Space For Hire (Seven For Space)

by William F. Nolan

  "Was that initial an ‘F'?"

  "Yes, it was. How did you —"

  "I don't have time to go into it now. Every minute we waste talking cuts down my advantage. I think this F. is the character we want. He murdered an Earthgirl and had me sent into another universe. That's why I missed your shipment. While I was gone he doctored the bodies."

  "Well, it sho nuff soun' lak you has gots de right party," rasped Dr.

  Umani, slipping back into his heavy dialect.

  "I'll be in touch," I promised.

  "Yassah!" he declared. "An dis hyar ole darkie be rights hyar when you wants him."

  I piped off and booked a warper for Saturn.

  * * *

  The ride out was quick and easy.

  As an Earthman, I'm proud of what our human scientists have accomplished but you can't knock the Martians and the Venusians who really got the ball rolling on warps and hyperspace jumps. And they started long before my time. Hell, even when I was a tad in Old Chicago you could get anywhere in the System in an Earth-day — and it's been cut a lot since then. I took my first solo space lark on Mercury when I was thirteen (with a little gal from Ganymede who knew how to use her nobbles) — and I was exploring Pluto at twenty.

  It's a big universe. But it's been cut down to size.

  I had to switch ships at Titan, taking a slower penetration shuttle to the surface of Saturn.

  Domehive was a fairly large city with three or four million solar inhabitants at least, and I had my work cut out for me. Where — and what — was F.? For all I knew, he could be a sixteen-foot Uranian with vented mandibles or a gas-breather from the inner asteroids with transparent tentapods. Whoever he was, he was a sour number and totally ruthless. Which spells danger in anybody's universe.

  I'd once tackled a case involving a pork stuffer from Proxima Centauri who'd run off with a multifem from Capella. The multifem's bedmate wanted me to trace her. When I caught up with them the pork stuffer used his pulsating lower lobes on me, and I couldn't walk for a month. A lobe job can put your knees wacky in quick order. I just hoped F. didn't have pulsating lower lobes.

  I didn't have any solid contacts in Domehive, which made things tougher. No feeders or stoolies I could call on. I was running a blind trace. Still, every city has its dank underbelly, its haven for space drifters and con artists, bimbos and hoods and freight riders — and Domehive was no exception.

  The aircabbie warned me about the area. "You don't wanna go down there, mister. It isn't safe, even by domelight. And after domedark you're liable to get scrugged by a freebie."

  "I can handle freebies," I told him. "And let me worry about getting scrugged."

  "Oke, fella, it's no skin off my tentacles if you don't come back." He drove on in silence.

  I grinned to myself. Even this tri-tentacle native of Saturn spoke the ancient cab lingo of Allnew York. Cabbies were the same anywhere in the System; they all gave you plenty of free advice whether you wanted it or not.

  "You can drop me here," I said.

  "Sure," he said, using his grav-brake. "That'll be ten halfcreds."

  I paid him and dropped out of the hovercraft. He gunned the cab back toward the heart of the city.

  My destination was a tall down-at-the-heels plasto-brick pyramid in narrow row of metal backwater units. I'd chosen a joint called Igor's, where the booze was crippling, the females were squeakers, and the price of your soul was up for grabs. What we Earth dicks call a Domehive dive.

  I was maybe five feet inside the door when a wide-lipped squeaker ankled over and rubbed her tentacle against my leg. "Care for some hookas?" she asked.

  "Not today, hon," I said. "Bush off!"

  She called me a dirty name in Saturnian and bushed off.

  I ordered a stiff drink and began asking about a gink who signed his name F.

  It took me half a domeday and fourteen dives to get the answer I was looking for. When I asked about F. this tender went purple. He was a native, and his natural color was puce. If you go purple on Saturn you're stirred up about something. I knew I was into pay dirt.

  "Better not ask about F."

  "Why not?"

  "If you want to go on living you'll stay clear of him. That's all I got to tell you."

  "Oh, no it isn't." I reached over the drink bar and grabbed him by his stalk-thin nearneck, applied pressure. "Talk," I said, "or I squeeze all the juice out of you."

  "Undigit me!" he choked.

  "Not till you talk." More pressure.

  "Aghh … Kay, kay!"

  I loosened a thumb.

  "Roundtower. Unit ABZ," he gasped. "I heard he goes there."

  I stood off and let him cool out. Then I moved in with more questions. "What's the F. stand for?"

  "Can't say. We domefolk just know him by that initial. He — he does business with some of our people. You know the kind of business I mean."

  "Yep." I said. "Farmed kills, private heists, nog jobs. Am I on your wave?"

  "You're on," the tender said.

  "What does F. have to do with Roundtower?"

  "I've heard it's one of his branch offices. A rumor, you understand. Nobody's ever checked it."

  "Well, somebody's going to now," I told him. I passed a ten credit across the drink bar. "You keep shut on this, eh?"

  "Shut," he said, nodding. His tentacles were purple at the tips, showing he was still spooked.

  "Just be careful is all," he said, stroking his nearneck with a pod."From what I hear F. don't appreciate snoops."

  "Never mind about what he appreciates," I said. "Just keep your skin buttoned about my being here."

  He gave me what passed for a grin on Saturn as I got out of there.

  Seven

  Roundtower was a gleaming alumrib cylinder of cross-stacked office units rising from one of the more prosperous sections of Domehive. It was a nonbiz day; foot traffic was sparse and only half of the quick-ways were in active use.

  ABZ was near the top. I got a tubelift up, stepped off onto a long metalway and found the right unit with no trouble. On nonbiz days the units were closed to the public, so I had to jimmy the door. At least I wouldn't have to worry about customers.

  It was black inside with the dome windows zipped but I had a flash-pointer with me and used that to case the unit.

  F.'s office was richly furnished in a neo-classic skin motif. The desk was topped in Earth zebra. The couch was covered in Martian zeebskin, and the high-backed chairs shimmered hypnotically, upholstered in cured Venusian rainbeast. I figured if F. knew what I was up to at the moment he'd enjoy adding my skin to the collection.

  I still had no idea what the unit contained, or what type of business F. conducted. Everything was neat and tidy, with no visible clues as to what game F. played here. The desk was my best bet. It was big, with several flowdrawers on each side. I placed my flash on the zebra-striped desktop and leaned to jimmy the first drawer. But I didn't finish — because suddenly my flash was knocked to the floor and extinguished. I spun around, blind, and got caught along the jaw with a blow that nearly snapped my head off. I was on my knees, half-stunned, when I got kicked in the stomach, hard. Normally, this would have had me retching and in no condition to retaliate but using the Pluto deep-breathe method I had drum-tightened my abdominal muscles and the kick was not effective. I lashed out with stiffened fingers and connected with flesh. A startled human grunt told me we were on even terms: my enemy was an Earthling.

  Could this be F. — striking at me from the darkness? If so, why hadn't he used a weapon? What did he expect to gain out of keeping me alive? These questions whipped through my mind as I felt a steel-hard arm encircle my neck and jerk me savagely backward into the wall.

  I countered with a kneedip half-reverse twist he hadn't been expecting which allowed me to skin free of the armhold.

  Time to take the offensive!

  I pivoted and sliced my left knee into his body at what I judged to be gut level, heard another loud grunt of pain, and
was in the midst of a follow-up hammerkick when he used a Mercury fadeaway on me. My foot jabbed empty air.

  So. This boy was a pro, who seemed to know as much about specialized Solar combat as I did. Which was plenty.

  We circled each other slowly in the darkness. I'd lost my .38 during the scuffle, so I was now depending on my trained hands and feet. They were, however, as deadly as any .38 in the System!

  More wary circling. My eyes, having adjusted to the pitch, picked out a bulky moving form, black against black — and I charged in to deliver a fierce Uranian elbow slash that rocked my opponent.

  We grappled, close-quarter style. I felt tough human fingers close around my throat, cutting off my air. I stiff-palmed his wrists, breaking the stranglehold.

  Now I was desperate; this character could put me away if I didn't act fast.

  It wasn't easy. He used a Betelgeuse downchop and my left arm went dead! I back-stepped abruptly away from a hard right lopper which could have decked me.

  I put the desk between us to give my arm time to renew itself. The dark form feinted left but I knew the gambit and avoided contact. The blood was beginning to sing in my crippled arm; I flexed my elbow, my fingers.

  A solidly-thrown punch caught me under the ribs as I came around the desk, both my arms in working condition again. I jabbed a quick left elbow into his chest and topped it with a crossover right to the head.

  I had him! He was off-balance when I slammed a one-two combination into him, my right fist connecting solidly with jawbone. My enemy fell abruptly away from me. He was down, finished.

  The battle was over.

  Breathing raggedly, exhausted from the killing encounter, I fumbled in the dark for my flash, found it and activated the cone — picking up my .38 in the process.

  Had I captured the infamous Mr. F? I was anxious to see what he looked like, beyond being human.

  The bright cone of the flash cut through the pitch and steadied on a face. I let out a yowl. I swore. I ground my teeth.

  It wasn't F.

  It was a beefy guy in a cheap gray pseudsuit with black hair, thick eyebrows and a cruel mouth.

  I knew him.

  His name was Samuel Space.

  * * *

  When he came to I had the wallglows on. Sam sat up, blinking, and I grinned at the shock and confusion chasing each other across his ugly mug.

  He squinted, trying to get me into clear focus.

  "Who — who the hell are you?"

  I kept grinning. "I'm you, Sam, and you're me. Or, to put it another way, I'm me and you're you but we're both us."

  "I must be going off my nog," he said, rubbing his sore jaw. "I tagged you for F."

  "Same here," I said. "I guess we both got a surprise. Uh … sorry about the jaw." I helped him up.

  "Forget it," he grunted. "I'll take a lot worse before I cash in."

  He still looked plenty bewildered so I tried to spell it out. "An addlepated fatty named Nathan Oliver sent me here by mistake," I told him.

  "I know Oliver," said Sam. "He tinkers with alternate universes."

  "Right. He was supposed to send me home from the one I'd been dumped into by some of F.'s boys. But apparently he slotted me here instead."

  "Which means," Sam added, "that we're both on the same case, but in different time tracks."

  "More or less," I said. "You know, they killed you in the one I just got out of. Us, I mean."

  "When?"

  "When Esma was attempting to hire us for this job. The three Loonies nailed us. I saw our body. And they cooled Esma and the doc along with us."

  Sam slumped against the edge of the desk, cracked some Headrights, and let two of them go to work on his skull. "I got me a whopping headache," he said.

  "Yeah, I know. Woke up with one myself after I got sapped. Did that happen to you in this universe? Did they sap you?"

  "Sure," he said. "Clipped me from behind. I wasn't out long, though. I woke up when they were trying to clamp some kind of weird metal hat on me. Two hoods. Low-grade gun goonies. We mixed it up and they killed Nicole accidentally. The laser charge was meant for me. I ducked and it got Nicole in the back. That threw them off-stride and they lammed. I found the faxletter from F. and traced him here."

  "You didn't call Dr. Umani?"

  "MarsLine told me the coldpacs arrived safely so I figured he was okay. I didn't want F. to skip Saturn before I could get to him."

  I shook my head. "That was dumb, Sam. The coldpacs are rigged. Think about it. They've gotta be rigged. I warned Umani to stay clear of them. He was just getting ready to pop himself into a Scottish highlander but he listened to me. Thought I was you, naturally. Which I am."

  Sam clapped me on the shoulder. "I always said that if I could ever split myself in half I'd be twice as effective. Thanks, ole buddy. You saved Umani for me."

  "Do you know anything about F. that I don't?"

  He shrugged. "Depends on what you know."

  "Just that he uses the initial F. — and that this office may be his. I'm not even sure of that."

  Sam pursed his lips. "Sorry, but that's the full extent of my own info."

  "Well," I said, "let's check out the joint and see if we come up with anything."

  We combed the unit together top to bottom. Nothing in the flow-drawers. Nothing in the wallcabs. A blank.

  We did find a bottle of starhooch. Expensive stuff from Sirius. Sitting on the couch, swapping the bottle back and forth, we both began to relax.

  "Did O'Malley give you a tough hustle over Nicole's body?" Sam wanted to know.

  I shook my head. "Didn't report it. I just left her there in the unit, same as you. Why ask for trouble I don't need? Let Sergeant O'Malley find his own stiffs."

  Sam arched a heavy black eyebrow. "That bastard is Captain O'Malley in this universe. Got a promotion last year for busting agreeb-slave racket in the horsehead nebula."

  I snorted. "Must have had a fix in. He couldn't find snow in December."

  We both chuckled over how dumb O'Malley was. Then I asked about the weird metal hat Sam had mentioned. "What happened to it?"

  He shrugged. "I didn't know what it was, so I took it with me back to the launch port."

  "Then what?"

  "Then I stowed it in a palmlocker. Meant to check the thing out later. Like I said, it was damned weird. Had wires and stuff attached to it."

  "I'm sure it's the portable universe transporter they used on me," I said. "Exactly where'd you stow it?"

  "Locker zzz-one-half, lower tier," Sam told me.

  "Ok," I said. "Since we have the same palm pattern I can get it open. I'd better scoot. Wish I could stay on the case with you but I'm overdue back home."

  "I could always use another me if you'd care to drop back after things are settled," he said. "We could be equal partners. Space and Space."

  "Thanks, but I plan to work my own sand pile from here on. Oh, a last question."

  "Which is?"

  "You wouldn't happen to know what kind of experiment doc Umani is cooking up would you?"

  "Nope. I just know this creep named F. is trying to stiff him before he can finish."

  I sighed. "Looks like we both need to learn a lot more. And fast."

  He nodded and shook my hand. "Good hunting, Sam."

  "You too, Sam," I said.

  He looked a little bereft as I walked out the door.

  It's kind of sad, saying goodbye to yourself.

  Eight

  I'd been right about the metal hat. It was a portable dimensional transporter — and simple enough to operate. No tougher than a kid's toy.

  I set the dial, clamped it on, and attached some wires. Then I pressed a red stud on the side of the hat.

  Zip! I was home. Hatless, naturally, since the thing automatically returned to its parent universe.

  This time, at least, Nicole hadn't croaked. Nor had she taken it on the lam. In fact, when I materialized in her unit she was standing directly above me with a shocked wh
ere-the-hell-did-he-come-from expression; the glass of iced bourbon she was holding dropped from her hand.

  "Didn't expect to see me again, did you, chicken?" I snarled the words. I was plenty burned at this broad.

  "Look, Sam, I swear that —"

  I got up and clipped her across the mouth before she could finish whatever new lie she was going to tell me. Then I grabbed the front of her blouse and gave her a good shakeup. Her lush breasts bounced like two vibraballs in a robo game but I wasn't interested in sex at the moment.

  "You either spill what you know or I mess you up a lot," I warned her. My voice was ice. "And I don't mind belting crooked dames that have me sapped and shipped out. So spill."

  "It was my ex-bedmate," she gasped, falling back on the couch.

  "The same one who threatened to kill me. He must have been waiting for us here in the unit, and when you came in he —"

  I gave her another good one across the mouth. "Try again," I snapped. "And this time start with F."

  She whitened, biting her lower lip. Her eyes were fear-glazed. "How — did you know about F.?"

  "You've got a faxletter from him in your trip trunk. Never mind how I found it. Just drop the lies and talk straight."

  "First, may I have another drink?" she asked. "You made me spill my last one."

  I nodded.

  She got up and hipped into the kitchcove. I kept my eye on her.

  "Are you hungry?" she asked.

  "Yeah, now that you mention it, I'm starved. I could use a cheese on wheat, whole grain; hold the butter and mayonnaise, light on the salt, no pepper."

  "Coming up."

  I eased into the couch, keeping her in sight. My bones ached. This unscheduled universe-hopping had taken a lot out of me. And that knockdown battle I'd had with myself in Domehive sure hadn't helped any.

  By the time Nicole returned with the food and drinks I'd vid-checked the Reagan. The coldpacs had arrived safely in Bobble City but when Dr. Umani discovered I wasn't along he'd refused to accept the shipment. Which meant the old geezer had more sense in this universe than he had in some others. Score one for the doc.