Space Tales (Seven For Space) Page 3

  "Let me go and you're a rich reptile," I told him. "You can retire from this racket."

  He watched me with yellow eyes, his tongue flicking against his thin lips. Froggies are incredibly fast with those long sharp tongues of theirs, and I didn't need another demonstration. He wasn't buying the bribe.

  "Mom wants to see you," he hissed.

  The Housemom's room was as green as she was — a color I never much cared for. U.S. Earthmoney used to be green, back in the Twentieth Century, until the first woman president took office. She got the Pink Act through Congress and after that money was a lot prettier. Funny, the thoughts that jump through your mind in a state of crisis …

  "Did you really think I'd be fooled by your clumsy disguise? " the Housemom asked.

  "I — don't know what you mean," I said. "It is obvious that I am a sturdisteel J-4 work robo manufactured for commercial cleanup within the System. My work number is 555563249." I dropped my pants — showing her the number which was stamped into my left buttplate.

  She circled me. "And what kind of work robo packs a .38?"

  I sighed.

  In one swift, clawing motion she ripped loose my fake chestplate, revealing pale Earthskin. "Ugh! " she grunted. "How revolting!"

  "Yeah, well, green scales don't do anything for me, sister!"

  And, with that, I reached between my teeth, plucked out the tooth-laser I'd taped to the roof of my mouth, and shot her head off.

  She made an ugly green puddle at my feet.

  I'd learned something in the faxroom. I'd learned that the Moon Machine wasn't on any moon. Moon stood for Multi Operation Orbit Neutralizer — and the Machine was right smack dab under my nose, in the sub-basement of Henshaw's Palace.

  I discarded my robo disguise and took a dropchute down there.

  Things were getting a bit tight, since the Lizard's plan indicated that he was set to begin his solar tow job any minute now. No time to get back to O'Malley. I couldn't depend on the cops to stop Stanton P. Henshaw; I'd have to stop him personally.

  He was just where I thought he'd be — inside the Machine, at the controls, preparing to launch Operation Sungrab.

  Getting in there wasn't easy: I had to gun down three froggies to clear my way to the Machine, then set my .38 at full thrust to cut my way inside. The microblast ripped a hole in the wall of the Machine large enough for me to jump through.

  I jumped — taking the onion magnate by surprise. He lunged at me from the control board, an electro-kickstick in his webbed paw. I jerked sideways, but the stick caught me on the upper right shoulder and my arm exploded into pain. The .38 dropped from my numbed fingers as we circled each other.

  On the viewscreen I caught a glimpse of our Sun, slowly being sucked into space. It was too late: he was killing the System!

  "So it's you, Space! " he rasped. "We meet again!"

  I warned Henshaw, "Surrender now, and you won't be hurt."

  Henshaw let out a short, barking lizard's laugh. "Your solar system will soon be nothing but so many balls of ice." He kept circling me. "You were exceedingly stupid to come here alone. Did you really expect to take me back to Earth?"

  "I'll take you back," I promised, and with a brilliantly timed Venusian twist-kick I sent the electro-stick spinning from his claw.

  They didn't call him the Big Lizard for laughs; he was big, over eight feet from the top of his leathery head to the tip of his scaly tail. His daggered teeth, flat-black lizard eyes and hairy green ears were anything but attractive. He wore a tucked-velvet tuxedo, topped by a handsome neck scarf of cross-woven silk which failed to offset his basic grossness. Ugly is ugly — and Stanton P. Henshaw was one ugly lizard.

  Henshaw didn't say anything more; his flat eyes glistened with fury as he came at me, claws extended. I dropped to one knee and used the tried-and-true Mercurian headbutt — which sent the big guy reeling back, off-balance and vulnerable to a Saturnian wrist-lock. His eyes bulged as I applied pressure.

  "Gotcha! " I said.

  I was wrong. A giant onion swung from his neck on a looped chain, and using a free claw he pushed the onion into my face.

  I did the natural thing: I began to sob brokenly.

  Still sobbing, I found myself slammed to the closemarble floor, a wide green lizard's foot on my neck.

  "You see," he hissed, "I don't need the help of my froggies in attending to you. In another micromoment your neck will snap."

  And it would have — except for the fact that I was able to grab Henshaw's hanging appendage. I jerked downward with full strength and the Big Lizard let out a howl and staggered back, tail lashing in agony. No reptile I know of, on any planet, likes to have his appendage jerked.

  While he howled and hopped I scooped up my .38 and laid the barrel across his skull. Which put him to sleep.

  A quick glance at the screen told me ole Sol was being sucked deeper into space — and I had to stop it, fast.

  The controls weren't all that tough to figure out, and I was able to reverse the Sun's direction, slowly guiding it back into its proper solar orbit.

  Then I locked down the shutoffs and set the Machine for Self-Destruct.

  Before it blew Henshaw's Palace into ten billion atomized fragments I was heading back to Allnew York in the onion magnate's personal starhopper.

  And strapped into the flyseat next to me, still sleeping like a babe, was the big boy himself.

  Sam, I told myself, you're a bloody marvel!

  O'Malley looked terrible when I walked into his office with the Lizard in tow.

  The captain was blue; his teeth were chattering and the hairs inside his nose were frozen. A thin film of white frost covered the walls, floor and the top of O'Malley's desk — and all of the solar dicks in the room looked as bad as he did.

  "S-S-S-Sam," he chattered. "G-G-G-Great work!"

  "Thanks," I grinned. "I took minicam shots of everything you need to put the Lizard on ice." Then I realized that the term was inappropriate in these circumstances. "Uh … look, you'll heat up soon, Cap. I got the Sun back into orbit before I left. I Just take a while to thaw things out."

  "That's f-f-f-fine," said O'Malley.

  When it was over, with the Lizard locked up and the sun warm in the sky, I took Amanda back to my lifeunit in Bubble City for our body-jag.

  We were jagging like crazy when Sherlock Holmes walked in. "How careless of you, my dear Moriarty, leaving your door unlocked. It will doubtless be your last mistake! " He had his pistol out, pointed at me. "Please stand clear of the young woman," he ordered. "And place your hands atop your head."

  I hopped from the jumpbed, starkers, hands on head. When a wacky robo with an antique pistol gives me an order I obey it.

  "Who is this maniac? " Amanda demanded to know.

  "He's from the Hu Albin Amazing Automated Crime Clinic," I told her. "And he thinks I'm a master criminal."

  "This is ridiculous," she snorted.

  "I've tracked this fiend halfway round the world," Holmes said to Amanda. "Now, at last, he's in my hands!"

  "Not quite, old fellow," said a voice behind Holmes. It was Hu Albin, and he was pointing a laser cannon at the great detective. "Now, give me that pistol!"

  Holmes turned slowly, let out a long sigh, and handed over the gun. Hu Albin then pressed a button in the robo's neck, and Holmes became motionless.

  "Sorry about this, Mr. Space," said Hu Albin. "He's on the fritz again. I'm having him completely rewired."

  Amanda and I were standing there, both starkers, staring at Albin. "Get out," I said in a hard tone. "And take that wacked-out tinman with you."

  "Of course," nodded Albin, flushing. He pressed another button on the robot, and Holmes meekly padded out, followed by Albin.

  I turned to Amanda, but she was dressing. "Hey," I said. "What goes?"

  "I go! " she snapped. "The jag's over, Sam. Enough is enough. My nerves can't take any more. Your lifestyle is just too erratic."

  And she left me. Just like that.
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  I was alone. Ole Sam, last of the private eyes. Alone again. Well, not quite.

  I still had the Martian sandflies.

  And a lot of broken dreams.

  Deadtrip

  · · · · · · · · · · ·

  a story

  It was murky in Bubble City. A blowing mist of sand had spread like a dark red shroud over the streets and buildings, reminding me of the way Frisco used to look in the fog before the Big Quake put the whole berg under several zillion gallons of saltwater.

  But every planet has its problems and if you live on Mars, you put-up with a helluva lot of blowing red sand. It comes with the territory.

  I was in a mood as murky as the weather. I'd just been stiffed out of my fee by a crooked Mercurian nearbeef importer who'd skipped the galaxy before I could bill him for my services. Worse yet, he'd run off with Hildy, my new solid-state electronic secretary. I figured I couldn't afford to replace her. I'd just have to get Edna, my old plug-in office model, out of storage. The whole sorry affair was a real pain in the assola and I was taking it out on my hovercar, yelling about how slow he was going.

  "Hey, Space, I'm practically blind in this shit, the car replied defensively. "Can't see my own frigging jet fins."

  "Then use your sensors."

  "They went out two months ago and you've been too cheap to replace them, the car growled.

  "Not too cheap, too broke," I snapped back. "You should have my bills."

  "Hah!" snorted the car. "It's bad enough having to fulfill your requirements in basic transportation. I certainly don't need a stack of unpaid bills to make me peevish."

  "All right, all right, I sighed. "So we're both in a lousy mood."

  When the car let me out at my coapt I decided it would be a good idea to drink myself into oblivion. At least until morning. Then I wouldn't have to deal with the fact that I was an aging, overweight, sex-starved, jobless private dick who was all out of future. Being an alcoholic helped me get past days like this.

  I palmed the door and it flipped open with a cheery "Good evening, boss!" I hate cheerful doors, but this one came with the coapt.

  Inside I stripped off my coat and shoulder rig, placing my loaded .450 Lansdale-Puechner twin-grip pinbeamer on the coftabe, and immediately activated the bar. I had to kick it twice to get it to come out of the wall.

  "What'll it be?" asked the bar.

  "Dogstar Stinger, I told it. "Double, no ice."

  "Hit me, said the bar.

  I took out my credcard and slotted it into the bar's nearwood top.

  The Stinger appeared and I gulped it down, ordering another.

  "Better take it easy on these babies, warned the bar. "They're potent."

  "When I need your advice about my drinking, I'll ask for it, I said. "So butt off."

  "So screw you, said the bar, grumpily folding itself back into the wall.

  I took my Stinger and headed for the bedroom, intending to stretch out and float into shuteye.

  That's when I found her.

  A deadtrip. Flat on her back in a glowzip flarecoat and pink transpants, her three mouths gaping, her three sets of eyes glazed and staring.

  She'd been a beaut. Lovely skin, full thrusters, flat tummy, great legs. What a waste!

  I saw that the bedroom coolvent had been forced open, so I knew how she got inside, but I had two big questions for myself: Why did she come to my coapt? And who snuffed her?

  I'd known my share of Venusian tripleheads, but I'd never seen this particular beauty in Bubble City.

  What was I going to say to the law? Hey, fellas, I just found this deadtrip in my coapt. Don't know her. Don't know who killed her. Don't know nothin'?

  Which wouldn't cut it. Not with Captain O'Malley hating me more than his mother-in-law. Nothing he'd like better than seeing me cool out in the local jug. Obviously, I had to get this little sexpot out of my coapt.

  I checked her for cause, and could find nothing. No cuts, holes, skin punctures, or bruises. Not a mark on her. Weird!

  I wrapped her in a nearblanket, heaved her onto my shoulder, and left. The car was waiting in its hoverslot on the roof, and when I dumped the corpse inside I got what I expected. Sour grapes.

  "It is illegal for me to transport a dead body, the car said. "I refuse to engage power until it is removed."

  "Look, I don't intend to argue with you about this, I said flatly. "If you don't engage power on your own, I'll switch to manual and drive you myself."

  "Okay, Space," said the car, "but I want you to know something. I think you're a creep. You make me sick!"

  "Just shut your gob and take me to the Boneyard, I snapped.

  And he did.

  The Boneyard is at the edge of the bubble, the last cemetery on Mars. The new deathregs on Big Red require cremation. The Boneyard is a relic of the past, reflecting a period when people were actually buried in the ground. In 2090 they dug up all the caskets from various gravesites and moved them here to this one central yard. Closed all the others. If you have a dead relative in the ground you come to the Boneyard to pay your respects. What better place to bury my stiff?

  I had the deadtrip over my right shoulder when the seven-foot robograveguard stopped me at the gate.

  "What's in the bundle?" he asked.

  "What's it look like?"

  "Dead body."

  "Bingo! You get the cigar."

  "Can't take it in here. Against the law."

  I put down the body and used my Straub .410 on the big lug. The charge was strong enough to stun an Earthelephant, and when he was out cold I opened his chest and fiddled with his memory circuits. Once he woke up, he wouldn't remember a dam thing.

  I buried the triplehead in a shallow grave (since if I needed to check her bod again I wouldn't have to do a lot of heavy digging). Then I had the car take me back to my office. A slow trip with the sand still blowing.

  She hadn't been carrying any body ID on her, but all Venusians have a skull number implanted on their middle heads at birth. Hers was6624-95, which gave me something to work with.

  I ran the number though my compudesk and got the stats I wanted.

  Name: ROBERTA SASHONON

  Age: 29

  Employment: LAB TECH, GEEVER INDUSTRIES, LUNA

  Residence: DARKSIDE ARMS, UNIT 412

  An hour later I was on an express Mooner heading for Darkside. When a stiff pops up in my bedroom, I take it personally. I had to find out what the hell was going on.

  The Darkside Arms was strictly high gloss — way too rich for a lab tech's salary. Which meant somebody was helping Sashonon pay her rent. Maybe the same bozo who iced her.

  I got to 412 with no hassle, but by the time I'd laser-keyed the door I had a vampire house dick on my neck. He was big, three hundred pounds of Mercurian beef, with a set of fangs long enough to suck the life out of an Earthwhale. And right now he had those fangs buried in me up to the gums.

  I keep a buzzblade strapped to my right leg and I got this one into action, sinking it into his fat belly. Then I hit the blade stud and electrocuted him.

  He danced into a pile of black ash on the nearcarpet.

  I didn't mind killing him since I'd never met a house dick who wasn't on the take. And I don't like vampires.

  Unit 412 was a mess. Broken flowcabs, smashed glowdrawers, overturned bodlamps. Even the wallbed had been gutted.

  Somebody was looking for something, and that somebody wanted that something real bad. But what? And had they found it?

  My next stop was a natural. Geever Industries at Luna Base. A huge sprawl of boxbeam labs surrounded by a force fence that gets through.

  I talked to the robo at the main entrance dome.

  "I'd like to see Mr. G., I said.

  "Do you have a confirmed meetdate?"

  "No, but he'll want to see me. I'm his cousin Oscar from Bubble City and I have some urgent family biz to discuss with him. Emergency."

  The robo didn't look impressed, but since he had no
face, it was hard to tell. He vidded Mr. G., who told him to admit me.

  A quickbelt took me directly to his den. It was so freaking fast I didn't get more than a flash of Geever Industries, the labs passing in a silver blur at the edge of my vision. Then I was inside Mr. G's private workden, facing the old boy.

  I'd read a lot about him in Forfax. Born on Venus, he'd made his fortune as a young tad mining Titan's moons, and was now rich enough to buy his own solar system. Brilliant, cruel, avaricious, and highly sexed. He was also, of course, triple-headed. Two of his heads had mustaches; the middle one was bearded. It did most of the talking.

  "You are not my cousin Oscar, he said. He wore a zircon zipsuit with tuckered cuffs. Classy.

  "I'm Samuel T. Space, a private investigator from Bubble City. But I'm sure you already know that."

  "Ah, and his right head smiled. "And just how would I know your real identity?"

  I sat down in front of his classy desk.

  "Body scan. The dome robo's got a unit built right into his deltoids. You didn't buy my cover story, but you wanted to see me."

  "And why would I want to see a cheap, ill-clad, impoverished peeper from Mars?"

  "You keep asking me questions with obvious answers, I said. "You want to see me because you had Roberta Sashonon followed to my coapt. When she died there, you were smart enough to figure that I was smart enough to trace her to you."

  "And why would I have one of my lab techs followed to Mars?"

  I decided to keep answering. I was making some wild guesses, but he wasn't denying anything.

  "Because she was more than a lab tech. She was one of your numerous sexdolls. You set her up at the Darkside and played bed-a-bye with her there. Until she double-crossed you, taking away something you wanted real bad. You had your goons trash her unit looking for it, but they didn't find the gizmo. So you had her followed."

  "Let's assume that all this is true, said the mustached head on the left. "Why, then, did she come to you?"

  "To hire me to protect her — or the thing she'd taken away from you. Or maybe both. But she died before she could offer me the assignment."