Free The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories by Bruce McAllister

visitor to Earth would take in, if only because it appeared on the sanctioned itineraries—and had handed him a written message in crude Antalouan. I know what you are and what you do, the message read. I need your services. LAX cell 873-2345-2657 at 1100 tomorrow morning. I am Kim.  
    “Antalou are well known for their skills, Sir,” the boy said respectfully. “We’ve read about the Noh campaign, and what happened on Hoggun II when your people were betrayed, and what one company of your mercenaries were able to do against the Gar-Betties.” The boy paused. “I had to give out ninety-eight notes, Sir, before I found you. You were the only one who answered. . . .” 
    The hideous head tilted while the long arms remained perfectly still, and the boy found he could not take his eyes from them. 
    “I see,” the alien said. 
    It was translator’s idiom only. “Seeing” was not the same as “understanding.” The young human had done what the military and civilian intelligence services of five worlds had been unable to do—identify him as a professional—and it made the alien reflect: Why had he answered the message? Why had he taken it seriously? A human child had delivered it, after all. Was it that he had sensed no danger and simply followed professional reflex, or something else? Somehow the boy had known he would. How? 
    “How much . . .” the alien said, curious, “are you able to pay?” 
    “I’ve got two hundred dollars, Sir.” 
    “How . . . did you acquire them?” 
    “I sold things,” the boy said quickly. 
    The rooms here were bare. Clearly the boy had nothing to sell. He had stolen the money, the alien was sure. 
    “I can get more. I can—” 
    The alien made a sound that did not translate. The boy jumped. 
    The alien was thinking of the 200,000 inters for the vengeance assassination on Hoggun’s third moon, the one hundred kilobucks for the renegade contract on the asteroid called Wolfe, and the mineral shares, pharmaceuticals, and spacelock craft—worth twice that—which he had in the end received for the three corporate kills on Alama Poy. What could two hundred dollars buy? Could it even buy a city rail ticket? 
    “That is not enough,” the alien said. “Of course,” it added, one arm twitching, then still again, “you may have thought to record . . . our discussion . . . and you may threaten to release the recording . . . to Earth authorities . . . if I do not do what you ask of me. . . .” 
    The boy’s pupils dilated then—like those of the human province official on Diedor, the one he had removed for the Gray Infra there. 
    “Oh, no—” the boy stammered. “I wouldn’t do that—” The skin of his face had turned red, the alien saw. “I didn’t even think of it.” 
    “Perhaps . . . you should have,” the alien said. The arm twitched again, and the boy saw that it was smaller than the others, crooked but strong. 
    The boy nodded. Yes, he should have thought of that. “Why . . .” the alien asked then, “does a man named . . . James Ortega-Mambay . . . wish to kill your sister?” 
    When the boy was finished explaining, the alien stared at him again and the boy grew uncomfortable. Then the creature rose, joints falling into place with popping and sucking sounds, legs locking to lift the heavy torso and head, the long arms snaking out as if with a life of their own. 
    The boy was up and stepping back. 
    “Two hundred . . . is not enough for a kill,” the alien said, and was gone, taking the same subterranean path out of the building which the boy had worked out for him. 
     
    When the man named Ortega-Mambay stepped from the bullet elevator to the roof of the federal building, it was sunset and the end of another long but productive day at BuPopCon. In the sun’s final rays the helipad glowed like a perfect little pond—not the chaos of the Pacific Ocean in the distance—and even the mugginess couldn’t ruin the scene. It was the kind of