Now that Rogan could see the layout, it was a simple matter to locate the switch, remove the access panel beneath it, and pull a handful of brightly colored spaghetti out into the light.

  After tracing the wires and checking them against the three-dimensional schematic that the robot projected into the air, Rogan hooked them together in a way that would bypass the harvey’s on-off switch. The next time the machine went offline, the maintenance droids would be able to restart the harvester by themselves.

  As Rogan stood, he felt the deck lurch under his feet and realized how stupid he’d been. The gigantic machine was rolling forward and the grav truck was sitting in the way. The emergency shutoff button was right there, waiting for his fist to slam down on it, but a system-by-system restart would take an hour—an hour that would put the harvest even further behind.

  It took more than a minute for Rogan to retrace his steps, descend the ladder, and jump to the ground. His legs pumped like pistons and the race was on. The truck was just ahead, but the harvester was rumbling along right behind him, its jaws gobbling wheat. All it would take was one misstep and it would be over.

  Then Rogan was there. He ran the length of the truck and scrambled into the cockpit. He had left the vehicle on standby, and the response was instantaneous. One moment the giant harvester was nipping at the truck’s rear end and the next moment Rogan was airborne and climbing like hell. He had leveled off when Wally spoke in his head. “That was impressive but not especially bright.”

  Rogan scowled. “Who the hell asked you?”

  Silence prevailed until Rogan arrived over valley NH/Q23-7819.

  A long, slow river meandered down its middle. The water was higher than normal but part of a different drainage system and less active than tributary NH/Q17-3514 had been.

  Orchards bordered both sides of the river. And, with their own needs in mind, machines had laid the trees out in orderly rows. Sunlight flashed off metal as an eight-armed robo-picker plucked apples from branches. Rogan lowered the grav truck onto a duracrete pad and checked with Wally. His anger had dissipated by then, but he still sounded gruff. “So give me the numbers.”

  Wally was ready and rattled off a long series of statistics, including the average number of apples per tree, projected shipping weight, long-term mutation rates, vitamin and nutritional values, picking speed, and how those figures compared with previous crops.

  Rogan left the truck and walked toward the nearest trees. Weed-suppressing grass had been planted between the trunks and gave slightly under his boots. Insects that were designed to cross-pollinate the surrounding plants and provide food for the Type 1 fliers that buzzed around his head. Rogan didn’t mind in the least. What had started as an expression of restrained hope turned to a smile and quickly grew into a grin. The apple harvest was better than predicted. Something was going right for a change!

  Rogan approached a heavily laden branch, plucked a cube-shaped apple from it, and examined the fruit for flaws. There were none. The shape was perfect for packing and transshipment.

  While the pale green skin was resistant to the effects of mechanized picking, it still yielded to his bite. The apple’s interior was firm, white, and wonderfully crisp. Juice flooded his mouth as he chewed. Rogan realized he was hungry, so he ate the rest of the apple too . . . cinnamon-flavored seeds and all.

  Then with a lightheartedness he hadn’t felt in days, he made his way to the truck and took off. It was only later, while sitting in the big empty house, that Rogan poured himself a drink.

  Chapter Two

  WANTED

  For fraud, forgery, and interplanetary flight from prosecution, Jennifer Tran, aka Jennifer Wong and Jennifer Jones. Tran is a twenty-seven-year-old humanoid of Asian extraction. She has black hair, brown eyes, and a slender build. Height: five feet one inch. Weight: approximately ninety-five pounds. Tran has a tattoo in the form of a red rose located toward the top of her right breast, smokes stim sticks, and has a fondness for flashy clothes. She has no history of violence but keeps company with those who do. Approach with extreme caution.

  (Excerpted from INTERPOL INPLANCOMNET BULLETIN SD-06/17/2173.) The Planet Crumby II

  The grav station was about half-ful. At least half the crowd consisted of droids carrying out a wide variety of tasks that sentients didn’t want to do. The rest of the passengers were locals on their way to work, people on shopping trips, or tourists seeing the sights. And though not a tourist in the normal sense, Jennifer Tran wasn’t a local either.

  Doors slid open as the grav train entered the station and came to a stop in front of a platform. There was a commotion as dozens of people got off and others hurried to board.

  Tran scanned the platform for cops and jumped on board. The doors closed behind her, and the gender-neutral voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “The train is about to start. Please hang on.” Tran obeyed. Droids received the warning via low-powered radio, and nonhumans “heard” the instruction in a variety of ways depending on their physiology and psychological preferences.

  The train surged forward and entered a tunnel, and Tran allowed herself to relax. It had taken the better part of an hour to lose the cop—way too long for someone of her experience.

  Was she getting old? No, not yet, although she didn’t feel very good.

  The eye hurt where Jones had struck her the night before, and Tran resisted the temptation to reach up and touch it. Her makeup was heavier than usually and likely to smear. The black eye and a collection of bruises were all she had to show for her two-year relationship with Joman Jones. Well, no more. Jones would get his, and right where it would hurt the most: in the wallet.

  A humming sound caused Tran to turn and look. A baseball-sized globe had detached itself from a maintenance droid and was drifting her way. A correspondingly smallbeacon was mounted on top of it and strobed on and off. A copeye! The piece of crap had snuck aboard disguised as the robotic equivalent of a goiter. Even though it was a machine, the copeye stillmanaged to sound officious. “Jennifer Tran! Stay where you are! Law enforcement officers have been summoned. Jennifer Tran . . .”

  The next words were muffled because Tran snatched a shopping bag from a female Zyphid’s tool tentacle, turned it upside down, and pulled the now empty sack down over the copeye’s spherical body. Zyphids considered peanut butter a delicacy, and five jars of the stuff hit the floor.

  A tourist stood and moved toward Tran. He was big and menacing, but as the train slowed, his foot landed on a jar of peanut butter and he went down in a spectacular flurry of arms and legs. The doors swished open as the train came to a stop, and a pair of steroidal cops bulled their way aboard. Tran threw the sack at the first one and ran toward the other end of the car.

  The rear sliders were open, which allowed her to barge out onto the platform, which was half-full. Tran screamed “Fire!” and pointed toward the train. Most of the sentients ran away from the nonexistent blaze, while all the robots rolled, hopped, and spidered forward—not because they were heroic but because their programming forced them to do so.

  As the police were about to leave the train, they were immediately “saved” by a gang of fifteen droids. The cops struggled to free themselves but were quickly overpowered and carried toward the safety of an emergency exit.

  Tran ran like hell. Anyone or anything that got in the way received a shove, including a robot, a four-armed Imwat, and an old lady. Once in the clear, Tran raced up an escalator and out into bright sunshine.

  Ondu was a city of approximately twenty million beings, and in spite of the benefits of massive telecommuting, at least ten or twenty percent of the citizens were out and about at any given time. That meant crowds, and crowds meant safety—but only if she could blend in.

  Tran forced herself to stop in front of a shop window. A pretty face looked back at her. Well, it would have been pretty if it hadn’t been for the bruises and heavy makeup. Tran had almond-shaped eyes, a well-formed nose, and fulllips. She gave them a fresh coat of lipstick, pouted for the man watching from inside the store, and continued on her way.

  After that it was a simple matter to remove her reversible jacket, carry it for a block or so, and put it on inside out. The purse contained nothing of value, so that went into a trash can.

  Fewer than five seconds were required to reset the programmable wig from purple to a more conservative red. Fifteen minutes after her run-in with the police, Tran looked entirely different and felt like eating lunch, an activity that would get her in off the street as well.

  Lunch, especially in a nice restaurant, was one of Tran’s favorite vices. She spotted a place called Mitzel’s Bistro and crossed in the middle of the block. A robotic delivery van beeped and screeched to a tire-shredding halt. Tran ignored it.

  The restaurant’s interior was dark and inviting. She entered, swept the room for cops, and smiled at the maître d’. He ran a practiced eye over her clothes, correctly estimated their value, and smiled in return. “Good afternoon, madam. A table for one?”

  Tran nodded. “Yes, thank you. Something private would be nice. A corner perhaps?”

  The maître d’ bowed. “Of course. Follow me.” He led her to a table, introduced a waiter, and disappeared. After lingering over the menu, Tran chose the genetically lemon-flavored chicken and a glass of Chablis. It was a little too sweet but palatable nevertheless. As Tran savored the wine, she considered the meeting ahead.

  Jamar-Jalmar was a sweet but gullible Sentha who had landed on Crumby I a short time before and had the misfortune of catching Joman Jones’s eye. Having spotted the mark, the con man followed the alien home and kept an eye on him for the next three days.

  During that time Jones gathered all sorts of information about the Sentha, including a rough idea of his net worth and where he did his banking, both of which were necessary to set the alien up.

  No one knew where the bank examiner con had come from, or who had invented the scheme, except to say that it had human origins and had been around for hundreds of years.

  Numerous variations had been developed, but the basic concept remained the same.

  The mark was approached by a person who claimed to be a bank examiner but was actually a con artist. After working his or her way into the victim’s confidence, the phony official would explain that he or she was investigating a dishonest bank employee and request the depositor’s assistance. By making a large cash withdrawal and allowing the examiner to check the serial numbers, the customer could help catch a crook.

  Except that the examiner was the crook. And once the mark surrendered his or her money, the mark would never see it again. That’s what Jones had planned for Jamar-Jalmar, except that Tran planned to con the con artist and keep the loot for herself.

  Tran told her pocket com what number to call and waited for the phone to ring. Jamar-Jalmar had a top-of-the-line voice synthesizer. “You have reached the Jamar-Jalmar dwelling.

  How may this being help?”

  “Greetings, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. This is Ms. Arlo at First Intersystems Bank.”

  “Hello, Ms. Arlo. It is an honor to exchange verbal pleasantries with you.”

  “And with you, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. Did I reach you at a bad time?”

  “No,” the alien replied, “the time is good. What can this being do for you?”

  “You remember Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes,” Jamar-Jalmar replied happily, “a nice being much interested in identifying and apprehending dishonest workers.”

  “Exactly,” Tran replied carefully. “Well, Mr. Jones asked me to call and change the time of the meeting from three p.m. to one p.m.—if that’s convenient for you.”

  “I see,” Jamar-Jalmar said thoughtfully. “I did have plans to sharpen my beak, but I can do that later. Where will we meet?”

  “That’s the other thing,” Tran said smoothly. “An emergency arose and Mr. Jones asked that I take his place.”

  “Well, I’m sure Mr. Jones knows best,” the alien said trustingly. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “In front of your building will be fine,” Tran replied. “And don’t forget to bring a suitcase.”

  “A suitcase?” Jamar-Jalmar asked hesitantly. “What for?”

  “To hold the money,” Tran said. “Unless you have some rather large pockets.”

  The synthesizer made some grunting sounds that Tran took to be laughter. “No, Ms. Arlo. I have no pockets, large or small. I will bring a suitcase.”

  “Excellent,” Tran replied. “I’ll pick you up at twelve forty-five. And one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I might need to reach you—so stay off your com. And don’t answer unless you hear two beeps, followed by a pause, followed by two more beeps.”

  “It shall be as you say,” the alien agreed. “I will see you at twelve forty-five.”

  “Thank you.” The click was followed by a dial tone and a four-second commercial. Tran smiled and finished her lunch. The top-of-the-line stim stick and the specially blended coffee made for a nice combination.

  Tran’s auto-cab pulled up in front of Jamar-Jalmar’s apartment complex at exactly twelve forty-five. It was one of more than three hundred tall buildings that fronted the north end of green belt 6. And, like the rest of the structures that stretched to the east and west, the south side of the high-rise was tiled with solar cells. The cells met about thirty percent of the building’s power requirements and helped keep overhead down, an issue of some importance to the cost-conscious tenants who lived and worked there. Sunlight glinted off glass doors as Jamar-Jalmar shuffled out into the open.

  The alien was a comic figure by human standards. His birdlike beak protruded from a small head. His saucer shaped eyes seemed to bulge with pent-up emotion, while a well-rounded tummy suggested a balloon about to pop. Clothes so loose that they flapped in the breeze added to the overall impression.

  But XTs can be and usually are deceiving. The Sentha were no exception. They ruled a sizable empire and had a reputation as fierce warriors. Still, it was hard to see Jamar-Jalmar as threatening, and Tran hurried to meet him. She made the hand gesture that was equivalent to a smile. Jones had taught her well. “Know your mark,” he liked to say. “Especially XTs.” And Tran had done her homework. The voice synthesizer sounded even better than it had on the phone. “Hello, Ms. Arlo. Your body looks wonderful.”

  Tran smiled encouragingly. “And yours, Citizen Jamar-Jalmar. May I help with the suitcase?”

  The alien signaled a negative response. “There is no need, Ms. Arlo. The suitcase is empty.”

  The very thought of the suitcase and the money that would fill it made Tran weak in the knees. “Yes, well, jump in, and we’ll be off.”

  “It shall be as you say,” Jamar-Jalmar agreed, struggling to fit his large feet into the back of the cab. “We must trap this worker and ensure her punishment.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Tran said, thinking of Jones and closing the door.

  The auto-cab made its way through heavy traffic by squirting radio signals at lowly cargo carriers and ordering them out of the way. Jamar-Jalmar had plenty to say about the planet, the city, and the lack of Sentha-friendly services, so Tran let him roll. The vehicle stopped in front of the First Intersystems Bank, better known to those in the financial community as the FIB.

  Jones had chosen this particular branch because it served many of the city’s high rollers and the staff were accustomed to handling large amounts of cash.

  Tran pulled a credit card out of her pocket ran it through the vehicle’s scanner and accompanied the alien toward the bank. “Watch that door . . . It rotates.”

  The words came too late. Though supposedly XT accessible, the door had a distinctly human bias, so Jamar-Jalmar made two full rotations before Tran managed to pull him free.

  The lobby was a cavernous affair much given to marble and highly polished wood. Most sentients did their banking from home, but there were those who preferred to make transactions in person. A quick glance at the staff and customers revealed some barely hidden smiles but nothing more. Aliens, even clumsy aliens, were commonplace. Tran plastered a smile on her face and adopted the persona of the Good Samaritan. “You’re all right? Good. The window you want is right over there.”

  Tran approached a self-service terminal and entered a random series of numbers while the alien waddled up to the appropriate window. The teller was an attractive young woman of average height and build. Tran strained to hear the ensuing conversation. “Good afternoon, Citizen. How may I help you?”

  Jamar-Jalmar was reasonably smooth but had a tendency to offer extraneous information.

  “Good afternoon. Your body looks wonderful. An emergency has arisen. A large amount of cash is required.”

  The teller nodded pleasantly and gestured toward a species-neutral keyboard. “Of course.

  Please enter your account number, the amount you wish to withdraw, and your personal password.”

  Jamar-Jalmar had surprisingly delicate three-fingered hands. They flew over the keyboard.

  The teller looked up from her transaction monitor and cleared her throat. “That is a rather large amount of cash. Could I offer you an electronic transfer or a cashier’s check instead?”

  “Thank you, but no,” Jamar-Jalmar replied.

  Tran held her breath and prepared to flee. If the teller summoned a manager and the manager asked the right questions, the con would come apart like wet cardboard. But the alien had all the necessary information and the teller was eager to please. “As you wish. Did you bring a container of some kind? If not, I can provide one.”

  Tran released her breath in a long, slow sigh. She was over the hump, or nearly so, and a block from easy street. Jamar-Jalmar passed the suitcase across the counter. The teller took it and went to get the cash.