fine of—”
“—one hundred thousand dollars. I know.” I groaned and turned to Stebbins. “Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have them send down a legal adviser. Find out if there’s any way we can get out of this mess with our skins intact.”
“Right, chief.” Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.
Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.
“Hold it,” the Wazzenazzian said crisply. “The Consulate can’t help you. I can.”
“You?” I said.
“I can get you out of this cheap.”
“How cheap?”
Gorb grinned rakishly. “Five thousand in cash plus a contract as a specimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That’s a heck of a lot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn’t it?”
I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn’t be much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless they were really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officials ever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand, giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.
“Tell you what,” I said finally. “You’ve got yourself a deal—but on a contingency basis. Get me out of this and you’ll have five grand and the contract. Otherwise, nothing.”
Gorb shrugged. “What have I to lose?”
Before the police could interfere, Gorb trotted over to the hulking corpse of the Kallerian and fetched it a mighty kick.
“Wake up, you faker! Stop playing possum and stand up! You aren’t fooling anyone!”
The Ghrynians got off the huddled little assassin and tried to stop Gorb. “Your pardon, but the dead require your respect,” began one of the lizards mildly.
Gorb whirled angrily. “Maybe the dead do—but this character isn’t dead!”
He knelt and said loudly in the Kallerian’s dishlike ear, “You might as well quit it, Heraal. Listen to this, you shamming mountain of meat—your mother knits doilies for the Clan Verdrokh!”
The supposedly deal Kallerian emitted a twenty-cycle rumble that shook the floor, and clambered to his feet, pulling the sword out of his body and waving it in the air. Gorb leaped back nimbly, snatched up the Stortulian’s fallen blaster, and trained it neatly on the big alien’s throat before he could do any damage. The Kallerian grumbled and lowered his sword.
I felt groggy. I thought I knew plenty about nonterrestrial lifeforms, but I was learning a few things today. “I don’t understand. How—”
The police were blue with chagrin. “A thousand pardons, Earthman. There seems to have been some error.”
“There seems to have been a cute little con game,” Gorb remarked quietly.
I recovered my balance. “Try to milk me of a hundred grand when there’s been no crime?” I snapped. “I’ll say there’s been an error! If I weren’t a forgiving man, I’d clap the bunch of you in jail for attempting to defraud an Earthman! Get out of here! And take that would-be murderer with you!”