Garbage In, Garbage Out

Illustration by Arthur George

Late afternoon sunshine slanted over the dump as I carefully picked my way across the rotting residue of human society. Vast amounts of food lay around me, interspersed with crumpled aluminum pie pans and lids cut from tin cans; culinary roses nestled among metallic thorns.

I’d already eaten my fill, but I was trying to find the source of an elusive smell, one I didn’t recognize. Since I consider myself an expert on the odor of refuse, this was an insult to my pride. Just as I was on the verge of giving up, I almost literally stumbled on the origin of the smell.

I wished I hadn’t.

My six-inch legs don’t cover ground very quickly, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. My feet thudded against the packed dirt of the road leading between the mounds of trash, small spurts of red dust flying with every footfall.

“Martin!” I yelled as I ran. “Martin!”

No answer.

I sped on. As I passed through the gate, I caught sight of the car. And Martin. He was slumped in his seat, snoring. Asleep at the wheel—the story of Martin’s life.

Breathing hard, I stumbled up to the car door and flailed at it with my hands. Martin’s only response to my frantic assault was to snort once, then resume his deep, rhythmic imitation of a motorboat.

Desperate to get his attention, I unfurled two or three feet of my tongue, reached through the open window, and slapped him across the face several times in quick succession—the sound of a fresh steak hitting the counter at a butcher shop.

“Martin!”

“Wha—?” He jerked bolt upright, slamming his knees against the underside of the dash in the process. “Ow!” he howled. He saw me standing outside his window. “What the hell did you hit me with?” he demanded. Then realization dawned and he blanched.

“Victor! Do you mean to tell me you used your tongue? After you’ve been eating garbage!”

“Will you listen to me, you illegitimate offspring of baboons?”

He stopped in mid-yelp.

“There’s a dead body out there, and all I could get out of you were sound effects for a monster movie! What did you expect me to do, sing you a lullaby?”

“Dead body? What do you mean, dead body?”

“One from which life has departed, you idiot! A stiff! A carcass! A corpus delectable!”

Martin’s face twisted in horror. “Corpus delectable? You didn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Martin,” I said.

“I mean, it’s bad enough—”

“Martin!”

“And if the relatives heard you talking about how their dearly beloved had tasted—”

“Martin!”

“What, dammit!”

“It’s not a person.”

“You wiped your slimy, nasty, greasy tongue on my face just to tell me there’s a dead dog out there?”

“Martin, the corpse is… was an extraterrestrial. It was murdered.”

Pete Sims is an old friend of Martin’s who works for the police department—homicide, coincidentally, and in this case, providentially. Occasionally, he manages to throw us a case, usually when Martin’s career as a private investigator is within mere hours of coming to an ignominious end in bankruptcy court. In short, he is a sterling friend who comes though in a pinch.

“Victor,” he growled, running his hands through the unkempt remains of what had once been a full head of red hair, “this takes the cake, buddy.”

We were standing near the remains of the alien body, where it lay half buried in wilted lettuce and crushed cardboard boxes for cheap stereo speakers. Overhead, the sky was darkening as evening crept stealthily from the east. Bats wheeled and dipped, harvesting the insects that fluttered around the faintly humming halogen lamps set on stands so that the police could do their work.

Pete spoke again, “I mean, it’s bad enough that you’ve got to eat spoiled food. But really now, finding a dead body in the dump was the height of bad taste.”

“Why does everybody assume that I gave this critter a taste test before going for help?” I protested.

Pete grinned maliciously. “It couldn’t possibly be because you eat rotting garbage, could it?”

Like the corpse, I am an extraterrestrial, albeit of a different species. The climate of my home world is two or three notches above what humans call tropical. My species evolved as scavengers on the forest floor, eating the remains of both plant and animal matter even as it decayed. Humans prefer their food somewhat closer to its original, living state. Personally, I think they’re daft.

Martin spoke up. “Pete, how much longer will it take them to examine the body? It’s a nice balmy night and all that, but I can think of places I’d rather be.”

Pete grimaced in response. “I know what you mean.” He turned and called over his shoulder, “Pasky! What’s the word, fella?”

Norm Pasky, a man with a jaw the size of the front fender on Martin’s car, ambled over. “Not so good. The forensics guy says he’s out of his depth. He says this critter was an Erintie, and that he doesn’t know diddly squat about ’em. We’re going to have to call in a specialist to determine time of death and all that.”

“Simple homicide case, if it weren’t for the fact that the victim was an extraterrestrial,” Pete said.

“Looks that way,” Pasky agreed.

Pete turned back to us and said, “Considering that we’ve got this complication with the victim being from off-world, I’ll need a consultant or two. You guys need any money this week?”

“Nah, we’re fine,” Martin said breezily.

“Don t listen to him,” I said. “The rent’s late and the landlord is threatening to have the locks changed.”

Pete tried to keep a straight face. “So, who do I believe?”

“Me,” Martin and I said simultaneously.

Pete squatted and looked me in the eye. I only have one. “Supposing I were to ask you to help me with this little problem.” He looked up, giving Martin the barest ghost of a cruel smile. “The pay would go to Victor, of course, since he’s the expert on these matters.”

Martin gulped. He knew he desperately needed the money, but his ego was at stake. He absolutely could not bring himself to admit that he was broke. Again.

I said, “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can, Pete. Martin may be too busy with his other cases—”

I could almost hear the sound of Martin’s pride being swallowed, all broken glass and rusty razor blades as it went down. “Pete, I, uh… considering the sensitive nature of this case… seeing as how it involves another species and all, I think I should volunteer also.”

The plain, unvarnished truth? I didn’t need the money, any more than a cat needs a bicycle, but it was fun to needle my best friend.

Besides, who else would drive me around?

The next morning Martin heard my feet padding across his bedroom floor and cranked open one eye. The effort clearly exhausted him.

“You getting up this morning?” I asked.

“No!” he said, pulling the covers over his head. The sheet puffed over his mouth as he spoke. “I don’t like spending half the night at the dump It smells bad and I don’t like dead bodies.”

“Corpses are an occupational haz-ard of being a private investigator. You could have been a stockbroker, you know.”

“And wear a suit every day?” the sheet asked plaintively.

“You’re planning on wearing that sheet to work, perhaps?”

“I’m catching my beauty rest,” he said.

“You need it,” I retorted.

The sheet came down and a baleful glare fixed on me.

“Listen, garbage breath, the early bird may catch the worm, but for all I care, he can have it. I don’t intend to eat worms.”

“They may be all you can afford. If your wallet gets any lighter, it’ll waft away in the next strong breeze.”

Martin cursed under his breath, then tossed the sheets aside and sat on the edge of the bed.

“The bathroom is that way,” I said helpfully, pointing the way with a foot or two of tongue. “Brush your teeth before you talk to another human being-otherwise we’ll have two corpses on our hands.”

His eyes opened wide in horror. “That bad?”

“No, that good.”

He shuddered. “Anything that smells good to you is certain to be bad news.” He shuffled off, calling for his toothbrush as though it was a pet that would come when summoned.

Shorter than humans, taller than me, the Erintie resembled nothing so much as short-legged giraffes with a bifurcated, noseless head. One eye rose on either side of the elongated neck on a short stalk. Between the base of the eye stalks was the mouth opening with its short, almost flaplike tongue. The neck was boneless, supported entirely by musculature in the same manner as an elephant’s trunk. The body was covered with what looked like dappled gray felt the color of a conservative business suit.

On the way out to the Erintie enclave, I had made Martin stop at a library so I could do some quick research. If Pete was hiring us as experts, it was the least we could do. I even went so far as to memorize a few phrases of pidgin Erintie.

I learned that, at least as far as humans were concerned, the Erintie were named after the man who first described them in the literature, Erin T. Booker. They were good-natured about the name and used it when talking to humans. On their home world, they lived on temperate savannahs, drinking nectar and rain water that collected in huge trumpet-shaped flowers on twisted vines the size of tree trunks. They were not above eating small animals, which they swallowed whole, lacking anything like teeth.

Representatives had willingly returned to Earth with the first explorers, partly out of a sense of adventure, and partly because humans and Erintie truly enjoyed each others’ company.

After several wrong turns, Martin finally located the local Erintie colony. When we got out of the car, Martin and I were immediately aware of dozens of fluted voices, calling to one another across the meadow. Lovely sounds, like organ pipes. The Erintie tended towards monotonicity, forming words with their leathery lips and by varying the volume of their voices. Every Erintie neck was a different length, so each individual had a distinctive pitch. The resulting sounds did not fit the Western notion of a chromatic musical scale, but I would gladly have stayed and listened for ages.

My vocal apparatus, consisting of a membrane, was able to reproduce a fair approximation of the Erintie speech. I walked up to the nearest one and hooted a greeting.

The Erintie drew himself to his full height and stared down at me. Alter a lengthy pause he turned away, first ambling, then gaining speed until he was in a full gallop.

Martin glared at me angrily. “Now, look what you’ve done! If you’ve gotten us off on the wrong foot—”

“All I said was, ‘Sweet fruit nectar to you.’ It’s a standard greeting. If you’ve got any better ideas, I’d be glad to hear them,” I replied testily.

Martin stared at me, his thick, black eyebrows lowering over his eyes. “Sweet fruit nectar? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you had read the entry in the encyclopedia, instead of trying to charm the librarian into going out with you, you’d know that wishing them sweet nectar is like wishing a human prosperity.”

Martin harrumphed, continuing to glower at me. “Well, if you were so allfired polite, why did he run off?”

I had to admit that I didn’t know, which didn’t help matters. We started walking slowly across the field, trying to make eye contact with another Erintie.

We had made it perhaps halfway across the meadow when we heard a melodious voice behind us. “Greetings. How may I be of service?”

I do not startle easily, but I literally jumped. Quickly, I turned, only to find an older Erintie a few feet behind us. He bobbed his head towards me.

“You are not human, but you were speaking English. I speak English. How may I be of service?”

I took a deep breath, still wondering how this old Erintie had managed to get so close without my being aware of his presence. “We were hoping to be of service to you. One of your kind was killed. We are assisting in the investigation.”

“Let us begin with a name. Wheelau. That was the name of the individual of whom you speak. I am Hooth. You are?”

“I am Victor. This is Martin.”

Again, his head bobbed. “You are official?”

“We are working with the police, yes.”

“I see. What do you wish to know?”

“We wanted to know if you are aware of anyone, of any species, who might have wanted Wheelau dead.”

His mouth open wide, Hooth took a deep draught of air that made a distant rattling noise down in the depths of his throat. “Those are harsh words, but… it was a harsh act. And you do not know our thoughts on these matters.”

Obviously, I had run into an Erintie taboo. “I’m sorry if I said something offensive.”

Slowly, the air came back out, almost like a sigh. “We must make allowances, you and I, for we come from different cultures.”

Clearly, I was making a terrible mess of the whole thing. I was glad that Pete wasn’t able to see his two “experts” at that moment. “How should I ask the questions I need to ask?”

Hooth bent his neck so as to focus his two eyes more closely on my one. “We will continue to use the English words. They are more blunt, more heartless, but the alternative would be to teach you our language and some of our philosophy. That would take too long. It took me years to master English. I am sure you found the same to be true, even with your more versatile vocal system. Suffice it to say that, like some humans, we find it… impolite to speak of those who have passed on in an untimely manner. In this case, however, I acknowledge the necessity.”

“How would you handle this among your own people?” Martin asked.

“With great difficulty,” Hooth acknowledged. “That is why I will use the English words. We will try. We will see what happens. It will be an experiment. Any anguish I bring upon myself by doing so will not reflect on you.”

“What can you tell us?” I asked.

“Wheelau was universally well-regarded, both among our people and among humans. There is no individual, of either species, or of any other, who I think would want him… dead.” His mouth crinkled. “There, I said the word again. Nothing ill happened. We will continue the experiment. Wheelau had many friends. In fact, he was so good at having friends that we made it his job, so to speak. He was a message carrier. One person would tell him something, then he would go and tell another. Doing so gave him a chance to see both individuals. He enjoyed this. So did those he spoke with. He carried news among the Erintie, among the humans, and between the Erintie and the humans. He never embellished, never forgot, never failed to deliver the messages. He will be missed.”

Martin asked, “Why couldn’t someone just tell the other person themselves? Why have Wheelau carry the message?”

“But the message wasn’t from the first person, you see, it was about the first person, and Wheelau would make certain that all knew about the person.”

“Knew what kind of things about them?”

“Good things, bad things, large things, small things. Life is full of news others want to know. It was Wheelau s function to tell them.”

Martin frowned. “Sounds like gossip.”

“Gossip!” Hooth exclaimed. “Exactly the word. Gossip. Small talk. Gossip. Wheelau carried gossip from person to person.”

Martin’s face twisted. “But people get mad if you gossip about them. Hell, there might be a thousand people who would want to kill Wheelau if they knew he was gossiping about them.”

Hooth’s eye stalks wavered agitatedly. “Gossip is what binds our community together! How do you do your job if not by gathering gossip? What are we doing now? 1 am telling you about Wheelau. I am gossiping about Wheelau. You will pick out the tilings you need and act on them to catch the individual who… killed Wheelau. How could it be otherwise?”

Reluctantly, Martin nodded. “OK, I see your point. Still, some humans won’t like it.”

“Hooth,” I put in, “I see what you’re saying, but Martin has a point, too. Some humans may not see the necessity of what Wheelau did. You said that Wheelau had some human friends. Could you give us their names?”

“He had one friend above all the rest. Boyce Coleman. You should talk to him. Boyce was nearly as good at gossip as Wheelau. He was the one who found out that his neighbor, Mrs. Airlie, was back from visiting with her daughter. We are,” Hooth swung his neck in a circle as though to indicate the Erintie scattered around the meadow, “a gregarious species. We enjoy seeing humans interact with their families. It reinforces our sense of community with humans.”

“Have you ever had any kind of trouble with humans belbre?”

“Well, there was an unfortunate incident three years ago, in which a car struck a young Erintie as he was playing in the road, but that was an accident, and the human driving the car felt truly bad about what had happened. The youngster lived, but is crippled. We take care of him. Other than that, no.”

“It’s just that people, humans that is, don’t often react well to being talked about,” Martin said. “I don’t see how you’ve managed to avoid conflict.”

“I understand your concern, but we simply provide much the same service as a newspaper in a small town. I fail to see how that could cause anyone to be upset.”

Martin frowned. “It might depend on the information being passed. Let’s say that Wheelau found out about something illegal going on and was telling people.”

“But Wheelau had not gone to the police, or I would have known. You see, that, too, would have been news, and would have been passed around.”

“What if Wheelau didn’t realize that the information he had was so important. He might have thought that it was just a piece of ordinary news, when, in fact, it was very important to someone else. Lots of people have been killed for knowing too much.”

“Perhaps it is not that humans have known too much, but that they have known too little. If everyone knew what everyone else was up to, then there would be less crime, would there not?”

There was nothing Martin could say to that.

Looking for Boyce Coleman’s house, we came to Mrs. Airlie’s first. Martin paused in the street. “Should we?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

Martin pulled his car over next to the white picket fence that surrounded her house. A limb from the large maple overhanging the gate caught Martin on the forehead, causing him to mutter a lengthy string of words that I’m certain he didn’t learn from his mother. Sometimes being three feet tall has its advantages.

The woman who answered the door was on in years. “Ma’am, are you Mrs. Airlie?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with Boyce Coleman?”

“Yes. He’s my neighbor.”

“My name is Victor, and this is Martin Crofts. We’re assisting the police in an investigation into—”

“I know who you are, Victor. I read about you all the time. Is this about Wheelau?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shook her head sadly. “I just don’t know why anyone would want to kill Wheelau. He was better than most humans.” She made a face. “I know that’s not saying much these days, but he really was just wonderful. Did you know him?”

“No, ma’am. We’ve only met Hooth so far.”

She nodded sagely. “Hooth’s a good ’un, too, but I got along with Wheelau. Oh, and the way they sound! Reminds me of organs in church. I like to listen to their voices, even if I don’t know what they’re saying. I’d like to hear them sing, just once. I just know it would be heavenly.”

“So you liked Wheelau?” Martin asked gently.

“Liked him?” She seemed truly surprised. “I fed him some of my jelly, and that’s not something I do for just anyone, you know. That stuff’s for my grandson. Got to use the right kind of apples… just one kind will do.” Her eyes misted. “Wheelau said it tasted better than anything he’d had since he’d been here on Earth. ’Course, maybe he was just being polite. He was, you know. Polite, that is. Why, he’d come over here, and we’d just sit and talk. Sometimes Hooth would come with him. Sometimes Ianna or Benait. Usually just Wheelau. Lord, I’m going to miss him. It’s not everybody that will take time to talk to a woman living alone. He was special, that one.”

“Do you know anyone who might want to kill him?” Martin asked.

Her lips compressed, and she shook her head. “The world isn’t what it used to be when it isn’t safe for someone like Wheelau. No, I don’t know why anyone would do a thing like that. I’ll tell you how special he was. I’ve always wanted to ride a horse. Now, that’s just not something I should be doing. A woman my age gets on a horse—no better balance than I’ve got—and falls… doctors wouldn’t know how to begin to put me back together. I was telling Wheelau this last August, no… September… let’s see, it was just alter my good friend Jeannie got her new car. Anyway, the next thing I knew, he had me up and was riding me around the yard! Me! Riding an Erintie just like it was something that everyone did! Holding onto his neck for dear life, too. Oh, we had a grand time.”

“What can you tell us about Boyce?” Martin asked.

“Well, I’ve known his mother since before he was born. His father’s from down around the lower end of the county. Boyce and his wife moved up here after they got married about four or live years ago. They’ve been good neighbors, I guess. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have met Wheelau.”

We chatted for a few more minutes, then went down the street to the Colemans’s. Boyce opened the door when we rang. He was nearly as tall as Martin, but more heavily built; clearly a weight lifter. After we explained who we were, he invited us in.

“Man, I hope you guys find out who did it. Anybody who would hurt an Erintie is just plain sick. And Wheelau was the best of them all. You just tell me when you find out who did it.” He made a wringing motion with his hands, shoulder muscles straining the fabric of his cotton T-shirt. “I’ll take care of ’em.”

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Wheelau?” Martin asked.

Boyce shook his head. “That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense. I’ve heard all that nonsense about gossip, but if you’ve met one, you know that the Erintie are more like a big, old-fashioned family that keeps up with their kin. They aren’t just dabbling in peoples’ lives because they’re bored, they care. I’ll tell you this—I like the Erintie better than I like people. They’re decent, honest folk who’ll do anything for you. Any one of them. These days, if you can name five humans who would drop everything and come running when you need them, you’re a lucky man. Every Erintie is like that.”

Martin nodded. “That’s what we keep hearing, but the fact is that someone killed Wheelau. Somebody didn’t like him.”

Boyce shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

Two blonde women came in from another room. Boyce glanced at them and smiled, then turned back to us. “This is Clarisse, my wife,” he said, gesturing, “and Becky, a friend of ours.”

They were both nearly as muscular as Boyce. “We’re heading over to the gym,” Clarisse said.

“Wanna come?” Becky asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Boyce shook his head. “These guys are trying to help find out what happened to Wheelau. I’m going to talk to them for a bit.”

“Well, if you get hungry, there’s still some spaghetti left from last night,” Clarisse said. She turned to us. “Good luck catching the bad guys. See ya.”

“Bye,” Becky added, as they went out the door.

“Where did you see Wheelau?” I asked. “Did he come over here, or did you go see him?”

“He came over here nearly every morning. We’d talk for a while before I went to work. Then I’d go see him in the afternoon, over there at the park.” He grinned. “It’s not really a park, I just call it that because they keep it so neat and clean over there.”

“So you saw Wheelau often?” I asked.

Boyce nodded. “Oh, yeah All the time. All of them, really. Hooth, Benait… whoever had time to chat, but Wheelau mostly.”

“And you never heard of anyone who wanted to hurt any of them?”

The expression on his face seemed to indicate that he thought the question a waste of time. “Not once, not ever, no way, no how.”

On the way home, Martin kept shaking his head. “Why would someone kill an Erintie everybody liked?” he kept asking, over and over. “Victor, this just doesn’t make any sense. He had to know something. Just had to.”

Finally, he did the thing I dreaded most—he started trying to use logic. It’s not that logic doesn’t work. The problem is with Martin’s approach to logic. He begins with a perfectly reasonable scenario, then spins an ever more elaborate web until he has ensnared every living creature in the Universe as a possible suspect. Unfortunately, this means that he ends up looking for a needle in a haystack as he seeks out the actual perpetrator of the deed.

“There are three possibilities,” he began. “The first is that Wheelau was murdered by a human. The second is that he was murdered by another Erintie. The third is that he was murdered by himself.”

I gave him my best approximation of a skeptical look. “Run that last one past me again.”

“Suicide, in other words.”

“Ah! Much better.”

“Now, if he killed himself, then we really only have only one suspect, namely Wheelau, himself. If he was murdered by another Erintie, then there are a fair number of Erintie on Earth, but it was most likely someone he knew, unless, of course, another Erintie came over here from another colony, which would add to the number of suspects. But then, you’d think someone would notice if a new Erintie showed up in town. Maybe we should ask the Erintie if they’ve had any visitors. On the other hand, if an Erintie was bent on doing Wheelau in, then he probably wouldn’t advertise his presence in town, but someone else might have noticed. Do you think we should check the bus station? How do Erinties travel, anyway? Getting one seated on an airplane would be—”

Time to put a stop to this before he lost himself in recursive theories, like putting two mirrors lace to face. “Martin—”

“Do you think if they went first class, that—”

“Martin!”

“Maybe they could push the seats back. Or maybe they could just slide in sideways, but then they’d take up two seats and that would be expensive.” He frowned. “For that matter, where would an Erintie get the money for two seats? Surely, they don’t—”

“Martin!”

He looked hurt. “Did you have to yell? I’m not hard of hearing, you know. All I was saying was that—”

“listen, two eyes, I know what you were saying! You were on the verge of implicating the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, plus sundry accomplices, pre and post facto. In another twenty minutes, you’d have hauled the entire living population of the Universe, their ancestors, and any potential progeny, up before the judge. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but there isn’t a jail big enough to hold that many people.”

“But—”

“Besides,” I added “with everyone in the hoosegow, who would guard the joint?”

He, of course, had no answer for this, and subsided into uneasy grumbling for the rest of the ride home. Even with my acute hearing, I wasn’t able to catch much, but I did get the impression that he thought I was ungrateful for his so-called help in trying to unravel the case.

Life with Martin is not always easy.

The next morning, I was spared the task of waking Martin. The telephone did the job for me.

I could hear Martin’s sleepy voice answer. It did not remain sleepy for long.

“What?”

A pause.

“When?”

Another pause.

“Hooth?”

The handset slammed back into its cradle. Martin’s feet shook the floor of the apartment as he came racing out of the bedroom. “Victor!” he shouted.

“I’m right here,” I said quietly from a foot away. “What happened?”

“They scragged Hooth!”

“As in killed? Another corpus delectable? Hooth? But he was a nice—”

Martin’s face screwed up, and he flapped his hands in my direction. “Yabba, yabba, yabba… for God’s sake, don’t start telling me what a great guy he was, or we’ll never get anywhere.” He scowled down at me. “Don’t just stand there, Victor… make me some coffee… do something!”

“Coffee?”

“I need to be in top shape. My mind needs to be primed and ready to go.” He paused, thinking. “Forget the coffee,” he said decisively. “Let’s go. I’ll worry about coffee later.” He started for the door.

I simulated the noise humans make when clearing their throats. “Um… Martin, don’t you think you better put on some clothes before you go charging out into the world?”

He looked down at his naked body, then sheepishly back at me. “Right. Knights in shining armor are expected to wear shining armor.”

As he padded barefooted back into his bedroom, I heard him muttering to himself about how nice Hooth had been.

“Throat slit, probably not long after dark,” Pete was saying, shaking his head. We were standing under the trees at the Erintie colony.

“Nobody heard anything?” I asked.

He shook his head some more. “Not a thing.”

“Nobody saw anything?” I asked.

Pete sighed. “As soon as the Sun goes down the Erintie go to sleep. It’s a physiological necessity. They’re helpless. They shut down completely. They’re dead to the world.”

“Pete!” Martin protested sharply.

He looked apologetic. “I guess that was a pretty poor choice of words.”

“If they were all asleep, we can rule out any Erintie as a suspect,” I observed.

“Oh, absolutely,” Pete agreed.

“But with,” I glanced around, estimating the number of Erintie, “say, sixty or seventy Erintie out here in the trees, how would the murderer know which one was which?”

“I had a bit of trouble asking that question. With Wheelau and Hooth gone, it turns out that none of the other Erintie know English very well. Eventually, Benait managed to get across that each Erintie stakes out a preferred spot. Rain or shine, they always sleep there.”

“And with Hooth dead, it’s beginning to look unlikely that Wheelau killed himself,” I added, giving Martin a significant glance.

“Which leaves only the entire human race, plus thirty extraterrestrial races,” Pete put in. He, too, is familiar with Martin’s tendency to over-theorize.

“Well, no,” I said. “Actually, it cuts the number of suspects rather sharply.”

Pete has learned from experience that I can separate the wheat from the chaff more efficiently than many. “OK, Victor, spill it.”

“Obviously, this was someone who was well acquainted with Hooth. They knew, at least roughly, where he slept. Granted, even if the Erintie are helpless once they go to sleep, it would take too long to search out Hooth by shining a flashlight in the face of every other Erintie out here. If he was killed not long after dark, then obviously the killer didn’t take long to find Hooth.”

“It could just be a coincidence,” Martin pointed out. “They could have just happened on Hooth.”

Pete shook his head. “Possible, but not probable. We’re a fair distance from the road. If someone wanted to kill just any Erintie, they passed a bunch of them on the way here from the road.”

“Hmmm. What if they came from back thataway?” Martin suggested, gesturing back into the woods behind us.

“Benait says that there are a goodly number of Erintie who sleep out that way, too. Hooth was surrounded by other Erintie on all sides.”

Martin nodded. “OK. So it was someone who knew Hooth, and presumably Wheelau, too. I hate to say this, but what if it was Boyce Coleman?”

The look on Pete’s face spoke volumes. “I’m coming around to that point of view.”

I asked, “Has anyone told Boyce about Hooth yet?”

Pete shook his head.

“Martin and I just volunteered to do so. I want to watch his reaction when he hears about this.”

The rising Sun was glaring down on the field as Martin and I trudged back to his car, leaving the police to see what they could glean from Hooth’s corpse. The dew was evaporating off of the grass, hanging in the air like a veil.

It was strangely silent. Even the songbirds couldn’t muster the energy to push a call through the heavy, humid air. Then again, maybe they, like everyone else, were mourning the passing of another nice guy.

It took a while to track down Boyce Coleman. His wife said he had left the house earlier than usual, citing errands to run. We could catch him at work around ten, she thought. He was the manager at the gym where he worked out.

Martin and I arrived just after they opened. Even at that hour, there were a surprising number of people straining at the weight machines. We found Boyce in a tiny office. A man his size made it seem positively claustrophobic, just by inhabiting it.

He received us cordially enough, then quieted when he read the serious expression on Martin’s face. “Bad news, huh?”

“Boyce, someone killed Hooth last night,” Martin said gravely.

Very slowly, almost gently, Boyce lowered his head into his hands. “Why is this happening? I saw Hooth just yesterday. He was…” He sighed deeply, then raised his head. “Hooth was older than Wheelau. Less playful. He was sorta like somebody’s favorite grandfather. Just a quiet, peaceful soul who couldn’t do harm if he tried.”

Martin cleared his throat. “Where were you around dark last night?”

Boyce’s eyes flashed, then he grimaced. “Yeah, I guess that would be the logical thing, wouldn’t it? I was over at the park talking to Hooth and Benait until it was time for them to go to sleep. Then I went home.” He looked at Martin imploringly. “Does that help any?”

Martin shook his head. “Actually, it’s about the worst possible thing you could have said. The only way you could have made it worse is if you had said that you walked Hooth to his sleeping spot.”

Swallowing hard, Boyce said, “I did.”

“So you knew where he slept?” I asked.

Boyce shrugged. “Sure. It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. Sometimes friends of mine go over there with me. I can think of probably a dozen people who’ve been there with me at one time or another. And I’m not the only human friend the Erintie have.”

“Any of them show up over there consistently?” Martin asked.

“Not as often as I do, no.” He looked up from where he sat. “What happened to Hooth?”

As Martin told him, I watched his face carefully. In the past, I’ve been able to observe minutiae in the behavior of humans that gave me hints as to guilt or innocence, but I learned nothing from Boyce’s face.

On the way out, Martin looked across the room filled with grunting men fighting gravity to raise pieces of iron. Then he turned to me and said, “You know, Victor, it occurs to me that it would take a fair amount of physical strength to lift Wheelau’s body and put it into a dumpster—”

“And Boyce has strength to spare,” I finished grimly.

Meanwhile, Pete had managed to piece together the route of the garbage truck which had brought in the load containing Wheelau’s body. By comparing the items of trash found in close proximity to the body, the police had been able to determine that the body had been in one of two dumpsters, both in the same city block.

“And I’ll bet you can’t guess where those dumpsters were located,” Pete said.

“Near the gym where Boyce Coleman works?” I offered.

“Give the man a cigar, make that a moldy banana,” Pete replied. “There’s a large parking lot behind the gym with a dumpster on each side. Since the gym is roughly midway between them, sometimes they use one, sometimes they use the other.”

Martin scowled. “Pete, this doesn’t look good at all.”

“Granted, it’s all circumstantial evidence, but it is beginning to look pretty damning,” Pete agreed.

“You going to bring Boyce in?” Martin asked.

Pete sighed. “I hate to base a case on such flimsy evidence, but it looks as though I’d better do something. The Erintie embassy has begun raising a fuss, and you know what that means.”

“You need to produce results, pronto,” Martin supplied.

He nodded. “Want to go with me to pick up Boyce?”

Twenty minutes later, we were told that Boyce had left work unexpectedly.

Pete managed to contain himself until he got back out to the patrol car. “That sonovabitch skipped out! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” he yelled, pounding on the steering wheel with his fist. “Why in hell didn’t I nab that gorilla the very first time I laid eyes on him?”

I waited until he paused to take a breath before trying to insert a suggestion. “Pete, shouldn’t we check his house? It could be simply that he wasn’t feeling well.”

He quieted immediately. “Leave it to an alien to teach me my job. Thanks, little buddy.” He turned the key and started backing out of the parking slot.

“Can I make another suggestion?” I asked.

The car came to an abrupt halt. “Go for it.”

“Wouldn’t it be wiser to go to the Erinties’s field? If Boyce is on the loose, he might try to kill another one. They trust him, and he could get right up to one of them before—”

Pete slapped his forehead. “Right again, Victor!” The car was in motion before I could brace myself. I fell sideways across the back seat, scrambling madly to grab something so as not to roll off into the floor. As we sped down the road, I heard Pete radio in for someone to check Boyce’s house in case he was there.

When we arrived at the meadow, the three of us walked over to the nearest Erintie. With the pitifully few phrases I had at my command, I attempted to ask for Benait. The Erintie looked alert while I was speaking, then turned and galloped off.

While I had been speaking, the radio in Pete’s cruiser had squawked. I turned and hurried back to the car to see what Pete had found out.

“It’s Benait, Victor. Two boys were fishing under a bridge when his body came over the side. They heard a car speed off, but don’t know anything more,” Pete told me.

“Is he—” I started.

“He’s dead. Shot, just like Wheelau.”

I heard the drumming of an approaching Erintie and turned in time to see a young one come to a halt.

“Ianna,” it announced.

I hadn’t had time to completely figure out the differences between the Erintie sexes, but I judged this one to be female. Its coat was lighter and it seemed to be slimmer in the hindquarters.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Slight, small amount,” she said.

“There is a possibility that Boyce Coleman may have killed Wheelau and Hooth. If he comes here, we need you to tell us so we can deal with him.”

“Boyce did not kill Wheelau. Boyce was Wheelau’s friend. Boyce is my friend,” she said, as though it was a law of nature.

“We hope that Boyce is your friend, but he may not be. He might try to hurt you.”

“Boyce willn’t hurt me.”

Clearly, the Erintie were not lacking in loyalty.

Pete squatted down, so as to be on a level with Ianna. “Will you tell all the other Erintie to come tell us if they see Boyce? We need to talk to him.”

“Talk to Boyce? Want to talk to Boyce? Boyce at work. He work… works until sue, tick-tock time.”

Pete patiently said, ‘We’ve been trying to find Boyce. He isn’t at work. We just came from where he works. We thought he might be with you.”

“Is Boyce hurt? Did they hurt Boyce?”

I was about to say no in an attempt to clear up the misunderstanding, but Pete was way ahead of me and saw a way to turn her confusion to our benefit. “He may be, Ianna. We want to see if Boyce’s OK. If you see Boyce, will you come tell me? We’re really worried about him.”

Ianna was tossing her head in agitation. “Boyce hurt? Boyce may be hurt? You want me to tell you if he is hurt?”

“Ianna, I want you to come get me if you see Boyce, so that I can see if he’s been hurt. And tell all the other Erintie the same thing.”

“Tell other Erintie to tell you if Boyce is hurt,” she said.

“Tell other Erintie to tell me if they see Boyce. I’ll check to see if he’s hurt,” Pete corrected.

Ianna repeated this to make certain that she understood, then trotted off to spread the word.

We settled in around Pete’s cruiser, awaiting news. It was not long in coming. The radio spat static. Pete grabbed the microphone. No one was home at the Coleman residence. Pete asked that the officer park a block away and keep the house under surveillance, perhaps from Mrs. Airlie’s place, if she would agree.

There was nothing to do but wait. Hours passed. Curious Erintie ambled over and looked at the humans and the diminutive ET who wanted to see Boyce Coleman. With the exception of Ianna, none of them seemed to know any English, so there was little we could do.

At about six, still two or three hours until sunset, Pete started talking about a hamburger joint a few miles down the road. Martin responded by reminiscing about a steak house in the opposite direction. I gave them ten minutes to talk themselves into a state of uncontrolled salivation, then suggested, “Why don’t you go somewhere cool, wring the sweat out of your shirts, and have something to eat.”

“Both of us?” Martin asked.

All I could do was hope that the cerebral damage wasn’t permanent. “Yes, both of you. It looks as though we’re likely to be standing guard tonight and you might as well charge your batteries now, while it’s still light.”

It took another ten minutes to convince them that I could handle things, but they finally gave in. I watched them drive off, then set off on a tour of the area.

One could not have asked for a more bucolic scene than that presented by the Sun setting behind a meadow full of peaceful Erintie, quietly speaking in soft organ tones. The heat and humidity, oppressive by human standards, were a balm to my skin. Short of the Amazonian rain forest, a full-blown summer heat wave is the closest thing Earth has to the climate of my home world. In the dead of winter, my skin feels like ancient parchment. A good dose of summer swelter soothes and caresses my skin like Wanne’s touch.

As I slowly walked the perimeter of the woods, I began daydreaming of Wanne, my para, left behind on my home world when I was kidnapped by Martin’s uncle. Ah, the smooth skin of her knees, the tapering shape of her head…

Ugh.

Clearly, I’d been on Earth too long. Calling the top portion of my, or Wanne’s, body a head is a human habit. Something Martin had infected me with, no doubt.

I tried to sink back into thoughts of Wanne, but, once lost, the thread was not so easily picked up. By the time I completed my circuit of the meadow, I was in an advanced state of irritation. How dare Martin corrupt my thinking that way?

I milled around the region where Pete had parked, waiting for their return. As soon as they pulled up, I calmly walked over to the car, waited until Martin put his foot on the ground, then hauled off and kicked him as hard as I could.

No harm done, of course. The action was purely symbolic. I’m not strong enough to hurt him, and my foot is too soft to scratch or cut him.

He looked down at me, frowning. “What was that for? Did you get lonely or something?”

Pete looked over the top of the car. “Seems to me he was the one who wanted us to leave. If he got lonely, then it’s his fault.”

Martin gave me a wry grin. “What is it, Victor?”

“You’ve warped my thinking, you hairless orangutan.”

“That’s a tall order coming from a short order cook like you,” he said, reaching out to pat me on my head… my top.

“My whole way of looking at the world has been warped, and it’s your fault,” I insisted. “Why, Wanne wouldn’t even know me if she were to see me today.”

He nodded wisely. “Ahhh… Wanne. I think I see the problem. You’re suffering from a bout of homesickness.”

“I am not so too, either!”

Laughing gently, Martin said, “Victor, if I could snap my fingers and let you see Wanne, I’d do it. I just don’t know how.”

That changed my perspective immediately. If I were to regain Wanne, I’d lose Martin in the process. A hard choice, indeed. Like the line from the old song, I’d grown accustomed to his face. To have Wanne and Martin would be the best of both worlds, both literally and figuratively.

As the Sun dropped lower in the sky, there was a noticeable tendency for the Erintie to cluster towards the edges of the clearing. They were still sounding musical notes to one another as they walked, but there was a quieter tone to the overall level of conversation. By the time the Sun slipped behind the hill, they were scattering into the woods, each to their private spot.

I spotted Ianna and made my way over to where she was standing. “Have you seen Boyce?”

“I have not seen Boyce. No one I have saided… talked to has seen Boyce. Boyce has not been here.”

I thanked her and wished her a good night, then hesitantly reached out and touched her pelt. It was warm and soft to the touch. Like a horse, her skin twitched when I touched it.

“Tickles. Not bad tickle… good tickle.” She rotated her head in nearly a complete circle, something I’ve seen owls do. “Looks like sleep. We will sleep now. You will wait for Boyce? You will not sleep?”

“My species never sleeps.” How could 1 explain to a creature who had never been prey that it was the only effective way to stay alert for predators? I’ve never been able to understand how any creature on Earth sleeps. They are all prey to something.

“Tell Boyce hello,” she said, then abruptly folded her legs and sat down. She was still awake, but said no more.

I wandered off in search of Martin. He had settled himself against the bole of a tree on the opposite side of the meadow. He had borrowed a flashlight and a gun from Pete.

Pete was pacing the ground midway between Martin’s position and mine. He had just come back from his cruiser. “It’s just going to be us three tonight.”

“Were you expecting someone to help us?” I asked.

He nodded. “I was trying to get another warm body out here, but the consensus back at the cop shop seems to be that we can handle it. If something comes up, we’re supposed to call in. What I can’t get through their thick skulls is that if something comes up, we might be too busy for a nice, comfy chat. Not to mention that it’ll take time to get somebody out here.” He spat at the ground near his feet. “Idiots.”

I left him fuming to himself and went back to my position. Night fell. Time passed. I got bored. There was no one to talk to, nothing to read. Zilch to do. The one and only thing I was supposed to do was stay alert. There was no danger that I’d fall asleep, but my attention kept wandering.

Subjectively, it seemed quite some time before I heard anything. Even with my acute night vision, I was unable to see anything at first. A vague flicker, nothing more. I turned to look more closely, then heard the thin sound of a tiny twig snapping.

A bulky body slid between two trees and made its way towards—

Ianna! I’d been a fool not to anticipate the identity of the next victim! One by one, Boyce had been picking off those he knew, beginning with those closest to him. How could I have been so blind?

I ran, stepping as lightly as I could.

But even at a stealthy walking pace, Boyce’s longer legs were carrying him faster than I could go. He would reach her before 1 would. He was moving faster. I rushed forward, trading silence for more speed, trying to intercept him.

At the last instant, I realized that I had no plan for stopping him—a serious oversight that I solved by throwing myself in front of his feet, yelling at the top of my lung for Martin and Pete.

When his left foot hit my side, 1 had a brief glimpse of what a football must feel at kickoff. I felt my entire body flex, vainly trying to absorb the impact. Then I was lifted up, pushed by a size thirteen locomotive. I was still gaining altitude, surely traveling at escape velocity, when Boyce’s body, coming down, collapsed across me.

If a mountain had fallen on me, it couldn’t have hurt more. The only thing that saved me from certain death was that he fell across the lower half of my body, pinning me to the ground.

“Whuff!” Boyce grunted as he hit. Almost immediately, he braced his arms and did a pushup so violent that it threw him back into a crouching position. “You idiot!” he yelled. “Not me! Her!”

With that, he bounced to his feet and resumed running. I tried to call again for help, but discovered that inhaling cost more in pain than I could bear.

He made much more noise now as he ran, throwing caution to the wind. I watched as he ran towards Ianna, reaching out his arms to….

Slam into another figure who had materialized out of the darkness next to Ianna. Again, Boyce crashed to the ground, grappling with a shadow. An arm went up, came down, and Boyce howled. Again, the arm went up, but Boyce caught it and slowly, struggling, forced it down to the ground.

A terrible scream of rage and frustration rose into the night just as Pete ran up, flashlight beam jerking as he ran. I could see the glint of blued steel in the light as he yelled, “Stop! Nobody move!”

And there, in the pool of light, I saw the last thing I’d expected to see. Boyce Coleman, sitting astride his wife, Clarisse, her arm pinned to the ground over her head, still straining to plunge the knife into her husband.

As soon as Pete yelled she went limp, sobbing. Boyce reached up and gently plucked the knife from her hand, reaching up to hand it, handle first, to Pete. Blood was streaming down from a gaping wound in his shoulder, dripping onto his wife’s chest.

“Why, dammit? Why?” he demanded of her.

“I love you,” she cried.

“What? You killed my best friend because you love me?”

Martin ran up, flashlight bouncing. “Boyce! Waitaminnit! Clarisse?” His head jerked from one to the other.

Boyce turned and sat heavily on the ground, leaning back against the still sleeping Ianna’s flank. “Oh, man,” he said, clutching his shoulder. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.” He looked up at Pete and gestured with a bloody hand at Clarisse. “My wife. Oh, man.”

“Martin,” I gasped from where I lay. It was no more than a hoarse whisper, but it was enough.

His head snapped up. “Victor?” He jogged over and squatted next to me. “Anything broken?”

“Everything,” I wheezed. “Pick me up.”

Gently, he scooped me into his arms and carried me back. Every step he took jarred another bone loose from its moorings. If he were to carry me far, I felt that every joint in my body would separate. All I could do was buzz in time with his footfalls.

Martin, who knows that my muted uhzzz is equivalent to the human moan of agony, looked down at me.

“You going to make it?”

“I think I just shuffled off this mortal coil. Mind the first step, it’s a doozy.”

Boyce looked up at me and shook his head. “Just what are you made of, little fella? It felt like I hit a burlap sack full of rocks.”

“Gravel, now,” I assured him painfully. “Tiny, little, itty-bitty pieces of gravel. Next time I need to tackle you, I think I’ll hire a stunt double.”

“I know you suspected me, but it couldn’t have been me. I love these guys too much,” he said, running his clean hand across Ianna’s side, still holding his shoulder with the other.

“And isn’t that enough?” Clarisse shrieked suddenly. “That you love them? I could compete with another woman, but how was I supposed to compete with one of them? You’re married to me, not some damned alien! Always running off to play with your little buddies, never time for me, never once—”

“Why didn’t you say something, baby?” Boyce asked, his quiet tone a gentle counterpoint to her near hysteria. “I thought you liked Wheelau.”

“Liked him? I despised him! I hate every one of these stupid, faceless horses!”

He gaped. “Why didn’t you say something?” he asked again, but she had broken down into uncontrollable weeping and did not answer. He looked up at Pete imploringly, “What am I gonna do?”

“I think I’d start by having that arm stitched up,” Pete responded pragmatically. He reached down and offered his hand to help Boyce to his feet. “Let’s get you to a doctor.”

Boyce, now standing, leaned over and smoothed Ianna’s pelt where he’d been leaning against her. “I hope she’s all right.”

Which reminded me of something. “By the way, Boyce, Ianna told me to tell you hello when I saw you.”

He smiled sadly at me. “She didn’t believe it was me, did she?”

“No. She wouldn’t even consider it.”

“See? I told you these Erintie were better friends than humans.”

Pete looked around at the half-seen shapes scattered in the darkness around us. “If wealth is measured in friendships, I’d say you’re one of the richest men alive.”

Boyce stared down at his wife. “Yeah? Then why do I feel so empty?”

A few days later, Pete stopped by the office. “Did you fellows get your rent paid on time?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Pete jerked his head at me. “Thank him. He’s the one who yelled and got us over there. Boyce is a strong man, but Clarisse is a strong woman, and after she stuck that knife in his shoulder, it was bound to slow him down.” He shrugged. “She just might have won the fight.”

“I’ve been wondering how she knew where to find Hooth and Ianna,” Martin said.

“Easy,” I replied. “Remember, Boyce said that several of his friends had been over there with him. It’s a cinch that his wife would have gone with him from time to time, especially once she decided to kill his Erintie friends.”

“But she didn’t kill Benait when he was asleep,” Martin pointed out.

Pete said, “She picked up Benait, telling him that Boyce wanted to see him. Once she got him into the back seat of her car, she pulled out the gun and shot him. We found traces of his blood under the back seat. She pulled a similar stunt with Wheelau, actually taking him from the meadow to the gym, killing him in route. She figured that since the dumpsters were dumped automatically, no one would ever see the body. It would simply seem that he had disappeared.”

“How’s Boyce holding up?” Martin asked.

“He’s pretty depressed. He lost everyone he cares most for, all in the same week.”

“What was he doing out there, anyway?” I asked.

“Same thing we were,” Pete answered. “Guarding the Erintie. He left work and went directly over there. He was up on the hillside above you, Victor, but not even the Erintie knew he was there. He was determined to be their guardian angel.” He shook his head sadly. “It really took it out of him to find out it was Clarisse.”

“Jealousy makes people do some weird things,” Martin said.

“And xenophobia,” Pete added.

“What’s that?” Martin asked.

“Fear of aliens,” I supplied.

Martin raised one eyebrow. “I may be a lot of things, some good, and some bad, but I’m not afraid of aliens.” He grinned. “That’s not to say I agree with what they eat, mind you.”

“Hey!” I protested. “If I didn’t eat at the dump, we might never have found Wheelau’s body.”

Pete see-sawed a hand. “A mixed blessing, fella. I still smell that place in my dreams.”

“Kind of makes you hungry, doesn’t it?” I teased.

Pete’s face soured. “Hungry? Whew! Victor, the smell of that place just about curdled my innards.”

Martin couldn’t resist. He gave me a wicked grin. “Victor, you’re always telling us how smart you are. You really blew it this time. If you’d fingered Clarisse earlier, it would have saved a lot of trouble.”

I fell right into the trap. “But I didn’t know—”

Martin eyed Pete, smirking. “Just goes to show you, garbage in, garbage out…”