Alan Dean Foster Read Free

areas, grimmer than many, with only the occasional unexpected touch to remind a visitor that it was populated largely by refugees from another world.
    Sometimes you had to know just where to look in order to be able to tell where you were. Sykes and Tuggle had been on the street a long time and knew where to look.
    Newcomers filled the oversized chairs of a grungy allnight diner. The chair backs and seats had been locally modified to accept their expansive frames.
    Another Newcomer emerged from a double doorway off on their right as the slugmobile slid down the street. Tuggle noted the inscription on the window next to the doors. The old laundromat had been converted into a night school for aliens.
    They passed a city park, still green despite an obvious lack of regular maintenance. City workers weren't fond of the alien end of town. Weeds had supplanted much of the original grass and had also invaded the cracks in the sidewalk, advancing on the once sacrosanct pavement itself. Despite the lateness of the hour a group of alien families had gathered to enjoy each other's company. They were engaged in an alien game of uncertain purpose and incomprehensible strategy. Sykes stared and shook his head, trying to make some sense of it and failing utterly as Tuggle pointed the slugmobile up Washington.
    "Jeez, they call that organized gang-bang a game?" Tuggle pursed his lips.
    On the billboard to their right, an exquisite female alien displayed yard-high white teeth while pressing a cold Pepsi to her lips. The billboard was the only piece of new construction in the immediate neighborhood.
    Tuggle slowed as they approached the next intersection, the light against them. As soon as they slowed to a halt, a huge palm slammed against the window close by Sykes's head. He jerked back involuntarily, startled, then relaxed when he got a good look at the hand's owner.
    The Newcomer was a derelict. Mumbling in his own sibilant language, he stood next to the car, weaving in place while fighting to stay erect. Filth and grime coated his face and worn clothing and his eyes were half-lidded and blood-11
    shot. One dirty, broken-nailed fist clutched a quart carton of milk. It looked small as a pint in the massive palm.
    Tuggle glanced speculatively in his partner's direction. Sykes returned a look of disgust, shook his head negatively, then rolled down the window on the alien's side.
    "Can't you see this is a cop car, buddy? Look, we ain't in the mood tonight. So take a hike, okay?"
    As soon as he finished he caught a full whiff of the derelict's breath.
    Wincing, he rolled up the window as Tuggle pulled away. In the enclosed atmosphere of the slugmobile the smell was slow to dissipate.
    Tuggle's eyes took in the rearview. "He's standing in the middle of the street, waving his arms."
    Sykes didn't bother to look back. The disgust was still clear on his face, his nose still wrinkled against the odor. "No traffic and it's late. He'll move in a minute or two and find himself an alley somewhere." Digging into his pocket, he found a plastic container of breath mints and popped a couple into his mouth. Tuggle refused the offer of one and the container vanished anew.
    "Why's it have to be sour milk that these guys get wasted on? What the hell's wrong with Jack Daniels, or Thunderbird, for crissakcs?"
    Tuggle shrugged, his favorite gesture. He was a lot less flamboyant than his partner, and consciously so. "Beats me. Beats some of the eggheads, too, from what I've read about it. The Newcomers' physiology is full of curves, some of lem physical, some of 'em chemical. You got to admit one thing: it's a cheap drunk."
    "Yeah." Sykes stared out the window, studying lights and lonely streets.
    "Slagtown. Wonder what this part of L.A. used to be called before the Newcomers moved in?"
    "Don't ask me. I ain't no history buff."
    Tuggle turned the slugmobile up Broadway, now home to all-night liquor stores and cheap parlor entertainments. The theaters were nearly all