Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) (4 page)

Iberia leaned to pluck a triangular trophy from the shattered case."Won this for a charge on a mechanized horse in the Zuber Olympics a few periods back," he said. "Even beat out my boy, Lady Bird, and he's
some
rider!"

"Bully," I said.

We sat down on a large gascouch and Iberia slapped his stomach again. His stripes quivered.

"Now, tell me all about Harry S. Truman."

"Well, for one thing, he wasn't really a very good piano player," I said.

"Fascinating! I relish personal tidbits." He leaned toward me across a pillow. "Tell me, Mr. Gorkins, what did his 'S' stand for? I've never been able to find out. I once had a trusted retainer compile a list of seven thousand middle names beginning with 'S' and the one I liked best was Stanislaus. Harry Stanislaus Truman. Seemed to fit, somehow."

"The 'S' really didn't stand for anything," I told him. "When Harry got into politics, he felt he needed a middle initial, so he added the 'S' for that reason."

"You're a veritable
fund
of presidential tidbits," Iberia said, smacking his stomach. "I've always been confused by what he told his daughter, Margaret, when she remained in the kitchen too long and became sexually ripe."

"What was that?"

"He told her, 'if you stand in the kitchen, you go into heat.' Odd, to say the least."

"Well, the line's been scrambled," I said. "The correct version is, 'if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.' And I think he said it to the cook."

"Amazing!" He darted a glance at one of the guards who stood near the far doorway, leaped from the couch, and changed, knocking down the startled Zuberite. Then he returned, whacking his rainbowed midriff with both hands.

"Bully good charge," I said.

"Thank you. Now tell me what Mr. Truman thought of music critics."

"Hated 'em," I said.

"Fascinating."

"He loved to take brisk, early morning walks," I continued. "Here on Zuber III he would have flipperfloated a lot. He was that kind of guy."

Iberia spun in a circle, meaning he'd reached the height of pleasure.

"Harry used to sell neckties," I said. "In Missouri. But I'm not sure whether this was before or after he became President."

"Doesn't matter. What matters is the fact that he was a tie man. Which is a pertinent detail. I am a collector of pertinent details."

I figured it was time to get into why I was here. I'd done enough fencing. "I hear that you also collect asteroids, Mr. Iberia."

"Indeed I do, but —"

"Get rid of your guards. Tell them to shut the door. We need to talk."

He did as I told him. Then he returned to the gascouch.

"Tell me about your asteroid collecting, Mr. Iberia."

"Well … ah … I buy up loose ones whenever and wherever I can and furnish them to suit my whims."

"Expensive hobby, isn't it?"

"Not if you know your market. I am often able to buy and sell at a sizeable profit, Mr. Gorkins."

"I'm not Mr. Gorkins. I'm Samuel Space, a licensed private investigator from Mars, and I'm here on a missing asteroid trace."

"My, my. It seems to me that —"

I didn't let him finish. "You are known to have one of the largest private collections of asteroids, many of them purchased under, shall we say, somewhat shady circumstances."

Iberia's skin began to ripple. "You come here under a false identity and openly harass me. I ought to turn you over to the Zuberite authorities!"

"But you won't," I said. "Just cool your skin down and drop the outraged citizen routine."

"You accuse me of —"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm merely suggesting that if one were zealous in researching your collection one might come up with a few odd facts regarding your method of purchase."

"Such as?"

"Such as: that you are a frequent buyer on the asteroid gray market and have been for quite a while."

Iberia was puffing nervously on his waterpipe.

"What are you after? What do you want from me?"

"You deal with some characters I'd like to know about. I'm here to get a name. Tell me who your market contact is and I won't cause you trouble. I've checked your collection, and I know you don't have the asteroid I'm after. But your contact might know where I can locate it."

"And if I choose not to cooperate with you — what then?"

"Then I have a friendly confab with U.T.E.B. and maybe one of
their
boys might be able to pry loose what I need. Of course, that would mean you'd be up to your rainbow neck in a very ugly tax investigation involving your little collection."

"And you think I am afraid of the Universal Tax Evasion Bureau?"

"I don't think so, I
know
so."

There was a long moment of silence between us as Iberia worked on his pipe. Then he said, "And what makes you think I won't have you disposed of before you have time to alert the U.T.E.B.?"

"The fact that you deal in the gray market doesn't make you a killer. It doesn't even make you unique, since plenty of collectors deal below that belt to cut their costs and raise their profits. You play it shady sometimes, Iberia, but you've never had anybody killed. You want to avoid trouble and so do I. Give me the name of your contact and I'll leave you alone — and so will the U.T.E.B. Unless I spill what I know, you won't have any of their agents in your hair."

"I'm bald," said Iberia. "All Zuberite males are bald."

"I was using the term figuratively," I said. "What about it; do I get the name?"

Iberia put down his pipe, walked to the far end of the room and glared at me, head lowered.

"Are you going to charge me again?" I asked.

"I'm seriously considering it," he admitted.

"That wouldn't solve anything. You'd just miss me again. Why don't you give me the info instead?"

Which, after a lot of skin rippling, is exactly what he decided to do.

Things were not going well.

My spine was stretched to the breaking point and my neck seemed clamped in a steel vise. A raw jolt of pain threatened to black me out — so I flat-palmed the mat. The spinal pressure instantly vanished and the big yellow-eyed spider wrestler stepped away from me, bowing. "I trust I did you no damage, Mr. Space?"

I sat up dizzily on the mat, rubbing base of my spine. "Aside from a broken neck and a dislocated back I'm just great. But I'd hate to run into you in a Bronx alley!"

The wrestler's thick green brows drew together across his monkey's face. "What, if I am not being most impolite in asking, is a Bronx alley?"

"They have this Earth area in the eastern part of the United States called the Bronx," I explained. "In it there are narrow passages between buildings that lack proper illumination. These dark passages are called alleys and Earththugs often drag innocent citizens into these alleys and physically attack them."

"Whatever
for
, Mr. Space?" He spread his large ape's hands in a gesture of confusion.

"In order to obtain their personal goods," I said. "This is often done on Earth. Those who drag in the citizens are called muggers."

"Goodness gracious, what a violent, backward planet!"

"Yeah, it's a mean piece of rock."

"On my home planet, Slith," intoned the beefy spider wrestler, "such antisocial behavior would never be tolerated. One's personal goods are always safe on Slith." He pursed his wide, rubbery lips, exposing the pink skin inside. "But perhaps that is because we have no Bronx alleys. Perhaps this is fortunate."

I nodded, taking a deep breath. I needed a drink.

"Do you wish to engage in further harmonious physical activity, Mr. Space?"

"Nope, pal," I told him "I'm not even sure I can stand up, let alone spider-wrestle. Let's call it quits for this session while I get some harmonious alcohol down my gullet."

"Exactly as you wish." He bowed to me again and took off, in a swinging loose-limbed run, for the showers.

His name was Sonny and we were in a ship's gym on the way to Antar, a small planet in the Dogwood galaxy, where I hoped to make my first gray market contact. I'd booked this commercial warpliner for the trip, figuring to put in some heavy gym time enroute. I needed to sweat off five pounds of excess gut I'd put on back in Bubble City, eating those damned Martian freepcakes.

I'd forgotten just how murderous spider-wrestling can be if you're not used to practicing it on a regular basis. This form of kill-or-maim combat — named after the hairy monkey-faced multiped who developed it — had saved my skin more than once, but I was no match for a ship's pro like Sonny. He was a real bone snapper.

After my air shower and robo-rubdown I felt a lot better. Such workouts were necessary. In my lousy life, mixing it up with a real tough monkey keeps my head straight.

Go soft in my racket and you've bought yourself a one way ticket to the marble orchard.

I was in the ship's bar relaxing over a sour Saturnian triplestinger, when I happened to glance at the reverse side of my napkin. A message had been printed on it:

CANCEL YOUR CURRENT LINE OF INVESTIGATION. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DISEMBARK AT ANTAR. ACCEPT THE ADVICE OF A FRIEND AND CONTINUE TO ANOTHER DESTINATION. IF YOU FAIL TO HEED THESE WORDS YOU WILL FIND YOUR GOOD HEALTH AFFECTED TO AN ALARMING DEGREE.

And it was signed, A FRIEND.

I casually reduced the napkin to a crumpled ball in my fist and flipped it into a burnbin near the table. The napkin disappeared in a tiny pop of flame. Sipping my drink, I said, "Tip me back," to the adjustastool. The stool responded instantly.

Tipped back, and sipping, I scanned the bar. Was he here, in the crowd? Was he watching me for a reaction to his warning? The barchamber contained the usual tourists; an intense group of Carpoonian gas breathers, a bored bubblefoot from the Sirius System, a blatting trio of Outer Ring slimekids on school vacation, a tentacled matron from Oriana engaged in some shy orbplay with an overage pod salesman with wrinkled fleckers. The usual.

I instantly dismissed the lot of them. My "friend" was elsewhere; I was inwardly certain of that. Maybe a member of the ship's crew.

"Another triple, sir?" The bar robot hovered above me, a metal index finger poised over his drink spigot.

"Nix," I said, slotting my credcard into his stomach and walking out. On the way, I passed the matron from Oriana and gave her a broad leer. She blanked her orbs and flushed purple. The pod salesman looked confused.

* * *

The remainder of the trip was routine. No more printed warnings. No threats of any kind. If I stayed aboard ship at the Antar stop I was okay.

Only I didn't. I got off as planned. It takes more than a warning on a napkin to worry me. But I walked soft on Antar, expecting to be attacked.

It was a backwater planet at the edge of one of the smaller systems. Breathable atmosphere, which was no surprise since many of the outer planets retain enough oxygen for us Earthfolk to breathe. And the natives were friendly. But I could smell trouble the way a Martian sandhound can smell dingoweed; I knew it was coming … but when? And where?

A cab airdropped me at the edge of Antar's main citystrip. The address Iberia had given me was only a short pedrun from this drop point. It was late and the city domeglobes were dimmed. I used the outer pedtrack to keep free of shadows, one hand on my .38, which I'd switched to an inside pocket for quick action. The alertpill I'd swallowed before leaving the ship kept me at combat status, and I doubted that anyone or anything could surprise me.

I stepped off the moving pedwalk and checked my address: Unit K-7, Lifebuilding 246. So far, so good. I took the flowsteps up to K, quick stepped to 7, and waited, knowing my body heat would activate the doorcall.

The door whispered open, but no one was there to greet me. Just silence.

I took out my .38, adjusted it to readyfire, and ducked inside. The unit was empty. No chairs. No table. No anything. Had Iberia been dumb enough to come up with a fake address knowing I'd put the U.T.E.B. on his neck?

A soft hiss above my head fired my body muscles and I leaped sideways. But I wasn't quick enough. A hairy figure dropped, cat easy, from a ceiling slot, and before I could use the .38 both of my arms were pinned in a tight spiderlock.

"You should pay more attention to your napkins, Mr. Space," Sonny told me. "In this session of harmonious physical activity I shall demonstrate how to kill an Earthling who is unwise enough to ignore good advice."

I tried to twist free and got exactly nowhere.

"First, it is necessary to disarm the opposition," he said.

The .38 dropped from my hand as my fingers opened convulsively under crushing pressure.

"Next, the opponent's limbs are disabled."

Sonny delivered two snapping spiderkicks and I hit the floor, my legs numb from the knees down."Now, an effective spinal blow to bring up the head."

Whap! My head arched back in abrupt pain. He was going to kill me; the next spiderblow would snap my neck.

I bit down hard on my tongue to supply the extra charge of adrenalin needed to offset his blow. My left wrist met the full impact of his chopping hand and he grunted in pain as bone met bone.

"Now, you hairy bastard!" I rolled hard left, scooped up the fallen .38, and quick-triggered the weapon three times. Two of my nitroslugs missed Sonny — but the third didn't. It caught him in the chest and flopped him loosely back against the wall.

"Sorry you made me do that, kid," I told him. "But I didn't like the way the lessons were going."

A new respect gleamed in his dark eyes. "You are a savage and resourceful man, and you have accomplished what few Earthlings are capable of doing: You have actually managed to kill a spider master. I … applaud you, sir!"

He didn't say anything else. He just quit breathing.

Our session of harmonious physical activity had ended.

* * *

Unit K-7 proved to be as empty as Sonny's dead eyes. I tooth-combed every inch of the place, hoping to spot a lead on the contact I'd come to find, but the search was a total flakeout.