Buffalito Bundle Page 2

  "We are very troubled by all of this, Mr. Conroy. We take even the suspicion of crime very seriously. While you've been waiting we've done a full search of all registered facilities. None report any missing stock; you're not being charged with theft. The only reason that you have not been prosecuted and convicted on the remaining charge is that Carla Espinoza is infertile."

  It was just getting weirder and weirder. "How would you know that?" I asked.

  Loyoka barely glanced at me. "We did a complete examination of her. Any human in possession of a fertile buffalo dog is instantly guilty of a capital offense. But, as I said, she's incapable of conception. Infertile buffalo dogs may be transported by licensed couriers. That just leaves the matter of clearing up the paperwork. We have gone ahead and tagged Carla Espinoza and drawn up the appropriate paperwork for your license."

  One of the other Arconi presented me with a palmpadd and stylus. I glanced at the document and signed. They'd transferred the bulk of my earnings on Gibrahl out of my account—and placed a lien on future income for twice that amount—to cover the balance due for my license. I was now an authorized courier.

  "Congratulations, Mr. Conroy. You've acquired a buffalo dog without paying the usual ten million credits." There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He really meant it.

  "But she's not a buffalo dog now, right?" I said. "She's out of the trance, she knows who she is.

  All three Arconi frowned again and fidgeted nervously. The other two left, taking the stools with them, leaving Loyoka to bestow a few parting words. "We admit there is much about your abilities which we do not understand," he said. "While it is clear to me that your subject tonight knew she was a buffalo dog, it is equally obvious that in some ways she was not. This is new territory for us, Mr. Conroy. We'll be watching you closely for the remainder of your stay. I'd advise you to be quite careful.

  "You're free to go now," he said, holding the door open for me. "Speak to the clerk at the front desk. He'll return your visa and provide you with a hard copy of your licenses. You can pick up Carla Espinoza there as well." He pointed me to the right and sent me on my way. He headed off to the left and vanished around a turn in the corridor.

  Carla Espinoza sat on one of a bank of interlinked chairs in the lobby. She was a bit pale but otherwise appeared unharmed. Dangling from her left ear was a two centimeter disk of bright red plastic. She'd been tagged for transport. There was an angry look on her face, diffused at first but quickly focusing when she saw me approach. I started making apologies as soon as I was close enough to be heard.

  "Ms. Espinoza, Carla, please, I'm terribly sorry. I had no idea any of this was going to happen, you must believe me."

  She rose to her feet and glared. She was a head shorter than me, and twenty years older. I had no doubt she'd spent most of that time bouncing from one security position to the next. She outweighed me by a good ten kilos, all of it muscle. The look in her eyes made it clear that she could beat the crap out of me without breaking a sweat.

  Her hands lifted, tugging at her ear lobe and the plastic tag. It unclipped and she threw it at me. "If this was Earth I'd sue you and your next three generations for everything you had," she said. "You're lucky the Arconi don't permit lawyers here."

  I caught the tag and put it in my pocket. It was an expensive souvenir. I handed her my credit chip. "There isn't much left in there, but you're welcome to it. They took most of what I had to cover license costs."

  "License costs?" she said.

  I gave a weak smile. "They determined that since I was in possession of a buffalo dog, and I wasn't a smuggler, that I obviously had to be a courier and charged me accordingly."

  Her anger melted away at this and she laughed. She'd been on Gibrahl long enough to know just how expensive a courier license was. That seemed to satisfy her. She pocketed my credit chip. "I'm going to let this go," she said, "provided I don't see you again. Otherwise I'm going to tear you a new hole. You'll be hurting so bad that a walk in vacuum would feel like a welcome relief. Are we clear?"

  I nodded, trying hard not to flinch. She gave me another look up and down and stormed out. The clerk seated behind a desk at the back of the lobby had watched the entire scene without comment. He looked pale, even for an Arcon. And why not? He'd heard her every word, and knew it was all true. I collected my hard copy and left.

  Judging by the position of Gibrahl's wan star high overhead it was nearly noon. I had nothing to do, no money to spend, and a full day before my ship back to Earth left. I started making my way back toward the spaceport proper, hoping to bum a meal and some crash space in exchange for a few hypnotic parlor tricks when a man in a painfully new suit locked step with me. My first thought was that the manager of the Lil Doggie wanted a piece of me, but the fellow was too small to be a goon, too preppy. He was a polished, clean-cut, silver spoon archetype who doubtless had an MBA from some prestigious Ivy League university's online degree program. I'm not a tough guy, but compared to me he was a weenie.

  It took a moment, but I recognized him from a show. I'd hypnotized him. He was a corporate type, a middleman in the transfer of buffalo dogs to Terran business concerns. He had been at the Lil Doggie during my opening show, part of a larger party of still more corporate suits and prospective clients. I'd hypnotized half the people at the table. The clients had been marvelously entertained and this fellow had arranged a generous tip to show his appreciation. Even a small percentage from Gibrahl's buffalo dog traffic translated into vast amounts of cash. He could afford to tip big and to wear new suits.

  "Mr. Conroy," said the tipper, "I apologize for contacting you so crudely, but I very much need to speak with you. I have a proposition."

  Just when you think things can't get worse, corporate hustlers show up. Great. "I'm sorry, but I'm tired and I'm hungry and I'm really not in the mood for whatever it is you're selling," I said.

  He persisted. "Mr. Conroy, my name is Jensen. Please, just hear me out. Why don't we get a nice comfortable table at The Prairie. My treat, of course. You can have a nice meal, relax, and after you've listened to my proposal if you're still not interested, well, that will be it."

  That stopped me. The Prairie was the only five star restaurant on Gibrahl. That put it two stars above everything else in the kilometer city. The cost of the appetizers alone would have wiped out a week's salary. I slipped an arm around his shoulder and mustered up a tired smile. "Mr. Jensen, if lunch is on you, I'm all ears."

  He look relieved and escorted me to The Prairie. The maître d' fitted me with an appropriate jacket, and in short order I was sitting at an elegant table enjoying an amuse-gueule of potato cornets layered in crème frâiche, salmon, and caviar and sipping the most delicate wine I'd ever imagined. My cares evaporated but I kept a wary eye on my host. The other shoe was about to drop.

  True to his word, he had let me get comfortable before he started his pitch. I was well into the first course—black-eyed peas arranged with antelope sweetbreads, mushrooms, and wild raspberries—when he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a palmpadd.

  "Mr. Conroy, allow me to be direct. My superiors at the Wada Consortium are aware of your recent change of fortune, and the juxtaposition of circumstances that put you there, all through no fault of your own. We'd like to help, if you'll let us. We want to hire you."

  I almost choked on my wine when he said that. I set down my glass and wiped at my mouth with my napkin. "You need a hypnotist, Mr. Jensen?" I said.

  "No, Mr. Conroy, we need a courier. The corporation we represent is scheduled to transfer thirty-two buffalo dogs off Gibrahl on tomorrow's ship. All of them have already been sold, and we've guaranteed their delivery. The Arcon government allows only a single buffalo dog per licensed courier, and at present we have only thirty-one couriers available."

  I gave him a puzzled frown. "Then why did you schedule thirty-two buffalitos?" I slipped another forkful of sweetbreads into my mouth.

  Jensen sighed. "Because until yesterday
afternoon we had thirty-two couriers, Mr. Conroy."

  Which was about the time I remembered the execution of a smuggler. I put my fork down. My appetite vanished. That thirty-second pup was worth ten million credits to someone back on Earth, and the penalty for nondelivery was going to cost Jensen's company at least half that much.

  "I'm a hypnotist. I don't know much about buffalo dogs or being a courier," I said.

  "There's not much to know, Mr. Conroy. The buffalo dogs themselves require minimal care. All a courier does is carry the creature onto the ship and stay with it in his stateroom. For the duration of the voyage to Earth you simply monitor the room's atmospheric regulators to prevent excess oxygen buildup. Upon arrival you carry it off. I'm sure that's well within your talents."

  "Why don't you just run someone else through the licensing procedure?" I asked.

  "It takes five years to apply for a license, Mr. Conroy. Quite frankly, we're amazed you've acquired one, but we won't question it. For whatever reason, the Arconi suddenly consider you a courier, and they're the only ones we have to please to get that thirty-second buffalo dog to Earth."

  He slid the palmpadd across the table. A contract glowed up at me. "I'm prepared to offer you compensation in the amount of one hundred thousand credits in exchange for you acting as our courier."

  That was a lot of money, especially since I was broke and soon to be blacklisted. Still...

  "Is that the standard rate for a courier?" He nodded. I paused, pretended to read over the contract while I wracked my brain, trying to remember that very first show I'd done on Gibrahl. I looked at the sweetbreads on my plate and it came to me. Spicy Egyptian. I leaned forward and whispered, "Jalapeño Osiris."

  Jensen slumped back in his chair, his eyes closed. I reached a hand into his jacket and found his wallet. I flipped through it, and checked his corporate ID to learn his first name, as well as the balances on his corporate and personal credit chips. Ken had a lot of credit at his disposal.

  "Can you hear me, Ken?"

  "Yes, I hear you."

  "That's good. We're very good friends, you know. We tell each other everything. There are no secrets between us, Ken. No secrets at all. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," he murmured.

  "Tell me, what's the standard fee for a courier? One who's carrying a buffalo dog from Gibrahl to Earth for your company?"

  "Five hundred thousand credits," he said. No hesitation at all.

  "And yet you offered me only a fifth of that, Ken. Is that any way to treat a friend? Why'd you do it?"

  Jensen shrugged, looking embarrassed despite his closed eyes. "We figured you wouldn't know any better and were so far down that you'd jump at a hundred."

  "You're probably right, Ken. It hasn't been my day. But things are looking up. When I count to three you're going to have a change of heart, Ken. You're going to decide that you really don't want to screw me like that. You realize that I'm saving your ass, and you're going to rewrite this contract for the full five hundred thousand. Plus you're going to throw in your corporate credit chip, just so I have some walking around money until it's time for me to leave. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I understand."

  I returned his wallet to its proper place, sat back, and counted to three. Ken Jensen blinked rapidly and sat up straight, acting like a man who had briefly dozed off and looks around to see if anyone noticed. I was staring down at the palmpadd, pretending to study the contract and shaking my head. "I just don't know..."

  "Let me have that back," he said. "I think I can sweeten the deal. You're really getting us out of a bind, so why don't we call it five hundred thousand, instead?" He made the changes to the contract and slid it back to me. His company credit chip was sitting on top of the palmpadd.

  "Mr. Jensen, you've got yourself a courier." The look from across the table was one of relief and satisfaction. I tried hard to keep my face from showing the same emotions.

  Jensen left me to enjoy the rest of my meal, but not before he outlined the plan. I was to present my courier license at any of the Arconi registered facilities, where I'd be free to select the doggie of my choice. Before boarding my ship home I would again show my license and be questioned by an Arcon customs officer. Then, presto, five hundred thousand credits upon arrival on Earth.

  I confess, I lingered over the remaining courses. I'm enough of a gourmand to know that proper appreciation requires a respectful span. Jensen had already paid for the meal, and I used his corporate chip to add to the tip before leaving. My new profession beckoned. I was off to begin life as a courier.

  It didn't matter to me where I got the buffalo dog, though most couriers have all sorts of superstitions about such things. My ship departed at 1:00 a.m., leaving me nearly ten hours to kill. I took my time, decided to enjoy a good walk after a great meal. Pedestrian traffic was light. I passed several other couriers, identifiable by the doggies tucked comfortably under one arm. Eventually I found my way to the facility farthest from the space port's customs gate. I stopped in front of a kiosk and a short, bored looking Arcon regarded me from within.

  "You're a courier?" he asked, barely glancing at me.

  "You bet," I answered, and he waved me through, the truth of my statement as obvious as daylight.

  There was a brief flight of stairs down to the holding area and sheer chaos waiting at the bottom. Thousands of bleating, yipping, scampering buffalo dogs filled a shallow area the size of an Olympic pool. Holographic signs projected warnings of extreme combustibility and the sounds of exhaust fans provided a constant background of white noise. The buffalitos cavorted, none of them able to climb up the two foot height of their pool, though they could see the area surrounding it. They eagerly approached anyone, human or Arcon, who drew near the perimeter. The humans, a dozen or so, were couriers. I watched as they reached in to lift up one creature after another. The selection process appeared to involve hefting the buffalo dog under consideration, tucking it under first one arm and then the other, peering into its eyes, and checking the shade of its blue tongue. Superstitious ritual, but conscientiously observed nonetheless. Eventually, each courier selected a doggie and carried it over to an available Arcon for processing.

  After witnessing several variations on the process I followed the example. A very enthusiastic doggie spied me as I approached the edge of its enclosure and plowed through the nearer pups, desperate to reach me. I picked it up. Cute. Adorable really, but for five hundred thousand credits it could have been ugly as sin and I'd have done the job.

  "C'mon, little darling," I said to it, barely resisting the urge to use baby talk, "you'll do as well as any other." It farted some oxygen, bleated at me from out the other end, and stuck out its tiny tongue. Cerulean. Fine with me. I looked around for one of the Arconi that wasn't busy, found one, and walked up to her.

  "You are a courier?" she asked, her tone only slightly less bored than the fellow at the door.

  "I'm a courier," I said, "The Amazing Conroy, Master Courier, at your service." She didn't look the least bit amused.

  "And this is the buffalo dog you've selected?"

  "Absolutely," I said. "Do I get to name her?"

  She shrugged, "That is the custom, sir. I'll prepare her tags once I verify the animal's health and administer a sterilizing agent." She took the doggie from my hands and pressed a medical scanner deeply into fur.

  "Then I'm going to name her Regina. Regina Catherine Alyosious Nantucket Bitter Almonds St. Croix. What do you think, is it too much?" What can I say, I was on my way to being a half-millionaire, well fed, and in a great mood.

  The Arcon frowned. "I would recommend a more masculine name, sir. You've selected a male. He is in excellent health, but if you'd prefer a female instead you are free to put him back and bring up another for verification and sterilization."

  I shrugged, "What's in a name? No, this one is fine, I'll just call him Reggie. Go ahead, you can sterilize and tag him."

  She shook her head. "I'll b
e happy to tag him for you, sir, but only the female buffalo dogs are sterilized." She handed the doggie back to me. "If you'll come this way, I'll prepare Reggie's tags."

  Five minutes later I exited with Reggie tucked complacently under my left arm, the blue plastic disk of his new tag hanging prettily from his left ear. The entire process had taken barely a quarter of an hour. It was a long walk back to the port, and more than once I had the feeling that someone was following me. I made my way to customs and immediately recognized the officer on duty. He was the fattest Arcon I had ever seen, and for that reason alone I'd had him up on stage as a subject during my first week. He'd gone under easily and loved the experience. After the show he came back stage and shook my hand, something the Arconi simply never did. He did it again now when it was my turn at the customs gate, and added only the second smile I'd ever seen from an Arcon. I was in the presence of a fan.

  "Mr. Conroy, I was so sorry to hear about your recent problems with the authorities," he said. In the little kilometer square city rumor traveled at the speed of light, and buffalo dog gossip maybe even a bit faster. "But you've bounced back nicely, I see. I'm delighted to have the privilege of clearing you. This is your first trip as a courier, isn't it?"

  I searched my memory again, using the same mnemonic tricks that let me remember thousands of individual key phrases and their respective hypnotic subjects. "Thank you, and my last, I suspect. I'm a hypnotist, really. Sergilo, wasn't it?"

  He beamed, standing a bit taller and straighter as if I'd just made him godfather to the Prince of Gibrahl. "That's right, Mr. Conroy. I'm flattered you remember. Well, let's get you processed and cleared without delay. I just have a couple quick questions and you'll be free to board your ship. Ready? Are you a licensed courier? Did you obtain this buffalo dog in the prescribed and lawful manner? And is this the only buffalo dog you'll be transporting? Just answer 'yes' or 'no,' please."

  I replied yes three times. The Arcon kept eye contact with me and nodded at each answer, confirming the truth in my mind. I grinned and asked, "Aren't you going to ask me if the critter's sterile?"