Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 (3 page)

 
          
“What
do you mean by strutting up like this?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

 
          
Buckalew,
too, rose. “After all, Malbrook, this is a trifle irregular,” he began mildly,
when Malbrook snapped him off.

 
          
“You
know me, Buckalew, and you’d better not prate about irregularities. I could
embarrass you considerably, with two words.
Or even one—a
word that begins with-R.”
The deep, bright eyes turned to Stover again,
raking him insolently. “And since you don’t know me, youngster,
wait
until I speak to you before you start dictating. All I
want from you is the company of this lady.”

 
          
He
put his hand on Bee MacGowan’s shoulder. She twitched away. And Stover promptly
knocked Mace Malbrook down. Just like that.

 
          
Even
as he uppercut Malbrook’s fleshy curve of jaw, Stover knew what would follow.
This was a man of importance and power. There was going to be trouble. While
Malbrook bounced on the crystal floor, Stover kicked his chair away and set
himself to meet a rush of attackers.

 
          
It
did not come. Dead silent, the people at the tables stood up, as at a
significant moment. That was all. Stover, who would have gladly fought a dozen
Pulambar sparks, felt a trifle silly.

 
          
Then
several figures quietly approached—Prrala, the Martian proprietor, and a pair
of robot servants, silvery bright and taller than Stover. Behind them came a
slight, sinewy fellow in green and silver who stooped to assist Malbrook. On
his feet again, Malbrook faced Stover, hard-eyed. One well-kept hand rubbed his
jaw.

 
          
“You
struck me,” Malbrook said incredulously.

 
          
Stover
could have laughed. “Indeed I did, and I’ll do it again if you don’t mend your
manners.”

 
          
Bee
MacGowan was leaving, at a gesture from Prrala. The angry-faced youngster,
Amyas Crofts, was following her and talking rapidly. Meanwhile, Malbrook eyed
Stover with insolent menace.

 
          
“Fine
physical specimen,” he sighed.
“Worth working on.
We’ll go further into the matter, of course.”

 
          
Stover
understood.
A duel.
The System in general scorned
duels. In some places they were forbidden, but they happened in Pulambar.
Anything could happen in Pulambar. Occasional mannered killings added spice to
society. Just now, he was being chosen for a victim.

 
          
“Whenever
you like,” he replied. “Mr. Buckalew will act for me.” Prrala touched one of
his robots, and the thing moved nearer to Stover, as if to prevent him from
doing something or other. Robots were apt to overawe newcomers in Pulambar with
their size and metallic appearance of strength, but Stover, a scientist from
boyhood, knew them for what they were—clumsy, dull makeshifts that could do
only the simpler tasks of waiting on mankind.

 
          
“Keep
that tin soldier back,” Stover warned, “or I’ll smack him over.”

 
          
“I
only wissh that therre be no morre violent quarrrelling,” said Prrala in his
purring voice.

 
          
“There’ll
be no more quarreling here,” promised the sinewy man in green and silver,
turning to Stover. “What’s your name?
Stover?
Before
you go asking for challenges, better realize that Mr. Malbrook is the most
accomplished duellist in Pulambar. You haven’t a chance against him.”

 
         
THIS
speech carried to almost every ear in the hall. Stover bowed.

 
          
“I
can’t withdraw, after that, without looking afraid. I’ll fight your friend
Malbrook very cheerfully, Mr. —Mr.—”

 
          
“Brome
Fielding,” supplied Buckalew in a worried voice, and Stover remembered that this
was the name of Malbrook’s partner in society and finance. “I wish, Dillon,
that in some way—”

 
          
“Never
mind, Buckalew,” snarled Malbrook suddenly. “Don’t try to talk him out of it.
I’ve challenged, and he’s accepted. Do I have to remind you again that you’d
better do as I say?”

 
          
“That’s
enough,” growled Stover so savagely that everybody faced him.

 
          
“If
it’s killing Malbrook needs, I’ll cooperate.’’ His anger had risen steadily
higher, but he felt cold and steady. “I begin to think he should have been
killed long ago. Listen, everyone!” he shouted to the roomful. “Haven’t many of
you wanted to kill this strutting swine? Well, I’ll do it for all of us.”

 
          
Prrala, all flower-head and waving arm-tentacles, made little
hisses and gestures of pacification.
Buckalew swiftly caught Stover’s
arm, leading him into the vestibule. A helio-taxi hung there, and they got in
and headed for their tower lodgings, Stover still protesting. The sky was
doubly starry overhead, and the two moons of Mars, larger than Luna seems from
Earth, gave them white light. Below beat up the welter of light and sound from
the lower levels.

 
          
“It
isn’t as if you loved that girl, or even knew her well,” reproved Buckalew. “If
you did, it might be worth your while to commit suicide like this.”

 
          
Stover
cooled a bit. “How did I get into this position of kill or be killed?” he
demanded. “I was minding my business. Up bobbed Malbrook to act a first-class
pig. No man would endure—”

 
          
“Folk
in Pulambar endure a lot from Malbrook,” said Buckalew significantly.

 
          
And
Stover remembered how Malbrook had snubbed Buckalew by a threat of
exposure—exposure in one word, beginning with R. What could it be? Was Buckalew
secretly plotting rebellion? But his own problem had better occupy his
attention.

 
          
“Don’t
be so sure he can kill me, Robert,” he growled, leaning back 4 against the
cushions of the flyer cabin. “What will this duel be with? Electro- automatics,
ray sabers, MS-projectors, or just plain fists? I’m handy with all of them.”

 
          
“Palambar
duels aren’t that simple. Malbrook, the party attacked, can choose his own
weapons and conditions. He might make it under water, if he thought he swam
better than you.

 
          
Or with knives or acid hypodermics.
It might be a cut of the
cards, loser to drink poison—with cards stacked. Or in a dark room, each with a
singleshot pistol, Malbrook choosing a room he knows well and which you’ve
never entered. He’s boss, I say. He can run this affair, like any affair in
Pulambar, to suit himself.”

 
          
“Thanks
for the tip,” said Stover, his lips hardening. “I’m to be slaughtered, then?
But I’ll make my own terms. Both of us to go armed, and start shooting or
stabbing or raying on sight. That would make it fair, and Malbrook doesn’t
deserve even that.”

 
          
“Well,”
said Buckalew, gazing from a port, “we’re at our diggings. Judging from the
flyers moored outside and the lights inside, we have company.” They had.
Stepping from the hovering flyer to their balcony and handing their cloaks to
the robot attendant, they entered to find a group of people, brilliantly
dressed and set-faced, in their sitting-room.

 
         
FIRST of these, Dillon Stover recognized tawny Bee MacGowan.
For a moment it seemed as if she
were
alone before
him, and most important —the trouble over her made her a responsibility and a
comrade. Buckalew began making introductions.

 
          
“This,
Dillon, is Miss Reynardine Phogor. And this is her guardian, Phogor of Venus.
You’ve seen Mr. Amyas Crofts, but you haven’t met him. You know Prrala,
proprietor of the Zaarr; and Mr. Fielding, Mr. Malbrook’s business associate.”

 
          
“Also
his second,” added in Fielding. “I’m here to arrange matters. Malbrook, having
choice of conditions, wants—”

 
          
“I
don’t care what he wants,” interrupted Stover curtly. “I’ve just heard how
duels are planned — framed, rather—in Pulambar.
Nothing
doing.
Let us arm ourselves and fight on sight.”

 
          
“Eh?”
gasped Fielding. “That’s not at all what Malbrook wants.”

           
“I can well believe it,” nodded
Stover bleakly. “He’s had things too much his own way here in Pulambar. He
thinks he can insult ladies like Miss MacGowan and kill men like me, because he
has the difference on his side. Well, I’m holding out for an even break.”

 
          
All
stared at Stover. Reynardine Phogor spoke first.

 
          
“I’m
on the fringe of all this. I’d like information and explanation, Mr. Stover.”

 
          
“If I can give you either.”
And Stover bowed courteously.

 
          
The
girl was almost as tall for a woman as he for a man, of generous but graceful
contour, with sultry dark beauty. Her hair, by careful processing, was
fashionably “brindled” — broad streaks of pallor among the natural dark. Her
tight gown gleamed with jewels. For a moment little Bee MacGowan seemed almost
dull by comparison.

 
          
“Frankly,
I thought I was on the best terms with Mace Malbrook,” she was continuing. “We
talked of marriage. Then he quarrels with you over this—this—” She gestured at
Bee MacGowan.

 
          
The
singer was pale but angry. “All I came here for was to see if I couldn’t stop
the duel some way,” she protested.

 
          
Amyas
Crofts snarled in his throat. “Speaking of marriage,” he said, “consider any
idea of that off between us, Bee.”

 
          
“I
never accepted you,” Bee flung back.

 
          
There
was a moment almost of concerted recriminations—Crofts, Reynardine Phogor and
Bee MacGowan all at once execrating Malbrook. Bee MacGowan quieted first, as if
ashamed of her exhibition. Then Fielding waved Crofts silent.

 
          
“When
I tell Mr. Malbrook what you’ve said,” he announced grimly, “he’ll give you a
challenge to follow this affair with Mr. Stover.”

 
          
Crofts
turned pale as ashes, but clenched his bony fists. Meanwhile Phogor, a richly
clad Venusian with the wide mouth, pop eyes and mottled skin of a monstrous
frog, was addressing his stepdaughter.

 
          
“Control
yourself, Reynardine. I do not like this loud—”

 
          
“I
don’t like it, either!” she cried. “Daddy Phogor, it’s no more fun for me than
for you. But if I didn’t fight for my man—” She whirled upon Bee MacGowan.
“Survival of the fittest, you warbling little sneak—and I feel mighty fit. Well
Mr. Stover? You promised to explain?”

 
          
“If
you give me a chance,” replied Stover quietly. “I had just met Miss MacGowan.
We weren’t beyond the first introductions when this Malbrook fellow swaggered
up and made
himself
obnoxious. I hit him, and he
challenged me. Just like that. And I demand a fifty-fifty chance. I think that
covers everything.”

 
          
PHOGOR boomed forth, loudly even for a Venusian.

 
          
“I
did not know how things stood with my ward. If Malbrook offered marriage, then
followed with this disgraceful conduct—” He broke off for a moment. Then,
“Don’t try to frighten me by staring, Fielding. You and Malbrook are absolute
rulers here, but I’m important on Venus. I have money and power. I’ll take care
of myself and Reynardine.”

 
          
“What
brings you, Prrala?” Buckalew asked worriedly at this juncture.

 
          
The
long-robed Martian bowed. “I wissh peace,” he slurred out. “It will haarm my
business if it iss rreporrted that a morrtal duel had itss sstarrt in my
esstablisshment. I hope to brring about a bloodlesss ssettlement.” Stover waved
the appeal away. “Sorry. Mr. Fielding fixed it so that I couldn’t withdraw by
telling how dangerous his friend is.”

 
          
The
Martian bowed.
“Then I musst trry Mr. Malbrrook.”
He
said farewells all around and departed.

 
          
“Malbrook
won’t listen, either,” Fielding said as the door closed behind Prrala. “And
when he hears those charges of foul play he won’t like them. Nor, Buckalew,
will he appreciate your standing behind Stover in that attitude.”

 
          
Buckalew’s
eyes glittered. “Do you think I’ll endure being bulldozed forever?” he
demanded.

 
          
“You’d
better endure it forever,” warned Fielding.

 
          
“Someone
should silence Malbrook’s dirty mouth,” said Buckalew hotly, and walked away
across the floor.

 
          
Phogor
moved doorward.

           
“Come, Reynardine,” he said gravely.
“You see the low valuation Mr. Malbrook places upon you and your feelings. Mr.
Stover, I am inclined to wish you good luck.”

 
          
Fielding
laughed aloud. “You’re optimistic. Malbrook will slay this insolent young spark
with no effort. You, Phogor, will wish you hadn’t spoken like that—and the rest
of you, too.” He took a step toward Bee MacGowan. “As for you, you little
troublemaker—”

 
          
“Fielding,
shall I give you the twin to that punch Malbrook got?” asked Stover harshly.
“No? Then clear out.”

 
          
In
a few moments all the callers were gone but Bee MacGowan and young Crofts.

 
          
“Amyas,”
said the girl, “will you go on ahead? I have something I must ask Mr. Stover.”
When the youth had ungraciously departed she faced Stover. “I’ve done this to
you,” she accused herself tremulously. “Do you think that I might go to
Malbrook and straighten this out?”

 
          
“Miss
MacGowan,’’ said Stover, “you seem to think that I stand greatly in fear of
what that lardy bully can do. Give yourself no concern. The one to suffer will be
Malbrook. There are graver reasons than a mere brawl.”

 
          
“Drop
it, Dillon!” pleaded Buckalew, returning from an inner room. “Malbrook and
Fielding can do as they please. You don’t stand a chance. Since you’ve refused
a formal duel and threatened Malbrook, there’ll be an armed watch set. You may
even be arrested. At the first overt move you make—” Buckalew’s long, fine
fingers snapped—“you’ll be eliminated.”

 
          
“They
can’t!” protested Stover.

 
          
“They
can do anything—kill you and ruin me, just like winking.”

 
          
“I’ll
go to Malbrook,” said Bee MacGowan again, firmly.

 
          
“Come
back!” cried Stover, hurrying after her. But she was already gone. He reached
the balcony just in time to see her board a helio-car and soar away.

 
          
Stover
pressed a button, setting aglow the signal for an air-taxi to come. Then he
returned to the sitting-room.

 
          
“She’ll
only give Malbrook another chance to insult her,” he began,
then
saw that Buckalew had left the room. He went to a locker and took from it an
electro-automatic pistol. Thrusting this into his girdle, he went back to the
balcony.