When They Come from Space by Mark Clifton Read Free Book Online

lower orders to lose their jobs. The Night Manager pursed his lips ominously and waited behind his hotel desk.
    The bellhop leaned forward in his walk and made groping movements with his hands. He wet his lips at short, rhythmic intervals. There were large drops of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes protruded like those of a deep-sea fish suddenly hauled to the surface. When he reached the desk, he leaned his stomach against it and released his breath in a long, slow, fizzing sound.
    "Jeez...” he breathed heavily.
    The Night Manager stiffened further at this breach of manners, but he withheld reproof in the shocked realization that there was no alcohol in the generous waft of breath which came across the desk.
    "Well, what is it?” he demanded. But his curiosity somewhat softened the intended tone of discipline.
    The bellhop gulped and swallowed another mouthful of air.
    "I—I better go home now."
    The Night Manager's right eyebrow arched in skepticism. This was more familiar ground. Bellhops were always finding some reason why they couldn't finish out their shifts on slow, tipless nights.
    "Must be my eyes, or my stomach.” the bellhop whispered, awe-stricken. “Yeah, it could be my stomach, couldn't it?"
    "How should I know?” the Night Manager asked with asperity. He always found the frank fascination of the lower orders with their viscera disgusting.
    "I don't feel so good. Could I—” The bellhop's green tinged face showed that even he was abashed at his own temerity. “Could I sit down somewhere?"
    The request was so enormous that the Night Manager found himself nodding in stunned acquiescence toward the sanctuary of his own office, which opened behind the desk. He followed the bellhop into the office and watched him collapse into a chair. Unwillingly, he was impressed.
    "What's the story this time?” he asked, and knew that curiosity had become ascendant to disbelief.
    The story came out in breathless spurts. A bar-service call from 842. One manhattan, one old-fashioned. He had knocked on the door, quietly because it was getting late. He must have heard the command to enter. Must have heard it, although he couldn't remember hearing it. Anyway he entered. He didn't enter no rooms unless he was asked. Musta been asked.
    "All right. All right!” the Night Manager prompted.
    One guy was sitting on the edge of the bed. Musta been a special bed, like some guests have to have, because it didn't sag none. He had put the tray of drinks down on the table without looking around for anybody else. He never looked around a room when there was a call for two drinks and only one guy....
    "I do not need to be instructed in hotel-service tact.” The Night Manager recaptured his asperity. “Go on,"
    "I'm just waitin’ for my tip, see, and this guy's actin’ like he don't know why I'm hangin’ around for. You know the old cheapie routine, and then—It couldn't be my stomach, could it?” the bellhop broke off to plead.
    "Never mind! We can do without your stomach."
    "The bathroom door opens. I'm expectin’ to see a dame. But this thing comes out."
    "What thing?"
    "This purple thing. Sort of a purple light in the shape of a whirlwind, or maybe water going down the drain."
    "Then you have been drinking after all,” the Night Manager exclaimed in disgust.
    "Honest, Mr. Thistlewaite. That's what it looked like. A purple whirlwind. It came floating across the room toward me. I peed my pants, I betcha. I ain't looked to see. Then, all at once, I figgered the gimmick. This was one of them stage magicians, tryin’ out his act on me. I didn't know we booked no show people."
    "We don't. We certainly do not,” Mr. Thistlewaite said, with a shudder.
    "Well, he wasn't one anyhow. No magician could do what happened next.” He gulped, and his jaw line began to green again.
    "For heaven's sake, will you get to the point!"
    "This purple whirlwind turned into about four other guys. Just like that! So help me! Next thing I know, it's