A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  THE MENTAL GANGSTER

  Thornton Ayre

  Murder took place on this ship in space over a treasure—a perfect crime. But then the dead man came to life to confront his killer!

  THIS was zero hour. Blackie Melrose had been banking on it for three months, either plotting in his cell, else giving signals to his fellow convicts in the mineral sorting room. Four of them were ready to make the break any minute now . . .

  Blackie’s cold gray eyes scowled at the electric clock on the metal wall as the second hand crept round. His fingers played with the minerals on the conveyor belt. His gaze shifted to his fellow conspirators and from their appointed positions they responded with tight little nods . . . All four of them the toughest bunch that had ever decided to try and escape the prison walls of this asteroid penitentiary way out beyond Pluto—lonely, damned . . .

  Sixtieth second exactly!

  “Right!” Blackie snapped; then a whirlwind of action exploded into the fear-quiet silence.

  The guards up on their balcony were taken by surprise: that was the crux of the thing. Doors opened for conveyor trucks remained open, mysteriously—jammed. Four men slammed and hammered their way to them. Knives glittered, ray guns exploded, tables and small machines overturned.

  Blackie, six feet of iron hard muscle, used only his fists—but with terrific effect. The two guards who jumped to seize him fell away, one slugged on top of the head and the other with a mashed jaw.

  Sirens started to scream as the four pelted down the corridor outside. “Knife” Halligan whipped out his trusty blade, drove it mercilessly to the heart of the solitary sentry at the external valve. He dropped.

  “Here!” Knife panted, whisking suits from a concealed plate of metal in the wall. “Spacesuits. We’ll make it. Those guards are all messed up in the machine room—You locked the doors on them, Pen?”

  Pen Anderson nodded.

  The scrambled and struggled into their suits, slammed the visor-helmets in place. Then, Blackie leading, they opened the valve and emerged onto the starlit plain outside. There, as arranged, was the spaceship awaiting them.

  At top speed they raced to it, blundered through the airlock even as the hail of raygun charges seared after them, to flash back harmlessly on the slammed barrier. The ship took off immediately, left the barren little asteroid far below—climbed slowly and inexorably to the stars.

  Blackie took off his spacesuit slowly, then slid big hands comfortably down his overalled thighs.

  “Well, boys, we made it!” His voice was hoarse with satisfaction. “All the sweat an’ planning wasn’t for nothing, see. Y’can trust Blackie—always gets you in the clear. Yes, sir!” He rubbed his close-cropped dark head complacently, then lighted a half cigarette and relaxed gratefully in a wall chair.

  “And them screws can never get us now,” he finished. “It’s space—and freedom!”

  Knife Halligan gave a slow nod, switched his ratty eyes to the man at the control board.

  “You did a nice job, Conroy,” he said slowly.

  “So I thought.”

  CONROY slipped the automatic pilot in position and turned to face the quartet. All the men caught up a little sharp and looked at each other. Conroy was a go-between—not the first time he had assisted in a getaway with a pirated ship . . . but it was the first time he had looked so white around the gills about it. He had a dead, codfish-gray face, and his eyes stared with the murky brazenness of smeared glass.

  “What’s gotten into you, Conroy?” Rays Walford asked quickly. “Been taking a shot of dope, or something? You look slewed.”

  “Do I?” Conroy seemed surprised. “Perhaps it’s space strain. I’ll fix up something for you to eat . . .”

  He went out to the provision department and the four men looked at each other again. Rays Walford, best mineral-frisker this side of Pluto, rubbed his pointed jaw thoughtfully.

  “Say, Blackie, he’s acting kind of queer, isn’t he? Notice his way of talking, too? Like he’s upped a bit on his eddication since we saw him last.”

  “Why the heck not?” Blackie demanded. “We’ve been in the pen five years, don’t forget. A guy can polish his A.B.C. a lot in that time. Always was screwy about books was Conroy.

  “Yeah, I suppose so—but it’s still kind of queer. He talks nearly as high hat as Pen here.”

  Pen Anderson, round, greasy, slimy as the blackmailing racket by which he had lived before the law had caught up on him, gave a shrug.

  “Some acquire it; others have it naturally. I’m the latter, of course. Pity of it is I have to associate with you lice . . .” He regarded his fingernails thoughtfully.

  Nobody said anything: they were accustomed to Pen’s highbrow methods. Then after a while Conroy came back with the same dead look on his face. He put out the meal, seemed oblivious to the eyes fixed steadily on him as the four wired in hungrily.

  “All set for the Earth trip?” Blackie asked presently.

  “Certainly. That’s what you paid for, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m just asking you: I want to get the thing straight. How soon do you figure you can get us there?”

  “Oh, about three weeks. Barring accidents.”

  “Accidents!” Knife Halligan looked up with tight jaws. “What accidents?”

  “Space,” Conroy shrugged, “is full of potential accidents.”

  “Yeah? . . .” Then, Knife’s truculence subsided at a scowl from Blackie. He satisfied himself with a muttered warning. “Be too bad for you, Conroy, if you queer the set-up, that’s all.”

  “I agree,” murmured Pen, dabbing his greasy jowls. “It is essential I reach Earth as soon as possible. I have a certain—hum—matter to attend to. Valuable matter! Most important.”

  “More graft and corruption, eh?” Blackie grinned. “I’ll hand it to you, Pen, you sure make good use of that phony polish and handwriting of yours.”

  “And I,” said Rays Walford, “have certain rocks to get dumped.” He patted his belt significantly. “I packed enough away to put me on velvet for the rest of my life once we touch Earth . . .”

  He broke off suddenly and looked up as, surprisingly enough, the ship’s distress signal suddenly flashed. It was actuated by something cutting across the photoelectric beam from the prow, thereby giving instant warning of anything ahead.

  Immediately Conroy moved to the observation port.

  “A space ship! A small one!” he ejaculated. Then he gave a frown. “That’s odd—way off the usual lanes, too.”

  “Dodge it!” Blackie snapped, coming up. “Dodge it, I tell you! We’re answering no distress calls this trip. Understand?”

  “Frankly,” Conroy said, looking round with that stare that went through things, “I don’t understand. The code of space has to be obeyed. You are safe—all of you. You’re not in convicts’ clothes, only overalls. And this isn’t a law ship . . . I’ve got to stop!”

  “You do,” Knife Halligan whispered, blade glittering in his clenched fist, “and I’ll pin you to the damned switchboard—”

  “Shut up!” Blackie snapped, wheeling on him. “Come to think of it, Conroy’s right at that. Going past would create suspicion. Stop, and we’ll be in the clear. We’re armed. Okay—pull up.”

  THEY all waited tensely, faces sweating a little as Conroy slowed the machine down with a burst of the forward jets. Airlock interchange began. At last the control room door opened and a figure with helmet tossed back on steel plated shoulders entered. It was a girl, much peroxided about the hair, much painted, faintly sardonic in expression.

  “A dame!” Rays Walford ejaculated. “Well, is that something! Ain’t seen one in—”

  He was going to say “five years” but the warning glance of Knife Halligan stopped him. For her part the girl slammed the door and gazed on the assembly coolly.

  “What is this, a convention?” she inquired dryly. “Any of you mugs got tongues? My ship’s out of fuel: how about some?”

  “Your own ship?�
�� Conroy questioned, and her frizzy head nodded.

  “Yeah. I was headed back for Earth as a matter of fact. I’m a solo dancer—or was—at Draconi’s Cabaret, cheap sort of dive located at Easter City, Neptune. They sort of didn’t like my style, and so . . .” The girl shrugged. “I decided a girl can do better on her native planet where she has friends. But I started off without enough juice. Give me a little, and I’ll trouble you no more.”

  “There’s none to spare,” Blackie answered roughly. “But we’re heading for Earth, so you can have a free ride.”

  “But—What about my ship?”

  “Forget it! It looks like an old model, anyway.”

  “Look here, smart guy, that bus cost me plenty of—”

  “I said forget it, see!” Blackie’s lips were tight.

  The girl relaxed slowly, her gray eyes fixed on Blackie’s uncompromising visage; then with a shrug she pulled off the rest of her space suit and stood revealed in a form fitting dress that made Rays Walford’s eyes open a shade wider.

  “All right. Gorilla, so be it,” she shrugged. “I slept in a sewer once, so I guess I can take this . . . If you want to speak to me the name’s Dorothy Wilson—Miss Wilson, to you.”

  “That’s plain Dot to me,” Blackie grunted. “Get moving again, Conroy; no time to waste.”

  The ship began moving forward again. The girl, her cynical eyes watching everything intently, perched herself near the table and daintily fingered what was left of a bowl of concentrates. Rays Walford took his eyes off her slender legs finally and rubbed his jaw speculatively.

  “Get this!” Blackie snapped suddenly, swinging round. “This dame means nothing to us, see? Nothing! Just a free passenger. Because she’s a woman doesn’t mean any of you mugs can get funny ideas. One pass at her and I’ll plaster you all over the wall. Okay?”

  “Okay, Blackie,” Pen Anderson soothed. “Okay. You know us.”

  “And how!” Blackie looked at the girl. “I’m Blackie Melrose: you can rely on me.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Looking at you I was thinking there might be something to the recessive unit theory, after all. However, I’m not scared of any of you—least of all Dead Pan over at the controls there. I’m a girl who’s been around, see . . . And now, if you gallants have no objection, I’ll find me a bunk.”

  She departed towards the sleeping quarters of the roomy vessel. The four men looked at each other, Conroy apparently not interested in the proceedings anyway.

  “This,” Pen mused, “means that one of us is going to be minus a bunk. And I shall certainly not sleep with any of you lice.”

  “You’ll bunk with Knife, and like it!” Blackie told him curtly.

  “Okay with me,” Knife growled; “but I tell you straight, Blackie, I don’t like this dame turning up. She may be a jinx. She looks like a leg-swinger all right, but suppose she’s a special agent put on our trail by prison radio? That’s possible.”

  “Anything,” Conroy said, from the switchboard, “is possible. But I think the girl is genuine enough. I’ve seen her in cabarets before today—” He broke off, pulling quickly at the various switches. His sudden strained anxiety was immediately obvious.

  “That’s odd!” he ejaculated. “Very odd!”

  “What is?” Blackie asked sharply; and the others crowded hastily round the controls.

  CONROY fingered the switches agitatedly for a space, then he looked up dazedly.

  “We’re—in a sink hole!” he gasped. “A four-point sink hole!”

  There was silence for a moment-grim silence. Each man knew what that meant. A four-point sink hole was the terror of space—a literally becalmed spot where no movement is possible . . . created by the converging of four different gravity fields, the exact central point holding a ship with equal power on every side so nothing of its own devising could move it in any direction.

  “Yes,” Conroy went on, figuring quickly, “we’re in the foci of Neptune, Pluto, and Asteroids 67/B and 32/J. That means—”

  “It means, you two timing rat, that you’ve done it deliberately!” Knife Halligan shouted, whirling him to his feet. “Stalled us so a police ship can finally catch up—”

  Blackie whirled them apart, sent Knife spinning to the wall with a thrust of his powerful arm. Then he eyed Conroy grimly. Conroy backed to his controls, his dead-looking eyes staring.

  “It wasn’t deliberate, Blackie!” he insisted. “We were on the course until we stopped to pick up that girl. I forgot to alter our path and now we—”

  “How,” Blackie asked deliberately, “do we get free? Better think quick, feller.”

  “I may be able to think of something. I can calculate—”

  “I should!” Blackie’s voice was ominous. “We’ll grab some rest while you do it. We didn’t get money drafted to your account for you to stall us here . . . Come on, you mugs—to the sleeping quarters. And what I said about the dame still goes!”

  BLACKIE reckoned he had been asleep in his bunk for perhaps an hour or so when he was suddenly awakened by a piercing scream. Immediately he whirled to the floor, hurried down the narrow passage whither the scream had come. It took him into the big provision chamber. At the sight before him he drew up short.

  The light was fully on, dim though it was, and Rays Walford lay on the floor, clutching his chest. There was a red stain on his shirt; it brimmed through onto his fingers—But that wasn’t all. Dorothy Wilson was there too, staring down at him in horror.

  Blackie glanced at her, then dropped at Walford’s side, raised his head and shoulders.

  “I—I guess I shan’t make the journey, Blackie . . . My—my rocks! They’re—they’re gone—Somebody—”

  Blackie felt along the belt. The pouches on it were empty.

  “It—it—” Walford’s voice failed him. He became suddenly inert and his breathing stopped. Blackie lowered him slowly to the floor and his smoldering eyes sought the girl in the dim light. She was still by the wall.

  “What happened?” he snapped.

  “I heard him scream, so I came in—”

  “Don’t hand me that! More likely Rays made a pass at you, you struggled, found the pouches on his belt while you struggled—Then you finished him off with something. Scissors mebbe. You probably carry ’em . . . Hand over those rocks, sister!”

  “What rocks? What are you talking about?”

  “Minerals, then, if you want to be particular. They’re worth a fortune; good meat for a gold digger like you—Come on, give!”

  Blackie strode towards her, then stopped as a small pearl-handled ray pistol flashed into her hand.

  “Put your brakes on, Gorilla. Nobody mauls me without getting his fingers burned . . . I’ve told you the truth,” the girl added curtly. “I heard this guy scream, and when I came in the light was on dimly—as it is now—and he was lying there. That’s all I know.”

  “Those other mugs wouldn’t steal from a fellow con.”

  “So that’s what you are—convicts! Thought I knew the haircut—Well, question the others! I’m not so sure of their honor as you seem to be!”

  Blackie hesitated, brows down. He was powerful enough, agile enough, to snatch the gun and fling the girl across the compartment. But he didn’t. Wheeling, he strode out with a taut face through the sleeping quarters. His bellow aroused the others. In the control room he faced them, shot the facts.

  “One of you guys—and that goes for you too, Conroy—killed Rays!”

  “Not us,” said Knife Halligan seriously. “We got honor, ain’t we?”

  “Whichever one of you has got those rocks had better hand ’em over,” Blackie breathed. “Either that, or I beat it out of you! Rays Walford has a family to support: those rocks go to them. Come on! Handover!”

  Faces became set and there was no movement. Blackie relaxed, puzzling. “You heard nothing?”

  Every head save the girl’s shook. Blackie swung round on Conroy.

  “You haven’t been asleep, Conroy;
you’ve been working on this navigation problem. You heard something?”

  “Nothing, I assure you.” Conroy’s face was expressionless.

  “Perhaps,” the girl said languidly, “there’s a jinx on the ship?”

  “Yeah—you!” Knife Halligan spat. “First we lose our course; then we get in a sink hole; then Rays gets bumped off—”

  “Shut up!” Blackie snapped. He jerked his thumb toward the storage compartment. “Come and help me look around. Those rocks must be somewhere. Maybe they were dropped or something. Once they’re found we’ll figure out between us what comes next . . .”

  THEY all turned and started an examination. They were busy on the job in the dim light, poking into the various corners when Blackie whirled suddenly and pinned Knife Halligan to the wall with a mighty forearm across his throat. With his free hand he whipped Halligan’s deadly weapon from his belt and studied it keenly . . . Then he dropped his hold and handed the knife back quietly.

  “Okay, it’s clean,” he said briefly. “This blade of yours is old-type steel; bound to be some signs if you’d stabbed with it.”

  “Big of you!” Knife snarled, shaking himself. “I didn’t take those rocks, though I wouldn’t have minded. There’s such a thing as honor—”

  “One of us killed him,” Blackie stated. “And before we are through, unless we get out of this sink hole—and even if we do—one of us is going to confess to it. Space can crack a guy wide open in time . . . and a woman too,” he finished significantly, seeing the girl searching assiduously.

  There was silence for a moment, then Blackie shrugged.

  “Give me a hand to put him in cold storage. If we fire him outside he’ll just lie out there and give us the jitters.”

  He and Knife carried the corpse to the refrigerator and dumped it inside, slammed the door. Then with a grim face Blackie led the way back into the control room.