Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  * * * * *

  Two weeks later Pembroke phoned Mary Ann. The police had accepted her story without even checking. And when, when would she be seeing him again? He had aroused her passion and no amount of long-distance love could requite it. Soon, he assured her, soon.

  "Because, after all, you do owe me something," she added.

  And that was bad because it sounded as if she had been giving some womanly thought to the situation. A little more of that and she might go to the police again, this time for vengeance.

  Twice during his wanderings Pembroke had seen the corpses of Earthmen being carted out of buildings. They had to be Earthmen because they bled. Mary Ann had admitted that she did not. There would be very few Earthmen left in Puerto Pacifico, and it would be simple enough to locate him if he were reported as being on the loose. There was no out but to do away with Mary Ann.

  Pembroke headed for the beach. He knew she invariably went there in the afternoon. He loitered around the stalls where hot dogs and soft drinks were sold, leaning against a post in the hot sun, hat pulled down over his forehead. Then he noticed that people all about him were talking excitedly. They were discussing a ship. It was leaving that afternoon. Anyone who could pass the interview would be sent to Earth.

  Pembroke had visited the docks every day, without being able to learn when the great exodus would take place. Yet he was certain the first lap would be by water rather than by spaceship, since no one he had talked to in the city had ever heard of spaceships. In fact, they knew very little about their masters.

  Now the ship had arrived and was to leave shortly. If there was any but the most superficial examination, Pembroke would no doubt be discovered and exterminated. But since no one seemed concerned about anything but his own speech and behavior, he assumed that they had all qualified in every other respect. The reason for transporting Earth People to this planet was, of course, to apply a corrective to any of the Pacificos' aberrant mannerisms or articulation. This was the polishing up phase.

  * * * * *

  Pembroke began hobbling toward the docks. Almost at once he found himself face to face with Mary Ann. She smiled happily when she recognized him. That was a good thing.

  "It is a sign of poor breeding to smile at tramps," Pembroke admonished her in a whisper. "Walk on ahead."

  She obeyed. He followed. The crowd grew thicker. They neared the docks and Pembroke saw that there were now set up on the roped-off wharves small interviewing booths. When it was their turn, he and Mary Ann each went into separate ones. Pembroke found himself alone in the little room.

  Then he saw that there was another entity in his presence confined beneath a glass dome. It looked rather like a groundhog and had seven fingers on each of its six limbs. But it was larger and hairier than the glass one he had seen at the gift store. With four of its limbs it tapped on an intricate keyboard in front of it.

  "What is your name?" queried a metallic voice from a speaker on the wall.

  "I'm Jerry Newton. Got no middle initial," Pembroke said in a surly voice.

  "Occupation?"

  "I work a lot o' trades. Fisherman, fruit picker, fightin' range fires, vineyards, car washer. Anything. You name it. Been out of work for a long time now, though. Goin' on five months. These here are hard times, no matter what they say."

  "What do you think of the Chinese situation?" the voice inquired.

  "Which situation's 'at?"

  "Where's Seattle?"

  "Seattle? State o' Washington."

  And so it went for about five minutes. Then he was told he had qualified as a satisfactory surrogate for a mid-twentieth century American male, itinerant type.

  "You understand your mission, Newton?" the voice asked. "You are to establish yourself on Earth. In time you will receive instructions. Then you will attack. You will not see us, your masters, again until the atmosphere has been sufficiently chlorinated. In the meantime, serve us well."

  He stumbled out toward the docks, then looked about for Mary Ann. He saw her at last behind the ropes, her lovely face in tears.

  Then she saw him. Waving frantically, she called his name several times. Pembroke mingled with the crowd moving toward the ship, ignoring her. But still the woman persisted in her shouting.

  Sidling up to a well-dressed man-about-town type, Pembroke winked at him and snickered.

  "You Frank?" he asked.

  "Hell, no. But some poor punk's sure red in the face, I'll bet," the man-about-town said with a chuckle. "Those high-strung paramour types always raising a ruckus. They never do pass the interview. Don't know why they even make 'em."

  Suddenly Mary Ann was quiet.

  "Ambulance squad," Pembroke's companion explained. "They'll take her off to the buggy house for a few days and bring her out fresh and ignorant as the day she was assembled. Don't know why they keep making 'em, as I say. But I guess there's a call for that type up there on Earth."

  "Yeah, I reckon there is at that," said Pembroke, snickering again as he moved away from the other. "And why not? Hey? Why not?"

  Pembroke went right on hating himself, however, till the night he was deposited in a field outside of Ensenada, broke but happy, with two other itinerant types. They separated in San Diego, and it was not long before Pembroke was explaining to the police how he had drifted far from the scene of the sinking of the Elena Mia on a piece of wreckage, and had been picked up by a Chilean trawler. How he had then made his way, with much suffering, up the coast to California. Two days later, his identity established and his circumstances again solvent, he was headed for Los Angeles to begin his save-Earth campaign.

  * * * * *

  Now, seated at his battered desk in the shabby rented office over Lemark's Liquors, Pembroke gazed without emotion at the two demolished Pacificos that lay sprawled one atop the other in the corner. His watch said one-fifteen. The man from the FBI should arrive soon.

  There were footsteps on the stairs for the third time that day. Not the brisk, efficient steps of a federal official, but the hesitant, self-conscious steps of a junior clerk type.

  Pembroke rose as the young man appeared at the door. His face was smooth, unpimpled, clean-shaven, without sweat on a warm summer afternoon.

  "Are you Dr. Von Schubert?" the newcomer asked, peering into the room. "You see, I've got a problem--"

  The four shots from Pembroke's pistol solved his problem effectively. Pembroke tossed his third victim onto the pile, then opened a can of lager, quaffing it appreciatively. Seating himself once more, he leaned back in the chair, both feet upon the desk.

  He would be out of business soon, once the FBI agent had got there. Pembroke was only in it to get the proof he would need to convince people of the truth of his tale. But in the meantime he allowed himself to admire the clipping of the newspaper ad he had run in all the Los Angeles papers for the past week. The little ad that had saved mankind from God-knew-what insidious menace. It read:

  ARE YOU IMPERFECT?

  LET DR. VON SCHUBERT POINT OUT YOUR FLAWS

  IT IS HIS GOAL TO MAKE YOU THE AVERAGE FOR YOUR TYPE

  FEE--$3.75

  MONEY BACK IF NOT SATISFIED!

  * * *

  Contents

  RICH LIVING

  By Michael Cathal

  No other planet in the entire Galaxy was at all like Rejuvenal ... it was the only world worth one's whole fortune for a short visit!

  Curtis Delman was the last to leave the space liner. It was only when the Captain entered that he ceased dictating and put down the microphone. Then, with the clumsy deliberation of the aged, he pressed home the lid of the recorder and turned the key in the lock. There was almost a mile of fine wire in that box--a mile of detailed instruction, compiled over the past four days. For a centenarian, his energy was prodigious.

  The Captain stood respectfully by the door, waiting to be noticed. Delman beckoned him into the suite.

  Hat in hand, the Captain walked over to the desk. "I thought you'd like to know, sir
, the rest of the passengers have disembarked." He spoke with deference.

  "Good," said Delman. "I shan't delay you more than a few minutes longer."

  "Oh, no delay, I assure you, sir," the Captain replied hastily. "Only too happy to be of service. The crew asked me to thank you on their behalf, sir, for your great generosity. It was more than--er--generous." Words seemed to fail him.

  "Not at all, Captain," Delman said. "You've all done your best to make the crossing as comfortable as possible and I'm very grateful to you. Perhaps you'd do one more thing for me on your return--deliver this to my representative in London." He pointed to the recording machine.

  "Certainly, sir."

  "Then that takes care of everything." The great lawyer rose creakily to his feet. Though bent with age, he was still an impressive figure, tall and powerfully built, his white hair spilling out over the massive forehead. "I suppose the press is here?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir."

  "Well, one can't dodge them on Jupiter. There's no room to move as it is."

  * * * * *

  The Captain laughed sympathetically. No one knew better than himself the limitations of the planet. He'd lived here as a child, grown up under that plastic bubble which Man had built to preserve an atmosphere--two thousand acres of habitable land in a wilderness of millions of square miles. It was enough to break the heart of any boy.

  Delman stooped to pick up his two heavy canes. The Captain leaped forward and handed them to him. Then lawyer and skipper left the suite and moved slowly toward the gangway. As they reached the steps, the Captain broke the silence.

  "It's been a privilege to have you on board, sir, and perhaps we may hope to take you home again on your return from Rejuvenal."

  Curtis Delman smiled. "Well, Captain, it's foolhardy for me to plan nearly two years ahead, but I hope so, too."

  They shook hands.

  With a steward supporting him on either side, the ancient lawyer climbed carefully down the steps.

  A spacelines official had thoughtfully provided a chair. He sat down. The usual array of microphones and tele-cameras was grouped around him. Someone appealed for silence. In the hush that followed, only his own persuasive voice was heard.

  "I have no prepared statement," he said, "but I assume you gentlemen wish to ask me some questions. In that event, I'd just like to stress that I'm not as young as I used to be--or perhaps I should say, as I hope to be--and I'd be obliged if you kept them short and to the point."

  There were about thirty reporters present and among them he recognized several faces that he had seen before. A few would belong to the local network, but most of them were probably attached to one of the Universal syndicates. It was a red-headed youngster who got in the first question; the others were quick to follow.

  "Is it true, sir, that this will be your fourth visit to Rejuvenal?"

  "Yes, perfectly true."

  "Has anyone else been there four times?"

  "No. To the best of my knowledge, I'm the first person to attempt it. Several others have been at least twice."

  "Because no one else could afford it?"

  "I didn't say that. Most people tire of life. I don't."

  Years of experience had accustomed the lawyer to these interviews. The purring cameras failed to distract him. In fact, he almost relished the buzz of competent confusion around him.

  "How long does the trip take?"

  "Two hundred and fifty days out, the same back, and ninety days on the planet."

  "Don't you find that a tedious journey?"

  "Long, yes. Tedious, no. Don't forget, one has expectations. Besides, the early trips from Earth to Jupiter took twice as long."

  "Now they take four days."

  "No doubt, but that doesn't alter the argument."

  "Mr. Delman, what is the speed of change?"

  "You mean the rate at which the burden of years drops from one's shoulders?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Almost exactly one year for every twenty-four hours spent on the planet."

  "So that, in ninety days, you're ninety years younger?"

  "Correct."

  "How old are you now, sir?"

  * * * * *

  Delman scratched his head reflectively. The reporters laughed.

  "That's a difficult question. So far as natural decay is concerned, I think I'm a hundred and fifteen. Of course, my actual life-span has been nearer three hundred and eighty-seven; but please don't credit me with being a Methuselah. I've a long way to go yet."

  "Is it a fact that the round trip costs five million dollars?"

  "I'm afraid I can't answer that. It's a condition of the contract that passengers refrain from disclosing the price of their tickets."

  "It is expensive, though?"

  "Oh, naturally. But remember, the overhead is heavy. Three refueling bases on the minor planets, Borenius, Ziar and Algon, require constant maintenance, apart from the initial cost of runways. Then only five--er--patients can be housed on Rejuvenal at any given time. And one also has to consider the constant change of staff. You'd scarcely expect it to be cheap."

  There was a sudden pause in the questioning. The lawyer took the opportunity to rise up out of his chair. This provoked an immediate response; all spoke at once in deafening unison. Delman held up his hand for silence, then turned and addressed the red-headed reporter on his left.

  "Young man, since you were the first to begin this examination, I'll give you two questions with which to wind up for your side. Only two, mind."

  The reporter thought for a moment. "Who are your fellow passengers?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I thought you might be able to tell me that. And the second question?"

  "Well, sir, I suppose I ought to ask whether you have any special message for the Universe."

  Curtis Delman chuckled. "No," he said, "nothing of importance. Just that I'd be glad if the law remained substantially unaltered during my absence. It's hard enough to keep abreast as things are. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen--"

  The tele-cameras swiveled as, cane in each hand, he hobbled toward the Terminal Building. Security officers cleared a path for him. A group of onlookers began to applaud. It was a reception more in keeping with a politician than a lawyer, but Curtis Delman held a unique position.

  He had been the acknowledged leader of his profession for over three hundred years--a record no politician could ever hope to equal.

  * * * * *

  The Vice President of Rejuvenal Enterprises, Inc., had been speaking for the best part of half an hour. He was a dapper little man whose white tunic was fringed with green and purple. He had a slight Venusian accent, very bookish, very precise and very irritating. All five passengers sat in his office and waited with varying degrees of patience for the departure signal.

  Curtis Delman had been introduced to each of them in turn. Of the four, only Walter Pellinger, President of Galactic Stores, had made a previous trip. The lawyer knew of him by reputation as a shrewd businessman, but there was little to be said in favor of his disposition, which was rumored to be morose and unfriendly. Certainly his appearance was surly enough to support the rumor.

  "Of course," the Vice President was saying, "Mr. Curtis Delman and Mr. Pellinger have heard all this before, but I'm sure they'll both forgive me for repeating it." Walter Pellinger mumbled something uncomplimentary. "And now for a last word about the ship. Most of you will have come here by space liner, and very comfortable it is, too. Unfortunately, we can't look after you that well. Not only would it be uneconomical to employ a liner, it would also be impossible--there just aren't the landing facilities. And if you can't land, there's not much point in going, is there?" The Vice President laughed at his little joke. No one else seemed to find it amusing.

  "No," he continued, "the best we can provide is a Stellano-type spaceboat--the very latest model, naturally--but, even so, I'm afraid the men will have to share berths. Of course, there's plenty of room in the lounge. As for the st
aff, Captain Ross, who is to look after you, is a man of considerable--"

  The Vice President rambled on. Curtis Delman ceased listening to him; it was only because he had heard his name mentioned that his interest had been drawn in the first place. He focused his attention on the three remaining passengers.

  They were a strangely assorted trio. Of the two men, one was extravagantly attired in dark-blue silk, obviously hand-woven, with large sapphire rings on the fingers of both hands, and a slim, eight-dial chronometer on the left wrist. Despite his advanced age, his face remained lean and swarthy, the eyes set close above a strong hooked nose, the lips taut and cruel.

  He'd been introduced as Jason Tarsh. The lawyer seemed to associate the name with a criminal case--something to do with smuggling--but the details eluded him.

  The other was ordinary and ill at ease, a plump, red-faced man in a badly cut tweed tunic who looked out of place in the present company. His knuckles rapped nervously on the elbow-rest of his chair. Clearly, Mr. John Bridge had none of that confidence usually acquired by the millionaire. Yet only a wealthy man could afford the trip. Curtis Delman was puzzled.

  And then there was the woman.

  * * * * *

  It was difficult to believe that the third and last of his fellow-passengers was Gillian Murray. She sat by herself in the far corner, a formless, shrunken creature in deep black. He remembered seeing her, eighty years ago, on the stage of the Palladia. She had been shapely and vivacious in those days. Now only a faint sparkle lingered in her eyes. There was nothing to suggest that she had once been the toast of the Universe. Old, withered, gray-haired--time treated beauty harshly, mercilessly. He realized how much this trip must mean to her.

  "Unlike Jupiter," the Vice President was saying, "this section of the Galaxy is composed of oxygen planets. In fact, the proportion of oxygen is rather higher than on Earth, so you needn't bother about spacesuits and the like. I remember--"

  A green light blinked on the Vice President's desk, stemming the flood of reminiscence. It was the embarkation signal.