an arsonist's state of mind at the time of arrest."
"I have done my homework." Francisco spoke quietly, smoothly. A moment later he added, in a tone only slightly different from the one he'd employed all day, "Sergeant, I'd like to thank you for what you're doing."
"What's that?" It made no sense to Sykes until he realized what the alien was referring to. "Look, get one thing straight in your pointy head. We're not pals, we're not married, and we ain't gonna take long moonlit walks together. So don't thank me. We're just partners. All we do is work together. The rest of the time we're on opposite sides of the moon, got it?" The alien listened intently and without comment.
"One more thing. Don't call me 'sergeant.' Call me Sykes. Or Matt, if you have to. No, Sykes would be better."
"I understand the significance of being on a first-name basis. I would not presume. By the way, mine is Samuel."
Sykes nodded absently and they continued on until his expression contorted and he called a halt again.
"Wait a minute. Let's make sure I've got this straight. Your name is Francisco. Samuel Francisco?"
The Newcomer nodded.
"Wasn't that a mission padre or something? Some guy who built shit for the Indians and taught them how to make adobe, stuff like that?"
Again the alien nodded.
Sykes shook his head doubtfully. "You look about as much like a Spanish friar as a chilied chicken." The Newcomer didn't react to this sally, not that Sykes had expected him to. Tug, now ...
Forget about that.
"This won't do. Francisco's bad enough, and people are gonna start whistling the same old tune at you. I'm damned if I'm gonna run around calling you 'Sarnuel.' That's not gonna carry the right weight if we have to use the radio." He shook his head, grinning to himself.
"I've heard some good ones for you guys. Humphrey 44
Bogart, Harley-Davidson. Could'a been worse in your case. I guess the people at Immigration got a little punchy after awhile, coming up with names for a quarter of a million of you. Samuel Francisco might cut it for a mortuary worker, but not for a cop. Understand?"
"It sounds too much like a familiar California city."
Sykes nodded vigorously. "Besides the padre business. So you're not a total jerk. Good. The Francisco can stay, but the Samuel's gotta go."
"My true name is SS'tangya T'ssorentsa'."
"Gesundheit. I'd call you ST, but that's too close to another bad joke. How does 'George' strike you?"
"Strike me?" The Newcomer was puzzled. If only they had external ears instead of those damn holes, Sykes thought. Then they wouldn't look half so bizarre.
"How does it sound to you? Any objections?"
"Why should I object," the alien replied blandly, "when the name Samuel Francisco was not one of my choosing either?"
"Fine. Glad you understand." Sykes completely missed the implied bitterness, which was just as well. "George it is, then. Nobody can object to that. It still sounds a little silly, but not half as silly as the other. Anyway, what's it matter to you if we think it's funny, right?
Whatta you care?"
"That is quite correct." The alien's face was devoid of expression, which was fortunate in the light of what he said next. "it is like your own name.
Sykes."
The detective frowned slightly as he scanned the parking lot. "What's wrong with Sykes?" There was the slugmobile, right where he'd left it. He turned to his left.
"Nothing-.-as far as you are concerned. I'm sure it doesn't bother you at all that it sounds like 'ss'ai k'ss', two words in my language which mean respectively 'excrement' and 'craniurn.' "
Sykes paused on the driver's side after unlocking the internals. He wore a perplexed look, so the Newcomer took the liberty of elaborating.
"Shit-head."
He climbed in, squeezing his bulk through the too-small passenger door on the other side, leaving Sykes standing
45
there alone. The last vestiges of the smirk the detective had been wearing all afternoon were falling rapidly from his face.
There was plenty
"I have done my homework." Francisco spoke quietly, smoothly. A moment later he added, in a tone only slightly different from the one he'd employed all day, "Sergeant, I'd like to thank you for what you're doing."
"What's that?" It made no sense to Sykes until he realized what the alien was referring to. "Look, get one thing straight in your pointy head. We're not pals, we're not married, and we ain't gonna take long moonlit walks together. So don't thank me. We're just partners. All we do is work together. The rest of the time we're on opposite sides of the moon, got it?" The alien listened intently and without comment.
"One more thing. Don't call me 'sergeant.' Call me Sykes. Or Matt, if you have to. No, Sykes would be better."
"I understand the significance of being on a first-name basis. I would not presume. By the way, mine is Samuel."
Sykes nodded absently and they continued on until his expression contorted and he called a halt again.
"Wait a minute. Let's make sure I've got this straight. Your name is Francisco. Samuel Francisco?"
The Newcomer nodded.
"Wasn't that a mission padre or something? Some guy who built shit for the Indians and taught them how to make adobe, stuff like that?"
Again the alien nodded.
Sykes shook his head doubtfully. "You look about as much like a Spanish friar as a chilied chicken." The Newcomer didn't react to this sally, not that Sykes had expected him to. Tug, now ...
Forget about that.
"This won't do. Francisco's bad enough, and people are gonna start whistling the same old tune at you. I'm damned if I'm gonna run around calling you 'Sarnuel.' That's not gonna carry the right weight if we have to use the radio." He shook his head, grinning to himself.
"I've heard some good ones for you guys. Humphrey 44
Bogart, Harley-Davidson. Could'a been worse in your case. I guess the people at Immigration got a little punchy after awhile, coming up with names for a quarter of a million of you. Samuel Francisco might cut it for a mortuary worker, but not for a cop. Understand?"
"It sounds too much like a familiar California city."
Sykes nodded vigorously. "Besides the padre business. So you're not a total jerk. Good. The Francisco can stay, but the Samuel's gotta go."
"My true name is SS'tangya T'ssorentsa'."
"Gesundheit. I'd call you ST, but that's too close to another bad joke. How does 'George' strike you?"
"Strike me?" The Newcomer was puzzled. If only they had external ears instead of those damn holes, Sykes thought. Then they wouldn't look half so bizarre.
"How does it sound to you? Any objections?"
"Why should I object," the alien replied blandly, "when the name Samuel Francisco was not one of my choosing either?"
"Fine. Glad you understand." Sykes completely missed the implied bitterness, which was just as well. "George it is, then. Nobody can object to that. It still sounds a little silly, but not half as silly as the other. Anyway, what's it matter to you if we think it's funny, right?
Whatta you care?"
"That is quite correct." The alien's face was devoid of expression, which was fortunate in the light of what he said next. "it is like your own name.
Sykes."
The detective frowned slightly as he scanned the parking lot. "What's wrong with Sykes?" There was the slugmobile, right where he'd left it. He turned to his left.
"Nothing-.-as far as you are concerned. I'm sure it doesn't bother you at all that it sounds like 'ss'ai k'ss', two words in my language which mean respectively 'excrement' and 'craniurn.' "
Sykes paused on the driver's side after unlocking the internals. He wore a perplexed look, so the Newcomer took the liberty of elaborating.
"Shit-head."
He climbed in, squeezing his bulk through the too-small passenger door on the other side, leaving Sykes standing
45
there alone. The last vestiges of the smirk the detective had been wearing all afternoon were falling rapidly from his face.
There was plenty
Similar Books
