Jack Chalker - The Return of Nathan Brazil

The braver ones in the crowd stopped retreating and when the lizard reached them and held out the bag, tossed one or two coins in. It became a torrent after a moment, quickly filling the bag.

“Enough! You are too kind!” the Gypsy called out. “Marquoz?”

The lizard snorted, startling the people closest to him because two puffs of white smoke exploded from his nostrils when he did. Then he turned and brought the bag back to the Gypsy. It was heavy now, and the man was thin, yet the bag somehow seemed to vanish, coins and all, into some hidden nether-space on his person. He smiled, bowed again, and produced the flute once more.

The second performance resembled the first yet was a totally different dance with totally different moves and strange fiery shapes to a different yet no less alien, and exotic, tune.

Har Bateen stood through the second performance, admiring it with the rest. Finally when the applause had died down and the Gypsy protested that Marquoz needed a rest, they started to break up and resume their milling around.

The Gypsy bent down, apparently to inspect the stoic Marquoz, and a large human hand slipped into that of the lizard. Small, spidery clawed fingers tapped idly at the man’s palm. He nodded, then got back up and looked around.

Several people approached to talk to him, admire Marquoz, or ask questions about the strange lizard, but he laughed them away with the excuse that Marquoz had to get out of the hot sun and get a water rubdown. The reasoning seemed a little suspect—the lizard appeared not only comfortable but also more at home in Parkatin’s heat than the humans but they accepted his explanation.

They started walking toward the strip of honkey-tonks and bars, away from the freight docks, two pair of eyes on Har Bateen.

The collective experience of the Dreel made few mistakes; getting tailed was not one of them. Bateen realized the odd pair was behind him—they were hardly inconspicuous in any event. That worried him—first, he’d obviously done something to arouse suspicion and hadn’t the slightest idea what; second, a pair following so obviously meant that others were almost certainly about.

Well, so be it, the Dreel agent decided. Best to see what we’re dealing with, anyway. He led them a merry path up and down streets and alleyways, always trying to spot the ones he knew must be following less obtrusively but never catching sight of them. The Gypsy was obviously Com Police. The Dreel admired the technique even as he was still confused to its method. A Gypsy went anywhere, out into the open, but into the worst places and the worst neighborhoods without attracting suspicion—and even if the man couldn’t take care of himself, his big pet with its thousands of sharp teeth would certainly work against any surprise attacks.

And with that Har Bateen thought he guessed it. So obvious—yet no shadows. Why? Because they knew he wouldn’t lead them anywhere, would only go up and down the dockfront streets. And one of those streets was a trap. They would wait. Wait for Har Bateen to panic and walk or run into the setup. He could try to lose them, of course—but that would be a betrayal of guilt. They could shoot him. He had important things to do; Har Bateen did not want to die at all, but particularly not right now.

He had about a fifteen-meter lead on them, although they were slowly closing on him. That was a lot of space. He chose his alley well, then turned into it quickly, as if making his break.

The Gypsy and the lizard speeded up; it was obvious that the little dragon could far outrun the man, but he stuck with him. They turned the corner into the alleyway on the run—and found themselves in a dead end, with tall buildings on all three sides.

The Gypsy whipped out a pistol with the same dexterity with which he’d pocketed the bag of coins and from the same apparent place. He looked up and around.

“Drop it now! ” commanded the voice of Har Bateen not only from above but from behind them. The Gypsy did not drop it immediately, but turned slowly, looking in the direction of the voice. Spotting the man, he sighed and dropped the pistol to the alley. He didn’t know how Bateen had managed it but the Dreel now sat on a small ledge a good six meters up. He must climb like a monkey, the Gypsy thought. The walls were ribbed block, but he couldn’t have made it up there in that length of time.

The Dreel stared uneasily at the dragon, who stared back at him with blazing eyes, catlike black ovals against a dark scarlet backdrop.

“Don’t try siccing your big pet on me,” Bateen warned. “Just keep him there.”

The man nodded back and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Marquoz! Stay!”

The dragon snorted and seemed to grumble a little but sat back on his tail and relaxed slightly.

“All right, now, who are you and why are you following me?” the Dreel challenged.

The Gypsy grinned apologetically and spread his hands. “When we take the collection, you see, we often get to see who has the biggest bankroll. Marquoz, here, can be, ah, very persuasive for such a one to, ah, substantially increase his donation to us. We have been stuck in this god-forsaken hole of a planet for much too long. Business is not good—we were, ah, asked to leave the ship here, not our scheduled stop, and we have not yet been able to make our expenses and our fares out. And, to make it short, the local cops are wise to us.”

The Dreel considered the explanation. It made sense—and the bankroll he had was more than apparent and was meant to be so. Still, there was something here that didn’t ring true. For ones who’d been on this planet long enough to acquire a bad reputation why were they so obviously a novelty to the crowd? Bateen decided to take no chances.

“All right—that thing, there. What is it?” he demanded.

The Gypsy looked toward Marquoz, impassively sitting on his big tail. “I met him on a backwater frontier planet. He wasn’t native to it; he belonged to a number of my fellow tribesmen who had been asked, shall we say, to stay a while by the local police. About three years, actually. I, of course, agreed to take him in a flash, and he took to me as well. I have no idea where they picked him up.”

That didn’t tell the Dreel much, but, then again, there were a lot odder lifeforms than Marquoz around not excluding the Dreel themselves. The story had the ring of truth—and the final clincher was the Gypsy’s pistol. Not the supermodern type the Com Police would use, all gleaming and near-transparent with its ruby power source. Just a common tramp’s pistol, a small laser driller, just like somebody of the Gypsy’s type might carry.

“I’m coming down now,” Bateen warned, “but as you can tell I am very good at athletics. My pistol won’t stray from you even as I break my fall, and it’s on wide kill.”

“Look, all I want now is out of this. A mistake, that’s all,” the Gypsy alibied sincerely.

The Dreel nodded and jumped down. The Gypsy was amazed at the man’s body and muscle control. He hadn’t been kidding—the pistol stayed pointed directly at him. No human being he’d ever seen short of a professional gymnast could do that, and this character hardly looked the gymnastic type.

The Dreel approached the man slowly, one eye on Marquoz. “No funny business,” he warned.

“What—what are you going to do?” the Gypsy asked uneasily, eyes only on the pistol.

Har Bateen allowed himself the very human gesture of a smile, a smile of one who knows what you do not. “Don’t worry,” he told the Gypsy. “I’m not going to kill you. If your pet stays calm and you don’t try anything funny, then nothing will happen to you. But your life depends on your doing exactly what I say— exactly! Understand?”