Alan Dean Foster by Alien Nation

isolated goods left on the back shelves. Some he recognized, others he didn't. American manufacturers were still trying to adapt, some with far more success than others, to an entirely new group of consumers unexpectedly dumped in their midst. In their place alien entrepreneurs had stepped in, repackaging old goods to appeal to their own kind, creating new products out of what was available. The Newcomers often acted silly and slow, and deserved many of the jokes told about them, but they weren't all shambling stupes. They had their share of brains, even if it seemed much of the time that they weren't evenly distributed.
    Take Francisco, now. Like all his people he was almost 59

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    too quiet, too precise in his speech for Sykes's liking. The detective smiled to himself. If they had to be together as long as six months, Sykes would have ol' George spewing every cuss word known to the L.A. Police Department, which because of the city's polyglot population included most swear words known to modem man. Given some time he might be able to make the Newcomer into something resembling a real detective.
    The less time they spent together the better, of course. Molding George wasn't his job. His task right now, his only task, the only thing that interested him at all and made him get up in the morning was the burning need to track down Bill Tuggle's other murderer. For that he needed Francisco, in spite of all the frustrations that came with working with a Newcomer. For that he could endure any number of snide remarks from Fedorchuk and Alterez and the rest of the bozos at the station.
    For that he could handle anything the world chose to throw at him.
    The proprietor's widow was speaking calmly to Francisco. There were few gestures. As Sykes looked on, the alien detective extracted a picture from his pocket and showed it to the woman. She studied it intently, nodding and talking fast. Sykes could hear it all clearly without being able to understand a word of it.
    "Turn in here."
    "I saw the sign, damnit." Sykes had to hit the brakes hard because he actually hadn't seen the sign, but he was damned if he was going to let Francisco know that.
    Steam and scrubbed smoke rose from the enormous complex of pipes and conduits and buildings that comprised the refinery. There was just enough of a breeze blowing in off the South Bay to keep the air over the hellish installation clear. You could feel the presence of exotic chemicals in the atmosphere as you drove through the lot, or so Sykes imagined. Men and a few women scurried busily through the maze, ants tending to their hill. Everyone wore a hard hat.
    They located the Visitor's Office and Sykes received the 61
    sort of welcome commonly reserved for inquiring police: reserved and correct. The Methane Section manager who was summoned from his regular duties to escort them was a little more friendly. His name was O'Neal.
    Unlike the majority of the workers they'd encountered, he wore a tie and shirtsleeves.
    Companies were strange in their habits, Sykes mused. A guy working this place needed a tie about as much as a longshoreman did. It was more a badge of rank than anything else, a long straight chevron that differentiated O'Neal from the peons who slaved over the pipes and wheels and gauges.
    He was amiable enough, though, as he led them deeper into the complex. More important, he was talkative. Sykes soaked up everything he was saying.
    Never knew when you might find some gold shining among the shit. Around them dozens of workers went about their assigned tasks, none of which Sykes could make sense of. A few O'Neal acknowledged, others he ignored. The work crew appeared about evenly divided between humans and Newcomers.
    The Section Manager had to shout to make himself understood above the clank and roar of the machinery around them.
    "Mr. Hubley was an all right guy, and a damn good manager. The men liked him. Even the Newcomers liked him. Hell, I got his job, but I'd give it back in a