The Last Starfighter by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

When he looked up Alex was startled by the clarity of the driver’s eyes. They might have been transparent, protective lenses shielding some deeper secret from sight.
    The man puffed on a cigarette at the end of a long holder, something Alex had seen only in the movies. As if sensing the boy’s interest the driver removed the holder and inspected the cigarette affectionately.
    “Quaint affectation. Generates nothing in the way of nourishment, chemical stimuli or beneficial endocrine products, yet it’s catchy, catchy.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Nothing, my boy. In reply to your question, no, I do not have a trailer broke down somewhere. Nor am I here to peruse your establishment for cigarettes or chewing gum. Actually I am here looking for someone.”
    Alex remembered some of the tales Otis had told him about his younger days. He’d always laughed at the stories afterwards, knowing they were nothing more than tall tales spun to wile away the hot summer evenings. Now he wasn’t so sure.
    “You with the IRS?”
    Now it was the old man’s turn to look confused. “The IRS? A perennial rhizomatous or bulbous herbaceous plant of the family Iridaceae, is it not?”
    Alex took a step backward. “Mister, I think maybe you’ve had too much to drink tonight.”
    “Nonsense! I’ve imbibed no more liquid than is necessary for proper bodily functioning. As to this individual I seek,” and he gestured toward the porch, “can you by chance tell me the name of the person who broke the record on that game over there, and where I might find ’em?”
    Pride overwhelmed Alex’s caution. This old guy was weird, but surely he was harmless. And the fancy rig he was driving . . . maybe he worked for the company that made the Starfighter game. Maybe there was some kind of electronic relay or something built into the console that sent back the results to some local headquarters. Maybe this old man wanted to give him a prize or something.
    “His name’s Alex Rogan, Mister, and you’re looking at him. Who’re you? Did I win something for my score? Is that why you’re here?”
    The man choked on his cigarette. “Hard to get the knack of this. What, win something? Well, you might say that. Yes, one could say that your achievement has entitled you to receive a singular honor.”
    Visions of enough money to pay his way through the University suddenly flooded Alex’s mind. Maybe there’d even be some left over. He could buy Louis the stuffed tauntaun he’d always wanted. He could buy Mom a new TV, maybe even a new truck!
    He forced himself to dampen his excitement. Perhaps the prize didn’t consist of cash. It might be some kind of product, or nothing more than a bunch of free plays on the game.
    But if it wasn’t something big, something important, then why would the company send someone out to meet the top player in person?
    “As for myself,” and the oldster smiled broadly, “Centauri’s the name. I invented Starfighter, which is why I’m here to talk to you.”
    “Really? You actually invented the game?”
    The old man looked pleased. “Sure did. What do you think of it?”
    Alex struggled to sound sophisticated. “Not bad. It took me a while to get the hang of it. It’s not as complicated as some games but there are a lot of controls to work at the same time and the upper skill levels make you work pretty fast.”
    “That’s what Starfighters are supposed to do,” Centauri informed him, “and you’ve proven you can do it as well or better than anyone else. Better than anyone else around here, certainly.”
    “No bullshit?” His ego rose another notch.
    “No bullshit, Alex.”
    “What about my prize?”
    “Ah, yes. Your prize. We must talk about that. It is a matter of the utmost importance.” He gestured toward the rear seat. “Step into my office.”
    Alex started around the hood, but hesitated on reaching the other side of the vehicle. The old man looked straight, and he seemed honest. How could