Free Impossible Places by Alan Dean Foster Page A

one who accompanied him everywhere. Rohrbach needed several bodyguards.
    He was publisher and editor-in-chief of the
Truth
.
    You’ve seen the
Truth
. It slaps you in the face every time you check out of your local drugstore, or supermarket, or twenty-four-hour convenience store. You’ve probably watched its half-hour syndicated television counterpart that airs between ten and twelve at night. It’s hard to miss, the
Truth
is.
    LOCH NESS MONSTER Attacks Scottish Schoolbus, Eats Six Children Before Horrified Driver’s Eyes!
    I HAD ELVIS’S LOVE CHILD— And He’s A Serial Killer, Distraught Mom Says!
    Aliens Kidnap Alabama Town— Two Twelve-Year-Old Girls Impregnated by Horrible Extraterrestrial Slugs!
    No, that last one can’t be right. The
Truth
would never use a word as big as
impregnated
. But you get the idea.
    As a going commercial concern, the
Truth
was a roaring success. It made a great deal of money for its stockholders, its employees, and most flagrantly, its devoted editor-in-chief. Rohrbach was quite a happy man. The only people who were not happy about the
Truth
were the unfortunate targets of his writers’ scurrilous inventions, but there was little they could do about it. If they ignored the paper, it published even more outrageous stories about them, and if they sued and won, the paper got free publicity and several new stories out of the lawsuit. The
Truth
was a no-win situation for its victims, and a win-win for Rohrbach.
    Life was good, if not fair, he reflected as he sloughed off Spike and entered his private office.
    It had a spacious view of the Florida coast, of palm trees and blue water and surf. Beat the hell out of working for a real paper in New York or Chicago, he reflected as he settled in behind his desk. It was piled high with paper despite the presence of a computer on one side.
    It was not piled so high that he failed to see the man seated in the chair off to his right, next to the concealed wet bar.
    Rohrbach froze. The man was tall but not thin, with blond hair and blue eyes. The publisher had never seen him before. He wore unscuffed shoes instead of sandals, freshly pressed trousers, and somewhat incongruously, a florid Hawaiian shirt. His mien was not threatening, but Rohrbach knew from experience you could never tell. How he had slipped inside the editor didn’t know—but he sure as hell was going to find out. And when he did, some unfortunate was going to pay.
    The publisher’s hand strayed toward the alarm button located just under the lip of the desk—and hesitated. The visitor displayed neither weapons nor hostility. Calm and relaxed, he just sat there staring back at the publisher, a serious but unintimidating expression on his face. If he’d had a gun or something threatening he most likely would have brought it out by now.
    Rohrbach drew his finger back from the alarm and sat back in his chair.
    “How did you get in here?”
    The visitor’s voice was deep and strong, but not threatening. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I only half believe it myself.”
    Rohrbach glowered. Beneath that glower employees and even successful corporate lawyers trembled. “You’ll believe it when I have you arrested for breaking and entering.”
    “I only entered. I didn’t break anything. And you can’t arrest me.”
    “Really?” Rohrbach was intrigued in spite of himself. “Why not, pray tell?”
    “Because I’m not really here, in the really here sense.”
    Oh brother, Rohrbach thought. A nut. Harmless, but a nut. Not even radical enough for a back-page squib. He sighed. His schedule was full and he was wasting time.
    “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, Mr., uh . . .”
    “Johnny,” murmured the visitor. “Johnny Anderson.”
    “Well, Johnny, since you’re here, what can I do for you before I have you thrown out by several large people who you’ll also no doubt claim won’t be able to do anything to you?”
    “Elvis sent me.”
    Rohrbach had to smile.