Iron Head: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

by E. C. Tubb

  My brush went through the polish. Literally. It went right through and, from the hole it had made, trickled a thin stream of dry, powdery dust. I stared at it and I felt sick. That stand had been constructed of silicone-glued plastic, light, strong, ideal for its purpose. Now it was a mass of dust held within a thin film of flaking polish. Why it hadn’t collapsed sooner was a mystery, but the answer was plain.

  I had to get moving—and fast!

  It wasn’t the stand I was worried about. Nor the manufacturer. He could take care of himself. I was thinking of all the gallons of polish I’d sold, all the people who had cheerfully painted it on their antiques, their precious furniture, their houses, garages, sheds, cars, prams, staircases, doors, everywhere and anywhere conceivable. Four weeks the Goon had said. I didn’t have much time. I took all the money I had, sold what I could, and caught the monorail one jump ahead of the police. I could guess what had happened, but that didn’t make it any easier. The Goon had mentioned oxidisation and that, of course, was where the glowing light had come from. In effect, the polish had started a slow-burn fire, allowing the energy to escape as light.

  But what really hurts is the knowledge that I’ve been taken for a sucker. I’ve fallen for the oldest confidence trick in the book. I’ve spent every credit I possess and it’ll take the rest of my life to pay off my creditors. If they ever catch up with me the law suits for criminal negligence will send me to the Luna mines for the next hundred years and, somehow, I don’t think I’ll be able to live that long.

  You still wonder why I want to kill John Weston?

  CHAPTER 2

  THAT ZAMBONI

  If anyone ever invents a time machine I’m going to be his first customer. I want to go right back into the past and twist the head off the shoulders of a character named Zamboni. I think that was his name, or maybe it was Marchoni, or Volta, or someone like that. Anyway, the man I want is the one who first discovered that if you put a couple of different metals together you can get an electric current.

  I hate him.

  Why? Well, when I think of what he did to a very close friend of mine I’d grit my teeth if they were my own and not so expensive to replace. Dusty Dribble is the man, a nice, kind, lovable character without a base thought in his head. A man who does his best to make his way in a society which is dead set against him.

  That’s right. Me.

  It began when I stepped off the ship right into the middle of a bunch of Lunatics. That’s what the people who live on the Moon are called, not, incidentally, the name which they call themselves. They’ve dreamed up a fancy name, Selenites, and it doesn’t do to forget it if you want to remain healthy.

  I landed with a suitcase, a passport and a cold sweat. The sweat was unnecessary, no one was waiting for me, and I calmed down as the immigration officer checked me through.

  “Business?”

  “On vacation,” I said quickly. “For reasons of my health.” I wasn’t lying, either. If I hadn’t left Earth when I did the chances are that I would have been escorted off. The destination would have been the same, but the reception would have been very, very different.

  “You’ve come to the right place, Mr. Dribble,” said the immigration officer sym-pathetically. “Your health is certain to improve here.” He handed me a stack of pamphlets. “As this is your first visit you’d better read these. Have a good time.”

  I intended to.

  You know the Moon, of course? Everything is in bubbles or underground, sealed against the vacuum and made of metal and plastic. They have quite a community up there, men and women and children, all living in a sort of glorified beehive. Not that they are primitive in any way, they have all the comforts of modern civilisation together with its technology and, in effect, they are a segment of Earth transplanted to the satellite.

  I set myself up in an eight by ten box which they called a room and took stock of the situation. Things are expensive on the Moon, you can’t even breathe without paying for the privilege, and I’d travelled light in more ways than one.

  It was time for me to get to work

  First, I looked over the market to see what the prospects were, and it was then I got my first shock. There just didn’t seem to be anyone making demonstrable stuff on the Moon at all. Plenty of other artefacts, but nothing which I could buy for a credit, dress up with hot air, and sell for ten. The second shock came when I found out about the freight rates from Earth. I couldn’t even import the stuff. I had to do some deep thinking—and fast.

  I remembered Zamboni.

  The gimmick was as old as the hills and probably older but, as I knew, these things run in cycles. Dress it up, adapt the patter, polish up the dem and today’s suckers are as eager to swallow the bait as they ever were. Anyway, I had no choice, it was either that or starve, and I knew the Selenites wouldn’t let me starve—not while I could work.

  So I went out and found a partner.

  It isn’t hard to find someone willing to help. At least it isn’t when you offer them a fortune for a little cooperation. Sam owned a small workshop towards the edge of the inhabited area where he tried to make a living by repairing spacesuits and similar junk. He was small, thin, with a nagging wife and a worried expression. He also had a pathetic desire to get rich. I told him what I wanted and he frowned.

  “Copper and zinc?” He shook his head. “Not much of those metals about, Dusty. How much would you need?”

  “That depends on how many we sell.” I’d made him a partner on the theory that a man works better for himself than for others. Also, it saved me having to worry about paying him. Partners can’t sue each other for money invested in the partnership. “Say an ounce of each metal per unit. Ten pounds of each would be enough to make a start.”

  “An ounce?” He frowned as he thought about it. “How long are these things supposed to last?”

  “It doesn’t matter. A couple of months would do. Why?’

  “If I hot-sprayed the metal over a forme it would look more and still do the job. We wouldn’t need as much metal that way, either.”

  “How much would it cost?”

  “The labour wouldn’t be much, say about five credits each. The whole thing should run out to about ten credits each.”

  For a moment it almost shook me, and then I remembered the higher income-expenditure scale on the Moon. Ten credits up here would be worth about five on Earth. I could still sell the item for fifty and not be charging too much.

  “Do it your way,” I said. “When can I have them?”

  “As soon as I can get the metal. Zinc I can do, but not copper.”

  “Why not?”

  “Metals are restricted here and I haven’t got a licence to buy non-ferrous.”

  “Then get a licence.”

  “I can’t. They won’t give le one.” He didn’t explain why and I, like a fool, didn’t ask him. I thought about it for a moment.

  “Lend me some money and I’ll get the copper. I know just how to do it.”

  I did, too. I hung around the landing field entrance until one of the swank, luxury ships came in, and then I had private talk with one of the cooks. Like all spacemen he as money-hungry and, like all the luxury vessels, the ship had reverted to old-fashioned utensils for the benefit of those gourmands who ked to inspect the kitchens.

  For a hundred credits I bought a copper saucepan and everyone was happy.

  Sam buried himself in his workshop and, when he came out, he handed me a stack of neatly fashioned units. I decided to call them the Rejuvenator, and I must say they looked attractive. We had made them in the form of a belt so that they could be worn against the skin under the clothing and no one would know.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever met the thing before? The principle is simple, a weak electrical current is generated by the contact of the two metals. As a current it’s pretty useless. You can light a dim bulb with it and even ring a bell—if you have the right sort of bulb and bell. To make certain I hid a battery under my coat
, taped the wires to my lower arms, and dusted my hands with conductive .powder. I collected a few items for purposes of making a flash, hired a corner close to where the tourists and upper-income residents would be certain to pass, and was all ready for business.

  I couldn’t do wrong.

  There’s something about an electrical display which is certain to attract people. I flashed lights, rang bells and made the needles of several dials kick right over. I used the hidden battery for all this though, to be fair, the Rejuvenator did produce a current. I proved it, too.

  I let a woman actually operate it on the bell, my hands guiding hers, and it was only by accident that they touched the bared wires. Naturally, the bell rang, and she was delighted.

  The patter came easy.

  “Let me show you the latest discovery of modern medical science,’’ I announced. I rang the bells, flashed the lights, and waited until I’d collected a pitch.

  “You all know that the human body contains electricity,” I said, and now I didn’t shout. There is a reason why a good demonstrator doesn’t shout. You talk to the customers, not yell at them, and, by keeping my voice low, they had to press closer to hear what I was saying. That made it easier for me to pass out the Rejuvenators so that they could handle them.

  There’s a reason for that, too. If a man is holding your property he’s not going to walk away with it. A crowd collects a crowd and…

  Well, I know my business.

  “It has been scientifically proven,” I continued, “that, as we get older, so our electrical potential diminishes. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the Rejuvenator, constructed with elaborate precision of the finest materials and guaranteed to last a lifetime, will restore that natural loss of the body’s vitality by means of a continuous trickle-charge of a specific nature adapted to meet the requirements of your cells. I...”

  I made it last until I felt them becoming restless. Three minutes is about the most you can hold a crowd withe hitting the bat, longer than that and they lose interest. I swiftly touched on the various points, hinted at a tremendous increase in vitality, doubled my age and swore that I’d worn one all my life, then got to the point without further waste of time.

  “Fifty credits, ladies and gentlemen. For the small sum of fifty credits I can offer you the Rejuvenator complete and ready to wear. Full instructions with every item.” I’d had a light-printer run off a few hundred leaflets on his photographic machine. “Fifty credits? Thank you, sir.”

  I shoved a package into a man’s hands and, before he could decide whether or not he had actually asked for one, I’d passed out more. It always works and, for the next few minutes, I was busy taking fifty credit notes. The man to whom I’d given the first package cleared his throat and waited until the last of the crowd had slipped away.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Yes?” I was brusque. Talking to him was wasting time and I wanted to collect another pitch.

  “You said,” he fidgeted and almost blushed. “You said that it increased vitality…”

  “Certainly it does,” I said emphatically. I knew that I had a sure thing here. A man, any man, even one with whom no self-respecting she-ape would be found dead with, always likes to think that he is a second Casanova. “Wear it next to the skin as instructed. Of course, if you wish for a more rapid rejuvenation, two or more maybe worn at the same time. You’ll take three, sir?”

  He took two and I watched him scurry into the crowd as if he’d done something to be ashamed of.

  Then I returned to work.

  To save it getting monotonous I altered the patter to suit the audience. For men I stressed the restoration of vitality, for women the restoring of beauty, for a mixed crowd the life-extending influence of the rejuvenator. I talked so earnestly that I almost began to believe in it myself and so, because of that, I sold more than ever.

  Sam, when I went back for more supplies, seemed dubious.

  “It’s all very well, Dusty,” he said, after I had paid him his share. “But I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t like what?”

  “This business. If they catch me with un-licenced copper I’m sunk. And, anyway, isn’t it getting money under false pretences?”

  This, after I’d actually paid him! I’d been generous to him, too. I’d only taken half the gross take for personal expenses before splitting the rest five ways. Two for me, two for the store, and the rest for him. And I was paying the cost of the Rejuvenators, too.

  Some men are never satisfied,

  “Look,” I said patiently. “What are you worrying about? The Rejuvenator does produce a current as claimed, and so we are within the law. The fact that the current is so weak that it can’t penetrate the insulating properties of the skin doesn’t matter. In fact it’s a point in our favour, we don’t want to electrocute anyone, do we? And it will last a lifetime, no one said anything about it working that long. Stop worrying and get back to work.”

  “I don’t like it,” he insisted. “Somehow it doesn’t seem right.”

  Ethics! And just when we were about to make really good money. It was sickening to hear him talk.

  We argued for an hour before I managed to persuade him that we were doing nothing wrong. And even then he wasn’t really convinced until I’d paid him back the hundred credits I’d borrowed from him to buy the saucepan. He even hinted that he wanted a larger cut, but I was firm about that. I’d been too generous as it was.

  Privately, I decided to find myself another partner as soon as Sam had used up all the copper.

  He made it last longer than I thought. It was fantastic the way he managed to spread those few pounds of metal. What he sprayed it on I don’t know, but the finished product really looked good.

  Within a week I had to shift my stand to make room for the bigger crowds. Within two weeks I’d almost forgotten what a wolf looked like, it was that far from my door. Towards the end of the third week I’d sold a Rejuvenator to almost every tourist and higher-income resident on the Moon and was seriously thinking of importing some De-Fumers from Earth. This, despite the fact that all the Luna atmosphere is air-conditioned. I felt so good that I could have sold anything.

  I was busy selling myself the taste of local liquor in the swank, Earthlight Bar, when I got the first hint that things were too good to last.

  “Stripped,” said a shrill voice behind me. “My dear, I was never so humiliated in my entire life!”

  “They actually undressed you?” Her companion, a woman who had long ago dropped all pretence of being less than forty, looked suitably shocked.

  “To the skin! Of course I had to cancel my booking. I just had to let the rocket leave without me. My nerves were too shattered to even think of travelling.” Her voice rose as she thought about it. “I shall never come to the Moon again. Never! I told them so.”

  “You did quite right, dear,” soothed her friend. “But why? Why did they strip you, I mean?” She didn’t seem to be able to get over it.

  “I’ve no idea. They were stripping almost everyone, it seems. It’s simply disgusting the way these Lunatics treat visitors. When you think of all the money we spend here a little courtesy doesn’t seem too much to expect.”

  “Stripped!”

  “And robbed. My Rejuvenator, you know the thing I bought from that delightful man, they actually took it from me, I shall have to get another. I simply couldn’t be without it now that I’ve grown used to it. I feel so much more...”

  She hesitated for the word. I could have given it to her, but I didn’t stop to introduce myself. I didn’t stop for anything because suddenly, something had occurred to me.

  I went to find Sam. He wasn’t in, but a policeman stood at his door, so I kept going. I made just one other call, to my room to collect my suitcase, and then I headed for the landing field—fast.

  It took most of my money and plenty of talk before I could persuade the skipper of a Mars-bound cargo ship to take me as passenger. I needed him more than he needed me, because he
was taking off immediately and I daren’t wait for a better bargain. At that I only just made it.

  In space, sitting in my so-called cabin, I had time to read all the pamphlets the immigration official had given me.

  And then I knew what had happened.

  Luna is more than just a colony, it’s a penal settlement, too. I’d known that but, like most people, I had thought that all the criminals were behind bars. They aren’t of course, why should they be? They aren’t dangerous and there’s no possible means of escape from the Moon. So they’re allowed to run loose under general supervision. They do the menial work, the mining, the bubble-maintenance. But they have lots of tourists and residents, too, and they have to have some method of determining which is which.

  So each prisoner has a belt rivetted around him. A belt comprised of two metals which generate a current which can be detected by means of the proper instruments. They have these instruments at the embarkation ports.

  You get it?

  That’s right. The Rejuvenator worked on the same principle. Maybe the formes Sam sprayed the metal on had something to do with it, but each and every Rejuvenator registered on the instruments as, though the wearer was a prisoner.

  And the guards aren’t gentle with prisoners who try to escape.

  I wondered how many lawsuits would be filed against the Selenites and just how much trade they would lose because of it. I didn’t have to wonder what they would do to me if they ever caught me.

  That Zamboni!

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SHELL GAME

  I wish that people would stop talking and writing and singing about space travel as if it were something wonderful.

  To listen to them you’d think that anyone who got themselves a soft number operating a spaceship automatically deserved a pension and the Solar Star. In reality, of course, there’s nothing to shout about. I don’t know what the early days were like, pretty grim I expect, but now a trip to the planets is one of the most boring things I can imagine.