Space Tales (Seven For Space) Read online

  "Well, I'm not exactly crazy about ugly, cigar-chomping police lieutenants, either."

  "Get outta me office!" snarls O'Malloy.

  * * *

  Then Sam drops off Sherlock at "Hu Albin's Robo-Detectives, Inc.," telling the bearded, elf-like owner HU ALBIN that Holmes

  proved to be a total dud in solving Sam's last case. Albin removes Sherlock's chestplate, shakes his head over what he finds, and refunds Sam's rental fee.

  He offers Sam a near beer and Space accepts. Relaxed, sipping their brew, they get into Sam's background.

  "I've always wondered, Samuel, what made you decide to become a private detective?"

  "Well, back in Old Chicago, when I was an Earthkid, my parents wanted me to study interstellar law. That was a real drag. I had a yen to travel, so I bummed through the asteroids and beat my way around the galaxy. For a while I handled Moon tugs on the Luna run. Then I banged swamp cabs around Venus for six years before I got into this cruddy game."

  "And what brought you into it?"

  "Winking nipples. On a Twinhead from the Dogstar System. A real looker. She hired me to find some creep from Pluto who'd pulled a pork stuffing swindle on her. I took the case because I've always been a sucker for winking nipples." Sam shrugs. "After that, I just stuck with it and went for my license. So here I am: on Mars, with a stack of unpaid bills and a bad liver I keep making worse."

  "You miss living on Earth?"

  "Sure I do. A lot. But I go where the work is. Not many private eyes left on Earth these days. We're a vanishing breed."

  As they talk, we can see a robotic DR. WATSON running a giggling Holmes around a desk in the background, demanding "just one little kiss."

  Albin sadly admits to Sam that Watson has undergone an abrupt sexual transformation. In fact, since his robo-repairman ran off with a floater from Ganymede, all of Albin's detectives have gone wacko: "Dick Tracy keeps exposing himself, James Bond wets his bed, and Father Brown has turned atheist."

  Sam is sympathetic, but tells Albin that he has to take a leak; he heads for the can. As he enters, the wall urinal lights up, blinking on and off: "Hi, there! Welcome to the Men's Room! I'm self-flushing!"

  Sam, in distaste, quickly leaves the room, muttering to himself: "I hate talking urinals!"

  As he exits the building, Watson is still chasing Holmes around Albin's desk.

  Author's Note: In our film, when objects such as cars, urinals, desks, beds, chairs, etc. talk, the scene must be rendered with straightforward realism, without cartoonish aspects. No animated mouths or faces. Just direct communication, object to person. Sam functions in a world that is, to him, very serious; the entire script needs to be played straight. The humor must flow naturally from character and situation, without being forced or broadly acted.

  At his office (seedy-futuristic) he finds EDNA, his rusted, outdated, robot secretary, seated at her desk, frozen in mid-gesture. Sighing, Space unbuttons her blouse and adjusts a loose connection. She looks up, annoyed. "My chest receptors shorted out again, she says. "You promised to have my boobs rewired."

  "Soon as I get paid for the Orion time-machine caper, you get a new set of boobs. Top priority."

  Sam goes inside, to his inner office. The neon tubing which outlines his desk is sputtering erratically. He kicks the desk (which cries "Ouch! "). The neon tubing sparks, sputters … and goes dead. Damn!

  He removes his Bogart-type snapbrim and carefully places it under a bell jar on his desk which is labeled (with an engraved brass plate)"Classic Hat."

  Sam passes by an easel-book (a greatly oversized book top-mounted on an easel), HYPNOTISM MADE EASY, and turns the illustrated pages to study the bug-eyed author's photo within. Practicing, Sam bugs out his eyes in imitation of the photo, then goes to check his vid-mail.

  A triple-headed Venusian beauty appears on the screen, her middle head doing all the talking. The other two stare intently at the middle one, nodding in agreement. All three of her heads look worried. "Mr. Space, my name is AMANDA NIGHTBIRD and I desperately need to talk to you. I dare not risk a visit to your office, but I have obtained your hive address and I will be waiting at your unit. Do hurry, Mr. Space. My life hangs in the balance!"

  And the screen blanks.

  * * *

  Sam exits his grumpy robocar and enters his hive-building. No triplehead in sight. And the upper hall is empty. The front door of his unit flips back at his palm-press. "Hi! Welcome home, ol' buddy! Had a great day?"

  "I'm not your ol' buddy, and no, I haven't had a great day, he snaps. Inside, Space orders the bar to come out of the wall to fix him a Saturn Stinger. ("Double, no ice. ")

  The bar slides into view. "No doubles, it says. "Too potent. I'll fix you a single."

  A metallic whirring … and the drink appears (in a very odd glass, foaming with color).

  Sam downs it, smacking his lips. "Another, he says.

  "No" says the bar. "Not until I approve a liver reading." Reluctantly, Sam stands in front of the bar's built-in scanner. His liver appears on the fluoroscope screen, pulsing in vibrant red color … but more than a third of the organ is plainly in trouble: 37.8 percent of the biliary tubes throughout his liver are blocked (as indicated by their dull black, "dead" color). "There, you see!" the bar says smugly. "I've warned you about your drinking."

  Sam tells it to just "clam up" and fix his second Stinger. The bar refuses, stubbornly folding itself back into the wall.

  Meanwhile, Sam's entrance has activated his vid-screen. The ROBOT NEWSCASTER is reporting that the recent "Marsquake" was actually caused by a solar impact. Scientists are "baffled" as to why the planet Mercury should have left its orbit and plunged into the Sun. "The entire Solar System mourns the tragic loss of life, reports the robocaster.

  Ignoring the news, and still angry about his argument with the bar, Sam moves to a tall, black leather door held closed by a floor-to-ceiling zipper. He grabs the metal tab on top and unzips. Enters the sleepden to find a very dead Amanda Nightbird sprawled across his bed. Strangled. All three of her tongues are lolling out.

  On the floor, her large shoulder bag has been ripped apart, its oddly shaped futuristic contents tossed wildly about. An open ventwindow, admitting a thin mist of red Martian sand, is clear proof of entry and exit.

  Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and pats it. "Sorry about this." The bed ripples in response. "I hate having a dead body sprawled across me, it says.

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Well, says the bed, "from my position against the wall I couldn't see everything … but the assailant was a four-armed spider person and I heard him say: 'F. wants the gizmo! Where is it?' She wouldn't tell him, so he strangled her. All three necks."

  Sam sighs. "The one question is: Who is F. … what did he want from Mzz Nightbird … and did he ever get it?"

  "That's three questions, corrects the bed.

  * * *

  Outside, Sam loads the dead triplehead into the trunk of his robocar, telling it to take him to "the Boneyard."

  "I can't afford to be caught with a stiff in my hive-unit, he says to Elmore. "Not with O'Malley breathing down my neck. Gotta get rid of this body."

  The car objects, declaring that it is not authorized to transport a corpse. But when Sam threatens to switch to manual drive, the vehicle reluctantly complies.

  A 10-foot GUARD ROBOT stands tall at the gate to The Boneyard. No burials allowed without official permission. Sam exits his vehicle, finds some empty crates, piles them up, then climbs atop the makeshift pedestal so he is eye-to-eye with the robot guard. Sam begins to talk soothingly to the giant, eyes popped wide (as in the instruction book photo). Then he segues into a rhythmic hypnotic instruction: "You are tired … so very, very tired … you need to lie down … to rest … just close your scanners … close your scanners … relax … relax …" Soon, the robot is curled up on the ground, sleeping like a baby.

  Space buries Amanda Nightbird.

  Back at his office
he runs Amanda's triple-skull number through his comp-unit and discovers that she worked as a labtech for Geever Industries on the dark side of the Moon, and lived at Unit 425, Darkside Arms.

  He boards a "Hopper" for the Moon, where Luna City has been built, with hive-units, parks, industrial buildings, etc.

  He finds Amanda's hive-unit to be a tumbled mess. Somebody has conducted a very thorough search.

  Looking for what?

  His next Moon stop: Geever Kitty Kat Litter industries.

  Amanda's boss resembles a jolly Santa: GILBERT GASCOYNE GEEVER, jovial, rotund, super-friendly ("Just call me Gee Gee! "). He's stroking a contented, very fat feline who is fast asleep on his desk. Geever is shocked and saddened to learn that his employee, Mzz Nightbird, is dead. A tear rolls down his pink cheek. "I employ hundreds, you know … yet they are all my children." He has no idea what object Amanda's killer (or killers) sought to find, but he has a question: "Did you check her body? For clues, I mean."

  "Sure, but I found zero … zip."

  "What about her teeth? Did you check her teeth?"

  Whereupon Sam gives Geever a vigorous handshake. "Gee Gee, you're a doll!"

  And the fat man blushes.

  * * *

  Back on Mars, Sam shows up again at The Boneyard. The roboguard is still sleeping as Space slips inside to dig up Amanda's corpse. Before he can begin his tooth search he's attacked by a giant chrome-plated rat. Sam dispatches the robotic creature with the heel of his shoe, scattering its metal parts over the ground.

  Now, checking out Amanda's three heads, he finds a fake molar in her middle skull. Jackpot! Inside the hollow tooth is a tiny foil-slip:

  LOC 29>Z. SUB>BAS. DA>ARMS.

  "Got it!" he tells his car. "Locker 29, Row Z, in the sub-basement of the Darkside Arms. Ten will get you a hundred that's where she hid the gizmo they're after."

  "What do you mean, ten will get me a hundred?"

  "Never mind. It's an old Earth expression. Just get me to a Hopper."

  * * *

  The Moon once again. Amanda's Darkside life-unit building, the sub-basement, locker 29-Z. Sam removes an object covered in gold foil. Unwraps it.

  The gizmo: a shiny silver ellipsoid (the size of a bowling ball) with two plug-in metal prongs. Sam is mystified: what the hell is this thing?

  He contacts his office and we see Edna on his vid-phone screen. Her nose is missing. "What happened to your nose?" Sam asks. "It fell off, she says. "I really need an overhaul."

  "Later, I promise, Sam tells her. "Right now, I need you to book me on the next express tub for Earth. Old Chicago. Got me?"

  "Gotcha, she says … and his screen blanks.

  * * *

  On board the spaceship … a giant skyliner with rows of seats for hundreds of passengers … a hairy, four-armed spider wrestler named SONNY sits down next to him.

  "How about a workout?" He pinches Sam's left deltoid. "Looks like you could use one."

  "Well, yeah, I am a little out of shape."

  CUT TO the ship's gym where Sam, bare to the waist, is wrestling with Sonny. "Easy, cautions Sam as the hairy one slams him hard to the mat. "That hurt."

  "This'll hurt a lot more, Sonny tells him, looping one of his four arms around Sam's neck. He begins to squeeze.

  "Hey, what's the big idea?"

  "The big idea is, I kill you and then I take the gizmo you brought on board."

  "So you're the cookie that iced Amanda!"

  Space goes into action. He breaks the chokehold, then wheels around, bending over and aiming his ass at Sonny. The detective presses a stud on his belt and a swarm of explosive "fart-darts" (discharged from a foil-pac just above his buttocks) shoot out to penetrate the spider wrestler, blowing him to pieces.

  Sam picks up one of the wrestler's spider arms. On the bicep, a tattoo of a heart, with the letter "F." inside.

  * * *

  Earth. The Field Museum in Old Chicago. Sam walks up to one of the big stone lions flanking the entrance and twists its tail. It revolves … to reveal dark steps leading downward. Sam descends to …

  The underground lab quarters of the lovable, eccentric inventor NATHAN"NATE" OLIVER. Oliver is a tall scarecrow of a man, totally bald, with a tufted, curled mustache. His eyes gleam behind bottle-thick eyeglasses.

  Nate is delighted to see his dear friend who grew up here in Old Chi before becoming a private detective on Mars. Oliver is like a father to Sam.

  Unsnapping his shoulder case, Space removes the silver ellipsoid. "I need to find out what the hell this thing is, he tells Nate. "A Venusian triplehead died because she wouldn't give it up, and the spider wrestler who offed her tried to kill me for it."

  And he hands Nate the gizmo.

  Oliver examines it, nodding. "This, he declares casually, "is an oversized android's left testicle."

  Sam is amazed. "A robot's nut?"

  At that precise moment, two lizard thugs (green-scaled, with long, leathery tails) pop up in the doorway, their torch guns centered on Sam and Nate. The leader STANLEY, wraps his tail around the testicle and whips it away from Oliver.

  "F. needs this, snaps Stanley, in a hissing, guttural tone. "He's got big plans."

  "Yeh, yeh, big!" echoes ABNER, a mental retard. "Boom! Huh, Stanley … Boom!"

  "Keep your face shut, growls Stanley.

  "Uh, what'll we do with these two geeks, huh Stanley?" asks Abner.

  "F. wants 'em dead, so we'll lock 'em in here and torch the place. We'll fry 'em. How's that sound, Abner?"

  "Yeh, yeh, sounds good, Stanley. Yeh, yeh."

  Stanley ignites a large sofa with a burst of fire from the nozzle of his gun as Sam and Nate flinch back from the sudden flame.

  Chuckling, the two thugs slam the door, welding it shut with another burst of fire. Outside, we see them climb into a waiting sky gyro, flip the hatch closed with their tails, and zip away.

  * * *

  Back in the lab, as various chemicals explode in a dazzling show of phosphorescent colors and sparkling light effects, the fire spreads rapidly. Can they escape through a window or back exit? Sorry, no windows. No back exit. They're trapped.

  What about a fire extinguisher? Surely Nate has one. Yes, but it won't work on a chemical fire like this. However, he has invented a sucking machine.

  "What does it do?" Sam asks.

  "It sucks."

  Indeed, the bell-shaped machine (with a large open mouth in front) does suck in the fire, killing it. Much of the lab is gone, but most of Nate's inventions are okay.

  "Now what?" asks Oliver.

  "Now I go see Honest Al, says Space.

  * * *

  Again, as in our OPENING, we are on a full-sky SHOT of the Sun … filling the screen, a vast, burning globe of pulsing flame. And, once again, something huge is heading straight for it … another entire planet. Venus! Long tendrils of fire reach out to draw the immense global mass into Mother Sun.

  Another gigantic explosion as they meet. In THX, it should rock the theatre.

  * * *

  CUT TO Sam. He's in a lowlife bar on a rundown private asteroid just beyond the rings of Saturn. Honest Al's Pleasure Palace … which is anything but palatial. Space is at a table talking to HONEST AL himself, a sleazy alien with stemmed eyes and webbed hands, all attached to a multi-tentacled mottled orange body. In the b.g. two balloon-heads from Capella are sexually probe-rubbing each other into a narxa state.

  "Terrible thing about Venus, Al is saying. "The way it just took a dive into ol' Sol. First Mercury … now Venus. It don't make sense."

  "It does if some crazy meshuganah is behind the whole act." Sam scowls. "I told you about the missing testicle … those two lizards talked about somebody named F. needing it for some 'big plans.' Well, what's bigger than the destruction of a planet?"

  I could be way off base on this. Maybe what happened was just some kind of Solar screw-up. But one thing's for sure: I need to find out who F. is. I figured you might know."

  "I
might. I could make an educated guess."

  "So guess."

  "You wanna know who I think F. is, says Al, "then you slip me some goola." Sam hands over several large bills and Al nods.

  "Okay, says Sam. You got the goola; now gimme the name."

  During their conversation, Al has been rapping a body tentacle against the table to the beat of some intense alien music. "Patience, Samuel, patience. Flow with the music. Written by a gas bloater from Antar 3. Irresistible! Come … dance with me!"

  Sam frowns. "I've got no time to …"

  But Al sweeps him out to the open dance floor, lit by revolving laser lights in a variety of colors. (We should be reminded here of the sequence from Saturday Night Fever.)

  The other dancers fall back as Sam and Al really get into it. The dance is wild, with Sam matching Al step for crazy step, movement for movement. His tentacles swaying to the beat, Honest Al is having a blast.

  Finally, as the rhythm slows, Sam gets him to talk. "F. has gotta be Sir Henry Fasterfaster. He's the only character mean enough to hire a lizard to do his dirty work. Maybe I don't run me such a classy joint, but I got principles. I'd never hire me no lizards."

  Sam wants more info. Where can he find Sir Henry?

  "Well, he moves around a lot, planet to planet, but I can send you to a darlin' little number who body-jags with him. She's really proud of her nipples."

  Earth. White Sands, New Mexico II. The Institute for Inter-Solar Research. Sam enters, asking about the whereabouts of Mzz Sunbright.

  "She's repping Earth on the 'Cosmic Sex Customs' panel, he's told. "You can talk to her after it's over."

  In the main speakers' room Sam takes a seat at the edge of the crowd (aliens and Earthlings). On the dais, the moderator and three panelists (including Sunbright) are into a heated sex debate.

  * * *

  A purple TWINHEAD from Zerxa, sporting striped chestfarbs, is yelling at a tri-tongued TOADWOMAN from Outer Capella: "Are you seriously trying to tell us that satisfactory intercourse is possible with a single penis?"

  "Absolutely! Just because the males on your planet have two heads and three dicks, you chauvinistically assume an offensive air of sexual superiority."