Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) Read online

  Sixteen

  I knew that I'd have to get past the "tough robo" Looly had mentioned before I could check out Wrenhurst's faxden.

  And she was right, he was tough looking: a big naked seven-footer with polished metal studs covering his wide body. All the servant robos wore clothing but this was a warrior-robo, and they aren't supposed to look civilized.

  He carried a lasergun strapped to his thigh and his knuckles were spiked. When I walked back to him he had his fat metal arms folded across his chest.

  "Hello, there," I said, smiling up at him.

  "Good evening, sir," he said.

  This one had a face — or, rather, he had a large scanner eye in the middle of his skullcase, with a small grill under it for his speakbox.

  "What's your name?" I asked.

  "I do not require a name," he said.

  "Number?"

  "K-84000723116. But I doubt that you will be able to remember it, sir. Most humans are incapable of retaining complex numerical sequences for more than a few seconds. Thus, if you wish to address me as K, I shall respond to that cognomen."

  "Are you always on guard here, K?"

  "Yes, sir. Always."

  "Well …" I chuckled. "I happen to know of at least one occasion when you were given the day off."

  "That is correct, sir. The master himself told me I was not needed at my post. I returned to the downstairs workroom where I sat in total darkness for several hours."

  "Bet that pissed you off, eh?"

  "If you mean that you are willing to wager that I was, in slang terms, annoyed at having to sit for several hours in total darkness, sir, then you will be ill advised to place the bet."

  "Meaning you weren't pissed off?"

  "That is correct, sir. Actually, I found the experience quite soothing."

  As we were gabbing I slipped a small silver disc from my vented snugcrotch and began idly spinning it in my hand.

  "You seem to be pretty self-sufficient."

  "Totally, sir. I never require food or sleep. And I am fully self-repairing. In that respect, I am very expensive. Most robos are not self-repairing."

  "Yeah, I know. I ran into one that went blooie in the hallway. Tried to eat my hat."

  "I would never do that, sir. I might crush you to death in seconds, or impale you on my spiked knuckles, or send a laserbolt through your brain, but I would never attack your hat."

  The disc kept spinning in my hand.

  "I would resort to extreme measures only in the event of your attempting to force your way into the master's faxden. That is my job, sir. To guard."

  "Oh, sure. I see what you mean. But frankly, you don't sound as if you have much fun out of life."

  "I was not designed to have fun, sir," the big robo said. "I was designed to be a warrior-guard. I do not require fun."

  He hadn't moved. His arms were still folded. But his eye scanner was now fixed on the spinning disc in my hand.

  "Don't you ever get bored standing here?"

  "I do not require mental stimulation or physical excitation, sir."

  "Do you ever play chess with yourself? I know a lot of machines do that." The disc flickered silver across his metal faceplate.

  "No, sir … I …" A moment of silence. Then: "Sir?"

  "Yes, K."

  "That … object … in your hand …"

  "What about it?"

  "It is … having … a strange … effect … on … on my …"

  "On your what, K?" I asked.

  The disc spun faster."On my … equilibrium … sir."

  "Oh? Do you feel dizzy?" I brought the disc closer to his skull.

  "Disoriented would … be the word … sir … I … can't seem to …"

  "Perhaps you are tired. That is, in fact, what you are, K. You are tired. Very, very tired."

  The robo's arms unfolded and fell to his sides. "But … I … am never … tired … sir …"

  "Now you are, K. Tired. So very, very tired. You have been standing here too long. You wish to rest. Lie down and rest, K."

  "I … never …"

  "Repeat after me," I said firmly. "I … am … tired."

  The robo swayed slightly. "I … am … tired."

  I moved closer to him. "I … wish … to … rest."

  His scanner was locked onto the silver disc. "I … wish … to … rest."

  "I … will … go … inside … the … faxden … and … rest."

  He said all that. Then, slowly, he turned, unlocked the door, and entered the den.

  I was right behind him."Over there," I said, shutting the door. "That couch. You … will … rest … there."

  "I … will … rest … there." And he settled his big metal frame into the flowcouch, all seven feet of him stretching out like a sleepy kid. His scanner blacked. He was inactive. I'd hypnotized my first robot!

  * * *

  With K conked out on the couch, I had free access to the tall faxfile near Wrenhurst's desk. I was sure that all of his worm contracts were in there. Maybe, just maybe, I'd uncover enough dope to tie in the missing asteroids with the insect kidnappings. If so, I could take my proof to O'Malley and lock up the case. Giving full credit to Pennington, the copmouse, naturally. Without Sylvester's lead and his mouse fund money I wouldn't be here.

  Just for the hell of it, I tried drawer "W" first. "W" for worms. And, right off, I found a fat plasfile of worm slave orders. I thumbed them quickly. Just what I needed.

  Now, for the "A" and "I" drawers. Asteroids and insects.

  I was in the "A" drawer when the dendoor opened.

  Wrenhurst was there. With the vanishing redhead from Bubble City.

  "Enjoying yourself, Mr. Space?" He was aiming a .370 trigrip Blazebeamer at me. I slid the drawer closed with a sappy grin. "Just looking for a fresh Kleenex," I said.

  Wrenhurst frowned, raising an eyebrow.

  "It's an Earthtissue," clarified the redhead. "Circa 20th century."

  "Okay," I said. "So you know who I am and why I'm here. Thanks to your hard-nippled little friend. Now what?"

  "Tomorrow's Moonpape will carry a headline story," Wrenhurst informed me. "'RACING SPORTSMAN DIES.' The subhead will read: 'Tyrus Steadman Victim of Tragic Accident.'"

  "And just what tragic accident am I to be a victim of?"

  "Having reduced yourself to a drunken condition, you wandered beyond the safe confines of the mansion grounds and fell into a deep Moonpit."

  "How clumsy of me."

  "Unfortunately, your body was not recoverable, since it was instantly dissolved by the corrosive lime within the pit."

  "Meaning you never have to prove how I died."

  Wrenhurst advanced to the sleeping robo and examined him, still keeping the Blazebeamer on me.

  "He's out cold," I said. "Just laid down on the job."

  "You are a clever man, Mr. Space."

  "Was. I fell into a lime pit tonight, remember?"

  Wrenhurst's vulpine face took on a glow. "Actually, that particular fate is not to befall you."

  "I'm relieved. I bet that out of the kindness of your heart you're just going to let me walk out of here, right?"

  "I have an alternate plan in which you shall also die, of course, but in a more protracted manner. I'm sending you away, Mr. Space."

  "To where?"

  "Don't tell him, Wrenny," the redhead said. She cat-smiled. "Let it be a surprise."

  Wrenhurst nodded. "A surprise it shall be." He moved away from the couch. "Let us just say that I intend to put you … out of circulation."

  "Okay," I said. "But I'd like to ask about your redhaired dolly. How long have you known her?"

  Wrenhurst looked amused. He stroked her hair and leaned to bestow a tender kiss on her left nipple."As a matter of fact, I just met this ravishing creature. An unexpected guest. She arrived rather … abruptly … to reveal your true identity."

  "Uh huh," I said. "And I bet she leaves the same way. Rather abruptly. Ten to one, after I'm dumped, you'll turn around
and, zingo, she'll be gone. I wouldn't count on a long romance."

  "Don't listen to him, Wrenny," whispered the redhead. "Just get rid of him."

  "That is my intention," said Wrenhurst gently. He walked over to me, raised the Blazebeamer and brought it down on my head.

  My lights went out.

  Seventeen

  Wrenhurst wasn't bluffing. When he vowed to put me "out of circulation" he meant exactly that. But it took me a while to find just how far out.

  After my head cleared, the first thing I saw was what you usually see before your head clears: total blackness.

  I sat up stiffly, blinking into the dark, trying to fathom where I was and how long I'd been out. But I drew a blank. Then I heard what sounded like an Earthrhino grunting and I felt the hair rise along my neck. Whatever was making the grunting sound was right here with me, wherever that was. In other words, wherever I was, it was. And damn close, too. Within a few feet of me.

  I stood up very slowly, hoping to get my back against a wall so that at least I would be facing the thing if it came at me. I moved forward, a slow step at a time, my hands extended into the darkness, feeling for the wall.

  What if I stepped on the lousy grunter? That was an unsettling thought, but I was compelled to keep trying for the wall. I just had to have something solid behind me; natural human instinct, I guess.

  The grunting was intermittent; there would be silence for a moment or two, then it would start again. But at least it never got any louder. Then, abruptly, the grunting stopped altogether. To be replaced by a shuffling sound. Which was getting louder by the split second.

  Something was moving toward me.

  Since I'm trained in seventeen forms of solar combat, I'm nobody's pushover, but I didn't know how to set my body for what was coming at me. After considering the situation, I opted for a low angle Hungo half-crouch, which meant that I would be able to utilize my upper deltoids for maximum strike power in case I was …

  "Yikes!" I shouted. Something clammy had me by the shoulder.

  "Easy, mate! Easy does it," a calming voice rasped next to my ear. "Cor blimey, yer about to jump plain outa yer scuppers, you are!"

  "Did you say 'cor blimey'?"

  "Sure did, mate."

  "That means you are a British Earthling from the Greater Colonial United Kingdom — or it means you are a non-Earth creature who has learned to imitate, in word, tone, and inflection, the exact …"

  "It's the first," he cut in. "Old New London's me 'ome, luv, an' that's a fact."

  "When I heard you grunting in the darkness, I naturally assumed that you were some kind of wild animal."

  "Me late wife, Lord bless 'er soul, told me I had a right terrible snore, an' that's the sound you heard, mate! I was dead asleep I was. Didn't even hear 'em bring you in."

  "In?"

  "In here, mate."

  "And where's here?"

  "Cor, you don't know where ya be?"

  "You got it, fella. I'm in the dark, literally."

  "Well, I be damned! Where was ya last — in your recollection?"

  "On the Moon. Pendorf Wrenhurst, the worm slave trader, took an intense personal dislike to me. Said he'd put me out of circulation. I was clipped on the conk, and I woke up here."

  "Ya mean ya weren't officially condemned?"

  "I don't follow you, Mac."

  "This be a Hundred Year Hellship, bound out for the Black Gulfs. All of us on 'er is stranglers an' ax men an' poisoners … or worse. I thought you was one of us!" His voice began to assume an unfriendly tone and I realized I had to maintain his confidence.

  "Well, I've done my share of killings … nitro charge in the gut, that sort of thing."

  Warmth returned to his voice.

  "Fry me in oil, that's good to hear!" He slapped me on the back. "Welcome aboard the Soul."

  "Odd name for a ship," I said.

  "Her full name's The Damned Soul, an' it fits 'er well enough. Damned souls be we all on this ship, mate."

  That didn't sound encouraging.

  "Me name's Cutter," he chuckled. "That be 'cuz I'm quick with an ax. What's yours?"

  "Just call me Sam," I told him.

  Another hearty slap on the back. "Sam it is, then!"

  My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom and I was able to make out Cutter. He was a fright. Big, broken-nosed fellow with a jutting brow and a brutal squared jaw set with rotted tooth stumps. He was bare to the waist and matted with hair.

  "Put 'er there, mate!" He grabbed my right hand and began exerting pressure.

  I grunted in pain, then got sore. This hairy bozo was giving me the business, expecting me to crack.

  I brought up my left elbow and drove it full into the round of his gut, then body-chopped his ribs. He howled like an Earthape, then got a chest hold on me. Both of his big muscle-knotted arms were locked around me, squeezing.

  I groined him and he fell away, howling again, crashing back against the wall. He slid down, holding both hands over his crotch.

  "You be … hurtin' a man!" he complained.

  "I'm nobody's patsy," I told him. "You were into a fast shuffle so I dealt some aces."

  The gloom was suddenly split by a thin bar of light from a doorway. Then loud, metallic banging.

  "Grub," sighed Cutter, slowly pulling himself up. "That is, if you can call the swill they feed us anything at all."

  I was starved and thirsty. "Food's food," I said. "I'm not particular."

  Two heavy trays were shoved through the lighted slot under the door.

  Cutter lurched for them. "Quick, mate! Before the rats beat us!"

  I scooped up my tray. In the light from the doorslot I examined its contents: a cup of fetid water, a cracked bowl of vile-smelling mush, and a molded crust of stale bread.

  "I didn't see any rats," I told Cutter.

  "Yer right. They're leavin' it alone. Guess they gave up on this stuff. Made 'em right sick, it did. You could hear 'em groanin' all night."

  "Groaning rats?"

  "Right … an' I might say that it be a 'orrible sound."

  I used the hard crust to scoop out some mush. Tasted it. Coughed and spat.

  "Har, har!" laughed Cutter. "Foul, ain't it, mate?"

  "The worst," I said.

  "And there be no change. They feed us the same swill twice a day. Or what you may call a day 'ere in the Gulfs. There ain't no nights nor no days inside the Soul."

  "What's our destination?" I asked, forcing myself to swallow some of the bread and water.

  "Hell is our destination! An' that be the truth of it. The Black Gulfs. Some lost an' gone planet that the Devil himself wouldn't claim. Every planet in the Gulfs is the same. And on every one of 'em, we do the same."

  "And what's that?"

  "You'll see soon enough. Each man has got 'is job. You'll work till you drop … an' then you'll get up again, 'cuz they'll lay a whip to your hide. You sweat salt, you do. And blood an' salt don't mix, mate. Pain's so bad, you want to rip yer guts out!"

  "Sounds much worse than the involuntary job I got assigned to on Pluto," I told him. "They had me hunting Zubu eggs."

  "You'll wish you were on Pluto 'afore yer done. You'll wish you was anywhere but where you'll find yerself."

  And he finished the last of his food, rolled over, and was soon asleep. His awful grunting snores filled the cell.

  But at least the rats weren't groaning.

  Eighteen

  The planet didn't have a name. And nobody cared enough to give it one.

  It was a triple sun system. The planet's surface was semi-liquid, and it smoked and bubbled with noxious gases. Each worker was encased in an armored heatsuit which was supposed to resist the killing temperatures, but the suits were almost as hot as the planet. After a six-hour workday in one, you felt as if your skin had been boiled in oil. The oil was your own sweat.

  Cutter had the right word for it: Hell.

  My job, along with dozens of other convicts, was to scoop up
the semi-liquid soil with an instrument that looked like a giant soupspoon. The gook was then deposited in a large bowl-like container. The containers were rolled into an ugly metalloid structure for processing. Workers refined the stuff and canned it. Periodically the cans were shipped out to Earth.

  I was told that the stuff sold as fast as it could be delivered. The demand never slacked.

  "What can anybody do with it?" I asked Cutter, who was toiling beside me in the furnace heat. "You can't eat it. Can't drink it. What good is it?"

  "They use this stuff fer bod rubs in sexdens," Cutter told me. "Supposed to be bloody erotic, it is. Stimulates the bloody glands in the jennyteel area."

  "All this so some fat bozo in New Oshkosh can get his pipes cleaned?"

  "That's one way to put it, mate. They call it Erectile Miracle Heat. An' I hear tell the FSG boys make a tidy profit out of every shipment."

  I was pissed. Shanghaied aboard a Hellship by a corrupt Moonking, then ripped off in the Black Gulfs by the Federated Space Government. No wonder the average solar citizen had lost faith in cosmic justice.

  What good was one honest dick from Bubble City in the greater scheme of things … the universal warp and woof? I was an overage knight tilting at the windmills of galactic corruption. "But dammit, Space," I told myself, "somebody's got to play the game straight! Somebody's got to expose the sharks and the con men and the quick-buck boys who walk this mean universe." And I was elected. By a vote of one. Me.

  Sam Space, the last free lance for hire in a cosmic cesspool.

  "Hop it, mate!" Cutter warned me. "Cuz 'ere comes trouble!"

  I'd been standing idle while all these depressing thoughts were running through my brainpan and an overseer, electrowhip in hand, was zipping toward me in his hoverbug.

  But how could you whip a man in an armored heatsuit?

  I quickly found out. The whip was electrically charged to react against the metallic surface of the suit. A searing bolt of raw voltage stabbed into me with each blow.

  I got ten lashes.

  By the last of them, I was a mass of quivering nerves.