Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “Shocked?” she asked. “You, a star class copysmith, consorting with a Connie? Afraid it’ll get out and do you no good business-wise?” She forced a mocking smile that broke down as I looked at her. “Damn it,” she flared, “all I ever asked from you after I came to my senses was to get out of my life and stay out. The biggest mistake I ever made was keeping Taunton from killing you.”

  “You had Runstead shanghai me?”

  “Like a fool. What in God’s name are you doing here? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  Kathy a Connie. Runstead a Connie. Deciding what was best for poor Mitch and doing it. Taunton deciding what was best for poor Mitch and doing it. Moving me this way and that.

  I picked her up and slapped her. The staring intensity left her eyes and she looked merely surprised.

  “Get what’s-his-name in here,” I said.

  “You can’t order me—”

  “You!” I yelled. “The witchdoctor!”

  He came running, right into my fist. Kathy was on my back, a clawing wildcat, as I went through his pockets. I found the gun—a wicked .25 UHV machine pistol—and shoved her to the floor. She looked up at me, mechanically rubbing a bruised hip. “You’re a mean idiot,” she said wonderingly.

  “Not idiot,” I said. “Does Fowler Schocken know you’re on the Moon?”

  “No,” she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together.

  “You’re lying. I told you that gesture gives you away.”

  “My little lie-detector,” she said jeeringly. “My little fireeating copysmith—”

  “Level with me or you get this thing across the face.”

  “You mean it!” She put her hand to her face slowly, looking at the gun.

  “I’m glad that’s settled. Does Fowler Schocken know you’re on the Moon?”

  “Not exactly.” She was still watching the gun. “He did advise me to make the trip—to help me get over my bereavement.”

  “Call him. Get him here.”

  She didn’t say anything or move to the phone.

  “Listen,” I said. “This is Groby talking. Groby’s been slugged, knifed, robbed and kidnaped. He saw the only friend he had poisoned a few hours ago. He’s been played with by a lady sadist who knew her anatomy lessons. He killed her for it and he was glad of it. He’s so deep in hock to Chlorella that he’ll never get out.

  He’s wanted for femicide and breach of contract. The woman he thought he was in love with turned out to be a lying fanatic, a Connie bitch. Groby has nothing to lose. I can put a burst through the dome up there and we’ll all suck space. I can walk out into the street, give myself up and tell exactly what I know. They won’t’ believe me, but they’ll investigate to make sure, and sooner or later they’ll get corroboration—after I’ve been brainburned, which doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “And,” she asked flatly, “what have you got to gain?”

  “Stop stalling. Call Schocken.”

  “Not without another try, Mitch. One word hurt—‘fanatic.’ There were two reasons why I begged Runstead to shanghai you: I wanted you out of the way of Taunton’s killers, and I wanted you to get a taste of the consumer’s life. I thought I’d be able to talk sense to you after we brought you back to life, and we’d be able to work together on the only job worth doing. So it didn’t work. That damned brain of yours—so good and so warped.’ All you want is to be star class again and eat and drink and sleep a little better than anybody else. Well, I tried.

  “Go ahead and do whatever you think you have to do. It’s not going to hurt worse than the nights we used to spend screaming at each other. Or the times I was out on Connie business and couldn’t tell you and had to watch you being jealous. Or shipping you to Chlorella to try to make you a whole sane man in spite of what copysmithing’s done to you. Or never being able to love you all the way, never being able to give myself to you entirely, mind or body, because there was this secret. Pistol-whipping’s a joke compared to the way I’ve been hurt.”

  There was a pause that seemed to go on forever.

  “Call Schocken,” I said unsteadily. “Tell him to come here. Then get out and take the stargazer with you. I—I don’t know what I’m going to tell Schocken. But I’m going to give you and your friends time to change headquarters and hailing signs and the rest of your insane rigmarole. Call Schocken and get out of here. I don’t want to see you again.”

  I couldn’t read the look on her face as she picked up the phone and punched a number.

  “Mr. Schocken’s sec3, please,” she said. “This is Dr. Nevin—widow of Mr. Courtenay. You’ll find me on the through list. Mr. Schocken’s sec2, please. . . . This is Dr. Nevin, Mr. Courtenay’s widow. May I speak to Mr. Schocken’s secretary? I’m listed . . . Hello, Miss Grice; this is Dr. Nevin. May I speak to Mr. Schocken?” She turned to me. “I’ll have to wait a few moments.” They passed in silence. “Hello, Mr. Schocken. I wonder if you could come and see me about a matter of importance, business and personal . . . The sooner the better, I’m afraid . . . Shopping One, off Receiving—Dr. Astron’s . . . No, nothing like that. It’s just a convenient meeting place. Thank you very much, Mr. Schocken.”

  I wrenched the phone from her and heard Fowler Schocken’s voice say: “Quite all right, my dear. The mystery is intriguing. Good-by.” Click. The voice was unmistakable. It brought back memories of Board mornings with their brilliance of ingenuity, hard and satisfying hours of work climaxed with a “Well done!” I was almost home.

  Silently and efficiently, Kathy was shouldering the stargazer’s limp body. Without a word, she walked from the observatory. A door opened and closed.

  The hell with her . . .

  IT was minutes before there was a jovial halloo from Fowler Schocken: “Kathy! Anybody home?”

  “In here,” I called.

  Two of our Brinks men and Fowler Schocken came in. His face turned a mottled purple. “Where’s—” he began. And then: “You looked like—you are! Mitch!” He grabbed me and waltzed me hilariously around the circular room while the guards dropped their jaws. “What kind of trick was that to play on an old man? What’s the story, boy? Where’s Kathy?” He stopped, puffing even under Moon-weight.

  “I’ve been doing some undercover work,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ve got myself into some trouble. Would you call for more guards? We may have to stand off Luna City Inc.’s protection men.” Our Brinks guards grinned happily at the thought.

  “Sure, Mitch. Get it done,” he said to the sergeant, who went eagerly to the phone. “Now what’s all this about?”

  “For the present,” I said, “let’s say it’s been a field trip that went sour. Let’s say I downgraded myself temporarily and voluntarily to assess the Venus project sentiment among the consumers—and I got stuck. Fowler, please don’t push me for any more details. I’m in a bad way. Hungry, tired, scared, dirty.”

  “All right, Mitch. You know my policy—find a good horse, give him his head and back him to the limit. You’ve never let me down, and God knows I’m glad to see you around again. Venus Section can use you. Nothing’s going right. The indices are down to 3.77 composite for North America when they should be 4.0 and rising. And turnover? Enormous! I’m here recruiting, you know: a little raid on Luna City Inc., Moon Mines and the other outfits for some space-seasoned executives.”

  It was good to be home. “Who’s heading it up?” I asked.

  “I am. We rotated a few Board men through the spot and there wasn’t any pickup. In spite of my other jobs, I had to take over Venus Section direct. Am I glad to see you!”

  “Runstead?”

  “He’s vice-ing for me, poor man. What’s this jam you’re in with the guards? Where’s Kathy?”

  “I’m wanted for femicide and contract breach on Earth. Here I’m a suspicious character without clearance. Also I resisted arrest, clouted a guard and damaged Luna City property.”

  He looked grave. “You know, I don’t like the sound of CB,” he sa
id. “I assume there was a flaw in the contract?”

  “Several,” I assured him.

  He brightened. “Then we’ll pay off the fines on the rest-of the stuff and fight the CB clear up to the Chamber of Commerce if we have to. What firm?”

  “Chlorella Costa Rica.”

  “Hmm. Middling-sized, but solid. Excellent people, all of them. A pleasure to do business with.”

  Not from the bottom, I thought, but said nothing.

  “I’m sure they’ll be reasonable. If they aren’t, I have a majority of the C of C in my pocket anyway. I ought to get something for my retainers, eh?” He dug me slyly in the ribs. His relief at getting Venus Section off his neck was overwhelming.

  A dozen of our Brinks boys churned in.

  “That should do it,” Fowler Schocken beamed. “Lieutenant, the Luna City Inc. protection people may try to take Mr. Courtenay here away from us. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”

  “No, sir,” said the lieutenant, dead-pan.

  “Then let’s go.”

  “HEY, you!” a stray Burns patrolman bawled. We were in somewhat open order. Evidently he didn’t realize that the Brinks men were my escort.

  “Go play with your marbles, punchy,” a sergeant told him.

  He went pale, but beeped his alarm and went down in a tangle of fists and boots.

  Burns patrolmen came bounding along the tunnel-like street in low-gravity strides. Faces appeared in doorways. Our detail’s weapons-squad leader said, “Hup!” and his boys began to produce barrels, legs, belts of ammo and actions from their uniforms. Snap-snap-snap-snap-snap, and there were two machine guns mounted on the high tripod ready to rake both ends of the street. The Burns men braked grotesquely yards from us and stood unhappily swinging their nightsticks.

  Our lieutenant called out: “What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?”

  A Burns man called back: “Is that man George Groby?”

  “Are you George Groby?” the lieutenant asked me.

  “No. I’m Mitchell Courtenay.” The weapons men full-cocked their guns at a signal from the squad leader. The two clicks echoed from the vaulting and the few last-ditch rubbernecks hanging from the doors vanished.

  “Oh,” said the Burns man. “That’s all right, then. You can go ahead.” He turned on the rest of the patrolmen. “What the hell are you dummies waiting for? Didn’t you hear me?”

  They beat it, and we moved on down Commercial One, with the weapons men cradling their guns. The Fowler Schocken Associates Luna City Branch was 75 Commercial One, and we went in whistling. The weapons men mounted their guns in the lobby.

  It was a fantastic performance., I had never seen its like. Fowler Schocken explained it as he led me down into the heart of the agency. “It’s frontier stuff, Mitch. Something you’ve got to get into your copy. ‘The Equalizer’ is what they call it. A man’s rank doesn’t mean-much up here. A well-drilled weapons squad is the law topside of the stratosphere. It’s getting back to the elemental things of life, where a man’s a man no matter how high his Social Security number.”

  We passed a door. “O’Shea’s room,” he said. “He isn’t in yet, of course. The little man’s out gathering rosebuds while he may—and the time isn’t going to be long. The only Venus roundtripper. We’ll lick that, won’t we, Mitch?”

  He showed me into a cubicle and lowered the bed with his own hands. “Cork off with these,” he said, producing a sheaf of notes from his breast pocket. “Just some rough jottings for you to go over. I’ll send in a guard with food and Coffiest. A good hour or two of work and then the sound sleep of the just, eh?”

  “Yes, Mr. Schocken.”

  He beamed at me and left, drawing the curtain. I stared glazedly at the rough jottings. “Six-color doubletrux. Downhold unsuccessful previous flights. Cite Learoyd 1959, Holden 1961 (?), McGill 2002 et al heroic pioneers supreme sacrfce etc etc. No mention Myers-White flopperoo 2010 acct visibly exploded bfr passng Moon orbit. Try get M-W taken out of newssheet files & history bks? Get cost estimate. Search archives for pix L H & McG. Shd be blond brunet & redhead. Ships in bacgrnd. Looming. Panting woman, but heroic pioneers dedicated look in eye not interestd. Piquant bcs unavlbl . . .”

  There was a pencil and copypaper in the cubicle. I began to write painfully: “We were ordinary guys. We liked the Earth and the good things it gave us. The morning tang of Coffiest . . . the first drag on a Starr . . . the good feel of a sharp new Verily pinstripe suit . . . a warm smile from a girl in a bright spring dress—but they weren’t enough. There were far places we had to see, things we had to know.

  “The little guy’s Learoyd, 1959. I’m Holden, 1961. The redhead with the shoulders is McGill, 2002. Yes, we’re dead. But we saw the far places and we learned what we had to learn before we died. The longhair astronomers could only guess about Venus. Poison gas, they said. Winds so hot and so strong they’d pick you up and throw you away in cinders. But they weren’t sure. What do you do when you aren’t sure? You go and see.”

  A guard came in with sandwiches and Coffiest. I munched and gulped, and wrote with the other hand.

  “We had good ships for those days. They packed us and enough fuel to get us there. What they didn’t have was enough fuel to get us back. But don’t pity us; we had to know. There was always the chance that the long-hairs were wrong, that we’d be able to get out, breathe clean air, swim in cool water—and then somehow make enough fuel to bring the good news back. No, it didn’t work out that way. It proved that the longhairs knew their stuff.

  “Learoyd didn’t wait to starve in his crate; he opened the hatch and breathed poison after writing up his log. My crate was lighter. The wind picked it up and broke it—and me with it. McGill had extra rations and a heavier ship. He sat and wrote for a week and then—well, it was pretty certain after two noreturns. He’d taken cyanide with him. But don’t pity us. We went there and we saw it and, in a way, we sent back the news by not coming back ourselves.

  “Now you folks know what to do and how to do it. You know the longhairs weren’t guessing. Venus is a mean lady and you’ve got to take the stuff and the know-how to tame her. She’ll treat you right when you do.

  When you find us and our crates, don’t pity us. We did it for you. We knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

  I was home again.

  XIV

  “PLEASE, Fowler,” I said. “Tomorrow. Not today.”

  He gave me a steady look. “I’ll go along, Mitch. I’ve never been a back-seat driver yet.” He displayed one of the abilities that made him boss-man by wiping clean out of his mind the burning curiosity about where I had been and what I had been doing. “That’s good copy,” he said, slapping my work of the previous night on his desk. “Clear it with O’Shea, won’t you? He can give it some extra see-taste-smell-hear-feel if anybody can. And pack for return aboard the Vilfredo Pareto—I forgot, you haven’t got anything to pack. Here’s some scratch; shop when you get a chance. Take a few of the boys with you, of course. The Equalizer, remember?” He twinkled at me.

  I went to find O’Shea curled up like a cat in the middle of his full-sized bunk in the cubicle next to mine. The little man looked ravaged when he rolled over and stared blearily at me.

  “Mitch,” he said thickly. “ ‘Nother goddam nightmare.” He closed his bloodshot eyes. A thread of saliva lay along his miniature chin—puffy now, no longer perfectly chiseled.

  “Wake up. Jack.”

  He jerked upright and held his small head. “I’m dying,” he said faintly. “My deathbed advice is this: don’t ever be a hero. Get me something, will you?”

  I went to the kitchen and punched Coffiest, Thiamax and a slice of Bredd. Halfway out, I returned, went to the bar and punched two ounces of bourbon.

  O’Shea looked at the tray and hiccoughed. “What the hell’s that stuff?”’ he asked, referring to the Coffiest, Thiamax and Bredd. He shot down the bourbon and shuddered.

  “Long time no see, Jack,” I said.

&
nbsp; He groaned. “Why do cliches add that extra something to a hangover?” He tried to stand up to his full height of thirty-five inches and collapsed back onto the cot, his legs dangling. “I’m living up to my reputation and it’s killing me. Ooh, that tourist gal from Nova Scotia! It’s springtime, isn’t it? Do you think that explains anything?”

  “It’s late fall.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t have a calendar. Pass me that Coffiest.” No “please” and no “thank you.” Just a cool assumption that the world was his for the asking. He had changed.

  “Think you can do some work this morning?” I asked, my voice stiff.

  “I might,” he said indifferently. “This is Schocken’s party, after all. Say, what the hell ever became of you?”

  “I’ve been investigating.”

  “Seen Kathy? That’s a wonderful girl you have there, Mitch.” His smile might have been reminiscent. All I was sure of was that I didn’t like it.

  He choked down his Coffiest and said, carefully setting it down: “What’s that work you mentioned?”

  I showed him my copy. He gulped the Thiamax and began to steady on his course as he read.

  “You got it all effed up,” he said at last, scornfully. “I don’t know Learoyd, Holden and McGill from so many holes in the ground, but like hell they were selfless explorers. You don’t get pulled to Venus. You get pushed”

  “We’re trying to convince people that they got pulled. What we want from you is sense-impressions to sprinkle the copy with. Just talking off the front of your face, how do you resonate to it?”

  “With nausea,” he said, bored. “Would you reserve me a shower, Mitch? Ten minutes fresh, 100 degrees. Damn the cost. You, too, can be a celebrity. All you have to do is be as lucky as I am.” He swung his short legs over the edge of the cot and contemplated his toes, six inches clear of the floor. “I’m getting it while the getting’s good. And am I getting it good. She must have been part Eskimo.”

  “What about my copy?”

  “See my reports. What about my shower?”