Dr. Umani, who'd been dozing on my couch, suddenly leaped up. waving his fists in the air. "Faith, an' I think they're here again!"
Esma's three faces went pale.
Two
We all heard the same sound: a rustling patter of running feet in the hall. I swore heartily. My .38 was in the safe, where I kept it between cases — but Esma had her .25 aimed at the door.
It opened, and three hard-muscled Loonies came in, firing .45 micro-laser Siddley-Armstrong heavyweights at us. I'd dived behind the desk, pulling Esma down with me. But I couldn't do anything for Dr. Umani. He took three .45 laser slugs in the chest — whap whap whap. There's no mistaking the wet slippery sound of a .45 Siddley-Armstrong doing its job.
The hall was empty by the time I'd palmed the dial safe for my loaded .38 — and ole Umani was gasping out his last on the floor of my office.
"Call a priest!" sobbed the old geezer. "Let me poor tarnished soul reach the pearly gates unstained by the sins of the flesh!"
"Rot!" snapped Esma, kneeling beside him. "Stop that silly blather and pay attention. Did you bring the last one?"
Dr. Umani looked up at her, eyelids fluttering. He nodded his head weakly. "Ship … second locker from the back." His eyes rolled up white.
"He's going fast," I said.
"Doesn't matter," said Esma. "Just stay with him until I get back. If the Loonies return don't hesitate to destroy them."
I'd handled my share of cheap Moongoons and had no qualms about gunning down three more of them.
"Where are you going?"
"To our ship on the roof. I won't be a sec."
She was wrong. Actually she took three minutes. She returned with the inert body of a slender black man slung over her shoulder. He was dressed in striped trousers and a bright red shirt studded with gold buttons. She stretched him out alongside her father.
"Who's this?" I wanted to know.
"Never mind your questions." She brushed loose strands of hair back from two of her heads. "Keep watching for those Loonies. I've work to do."
She'd also carried in a medical bag, which she hastily opened. I'm no expert on operating equipment, but I know a brain buzzer when I see one.
She thumbed it into life and neatly cut the top of Dr. Umani's drunk-en Irish head off. Then she calmly reached inside and scooped out a large egg-shaped steel cylinder. "Hold this," she said, handing it to me.
"What is it?"
"Daddy," she said. "It's Daddy, of course."
I looked down at the cylinder; it was pulsing red deep inside and was warm to my touch.
Esma was working on the black man. She buzzed open his head, took the steel cylinder from me and deftly inserted it. She used a quick-stitcher to sew up the incision. "There," she said, all three of her heads wreathed in smiles. "All done."
The slender black man sat up, rubbing his skull. He grinned at me. Then he began to sing. "Poor boy work in de pits all day, shapin' and scrapin' de Luna clay, sweatin' and strainin' fer de white man's pay …"
"Just what the hell's going on?" I demanded.
Esma knitted most of her brows and sighed. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me," I said.
"Daddy's brain has been transplanted into the body of this authentic black jazz singer obtained from our NewOld New Orleans branch. Daddy has always been fond of authentic black jazz singers."
"Workin' all day in de white man's way," sang the new Dr. Umani.
"Does he know who he is?"
"Naturally," said Esma. She put her green Venusian hand in his gnarled black one. "Daddy, you'd better tell Mr. Space all about why we wish to hire him."
"Righto, and sho' nuff," said Dr. Umani, affecting a broad early-stage Southern dialect; it was not nearly as impressive as his Irish brogue. "What we gots hyar is de last body." He thumped his chest. "An' I'm in it. No more spares hyar on Mars. De bad folk keep sendin' dose Loonies to gun dis ole man, an' iffen I don't have no more of dese hyar bodies on tap I'm cooled out for good." He looked at me with yellow-flecked eyes. "You diggo?"
"Not exactly," I said.
"My father has vital work to do here on Mars and must remain alive to do it. His enemies want him dead. So long as he lives, and continues to function, his work remains a threat to them."
"What kind of work?"
"We'd rather not go into that," she said flatly. "Our business with you is simple; we wish to hire a bodyguard. You are to accompany our next shipment of coldpac bodies out of Allnew York and guard them until they reach Bubble City here on Mars. My father's life depends on his having plenty of spares handy."
"Oh, yass. Yass, yass, oh, yass indeedy!" agreed Dr. Umani.
I drummed my fingers on the desktop. Logic seemed to have vanished, and I missed it. I like to keep things logical. "Look," I said, "wouldn't it make a lot more sense if you hired me as a personal bodyguard for your father?"
"But why?"
"To keep him from being shot again."
"Oh, he'll be shot again," Esma assured me. "My father's enemies are very persistent. They'll keep killing him off, no doubt of that. But I'll be around to see to it that Daddy's brain is re-transplanted whenever necessary."
"But won't they try and kill you?"
"They already have. Several times. But my particularly heavy, durable, all-weather Venusian skin resists their weapons. At least it has thus far. Of course there are many ways I could be destroyed and they may try one of them soon. But I'm not afraid. I just want to live long enough to see my father's experiment succeed."
"Sounds a little screwy," I muttered. "Couldn't someone else guard your father's spares en route to Mars?"
"Deedy nossir, deedy not!" exclaimed Dr. Umani. He jigged around me, shaking his black head and laughing. "You is de one for dis hyar job. Dere ain't nobody else dis hyar darkie gonna trust!"
"What father means, Mr. Space, is that we both know your record. You are a very brave, straightforward and resourceful man." Her six green eyes glowed softly. "We both feel that you are best qualified to get my father's bodies safely to Mars. Will you accept?"
The quaver in her tone got to me. "Okay, sister," I told her. "When do I start?"
"My father has already arranged for a ship to pick you up within the next half-hour and take you to Earth-launch. You are booked aboard flight 12, out of Bubble City for Allnew York at 0800, which just about gives you time to pack your .38 and your bottle of Scotch and take off."
"How come you were so sure I'd go?"
Her eyes softened again. "I knew you would, Mr. Space. Remember what you admitted about yourself — that you're a sucker for a sob story? I simply counted on the fact that you'd respond to mine."
"But like I said, I'm nobody's patsy. Let's see the color of your solar credits."
She fished in her purse, drew out a hefty bundle and handed it over. "I'm sure this will get you started."
I whistled through my pivot tooth, counting it. "Diggo!"
"Have a good trip, Mr. Space," said Dr. Umani. He'd dropped the stage dialect and his tone was cultured and properly professorial. "You may be assured that my daughter has not overstressed our dire need. Those bodies must arrive undamaged in order to insure the future success of my work." He smiled gently, dark eyes gleaming. "One could almost say — the future success of mankind."
I didn't have any reply to that.
A case was a case, and I was just glad to be working again.
Three
I felt naked aboard the President Agnew on the Mars-Earth run. No civilian firearms were permitted anywhere on the ship, and my .38 had been officially impounded until touchdown. They told me I could obtain a special permit to carry it on the return run — but for this trip I was on board without a weapon. Naked against mine enemies …
Well, not quite. I'm trained in seventeen forms of solar combat, and can snap the trunk of a small pine tree with a double reverse dropkick, providing my shoes are on. I broke a toe trying it barefoot.
I was sitting on the aisle next to a pai
r of young Martians who were passionately probe-rubbing each other into a norxca state, which is the highest sexual level a Martian can achieve short of fleeking, and you can't fleek on board a spaceship. Since secondary sexual response is triggered from a Martian's outer probe there was nothing abnormal in what they were doing. But it made me nervous.
I grinned. Hell, Space, I told myself, you're getting old and crabby when a couple of oversexed Martian teeners can put you on edge. Relax. Grab some shuteye. The trip back to Mars just might be a rough one.
I was about to doze when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun sideways and dropped to one knee in the aisle, into a quick-combat position.
"Try that on a ship that isn't gravity-regulated and you'll be banging your head on the ceiling," said a sensual voice above me. "Are you always this tense, Mr. Space?"
Earthgirl. In her twenties. Tall. Full-breasted. Upper slopes and nipples exposed in the conventional manner of Earth dress. Her waist-length red hair was diamond dusted and smelled of English heather. She had freckles on her nose. A pleasant change of pace from the kill-crazed Moon hood I was expecting to encounter. But I didn't mention Loonies to her; I just asked how she knew my name.
"Captain Shirley was kind enough to supply it," the girl said. "I told her it was an emergency, that I needed the aid of a private investigator, and she cooperated."
It figured, I thought sourly. You can't trust female space captains. They'll blab secrets to any other female on board. In my day, when I jockeyed the tubs, no female ever reached officer status. But the old days were over.
"I won't be any help," I said, sitting down again. "I'm on a case right now."
"But I only need you temporarily as an escort," she pleaded. "To accompany me from this ship to my life unit in Allnew York in Cen Park South. Couldn't you just take some time off from whatever case you're on to escort me there?"
"I'm booked on the President Reagan back to Bubble City tonight, "I told her.
She smiled and sat down across the aisle from me. "But the Reagan doesn't leave for several hours. I've often taken it and, if anything, it's usually late in launching. You'll have just oodles of time to take me to my unit!"
"Why do you need an escort?" I was staring at her nipples. One of them had winked at me; she was wearing sex-o-tract on them, which created that effect. Winking nipples attract Earthmales nine times out of ten. She was playing all her cards face up.
"A certain dangerous individual has threatened to kill me when I get off this ship," she said.
"What certain dangerous individual?"
"His name is Thiam Ghong. From one of the dogstar planets. I found him attractive and we bedmated for a halfyear. Then I left him for a trisex pairing with an onion smuggler from Neptune. That was just before my affair with a spongeweed salesman from Ursa Major."
"Wow!" I said. "You do get around, lady."
She frowned. "I'm sexually potent if that's what you mean. But aren't most young Earthgirls these days?"
I grinned as her left nipple winked at me. "You got me there, sister," I admitted. "So what about his Ghong character?"
She sniffed, wrinkling her freckled nose. "He's just a sore loser. Thiam found out I was returning to Earth on the Agnew and has threatened to kill me when we land. Out of, I suppose, jealous rage. With you along he won't try anything."
"What about later?" I asked her. "What about after I'm gone?"
"I'll carry a body weapon. I have one in my unit. They won't allow them aboard ship. Captain Shirley's very firm about body weapons."
"I know," I said, patting my empty shoulder clip. "My .38's in cold storage."
"Will you help me, Mr. Space?" She had eyeglow on her pupils, and they gleamed like twin stars. To match the diamonds in her hair. She was some patootie.
"That's the second time in the last twenty-four hours I've been asked that question by a female in trouble," I said. "But, what the hell, I can never turn down a winking nipple."
She laughed musically, and plumped herself in my lap. "My name is Nicole," she said. "And I wish to seduce you."
Our lips locked in a deep tongue that was hot enough to take paint off an Earth wall. The two Martians were still madly rubbing probes, so they didn't notice us.
Frankly, beyond this stage of the trip, I didn't notice them either.
* * *
We had no trouble at touchdown. I got my .38 back and told Nicole to wait in the ship while I scouted the outside terrain. She'd given me a complete description of Ghong, but I didn't really need it. A dogstar male is a cinch to spot in a crowd. You don't miss characters who are nine feet tall with furry orange ears.
"Okay, it's all clear," I assured the girl. "But stick close to me. If he
shows, I'll deal with him." She gave me a sensual smile, pressing her body against mine. "I'm sure you can deal with anything, Mr. Space."
I flagged an aircab and we got inside."Call me Sam," I said.
"But that's what I was going to ask you to call me," she pouted.
"You said your name was Nicole." I arched a puzzled eyebrow.
"But my middle name is Samantha, and all my pals call me Sam."
"I'm not your pal, sister. To me, you're Nicole. That's French, isn't it?"
"My mother was born in Paris. I spent most of my childhood there. My father was from the New West Coast of America. He's from Santa Fe."
"That's nice," I said, nodding. This kind of small talk kept us occupied until we reached her life unit, facing Cen Park South. We tubed up and she palmed the door, with me covering her with my .38 in case the dogstar gent showed. I was ready for him.
What I wasn't ready for was the quick body strip she performed once we were inside. Before I could gulp twice, she was down to her natural lushly-pink self. It all happened so fast I forgot to check the unit. With all that creamy Earth flesh beckoning I dropped the .38 and went for her.
Which is when the sky dropped on me. Red and gold rockets exploded inside my skull and I tumbled forward into deep space, black and unending.
Four
Black …
Then red …
Blue … flaring into raw yellow.
Intense, stabbing yellow. I blinked, squinted, put up a hand to shade my eyes. I was on the floor of Nicole's life unit, lying in a pool of hot yellow sunlight.
Dragging myself to the window, I looked out. The shadows in Cen-Park told me it was too late.
I'd missed the Reagan!
Dr. Umani's bodies had been shipped to Mars without me, and would no doubt be hijacked enroute.
A lush patootie with winking nipples had played me for a patsy.
I groped for my .38, found it, checked the load. It hadn't been touched. I holstered the gun and cracked open a pack of Headrights. No detective should be without them. I placed two of the small, pea-shaped capsules against the sore side of my skull. They immediately penetrated skin and bone, going to work on my king-size headache.
Within five seconds I was myself again.
I quick-scanned the unit. No Nicole. Which didn't surprise me; I hadn't expected her to stick around after I'd been sapped.
Obviously she worked for the same outfit who wanted Umani's experiment to fail. The old geezer was probably dead by now, with no spare bodies around for a brain switch. For all I knew, they'd killed Esma too. Everything had gone to blazes and I was the bozo to blame. I'd walked into the sap job like an Earth ox to slaughter.
A thorough search revealed nothing of real worth. Apparently Nicole hadn't waited to pack because her clothes and cosmetics were still in the unit. I found the name Harmsworth on a zipcase. Otherwise, I'd drawn a blank. No pictures. No intimate personal effects. No letters. Nicole Samantha Harmsworth had flown a neat coop. She'd left nothing to tie her into any gang or organization.
I checked with the management on the way out, taking the off-chance I might be able to snag a second address for my pigeon.
"No," muttered the unit clerk, who was a scrawny number with sunken, sallo
w cheeks. "I'm afraid Miss Harmsworth has not seen fit to supply us with any past address." He gave me a skeletal smile. "After all, she's been with us now for twenty full years."
"That's not possible," I told him. "She can't be a day past twenty-five. And she told me she grew up in Paris. Are you sure you've got the right Nicole Harmsworth?"
The clerk seemed confused. He waved a skinny hand. "There is only one Harmsworth in our conapt — and her name is Emily. She's seventy-six, lost her last bedmate back when she first joined us here. A skycab fell on him. Sad. Freak accident. If you'd like to leave a message formic Emily I'll see that she gets it. Right now she's out walking her neardogs. She always walks them this time of day."
"You been on duty here all afternoon?"
He said he had been.
"See a red-haired girl, young, pretty, leave here with maybe another guy?"
"No, it's been very quiet this period. The only person I've seen leave the unit is Miss Emily with her near dogs. Now, if you'd like to …"
"Is there a back door out of this joint?"
"Naturally," said the thin bird. "But it is locksealed during our day-periods."
"Mind if I check it?"
"Follow me," he said.
We checked the back. The seal was still in place.
"Thanks, Mac," I said.
Outside, I was stumped. How had the girl and her goon slipped bold scrawny? Apparently they'd used the Harmsworth unit just to have me sapped in — but how did Nicole know the palm combination? And I wondered where Emily Harmsworth had been during all the time I was lying unconscious on the floor of her unit. Maybe she was in on the deal. But I doubted it. The facts didn't add up.
I took a skycab back to the launch port and checked with MarsLine to make certain nothing had happened to the Reagan enroute to Bubble City. I half expected to be told the ship had been waylaid by pirates.
I was told something a lot more unsettling.
"I'm sorry, sir, but there is no President Reagan on the Earth-Mars run," declared the MarsLine rep. "I have never heard of a ship so named. The only MarsLine craft which left for Mars within the past daynight is the President Wallace."
Space For Hire (Seven For Space) Page 2