Aliens (№2) - Alien Harvest

Julie said, “Maybe we should have phoned.”

“No telephone.” Stan hammered on the door. “I know he’s in there. There’s a light on under the door. And I can hear the TV.”

“Maybe he’s shy,” Julie said. “I think we can fix that.” With one well-placed kick, she shattered the lock. The door swung inward.

Within, there was a dismal-looking apartment that might have been pretty nice along around the time Rome was founded. It was a hideous place of ancient wallpaper and mildew, and the sound of a toilet running.

Smell of frying kelp patties from other apartments overlay the basic odors. There was an overflowing garbage pail, with two cardboard cartons of garbage beside it.

For furniture, there was an old wooden kitchen table. Sitting at it in a straight-backed chair was a strongly made, sad-faced, middle-aged man with iron-gray hair.

This man looked up as they came in. He seemed startled by what he saw, yet uncaring, as if it didn’t matter what the world threw at him next. There was a small black-and-white TV on the table, and he turned it off.

“Hello, Captain Hoban,” Stan said.

Hoban took his time about answering. He seemed to be reorienting himself in the real world, after a long trip to some unimaginable place, perhaps to the time of his trouble in the asteroids.

At last he said, “It is you, isn’t it? Why, hello, Stan.”

“Hi,” Stan said. “I want you to meet my friend Julie.”

Hoban nodded, then looked around. He seemed aware for the first time of the apartment’s appearance.

“Please, sit down, miss. You, too, Stan. I’ll get you some tea… No, I’m sorry, there isn’t any left. No extra chairs, either. If I’d known you were coming, Stan …”

“I know, you would have had lunch catered,” Stan said.

“Lunch? I can fry you a kelp patty…”

“No, sorry, just kidding, Captain. We’re not staying. We’re getting out of here, and so are you.”

Hoban looked surprised. “But where are we going ?”

“There’s got to be a cafe near here,” Stan said.

“Someplace we can talk.”

Hoban looked around again, grinned sheepishly. “I guess this place isn’t too conducive to conversation.”

“Especially not a business talk,” Stan said. “Have you got a coat? Let’s go!”

14

Danziger’s was a Ukrainian cafe on the next block. It had big glass windows, always misty with steam. There were vats of water perpetually at the boil for the pirogis in ersatz flour gravy that were the specialty of the place. Stan, Julie, and Hoban took a small booth in the rear. They drank big mugs of black coffee and talked in low voices.

Stan was concerned about Hoban’s condition. It had been a while since he had last seen the captain, back when Hoban had been captain of the Dolomite and Stan had bought the ship. Stan had liked the taciturn, serious-minded captain and had kept him in charge.

Hoban was one of the old breed, a straight-shooting captain, always serious and controlled, whose interests were exclusively in intergalactic navigation and exploration, and who could be counted on to follow orders. Stan had bought the Dolomite during his flush period, when the royalties were rolling in from his various patents, before his troubles with Bio-Pharm and the government. In those golden days, it had looked like the sky was the limit. After the asteroid incident, when Hoban had lost his license, Stan had pulled some strings and managed to get him a temporary captain’s ticket. They had all been quite close then, Stan and Hoban and Gill, the android, who was second-in-command. But then Stan’s problems with Bio-Therm had begun, and the lawsuits had started flocking in like flies to a flayed cow.

A hostile holding company had taken over the Dolomite, and their first act had been to dismiss Hoban, who was known for his loyalty to Stan. They accused the captain of various peccadilloes. That was really a laugh, with a man of Hoban’s known probity, but mud sticks when you fling enough of it hard enough, and the licensing board had lifted Hoban’s temporary ticket pending an investigation.

The captain had taken it hard. He was reduced in the course of one terrible day from a man who commanded his own little empire to a penniless derelict who couldn’t find any work better than washing dishes.

Now they sat together in a Ukrainian cafe, with the late-afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, and Stan said, “I’m going back into space, Captain, and I want you with me.”

“It’s good of you to say so,” Hoban said. “But no employer would have me without a license.”

“I still want you,” Stan said. “As for your license, we’ll claim it’s still in force.”

“But it won’t be,” Hoban said.

“You can’t be sure of that,” Stan said. “Money talks. I think the courts will find for you, if it comes to an actual trial. And I’ll get your case reopened after this trip.”

“Can you really do that?” Hoban asked. A ray of hope lightened his heavy features for a moment, then his expression darkened again. “But I have no ship, Dr. Myakovsky. Or do you want me to pilot something other than the Dolomite?’’

“No, we’re going on the good old Dolomite,” Stan said.

“But, Doctor, you no longer own it! And even if you did, I am no longer allowed to pilot it.”

“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” Stan said. “Once we’re aboard and under way, they’ll have to argue with us in court. Their lawyers against ours.”

“I don’t know,” Hoban said, slumping down and shaking his head.

“Money talks,” Stan pointed out again. “We’ll win your case. After this trip, we’ll all have it good.”

“Yes, sir. Back into space again … Excuse me for asking, sir, but do you have any money for this ven-ture?”

“Enough for what we need. And a way to get a lot more.”

“Where do you want to go?” Hoban asked. “Let’s get into that later,” Stan said. “You don’t mind if it’s dangerous, do you?”

Hoban smiled sadly and shrugged. “Anything’s better than rotting here, with nothing to hope for.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Stan said. “This is Miss Julie Lish, my partner. You’ll be seeing a lot of her on this expedition.”

Hoban shook Julie’s extended hand. “But wait,” he said. “I’m sorry, Stan, you had me dreaming for a moment.

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

“Why do you say that?” Stan asked.

“For one thing, no crew.”

“Okay. And what else?”

“The Dolomite’s in geosynchronous orbit above Earth, ready to go on a mining trip in a few days.”

“We’ll have to act quickly. Who’s running the Dolomite?”

“Gill, until the replacement captain comes aboard.”

“Excellent!”

“I don’t think so, Stan. You know Gill. He’s programmed to follow the rules. Gill always obeys or-ders.”

“Not to worry,” Stan said. “Are you sure the new captain’s not aboard yet?” “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then it’s simple. We’ll go aboard and take off at once.”

“Yes, sir … But it won’t work, sir. You and I are both proscribed from boarding the Dolomite. There are guards. They’ll read our retinal prints, turn us back…”

“No,” Stan said. “They’ll call Gill to make a judgment. He’s in charge now.”

“But what can Gill do? Androids are very simple-minded, Dr. Myakovsky. They obey orders. Their loyalties are built-in, hardwired.”

“Like a dog,” Stan suggested.

“Yes, sir. Very much like.”

“There’s still a chance. Since he was animated, Gill has only worked with you.”

“That’s right. But it’s been a while since we’ve been together. And anyhow, when they changed his orders, they will have changed his loyalties, too.”

“They will have tried,” Stan said. “Actually, it isn’t quite so simple. Loyalty in an android is formed by long association with a particular human. I think Gill will lean in your favor when it comes to a showdown between following your orders or those of the new owners.” ;

Hoban considered it and shook his head doubtfully. “Android conditioning is not supposed to work that way, sir. And if you’re wrong … It’ll be instant prison for all three of us.”

“Let’s worry about that when the time comes,” Stan said. “Of course it’s not dead simple. What is? The thing is, it’s a chance for us all. What do you say, Hoban? Are you with us or not?”

Hoban looked up and down, uncertain, frowning. Then he looked at Julie. “Do you know what kind of a chance you’re taking here, miss?”

“It’s better than sitting around listening to yourself breathe,” Julie said.

“This venture of yours, Doctor—I suspect it’s not entirely legal.”

“That’s correct,” Stan said. “It’s illegal and it’s dangerous. But it’s a chance to rehabilitate yourself. What do you say?”

Hoban’s mouth quirked. His face twisted in an agony of indecision. Then he suddenly drove his fist down on the table, causing the coffee mugs to jump. “I’ll do it, Dr. Myakovsky. Anything’s better than this!”

The three shook hands. Stan said, “Let’s get moving. There’s no time to waste.”

“There’s just one problem,” Hoban said. “What’s that?” Stan asked. “We don’t have a crew.”

Stan’s shoulders slumped and he sat down again. Julie asked, “How do you usually get a crew?” “There’s no time to get them on the open market,” Hoban said, “and we’d have a hard time getting people for a dangerous mission. In circumstances like this, we requisition them from the government.”

“What does the government have to do with it?” Julie wanted to know.

“They allow convicts to put in for hazardous duty in space, in return for reduced time on their sentences.”

Stan said, “But this time it wouldn’t work. The government won’t release any of the cons to me now that I’ve been barred from my own ship.”

“Of course they will,” Julie said. “Government is slow, Stan, and one part of it never knows what some other part of itself is doing. Just go in and ask the way you usually do. You’re a legitimate owner, you’ve hired crews before. They have to serve you.”

“But what if they do know my ship has been seized?”

“First of all, so what? People have property seized every day. It doesn’t put them out of business. They have a suit against you, but you’re still innocent until proven guilty. And besides, the people who actually give you prisoners, the guards and clerks, what do you think they know about that? They don’t know and don’t care. They do what they have to do.”

“I don’t know,” Stan said. “I’ll be too nervous.”

“It will work.”

“Maybe. But I don’t feel confident about this.”

“Stan, if you want to succeed in what you and I are getting into, you’re going to have to learn how to fake self-confidence. Have you ever acted in a play?”

“Sure, in college. I was pretty good.”

“Well, that’s what you’re going to do now. Act the part of Dr. Myakovsky, brilliant young scientist and upcoming entrepreneur.”

“Acting a part,” Stan mused. “What a novel idea! But I believe I could do that.”

Julie nodded. “I knew right away you had it in you to play the Big Con. Stan, if you weren’t already a scientist, I think you could make a great thief.”

It was the nicest compliment Stan had ever been paid.

“And as for you, Captain Hoban …” Julie continued.

“Yes, miss?” Hoban said.

“You’re going to have to get that hangdog look off of your face. You’re a spaceship captain again, not a washed-up drunk who did something wrong once in his life and is making himself pay for it the rest of his life.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Hoban said.

15

Morning came early to the federal penitentiary at Goose Lake, New York. Almost two thirds of the great gray concrete structure was underground, buried under one of the Catskills. What showed above was a windowless dome, gray as a ghost in sunlight, unrelievedly ugly despite the rows of quick-growing trees that had been planted around its perimeter in an attempt to dress it up. A ten-foot-high electrified fence surrounded the facility, but it was pretty much window dressing. No convict had gotten as far as the fence yet. The prison had its ways of keeping the prisoners docile.

Within the windowless pile, artificial light shone night and day. It was part of standard policy to keep the prisoners disoriented, and therefore less aggressive.

Inside, there were the usual sections of prison cells, with catwalks outside them where the guards walked. There were workshops, food and laundry facilities, and a separate room where the inmates did state-approved work and earned a dollar or so a day for it.

It was free time now. All the men not doing solitary were walking around the grounds, exercising, talking.

A loud voice came from the prison loudspeaker. “All men whose names are on the Alpha Volunteer list, report to the auditorium on the second level.”

The Alpha Volunteer List contained the names of those prisoners with space experience who were willing to volunteer for a hazardous assignment in return for a reduction of their sentences. It had been a while since the call went out for crew. The prisoners were well aware of the good things this early release could do for them. And anyway, it was easier to escape from a spaceship than from a federal prison.

It was not easy getting on the Alpha list, because only a limited number were permitted even to apply. You had to bribe a guard to have any chance at all. And you were likely to have problems with other prisoners who wanted to take your place.

Red Badger had been waiting for this chance a long time. Now he got up, smoothed down his unruly red hair, checked his shoes, and started for the auditorium.

He was stopped by an inmate named Big Ed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Big Ed asked.

“I’m on the list,” Badger said.

“You got it wrong,” Big Ed said. “That last place is mine.”

“No,” Red insisted, “it’s mine.”

“Sure. But you’re going to give it to me, aren’t you?”

“No way,” said Red Badger. “Now, if you’ll just let me get past…”

Big Ed stood in the middle of the corridor, blocking Badger’s way. “Do like I say,” he threatened, “or else.”

Red Badger knew he was being challenged, knew that Big Ed had been waiting for this moment a long time, yet he also knew that Big Ed had picked him figuring he was the easiest guy on the Alpha list to intimidate.

Badger already knew what he was going to do about it.

He was known as Red Badger because of his shock of coarse red hair. He had the light, easily sunburned skin that went with red hair, and narrow blue-green eyes that blinked at you from behind sandy eyelashes. He was a big man, heavy in the chest. He wore his leather waistcoat open to show his chest with its grizzled mass of hair. He had large square teeth and a nasty smile.

Badger was an alumnus of many prisons. He had gotten his nickname at Raiford Prison in Florida, and as an act of defiance had taken it for his own. Badger was doing time for armed robbery and assault. He had a criminal record that went back a long way. Quick with his fists, he was also quick with his tongue and was always looking for a chance to cause trouble. “Trouble is my real middle name,” he liked to say. “Let me show you how I spell it.” And then he’d punctuate his remark for you with his fists. Like the badger, his namesake, he was most dangerous when cornered.

The fight was to be held according to the accepted prison rules: just the two of them, having it out in one of the washrooms. Whoever was still standing after it was over would go to the auditorium. The two combatants went there silently.

Both men knew it did no good to be brawling in the corridors. There were stingray projectors with motion-indicator finders mounted in all the corridors, turning steadily and scanning in all directions. The stingers weren’t fatal, but they hurt like hell and could be counted upon to whip recalcitrant prisoners into line. There were no projectors mounted in the washrooms.

Although it was never talked about, the prisoners figured the authorities wanted to leave them places where they could have things out for themselves, establishing who was top dog and who was underdog. Several of them, noticing where Badger and Ed were going, followed along to watch the fun. It had been known for some time that Big Ed was going to try to take Red’s place on the Alpha List. Big Ed was a seven-foot freak from Opalatchee, Florida. A bodybuilder, he looked like a model for Hercules, all gleaming muscle as he stripped off his shirt. Red Badger, on the other hand, was a solid man, but his musculature was well padded with fat. He looked slow, not formidable.

Stripping off his shirt, he stood in the middle of the shower space, looking fat and sleepy, his hands loose and open at his sides, waiting for Ed to make the first move.

“You sure you want this?” Big Ed asked, moving forward slowly, hands raised like an old-fashioned bare-knuckle fighter. “Ain’t going to be much left of you when I get through.” He looked at the spectators and laughed. “I’m gonna skin me a badger today, boys.”

The men laughed dutifully. Big Ed suddenly lunged forward, and Badger responded.

People said later they’d never seen a big fat man like Badger move so fast. One moment he was standing right there, practically under Big Ed’s fists. But when Big Ed attacked, Badger was already out of the way, dancing back. He easily eluded a roundhouse right, and, taking his time, delivered a blow to Big Ed’s neck, catching him at a nerve junction on the right side.

Big Ed bellowed and moved back. His right arm was dangling awkwardly at his side. He strained to lift it, but could get no sensation into it. He wasn’t hurt; not really. It was just that his right arm wouldn’t lift.

“Where’d you learn that stunt?” he demanded.

Badger smiled but didn’t answer. What good would it do to tell Big Ed that his most recent cell mate, Tommy Tashimoto, had taught him the fine art of nerve strikes—getting him to practice for hours, hitting over and over again from all angles until he could strike half a dozen targets unerringly where the nerve bundles were near the surface or rode over bone.

Red Badger hadn’t been one for formal education. But when he got a chance to learn how to incapacitate a larger, stronger opponent, all the doggedness of his character came out, and he had worked until he knew what he was doing.

Now he circled around Big Ed’s right, hitting him quick hard blows to the face and ribs, coming in over the dangling and useless right arm. Big Ed tried to launch himself at Badger. If he could just get his hands on him, even one-handed, he’d tear the smaller man apart. But Red had a strategy to offset that. He hit again and again at the nerve junction in Ed’s neck, and soon the numbness was replaced by a galloping pain that traveled up and down Ed’s shoulder, from his face to his groin, filling him with an agony so painful as to be exquisite.

At least Badger thought it was exquisite, because he saw he had his man where he wanted him, helpless but still on his feet. A hunk of meat to which he could mete out punishment.

Badger hit and hit, using the heel and sides of his hands. He knew he had this fight won; he just had to guard now against injuring himself. It wouldn’t do to be incapacitated for this spaceship call. Big Ed turned and twisted and floundered, but he couldn’t defend himself. A shrewd kick on the elbow brought down his left arm. He stood there, his face a mask of blood, while Badger hammered away at him like a man driving nails into a tough piece of wood. He hit and he hit, and Big Ed groaned with pain but wouldn’t go down.

“Hell, I got no more time to waste on this,” Badger said. He stepped back and, measuring his man carefully, delivered a kick with his steel-capped work shoe right to the point of Big Ed’s jaw. The men watching the fight winced as Big Ed’s front teeth came flying out like a spray of broken china, and Ed himself crashed face-first to the floor. Badger turned on a tap and cleaned himself quickly but thoroughly. It wouldn’t do to be all sweaty for his interview. He checked himself in the big mirror before he left the washroom to make sure he didn’t have any of Big Ed’s face hanging on his clothes.

16

“Hi, I’m Stan Myakovsky,” Stan said. These are my associates. I telephoned ahead. I need a spaceship crew for a hazardous mission.”

If the guard at the front window of the entry gate was impressed, she didn’t show it. She was a squarely built woman with short bristly hair. She put down her biker magazine and said, “What company you with?”

“Sonnegard Acceptance Corporation,” Stan said, and showed his credentials.

Back before his troubles began, Stan had taken over the Dolomite by buying the controlling shares in Sonnegard, a spaceship holding company. The company was the real owner of the ship, not Stan, who had never bothered to have the ship reregistered in his own name. In fact, he had decided not to; that way, if the ship got into any trouble, he wouldn’t be liable.

“You’ll find my name on the list,” Stan said. He was hoping that the government hadn’t gotten around to proscribing his company and red-flagging it on the computer. It was unlikely. As Julie had pointed out, it took government forever to bring their records up to date. The inefficiency wasn’t strictly government’s fault. There was neither the time nor the personnel available to record all the crimes, arrests, and dispositions that were taking place around the clock in an America more lawless than it had ever been in all its lawless history. Sonnegard Acceptance Corporation would probably be a legal entity for months to come.

The guard punched the name up on her computer. “Yeah, you’re on the list. Go on through.” She buzzed open the heavy metal door leading to the prison.

“So far, so good,” Julie said.

Stan, accompanied by Julie and Hoban, went through into a long, brightly lit corridor.

“Oh, I didn’t expect much trouble getting in,” Stan said. “It’s the getting out that concerns me.”

“You worry too much,” she said. “Doesn’t he, Captain Hoban?”

“He’s worrying about the wrong things,” Hoban said. “What he should be thinking about is what if one of those men recognizes me?”

“You’re not exactly a cover girl,” Julie said. “I don’t think you need to worry.”

Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they went down the long corridor, following the flashing arrows that took visitors to the recruitment center.

There was a door at the end of the corridor. It buzzed open for them.

Within was a large office, plenty of plain metal desks and chairs, and a guard seated at a bigger desk in front of a computer.

“Come on in, Dr. Myakovsky,” the guard said. “I’ve got all the volunteers in a holding tank just behind this room. There are twenty of them. That is as you requested, is it not?”

“It’s fine,” Stan said. “I’d like you to meet Miss Lish, my associate, and Thomas Hoban, my captain. He’ll be doing the actual selection in my name.”

“As you know,” the guard said, “we have already made the preselection for you, giving you the top-twenty men on our Alpha List. You may reject any of them, and you do not have to give a reason. If you’re ready, I’ll have the people sent in.”

Stan nodded. The guard pressed a button. A panel slid up smoothly in the steel wall. There was a sound of moving feet, and then the prisoners came marching out in single file. Following the guard’s commands, they formed a line across the room, stopped, and turned to face Stan and his party.

Captain Hoban walked up to the men. He paced up and down the line, peering into their faces. He came to one, hesitated, stopped, and stared.

Red Badger stared back.

Hoban said, “Do I know you? Have we ever met?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Red Badger said. “But of course I’ve got a lousy memory.”

Hoban kept on staring at him. Badger said, “I’m a good spaceman, sir. I just want a chance to rehabilitate myself.”

Hoban pursed his lips, frowned, then turned away.

“Anything wrong, Mr. Hoban?” Stan asked.

“No, everything is fine,” Hoban said.

“Do the men look all right to you?”

“Yes, they look fine.”

Stan could see that something was bothering Hoban, but now was obviously not the time to ask him about it. Maybe, he thought, the captain was just nervous.

Stan turned to the guard. “I’ll accept this lot. I’m posting money to send them out to their ship.”

“Okay with me,” the guard said. “What ship is that?” “The Dolomite,’’ Stan said, and waited.

The guard bent over the computer. “How do you spell it?” she asked, and Stan knew everything was going to be all right.

17

They were transporting the prisoners to Facility 12, where they would take the shuttle to the Dolomite, their new ship.

Hoban was thinking, “Damn it, I know I’ve seen that man before”. He knew who I was, I’m sure of it. So why did I pick him? Because I could tell from his look, if I didn’t take him, he was going to tell everyone who I was. It’s not just my imagination, I knew what that bastard was going to do. I should never have gotten myself into this in the first place…

Unexpectedly, Hoban found himself regretting his decision to go in with Stan. Some people might have thought it was crazy, but people just didn’t understand.

He was grateful for this chance to redeem himself, get back on top, prove himself a winner. But another side of his character, knew himself for a loser and just wanted a soft place to lie down. Funny to think of Jersey City as a soft place, but it was. Somehow he always got fed, always had a roof over his head. And best of all, nobody expected anything of him. He could relax, take a drink or two, take a lot of drinks… He knew that wasn’t how he ought to feel.

It was like there were a couple of Hobans, and at least one of them was working actively to undermine him. He tried to remind himself that good things lay ahead: he’d soon be piloting his own ship again. You couldn’t do better than that. But somehow, it didn’t have quite the savor it ought to. And Captain Thomas Hoban became aware that he faced a greater danger than whatever Stan was getting them into. You can guard against murder, but how do you guard against your own thoughts of suicide?

18

There was one way to get aboard a spaceship without having to produce a pass or wait for a computer check. You could go aboard as part of a tour party. It was Julie’s idea. They waited a few hours to give the authorities enough time to deliver the prisoners to the Dolomite. Then they came to the Staten Island launch site.

All ships picked up extra income by letting sight-seeing parties aboard while they were in port, lifting them up to the ship’s orbit in a chemical launching craft. Touring the spaceships was a popular entertainment, as in a bygone year people had gone into New York Harbor to visit battleships when the fleet was in. Spaceships were still novel enough, that people paid just to walk aboard one.

With the passengers aboard, the little craft lifted lightly and soon was high above Jersey City. Julie looked through a viewport and saw the earth below looking like a swirly blue-white basketball. Passengers ate hot dogs and talked with each other until the lander arrived at the Dolomite’s geosynchronous orbit and locked onto one of the ship’s entry ports.

Hoban, with Stan and Julie, came aboard the Dolomite with a group of eight other people, just a few of the hundreds who came up here every day from the Staten Island Spaceport. Accompanying them was a guide. He was giving his standard spiel about thruster jets and diosynchronous interruptor-type impellers and standard warp capacities.

“Right this way, folks,” the tour guide was saying. He was a large man with pale blond hair, and wore a white vest with lavender polka dots under a crimson blazer. “Right this way you’ll find the refreshment stand and, just beyond it, the souvenir booth. They carry official ship’s souvenirs. Folks, these items are not sold in stores in the city. You can only get them here. There’s a hall of diorama views of approaches to various planets. There’s even a snack bar featuring delicacies from this world and many others. Right this way—”

The guide broke off his spiel when he noticed something unusual happening.

“Excuse me, you people there!”

He was talking to three people, two men and a woman, who had moved in the opposite direction from the crowd and now were about to open a door marked no admittance except to authorized personnel in five different languages.

“Did you mean us?” one of the men said. He was short and plump and wore glasses. The woman beside him was a handsome creature, slim and with magnificent chestnut-red hair. She was beautiful even with the livid scar that ran down one cheek. The other man, somewhat older than the first two, looked dazed.

“Yes, you,” the guide said. “Can’t you read the sign on the door?”

“Of course we can,” Stan replied. “It doesn’t pertain to us.”

“You’re not trying to tell me you’re ship’s crew?”

“Certainly not,” Stan said. “I’m the new owner.” “Impossible! I would have been told.” “I’m telling you right now. We’re going aboard.” Stan pushed at the door. The guide moved to stop him, then stopped abruptly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The young woman had seized him, and she had a grip of steel.

“Madame, unhand me!” the guide said, trying to make a joke out of it, because people from the tour were staring. He tried to shake free, but Julie’s fingers didn’t budge.

“I’ll be happy to let you go,” she said. “Just don’t interfere with the new owner.”