Aboriginal Science Fiction, Issues 57–58 — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

began, still looking exhausted. “Sometimes drunks wander up there, and I have to go drag ’em out. At any rate, this . time I saw someone *-. mu. 6 4 come out. Nobody ever Bi, came out before.” “What'd he look like?” Royer asked. “I ran downstairs and caught up with him on the street, and said, ‘Excuse me, but I’m afraid you'll have to come with me.’ And he ... well, he clubbed me. Nobody ever clubbed me before. That’s how I knew.” Royer winced. “Who’s this man’s superior?” he asked Malcolm. “Drewson?” Malcolm shrugged. “I think.” “Did you report it to Drewson-he-thinks imme- diately?” Royer asked. “Relatively immediately, sir,” Pritchard said. “As soon as I woke up, anyway.” “Description,” Royer demanded. “The man was six feet tall, with dark brown hair and a gap between his two front teeth. He was wearing a long gray overcoat and brown shoes. He looked angry and confused when he hit me. Nobody ever hit me before.” Malcolm scribbled down the description. “Get that description to Deming,” Royer ordered. “We'll hold Pritchard until the escapee is captured.” V he marketplace was underway by sun- down. Newell stared longingly as the cartels set up their barter tents, prepar- ing to haggle trade rates however the hell they wanted. Newell had arrived at the end of the drop, sifting through the remains, coming up with some powdered potatoes and three cans of soup that had fallen loose in the chaos. Then she had helped a kid out from under one of the crates; too ambitious, he’d gotten himself pinned. So what have I got to trade, she wondered. Her small cabin in the Dump was stocked with noth- ing but water purification tablets, clothing, and other worthless odds and ends. Potatoes and soup would keep her afloat for three or four days tops, a generous estimate — then she’d be back on Tom’s doorstep, fucking for food. Maybe, she thought, J should just find him now. No sense in delaying the inevitable. Just then, a fight erupted nearby. A man car- rying a box of tradeables had apparently irked a couple of stragglers. They were rolling around on The Chaldron ioe "Matt i ‘hiss cae ground now, wrestling. Newell pounced on the fallen box and wrapped her hands around the first > two things she found before getting butted sideways by the crowd. She tucked them into her overcoat and stumbled off. Safely out of the way, she stud- ied her find: a large bottle of brandy, extremely valuable, and a carton of cigarettes, already opened — the cellophane wrapping was torn. Still, the two together could stave off Danoff for another week and a half — assuming she pawned it before the owner caught up with her. She hur- ried off to the food cartel. Vi Woe this is damn useless!” Hank Deming shouted when Greene passed him the description. “Only fourteen million six-foot brown-hairs around!” Greene shrugged. “Don’t forget the gap-tooth, sir.” “Urg!” Deming shouted, moving into the back of the van. A burly redhead, he was an excitable man, channeling suppressed human nature through therapeutic grunts. He snapped on his headset and hit the override for his entire net- work of streetwalkers. “Heads up, everybody — news flash from Intelligence section. Our quarry is six feet tall, brown hair, gray overcoat, brown shoes.” He scowled at Greene. “And he has a gap- tooth.” “So what you're saying,” said Eleven, laconi- cally, “is that we’ve all found him by now, twice.” Seven griped, typically. “Oh, great! He could be halfway to Montana!” “IT know, I know!” Deming shouted. “I guess it’s the best they could do.” “What’s a gap-tooth?” Three asked. “You mean a gap between his teeth?” “Just shut up and do your damn jobs. We need to cover Ridge Edge before morning or he'll be long gone.” Deming rubbed his eyelids. “Pour me a coffee, Greene.” He turned back to the micro- phone. “Keep your channels open unless there’s a lead.” Greene handed him the coffee. “Swamp-muck!” Deming shouted, spraying. “Gah!” Aboriginal Science Fiction — Summer 1998 COMIC OOOKECOnM