ALIEN
BY GEORGE O. SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction, October 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The telephone rang and the lieutenant of police Timothy McDowellgrunted. He put down his magazine, and hastily covered thepartially-clad damsel on the front cover before he answered the ringingphone.
"McDowell," he grunted.
"McDowell," came the voice in his ear. "I think ye'd better come overehere."
"What's up?"
"Been a riot at McCarthy's on Boylston Street."
"That's nothing new," growled McDowell, "excepting sometimes it'sHennesey's on Dartmouth or Kelley's on Massachusetts."
"Yeah, but this is different."
"Whut's so different about a riot in a jernt like McCarthy's on astreet like Boylston?"
"Well, the witnesses say it wuz started by a guy wearin' feathersinstead uv hair."
"A bird, you mean."
"Naw. 'Twas a big fella, according to tales. A huge guy that refusedto take off his hat and they made a fuss. They offered to toss himout until he uncovered, and when he did, here was this full head offeathers. There was a general titter that roared up into a full laugh.The guy got mad."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He got mad and made a few swings. 'Twas quite a riot."
"What did McCarthy expect—a dance? When a guy gets laughed at forhaving feathers instead of hair.... Holy St. Patrick! Feathers, did yesay?"
"Yup."
"Look, O'Leary," growled McDowell angrily, "you've not been drinkin'yourself, have ye?"
"Nary a drop, lieutenant."
"So this bird takes off his hat and shows feathers. The crowd laughsand he gets mad. Then what?"
"Well, he tossed the bartender through the plate glass window, clippedMcCarthy on the button and tossed him across the bar and wrecked aboutfifteen hundred dollars worth of fine Irish whiskey. Then he sort ofpicked up Eddy, the bouncer, and hit Pete, the waiter, with him. Then,having started and finished his own riot, the guy takes his drink,downs it, and stamps out, slamming the door hard enough to break theglass."
"Some character," glowed McDowell, admiringly. "But what am I supposedto do?"
"McCarthy wants to swear out a warrant for the guy. But before we do, Iwant to know more about this whole thing. First off, what's a man doingwearing feathers instead of honest hair?"
"Ask him," grunted McDowell.
"Shall I issue the warrant?"
"Yeah—disturbing the peace. He did that, anyway. And if it's someadvertising stunt—this feathers business—I'll have some wiseacrein jail in the morning. Look, O'Leary, I'll meet you at McCarthy'sin ten minutes." He hung up the phone and snapped the button on hiscommunicator.
"Doc?" he barked. "Come along if you want to. We've got us a guywearing feathers instead of hair!"
"Trick," growled the doctor. "Go away. No one can grow feathers insteadof hair."
"That's why I want you along. Come on, Doc. This is an order!"
"Confound you and your orders." He hung up angrily, and the lieutenantheard him breaking up the poker game as he snapped his own switchclosed.
It was ten minutes to the second when the car pulled up beforeMcCarthy's. O'Leary was already inside, talking to a man holding achunk of raw beef to his eye.
"Now," said McDowell, entering with the doctor on his heels, "what'sthis about feathers?"
"Swear it, lieutenant. An' I want the de