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metal, plastics and ceramics, all intertwined with bright orange flame. The big
bad black Cad was quite finished. He took one step in its direction, then stopped,
dizzied by the effort. No driver could survive that inferno. In his
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
eagerness to get behind the sedan, the Cad's driver had shot over at least one,
possibly both of the proximity mines Frank had released from where his backup
lights had been. Maybe revenge was an outdated commodity today, but he still
felt exhilarated. And Myrtle might complain initially but he knew damn well she'd
be pleased inside.
He became aware of something wet trickling down his cheek, more than could
have come from the sporadically dripping sky. His hand told him a piece of his
left ear was missing. The blood was staining his good driving blouse. Absently he
dabbed at the nick witk a handkerchief. His rear glass must have gone at the last
possible minute. A look confirmed it, showing two neat holes and a third
questionable one in his rear window. Umm. He'd had closer calls before and this
one was worth it. At least there'd be one license plate to lay on Bob's grave.
He sighed. Better stop off in Carlsbad and get that ear taken care of. Damnation,
if only that boy had paid some attention in Driver's Ed. Eighteen years old and
he'd never learned what his old man had known for years.
Be safe. Drive Offensively.
52
The Emoman
Every kind of drug is available on the street market Pick you up, put you down,
carry you off to never-never land name it and it's being dealt on your local
corner.
Someday someone's going to eliminate the chemical middleman.
This is the story of two people and how three of them died.
By and large, they were pretty nice people.
But it's not a very nice story.
"I've come to buy some anger,'* called up the too-young man. He sat himself
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r r
down on a metal sawhorse and waited.
"Indeed?" replied the man working up and across from him.
"Indeed," answered the too-young man.
The gentleman working across from the too-young man and his metal sawhorse
was engaged in an anomaly. He was repairing a boat. This in itself was not
terribly unusual. It was a common enough activity in boatyards. But he was
driving metal pinions into the
53
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
boat's hull with a hand-held hammer. This, instead of using an automatic arm.
What was more, the hull of the craft appeared to be made of natural celluloid
materials instead of plasticine, metalloy, or ferrosponges. This ship was not new.
Its hull was badly in need of a new coat of paint. From the back the man did not
seem especially arresting. This impression changed when he paused,
straightened, and turned on his ladder to face the other.
He stood slightly over average height but seemed taller. Leonine, well built, lithe.
The lines in his face seemed put there by a drunken cartographer. Each led to
some strange valley, forbidden city, or unfathomable abyss of the soul.
For all of that he was not ancient. The streaks of black in his otherwise iron-gray
hair were plentiful and not the product of cosmetics. In back the hair was
gathered into a single pigtail by an odd arrangement of leather bindings. A single
solid-gold ring pierced his right ear. He had thick gray eyebrows that had been
intended for a much larger man. They shaded equally gray eyes. His nose was
long and slightly hooked. His mouth and lips were thin and clenched tightly. His
whole expression was full of star space and vinegar.
"What makes you think I could sell you anger, feller me lad?"
"You are the man they call Sawbill," said the too-young man. It was not a
question.
"I'm the man some call Sawbill. I'm often called other things and many of them
are better. Some are worse. Sawbill will do."
Facing Sawbill, the too-young man was not all that young. The gulf between
them, though, was one that some people might have called age.
His metallic red jumpsuit flashed in the morning sun. "Then you're the one I
want, all right. I am not without resources. Or brains. I've checked on you
The Emoman
thoroughly. Oh, very carefully, very quietly. You needn't worry at all."
"I wasn't. But go on." Sawbill was rummaging through a small keg of metal
pinions, variously shaped and sized.
"You weren't easy to locate I'll give you that. But I knew how to find you. It's all
a matter of asking the right question in the right places. And if you have money
and know a few people in expedient locations  on the Port immigration board,
for example you can find out just about anything. I want to make a purchase,
Sawbill."
The boat had a low-lying central cabin. A bird thing perched on the edge of it. The
bird's rainbow-hued crest bobbed up and down like a metronome. Its tail was of
bright golden feathers and the rest of it was dull, crushed, velvety gold. The thing
fluttered down to land on Sawbill's right shoulder. Dipping and bobbing, it
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r r
surveyed the new arrival. The rainbow crest feathers flashed in avian Morse.
The too-young man stared with interest at the bird-thing. He was no
ornithologist, not even an amateur. But he was well read. Enough to know that
this bird was not native to Thalia Major. (It might have come from Thalia Minor,
but he doubted it because ... )
"Well, feller me lad, who^. wants to buy anger what's your moniker?"
"Moniker?"
"Handle. Wing. Name. Pseudo-corporeal psychic verbal inculcation. What have
you been conditioned to call yourself?"
"Jasper Jordan. And it's my real name, not an alias. See, I have no desire to hide
things from you. I want this all to be very open. That's a fascinating pet you have."
Sawbill carefully aligned a nail, drove it home with two solid, short raps from the
hammer. He spoke without pausing in his work or looking back.
"It's a pirn-bird from Tehuantepec. The things are . sacred to the Indians who
inhabit the planet's two con-
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ..
tinents. They are called pirn-birds for convenience. Of the natives not of the
birds, who have nothing to say in the matter. Their real names are much longer
and even incorporate a short snatch of song. You wouldn't understand it, because
the natives themselves don't. It's a very old song. A rough terranglo translation
begins Tears of the sun . . . and flows from there. This particular pirn-bird
supposedly contains the soul of the great emperor Lethan-atuan, who
depending on which legend you prefer to believe at one time ruled with the most [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]