The Robert Silverberg Science Fiction MEGAPACK® by Robert Silverberg Read Free Book Online Page B

stormed. “You mean that any being from anywhere in the Universe can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and I’m responsible?”
    “This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield to this late life form’s request lies at the root of his sad demise?”
    “Well, no, but—”
    “Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.”
    Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of them away. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it was going to put an awful dent in this year’s take. And I shuddered when I remembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely to come bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000 per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.
    I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannounced arrival.
    The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorway and stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynian policemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for a moment and turned to eye the newcomer.
    I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. I resolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I did come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself against crackpots.
    In heartrending tones, the Stortulian declared, “Life is no longer worth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for me to do.”
    I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackers going down the drain. “Stop him, somebody! He’s going to kill himself! He’s—”
    Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked me flying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire the mesh-gun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, I guess I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.
    Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous hole in the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and I saw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. The man who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dusting himself off.
    He helped me up. “Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But that Stortulian wasn’t here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to get you.”
    I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flying fragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashed plaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning the struggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.
    “Evidently you don’t know as much as you think you do about Stortulian psychology, Corrigan,” Gorb said lightly. “Suicide is completely abhorrent to them. When they’re troubled, they kill the person who caused their trouble. In this case, you.”
    I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than a full-bodied laugh.
    “Funny,” I said.
    “What is?” asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.
    “These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye and killed himself, and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek and pathetic damn near blew my head off.” I shuddered. “Thanks for the tackle job.”
    “Don’t mention it,” Gorb said.
    I glared at the Ghrynian police. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take that murderous little beast out of here! Or isn’t murder against the local laws?”
    “The Stortulian will be duly punished,” replied the leader of the Ghrynian cops calmly. “But there is the matter of the dead Kallerian and the fine of—”
    “—one hundred thousand dollars. I know.” I groaned and turned to Stebbins. “Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have them send down a legal adviser. Find out if there’s any way we can get out of this mess with our skins intact.”
    “Right, Chief.” Stebbins moved toward the visi-phone.
    Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.
    “Hold it,”