For a moment he thought they were ignoring him, that the driver might not have heard him, that they’d try and make a break for it…that they’d speed up and sideswipe him. But the driver eased the car to the curb and stopped.
Then he slid sidewise, pulled up his legs and crossed them neatly at the ankles. On the top of the dashboard.
Polchik walked around to the driver’s side. “Turn it off. Everybody out.”
There were six of them. None of them moved. The driver closed his eyes slowly, then tipped his Irkutsk fur hat over his eyes till it rested on the bridge of his nose. Polchik reached into the car and turned it off. He pulled the keys…
“Hey! Whuzzis allabout?” one of the kids in the back seat—a boy with terminal acne—complained. His voice began and ended on a whine. Polchik re-stuck the gumball.
The driver looked up from under the fur. “Wasn’t breaking any laws.” He said each word very slowly, very distinctly, as though each one was on a printout.
And Polchik knew he’d been right. They were on the lizard.
He opened the door, free hand hanging at the needler. “Out. All of you, out.”
Then he sensed Brillo lurking behind him, in the middle of the street. Good. Hope a damned garbage truck hits him.
He was getting mad. That wasn’t smart. Carefully, be said, “Don’t make me say it again. Move it!”
He lined them up on the sidewalk beside the car, in plain sight. Three girls, three guys. Two of the guys with long, stringy hair and the third with a scalplock. The three girls wearing tammy cuts. All six sullen-faced, drawn, dark smudges under the eyes. The lizard. But good clothes, fairly new. He couldn’t just hustle them, he had to be careful.
“Okay, one at a time, empty your pockets and pouches onto the hood of the car.”
“Hey, we don’t haveta do that just because…”
“Do it!”
“Don’t argue with the pig,” one of the girls said, lizardspacing her words carefully. “He’s probably trigger happy.”
Brillo rolled up to Polchik. “It is necessary to have a probable cause clearance from the precinct in order to search, sir.”
“Not on a stop’n’frisk,” Polchik snapped, not taking his eyes off them. He had no time for nonsense with the can of cogs. He kept his eyes on the growing collection of chits, change, code-keys, combs, nail files, toke pipes and miscellania being dumped on the Ford’s hood.
“There must be grounds for suspicion even in a spot search action, sir,” Brillo said.
“There’s grounds. Narcotics.”
“‘Nar…you must be outtayer mind,” said the one boy who slurred his words. He was working something other than the lizard.
“That’s a pig for you,” said the girl who had made the trigger happy remark.
“Look,” Polchik said, “you snots aren’t from around here. Odds are good if I run b b tests on you, we’ll find you’re under the influence of the lizard.”
“Heyyyy!” the driver said. “The what?”
“Warrior-lizard,” Polchik said.
“Oh, ain’t he the jive thug,” the smartmouth girl said. “He’s a word user. I’ll bet he knows all the current rage phrases. A philologist. I’ll bet he knows all the solecisms and colloquialisms, catch phrases, catachreses, nicknames and vulgarisms. The ‘warrior-lizard,’ indeed.”
Damned college kids, Polchik fumed inwardly. They always try to make you feel stupid; I coulda gone to college—if I didn’t have to work. Money, they probably always had money. The little bitch.
The driver giggled. “Are you trying to tell me, Mella, my dear, that this Peace Officer is accusing us of being under the influence of the illegal Bolivian drug commonly called Guerrera-Tuera?” He said it with pinpointed scorn, pronouncing the Spanish broadly: gwuh-rare-uh too-err-uh.
Brillo said, “Reviewing my semantic tapes, sir, I find no analogs for ‘Guerrera-Tuera’ as ‘warrior-lizard.’ True, guerrero in Spanish means warrior, but the closest spelling I find is the feminine noun guerra. which translates as war. Neither guerrera nor tuera appear in the Spanish language. If tuera is a species of lizard, I don’t seem to find it—”
Polchik had listened dumbly. The weight on his shoulders was monstrous. All of them were on him. The kids, that lousy stinking robot—they were making fun, such fun, such damned fun of him! “Keep digging,” he directed them. He was surprised to hear his words emerge as a series of croaks.
“And blood and breath tests must be administered, sir—”
“Stay the hell outta this!”
“We’re on our way home from a party,” said the boy with the scalplock, who had been silent till then. “We took a short-cut and got lost.”
“Sure,” Polchik said. “In the middle of Manhattan, you got lost.” He saw a small green bottle dumped out of the last girl’s pouch. She was trying to push it under other items. “What’s that?”
“Medicine,” she said. Quickly. Very quickly. Everyone tensed.
“Let me see it.” His voice was even.
He put out his hand for the bottle, but all six watched his other hand, hanging beside the needler. Hesitantly, the girl picked the bottle out of the mass of goods on the car’s hood, and handed him the plastic container.
Brillo said, “I am equipped with chemical sensors and reference tapes in my memory bank enumerating common narcotics. I can analyze the suspected medicine.”
The six stared wordlessly at the robot. They seemed almost afraid to acknowledge its presence.
Polchik handed the plastic bottle to the robot.
Brillo depressed a color-coded key on a bank set flush into his left forearm, and a panel that hadn’t seemed to be there a moment before slid down in the robot’s chest. He dropped the plastic bottle into the opening and the panel slid up. He stood and buzzed.
“You don’t have to open the bottle?” Polchik asked.
“No, sir.”
“Oh.”
The robot continued buzzing. Polchik felt stupid, just standing and watching. After a few moments the kids began to smirk, then to grin, then to chuckle openly, whispering among themselves. The smartmouthed girl giggled viciously. Polchik felt fifteen years old again; awkward, pimply, the butt of secret jokes among the long-legged high school girls in their miniskirts who had been so terrifyingly aloof he had never even considered asking them out. He realized with some shame that he despised these kids with their money, their cars, their flashy clothes, their dope. And most of all, their assurance. He, Mike Polchik, had been working hauling sides of beef from the delivery trucks to his old man’s butcher shop while others were tooling around in their Electrics. He forced the memories from his mind and took out his anger and frustration on the metal idiot still buzzing beside him.
“Okay, okay, how long does it take you?”
“Tsk, tsk,” said the driver, and went cross-eyed. Polchik ignored him. But not very well.
“I am a mobile unit, sir. Experimental model 44. My parent mechanism—the Master Unit AA—at Universal Electronics laboratories is equipped to perform this function in under one minute.”
“Well, hurry it up. I wanna run these hairies in.”
“Gwuh-rare-uh too-er-uh,” the scalplock said in a nasty undertone.