Ronnie gulped. It was hard to breathe. "Not here," he managed to say.
"This is unacceptable," the spider said, its voice cold.
The flesh-colored face looked down the hall.
"I detect slight airborne concentrations of an addictive drug derived from the leaves of the coca plant," Mr. Gordons said. "This drug generates money." The flesh-colored face turned accusingly to Ronnie. The tiny curls at the corners of the human mouth seemed to mock the drug dealer.
"It's n-not here yet," Ronnie stammered.
"How soon will it arrive?"
"I'm not sure exactly. Soon," he promised.
Gordons considered the information. "Very well," he said all at once. "Do not move."
Ronnie wasn't about to disobey. He remained stock-still against the wall as the spider skittered backward into the shadows of the cloakroom. There came a strange scraping of metal from out the darkness. When it was over seconds later, a man emerged calmly from the shadows. Ronnie was horrified to see that he wore the same face as the spider.
"Take me to where the money will be," Mr. Gordons said.
Ronnie dared not refuse. His legs felt as if they were dragging lead weights as he brought the manwho a moment before had been a giant spider-to the back room.
The Cubans looked up as the door squeaked shut. "Who the hell is this?" Juan Jiminez demanded. The man with Ronnie Marzano looked harmless in a bland sort of way. His blue suit was a little too perfectly tailored, his face too smooth.
"Hello is all right," Mr. Gordons said. "I would be able to offer you a drink, as this is an establishment that specializes in the selling of fermented-grain beverages, but unfortunately I am without the funds to do so."
Juan's brown eyes were clenched with tight suspicion. "Who you bring back here, Marzano?" he asked Ronnie very, very slowly. "This some kind of cop?"
Already the rest of the men were fanning out. With guns drawn, they surrounded the stiff-looking stranger.
"I am not a police officer," Mr. Gordons answered. "And I must ask that you cease your current course of action, as it could be perceived as a threat to my survival."
"Bet your ass it's a threat," Juan snarled. "And you're going down with him," he said to Ronnie. Ronnie Marzano was standing next to Gordons near the door.
"Please, Juan," he begged, shaking his head.
But it was already too late. The moment Jiminez threatened to endanger the survival of the man standing next to Ronnie, the drug dealer's fate was sealed.
Mr. Gordons moved his arms out to either side of his body, the fingertips angled toward the floor.
As Juan watched, the man's arms were suddenly very long. Much longer than human arms should be. There was something shiny at the ends of them. And when the stranger bent his arms at the elbows, the shiny something of his left hand was flying very quickly in Juan's direction.
The steel knife blade of the android's hand thunked deep into Juan Jiminez's forehead, splitting apart the hemispheres of his dead brain. At the same instant, a second blade shot through the skull of another Cuban drug dealer.
There was a moment of shock during which their leader's lifeless body slid from the gleaming silver appendage of the intruder. But it lasted only an instant.
As one, the remaining four men whipped up submachine guns. Shocked fingers clenching triggers, they opened fire.
The first barrage sliced Ronnie Marzano to ribbons. He slid to the floor in a bloody tangle.
The same bullets should have transformed the intruder into hamburger. They didn't.
Though they fired point-blank, the men were stunned to find their target still standing. Hot lead pounded into the man's chest. Still, he showed no visible reaction.
Bullet holes peppered the wall behind him. Already screams were audible from the bar beyond. Standing in front of the barrage, Mr. Gordons didn't flinch. While the men fired, he calmly raised his hands, still in the shapes of twin daggers.
The nearest drug dealer was only a few feet away. Like giant scissors, the blades snapped together. Unfortunately for the man, his neck was between them.
As the decapitated head thudded to the floor, the intense burst of gunfire burped to silence. The remaining three men quickly gauged the situation. Flinging down their guns, they ran screaming out into the bar.
Gordons followed.
He caught the last man just outside the door.
The blades that were Gordons's hands slashed right and left. The drug dealer surrendered arms and legs.
The other two men had already raced out the door, along with the other bar patrons. Gordons didn't pursue them.
It was unlikely now that the humans negotiating the purchase of the drugs would arrive with their currency. There was also a nearly hundred percent probability that the authorities would be arriving soon. Mr. Gordons had failed in his mission.
Feeling no disappointment, the android turned from the main bar floor back to the rear hallway.
He found a human blocking his way.
"You ruined my night," the man drawled. "Only fair I get to ruin yours, too."
The young man who stood before Gordons was exceptionally pale. The flesh around his soft cheeks was so white it was almost blue. A shock of white hair sprang up from his scalp. It had been short during a stint in the military. Much longer now, it jutted up like curling, demented horns.
Elizu Roote raised his hands shoulder high, his palms directed toward Mr. Gordons.
At first, the android ignored Roote. Knife blades shuddering as they re-formed into hands, he continued to stride back toward the exit. But when Roote's hands opened, revealing the tarnished gold pads that were buried at the tips of his fingers, the android stopped dead.
He tipped his head. "Are you biomechanical in nature?" Mr. Gordons asked with childlike curiosity. The question had barely passed his lips before an audible hum filled the air. The android's optical sensors detected ten distinct flashes at each of the young man's fingertips. Jumping forward, they formed a single white bolt. With a crackle the electrical arc surged across the space that separated Elizu Roote from Mr. Gordons.
The shock pounded the android hard in the chest. There was no way Gordons could avoid it. Indeed, his metallic frame made him a lightning rod. Gordons stumbled back into the bar, his face contorting into a parody of human shock. And as his joints seized and his body stiffened, a soft smile of demonic satisfaction kissed the pale white lips of Elizu Roote.
STEWART MCQUEEN was driving aimlessly through the streets of City Point when his police scanner squawked to life with news of the commotion at the Roadkill.
He had a street map taped to his dashboard. At a glance he saw he was only two blocks away. Thanking his lord and master the Prince of Darkness for his guidance, the world-famous novelist pressed down hard on the gas, tearing off in the direction of the bar.
CLARK BEEMER WATCHED With a sinking feeling as the people flooded out the front door of the Roadkill. Clark started the NASA van's engine, his weak eyes trained on the back door of the bar.
When Gordons failed to materialize, Beemer grew even more anxious. But when he heard the sound of approaching sirens, he panicked.
Knocking the van into drive, he twisted the wheel, flying across the lot. Frightened people scattered from his path as he goosed it out into the street.
Bouncing off the curb, Clark Beemer raced away from the bar. As the PR man tore off into the night, he hoped that Florida's famously strict laws were muddy on the punishment for being accessory to a killer mechanical space spider.
STEWART MCQUEEN ARRIVED at the Roadkill moments before the police. He screeched to a halt in front of the bar and bounded for the entrance.
The novelist didn't know what to expect when he flung open the battered door. In spite of all the strange, paranormal events he'd written about in his long career, he was ill prepared for what he found.