The Spinrad Contract

My hands were stained with the blood of the man I had killed in the restroom. I never knew killing a Haugasian could be so difficult to clean up after. I certainly wished I had a proper tap. Instead I had one of those press down jobs where you only get about a second's worth of water before it turns off again. It was a typical case of Water, water everywhere. I'd come to Neptune for one thing only, to kill that damn Haugasian and now I was stuck with his oil-based blood on my hands.

I was approached back on Earth in a Sydney speakeasy. The so-called New Prohibition had just rolled over into its sixty-third year -- you weren't even supposed to smoke anywhere anymore. Naturally, everyone was celebrating the new year with all the grog they could find.

Like something out a noir thriller, the woman in the hot-pink pants and halter top -- okay, so nothing like a noir thriller -- entered the bar, every male head in the joint both human and not-so-human turning to watch her go by. The blonde came straight up to me and planted a hot-blooded, open-mouthed kiss upon my lips. She tasted of bubblegum and jet fuel. She then pulled back, put a finger to her lips and indicated we should find a seat in a booth at the back of the bar. I followed her over and we slid into the shadows.

"That was quite an entrance," I said, then looked down to her butt as she was settling in, her pants stretching tight. "Nice exit, too."

"Let's talk business, Mister Norman," she said, removing a cigar from a matching handbag, lighting it, taking an acrid drag.

"Well, you obviously know who I am. And you are?"

"You can call me Grace," she replied. "Grace O'God."

"Okay," I said.

"I need your help in a very, ah, delicate matter."

"What might that be?"

"It's off-world."

"My favourite, Miss O'God," I said. "I say that 'coz it'll cost you extra."

She placed her cigarette lighter on the table, pressed a button on its side. The fire sprang up then widened. A holographic image was projected in the flame. A Haugasian. I recognised the species by the tin-foil antennae -- the only encountered species with such an appendage and often the source of jokes told behind one's hand.

How many Haugasians does it take to change a light bulb?

"What's a light bulb?" I must have said out loud, judging by Grace's odd look.

"Excuse me, Mister Norman?"

"Oh, nothing," I said, taking a sip of the backroom gin I'd carried with me. "It's just Haugasians. They're my favourite martian. So, who is he?"

"My husband," said Grace. "I want him killed."

"Woah, woah, hold on, lady," I said, holding up my hands. "Do these look like the hands of a contract killer to you?"

"Honestly? Yes."

I had broken nails, a dozen calluses, the long bruises of a recent garrotting.

I put my hands back down.

"So, what did this guy do to get you so pissed at him?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Probably not. But humour me, yeah?"

"He never put the seat down."

I almost spat a mouthful of gin. Had I done so, it would have gone via Grace' s cigarette lighter -- the flame still burning with the image of the Haugasian -- and dealt her some rather nasty burns.

"That's it, is it?" I asked. As far as I knew, Haugasians didn't even use toilets, but I supposed that could have been another of those bad jokes.

"What? Oh, no, not a toilet seat.