People are strange, when you're a stranger...
The Doors song had been doing laps of the inside of Josh's head for the last hour or so, fuelled by the surrealism of walking through streets where no-one seemed to speak English. He was trying to get a feel for the area around the hotel Berty had put them up in, wandering the streets in his 'angry-intellectual' disguise, making a show of staring intently at a battered Sartre paperback he'd borrowed from Berty - Huis-Clos was the title on its plain cover - and trying to note potential ambush sites, lines of escape and sniper positions. At least, he discovered, walking at a brisk pace meant people actually got out of his way, which cut down on annoying distractions.
Still, he didn't even know enough French to order a coffee - and that made him feel like more of an alien than he suspected the extraterrestrials he had met had felt. Still, he had weapons - the Glock sat snugly against his back, and he was annoyed to find he'd absent-mindedly pocketed a hold-out blaster before he left the hotel. That was an oversight he hoped he'd be able to avoid in future.
Suddenly, from nearby, the word 'extraterrestrial' leaped out of the hubbub. Surprised, Josh looked up towards the source of the word, and saw the back of a woman's head, talking earnestly into the glass eye of a television camera.
It took Josh a second or two to realise that his being seen on TV would most likely be a bad thing, and he quickly ducked his head down and continued to pretend to read his paperback. He began to thread his way through the crowd away from the camera, trying hard to act casual. He wasn't even sure if he had turned up on camera, but, still, it was best to be careful.
The device the indigs called a 'television set' was surprisingly large - but that was mostly an artifact of its construction, using a bulky electron gun to bombard a phosphorescent screen. The image was two-dimensional, of course - it was too much to hope that the indigs had progressed that far in civilisation. The screen flickered its light over its watcher, a bored human male sprawling in a couch, as well as over his nearby data-droid.
The 'television' was currently displaying a news report, part of a service that called itself 'CNN'. The woman on screen was finishing a report on some crackpot politician who seemed to believe in benevolent, all-powerful beings from off Terra who would set everything to rights on the benighted planet. "Perhaps the Senateur is right," the woman was saying, "Perhaps he is wrong. Maybe there are extraterrestrials who are watching over us waiting for a chance to intervene, or we may be all alone. Whatever happens, we can be sure that -"
"Target match," intoned the data droid. "Primary target sighted."
That made the spectator sit up, suddenly alert. "Show me," he ordered.
The droid projected a hologram of the television on the coffee table in front of him. It showed a still shot of the screen just moments before, then the droid enlarged a part of the screen. The enlargement process made the image fuzzy, but it was recognisable as the target. As the data droid helpfully enhanced the image, the spectator said, "That's him. I've never seen him wear that hat before, or that facial wear, but that's him."
"Where did that woman say she was? We need to be there."
The droid helpfully replayed the woman's voice. "Marie Carter, for CNN, in Paris, France."
"Paris, France. Good. Please call our contact."
The droid beeped, and made the noises the spectator had come to associate with tapping this planet's communication networks. Soon, there was an answer, in a bleary male voice. "Hello?"
"Mr. Skywalker, this is Mr. Star. I have need of your services."
"Wha? You know what the time is...?"
"On several planets. I need you to arrange passage for my associates and myself to... Peris, Frence. Failing that, I need you to arrange for the capture of our primary target, who is now in Peris, Fronce."
"He's in Paris? How'd he get over there?"
"We do not know or care, Mr. Skywalker. I told you, our quarry has access to technology far beyond the norm for this planet. When can you make these arrangements?"
"Well, I know a couple of guys in France... I'll see what I can do."
"Very well, Mr. Skywalker. Your efforts come highly recommended. I'm sure you will not let us down."
"Yeah, I won't. I'll talk to you later, I guess."
"We will contact you in ten hours. Star out."
Bill Morrison hung up his bedside phone and groaned. It had started again.