The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® by Robert Silverberg
Authors: Robert Silverberg
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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 shyster 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 dish-like 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 dead 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 non-terrestrial life forms, 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!”
They got, and they got fast, burbling apologies as they went. They had tried to fox an Earthman, and that’s a dangerous sport. They dragged the cocooned form of the Stortulian with them. The air seemed to clear, and peace was restored. I signaled to Auchinleck and he slammed the door.
“All right.” I looked at Gorb and jerked a thumb at the Kallerian. “That’s a nice trick. How does it work?”
Gorb smiled pleasantly. He was enjoying this, I could see. “Kallerians of the Clan Gursdrinn specialize in a kind of mental discipline, Corrigan. It isn’t too widely known in this area of the Galaxy, but men of that clan have unusual mental control over their bodies. They can cut off circulation and nervous-system response in large chunks of their bodies for hours at a stretch—an absolutely perfect imitation of death. And, of course, when Heraal put the sword through himself, it was a simple matter to avoid hitting any vital organs en route.”
The Kallerian, still at gunpoint, hung his head in shame.
I turned on him. “So—try to swindle me, eh? You cooked up this whole fake suicide in collusion with those cops.”
He looked quite a sight, with that gaping slash running clear through his body. But the wound had begun to heal already. “I regret the incident, Earthman. I am mortified. Be good enough to destroy this unworthy person.”
It was a tempting
“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 shyster 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 dish-like 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 dead 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 non-terrestrial life forms, 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!”
They got, and they got fast, burbling apologies as they went. They had tried to fox an Earthman, and that’s a dangerous sport. They dragged the cocooned form of the Stortulian with them. The air seemed to clear, and peace was restored. I signaled to Auchinleck and he slammed the door.
“All right.” I looked at Gorb and jerked a thumb at the Kallerian. “That’s a nice trick. How does it work?”
Gorb smiled pleasantly. He was enjoying this, I could see. “Kallerians of the Clan Gursdrinn specialize in a kind of mental discipline, Corrigan. It isn’t too widely known in this area of the Galaxy, but men of that clan have unusual mental control over their bodies. They can cut off circulation and nervous-system response in large chunks of their bodies for hours at a stretch—an absolutely perfect imitation of death. And, of course, when Heraal put the sword through himself, it was a simple matter to avoid hitting any vital organs en route.”
The Kallerian, still at gunpoint, hung his head in shame.
I turned on him. “So—try to swindle me, eh? You cooked up this whole fake suicide in collusion with those cops.”
He looked quite a sight, with that gaping slash running clear through his body. But the wound had begun to heal already. “I regret the incident, Earthman. I am mortified. Be good enough to destroy this unworthy person.”
It was a tempting
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