The Meddler

	 Someone was in my room.
	 It had to be one of Sinc's boys. He'd been stupid. I'd left the lights off. The yellow light now seeping under the door was all the warning I needed.
	 He hadn't used the door: the threads were still there. That left the fire escape outside the bedroom window.
	 I pulled my gun, moved back a little in the corridor to get elbow room. Then-- I'd practiced it often enough to drive the management crazy-- I kicked the door open and was into the room in one smooth motion.
	 He should have been behind the door, or crouching behind a table, or hidden in the closet with his eye to the keyhole. Instead he was right out in the middle of the living room, facing the wrong way. He'd barely started to turn when I pumped four GyroJet slugs into him. I saw the impacts twitching his shirt. One over the heart.
	 He was finished.
	 So I didn't slow down to watch him fall. I crossed the living-room rug in a diving run and landed behind the couch. He couldn't be alone. There had to be others. If one had been behind the couch he might have gotten me, but there wasn't. I scanned the wall behind me, but there was nothing to bide under. So I froze, waiting, listening.
	 Where were they? The one I'd shot couldn't have come alone.
	 I was peeved at Sinc. As long as he'd sent goons to waylay me, he might have sent a few who knew what they were doing. The one I'd shot hadn't had time to know he was in a fight.
	 "Why did you do that?"
	 Impossibly, the voice came from the middle of the living room, where I'd left a falling corpse. I risked a quick look and brought my head down fast. The afterimage:
	 He hadn't moved. There was no blood on him. No gun visible, but I hadn't seen his right hand.
	 Bulletproof vest? Sinc's boys had no rep for that kind of thing, but that had to be it. I stood up suddenly and fired, aiming between the eyes.
	 The slug smashed his right eye, off by an inch, and I knew he'd shaken me. I dropped back and tried to cool off.
	 No noises. Still no sign that he wasn't alone.
	 "I said, 'Why did you do that?'"
	 Mild curiosity colored his high-pitched voice. He didn't move as I stood up, and there was no hole in either eye.
	 "Why did I do what?" I asked cleverly.
	 "Why did you make holes in me? My gratitude for the gift of metal, of course, but--" He stopped suddenly, like he'd said too much and knew it. But I had other worries.
	 "Anyone else here?"
	 "Only we two are present. I beg pardon for invasion of privacy, and will indemnify--" He stopped again, as suddenly, and started over. "Who were you expecting?"
	 "Sinc's boys. I guess they haven't caught on yet. Sinc's boys want to make holes in me."
	 "Why?"
	 Could he be this stupid? "To turn me off! To kill me!"
	 He looked surprised, then furious. He was so mad he gurgled. "I should have been informed! Someone has been unforgivably sloppy!"
	 "Yeah. Me. I thought you must be with Sinc. I shouldn't have shot at you. Sorry."
	 "Nothing," he smiled, instantly calm again.
	 "But I ruined your suit ..." I trailed off. Holes showed in his jacket and shirt, but no blood. "Just what are you?"
	 He stood about five feet four, a round little man in an old-fashioned brown one-button suit. There was not a hair on him, not even eyelashes. No warts, no wrinkles, no character lines. A nebbish, one of these guys whose edges are all round, like someone forgot to put in the fine details.
	 He spread smoothly manicured hands. "I am a man like yourself."
	 "Nuts."
	 "Well," he said angrily, "you would have thought so if the preliminary investigation team had done their work properly!"
	 "You're a-- martian?"
	 "I am not a martian. I am--" He gurgled. "Also I am an anthropologist. Your world. I am here to study your species."
	 "You're from outer space?"
	 "Very. The direction and distance are secret, of course. My very existence should have been secret." He scowled deeply. Rubber face, I thought, not knowing the half of it yet.
	 "I won't talk," I reassured him. "But you came it a bad time. Any minute now, Sinc's going to figure out who it is that's on his tail. Then he'll be on mine, and this dump'll be ground zero. I hate to brush you. I've never met a ... whatever."
	 "I too must terminate this interview, since you know me for what I am. But first, tell me of your quarrel. Why does Sinc want to make holes in you?"
	 "His name is Lester Dunhaven Sinclair the third. He runs every racket in this city. Look, we've got time for a drink-maybe. I've got scotch, bourbon--"
	 He shuddered. "No, I thank you."
	 "Just trying to set you at ease." I was a little miffed.
	 "Then perhaps I may adapt a more comfortable form, while you drink-- whatever you choose. If you don't mind."
	 "Please yourself." I went to the rolling bar and poured bourbon and tap water, no ice. The apartment house was dead quiet. I wasn't surprised. I've lived here a couple of years now, and the other tenants have learned the routine. When guns go off, they hide under their beds and stay there.
	 "You won't be shocked?" My visitor seemed anxious. "If you are shocked, please say so at once."
	 And he melted. I stood there with the paper cup to my lip and watched him flow out of his one-button suit and take the compact shape of a half-deflated gray beach ball.
	 I downed the bourbon and poured more, no water. My hands stayed steady.
	 "I'm a private cop," I told the martian. He'd extruded a convoluted something I decided was an ear. "When Sinc showed up about three years ago and started taking over the rackets, I stayed out of his way. He was the law's business, I figured. Then he bought the law, and that was okay too. I'm no crusader."
	 "Crusader?" His voice had changed. Now it was deep, and it sounded like something bubbling up from a tar pit.
	 "Never mind. I tried to stay clear of Sinc, but it didn't work. Sinc had a client of mine killed. Morrison, his name was. I was following Morrison's wife, getting evidence for a divorce. She was shacking up with a guy named Adler. I had all the evidence I needed when Morrison disappeared.
	 "Then I found out Adler was Sinc's right hand."
	 "Right hand? Nothing was said of hive cultures."
	 "Huh?"
	 "One more thing the prelim team will have to answer for. Continue talking. You fascinate me."
	 "I kept working on it. What could I do? Morrison was my client, and he was dead. I collected plenty of evidence against Adler, and I turned it over to the cops. Morrison's body never turned up, but I had good corpus delicti evidence. Anyway, Sinc's bodies never do turn up. They just disappear.
	 "I turned what I had over to the cops. The case was squashed. Somehow the evidence got lost. One night I got beat up."
	 "Beat up?"
	 "Almost any kind of impact," I told him, "can damage a human being."
	 "Really!" he gurgled. "All that water, I suppose."
	 "Maybe. In my line you have to heal fast. Well, that tore it. I started looking for evidence against Sinc himself. A week ago I sent Xeroxes off to the Feds. I let one of Sinc's boys find a couple of the copies. Bribery evidence, nothing exciting, but enough to hurt. I figured it wouldn't take Sinc long to figure out who made them. The Xerox machine I borrowed was in a building he owns."
	 "Fascinating. I think I will make holes in the Lady of Preliminary Investigation!"
	 "Will that hurt?"
	 "She is not a--" Gurgle. "She is a--" Loud, shrill bird whistle.
	 "I get it. Anyway, you can see how busy I'm going to be. Much too busy to talk about, uh, anthropology. Any minute now I'll have Sinc's boys all over me, and the first one I kill I'll have the cops on me too. Maybe the cops'll come first. I dunno."
	 "May I watch? I promise not to get in your path."
	 "Why?"
	 He cocked his ear, if that was what it was. "An example. Your species has developed an extensive system of engineering using alternating current. We were surprised to find you transmitting electricity so far, and using it in so many ways. Some may even be worth imitating."
	 "That's nice. So?"
	 "Perhaps there are other things we can learn from you."
	 I shook my head. "Sorry, short stuff. This party's bound to get rough, and I don't want any bystanders getting hurt. What the hell am I talking about. Holes don't hurt you?"
	 "Very little hurts me. My ancestors once used genetic engineering to improve their design. My major weaknesses are susceptibility to certain organic poisons, and a voracious appetite."
	 "Okay, stay then. Maybe after it's all over you can tell me about Mars, or wherever you came from. I'd like that."
	 "Where I come from is classified. I can tell you about Mars."
	 "Sure, sure. How'd you like to raid the fridge while we wait? If you're so hungry all the time-- hold it."
	 Sliding footsteps.
	 They were out there. A handful of them, if they were trying to keep it a secret. And these had to be from Sinc, because all the neighbors were under their beds by now.
	 The martian heard it too. "What shall I do? I cannot reach human form fast enough."
	 I was already behind the easy chair. "Then try something else. Something easy."
	 A moment later I had two matching black leather footstools. They both matched the easy chair, but maybe nobody'd notice.
	 The door slammed wide open. I didn't pull the trigger, because nobody was there. Just the empty hallway.
	 The fire escape was outside my bedroom window, but that window was locked and bolted and rigged with alarms. They wouldn't get in that way. Unless--
	 I whispered, "Hey! How did you get in?"
	 "Under the door."
	 So that was all right. The window alarms were still working. "Did any of the tenants see you?"
	 "No.
	 "Good." I get enough complaints from the management without that.
	 More faint rustling from outside the door. Then a hand and gun appeared for an instant, fired at random, vanished. Another hole in my walls. He'd had time to see my head, to place me. I ran low for the couch. I was getting set again, both eyes on the door, when a voice behind me said, "Stand up slow."
	 You had to admire the guy. He'd got through the window alarms without a twitch, into the living room without a sound. He was tall, olive-skinned, with straight black hair and black eyes. His gun was centered on the bridge of my nose.
	 I dropped the GyroJet and stood up. Pushing it now would only get me killed.
	 He was very relaxed, very steady. "That's a GyroJet, isn't it? Why not use a regular heater?"
	 "I like this," I told him. Maybe he'd come too close, or take his eyes off me, or-- anything. "It's light as a toy, with no recoil. The gun is just a launching chamber for the rocket slugs, and they pack the punch of a forty-five."
	 "But, man! The slugs cost a buck forty-five each!"
	 "I don't shoot that many people."
	 "At those prices, I believe it. Okay, turn around slow. Hands in the air." His eyes hadn't left me for a moment.
	 I turned my back. Next would be a sap--
	 Something metal brushed against my head, feather-light. I whirled, struck at his gun hand and his larynx. Pure habit. I'd moved the instant the touch told me he was in reach.
	 He was stumbling back with his hand to his throat. I put a fist in his belly and landed the other on his chin. He dropped, trying to curl up. And sure enough, he was holding a sap.
	 But why hadn't he hit me with it? From the feel of it, he'd laid it gently on top of my head, carefully, as if he thought the sap might shatter.
	 "All right, stand easy." The hand and gun came through the doorway, attached to six feet of clean living. I knew him as Handel. He looked like any blond brainless hero, but he wasn't brainless, and he was no hero.
	 He said, "You're going to hate yourself for doing that."
	 The footstool behind him began to change shape.
	 "Dammit," I said, "that's not fair."
	 Handel looked comically surprised, then smiled winningly. "Two to one?"
	 "I was talking to my footstool."
	 "Turn around. Weve got orders to bring you to Sinc, if we can. You could still get out of this alive."
	 I turned around. "I'd like to apologize."
	 "Save it for Sinc."
	 "No, honest. It wasn't my idea to have someone else mix In this. Especially--" Again I felt something brush against the side of my head. The martian must be doing something to stop the impact.
	 I could have taken Handel then. I didn't move. It didn't seem right that I could break Handel's neck when he couldn't touch me. Two to one I don't mind, especially when the other guy's the one. Sometimes I'll even let some civic-minded bystander help, if theres some chance he'll live through it. But this...
	 "What's not fair?" asked a high, complaining voice.
	 Handel screamed like a woman. I turned to see him charge into the door jamb, back up a careful two feet, try for the door again and make it.
	 Then I saw the footstool.
	 He was already changing, softening in outline, but I got an idea of the shape Handel had seen. No wonder it had softened his mind. I felt it softening my bones, melting the marrow, and I closed my eyes and whispered, "Dammit, you were supposed to watch."
	 "You told me the impact would damage you."
	 "That's not the point. Detectives are always getting hit on the head. We expect it."
	 "But how can I learn anything from watching you if your little war ends so soon?"
	 "Well, what do you learn if you keep jumping in?"
	 "You may open your eyes."
	 I did. The martian was back to his nebbish form. He had fished a pair of orange shorts out of his pile of clothes. "I do not understand your objection," he said. "This Sinc will kill you if he can. Do you want that?"
	 "No, but--"
	 "Do you believe that your side is in the right?"
	 "Yes, but--"
	 "Then why should you not accept my help?"
	 I wasn't sure myself. It felt wrong. It was like sneaking a suitcase bomb into Sinc's mansion and blowing it up.
	 I thought about it while I checked the hall. Nobody there. I closed the door and braced a chair under the knob. The dark one was stiff with us: he was trying to sit up.
	 "Look," I told the martian. "Maybe I can explain, maybe I can't. But if I don't get your word to stay out of this, I'll leave town. I swear it. I'll just drop the whole thing. Understand?"
	 "No."
	 "Will you promise?"
	 "Yes."
	 The Spanish type was rubbing his throat and staring at the martian. I didn't blame him. Fully dressed, the martian could have passed for a man, but not in a pair of orange undershorts. No hair or nipples marked his chest. The Spanish type turned his flashing white smile on me and asked, "Who's he?"
	 "I'll ask the questions. Who're you?"
	 "Don Domingo." His accent was soft and Spanish. If he was worried, it didn't show. "Hey, how come you didn't fall down when I hit you?"
	 "I said I'll ask the--"
	 "Your face is turning pink. Are you embarrassed about something?"
	 "Dammit, Domingo, where's Sinc? Where were you supposed to take me?"
	 "The place."
	 "What place? The Bel Air place?"
	 "That's the one. You know, you have the hardest head--"
	 "Never mind that!"
	 "Okay, okay. What will you do now?"
	 I couldn't call the law in. "Tie you up, I guess. After this is over, I'll turn you in for assault."
	 "After this is over, you won't be doing much, I think. You will live as long as they shoot at your head, but when--"
	 "Now drop that!"
	 The martian came out of the kitchen. His hand was flowing around a tin of corned beef, engulfing it tin and all. Domingo's eyes went wide and round.
	 Then the bedroom exploded.
	 It was a fire bomb. Half the living room was in flames in an instant. I scooped up the GyroJet, stuck it in my pocket.
	 The second bomb exploded in the hall. A blast of flame blew the door inward, picked up the chair I'd used to brace the door and flung it across the room.
	 "No!" Domingo yelled. "Handel was supposed to wait! Now what?"
	 Now we roast, I thought, stumbling back with my arm raised against the flames. A calm tenor voice asked, "Are you suffering from excessive heat?"
	 "Yes! Dammit, yes!"
	 A huge rubber ball slammed into my back, hurling me at the wall. I braced my arms to take up some of the impact. It was still going to knock me silly. Just before I reached it, the wall disappeared. It was the outside wall. Completely off balance, I dashed through an eight-foot hole and out into the empty night, six floors above concrete.
	 I clenched my teeth on the scream. The ground came up-- the ground came up-- where the hell was the ground? I opened my eyes. Everything was happening in slow motion. A second stretched to eternity. I had time to see strollers turning to crane upward, and to spot Handel near a corner of the building, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. Time to look over my shoulder as Domingo stood against a flaming background, poised in slow motion in an eight-foot circle cut through the wall of my apartment.
	 Flame licked him. He jumped.
	 Slow motion?
	 He went past me like a falling safe. I saw him hit; I heard him hit. It's not a good sound. Living on Wall Street during November '80, I heard it night after night during the weeks following the election. I never got used to it.
	 Despite everything my belly and groin were telling me, I was not falling. I was sinking, like through water. By now half a dozen people were watching me settle. They all had their mouths open. Something poked me in the side, and I slapped at it and found myself clutching a .45 slug. I plucked another off my cheek. Handel was shooting at me.
	 I fired back, not aiming too well. If the martian hadn't been "helping" me I'd have blown his head off without a thought. As it was-- anyway, Handel turned and ran.
	 I touched ground and walked away. A dozen hot, curious eyes bored into my back, but nobody tried to stop me.
	 There was no sign of the martian. Nothing else followed me either. I spent half an hour going through the usual contortions to shake a tail, but that was just habit. I wound up in a small, anonymous bar.
	 My eyebrows were gone, giving me a surprised look I found myself studying my reflection in the bar mirror, looking for other signs that I'd been in a fight.
	 My face, never particularly handsome, has been dignified by scar tissue over the years, and my light brown hair never wants to stay in place. I had to move the part a year back to match a bullet crease in my scalp. The scars were all there, but I couldn't find any new cuts or bruises. My clothes weren't mussed. I didn't hurt anywhere. It was all unreal and vaguely dissatisfying.
	 But my next brush with Sinc would be for, real.
	 I had my GyroJet and a sparse handful of rocket slugs in one pocket. Sinc's mansion was guarded like Fort Knox. And Sinc would be expecting me; he knew I wouldn't run.
	 We knew a lot about each other, considering we'd never met.
	 Sinc was a teetotaler. Not a fanatic; there was liqour on the premises of his mansion-fort. But it had to be kept out of Sinc's sight.
	 A woman usually shared his rooms. Sinc's taste was excellent. He changed his women frequently. They never left angry, and that's unusual. They never left poor, either.
	 I'd dated a couple of Sinc's exes, letting them talk about Sinc if they cared to. The consensus:
	 Sinc was an all-right guy, a spender, inventive and enthusiastic where it counted.
	 And neither particularly wanted to go back.
	 Sinc paid well and in full. He'd bail a man out of jail if the occasion arose. He never crossed anyone. Stranger yet, nobody ever crossed him. I'd had real trouble learning anything about Sinc. Nobody had wanted to talk.
	 But he'd crossed Domingo. That had caught us both by surprise.
	 Put it different. Someone had crossed Domingo. Domingo had been waiting for rescue, not bombs. So had I. It was Sinc's policy to pull his boys out if they got burned.
	 Either Domingo had been crossed against Sinc's orders, or Sinc was serious about wanting me dead.
	 I meet all kinds of people. I like it that way. By now I knew enough about Sinc to want to know more, much more. I wanted to meet him. And I was damn glad I'd shaken the martian, because...
	 Just what was it that bugged me about the martian?
	 It wasn't the strangeness. I meet all kinds. The way he shifted shape could throw a guy, but I don't bug easy.
	 Manners? He was almost too polite. And helpful.
	 Much too helpful.
	 That was part of it. The lines of battle had been drawn... and then something had stepped in from outer space. He was deus ex machina, the angel who descends on a string to set everything right, and incidentally to ruin the story. Me tackling Sinc with the martian's help was like a cop planting evidence. It was wrong. But more than that, it seemed to rob the thing of all its point, so that nothing mattered.
	 I shrugged angrily and had another drink. The bartender was trying to close. I drank up fast and walked out in a clump of tired drunks.
	 My car had tools I could use, but by now there'd be a bomb under the hood. I caught a cab and gave him an address on Bellagio, a couple of blocks from Sinc's place, if you can number anything in that area in "blocks." It's all hills, and the streets can drive you nuts. Sinc's home ground was a lumpy triangle with twisted sides, and big. It must have cost the Moon to landscape. One afternoon I'd walked past it, casing it. I couldn't see anything except through the gate. The fence was covered by thick climbing ivy. There were alarms in the ivy.
	 I waited till the taxi was gone, then loaded the GyroJet and started walking. That left one rocket slug still in my pocket.
	 In that neighborhood there was something to duck behind every time a car came by. Trees, hedges, gates with massive stone pillars. When I saw headlights I ducked, in case Sinc's boys were patrolling. A little walking took me to within sight of the ivy fence. Any closer and I'd be spotted.
	 So I ducked onto the property of one of Sinc's neighbors.
	 The place was an oddity: a rectangular pool with a dinky poolhouse at one end, a main house that was all right angles, and, between the two, a winding brook with a small bridge across it and trees hanging over the water. The brook must have been there before the house, and some of the trees too. It was a bit of primal wilderness that jarred strangely with all the right angles around it. I stuck with the brook, naturally.
	 This was the easy part. A burglary rap was the worst that could happen to me.
	 I found a fence. Beyond was asphalt, streetlamps, and then the ivy barrier to Sinc's domain.
	 Wire cutters? In the car. I'd be a sitting duck if I tried to go over. It could have been sticky, but I moved along the fence, found a rusty gate, and persuaded the padlock to open for me. Seconds later I was across the street and huddled against the ivy, just where I'd taken the trouble to hunt out a few of the alarms.
	 Ten minutes later I went over.
	 Sifting duck? Yes. I had a clear view of the house, huge and mostly dark. In the moment before I dropped, someone would have had a clear view of me, too, framed by lamplight at the top of the fence.
	 I dropped between inner and outer fence and took a moment to think. I hadn't expected an inner fence. It was four feet of solid brick topped by six feet of wiring; and the wiring had a look of high voltage.
	 Now what?
	 Maybe I could find something to short out the fence. But that would alert the house just as I was going over. Still, it might be the best chance.
	 Or I could go back over the ivy and try the gate defenses. Maybe I could even bluff my way through. Sinc must be as curious about me by now as I was about him. Everything I knew about Sinc was in the present tense. Of his past I knew only that there were no records of his past. But if Sinc had heard about my floating lightly down from a sixth-floor window, not unlike Mary Poppins ... it might be worth a try. At least I'd live long enough to see what Sinc looked like.
	 Or--
	 "Hello. How does your war proceed?"
	 I sighed. He drifted down beside me, still manshaped, dressed in a dark suit. I saw my mistake when he got closer. He'd altered his skin color to make a suit, shirt, and tie. At a distance it would pass. Even close up, he had nothing that needed hiding.
	 "I thought I'd got rid of you," I complained. "Are you bigger?" At a guess, his size had nearly doubled.
	 "Yes. I became hungry."
	 "You weren't kidding about your appetite."
	 "The war," he reminded me. "Are you planning to invade?"
	 "I was. I didn't know about this fence."
	 "Shall I--"
	 "No! No, you shall not whatever you were thinking about. Just watch!"
	 "What am I to watch? You have done nothing for several minutes."
	 "I'll think of something."
	 "Of course."
	 "But whatever I do, I won't use your help, now or ever. If you want to watch, fine, be my guest. But don't help."
	 "I do not understand why not."
	 "It's like bugging a guy's telephone. Sinc has certain rights, even if he is a crook. He's immune from cruel and unusual punishment. The FBI can't bug his phone. You can't kill him unless you try him first, unless he's breaking a law at the time. And he shouldn't have to worry about armed attack by martians!"
	 "Surely if Sinc himself breaks the rules--"
	 "There are rules for dealing with lawbreakers!" I snapped.
	 The martian didn't answer. He stood beside me, seven feet tall and pudgy, a dark, manlike shape in the dim light from the house.
	 "Hey. How do you do all those things you do? Just a talent?"
	 "No. I carry implements." Something poked itself out of his baby-smooth chest, something hard that gleamed like metal. "This, for instance, damps momentum. Other portable artifacts lessen the pull of gravity, or reprocess the air in my lung."
	 "You keep them all inside you?"
	 "Why not? I can make fingers of all sizes inside me."
	 "Oh."
	 "You have said that there are rules for dealing with rule breakers. Surely you have already broken those rules. You have trespassed on private property. You have departed the scene of an accident, Don Domingo's death. You have--"
	 "All right."
	 "Then--?"
	 "All right, I'll try again." I was wasting too much time. Getting over the fence was important. But so, somehow, was this. Because in a sense the martian was right. This had nothing to do with rules...
	 "It has nothing to do with rules," I told him. "At least, not exactly. What counts is power. Sinc has taken over this city, and he'll want others too, later. He's got too much power. That's why someone has to stop him.
	 "And you give me too much power. A-- a man who has too much power loses his head. I don't trust myself with you on my side. I'm a detective. If I break a law I expect to be jailed for it unless I can explain why. It makes me careful. If I tackle a crook who can whip me, I get bruised. If I shoot someone who doesn't deserve it, I go to prison. It all tends to make me careful. But with you around--"
	 "You lose your caution," said the dark bulk beside me. He spoke almost musingly, with more of human expression than I'd heard before. "You may be tempted to take more power than is good for you. I had not expected your species to be so wise."
	 "You thought we were stupid?"
	 "Perhaps. I had expected you to be grateful and eager for any help I might give. Now I begin to understand your attitude. We, too, try to balance out the amount of power given to individuals. What is that noise?"
	 It was a rustling, a scampering, barely audible but not at all furtive.
	 "I don't know."
	 "Have you decided upon your next move?"
	 "Yes. I-- damn! Those are dogs!"
	 "What are dogs?"
	 Suddenly they were there. In the dark I couldn't tell. what breed, but they were big, and they didn't bark. In a rustling of claws scrabbling on cement, they rounded the curve of the brick wall, coming from both sides, terribly fast. I hefted the GyroJet and knew there were twice as many dogs as I had shots.
	 Lights came on, bright and sudden, all over the grounds. I fired, and a finger of flame reached out and touched one of the dogs. He fell, tumbling, lost in the pack.
	 All the lights went deep red, blood red. The dogs stopped. The noise stopped. One dog, the nearest, was completely off the ground, hovering in mid-leap, his lips skinned back from sharp ruby teeth.
	 "It seems I have cost you time," the martian murmured. "May I return it?"
	 "What did you do?"
	 "I have used the damper of inertia in a projected field. The effect is as if time has stopped for all but us. In view of the length of time I have kept you talking, it is the least I can do."
	 Dogs to the left and dogs to the right, and lights all the hell over the place. I found men with rifles placed like statues about the wide lawn."
	 "I don't know if you're right or wrong," I said. "I'll be dead if you turn off that time-stopper. But this is the last time. Okay?" 
	 "Okay. We will use only the inertia damper." 
	 "I'll move around to the other side of the house. Then you turn off the gadget. It'll give me some time to find a tree." 
	 We went. I stepped carefully among the statues of dogs. The martian floated behind like a gigantic, pudgy ghost. The channel between inner and outer fence went all the way around to the gate at the front of the house. Near the gate the inner fence pinched against the outer, and ended. But before we reached that point I found a tree. It was big and it was old, and one thick branch stretched above the fence to hover over our heads. 
	 "Okay, turn off the gadget." 
	 The deep red lights glared a sudden white. I went up the ivy. Long arms and oversized hands are a big help to my famous monkey act. No point now in worrying about alarms. I had to balance standing on the outer fence to reach the branch with my fingers. When I put my weight on it it dipped three feet and started to creak. I moved along hand over hand, and swung up into the leaves before my feet could brush the inner fence. At a comfortable crouch I moved along the side of the house, looking for a window.
	 There were at least three riflemen on the front lawn. They were moving in a search pattern, but they didn't expect to find anything. All the action was supposed to be in back. 
	 The martian floated into the air and moved across the fence. He nicked the top going over. A blue spark snapped, and he dropped like a sack of wheat. He landed against the fence, grounded now, and electricity leaped and sizzled. Ozone and burnt meat mixed in the cold night air. I dropped out of the tree and ran to him. I didn't touch him. The current would have killed me.
	 It had certainly killed him.
	 And that was something I'd never thought of. Bullets didn't faze him. He could produce miracles on demand. How could he be killed by a simple electric fence? If he'd only mentioned that! But he'd been surprised even to find that we had electricity.
	 I'd let a bystander be killed. The one thing I'd sworn I would never do again.
	 Now he was nothing like human. Metal things poked gleaming from the dead mass that had been an anthropologist from the stars. The rustle of current had stopped seconds ago. I pulled one of the metal gadgets out of the mass, slid it in a pocket, and ran.
	 They spotted me right away. I took a zigzag course around a fenced tennis court, running for the front door. There were man-length windows on either side of the door. I ran up the steps, brought the GyroJet down in a hurried slashing blow that broke most of the panes in one window, and dove off the steps into a line of bushes.
	 When things happen that fast, your mind has to fill in the gaps between what you saw and what you didn't.
	 All three gunmen chased me frantically up the steps and through the front door, shouting at the tops of their lungs.
	 I settled myself to take stock.
	 Somebody must have decided I couldn't go through all that jagged glass. He must have outshouted the others, too, because I heard the hunt start again. I climbed a piece of wall, found a little ledge outside a darkened second-floor window. I got the window up without too much noise.
	 For the first time on this crazy night, I was beginning to think I knew what I was doing. That seemed odd, because I didn't know much about the layout of the house, and I hadn't the faintest idea where I was.
	 But at least I knew the rules of the game. The variable, the martian, the deus ex machina, was out of the picture.
	 The rules were: whoever saw me would kill me if he could. No bystanders, no good guys would be here tonight. There would be no complex moral choices. I would not be offered supernatural help, in return for my soul or otherwise. All I had to do was try to stay alive.
	 (But a bystander had died.)
	 The bedroom was empty. Two doors led to a closet and a bathroom. Yellow light seeped under a third door. No choice here. I pulled the GyroJet and eased the third door open.
	 A face jerked up over the edge of a reading chair. I showed it the gun, kept it aimed as I walked around in front of the chair. Nobody else was in the room.
	 The face could have used a shave. It was beefy, middle-aged, but symmetrical enough except for an oversized nose. "I know you," it said, calmly enough considering the circumstances.
	 "I know you too." It was Adler, the one who'd gotten me into this mess, first by cohabiting with Morrison's wife and then by killing Morrison.
	 "You're the guy Morrison hired," said Adler. "The tough private eye. Bruce Cheseborough. Why couldn't you let well enough alone?"
	 "I couldn't afford to."
	 "You couldn't afford not to. Have some coffee."
	 "Thanks. You know what'll happen if you yell or anything?"
	 "Sure." He picked up a water glass, dumped the water in the wastebasket. He picked up a silver thermos and poured coffee into his own coffee cup and into the water glass, moving slowly and evenly. He didn't want to make me nervous.
	 He himself was no more than mildly worried. That was reassuring, in a way, because he probably wouldn't do anything stupid. But... I'd seen this same calm in Don Domingo, and I knew the cause. Adler and Domingo and everyone else who worked for Sinc, they all had perfect faith in him. Whatever trouble they were in, Sinc would get them out.
	 I watched Adler take a healthy gulp of coffee before I touched the glass. The coffee was black and strong, heavily laced with good brandy. My first gulp tasted so good I damn near smiled at Adler.
	 Adler smiled back. His eyes were wide and fixed, as if he were afraid to look away from me. As if he expected me to explode. I tried to think of a way he could have dropped something in the coffee without drinking it himself. There wasn't any.
	 "You made a mistake," I told him, and gulped more coffee. "If my name had been Rip Hammer or Mike Hero, I might have dropped the whole thing when I found out you were with Sinc's boys. But when your name is Bruce Cheseborough, Junior, you can't afford to back out of a fight."
	 "You should have. You might have lived." He said it without concentrating on it. A puzzled frown tugged at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was still waiting for something to happen.
	 "Tell you what. You write me out a confession, and I can leave here without killing anyone. Won't that be nice?"
	 "Sure. What should I confess to?"
	 "Killing Morrison."
	 "You don't expect me to do that."
	 "Not really."
	 "I'm going to surprise you." Adler got up, stiff, slow, and went behind the desk. He kept his hands high until I was around behind him. "I'll write your damn confession. You know why? Because you'll never use it. Sinc'll see to that."
	 "If anyone comes through that door--"
	 "I know, I know." He started writing. While he was at it, I examined the tool I'd taken from the martian's corpse. it was white shiny metal, with a complex shape that was like nothing I'd ever seen. Like the plastic guts in a toy gun, half melted and then cooled, so that all the parts were merged and rounded. I had no idea what it did. Anyway, it was no good to me. I could see slots where buttons or triggers were buried, but they were too small for fingers. Tweezers might have reached them, or a hatpin.
	 Adler handed me the paper he'd been writing on. He'd made it short, and pointed: motive, means, details of time. Most of it I already knew.
	 "You don't say what happened to the body."
	 "Same thing that happened to Domingo."
	 "Domingo?"
	 "Domingo, sure. When the cops came to pick him up in back of your place, he was gone. Even the bloodstains were gone. A miracle, right?" Adler smiled nastily. When I didn't react he looked puzzled.
	 "How?" I asked him.
	 Adler shrugged uncomfortably. "You already know, don't you? I won't write it down. It would bring Sinc in. You'll have to settle for what you've got."
	 "Okay. Now I tie you up and wend my way homeward."
	 Adler was startled. He couldn't have faked it. "Now?"
	 "Sure. You killed my client, not Sinc."
	 He grinned, not believing me. And he still thought something was about to happen.
	 I used the bathrobe sash for his arms and a handkerchief for a gag. There were other bathrobes in the closet to finish the job. He still didn't believe I was going to leave, and he was still waiting for something to happen. I left him on the bed, in the dark.
	 Now what?
	 I turned off the lights in the sitting room and went to the window. The lawn was alive with men and dogs and far too much light. That was the direct way out.
	 I had Adler's hide in my pocket. Adler, who had killed my client. Was I still chasing Sinc? Or should I try to get clear with that piece of paper?
	 Get clear, of course.
	 I stood by the window, picking out shadows. There was a lot of light, but the shadows of bushes and trees were jet black. I found a line of hedge, lighted on this side; but I could try the other. Or move along that side of the tennis court, then hop across to that odd-looking statue--
	 The door opened suddenly, and I whirled.
	 A man in dark slacks and a smoking jacket stood facing my gun. Unhurriedly, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
	 It was Sinc. Lester Dunhaven Sinclair III was a man in perfect condition, not a pound overweight or underweight, with gymnasium muscles. I guessed his age at thirty-four or so. Once before I'd seen him, in public, but never close enough to see what I saw now: that his thick blond hair was a wig.
	 He smiled at me. "Cheseborough, isn't it?"
	 "Yeah."
	 "What did you do with my... lieutenant?" He looked me up and down. "I gather he's still with us."
	 "In the bedroom. Tied up." I moved around to lock the door to the hall.
	 I understood now why Sinc's men had made him into something like a feudal overlord. He measured up. He inspired confidence. His confidence in himself was total. Looking at him, I could almost believe that nothing could stand against him.
	 "I gather you were too intelligent to try the coffee. A pity," said Sinc. He seemed to be examining my gun, but with no trace of fear. I tried to think it was a bluff, but I couldn't. No man could put across such a bluff. His twitching muscles would give him away. I began to be afraid of Sinc.
	 "A pity," he repeated. "Every night for the past year Adler has gone to bed with a pot of coffee spiked with brandy. Handel too."
	 What was he talking about? The coffee hadn't affected me at all. "You've lost me," I said.
	 "Have I?" Smiling as if he'd won a victory, Sinc began to gurgle. It was eerily familiar, that gurgle. I felt the rules changing again, too fast to follow. Smiling, gurgling rhythmically, Sinc put a hand in his pants pocket and pulled out an automatic. He took his time about it.
	 It was not a big gun, but it was a gun; and the moment I knew that, I fired.
	 A GyroJet rocket slug burns its solid fuel in the first twenty-five feet, and moves from there on momentum. Sinc was twenty-five feet away. Flame reached out to tap him on the shoulder joint, and Sinc smiled indulgently. His gun was steady on the bridge of my nose.
	 I fired at his heart. No effect. The third shot perforated the space between his eyes. I saw the hole close, and I knew. Sinc was cheating too.
	 He fired.
	 I blinked. Cold fluid trickled down from my forehead, stung my eyes, dribbled across my lips. I tasted rubbing alcohol.
	 "You're a martian too," I said.
	 "No need for insult," Sinc said mildly. He fired again. The gun was a squirtgun, a plastic kid's toy shaped like an automatic. I wiped the alcohol out of my eyes and looked at him.
	 "Well," said Sinc. "Well." He reached up, peeled his hair off, and dropped it. He did the same with his eyebrows and eyelashes. "Well, where is he?"
	 "He told me he was an... anthropologist. Was he lying?"
	 "Sure, Cheseborough. He was the Man. The Law. Hes tracked me over distances you couldn't even write down." Sinc backed up against a wall. "You wouldn't even understand what my people called my crime. And you've no reason to protect him. He used you. Every time he stopped a bullet for you, it was to make me think you were him. That's why he helped you on a floating act. That's why he's disposed of Domingo's body. You were his stalking-horse. I'm supposed to kill you while he's sneaking up on me. He'll sacrifice you without a qualm. Now where is he?"
	 "Dead. He didn't know about electric fences."
	 A voice from the hall, Handel's voice, bellowed, "Mr. Sinclair! Are you all right in there?"
	 "I have a guest," Sinc called out. "He has a gun."
	 "What do we do?"
	 "Don't do anything," Sinc called to him. And then he started to laugh. He was losing his human contours, "relaxing" because I already knew what he was.
	 "I wouldn't have believed it," he chuckled. "He tracked me all that way to die on an electric fence!"
	 His chuckles cut off like a broken tape, making me wonder how real they were, how real his laughter could be with his no doubt weird breathing system.
	 "The current couldn't kill him, of course. It must have shorted his airmaker and blown the battery."
	 "The spiked coffee was for him," I guessed. "He said he could be killed by organic poisons. He meant alcohol."
	 "Obviously. And all I did was give you a free drink," he chuckled.
	 "I've been pretty gullible. I believed what your women told me."
	 "They didn't know." He did a pretty accurate double take. "You thought... Cheseborough, have I made rude comments about your sex life?"
	 "No. Why?"
	 "Then you can leave mine alone."
	 He had to be kidding. No be didn't; he could take any shape he liked. Wow, I thought. Sinc's really gone native. Maybe he was laughing, or thought be was.
	 Sinc moved slowly toward me. I backed away, holding the useless gun.
	 "You realize what happens now?"
	 I took a guess. "Same thing that happened to Domingo's body. All your embarrassing bodies."
	 "Exactly. Our species is known for its enormous appetite." He moved toward me, the squirt gun forgotten in his right hand. His muscles had sagged and smoothed. Now he was like the first step in making a clay model of a man. But his mouth was growing larger, and his teeth were two sharp-edged horse shoes.
	 I fired once more.
	 Something smashed heavily against the door. Sinc didn't hear it. Sinc was melting, losing all form as he tried to wrap himself around his agony. From the fragments of his shattered plastic squirt gun, rubbing alcohol poured over what had been his hand and dripped to the floor.
	 The door boomed again. Something splintered.
	 Sinc's hand was bubbling, boiling. Sinc, screaming, was flowing out of his slacks and smoking jacket. And I... I snapped out of whatever force was holding me rooted, and I picked up the silver thermos and poured hot spiked coffee over whatever it was that writhed on the floor.
	 Sinc bubbled all over. White metal machinery extruded itself from the mass and lay on the rug.
	 The door crackled and gave. By then I was against the wall, ready to shoot anything that looked my way. Handel burst into the room and stopped dead.
	 He stood there in the doorway, while the stars grew old and went out. Nothing, I felt, could have torn his eyes from that twitching, bubbling mass. Gradually the mass stopped moving... and Handel gulped, got his throat working, shrieked, and ran from the room.
	 I heard the meaty thud as he collided with a guard, and I heard him babbling, "Don't go in there! Don't... oh, don't..." and then a sob, and the sound of uneven running feet.
	 I went into the bedroom and out the window. The grounds still blazed with light, but I saw no motion. Anyway, there was nothing out there but dogs and men.