“Like to see him do this,” thought Al darkly, as he telekinized himself to the combox, after a cautious look to see that there were no medics around. To the box he said: “Police chief,” and then to the police chief: “There’s been a homicide committed with Medical Instrument Kit 674,101. It was lost some months ago by one of my people, Dr. John Hemingway. He didn’t have a clear account of the circumstances.”
The police chief groaned and said: “I’ll call him in and question him.” He was to be astonished by the answers, and was to learn that the homicide was well out of his jurisdiction.
Al stood for a moment at the bag board by the glowing red light that had been sparked into life by a departing vital force giving, as its last act, the warning that Kit 674,101 was in homicidal hands. With a sigh, Al pulled the plug and the light went out.
“Yah,” jeered the woman. “You’d fool around with my neck, but you wouldn’t risk your own with that thing!”
Angie smiled with serene confidence a smile that was to shock hardened morgue attendants. She set the Cutaneous Series knife to three centimeters before drawing it across her neck. Smiling, knowing the blade would cut only the dead horny tissue of the epidermis and the live tissue of the dermis, mysteriously push aside all major and minor blood vessels and muscular tissue —
Smiling, the knife plunging in and its microtomesharp metal shearing through major and minor blood vessels and muscular tissue and pharynx, Angie cut her throat.
In the few minutes it took the police, summoned by the shrieking Mrs. Coleman, to arrive, the instruments had become crusted with rust, and the flasks which had held vascular glue and clumps of pink, rubbery alveoli and spare grey cells and coils of receptor nerves held only black slime, and from them when opened gushed the foul gases of decomposition.
LANCELOT BIGGS COOKS A PIRATE, by Nelson S. Bond
THE whole trouble started with Slops. Slops wasn’t a bad cook, you understand. He just wasn’t a cook at all, rightly speaking. He had what you might call a “tapioca complex.” It was tapioca for breakfast, tapioca for lunch, tapioca for dinner. Every day. Boiled tapioca, stewed tapioca, even fricasseed tapioca —
Ugh! When you hop gravs twice a month on a lugger shuttling between Earth and Venus, you can’t get by forever on a diet of ta — that stuff!
Anyhow, it finally got to be too much for even an iron-bellied old spacedog like Cap Hanson. So when we pulled into the Sun City airport, Cap said firmly, “You’re through, Slops. And I do mean through!” And he kicked our (alleged) chef off the Saturn, along with his clothing, his back pay, his harmonica and his ta — you know what.
Which left us way out on the end of a limb, for it turned out that there wasn’t a single spaceriding cook dry-docked in Sun City. While the Saturn was taking on its cargo for Earth, pepsin and medical supplies, mostly, with one or two holds full of mekel and clab, the Skipper did his doggonedest to scare up a grub- wrangler. But no soap.
An hour before we were scheduled to blast off, he ambled up to my control turret. He plumped himself into my easy chair and scratched his gray pate nervously.
“Damn it, Sparks,” he complained, “I thought I was doin’ the right thing when I fired Slops, but —”
“You were,” I told him. “By chucking that grease-ball off the ship you saved fourteen lives. The crew. They were planning on either mutiny or murder, they didn’t care which, if they had to eat one more dish of that goo.”
“But,” he continued worriedly, “in another hour we throw lugs for Earth. And we don’t have no cook. What the blue space are we goin’ to do?”
Our First Mate, Lancelot Biggs, had entered as the skipper was talking. Now he offered, helpfully, “I’ll ask Slops to come back if you want me to, Captain. I saw him at the Palace Bar —”
“No!” said the Cap and I in the same breath.
Biggs looked hurt. His wobbly Adam’s-apple bobbed in his throat like an unswallowed orange. And he defended, “Well, after all, tapioca’s good for you! It contains valuable food elements that —”
“Shut up!” howled Cap Hanson. He wasn’t in a mood to take advice from anybody, and especially Lancelot Biggs. Perhaps that was because our recent “transmuting trip,” in the course of which we had attempted to turn lead jars to platinum by exposure to cosmic radiation, had failed. The Corporation had carpeted Cap for that, and Cap was sore at Biggs because the whole thing had been Biggs’ idea in the beginning. “I’ll murder the guy who even mentions that — that stuff!”
Mr. Biggs said aggrievedly, “I was only trying to be helpful.”
“You’re as much help,” the skipper told him caustically, “as fins on a dicky-bird’s chest. Now, git out of here! G’wan! Git!”
Our lanky first mate turned and started to leave the turret. And then, suddenly —
“Wait a minute!” yelped Cap Hanson. “Where do you think you’re goin’, Mr. Biggs?”
Biggs gulped, “Why — why you told me to —”
“Never mind what I said! Do what I say! I think I’ve got the solution. Mr. Biggs, that cranium of yours appears to be stuffed with miscellaneous lore. Do you by any chance happen to know anything, about the art of cooking?”
“Who?” said Biggs. “Me? Why, no, Captain. But I don’t imagine it would be very difficult. After all, it is based on elementary chemical processes. By exposing certain organic substances to the action of hydrogen dioxide, under suitable thermostatic conditions —”
Cap Hanson’s jaw dropped open. He goggled me. “Wh-what’s he sayin’, Sparks?”
“He means,” I translated, “that cooking is easy. All you need is water, heat and victuals.”
The skipper grinned ghoulishly. “In that case, our problem’s solved. Mr. Riggs, you’ve just earned a new private office an’ a new unyform. You’ll find both of ‘em below decks, third door on your right.”
It was Biggs’ turn to look shocked. His protuberant larynx performed a reverse Immelmann. “H-huh? But I’m not a cook, Captain. I’m your First Mate!
“You was my First Mate,” corrected the Old Man coolly, “until just now. The IPS codebook says, ‘It is the captain’s privilege to draft any member of crew or command for any duty in times of emergency.’ This is an emergency. An’ besides, you just got done sayin’ that cookin’ is simply a matter of exposin’ certain hoochamacallits to the action of thingamajigs. So — “ He brushed his hairy paws with a gesture of finality, “That’s that! To the galley, Mr. Slops!”
* * *
AND he was right. That was that. But the funny part of it was that, forced to a showdown, Lancelot Biggs came through!
The first meal out, which was lunch served at noon Earthtime, I went down to the dining hall thinking anything might happen and expecting the worst. I got the shock of my life, and shocks are a not inconsiderable part of the life of a spacelugger radioman.
Mr. Lancelot Slops had pulled a banquet out of the hat! We had fried chicken with cream gravy, hot biscuits, candied yams, a side dish of stewed clab, Creole style, raisin pie, and the best damn coffee ever served on the wallowing old Saturn.
What the other men of the crew thought, I have no idea. They didn’t say. Every man-jack of ‘em was so busy shoveling grub into his puss that the conversation was dead as a Martian herring. But after I’d bulged my belt to the last notch with fried pullet, I waddled into the galley and confronted Mr. Biggs.
“Biggs,” I said accusingly, “you’ve been holding out on us! Why didn’t you tell us before you could cook a meal like that?”
He shuffled his feet sheepishly. He said, “Was it all right, Sparks?”
“All right? It was terrific! I haven’t had such a feed since I was a kid.”
He looked relieved. “I’m glad. Because, you see, that was the first meal I ever cooked.”
“It was the first — what!”
“Mmm-hmm! But there were lots of cook books here in the galley. And I figured so long as I had to do it, I might as well do it right — “ He grinn
ed at me shyly. Once in a while I wondered, briefly, whether any, of us understood this strange, lanky genius, Lancelot Biggs. This was one of the times. “I — I found it rather interesting, Sparks, to tell you the truth. It is, just as I told Cap Hanson, just a matter of elementary chemistry. The pots and pans are the test-tubes; the stove is a huge Bunsen burner.”
I said admiringly, “I’ll hand you one thing, Mr. Biggs. You believe in sticking to theories, don’t you?”
“But of course. ‘Get the theory first’; that’s the big secret of success in any undertaking.” He looked pleased and a little excited, too. “We’re going to have a good trip home, Sparks. There’s plenty of food here to experiment with. And in the holds —”
It was just then that I caught my number being buzzed on the intercommunicating audio. I cut through and yelled, “Sparks speaking. What’s up?”
“Sparks?” It was my relief man calling from the radio room. “You’d better come up here on the double. A message from Sun City, and I think it’s bad news.”
“Right with you,” I hollered. I snapped a brief “See you later!” to Biggs and raced up the Jacob’s ladder to the turret. My relief man was there, also Cap Hanson and the second-in-command, Lt. Todd. All three of them looked a bit grim and a bit glum, and quite a bit apprehensive. My relief shoved a wire flimsy into my hand. It was a cipher message from Sun City spaceport. I knew the code as well as I know English and Universal, so I read it aloud.
“HANSON COMMANDER IPS SATURN EN ROUTE VENUS-EARTH. TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY FOR CONVOY. PIRATE HAKE REPORTED ON COORDINATES THREE FIFTEEN PLUS NINE OH NINE YOUR TRAJECTORY.” It was signed, “Allonby, Comm. S.S.C.B.”
I stared at Cap Hanson, wondering if my face were as queasy as my tummy felt. I said, “Hake! Runt Hake!”
Hanson said, “Yes, but that’s not the worst of it, Sparks. Tell him, Mr. Todd.”
Todd wet his lips and faltered, “We — we’re in a serious spot, Sparks. We accelerated to max twenty minutes ago and cut motors for the free run. And since we had — or thought we had — almost nine days of idleness, I told Chief Engineer Garrity he could take down that number Three hypatomic that’s been missing.”
That still didn’t make sense. I said, “So he took it down? So what? He can put it together again, can’t he?”
“No. He found the casing worn, melted it down for a recast. We — we can’t recast it for at least two days!”
* * *
FOR the sake of you Earthlubbers who don’t get the lingo, let me say it in words of one syllable. We were in a hell of a jam! The hypatomics are the motors that operate spacecraft. In this case, one of them had shown signs of weakness. With the ship “free wheeling,” so to speak, in space, the engineers had taken down the faulty motor, discovered it needed remoulding, and had melted down the casing. As Todd had said, it would take at least two days — probably more — to recast the moulding, put the hyp together again, so we could blast.
But the worst of it was–Hake! Runt Hake. There are pirates and pirates in the wide transverses between the planets. Some of them are good guys, that is, if an outlaw can ever be considered a “good guy.” Like Lark O’Day, for instance, that gay, smiling bandit who always gave lugger captains a signed receipt for the cargoes he stole, and who had once let a tramp freighter go through untouched because the Captain acknowledged his life savings were wrapped up in the cargo. Who had once stopped a passenger superliner for the express purpose of stealing a single kiss from its charming passenger, the newly crowned “Miss Universe.”
But others were skunks and dogs and — well, think of the nastiest things you can think of. Then multiply by ten, add infinity, and you have Runt Hake,
Runt Hake was a killer. A throwback to the rotten old days when men’s first thoughts were of death and war and violence. He was a pirate not so much because of the value of the cargoes he lifted as because he liked to do battle. And he had a sadistic strain in him somewhere. His idea of good clean fun was to board a freighter — like the Saturn — unload the cargo at his convenience, then blast a slow leak through the outer hull.
After — I might mention — having first removed all lifeskiffs and bulgers from the ill-fated victim. Once, in the asteroid Sargossa, I saw a ship that had been scuttled by Runt Hake’s cutthroat crew. Its crew still remained with the ship. But not as recognizable human beings. As raw and frozen clots of pressured flesh.
Oh, a swell guy, this Runt Hake. And now we, disabled and helpless, were drifting right into the trajectory where he awaited us.
Cap Hanson said grimly, “There’s nothin’ much that we can do about it, of course. We’ve got one six millimeter rotor-gun for’rd. We’ll give him that.”
“And get ourselves blown to atoms,” interjected Todd, “with his pierce-guns. No, Skipper, that’s no good. But how about the Ampie? If we set out our Ampie, maybe —”
An “Ampie” is that strange, energy-devouring beast from Venus whose inordinate appetite for electrical power forms a shield for spaceships penetrating the Heaviside layers of the various planets. It wasn’t altogether a bad idea. But Hanson shook his head.
“No. It wouldn’t work. An Ampie couldn’t take a heat ray. There’s only one thing to do. Send word for the convoy to come on the double-quick — and hope it reaches us before we run into Hake.”
That was my cue. I shoved the relief man to hell off the bench and got the wobble-bug going. And, mister, I filled the ether with SOS’s — and added a couple of PDQ’s for good measure. I picked up an acknowledgment from Sun City, and threw them a hasty explanation. They wired back that the convoy cruiser would make all haste, and to not be frightened.
Ha! Can I help it if my knees chatter?
* * *
THERE was one thing you could absolutely depend on Lancelot Biggs to do. And that was — stick his nose in at the wrong minute. For as we three were giving the sob-towel the good old go-over, the door popped open and who’ gangled in but Mr. Slops, First-Mate-and-Bottle-Washer! His face, in contrast to ours, was radiant with joy and delight. He had a grin on his phizz that stretched from here to there and back again. He chortled, “Hey, Cap —”
“Go ‘way!” mourned Cap Hanson. “I’m thinking.”
“But, look!” Biggs, opened one hamlike paw. And there was a wee, gray ship-mouse. He placed it on the floor before him. “Look what I found in the No. 4 Bin. It acts so darned funny —”
“Go ‘way!” repeated the skipper, still gloomily. “If you make me lose my temper —”
Biggs said, “But he does act funny — “ And to tell you the truth, the little mouse did. Usually, you know, a mouse is the scaredyest thing alive. Put him down in a place like this, surrounded by giant humans, and he’ll run like mad to the darkest corner.
But this little twerp didn’t run. Matter of fact, he deliberately moved to the man nearest him, Todd, that was, and began to nuzzle himself against Todd’s shoe! Just as if the Lieutenant were an old and loved acquaintance! Mr. Biggs chuckled again.
“See that? Do you know what makes him act that way, Skipper? I’ll tell you. It’s the prol —”
“Mister Biggs!” The Old Man’s face was fiery red with rage. “This is no time for nonsense. Within hours, or perhaps minutes, we may all be dead! Now, for the last time, get out of here!”
Biggs, sort of stunned, said, “Y-yes, sir!” He retrieved his curiously-acting little pet from where it rubbed its soft muzzle against Todd’s shoelaces, put it in his pocket, and backed out the doorway. As he went he tossed me a beseeching wigwag. I nodded; then when no one was paying me any neverminds, joined him in the runway outside.
“What’s wrong, Sparks?” he demanded.
I gave it to him, both barrels. He had a right to know. Every man has a right to know when it’s bye-bye time. “But don’t tell the crew.” I warned. “The Old Man’ll do that if he thinks best.”
Biggs’ eyes were huge and round. “Runt Hake! Gee, no wonder the Skipper was cross.” He plunged into one of
his characteristic silences. Then, suddenly, “Hey!”
“Hey, what?”
“They say Hake is a show-off. Likes to crack the whip on captured ships, ordering up big meals and so on before he scuttles it —”
“Well?” I said. “You think you’re going to poison him, maybe? Don’t be a dope. He’ll make you swallow a pussfull of everything you serve him.”
“Never mind. I’m not sure my idea is any good--yet! But have you got a book on physiochemistry?”
“In my office.”
“Swell. Get it for me, will you? I’ll explain later.”
Well, I got him the book and he jammed it into his pocket and disappeared toward the galley, jogging along like a stork on stilts. But I had no time, now, to laugh at Biggs’ physical or mental peculiarities.
Because my ears had just caught a sound they did not want to catch. The sound of metal grating on metal near the off-port. The banging of a mailed fist on permalloy, the asthmatic wheeze of the airlock, a sailor’s shout ending in a choked gurgle —
I charged back into the radioroom. “Cap,” I yelled, “at the airlock! Somebody. It must be —”
It was. Runt Hake and his pirates.
* * *
YOU wouldn’t think, to look at Runt Hake, that he was a killer. True, he held a hand pierce gun on us as he approached, moving smoothly, lightly, up the runway. A half dozen men behind him also held their side arms poised, ready for action, while another half dozen deployed down the side corridors toward the engine rooms and control turrets. But as Hake came nearer he tossed back the quartzite headpiece of his bulger, and I saw that his hair was wheat-gold, his lips curved into something like a tender smile, his cheeks smooth, soft, boyish.
His voice was gentle, too. He said, “You offer no resistance, Captain? That is wise.”
Cap Hanson said, “Hake, I surrender my ship to you freely. But do not harm my men. That is all I ask. My men do not deserve —”
The Science Fiction Megapack Page 17