Luke watched a minute longer and then went outside. He didn’t join the line. He knew perfectly well that the Martian’s presence in it had no effect whatsoever on the soup. But just the same, be wasn’t that hungry yet, and wouldn’t be while his money lasted.
He found a little five-stool diner, empty of customers and, for the moment at lest, also happily empty of Martians. He ate a hamburger sandwich and then ordered another one and a cup of coffee.
He’d finished the second sandwich and was sipping at the coffee when the counterman, a tall blond kid of about nineteen said, “Let me hot it up for you,” and took the cup to the coffee urn, filed it and brought it back.
“Thanks,” Luke said.
“Want a piece a pie?”
“Uh—I guess not.”
“Blueberry pie. It’s on the house.”
“At that price,” Luke said, “sure. But how come?”
“Boss is closing up the place tonight. We got more pie than we’ll sell by then. So why not?”
He put a slab of pie and a fork in front of Luke.
“Thanks,” Luke said. “Is business really that bad?”
“Brother, things are tough,” said the counterman.
3.
Brother, things were tough. Nowhere tougher than in the fields of crime and law enforcement. Offhand, you’d say that if things were tough for the cops they’d be good for the crooks, or vice versa, but it didn’t work out that way at all.
Things were tough for the forces of law and order because crimes of passion and sudden violence were up, way up. People’s nerves were already wearing thin. Since it did no good to attack or quarrel with Martians—or even to try to attack or quarrel with them—people quarreled with and fought with one another. Street fights and domestic fights were a dime a dozen. Murders—not the premeditated variety but ones committed in sudden anger or temporary insanity—were two bits a dozen. Yes, the police had their hands full and their jails even fuller.
But if the cops were overworked, professional criminals were underworked, and hungry. Crimes for gain, whether of stealth or violence, planned crimes, were down, way down.
The Martians tattled so.
Take, for random but typical example, what happened to Alf Billings, Cockney pickpocket, right while Luke Devereaux was eating his lunch in the Long Beach diner. It was early evening, of course, in London. Let’s let Alf tell it in his own words.
Take it, Alf.
“Well, Guv’nor, ’ere Hi am fresh from a moon in a flowery, and Hi’m poppin’ out of an oozer after a pigs ear that took my last smash. Blimey, Hi’m on the rib. So when I gets a decko at this connaught ranger takin’ a pen’worth of chalk down the frog lookin’ like ’e’d ’ave a dummy full of bees and honey, ’e looks ripe for a buzz. He takes a decko around—no bogies. Hi see a greenie on a jam-pot near but ’ow’d Hi know ’e was a grass? Hi got to speel or there’s no weeping willow for my Uncle Ned. So I closes up and uses my fork to blag—”
Wait, Alf. Maybe you’d better let me tell what happened, in my words.
Here was little Alf Billings, fresh from a month in jail, coming out of a pub after just having spent his last change for a glass of beer. So when he saw a prosperous-looking stranger walking down the street, he decided to pick his pocket. Nobody an sight looked like a policeman or detective. True, there was a Martian sitting on top of a parked automobile nearby, but Alf hadn’t learned much about the Martians yet. And, in any case, Alf was flat broke; he had to take a chance or he wouldn’t be able to afford a place to sleep that night. So he closed up on the man and picked his pocket.
That’s what Alf just told you, but I thought it better to repeat. And f o go on from there:
Suddenly there was the Martian on the sidewalk beside Alf, pointing to the wallet in Alf’s hand and chanting delightedly, “Yah, yah, yah, yah, yah, look ’oo blaged a dummy!”
“Nark it, you bloody barstard,” Alf growled, shoving the wallet quickly out of sight into his own pocket and turning to slouch away.
But the Martian didn’t nark it. He kept pace with poor Alf, and kept up his delighted chanting. Andd with a quick look over his shoulder, Alf saw that his victim had turned, was feeling in his hip pocket and getting set to start after Alf and his little companion.
Alf ran. Around the nearest corner and right into the blue-clad arms of a bobby.
You see what I mean.
It wasn’t that the Martians were against crime or criminals, except in the sense that they were against everything and everybody. They loved to make trouble and catching a criminal either planning a crime or in the act of committing one gave them such a beautiful opportunity.
But once a criminal was caught, they were equally assiduous in heckling the police. In court they would drive judges, lawyers, witnesses and juries to such distraction that there were more mistrials than completed ones. With Martians in a courtroom, justice would have had to be deaf as well as blind in order to ignore them.
4.
“Damn good pie,” Luke said, putting down his fork. “Thanks again.”
“More coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had plenty.”
“Nothin’ else at all?”
Luke grinned. “Sure, a job.”
The tall young man had been leaning both hands on the counter. He suddenly straightened. “Say, that’s an idea, brother. Would you take one for half a day? From now till five o’clock?”
Luke stared at him. “You serious? Sure I would. Better than wasting the afternoon looking for one.”
“Then you got yourself one.” He came around from behind the counter, pulling his apron off as he came. “Hang up your coat and put this on.” He tossed the apron on the counter.
“Okay,” said Luke, not yet reaching for the apron. “But what’s it all about? What’s the score?”
“I’m heading for the hills, that’s the score.” And then at the expression on Luke’s face, he grinned. “All right. I’ll tell you all about it. But let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Rance Carter.” He stuck out his hand.
Luke said “Luke Devereaux,” and shook it.
Rance sat down on a stool, one stool away so they could face one another. He said, “Wasn’t kidding about being a hillbilly; anyway I was one till two years ago when I came to California. Paw and maw got a little farm—bottom land, too—near Hartville, Missouri. Wasn’t satisfied there then, but with what’s happenin’ now—and me outa work for God knows how long, reckon I shore want back there now.” His eyes were shining with excitement—or homesickness—and with every sentence his accent slipped farther and farther back into the hillbilly.
Luke nodded. “Good idea. At least you’ll eat. And there’ll be fewer Martians around a farm than in a city.”
“You said it. Made up muh mind tuh go back soon as the boss said he was closin’ up. Sooner the better and I been gettin’ in a hellfire hurry all mornin’ and your askin’ about a job give me an idea. Promised the boss I’d keep the place open tell five uh-clock—when he gets down—an’ guess I’m too damn honest tuh jest close up an’ walk out on him. But it cain’t make no deffrence ef I let you do it instead, can it?”
“I guess not,” said Luke. “But will he pay me?”
“I’ll pay you. Get ten a day besides mah eats, an’ I’m paid through yesterday. Ten bucks comin’ for today. I’ll take it out uh the register an’ leave a note, give you five bucks an’ keep five bucks.”
“Fair enough,” said Luke. “It’s a deal.” He stood up, peeling off his suit coat, and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall. He put the apron on, tied the cords.