Look Out For Space (Seven For Space)
LOOK OUT FOR SPACE
Book Two in the
Seven For Space
series
by
William F. Nolan
Cover & Interior
Illustrations by
Ron Lemen
Look Out for Space
Copyright © 1985 by William F. Nolan
Preface Copyright © 2008 by William F. Nolan
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
Preface: "Welcome to Sam's Universe" 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.
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
The cell door crashed open, waking me, and I sat up, sniffling. Fat round tears rolled down my cheeks as I began to sob again. I had cried myself to sleep, and for a man as tough as I am that's a little degusting.
A pair of snarling froggies dragged me from the bunk and hustled me down an onion-smelling corridor. Froggies are mean to deal with, since their reaction time is incredible. They know how to use those long tongues of theirs — and I didn't need another demonstration. I'll stack my speed in unholstering a .38 nitrocharge against any gink in the System, but they'd been faster — a lot faster.
So here I was, gunless, handcuffed and sobbing like some sappy Earthbrat, being herded along the corridors of a Plutonian onion mine, on my way to see Mr. Big himself, the king lizard — outwardly known as Stanton P. Henshaw, the highly-respected shipping magnate
Well, he wasn't always so highly respected. We'd tangled once before, when he'd tried to stiff me. But I got away clean. When I finally turned him over to the law, I figured the Big Lizard was permanently out of business. I was wrong. He bribed a furry-eared judge from the Dogstar Cluster. They both had tails. Which may have influenced the fact that Henshaw walked. No jail time. He just waltzed away, a free lizard. Anyhow, here I was, after him all over again, and not doing such a hot job of it.
I dabbed at my tears with a shackled wrist as the lead froggie unlocked a door. He grunted me inside. Froggies don't talk, they grunt.
And when they grunt, you jump. A wrong move and they'll use those tongues on you, sharp and edged like sandglass. My skin still burned from a tongue job.
I was now inside a high-domed chamber carved from raw Plutonite, obviously one of Henshaw's undersurface meetdens. He was standing, motionless, beside a richly-finished nearoak antique desk, his back to us. I saw his big scaled-green ears twitch as I entered the room. A bad sign; it meant he was enraged.
"Leave him," he said to the froggies, without turning.
They grunted and let go of me. I staggered back against the door after it had closed, trying not to weep. It wasn't easy.
Stanton Prentiss Henshaw swiveled around, and I read cruel hate in his flat-black lizard's eyes. "Did you really think I'd be fooled by a clumsy plasto job?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Henshaw," I said, choking back a sniffle.
"You still claim mechanoid status?"
"Of course, sir. I am Earth Work Robot number 555632249 J, manufactured in Much Greater Connecticut for commercial use in planetary mining operations within the System. I am extremely economical in that my self-adjusting atomic power unit allows me to operate without sleep."
"Then why did you crap out on the cell bunk?" Scaled green lids slid down over Henshaw's cold eyes; he was baiting me, playing the line, knowing he could hook me when he was ready.
"I was mauled and knocked about by two of your associates. As a result, my primary power source was affected and I drowsed off."
Henshaw let out a short, barking lizard's laugh. "You were caught snooping in the fax files on Level G — and you were foolish enough to go for a .38 nitrocharge. Please tell me, what the hell kind of work robot packs a .38 under his armpit?"
I remained silent, having no handy answer for that one.
"You're a fake," declared Henshaw, sliding up to me and opening his industrial robe of office. A giant onion swung from his neck, held by a looped chain. He pushed the onion in my face.
I burst into tears.
"Robots don't cry!" he said, green lips smacking in triumph over the words.
"My papers are in order," I sobbed brokenly. "My tears represent a simple malfunction. Nobody's perfect."
"Hah!" Henshaw unzipped my worksuit from chin to navel and began to fumble at my chest plate.
"Easy there, sir," I warned him. "You'll damage my wiring."
"Hah!" he said again, and with a swift, clawing motion, he ripped loose my false chest plate, exposing pink Earthskin.
Then he stepped back, for dramatic emphasis, and pointed a long green-nailed finger at me. "Admit it — you are Samuel T. Space, a low grade private op working out of Mars for my chief rival, Josiah Herman Rabarnack!"
"At least Josh Rabarnack's a decent, law abiding Martian," I said in a cool tone, dropping my tinny servile robot's accent. "You're trying to ramrod your way to kingpin of the onion empire on ten planets, using corrupt practices and outright violence to eliminate your honest competitors. I was hired to prove it and I have my proof. In here." I tapped my skull. "I've seen enough in the last two Plutoperiods to send you back to the swamps along with your foul froggie friends, Henshaw."
"Hah!" Again the short, barking lizard's laugh. "And do you think, for one Earthsecond, that I'll let you leave Pluto with this information? You'll die here, Mr. Space. Most horribly."
"That I doubt, fella," I said beginning to weep again. "You made the mistake of calling off your froggies. When they left, and I stumbled back against the door, I locked it. So we're in here alone, big boy, just the two of us. If there's any dying to be done you'll be doing it because killing is one job I know a lot about."
Henshaw didn't say anything more; his flat eyes glistened with fury as he came at me, claws extended. I still had the wrist grips on, but they didn't limit my action. When you're trained in seventeen forms of solar combat you don't let a lousy pair of grippers slow you down.
As Henshaw charged in I dropped to one knee and used the ancient tried-and-true Mercurian headbutt thrust — which sent him reeling back across his nearoak desk. Moving swiftly, talking full advantage of the situation, I brought up both elbows in a tight arc, jabbing them into his stomach. His eyes bugged as he fought to breathe. With both my thumbs now closing off his windpipe, I figured to kill him.
