I'm posting this a little early because I have to take some time to work on a story for the fund raiser. It might be a week or so before I post again. Anyway, I hope you like it.
Outlaw: Part 2 -- Symbiote 6/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VI
"Twenty seconds to sublight," Mark said.
Alan studied the computer readout. "What's Quesall like?"
"Cold. You're gonna need that coat ol' Andy supplied. Ten seconds."
"About Andy ..."
"Yeah?"
There was a jolt as the ship converted to sublight. A planet appeared in the screen before them.
Quesall was an Earth-like planet with one important difference. It was presently in the tail end of an ice age. Glaciers covered the continents of the northern and southern hemispheres, and only the band around the equator, no more than thirty degrees wide, showed unglaciated terrain. Mark set the coordinates and slouched down in his chair. "What about him?"
"How do you know you can trust him?"
"Oh, that." Mark grinned. "In case you didn't guess, Andy's Oddities is the center o' the black market trade on Shallock, so Andy ain't about to draw attention to himself. But there's more."
"And that is?"
"He's a Procyon. They're a funny species: complacent, tendin' to flow with the tide. They've never put up much resistance to the Jils, but the owls never forget a debt. I saved ol' Andy from a penal colony, once, a long time ago. I was just a kid -- twelve or thirteen -- but he's never forgotten it."
"What happened?"
"He damn near got caught with some hot Jilectan goods. The Jils don't get upset if other species lose money through smugglin', but they don't like it a bit when it happens to them. I was old enough to know a good thing when I saw it, an' bein' the resourceful soul I am, I managed t'delay the Patrol 'til he could get away. All innocent, 'o course. The 'trols never suspected a thing. Andy was real grateful, though, an' let me know in no uncertain terms that if he could ever return the favor, he'd be glad to. 'Course, I ain't one to let somethin' like that get away. I kept in contact with Andy, knowin' I might really need him, someday."
"Oh," Alan said. "I guess that makes sense. I have a question, though. Why haven't the Jils read that in your mind?"
Mark grinned. "You gotta understand, and you will if you think about it. Jils ain't gods, even though they like to think they are. They can't see everythin' in your mind just by lookin'. They hafta look for specific kindsa' things, like when I got scanned the day I enlisted. The Jil who was doin' the scan was lookin' to see if we'd be good Patrol material: makin' sure none of us were spies, or psychics, or psychos -- much, that is. He had t'scan a couple o' thousand candidates. He didn't have time t'start pryin' around in our sex lives or petty criminal pasts. Everybody on Shallock's got one o' those. Jils don't like readin' Terran minds, even though they do it. Emotion gets in the way, too. They look for what they're interested in. If you're thinkin' about somethin' specific, or they're lookin' for all the criminal incidents in your past, they'll find it o'course, but they really ain't interested in your past life, anymore than a farmer's interested in his cow's past. It's that simple."
"Yeah," Alan said slowly. "I think I see."
Quesall was swelling on the screen. Their speed increased as they entered its gravity well, and Mark touched a stud on the control board, transmitting their identification signal to the Paln Spaceport. A thin whine of atmosphere began.
The com twittered. "Paln Spaceport Traffic Control."
"Receiving," Alan said promptly. "This is the cargo ship, 'Sweet Adeline', requesting permission to land."
Numbers clicked across the tiny screen. Again the computerized voice spoke. "Permission granted. Assigning coordinates."
The cargo ship settled neatly to the ground in the designated spot some fifteen minutes later and Mark cut the engines. He glanced at Alan. "We're here. Let's go pick up our cargo."
It was evening on this part of Quesall and, as Mark had predicted, it was cold. A brisk wind blew, and a light coating of snow covered the landing field as they strode toward the spaceport. Alan produced the claim disk given to them by Ch'Andeel. "The cargo's supposed to be at dock 397."
"Okay." Linley shoved his hands into the roomy pockets of the heavy coat. "Man, it's cold! Let's cut through the main terminal over there."
They passed through the Customs scanners and entered the building a moment later. It was warm inside, and Alan pulled off the soft, fur cap and shook off the flakes of snow. Crowds pushed past them. Linley saw a Procyon, looking like a Terran polar bear in his heavy fur clothing, and an Arcturian, clad with deceptive lightness in a thin, flowing cape over the flight suit of a private pilot. Arcturians never paid much attention to extremes of weather -- understandable to anyone familiar with the conditions prevailing on Ceregon, the home world of the pseudo-reptiles in the Arcturus system.
Something caught his eye and he nudged Alan sharply in the ribs. "Better put your hat back on."
"Huh?"
Linley nodded at the bulletin board, and Alan followed his gaze. Mark saw him go pale and replace his hat in haste. The posters were quite new, he noted with professional interest. Two faces looked down at them: one blond and handsome, the other very young with curly, dark hair and brilliant, green eyes. The reward for Mark's capture was 10,000 credits; Alan's 50,000. The cadet's eyes were enormous. "What'll we *do*?"
"We'll go pick up our cargo. It's a big galaxy, an' no one's expectin' us t'show up here. Take it easy."
Alan swallowed. "I suppose you're right, but I feel awfully conspicuous with that poster staring down at me."
"Let's go have a look." Mark sauntered casually over to the board. "Yuk. I hate that shot. They took it last year, right after I got promoted to Strike Commander. I was just gettin' over the stomach flu, an' feelin' like hell, but tryin' not to show it. Damn, whatta stupid grin."
Alan was studying the photo of himself. "That was taken for the Academy yearbook, eighteen months ago. I'd been up all night studying; gosh, I look like death warmed over."
Linley grinned. "Look what it says about us, too. Murder. I'm an accessory, an' accordin' to this, you gunned Salthvor down in cold blood. Wonder how many Terrans'll swallow that? -- not that many of 'em are gonna care. You already got one admirer." He pointed to the fine line of feminine script, encircled by a heart beneath Alan's description. "A.W.+ J.S., X X X."
Alan leaned forward to read it, and laughed.
"Well," Linley said, "we'd better get a move on. Listen, with all these posters plastered everywhere, it'd probably be better if we don't appear together. I'll go. You hang around here and wait for me. It shouldn't take long."
But Alan was shaking his head. "You said it yourself. I'm the least conspicuous of the two of us. I'll go."
Linley hesitated, knowing that what his companion said was true, but reluctant to let him undertake the most dangerous part of the transaction alone. The realization hit him suddenly that Alan was very important to him -- as important as his own brother had been. Whatever happened, he didn't want his little friend captured. "You sure? I'm better at this sort of thing."
"I can do it," Alan said confidently. "Come on; trust me."
Linley hesitated a moment longer. "Okay," he said at last. "Go ahead, but be careful."
"I will." Without another word, Alan went briskly away from him through the milling crowd.
Mark watched the short, compact figure vanish amid the masses of beings, human and otherwise, and turned back toward the exit, trying to subdue a little tug of worry. Alan was a sharp kid, and the job wasn't really very hazardous. He'd be all right.
With a mental shrug, Linley shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his fur coat and went through the sliding doors onto the landing field.
The snow had begun to come down more heavily now, and it was growing darker. The wind had also risen to a brisk blow. Linley, who had grown up on a tropical planet, had never learned to like cold weather, in spite of much exposure to it in the years since. He swore silently at the hard little grains of snow that stung his face as he hurried across the open area. Man, what a planet! Why anyone would choose to live here, he didn't know -- well, actually, he did. Quesall was a paradise for winter sports, and the tourist trade had made more than one man rich in a very short space of time, but as far as Mark was concerned, they could keep it. There were other ways to make money that didn't involve putting up with such a lousy climate. The Jils didn't care much for it either, he noticed.
The boarding ramp of their small ship descended obediently to his signal and Linley half ran up it, pausing in the airlock to glance back over the ice crusted field. He hoped Alan would hurry.
Once again, as had happened several times since he'd made up his mind to rescue Alan Westover from the clutches of Lord Salthvor, a sense of incredulity swept over him. Mark wondered briefly, for at least the hundredth time, if he really was crazy. It certainly seemed a good enough explanation. He ought to be horrified at his irrational actions, and certainly at the way he had thrown away his promising career in the wink of an eye, but he wasn't. In spite of everything, it had been worth it; every bit. If he was crazy, then it was a pleasant kind of insanity, and he'd worry about the future when it arrived. At least Alan was alive, and that alone made it all worthwhile. Blasted empaths!
Linley grinned wryly to himself. Somehow he had never thought that he, of all people, could fall victim to such a thing as sheer personal charm, but that little character had it in overwhelming abundance. Maybe the Jils had a point after all, when they spoke of the terrible human psychics ...
His chronometer informed him that twenty-five minutes had passed. Alan should be on his way back, soon.
Sudden nervousness crawled over his skin and Mark shifted uncomfortably, wondering what was the matter with him. Precognition? But he was no psychic -- he couldn't be. The Jils would have discovered the fact when he enlisted in the Patrol, ten years before. And yet ...
"*Mark!* The shout reverberated through his brain. Alan's voice, loud and distinct. *Mark, help!*
Holy hell! Alan was in trouble! Linley peered out the airlock, trying to see through the whirling snow. There was no sign of the cadet, but again, he heard Alan's voice call his name. Sudden comprehension dawned, and he ran down the ramp and across the field as fast as he could move.
"Hold on, kid!" he shouted. "I'm comin'!"
There was no answer. Around him, the snow blew.
**********
VII
Dock 397 was some distance away. Alan strode down a long corridor packed with Terrans, Arcturians, Procyons and several species he failed to recognize. Then he was forced to exit through a side door and cross an open space toward a dark, low building.
The snow was coming down more thickly now, and the light had begun to fade. Alan shivered, pulling the fur hat down farther over his ears. The wind was rising, whipping flakes in clouds around him. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, squinting through the shadows at a structure ahead of him. Dim light glowed above a small, unpowered door, the hinges of which squealed loudly when he opened it. A bored-looking Terran was seated behind a counter, leafing unenthusiastically through a magazine. He glanced up indifferently as Alan entered. Behind him, Alan saw a shimmering energy barrier -- a force field. Scanners placed high on the walls followed him as he crossed the room toward the clerk.
The man laid his magazine down. "Yeah?"
Hardly a cordial greeting, Alan thought, as he presented his claim disk. "Cargo pickup."
The clerk took the disk and dropped it into a slot. There was a click and the small screen above it lit up. The man examined it and nodded. He punched a stud with his thumb and the screen went dark. Somewhere, there was a soft, whirring sound and the energy barrier went dark. At the same instant, two brawny Security guards materialized from nowhere, their stunners drawn. The clerk indicated a pile of crates by one wall. "Right there."
Alan surveyed the bulky objects. "Can I rent a cart?"
"Sure." The clerk jerked a thumb at half a dozen ancient handcarts lined up against the wall. "Forty credits. Thirty refundable when you return the cart."
Alan looked at the antique devices, thinking sourly that the whole lot of them was hardly worth forty credits, but he produced the money, received a claim slip and went over to collect a cart.
Neither of the guards offered to help, and the clerk had already returned to his magazine. Alan loaded the crates onto the rickety platform, noting that the Customs seals were already affixed to them. Forged, undoubtedly, he thought. With a last grunt of effort, he set the final crate atop its mates and began to roll them toward the cargo exit.
The clerk ignored him. Alan reached the doors and trundled the cart through. One of the Security men closed the doors behind him, and Alan was left alone.
It was almost dark outside and the cold had intensified. Icy bits of snow slapped him in the face as he headed toward the main building where he had left Mark. He was feeling smug. Linley had been afraid to trust him with the pickup, but there had been no trouble at all.
And at the thought, a little prickle of alarm coursed across his skin. A warning ... not a strong one, this time, but a warning, none-the-less. Alan leaped.
He landed on his knees behind the cart as a stunner beam hummed. The shot was close enough to lift the hair on his scalp, but it missed. Alan drew the stunner that Ch'Andeel had given him from his shoulder holster as two dark forms appeared, barely six meters away. Another stunbeam hummed.
They didn't dare use anything *but* stunbeams, Alan surmised. A blaster set to kill was easier to aim and good over a much longer distance, but it was also infernally noisy, and apparently these men wished to attract as little attention as possible, for he could see the distinctive outline of blasters in their hands.
He popped up from behind the crates and fired at one of the figures. His stunbeam caught it and the man dropped like a stone. Alan ducked behind the crates again as the other attacker took aim. The beam hummed close.
If only Mark were here! Linley would know what to do. Alan peeked out and fired, then dodged back as another stunbeam hummed past. He fired again, realizing that his adversary was flat on his belly in the snow and inching forward on his elbows, his weapon gripped in both hands. Doggone it! If the guy got close enough for hand to hand combat, Alan knew his chances were a lot worse. He hadn't been able to see much in the near-darkness, but he had seen enough to know for certain that his opponent was far larger than he. He fired, and ducked as the man returned the fire. Holy smoke! This was getting bad! If only Mark were here ...
A shadowy figure loomed out of the darkness behind the man and Alan heard the softer hum of another stunbolt. His attacker collapsed to the snow.
"Alan! Are you okay?" Mark Linley leaped over the prostrate bodies, and Alan stared in astonishment at him.
"Where did *you* drop from?"
"I heardja yell. I was --uh oh, we got company. Play it cool."
Several figures were running toward them from the main building: Terrans and Arcturians clad in the soft, grey uniform of the Spaceport Police. Mark tossed his stunner to the snow. "Drop it!" he whispered. "Quick!"
Alan's stunner landed beside Mark's. Handlights flashed over them a second later as the men converged on the scene, blasters drawn.
"What's going on here?" one of them demanded. "We got a report of stunner fire."
Mark stepped confidently forward, his hands raised over his head. "Glad you're here, sir." His voice sounded completely unruffled. "We were here for our cargo pickup and these men tried to take it away from us."
"Your identification?" The man wearing the insignia of a police sergeant spoke briskly.
Mark reached slowly into his pocket, withdrawing the forged identification card given him by Ch'Andeel. "Orville Pickman, and this is my partner, Nick Shroeder."
Alan produced his identification as well, trying not to flinch as the light played over him. How could the man fail to recognize them with the wanted posters plastered all over the spaceport? He mastered the urge to run and stood still.
The officer handed their cards back. "I'll need a statement."
One of the men on the ground moaned, trying to lift his head. A policeman bent over him, helping him to his feet. Two officers brought the limp form of the other hijacker upright and the sergeant gestured to his men.
"Bring 'em along. Curtis, take care of their cargo."
Curtis took the cart and followed as the group started toward the Security Office. As they entered the brightly illuminated room, one of the men spoke softly to his sergeant. The man glanced quickly at the hijacker, then again at his subordinate. He murmured something and his gaze flicked to Alan and Mark.
Mark didn't react overtly, but Alan could sense the tenseness in him. Oddly enough, he had lost his initial alarm. Something was going on, but it didn't mean trouble for them.
The sergeant looked closely at the second captive, then waved Mark and Alan toward a door at the back of the room. "Come this way, please." His voice was suddenly cordial.
They followed him and entered a small, comfortable office. The sergeant spoke briefly into an intercom, then gestured them to seats. "Sit down, gentlemen," he said. "And let me give you my personal thanks for your assistance. You've helped us to capture two of the most wanted cargo hijackers in the Sector. We've been after that pair for years now." He grinned in a satisfied way.
A woman entered the room, bearing a tray of coffee and what appeared to be fresh pastries. She glanced at Mark and smiled, setting the tray before them. Alan saw his friend wink at her. She dimpled and retired from the room.
"Help yourselves," the sergeant invited.
Alan picked up a mug, poured cream lavishly into it and sipped the liquid with caution. The coffee tasted wonderful after the biting cold without.
"Take your time, gentlemen." The sergeant set a small recording disk in front of them. "I'll be glad to take your statement whenever you're ready."
Alan reached for a pastry. "Well," he began.
Mark nudged him in the ribs and settled back in his chair, sipping from his mug. "Ah," he said. "That's good. I'd forgot how hellishly cold it is here. I've been haulin' cargo for eight years, and I don't think I'll ever get t'like snow."
The sergeant grinned. "Never met a Shallockian yet that did."
Mark grinned back. "Yeah. The coffee's sure welcome. I'd about froze my butt off out there." He poured more coffee and reached for a pastry. "Who were those guys, anyway?"
"Names are Bender and Mills. They've been a thorn in our sides in this part of space for the last five years. Guess they finally got careless."
"Guess so," Mark said. "Glad we could help."
Alan restrained the urge to squirm. "We probably ought to be getting that cargo back, Orv," he said, trying to sound reluctant.
Mark swigged from his cup and finished the pastry in two bites. He took another. "Yeah, I suppose. Give the Sarge your story, kid, an' I'll fill in where you can't."
"Okay," Alan said, relieved. "There actually isn't much to tell. I was taking the stuff back to the ship when those guys showed up out of nowhere and started shooting at me. I shot back, of course, and tried to ask them what they wanted, but they just kept shooting. I yelled for help and Orville showed up."
Mark finished his coffee. "I was waitin' inside, but I'd finished my work and got to feelin' guilty -- figured I'd better go help Nick out. When I stuck my head out the door, I heard him yellin', so I snuck up behind the guy that was left an' hit him with a stunner. Then you guys showed up."
The sergeant nodded matter-of-factly. "About what I figured. Okay, you can go. The stunners'll be returned."
"Thanks a lot, Sarge." Mark set his empty coffee cup down and stood up. "C'mon, kid. Time to go back to work."
An Arcturian returned their weapons and directed them to where their cart had been stowed while they were in the sergeant's office. Linley took the handle and began to push it back toward their ship, cursing softly as the thing attempted to swerve persistently to the right. "Damn antique. Why can't they put a decent anti-grav unit on these things ..."
Alan was silent, half-trotting beside him. Linley glanced at him, his face very sober. He didn't speak until they had reached their ship, and Alan wondered if he had done something wrong.
They rolled the cart into the cargo hatch, and Mark started to unload the boxes, still not speaking. Alan helped him, glancing cautiously at him from the corner of his eye. Linley hefted the last crate and stowed it beside the others. He stood back, surveying them a moment in silence, then turned toward the control room. "We better get goin'."
"The cart, Mark."
"Huh?"
"I've got a forty credit deposit on the handcart. We get thirty of it back if we return it."
Linley made a face. "Forty credits! Damn crooks! Okay, I'll take it back. Gimme the slip."
"I'll do it," Alan said.
Mark said a four-letter word. "Gimme the damned thing an' stop arguin!"
Alan did, feeling miserable. Linley's face softened. "It's okay. I ain't mad at you. We'll talk about it when I get back, okay? You just have the ship ready to go." He went out, pushing the disputed handcart before him.
Alan went into the control room. Automatically, he sealed the cargo hatch, made sure that everything was fastened down securely, readied the engines, and requested and received clearance for takeoff. A moment later, the monitors picked up a sound on the ramp and Linley entered the airlock. The ramp receded behind him and the airlock clicked shut, and Mark joined him in the control room a moment later. "Okay, let's go."
Linley didn't speak again until they were in hyperspace. When the stars on the viewscreen vanished, he sat back in his chair with a sigh and swiveled around to face Alan.
"Dammit, kid," he said slowly, "you scared the livin' daylights outta me."
"I'm sorry," Alan said.
"There ain't nothin' t'be sorry for. You did real well, but you still scared the wits outta ol' Poppa here." He looked quizzically at Alan. "Don't look so worried. You did fine."
Alan felt a glow of pride. "I'm sure glad you decided to come check on me, though. I couldn't have held that guy off much longer."
Mark sobered again. "I gotta talk to you about that."
"What?"
"I didn't decide to check up on you. I was just standin' in the airlock, waitin' for you, an' I heardja yell for me."
"Huh?"
"You heard me."
"But I *didn't* yell for you." Alan hesitated. "At least, I don't think I did. I wanted to, but I was afraid I'd attract attention."
"Yeah," Mark said.
"But I guess I could have, right when the shooting first started. I don't really remember ... you were at the *ship*?"
"Yeah. There's no way I coulda heardja from there, even if you *had* yelled. You called me telepathically -- just like you did when you fell in the pit back on Midgard."
Alan stared at him. "Mark you *are* a psychic! You must be! Non-psychics can't pick up telepathic communications, can they?"
"Evidently they can -- 'cause I know damn well I *ain't* a psychic. I'da been spotted by a Jil a long time ago. I've been *probed* by Jils! Salthvor's done it lotsa times, an' even Halthzor did it once -- that time I toldya about. And that ain't even countin' the one that read me the day I enlisted. They didn't notice nothin', apparently, an' they would have. It'll be kinda interestin' t'find out if telepaths *can* communicate with non-telepaths when we contact the Underground. They'll know."
"If we ever do," Alan said. "Funny --"
"What?"
"I had a premonition of danger just before those guys showed up, but --"
"But what?"
"It was weak again. Not strong a bit."
Linley raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"Yes. You're right. When you're with me, I'm a better psychic."
"It don't make much sense." Mark rubbed a thumb across his chin. "Sure seems that way, though. I don't understand it." He frowned. "Let's try somethin'."
"Okay, what?"
"C'mon into the lounge." He led the way back, removing his stunner from its shoulder holster as he did so, and set the weapon on the lounge table. "Now, you stand over there." He motioned to a spot a good three meters away.
"Okay." Alan obeyed, mystified. "Now what?"
"Pick it up with telekinesis."
Alan concentrated. The stunner was heavy, weighing close to a kilo. He groped and strained, feeling sweat start out on his face.
"Havin' a hard time?" Mark asked.
Alan relaxed and nodded. "It's too far away."
Mark stepped across the cabin and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now try and move it."
Alan understood instantly. If Mark's proximity made any difference in the strength of his abilities, this would tell them. He reached for the weapon again, hooking imaginary mental fingers beneath it. Mark was watching him, and Alan could feel the strength in his hard, callused fingers.
The stunner lifted without difficulty and drifted leisurely across the lounge toward them.
Mark let go of his shoulder.
The effect surprised him. It was as though a part of his strength was suddenly gone. The stunner started to fall and he had to grab for it mentally. He stopped it before it hit the deck. Mark rested his hand on Alan's shoulder again, and instantly his strength returned. The stunner floated swiftly across the remaining distance and Mark grabbed it out of the air, giving Alan a slap on the back that nearly knocked him down. "Now we know. We still don't know why, of course, but somethin' about me seems t'make you a helluva good psychic."
"When you let go it was like half my strength was gone!" Alan was as excited as Linley. "Gosh, it was weird!" He paused, frowning. "But I was still stronger than I was when you were across the room. How far away you are seems to make a difference, too."
Mark slapped him on the back again, more gently this time. "We're a team! Psychic an' non-psychic, but together we'll make a damnable headache for the Jils -- if the Underground ever finds us!"
"This is incredible, Mark! I've never heard of such a thing!"
"Me, neither," Mark said, "but there's a lot about this ol' galaxy that we don't know. Two hundred years ago, no one had any idea how to manipulate hyperspace, either. It was discovered pretty much by accident, just like this. Man! If we could just contact those jokers ..."
"But how?"
"That's the question, o' course. Bein' fugitives, we gotta lay low. We can't exactly stroll into videoheadquarters an' make a public announcement. And the Underground's s'damned elusive ... o' course, they gotta be to survive, but, dammit, it makes 'em hard to find! They're probably lookin' for us, but it'll be a while before they locate us -- maybe never."
Alan grinned at him. "Come on, Mark, it's not like you to be discouraged. We aren't doing so bad on our own, are we?"
Linley returned the grin. "I'll say we ain't. An' when we get back to Shallock, we're gonna celebrate. I know this little bar in Knitsmye where the girls are somethin' else!" He flopped down into one of the chairs and Alan took the one across from him, interested in spite of his frustrating shyness when it came to women.
"What are they like?"
Linley closed his eyes and sighed. "There's this little one named Phoebe -- blond, blue-eyed, an' --" He made motions with his hands.
Alan felt the infuriating blush creeping up his neck. Linley grinned understandingly. "You're at kind of a tough age when it comes to women, kid. I was just as bad once upon a time. Stick with me, an' I'll teachya all the ropes. Ever have a girlfriend?"
Alan shook his head sheepishly. "Not a serious one. The girls all like me, but they sort of look at me like a little brother. I'm so darned short -- well, most of 'em are taller than me."
Mark nodded. "Yeah, I can see that'd be a problem. What you need is a pretty little girl psychic. She'd be more your size. That's another good reason for contactin' the Underground. Lotsa their psychics are women." He paused. "How about the girl you said you were walkin' with when the Patrol came after you?"
"Oh ... Jessica ... Jessie Rosenberg. Nice girl -- kind of shy like me. I liked her, but there was nothing serious going on. She's older than me, anyway."
"Oh." Linley leaned back in his chair. "Well, when we get back t'Shallock we'll see about meetin' a few girls. We won't go to Wingle's Bar, though. The gals there might recognize me. We'll go to another one, okay?"
"Okay," Alan said.
**********
tbc
