Attack of the Bounty Hunters Ch. 04

[This is not a "sex story". It is a story about a society whose people have superfast reflexes... and guns.]

Chapter 4: The Tragic Story of Rel Cadwalader

"Get me the station chief," Croft said irritably, staring into the small comm unit.

"The Chief is busy at the moment," said the operative at the other end. "Can I take a message, Mr..... er,"

"Croft. Clifford Croft. Level One agent," Croft.

"You're one of the Eight?" said the operative. "I'm sorry, sir, just a moment."

"Bureaucrats," Croft snorted. He had been trying for the past 20 minutes to get through to someone in a position of authority at the Column branch on the planet Whenfor. Tane had done a little research and discovered surprisingly little about the death of Rel Cadwalader, but she had managed to find out that he had been killed on the planet Whenfor.

The station chief appeared on the comm. Croft identified himself and repeated his request. "And I need this done ASAP."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Croft, but we're a little shorthanded at the moment-"

Croft peered around the image of the station chief to see the people in the background. "Is that Preston? Get me Preston."

"Mr. Preston is preparing for-"

"Now," said Croft, in a low voice.

Preston shortly appeared on the screen. "Hey, Croftie, what's happening?"

"Preston, I need some information quickly," said Croft. "I need you to find out everything you can about the death of one Rel Cadwalader."

"Cliff, I'm on a stakeout that starts tomorrow-"

"Which fits perfectly with my needs because I need results by tomorrow," said Croft. "This is important, Preston."

Preston sighed, then nodded.

"Good. I'm downloading a holo and some other information which might be useful," said Croft, pressing a button. "Can you also do some digging through the Grafton database network as well?"

Preston shook his head. "I certainly won't have time for that. Why don't you ask the Database Espionage division?"

"Because by the time I get all the proper approvals-" Croft caught himself in mid-sentence. "Wait a minute, I have an idea. Croft out." He terminated the contact, and started another.

The irritated face of Levi Esherkol appeared on the screen. In the background could be seen bright sunshine, and a grill. Levi wore his white chef's hat.

"Who bothering me now-" he started to say, but then his growl turned into a smile. "Croft! How did accelerant work?"

"Much as I'm delighted to be your first human test subject, Levi, I haven't had the opportunity to try it yet," said Croft. "I'll try not to test it near the edge of any rooftops," he added, remembering what had happened to that errant chimp.

"Um," said Levi, turning to flip some burgers on his grill.

"Hard at work, I see," said Croft.

"I work hard, I deserve break," said Levi philosophically.

"Well, it's good that I'm catching you when you're just coming off a break, because I need a favor," said Croft.

"Did you get those Grafton meat recipes I ask for?"

"I'll have them right after you do a little digging into the Graftonite network," said Croft.

"I a chemist, not a-"

"Computer expert, electronics experts, physics expert, mechanical engineering expert," said Croft. "I'll keep the list short because we're both busy. You know as well as I that you're a genius in every kind of science. You're so smart that you complete a full day of work for the Column in a matter of minutes, which is why you have so much time to putter about with your food. The only thing that puzzles me is why a brilliant mind like yours is obsessed with cooking."

"Cooking, good cooking, hardest thing of all," said Levi, applying a pinch of unidentified seasoning to the burgers. "I have to work on the mutated mashed potatoes soon, can get to point?"

"I need you to tap into the Grafton network and find out everything you can about the late Rel Cadwalader."

"Late? You kill?"

"No, I didn't get there in time to do the honors," said Croft. "He died a particularly suspicious death."

"What am looking for?"

"Anything suspicious."

"Um," said Levi, turning again to apply the seasoning. A fire leapt up out of the grill, forcing him to move some of the burgers to the edge of the grill. Obviously, Croft had bumped up against the limits of the cook's attention span.

"Levi?"

No response.

"Levi!"

"Yes?" said the cook

"Did I mention I need this by tomorrow?" said Croft.

"Uh...."

"Thank you, Levi," said Croft, disconnecting.

He turned to find Tane standing patiently in the background. "Now, who can honestly say the Column is dysfunctional?" said Croft.

"We're supposed to be checking with local opinion leaders," said Tane.

"And so we shall," said Croft. "Have you set up that appointment with that Anderson fellow?"

"Yes, he's agreed to meet us," said Tane.

"How nice," said Croft.

"Well, you know how people here feel about off-worlders. It's amazing that anybody's willing to meet us," said Tane. "Still, as the publisher of one of Grafton's largest news services, perhaps he's a forward-thinking journalist."

"We can only hope," said Croft, his tone betraying his distinct lack of interest. "Shall we collect our baggage and go?"

"Baggage?" said Tane.

Croft opened the bedroom door, and the Clapper, a big smile on his face, rushed out, clapping vigorously.

They were able to take the groundcar to their destination, the home of the Cargon Press Syndicate. Burundi knew the way there so he drove, but Croft kept a wary eye on him.

When they arrived, Croft was surprised by the strong layer of security they had to pass through--the whole building was fenced off, there were not one but four guards at the front gate, and an ugly turret, presumably for air defense, protruded from the roof. However, much to Croft's surprise, neither he nor Burundi were disarmed. Croft guessed that on Grafton, politeness was more important than security.

Before they entered the building, Croft nodded to the Clapper. The Clapper gave a wide, idiotic, ingratiating smile.

********

Several hours earlier, Croft had come into the Clapper's bedroom. He had been smart enough to get separate bedrooms for each of them; it was well worth the added expense to get a solid night's sleep away from the nearly constant clapping.

"I need your help," said Croft.

"Help?" said the Clapper, looking puzzled.

"Have you wondered why I brought you on this mission?" Croft asked.

"Why you brought me?" said the Clapper, like a parrot.

"It wasn't just for your conversational skills," said Croft.

"You like talking to me?" said the Clapper, breaking out into a great grin as he clapped again.

"Yes, it's great fun, especially with all the applause," said Croft. "But what I really need is an edge over these Graftonites, if I'm forced to fight one."

"You have the Grafton man for that (clap clap)," said the Clapper.

"No, Grafton man isn't going to (clap clap) help," said Croft, imitating the Clapper as a way of peacefully venting his frustration. "But you are going to help."

"I am?" said the Clapper, as if the very concept was alien to him.

"You are a telekinetic," said Croft.

"Te-le-k-"

"No, don't try to pronounce it again, just leave the multisyllabic words and other heavy lifting to me," said Croft. "But it's occurred to me that if you can move objects, that you can also move people."

The Clapper considered. Then he nodded.

"If a Graftonite attacks me, or is about to attack me, I want you to move him."

"Move him?"

"Push him to the ground. Knock him off balance," said Croft.

The Clapper looked puzzled.

"Anything to give me an edge. I can never be as fast as they are, but if you knock them off-balance at a crucial time, that could give me the edge I need. Do you understand?"

The Clapper gave a broad smile.

"I hope you understand, and you're not just giving an idiotic smile," said Croft. "Because if an assassin gets me, can you guess who he's going to go after next?"

The Clapper considered this one... "Uh... the talking lady?"

"Before the talking lady."

"Other Grafton?"

"Before the other Grafton."

The Clappers grin faded. "Me?"

Croft clapped twice.

********

They entered the building housing the Cargon Press Syndicate. There was an armed guard at nearly every turn in the corridor. Croft again wondered why there was a need for such heavy security. This was a press organization, not a bank.

He was still puzzling over this as they were led into Tolbar Anderson's office. He was a tall, bearded man with thinning hair. Like every other Graftonite, he wore a blaster, of course.

"Mr. Toft, sit down," said Anderson. "It's so nice to meet an off-worlder."

Tane, in setting up the interview, had used their "diplomatic envoy" persona.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that," said Croft. "I didn't think off-worlders were especially welcome right about now."

"Well, some people may feel that way, but one thing you learn on Grafton is that there's no unanimity of opinion," said Anderson. "We're too individualistic to agree on anything in very large numbers."

"That's part of the reason I'm here," said Croft. "I'm trying to gauge the level of support that Mo Quandry has."

"It's hard to tell, we don't usually take opinion polls," said Anderson. "They're too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" said Croft.

"People don't like being annoyed with pesky questions around here, Mr. Toft," said Anderson. "I imagine you have holo marketers on your planet?"

"Well, those of us with listed contact numbers do," said Croft. He didn't have enough down-time at home to experience it personally; nor was his number listed. But he knew the practice of unsolicited holo marketing existed; banks of holomarketers worked 25 hours a day, calling to sell their piles of worthless junk. Holomarketing was very irritating, and numerous laws were passed against it; but that didn't slow the industry one bit.

"Just as we have no polling, we don't have unsolicited marketing on Grafton," said Anderson. "Most people will simply ignore an unsolicited contact, but then you've got your deadly 10% to worry about."

"The deadly 10%?"

"Not a precise figure," said Anderson. "But it represents the fraction of the population who will feel strongly enough to shoot the solicitor."

"Even holosolicitors?" said Croft. "What do they do, shoot the offending hologram?"

Anderson took a deep breath. "No, they trace the offending call, go down to the offices, and execute one or more of the salespeople. It's really put a crimp on the unsolicited marketing business."

"I can imagine," said Croft. "So you have the same problem with polling?"

"To a lesser degree. Polling doesn't irritate people as much as unsolicited sales pitches, but every so often you run across an angry Grafton, and, well-"

"What about solicitations from beggars?" said Croft suddenly.

"Beggers?"

"Your poor?"

"There are no poor people on Grafton, Mr. Toft," said Anderson. "If someone's poor-"

"They shouldn't come to Grafton, yes, I think I've heard that before," said Croft. "But what if someone happens to be a poor Graftonite who is already on Grafton?"

"A poor Graftonite?" said Anderson. "What do you mean?"

"Poor. No credits," said Croft. Didn't Anderson know the meaning of the word?

"Oh, that kind of poor," said Anderson, brightening. "I thought you were referring to marksmanship. No, we don't have that kind of poor on Grafton."

"You mean because you have a social safety net, welfare payments-"

Anderson gave a short laugh. "Mr. Toft, we have virtually no government, so we certainly have no payments as you describe. No, if a Graftonite is poor, he gets a job. Usually, if he's a good shot, he gets a job in our traditional export industries--bounty hunting, repossessing important objects, people removal, etcetera etcetera."

"What if he's not a good shot?" said Croft.

"Then he might get a job in our small business community," said Anderson. "Not all of us are gunmen by trade, you know."

"What if he can't get a job in your small business community? I'm surprised your lack of a social welfare system hasn't caused people to turn to crime."

"No, Mr. Croft, we don't even need police for that, the poor don't turn to crime," said Anderson.

"Why not?"

"If a Graftonite is a good shot, he can easily get a job in one of our traditional lines of work. If he's a bad shot and tries to steal from one of his fellow citizens, he'll quickly be killed," said Anderson. "The good marksmen can make more money working off-planet, and they know it. The bad marksmen won't live very long if they try to steal from the good marksmen, and they know it. It's a perfect system that leaves our society almost crime free."

"So what happens to the poor, bad marksmen?" Croft wanted to know.

Anderson gave a cold smile. "They often attempt to do something beyond their means."

There was an awkward pause for a moment. Then Croft tactfully changed the subject. "So your journalists must be from that other category, people who have turned to business and who aren't, as, ah-" he was unsure how to phrase it without causing offense.

But Anderson, understanding his meaning immediately, gave a big laugh. "You needn't worry, Mr. Toft, I don't get offended easily. But you're totally wrong; our journalists aren't gunmen who can't cut it; quite the opposite, we only employ journalists from the top ranks of our marksmen community."

"Why? Why would you need to?" Croft asked.

"Because-," Anderson stopped. "I keep forgetting. You have, I believe they are called, libel laws on your League planets, correct?"

Croft nodded.

"So if the press publishes something objectionable, a person may sue in court to seek recompense, correct?"

"Something like that."

"Well, we don't have any courts on Grafton."

"No courts?" said Croft, surprised. "Oh--you have no government, so I guess that follows."

"Correct. So since we have no way of pursuing legal remedies against reckless journalists-"

"You kill them," said Croft, immediately understanding. "The writers. That's why you have such tight security here."

Anderson nodded. "You never know when someone will get ticked off by an article. One time many years ago someone came in here, guns blazing, demanding to know who did the weather. Didn't like our forecasts."

"What did you do?"

"I shot him," said Anderson. "But only in the leg. He was obviously mentally deranged. His family had him shipped off-planet to an asylum, I believe." Anderson paused. "But as you see we have to be very careful of what we write about."

"So sensitive topics have to be covered by your best gunmen?" Croft asked.

"No, the degree of sensitivity is not the most important factor," said Anderson. "The most important thing is who we're going to write about. If we're writing about someone who doesn't have a reputation, we'll assign that to one of our junior journalists. But if we're writing about, say, one of our Olympic marksmen, we'll only give that to a senior columnist, or perhaps even our managing editor, if the subject of the article is a silver medalist or above."

"I see," said Croft. "I guess that aggressive journalism isn't exactly the order of the day."

"Not at all! People wouldn't subscribe to our database if we weren't aggressive," said Anderson. "But we pick our fights."

"Meaning you only cover those who aren't the most deadly gunmen."

"I wouldn't put it as blatantly as that, but there is something to what you say," Anderson admitted.

"So, how did you cover the death of Rel Cadwalader?" Croft asked.

Anderson grimaced. "Is that what you're really here to talk about? How did you know?" He looked from Croft's face to Tane, to the Clapper, to Burundi, and back to Croft again.

"Know what?" said Croft, looking puzzled.

"Then you don't know," said Anderson. "If so, it's just a funny coincidence you came here to talk to us. Though I heard that some of the other press syndicates had the same problem."

"What problem?"

"The family said they didn't mind us writing about what had happened to their son. But when we started digging for details, we got the word."

"The word?"

"Don't," said Anderson.

"So the family told you not to investigate?" said Croft. "Does Cadwalader come from a family of marksmen?"

"The request didn't come from the family," said Anderson uneasily.

"Anything you say here is strictly confidential," Croft assured him.

"Well, it doesn't really matter if you know, as long as it doesn't get around that it came from me," said Anderson.

"You have my assurance it won't," said Croft earnestly, easily falling into liespeak

"It was Mo Quandry," said Anderson immediately. "You already seem to have heard of him."

"I've heard the name, somewhere," said Croft. "Why did Quandry care what you wrote about Cadwalader?" said Croft. "Did Cadwalader work for him?"

"No. There was no direct connection between the two. That was one of the things we wanted to look into. Understand, Mr. Croft, that off-planet deaths at the hands of sh-, begging your pardon, one of your kind, is pretty rare. That piqued our curiosity enough to investigate the matter. But Quandry shut us down. Said if we looked into it any more he'd send one of his Olympic marksmen after us. He has gold medalists working for him. We took him seriously."

"Huh," said Croft. "What do you think he's really up to?"

Anderson shrugged. "There's obviously something about the death he wants to keep quiet. Maybe there's some details about it that would prove embarrassing to him."

"Such as?"

"I don't know," said Anderson, shrugging. "Right now we're too busy working on other articles to investigate further. We're working on a great human interest piece right now about a former silver medalist who's fallen past his prime and lost his marksmanship."

"Coincidentally, the target of that article won't be someone who can shoot back at you very effectively."

"Not very effectively at all," Anderson grinned. "And now, my time is quite limited. I wish you well, I really do." He stood up suggestively to signify that the interview was over.

Croft thanked him and got up to go.

"Mr. Toft?"

Croft turned around.

"One last parting piece of advice. Do you plan to live a long life?"

Croft considered. "That's the plan."

"Would you like some advice for staying alive?"

"If it's good advice."

"If you want to live, get off Grafton."

Croft raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not threatening you," said Anderson. "It's Quandry. He's stirring people up. There's no telling what will happen to off-worlders when things explode."

Croft touched his blue denim. "But I'm traveling incognito."

Anderson laughed and showed him to the door.

As they drove back to their lodging, Croft said, "All right, what did we learn?"

The Clapper clapped.

"Ok, you learned a new rhythm," said Croft. "Sylvia?"

Tane said, "I don't think we learned anything about Quandry's level of support."

"But we did learn that he's hiding something about the death of Cadwalader."

"That's off-profile for our mission," said Tane. "We should be focusing on who we will interview next."

"Good! While you're doing that, I'll check in with Preston and Levi."

Croft called them the following morning. He spoke to Preston first.

"Well?"

"There's no police report," said Preston.

"No police report?" Croft frowned.

"We located the alley where the incident happened, based on the holo you sent. No one in the area claimed to witness the incident or even hear the sound of blaster fire."

"They could be lying, they probably don't want to get involved," said Croft.

"Possibly," said Preston. "But I also did a quick forensics sweep of the crime scene. There was no sign of blaster fire."

"Are you sure?"

"There's no sign of blaster fire in the area around the incident," said Preston definitively. "If the marksmen only hit Cadwalader, that would make sense. But if any stray energy bolts missed, and hit the walls around him, there should be residual scorch marks."

"A Graftonite marksman might not miss his target."

"But supposedly the ones who killed Cadwalader were ordinary people," said Preston.

"Supposedly," said Croft. He paused, then said, "What did you dig up on Cadwalader's employer?"

"Nothing," said Preston.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing I could find in a day," said Preston.

"So let me try to understand this. Nobody saw anything; nobody heard anything, there's no police report, no sign even of a firefight, and no sign of Cadwalader's employer. Your conclusion?" Preston wasn't a genius of course, not even in Croft's league, but he was one of the few people level headed enough for Croft to at least listen to.

"One possibility is that whoever killed him was so powerful, so connected, that they were able to cover up a murder without leaving any traces."

"But not so powerful or smart since they overlooked a holorecorder," said Croft.

"I couldn't even find any sign of a holorecorder in the area," said Preston. "Perhaps the killer taped the execution as a warning to others."

"Or perhaps Cadwalader wasn't killed," said Croft. "Perhaps Quandry staged this event to stir up the Graftonites and gain support for his agenda."

"That's the other possibility," said Preston.

"That's what I'm starting to think," said Croft slowly.

"So what do you do?" said Preston.

"I think I have to find Cadwalader, assuming he's still alive."

"That sounds dangerous," said Preston. "I mean, he's a Graftonite. What happens if you find him and he's not in a friendly mood?"

"I'll tickle him," said Croft. "Thanks, Pres."

"Be careful, Cliff," said Preston. "These Graftonites are really quick."

"But not so quick witted," said Croft. "Worry about them, not me. Croft out." He pressed a button, terminating the link, stared at the blank screen for a moment, and then made another call.

All Croft saw was a big cloud of steam, making him wonder if he had connected properly. But in seconds the hissing steam cleared, showing Levi pouring something into a large pot.

"Levi," said Croft.

"Eh?" said Levi, looking up. "Why you always call when I cooking?"

"Maybe because you're... always cooking," said Croft. "What did you find out?"

"Did not tell me I would have to infiltrate private networks," said Levi.

"Private, public, what difference does it make?" said Croft.

"No public data networks on Grafton. Many private. Had to break into several of them. Only gave me one day."

"Let me guess, it took you two hours," said Croft.

Levi shook his head, as he sprinkled something into the pot. "Only one hour; what you think I am, some kind of Stellar Intelligence retard?"

Croft sighed. "Levi, what did you find out?"

"Dead man not very dead."

"I had already surmised that. But how did you find that out?"

"Still withdrawing credits from private account."

"Wouldn't that be a bit conspicuous?"

Levi gave Croft a pitying look. "First he transferred money to alias account. Then he started doing withdraws. If was doing it under real name would not have taken me a whole hour of work."

"Where is he, Levi?" said Croft.

"Wires traced to a location. Uploading," said Levi, hitting a button with a large wooden soup spoon. "Since I do work for you, will I get medal too?"

"Sure, Levi." Croft eyed the flashing indicator to one side indicating the upload was complete.

"What about meat recipes?" said Levi.

"Still working on it, Levi. I'll talk to you later," said Croft. Then, as if remembering something, he said, "Good work."

Levi grimaced.

"Out." Croft cut the connection. He sat in silence for a moment, then went into the other room where Tane and the Clapper were.

"I've been making a list of names of people I think we should talk to," said Tane. "There's the head of the bounty hunter's union, a local industrialist, an Olympics official-"

"I have a name for you to add to the list," said Croft. "Rel Cadwalader."

"You want to talk to a dead man?" said Tane.

"Dead men don't withdraw money from their account several days after they've died," said Croft, showing Tane the readout.

Tane looked at it. "It could be a number of other explanations, such as someone else taking his money. But you're right, from the looks of it, it's certainly suspicious, to say the least."

"The least," said Croft.

Tane gave him a withering look. "If Cadwalader did withdraw those sums, that means he's still alive, and exposing him could unravel Quandry's plans."

"Good thinking," said Croft dryly.

"We should inform the Chief and ask for instructions."

"No," said Croft. "I'll handle this myself."

The Clapper clapped.

"Let me amend that," said Croft. "The Clapper can come too. You stay here."

"You want me to stay here?" Tane asked.

"It could be dangerous."

"Oh," said Tane. "I really think we should talk to the Chief first."

"You are absolutely forbidden to talk to the Chief first," said Croft.

"Why? She might approve of your plan," said Tane.

"She also might not," said Croft. "If she agrees to my plan, there was no need to contact her. If she disagrees, then contacting her was a bad idea. Either way, there's no useful reason for contacting her."

"But-"

"But me no buts," said Croft. "And not a word about this to our tame Graftonite guide, you understand?"

Tane nodded. "You don't trust him?"

"I don't trust anyone," said Croft.

Tane gave him a hurt look.

Croft sighed. "But, in a relative way, my level of distrust for Burundi is measurably deeper than my distrust of you. Does that make you feel better?"

"Why do you distrust me?" said Tane.

"It's nothing personal," said Croft. "But I never met you before last week. You work for a different division with different agendas."

"We both work for the Column," said Tane, giving him a hurt look. "You have a very suspicious nature."

"When you get back to August, check the database for the list of agents killed in action. They were the trusting ones," said Croft. He turned to the Clapper. "All right, it's showtime."

The Clapper bounced up and down with a big smile on his face.

Their destination was far enough away that they once again had to rent air transport and a ground car at the other end. As Croft negotiated with the owner of the transport the Clapper wandered off and muttered something, but Croft didn't pay attention; the Clapper often muttered to himself. Similarly when they arrived in the transport and Croft again negotiated to rent a ground car, the Clapper went off on his own for a few minutes. But like any obedient pet, he didn't stray far. When Croft was ready to go he found the Clapper muttering and fidgeting by the back of the groundcar.

"Let's go," said Croft simply.

Several hours of driving later they arrived at a large ranch surrounded by woods in all directions. It was very... isolated.

"Are you ready?" said Croft, turning to the Clapper.

The Clapper gave a watery smile and nodded like an eager puppy.

"I can't tell you how much confidence you give me," said Croft, getting out of the ground car.

As they moved towards the ranch, somebody stepped out on to the front porch. It wasn't Cadwalader; Croft had studied his holo and this didn't look like him.

The man looked at Croft coldly. "What do you want?"

"I'd like to talk to the owner of this home," said Croft.

"About what?"

"A business proposition," said Croft.

"He's not interested. Go away," the man suggested.

"How does he know? I haven't even told him what it is yet," said Croft.

"Don't push your luck, sheep," said the man. His hand strayed down to his blaster. "Leave now while you can."

"All right," said Croft immediately. He started back to the groundcar, still keeping an eye on the Graftonite.

A curtain of uncertainty crossed the Graftonite's face, as if he were weighing several different courses of action, and then he drew his blaster. "Just a minute," said the Graftonite, changing his mind. Croft, seeing the rapidfire motion of the man's hand, instinctively ducked behind the groundcar as a blaster bolt whined over his head.

This was it. Pressing hard against the side of his boot, Croft heard the slight hiss of the accelerant being injected into his foot.

Suddenly he felt a warm current of electricity run through his body. Casting aside all caution, he jumped over the car, pulled out his blaster, and started firing. As he fired, he couldn't help but jump and dodge in different directions. It was if he were all rubbery and bouncing around like a toy. None of his shots came near the Graftonite.

But if he was having trouble hitting the Graftonite, the Graftonite was having the same trouble hitting him. All of Croft's jumping and weaving around made him a difficult to hit target, even for a Graftonite. Still, the Graftonite's bolts were closer to Croft's bouncing form than Croft's shots were to the perfectly still Graftonite.

A shot whizzed over Croft's shoulder. "Clapper!" he shouted, still bouncing around and shaking as he fired again.

The Clapper looked out of the car window. He didn't even come out. Suddenly, the Graftonite spun around, facing away from Croft. He turned around again to face Croft, blaster firing, but then he spun away again. Soon he was spinning like a top, with blaster bolts firing aimlessly.

"Hee, hee hee hee!" cackled the Clapper.

Croft gritted his teeth and willed himself mightily not to move. For a moment, he managed to still himself so that he was only vibrating. He aimed carefully, breathing slowly, and squeezed of a discrete shot.

The Graftonite stopped spinning and fell to the ground, a smoking hole in his chest.

Croft collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. But at least he was facing the ranch when the front door opened and out stepped not one or two but three Graftonites.

Three Graftonites! Croft felt exhausted. There was no way he could take them.

All had blasters in their hands.

"What's going on?" said their leader. He looked at the body on his porch and then to Croft.

Croft, trying to act as normally as possible, got to his feet.

"He wasn't being very friendly," he said, in a cold voice.

"Who are you?" said the Graftonite, squinting angrily at Croft.

"I'm looking for Rel Cadwalader," said Croft, trying very hard not to shake from the aftereffects of the drug. If he had the Clapper's help, could he take these three on? Probably not. His hands started vibrating. In a moment, like it or not, he would start bouncing around again.

"Wrong answer," the leader snarled, raising his blaster.

Suddenly he gave a scream. His arm holding the blaster was on fire. This was most unusual.

Suddenly, everyone noticed a young woman with reddish blonde hair standing to one side. Faint wisps of steam rose from her hair.

"Drop your weapons if you want to live!" she yelled, grinning like a maniac.

Thus challenged, the other two Graftonites instinctively raised their blasters, but the woman was quicker, sending bursts of flame at all three Graftonites. Flames burst out in other directions as well, but it was the Graftonites who were the main targets. Their entire bodies lit on fire and they ran around screaming, until they collapsed and died.

Croft only got a partial view of this spectacle as he was too busy jumping and bouncing around. It was several minutes before he could still himself again. Breathing heavily, he gripped the edge of the groundcar to keep himself still and stared at the smoldering bodies. He looked up at the woman and tried, despite the drugs in his system, to speak in a level voice.

"Hello, Sally."

Red Sally, her hair bright red now under the morning sun, gave a little smile.

"I suppose it's too much of a coincidence that you just happen to be here several hundred miles from the nearest town on the planet Grafton at the same time as we are," said Croft.

Sally gave a wider grin as she went to the groundcar and closed the trunk. The trunk. She had been in the trunk.

Croft looked at the Clapper. The Clapper cringed.

"You brought her," said Croft. "You smuggled her on the transport while I was negotiating with the pilot, and did the same with the groundcar." How could he have been so dumb to fail to keep a closer eye on the Clapper?

"Don't blame him," said Sally, walking casually up to Croft. Her body was still steaming. "I made him do it."

"I thought we left you on August," said Croft.

"Why do I never get any action?" she said, making a face.

"Do you remember what you were assigned to do on August?" Croft asked.

"I was assigned 'fire control exercises'," she said, making a face.

"Do you remember why you were assigned these exercises?" Croft asked.

"They said I couldn't control the flames," said Sally. "But they're wrong!"

"Have you looked around recently?" said Croft.

The ranch was on fire. Actually, not just the ranch, but the plants and trees around the ranch as well.

"Oh," said Sally. "A little bit of collateral damage. Sorry about that." She considered. "Wait, what am I doing apologizing? I just saved your life!" Her hair started to steam again.

"Thanks for that, but I was handling the situation well enough on my own," said Croft. He felt strong enough to stand now. He got up, took an experimental step, only felt a slight tremor. Good. He made his way over to the body of the lead Graftonite.

"Perhaps I should have stood aside and watched how well you handle those three Graftonites," said Red Sally. "It would have been very instructive."

"Instruction is what you need," said Croft. "I'm taking you back to the transport and arranging a flight back to August for you."

"I'm not leaving!" said Sally, as sparks of fire spit out of her. "You need me!"

"I could certainly use you if you could control your instincts," said Croft. "But the first time a Graftonite gives us a dirty look, you'll burst into flame. That's not very inconspicuous."

"Inconspicuous, who cares?" said Sally, taking a few steps forward to avoid the new brushfires around her.

"You may think you did well taking these three out, but what if you don't always have the advantage of surprise, or if there are five or ten of them?" said Croft. "We can't always afford to go in with guns blazing, or in your case, torches burning." He paused. "Now, are you cool enough to get into the car?"

Sally nodded.

"Are you sure? They made me put a hefty deposit on it, and I don't want any burn marks on the seats."

Sally nodded again.

"All right then, let's go," said Croft.

Before leaving he looked at the ranch. Now it was engulfed in flames. There was no way to investigate further. Then he turned to the bodies, which were lying blackened on the ground. Something caught his eye about the leader. He gingerly turned over the body with his boot. The face was burned, but not completely.

Croft took out a datapad and stared at an image, and then at the burned face.

"What is it?" said Sally.

"Well, the good news is that I don't think we'll have to spend any more time searching for Rel Cadwalader," he sighed.

He stood up and eyed the raging fires around them. What a day.