“Because he’s Malbrook,” replied Buckalew shortly. “He won’t like it, at that, if you make water too easy to get. That’s what will happen if your condenser ray works. It’ll condense all the water vapor that has been escaping up to now, giving rain and returning fertility to this planet.”
“Grandfather used to talk like that,” remembered Stover. “I’m not as brilliant as he is, but I’ll work as hard— after awhile. Just now I want to get the ugly thought of those poor thirsty devils out of my mind. I’ll have a drink.”
“Your grandfather used to take guil in his wine,” informed Buckalew.
Stover looked at his companion, and suddenly found it more believable that here was an old friend of his grandfather. For all the ungrayed hair and smooth face, Buckalew had eyes that might have been born with the first planets. Not old, but ageless. Stover began to frame in his mind a polite inquiry as to how these things might be. At that moment a strange voice, clear and low, broke in upon his meditations.
“Gentlemen, the management suggests that I say how glad we are to see you at the Zaarr once again.”
BOTH rose, bowing. The speaker was the girl who had sung. “Please sit down,” begged Stover, holding a chair.
She smiled and did so. Her eyes were large and dark, her chin smoothly pointed. Even without her heavy makeup she would be lovely. Beside Stover she seemed no larger than a child.
Buckalew signaled a robot waiter, who clanked across with drink, a healthful Terrestrial wine laced with powerful Jovian guil.
“This is a pleasure, Miss—” Stover stumbled.
“My name is Bee MacGowan,” the singer supplied, smiling.
“I’ve been admiring your singing,” added Stover, blushing. “A pleasure, I say.”
“Not to that young man,” murmured Buckalew, his eyes flicking toward a lean, glowering fellow who sat alone at a near table.
This guest, with his close-fitting black garments, the mantle flung over the back of his chair, and his pallid scowl beneath a profusion of wavy dark hair, might have sat for a burlesque portrait of Hamlet.
“Oh, he?” said Bee MacGowan. “He’s a little difficult, but I owe him nothing. Anyway, this is only a professional conference, eh?”
Buckalew continued studying the youth with the angry face. “Isn’t he Amyas Crofts, the son of a vice-president or something in Spaceways? Mmmm. You’d think a dark ray of the joy-lamp had flicked him, while a bright one strikes my young friend here. You’re a bit of a joy-lamp yourself, Miss MacGowan.”
It was Stover’s turn to laugh. “Nothing affects Buckalew, though. Neither joy-lamp, nor wine. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen him drink. His intoxication must be of the spirit.” Buckalew’s smooth dark head bowed. “Yes, of the spirit. See, isn’t that Mace Malbrook?”
The music had paused, and all stirred at their tables. One or two even rose, as though to greet high nobility. And as far as Pulambar’s society was concerned high nobility was present.
Mace Malbrook was huge and soft, draped and folded around with a togalike mantle of fiery red. His huge arrogant head, crowned with luxuriant waves of chestnut hair, turned this way and that. His face was Romanly masterful, for all its softness. The eyes were bright and deep-set, like fires in caves. His mouth looked hard even as he smiled at the respectful hubbub around him.
“So that’s the man who rules Pulambar,” said young Dillon Stover.
“Just as his grandfather ruled when your grandfather and I were young together here,” nodded Buckalew. “The Malbrooks and Fieldings have gathered most of the property rights and concessions in Pulambar. They’re also partners in the Polar Corporation that distributes water by canal over Mars.”
Malbrook was being offered the best table. But he had sighted the little group across the room.
“I don’t like people who stare at me,” said Stover audibly.
And those seated nearest him flinched as at a blasphemy. But he meant it. The great Malbrook was to him a rude water-thief, no more and no less.
“Easy, Dillon,” counselled Buckalew softly. “Malbrook’s the law here.’’
“What’s the matter, Miss MacGowan,” Stover asked the girl beside him. “You’re pale. Does he frighten you?”
“I think he does,” she replied softly and woefully.
Malbrook was striding across toward them. Reaching their table, he bowed with a heavy flourish. The room was expectantly silent.
“Aren’t you the girl who sings?” he purred, as if sure of his welcome. “I have decided to give you some of my time and attention. These gentlemen will excuse you, I am sure.” And he looked a command at Stover.
DILLON STOVER stood up, towering over Malbrook, who was not particularly small.
“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.”
CHAPTER III Sudden Death
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.
“Som
eone 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.
Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 Page 2