Space For Hire (Seven For Space)

by William F. Nolan

  I waddled over to Sam's couch, sat down on it, carefully arranging my feathers.

  "Snap it up," Sam ordered.

  "Stand by," I said. "Get ready. Now!" The freckled egg magically appeared beneath me on the couch. I was proud of it. I'd never laid one before and it was a real accomplishment. Not every private eye gets to lay his own egg.

  "It's good looking, isn't it?" I asked Nate.

  He lowered his downy head to inspect it. "Sure is, Sam. That's a real beaut."

  "Forget the damn egg and tell me what you came to tell me," growled Sam.

  "First I've got to hide it," I said. "After a Zubu lays he feels a real need to hide his egg. I've got to fulfill that need."

  Sam had lost patience. "You two birds better just breeze out. I don't have any more time to waste on Zubu eggs. I hate Zubu eggs to begin with."

  "We hate what we don't understand," said Nate. "That is man's eternal curse."

  "Breeze!"

  Oliver spread his wings in supplication. "We cannot leave, Mr. Space. Please give my friend a chance to convince you."

  "Close your eyes." I said to Sam.

  "You must be kidding."

  "No. I can't let you watch me hide it. If you close your eyes I can hide it quickly and then get on with my story."

  Sam, snorting angrily, closed his eyes.

  I hid the egg under the couch. "Okay, you can open up," I said.

  "Now talk," Sam said.

  I talked.

  Twenty-Five

  Sam emptied the Scotch bottle, wiped his lips, and put the bottle on the desk. "All rightie," he said. "Let's see if I've got it all straight. You want to hire me to come with you into next week so that I can run down myself as a kidnapped six-month-old brat. Is that it?"

  "That's it," I said, rapidly nodding my beak. "Once you've brought back your future self — along with the age machine and our transporter hats — we'll have the basic situation under control."

  "Then we'll return you here, to your proper universe," added Oliver.

  "And how do you pay me? In Zubu eggs?"

  I shook my downy head. "Not at all. We'll pay you in normal solar-credits once we get back into our bodies."

  "And what if I get stuck in next week?"

  "You won't," Oliver assured him. "We have faith in your ability to recapture yourself."

  "It is absolutely the nuttiest case I've ever taken," Sam said. "It's me hiring me to find me. When I show up with you characters we'll have three of me in next week!"

  Oliver web-paddled close to the desk. "Are we to understand you are taking the case?"

  "Yeah, you are to understand that," Sam growled. "Hell, I've got a personal stake in the thing. If I don't find myself I'm in trouble. It's like sending my left foot after my right foot."

  "A perfectly logical way to regard the case," agreed Oliver.

  "When can we make our pickup?" I asked Nate. "The longer we stay here the worse things get."

  "Not in the sense you mean," said Oliver. "Since the future hasn't happened yet it can't get any worse while we remain here in the past."

  "I still want to know when we can leave. I hate wearing feathers and laying eggs."

  Oliver did some rapid calculation in his head. "We are now in the tenth time phase and we need to be in the eleventh, at the very earliest, for a pickup."

  "When does the next phase start?"

  "If we take a rocket to Neptune we should just about hit it square on."

  I shook my beak. "No more baggage holds for me. That's out. They make me sneeze."

  "There's a Zubu base on Neptune. Sam can take us there as escaped Zubus, claiming that he was hired by the company to turn us in as fugitive fishbirds. We'll go aboard the rocket with our wings shackled, as his prisoners. Once on Neptune we phase in and bingo! we pop back into the middle of next week."

  "Sounds ok to me," said Sam.

  "I'll buy it," I said. Actually, I didn't fancy having my wings shackled but it sure beat playing stowaway.

  Oliver ruffled his tail feathers. "Then we'll leave momentarily."

  "Why not now?" Sam asked.

  "First, I have to lay a speckled egg. Second, I have to hide my egg. Then we can leave." He gave us both a long look along his beak. "And no peeking!"

  * * *

  What with the cold temp, the poisonous gases and the hostile treatment we were getting as runaways, it was pleasant to pop off of Neptune on Nicole's time-phase pickup beam. She worked it like a pro, and we got back into next week without a hitch. And as ourselves. I was still seventy-one but we'd fix that later.

  Sam took off after the three goons, telling me to wait for him in Bubble City.

  Which I did.

  In an Earth-day Sam was back, carrying his baby self, the age machine and our two portahats.

  "He needs a change," said Sam.

  Nicole clucked like a mother hen. "I'll take him."

  Sammy was bawling like crazy and I asked Nicole where she was going to find a diaper.

  "I can jury-rig one from part of my clothing," she said. "And if the age machine is still working properly we shouldn't need more than one."

  As she was changing Sammy I asked Sam if he'd had any problems.

  "Sure," he nodded. "You always get problems in a kid caper. If you try to close in on the goons they might finish off the kid before you can reach him. You have to handle it cautious."

  "Well, where did you run 'em down?"

  "I traced 'em to one of the dogstar asteroids where they were hiding Sammy and took 'em by surprise. They turned over Sammy and the other junk on my word I'd let 'em go."

  "And you let 'em go?"

  Sam snorted. "Hell, no. I shot all three of them after I had the kid. You don't play square with gungoons."

  "Check," I said, "and double check."

  "There's the little sweetums," cooed Nicole, and put freshly-changed Sammy on the couch. We got the age machine humming.

  Little Sam began to age. His bones lengthened; his hair sprouted; his face filled out … By the time we turned off the machine we had a thirty-six-year-old private eye in a homemade diaper facing us.

  He was too stunned to say anything.

  "Bring him some clothes," I told Nicole. "Then get me back to normal."

  This time we did it right, and I was thirty-six again. It felt great.

  So there we were: three Sam Spaces, all the same guy, all thirty-six. Three ugly, mean-looking mugs.

  "What now?" the first Sam asks.

  The second Sam, the one we'd popped out of last week, looked confused. "Now we split, right?"

  I nodded. "You go back to Chicago where Nate will take care of you. He'll see you safely into last week."

  "As a Zubu?"

  "Naw. He's got the kink out of his equipment. You'll be back there as yourself." I fished a stack of credits from my coat. "With these."

  "Thanks, Sam," he said, grinning. "I feel a little queasy, taking money from myself."

  "Nerts," I said. "You sure as hell earned it."

  Nicole gave him a peck on the cheek and he left.

  "What about me?" asked the other Sam.

  "You just stay here where you belong," I told him, putting on a portahat and helping Nicole with hers. "We're going to high-tail it back home and find out what's happened to Doc Umani. Hey — what about your Umani? You're on the case, aren't you?"

  "Not anymore," he said. "Umani took me off a few days back. Said he could handle his own protection."

  The vidphone buzzed. Sam snapped it on. "Space here," he said.

  The image on the vidscreen belonged to a sobbing Esma. She was shaking and her words were choked. "They — they got him, Sam!"

  "Who?"

  "Kane's men. Synthetics. They've kidnapped Daddy!"

  "Hang tight, sister, and I'll be right over."

  I sighed. "Somebody is always getting kidnapped in this caper."

  "Yeah," he said, snapping on his .38 and heading for the door. "At least it pays the re
nt."

  By the time he hit the street we were back in our own universe.

  In time to meet fresh trouble.

  Twenty-Six

  "Where have you been?" asked Esma as we entered Umani's lab. "I've been calling your office about Daddy."

  "Don't tell me. He's been kidnapped. Right?"

  "It's much worse than that," she said.

  "He's dead," I nodded. "Some goons nailed him."

  "Oh, no. Worse than dead." Her three sets of eyes looked desperate.

  "What's worse than dead?" I wanted to know.

  "Daddy has gone cuckoo," she told me. "Totally bonkers as of yesterday."

  "Tell me all about it," I said, walking to a chair, flipping it around and straddling it. I was alone with Esma. Nicole was resting in NewOld New Mexico where she'd gone after we got back. She needed a vacation from crime and criminals and she picked out an automated dude ranch near Santa Fe to do her resting in. I told her I'd join her Justas soon as I saved the System.

  It was no joke. I had to make certain Umani succeeded with his experiment — even if it meant round-the-clock guard duty. I'd come to this conclusion based on Kane's attempt to put me out of action.

  So here I was, being told the doc had gone bonkers.

  "Everything seemed fine yesterday morning." said Esma. "We were working in the lab, Daddy and I, when —"

  "Where was first cousin Verlag?"

  "Oh, Daddy killed him."

  I gave with the arched eyebrow. "Why?"

  "You remember how grouchy he was?"

  "Yeah, he did a lot of dark scowling."

  "Well," said Esma, "he began getting on Daddy's nerves. Kept muttering and scowling and grouching around."

  "That's no reason to freeze him."

  "No, of course not. But he got worse. Began neglecting his lab duties and padded around the building carrying an unsheathed Japanese battle sword."

  "Authentic?"

  "A replica. But very sharp and deadly."

  "Go on."

  "Day before yesterday he tried to chop off Daddy's head."

  "And your father killed him?"

  "Not then. He chopped off Daddy's head with no trouble at all. Japanese battle swords are very effective. When I arrived on the scene Verlag was standing over Daddy and chuckling. It was good to see him happy and smiling but certainly not at the cost of Daddy's head."

  "I can see your point."

  "I gave him a good tongue lashing and told him to go fetch a fresh coldpac from storage."

  "Did he?"

  "Sure. He was a bit sheepish about what he'd done. I brain-switched Daddy into the body of an ex-Armenian rug peddler and things seemed to be straightened out."

  "How can he be an ex-Armenian?"

  "My error." She smiled. "I put my ex in the wrong place. I should have said an Armenian ex-rug peddler. Anyhow, that's who I put Daddy into."

  "Ok, then what?"

  "Daddy was understandably miffed at Verlag and took away the Japanese battle sword. Then Verlag attacked Daddy with an elephant's foot umbrella stand. Replica, of course."

  "Figures," I nodded. "You can't get a genuine elephant's foot umbrella stand these days."

  "At any rate," continued Esma, "Verlag's attack was foiled and Daddy shot him to death."

  "Any reason for the attack?"

  "I think Kane sent one of his synthetics to work on Verlag. He just wasn't rational."

  "And then, after cooling Verlag, your Daddy went bonkers?"

  "Not immediately. For awhile we worked on his experiment together. Then, when we were nearing total success, Daddy began jumping around the lab demanding rugs to sell. I told him we didn't have any rugs on Mars. But he was stubborn about the demand."

  "I'd say the Armenian body was affecting his sanity."

  Esma nodded two of her heads, still talking with the third. "That's what I thought. Though no other body had affected him to such degree. Anyway, to be on the safe side, I brain-switched him to the body of an English instructor from West Redding, Connecticut. That seemed to work fine — but then Daddy got extremely interested in the alcoholic behavioral patterns of the major American writers of the 20th Century and abandoned his lab duties."

  "So you switched him again?"

  "He wouldn't let me. He defrosted all the coldpacs and that left us without spares. Next he took Verlag's Japanese battle sword and began hacking away at his experiment. That was yesterday. I managed to deal with him in time to save the lab. Knocked him unconscious with the elephant's foot umbrella stand and locked him in the storage unit. He's there now."

  "I'd better talk to him," I said.

  "I hope you can discover what's happened to Daddy. I can't finish the experiment without him. His brain holds the key."

  "I'll do my best."

  She led me to the rear of the labunit and nodded her middle head toward a stout nearoak door bolted from the outside. "He's in there. Be careful."

  I patted my coat. "Got my .38 in case he gets violent," I told her.

  The doc's voice filtered through the door. "Is that you, Esma? Who's with you?"

  "It's Mr. Space, Daddy. He's come to talk to you."

  "Splendid," we heard Umani say. "I am, in point of fact, a starving man."

  "But I fed you an hour ago," declared Esma. "Beans, potatoes, and nearhash."

  "Quite so," agreed the doc: "But that was physical food which feeds only the body. I require mental food which feeds the soul. And my soul is starving."

  Esma sighed as she unbolted the door. "See," she said sadly. "Bonkers."

  "You stay here," I told her. "I want to talk to him alone. I won't be long."

  Umani was seated on a scrolled antique trunk, wearing a plastosilk dressing gown with puffy fur slippers on his feet. His new body was dapper and distinguished looking with a gray pencil mustache and trim goatee. He shook my hand firmly and offered me the free half of the trunk. I sat down.

  "Try to remember," I said. "Did anyone come in and hypnotize you recently?"

  "My, what a shallow opening question," he clucked. "If I were hypnotized I should certainly not be aware of it. Your question is akin to asking an insane man if he remembers going crazy."

  "Right," I agreed. "But we don't have much time, and I was trying to shock you back to normal with a direct question."

  "What is normal?" he asked tartly.

  "Normal," I said, "is when you return to work on your experiment and save our solar system."

  Umani tipped his head back and laughed. His goatee wobbled with glee. "Well, well, well," he chuckled. "So I'm a universe-saver am I?"

  "Nope. Only a solar-system saver. The universe itself is ok as far as I know."

  "And just who am I outwitting with my system-saving?"

  "I'm not going to go into all that," I said. "You either know or you don't. Obviously, right now, you're abnormal. There's no use trying to educate you."

  "Splendid," and Umani snapped his fingers. "Instead, let me educate you. I'm a teacher, you know."

  "So Esma told me. The pride of West Redding."

  "Indeed. Esma is a delightful child. But I do wish she would not lock people up in storage units. It is quite annoying."

  "Look, I'd better —"

  "My current in-depth research project centers in and around the subject of excessive alcoholic intake among leading 20th Century authors."

  "I'm no reader," I said. "I don't follow that kind of stuff."

  "Ah, but the facts are absolutely fascinating. Did you know, for example, that after William Faulkner received news of his having won the Nobel Prize for Literature he got dead drunk in the woods of Mississippi? Took him several days to sober up enough to travel to Sweden for the award."

  "So he liked to belt a few."

  "Indeed he did. Hemingway ruined his liver by drinking. He used to drink with bears. Finally shot himself, of course. Sad. Then there was Dylan Thomas. Eighteen straight whiskies finished him off in New York. Steinbeck was notorious for his prolo
nged alcoholic bouts."

  I tried to get up but he put a strong hand on my shoulder.

  "Norman Mailer stabbed one of his wives while under the influence," he said. "And poor Scott Fitzgerald was a terrible lush."

  "I don't want to hear any more guff about soused writers," I said, grabbing Umani by the front of his robe. I shook him furiously. "Wake up, doc! Come to your senses! You've got the whole damn System to save!"

  I was still trying to shake some sense into him when Esma — shouting like an Oriental demon — launched herself through the door and attacked me with the Japanese battle sword.

  Twenty-Seven

  It was a tricky situation. When the battle blade sliced Umani's scrolled antique trunk neatly in half I knew I'd have to do something fast. Esma was dead set on cutting off my head and I had to deal with her.

  She was in the midst of an overhand swing when I socked three .38sinto her midriff.

  She dropped the heavy sword, rattled, gurgled, sputtered. Her eyes pinwheeled in her heads, and she spun in a circle, saying, "Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam."

  Then she flopped over one of the other trunks.

  "Well done, sir!" said Umani, emerging from a corner. He dusted himself and combed out his goatee. "My daughter was insane. I should have realized that when she locked me in here. Wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. She was quite unsettled."

  "Hmmmm," I murmured, bending over her body.

  "She claimed I was hypnotized," said Umani. "Preposterous!"

  "You are hypnotized," I said. "And it was Esma who did it."

  "Why would my own daughter hypnotize me?"

  "She's not your daughter." I unscrewed a finger, held it up. "She's a robot — a dupe of the real Esma, no doubt sent here by Kane to lure me into this place and behead me while I talked with you."

  "Then where is Esma, the real Esma?"

  "Dunno," I said. "I'll try and find her. People are always disappearing on me."

  Umani shook his head, one hand pressed to his cheek. "It's — wearing off. My sense is returning."

  "The effects ended with the destruction of the robot," I said. "This Esma android must have tranced Verlag into attacking you to get rid of him. Then she tranced you."