Free Starman by Alan Dean Foster Page B

showing a disconcerting, not to say dangerous, tendency to jump all over the place. Bell was sweating profusely and wore the look of someone trying to facet a hundred-carat diamond with a jackhammer.
    Another figure came up behind Shermin, drawing his attention. He recognized the radioman from his chopper.
    “Hi.” Lemon looked past him, toward the meteor. “What are those guys trying to do?”
    “Doing the best they can, Lemon.”
    The radioman made a face. “You’re just a regular fountain of information, aren’t you, Mister Shermin?”
    He grinned apologetically. “Sorry. In my field volubility’s considered something of a drawback.”
    “Yeah, whatever.”
    Shermin nodded toward the sheet of paper Lemon held. “Something for me, Lemon?”
    “What?” The radioman forced himself to tear his attention away from what was going on atop the meteor. “Oh, yeah. I remembered what you told me about police calls. You did say you wanted to hear about anything weird, out of the ordinary?”
    Shermin nodded. “Anything.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t know that it’s worth much, but since you didn’t exactly give me specific guidelines I figured I might as well use my own judgment.” He looked down at the paper. “I got this one off the general channel the cops around here use. Just picked it up from Ashland.”
    “Where’s that?”
    Lemon waved southward. “Out there somewhere. Small-town country. Me, I miss New York, but that’s neither here nor there.”
    “Yes, it is. It’s there.”
    Lemon didn’t smile. Shermin was okay, for a government operative, but something of a wise-ass. “It happened sometime this morning. What the report was about. Seems a guy named Heinmuller,” he checked the sheet again, “Brad Heinmuller, had a collision with a hopped-up seventy-seven green Mustang.”
    Shermin shrugged. “That doesn’t qualify as out of the ordinary.”
    “Gimme a chance to finish, will you? Seems the gal who was driving the Mustang jumped out of her car after the collision and started running toward Heinmuller shouting that she was being kidnapped. But when he went to help her, the guy who was with her, the kidnapper candidate, just kept yelling ‘greetings’ over and over. Then he melted Heinmuller’s lug wrench.”
    Shermin got very quiet for a long moment. Finally he said carefully, “He yelled ‘greetings’ and melted his lug wrench?”
    The radioman nodded. “Hey, weird you want, weird you get. Does it mean anything?”
    “I don’t know. You heard the report. You’re sure about the details?”
    “Yes sir. You think I could make anything like that up?”
    “No, no. Tell me something, Lemon. How do you melt somebody’s lug wrench?”
    “It wasn’t exactly an in-depth report.” He handed Shermin the printout. “This is a hard copy transcribed straight from the report. I taped it too, if you want to hear it.”
    “No, that’s all right.”
    “You got it all, Mister Shermin. Me, I just copy ’em down. I don’t explain ’em. Isn’t that your job?”
    Shermin politely ignored the question, inquired, “I don’t suppose anybody got a license number?”
    “Give this Heinmuller credit; if he’s a nut, he’s an observant one.” Lemon indicated the printout. “It’s right there, down near the bottom of the page. Wisconsin plates, PXV two-three-seven. I’m checking the owner through the DMV in Madison.”
    “That’s very thoughtful of you, Lemon.”
    Again the radioman looked uncertain. “Mister Shermin, I’d sure like to know what all this is about.” He tapped the transcript. “I feel mighty peculiar treating stuff like this seriously.”
    “Don’t let it get to you. We’re all feeling a little funny about this whole business just now. Maybe I’ll be able to tell you a little more about what’s going on here when I’ve been able to figure it out myself.”
    He was interrupted by a loud, metallic crack. Both men turned to look at the meteor. Bell was peering downward.