“Got a problem with Kurds not trusting the USG all of a sudden, hey?” Kelly said, his voice struggling against the leash his conscious mind was trying to keep on it. Pierrard’s face was the only thing in the room which was not receding from focus. “Couldn’t be because of the way Operation Birdlike was wrapped up with all the finesse of a hand grenade, d’ye suppose?”
“Yes, of course that had something to do with it,” the old man agreed unemotionally as he lifted his pipe again.
“There were people in fucking Iraq waiting for the C-130 to duck in with the pallet of supplies, you bastard!” Kelly shouted. “And instead folks are shaking hands in some air-conditioned hotel and there’s not a problem anymore. There was a fucking big problem for the men on the ground, believe me! And the secretary of state tells the Senate, ‘You must remember, international diplomacy isn’t Boy Scouting,’ and gee whiz, how foolish those Kurds were to have believed the word of the United States government. It was all right, though, because they weren’t ‘pro-Western freedom fighters’ anymore – they were just an Iraqi internal problem.”
“They never were pro-Western freedom fighters,” said the middle-aged Suit who had spoken before.
Kelly stared at him. “They were men,” he said in a voice that quivered like the blade of a hacksaw. “That’s more’n I see in this room.”
“Are you always this offensive, Mr. Kelly?” said Elaine, as clear and hard as diamond.
The world collapsed back to normalcy, a room too warm and far too smoky, filled with men who didn’t like Tom Kelly any better than he liked them. Nothing to get worked up about, just the way the world generally was.
“Only when I’m drunk or scared shitless, Miz Tuttle,” Kelly said as he heaved himself away from the sash against which he had been braced. “And I could really use a drink right about now.”
He walked past Doug and Elaine, flanking the side door to the office. One of the Suits muttered, “Where’s he going?” but only the woman fell in behind Kelly as he approached the grocery cooler for the second time.
The handle was cool and smooth, vibrating with the purr of the refrigerator motor in the base of the cabinet. Kelly raised the lid and reached toward the alien’s face. The floodlights had been switched off, but the analytical part of Kelly’s mind doubted that he would be able to see much anyway in his present emotional state.
“There are gloves,” Elaine said sharply.
“You can’t not do things because you’re afraid,” Kelly said in a crooning, gentle voice, more to himself than to the woman beside him. “I can’t not go back in because I’m scared of international flights and dark alleys . . . and because this thing scares me, scares the livin’ crap outa me. . . .”
He placed his stinging right palm on the head of the creature, the portion that would have been the forehead if the thing were instead human. The tips of the scales were lifted enough to give the surface the feel of something covered with hairs too fine to be seen. With firmer pressure there were differences in the way the alien flesh and bone resisted the weight of Kelly’s hand, but the texture of the covering was the same over hand and head. He lifted his hand away and let the lid thump closed.
“You’re not afraid of it anymore?” said Doug, standing hipshot in the doorway like a gunslinger ready to go into action.
The veteran dusted his palms together. The electric tingle in his right hand had spread to his throat and chest. It was probably psychological rather than a physical reaction to the alien’s chemistry; and either way to be ignored.
“Sure I’m scared,” Kelly said, looking at the big man and thinking how young the fellow was – and biological age had little to do with that. “That’s nothing to do with the price of eggs, is all.”
Pierrard stepped into the doorway. He touched Doug on the shoulder with an index finger, removing the younger man from his path abruptly. “Have you reached a decision, then, Kelly?” Pierrard asked. His mouth trembled with wisps of pipe smoke.