Space For Hire (Seven For Space) Read online

  SPACE FOR HIRE

  Book One in the

  Seven For Space series

  by

  William F. Nolan

  Introduction by

  George Clayton Johnson

  Cover & Interior

  Illustrations by

  Ron Lemen

  Space for Hire

  Copyright © 1971 by William F. Nolan

  Copyright © renewed 1989 by William F. Nolan

  Preface Copyright © 2008 by William F. Nolan

  "A Letter" Introduction Copyright © 2008 by George Clayton Johnson

  Cover art ©2008 by Ron Lemen

  Interior illustrations ©2008 by Ron Lemen

  Additional interior illustration ©2008 Ed Roeder

  Creative services provided by The Creative Plantation

  Art direction & interior design (print edition) by Neil Uyetake

  Art direction & cover design by Ed Roeder

  Editing by Allison Bocksruker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any format without the permission of the author and publisher.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright Page

  About William F. Nolan

  Introduction by George Clayton Johnson

  Preface: "Welcome to Sam's Universe" by William F. Nolan

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Fiction by William F. Nolan

  To Charles Holloway

  A good man.

  A good friend

  WILLIAM F. NOLAN is a prime example of the Renaissance Man. He has raced sports cars, acted in films and television, worked as a cartoonist for Hallmark Cards, been a biographer and playwright, narrated a Moon documentary, had his work selected for more than 300 anthologies and textbooks, taught creative writing at the college level, painted outdoor murals, designed book covers, operated his own art studio, created Mickey Mouse adventures for Walt Disney, been the conductor on a miniature railroad, been cited as a Living Legend by the International Horror guild, voted Author Emeritus by the SF Writers of America, won the Edgar Allan Poe Special Award twice, been cited by the American Library Association, has over 85 books to his credit (including 3 volumes of verse) ,served as a job counselor for the California State Department of Employment, prepared pamphlets on eye care, created his own TV series for CBS, written more than a dozen novels including the best-selling SF classic Logan's Run, performed as a lecturer and panelist at a variety of conventions, handled publicity for Image Power, Inc., has had 700 items printed in 250 magazines and newspapers (including 165 short stories), won numerous other awards, had 20 of his 40 scripts produced, and functioned as a literary critic and commercial artist.

  "A Letter"

  by

  George Clayton Johnson

  Mr. Charles Holloway

  Escondido, California

  Dear Charles:

  Congratulations!

  First music, then video, now publishing: yet another Holloway Production.

  It's wonderful to hear that you've decided to publish Seven for Space by William F. Nolan.

  As you are aware, I've been friends with Ol' Bill for many decades, but I always think of him as William F.

  You may not fully appreciate who William F. is. His honesty, sincerity and warmth only point toward the character of the man. He has a fierce integrity, an enormous persistence, and an incredible memory, qualities that make him a good man to work with. He taught me by example. I've tried to be as straight-arrow as he is. After all, Charles, I was locked in a motel room with him for twenty-one days while we talked about possible futures and wrote the novel Logan's Run.

  In close quarters like that, arguing about something you consider important, you learn what a man is made of.

  I've never met anyone like him.

  The range of his interests.

  The precision of his facts.

  His ability to complete things.

  The limberness of his imagination.

  His sense of fair play.

  These are only some of the reasons that I chose to collaborate with him from among all of my writer friends.

  You may not be aware of the size of his fan base. How beloved he is by collectors. How rich his publishing history is. The collector's edition of the book alone should give you a handsome profit.

  The sheer number of his accomplishments is numbing. When I nagged William F. for precise figures he sent me a note that made me blink a number of times. I considered some of the implications of his listing, aware that even now he is putting the finishing touches on a massive 900-page book on the life of Dashiell Hammett.

  My history with Nolan goes back to the 50s. He'd already published the Ray Bradbury Review, the first complete index of Bradbury's stories to that date. The fact impressed me on a scholarly level. His early stories impressed me even more. His first collection, Impact 20, was published in 1963. I first met the prototype for Sam Space there (as "Sam Slammer") in "The Beautiful Doll Caper".

  Read that book sometime. It's a stunner. Great stories, no two alike. A real showcase of his writing talent.

  Ironically, the first story in Impact 20 is a beauty titled "The Small World of Lewis Stillman", wherein the last adult male in the city is tracked down and beaten to death by a rag-tag band of what prove to be surviving children. It is this image, Charles, that I credit with being the inspiration for Logan's Run.

  I am a total fan of Nolan's. He has been one of my many teachers and much of what I know about working in harness I learned from him.

  Our working credo seemed to be, "Give it to me with the bark off and I won't hate you, this time."

  When William F. has turned the laser beam of his mind upon a subject, don't be surprised by what he will see or how he will give that Nolan tilt to his perception. Remember, Charles, this is a perception fired in the same kiln with Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson, and myself.

  Remember, we are all products of the days when those ancient pulp magazines you see at science fiction conventions were new, and movies like Karloff's Frankenstein and Lugosi's Dracula were showing for the first time in neighborhood theaters, and when you could find classic books in paperback editions for a quarter on bus station magazine racks — a new experience for America. Radio was just coming into its own and comic books were expanding the minds of the young. That was when Nolan developed his undying love for Batman and I became an offspring of Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan. After all, his name is John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, and am I not George Clayton John's son?

  I met William F. 50 years ago at the same time I met Charles Beaumont and John Tomerlin. The four of us became fast friends and lived in each other's lives for many years, drawn together by our devotion to writing and the magnetic quality of Charles Beaumont, who tested us all with his knowledge, sense of
humor, depth of understanding, strength of character and sense of honor. It is easy to love the people who love the people you love.

  Both Nolan and I were especially saddened by the fact that Beaumont didn't live long enough to see the major success we had with our Logan's Run.

  Had he not died I'd still be living in his shadow, and happy to be doing so, I believe.

  Are you aware that Space for Hire is Nolan's first novel after Logan's Run? Logan's Run and Seven for Space have in common a mythos shared by William F. and me, taken from our nostalgic remembrances of childhoods spent watching Karloff and Lugosi, reading Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, laughing at Laurel & Hardy, thrilling to Flash Gordon and Tarzan, and listening to radio shows like "I Love a Mystery" and "Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy".

  I can't really tell you how it was then, but that "reality" stamped itself into Bradbury and Beaumont and Nolan and me and others in indescribable ways that are reflected in just how Nolan structures and objectifies those nascent memories.

  I see "Sam Space" as the basis for a big splashy Broadway musical. Nolan's comic vision of a seedy, worn-out future featuring the ultimate pop-culture icon, the Private Detective, is a natural for the Great White Way.

  Charles, I can see it now! The hottest musical in town! Singing — dancing — satire — humor — a send-up of every science fiction theme.

  And Nolan is the perfect person to write it. A musical comedy is the only art form that he has not yet taken a crack at.

  It could pay off big for both you and William F.

  I hope so.

  Best Wishes,

  George Clayton Johnson

  Pacoima, California

  2007

  Welcome to Sam's Universe!

  The truly manic exploits of Sam Space were written over a 36-year period between a multitude of more rational books, scripts, stories, and articles. Sam's insane adventures encompass two short novels and five stories, all but the last narrated by Sam himself.

  When I finished Space For Hire back in December of 1970 I figured that I'd had my say about Sam. What kept bringing me back to him? Love, for one thing. Yeah, that's right, I loved conjuring up the big lug's madcap adventures. I'm very fond of Sam and his wacky universe of three-headed females and leaking robot dragons. I'm fond of nutty Nate Oliver and his goofy inventions. I enjoy writing about my talking mice on Jupiter (the mouse planet) , the sadly-reflective Zububirds of Pluto, and Sam's always-grumpy Martian hovercar. All great fun.

  More importantly, I think they also provide great fun for my readers. That's the goal of every writer — to please his or her audience.

  Sam is a guy to like. I like him, and if you're meeting him here for the first time, I think you'll like him too.

  Of course, if Dash Hammett had never invented an Francisco's Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon I would never have created his alter ego, Sam Space. So I owe a big debt to Mr. Hammett. Both detectives are tough, pragmatic, and sharp-minded.

  However, there are major differences …

  Space works out of Bubble City on Mars, and his cases are far wilder than anything Hammett's man may have dealt with in San Francisco. Sam Spade didn't lay eggs, or have to deal with triple-headed clients, evil Froggies, Moongoons, age machines, parallel universes(going to his own funeral was a shock) , stolen asteroids, and orgasmic machines. Nor did he have to run around trying to solve a case with his head on backwards.

  After two novels and five shorter tales, am I through writing about Sam? I believe I am. The contents of this book you hold in your hand represent his complete adventures.

  I've had my say. Now it's your turn to explore Sam's mad universe.

  Dive in.

  Enjoy!

  W.F.N.

  Bend, Oregon

  2007

  One

  I was bored.

  It was one of those long hot lazy Martian afternoons when you don't give a damn about anything. I had some paperwork to do on a Saturn time machine swindle but I was in no rush to get at it.

  I was perched behind my desk, feet up, my head tipped back, speculating on the progress of a Martian sandworm who was intent on crossing the ceiling of my office. I was timing him, having made a bet with myself that, at his present rate of speed, it would take him exactly six Earth minutes to reach the far wall.

  That's when she came in.

  Now, as an Earthman, my taste in females in basic: I prefer just two legs, two breasts and one kisser — but I'm not prejudiced, because a ripe Venusian triplehead can do a lot for me. And this one was ripe.

  She stood in front of my desk and leveled three cool pairs of liquid-green orbs at me — along with a neat little near nickelplate .25 Webley-Stanton double-thrust paralysis beamer.

  I promptly forgot the sandworm and raised both hands.

  "Are you Samuel Space?" she asked in a dulcet triplethroated tone.

  I nodded. "If you're here to pull a heist all I've got in the office is a bottle of imported Scotch. One-third empty."

  "Prove it," she said.

  "Prove my Scotch bottle is one-third empty?"

  She shook her three heads. "No. Prove that you're really Sam Space."

  I lowered my hands slowly. Then I stood up, produced my wallet and tossed it on the desk in front of her. "It's all there. License. ID cards. The works."

  "Please keep your hands palm-down on the desk," she told me. The beamer didn't waver; it was leveled on my tummy. I did as she asked, since I hate having a paralyzed stomach.

  She poked her free hand among my papers. "They could be faked."Four of the eyes looked up at me; the other two continued to scan my credentials.

  "But they aren't," I said.

  "I happen to know your personal history, Mr. Space. Tell me about yourself. I'll decide if you're lying."

  I shrugged. "Okay, sister, I'll give you the two-bit run-down. I'm an Earth op working Mars, a sun-scarred, hard-souled ex-rocket jockey out of Old Chicago, U.S.A. I've boozed the asteroids and brawled my way from Pluto to the rings of Saturn. My parents wanted me to study interstellar law but I always had a yen for travel. So I beat my way through the System. For awhile I handled Moon tugs on the Luna run. Then I banged swamp cabs around Venus for six years before I got into this crazy game."

  "And just how was that?"

  "My great-grandfather Challis was a private dick in a place they called California. In Los Angeles, on the pre-quake coast, way back in the 1970s when they still chased hoods in cars with gasoline engines." I grinned. "In a way, I guess you could say the detective business runs in my blood."

  "Keep talking," she said, and I did.

  "I'm not proud. I'll take any job that'll pay the rent on this Martian flytrap." I gave her a hard glare. "But I'm no phony. I play a straight game for my clients. I'm licensed to pack a .38 nitrocharge fingergrip Colt-Wesson under my coat, and I've had to use it more than a few times in my somewhat checkered career. I don't gamble because the one time I tried it in New Vegas I lost everything but my pivot tooth. My lusts are twofold: hard drink and soft women. I'm a sucker for a sob story, but I'm nobody's patsy." I slapped the desk. "Satisfied?"

  I guess she was, because she lowered the .25 and let out a triple sigh."We need help, Mr. Space. We need your help."

  "Who's we?" I asked, easing back in my chair and stowing my wallet. The sandworm had beat my time and was already halfway down the wall. I wished him luck.

  "My name is Esma Pitcarn Umani. I was adopted as a child on Venus. My Earth father is Dr. Emmanuel Quantas Umani."

  "The scientific gink?"

  "Yes," she said, nodding one of her heads. "He's waiting outside. We wish to employ you."

  "Well, I'm for hire, sister. Two hundred solar credits a day, plus expenses. If I have to work outside the System my rate doubles."

  She seemed to think this was fine. "We are quite prepared to meet your fees. My father is a wealthy man."

  "Then trot him in," I said.

  She gave me a hesitant set of smil
es and walked out to fetch papa.

  I'd heard about him. A year or so back the Earthpapes did a feature spread on Dr. Umani's experiments with brain transplants. He operated a plush clinic out of Allnew York and was supposed to be a bit dotty. But brilliant.

  Now he tottered in, eyes wild, weaving across the room toward my desk as his daughter tried to steady his passage.

  "Sure now, an' what foine broth of a lad have we here?" he shouted in a thick Irish brogue. He reached over the desktop and soundly thumped my shoulder. I could smell peatbog whiskey on his breath. "Are ye from Dublin, then, me boy?"

  "I'm not Irish," I said.

  "Neither is father," Esma assured me. "It's just his current body that's Irish."

  I looked blank.

  "He's presently inhabiting the body of a drunken Irishman," she explained. "In his last body he was a drunken Welshman. Father prefers colorful bodies."

  I was impressed. "Guess his brain transplant gimmick works," I said.

  "Oh, of course. All the bugs are out of that. Father's brain has been placed in any number of bodies. In fact, that's why we're here."

  I rocked back in my creaking swivel chair and uncorked the Scotch, took a solid pull at the bottle, felt it burn down into the soles of my feet.

  "Bless me sweet soul, but a taste of the devil's own would quench this ole man's ragin' thirst," said Dr. Umani, staring morosely at me from his bloodshot Irish eyes as I drank.

  "Don't give him a drop," Esma warned. "Daddy's been imbibing all the way from Luna City."

  I put away the Scotch.

  Esma sat down in my best client's chair. Below her three necks she had a near Earth body, curved like a range of Martian sand hills. Her snug skinflex outfit — which must have set papa back at least three hundred solar credits — accented her full-thrusting bosom. She had my favored ratio of arms and legs, two each, and her thighs were plump and made for biting. I'll bite a plump thigh any time I can get one.

  "Tell me what you want me to do," I said.

  She began in a soft voice. "It's really quite a simple assignment. We wish you to —"