Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  * * * * *

  "Good God, man!" the clerk exclaimed. "Have you been out in that cold without a coat and hat? It must be thirty below."

  Johnson was unable to answer. He had run from the Strip--luckily he remembered its location in relation to the town--but it must have been over a mile to the hotel. Now, as he stamped his feet and beat at his sides with numbed hands, he breathed heavily, gasping great gulps of air into his tortured lungs.

  "Come and warm yourself," the clerk said, leading him over to a hot water radiator.

  Johnson made no protest. He let the heat penetrate until it scorched the skin on his back. Only after the coldness left his body and was replaced by a drowsy inertia did his attention return to the clerk.

  "Did you ever see me before?" Johnson asked.

  The clerk shook his head. "Not that I know of."

  Any further investigation would have to wait until the next day, Johnson decided. He was dead tired, and he had to have some sleep. "Sign me up for a room, will you?" he asked.

  Once up in his room, Johnson counted his money. One hundred and fifty-four credits. Enough to buy winter clothing and pay his room and board for a week. Maybe two. What would he do if he could learn nothing about himself before then?

  The next day Johnson left the hotel to buy warm clothes. The town's only store was a half-block down the street--as he remembered it, one of the big Interplanet Company stores.

  Johnson waited until the storekeeper finished with two of the hairy-eared natives before giving his order. As he paid for the purchase, he asked: "Have you ever seen me before?"

  The storekeeper glanced at him uneasily, and shifted his feet before answering. "Am I supposed to have?"

  Johnson ignored the question. "Where can I find the manager?" he asked, slipping into the heavy coat the clerk held for him.

  "Go up that stairway by the door," the clerk said. "You'll find him in his office."

  * * * * *

  The manager was an old man. Old and black, with the deep blackness only an Earth-born Negro possesses. But his eyes retained their youthful alertness.

  "Come in and sit down," he told Johnson as he looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.

  Johnson walked over and took the chair at the manager's left. "I've had an accident," he said, without preliminary, "and I seem to have lost my memory. Do you, by any chance, know who I am?"

  "Never saw you before in my life," the manager answered. "What's your name?"

  "Don Johnson."

  "Well, at least you remember something," the old man said shrewdly. "You didn't come during the last six months, if that'll help any. There've been only two ships in that time. Both the Company's. I meet all Company ships. If you came in during the tourist season I wouldn't know."

  "Where else could I make inquiries?"

  "Son," the old man said kindly, "there's three Earthmen on Marlock, that I know of--besides yourself, of course--the clerk at the hotel, my storekeeper, and myself. If you started asking questions at the hotel, you're at the end of the line now."

  Something in Johnson's expression caused the old man to go on. "How you fixed for money, son?"

  Johnson drew a deep breath. "I've got enough to last me about two weeks."

  The manager hesitated, and carefully surveyed the ceiling with his eyes before he spoke again. "I've always felt we Earthmen should stick together," he said. "If you want a job, I'll find something for you to do and put you on the payroll."

  Twenty minutes later Johnson took the job--and twenty years later he was still working for the Company. He worked for them until....

  * * * * *

  Johnson was glad when the first twinge of fear came that it brought no panic. Instead it washed through his body, sharpening his reflexes and alerting his muscles for action.

  He never ceased to wonder about this faculty he had acquired for sensing the presence of danger. There was no doubt in his mind that it had come into active function through the influence of his environment. But it must have been an intrinsic part of him even before that, waiting to be activated.

  A moment before he had localized the source of his uneasiness--an Earthman, following perhaps fifty paces behind him. The one quick glance Johnson had allowed himself told him his follower was above average in height, and lean--with the wiry, muscular command of himself that marked him as a man capable of well-coordinated action.

  He fought the rising force of the next "sand-blaster" boiling in from the desert, until he was unable to take a step against it. Then he moved behind a mud-packed arm projecting from the native dwelling at his right. Every building had one of these protecting arms added on; even the concrete buildings in the newer, Earth-built section of the city conformed to the custom. The sandstorms raged intermittently on Marlock through the entire nine month summer season, and could not be ignored, either by visitors or natives.

  Johnson huddled against the projection, but the sand whipped around the corner and pounded at his back. Fine grains sifted through his clothing and mingled with the clammy sweat of his body. He resisted the frantic urge to scratch his itching, tormented skin, for he knew the flesh would be rubbed raw in a minute and increase the irritation to maddening proportions.

  As the "sand-blaster" lost its intensity, he came out from his shelter and walked away as rapidly as the diminishing force of the wind would permit. If he could reach his office before his stalker closed in, he would be safe.

  Suddenly a second Earthman, a short length of pipe in his right hand, came out of a doorway across the street and ran toward him.

  Johnson realized that here was the source of the warning his intuition had sent--not the man behind him.

  * * * * *

  For a brief instant, he weighed the situation. The man was equipped for assault, but the chances were he was interested only in robbery. Johnson could probably save himself a beating by surrendering his money without resistance. He rejected the thought. A man had to live with his pride, and his self-respect; they were more necessary than physical well-being. Setting his shoulders firmly against the wall, he waited.

  The man slowed to a walk when he saw his intended victim on guard. Johnson had the chance to observe him closely. He was a short and dark man, heavy of bone, with the lower half of his face thickly bearded, and sweat making a thin glistening film on his high cheekbones.

  Abruptly a voice said, "I wouldn't touch him if I were you."

  Johnson followed the gaze of his near-attacker to his left where the lean man he had noted before stood with a flat blue pistol pointed in their direction. He held the pistol like a man who knew how to use it.

  "A gun!" the man in the street gasped. "Are you crazy?"

  "Better put it away--fast," Johnson warned his ally. "If the native police catch you with that gun, you're in bad trouble."

  The lean man hesitated a moment, then shrugged and pocketed the gun. But he kept his hand in the pocket. "I can still use it," he said, to no one in particular.

  "Look, chum," the bearded thug grated. "You're evidently a stranger here. Let me give you a tip. If you get caught using a gun, or even having one on you, the police'll slap you in jail with an automatic sentence of ten years. An Earthman couldn't stay alive in one of their so-called jails for a year.

  "Now I've got a little business to attend to with Mr. Johnson, and I don't want any interference. So be smart and run along."

  The smile never left the stranger's face. "Right now," he said, "I am interested in seeing that Mr. Johnson remains in good health. If you take another step toward him, I'll shoot. And, if I'm not successful in evading the police afterwards, you won't be alive to know it."

  "You're bluffing," the bearded man said. "I...."

  "Let me point out something," Johnson interrupted. "Suppose he is bluffing and doesn't use the gun: The odds are still two to one against you. Are you sure you could handle both of us--even with the help of that pipe?"

  The man wasn't sure. He stood undecided, then his face
showed black frustration. He mouthed a few choice phrases through his beard, turned and walked away.

  * * * * *

  The lean man extended his hand. "My name's Alton Hawkes."

  The rising whine of the next "sand-blaster" drowned out Johnson's answer. He drew his new acquaintance into the shelter of a sand-arm.

  As they hugged the corner, they felt a third body press against them. The musky odor, mingled with the taint of old leather, told Johnson that their companion was a native.

  The storm eased its force and the two Earthmen raised their heads to regard the corner's other occupant. He was a mahogany brown, almost the exact color of the ankle-length leather skirt he wore. "Man, he stinks!" Hawkes said.

  Their visitor spread his hairy, wide-nostriled nose into the native equivalent of a smile. His hairy ears twitched with pleasure and he swelled his chest. "Blee strong all over," he said. "Want him guard?"

  "Why not?" Johnson answered, glancing inquiringly at Hawkes. He slipped a coin into the extended brown palm. "Guard us until we get to the big-house section."

  "Pale-smells be very safe," the native said.

  They left their shelter as the wind died down and started toward the taller buildings of the foreign section. "I must have said the right thing when I said he stinks," Hawkes remarked.

  "Telling a native that is the same thing, to him, as calling him strong and virile," Johnson answered. "They admit, reluctantly, that we foreigners have some good fighting qualities, but we're still regarded as unmanly because of our weak odor. Their females wouldn't look twice at either of us."

  When they reached one of the few three-story structures in the city, Johnson dismissed their guard. They entered the building and walked down a short corridor and through a door lettered:

  DONALD H. JOHNSON

  District Manager

  Interplanets Trade Company

  "To be frank with you," Hawkes said, as he eased his lank body into the chair Johnson offered, "I had planned to learn more about your local activities before I introduced myself. However, I've found in the past that my first judgment of a man is usually right, so I think I'll get down to business immediately." He drew a set of papers from an inside pocket and tossed them on the desk in front of Johnson. "I'm a Company Secret Service man," he said.

  * * * * *

  Johnson raised his eyebrows, but looked at the papers without comment. He glanced up at Hawkes.

  "Do you recognize either of the men in the pictures?" Hawkes asked, when he saw that Johnson had no intention of speaking.

  Unhurriedly Johnson picked up the papers and removed a rubber binder. He pulled out two photos and laid them on the desk in front of him. "The bearded one is the man who waylaid me," he said. "Of course."

  "Look at both a little closer," Hawkes suggested, "and see if you don't notice something else."

  Johnson studied the pictures. "There's no doubt about the first," he murmured. "Evidently I'm supposed to recognize the other also." Abruptly he sat erect. "They're both the same man," he exclaimed. "Only in the second picture he's clean-shaven."

  Hawkes nodded. "There's a story about those two pictures," he said. "But first, let me fill you in on some background. You know that Interplanets has branches on more than a thousand worlds. Because of this widespread operation it's particularly vulnerable to robbery. But it would cost more than the Company's earnings to post adequate guards on every station. And it would be impractical to depend on the protection of the local governments, many of which are extremely primitive. On the other hand, allowing themselves to be robbed with impunity would be financial suicide."

  Johnson nodded. "Of course."

  "That," Hawkes continued, "is where the Company's Secret Service comes in. It never lets up on the effort it will make to solve a robbery and bring the perpetrators to justice. And it never quits, once it begins an investigation. That policy has proven very effective in discouraging thievery. During the Company's entire tenure there have been less than a dozen unsolved thefts--and two of them occurred right here on Marlock."

  "I was a clerk with the Company at the time of the second," Johnson said reminiscently. "Been with them about three years then. That must have been over twenty years ago. I...." He paused and looked down. "I remember," he said. "The picture without the beard.... That's the thief. The photograph was taken by one of the automatic cameras set up for just that purpose; we still use them. But they never found the man."

  "That's right," Hawkes agreed. "That robbery occurred a little over twenty years ago. And the other picture you have was taken at the time of the first robbery--approximately twenty-five years before that."

  "But it isn't possible," Johnson protested. "These pictures are of the same man. And there's obviously no twenty-five year spread in age between them. Unless...."

  "Unless one is the other's father, or a relative that resembles him very closely?" Hawkes finished. "Look at the pictures again. There's the same scar on both foreheads, the same pock-mark on the right cheek; our special section has even made measurements of the comparative sizes of the nose, ears and other features. There's no possible doubt that the pictures are of the same man."

  * * * * *

  "How do you explain it?" Johnson asked.

  "I don't," Hawkes replied quietly. "That's one of the things I'm here to learn. But did you notice this? The man we encountered this afternoon was not only the same as the one on those pictures: he still looks the same. We might, for the sake of argument, grant that a man's appearance would change only slightly in twenty-five years. But when you add another twenty-three on top of that--and he's still unchanged...?"

  "If you're certain that he's the man, why don't you arrest him?" Johnson asked.

  "Can we arrest a man apparently about thirty years old and accuse him of a crime committed forty-eight years ago--or even twenty-three years ago?"

  "I suppose not," Johnson agreed. "What do you intend to do?"

  "I haven't decided yet. First I'll have to learn more about the situation here. You can help me with that. Right now I'd like to know something about the native customs--especially in regard to legal matters."

  "Their laws are fairly simple," Johnson began. "There's no law against stealing or taking by force anything you can get away with. That sounds absurd by Earth standards, it prevents the amassing of more goods than an individual needs, and makes for fairly equitable distribution. If a native somehow acquires a sudden amount of wealth--goods, in their case--he must hire guards to protect it. Guarding is a major occupation. They do an especially big business during the tourist seasons. In time the pay of the guards will eat up any native's surplus. Either way--by loss or guard pay--the wealth is soon redistributed."

  "Can they even kill one another with impunity?"

  "No. Their laws are rigid in that respect. In the process of--relieving another of his property, they must neither break a major bone, nor inflict permanent damage. If they disobey, they are tortured to death in the public square."

  Hawkes asked, "Who enforces their law?"

  "One of the clans. Its members are supported in their duties by all the others. And there's a permanent open season on murderers. Anyone, police or civilian may revenge a victim."

  "How about the law against carrying firearms?"

  "With them, intent is tantamount to commission," Johnson replied. "Only foreigners are ever foolish enough to be caught armed. However, all native laws apply to them also. The only concession the Company has been able to force is that a foreign offender isn't tortured: He's put in jail for ten years. None ever live to come out."

  "I see," Hawkes said. "Interesting. However, the immediate situation is this. I've been sent here because the Service received reports that our bearded friend had made another appearance. And we believe it's safe to assume that he's here to attempt a third robbery. Right now we'll have to pass over his trick of longevity. Our problem is to catch him in the act. When do you think he'll make his play?"

  "It'll h
ave to be some time before tomorrow noon," Johnson answered. "Under our setup we accept furs from the natives whenever they're brought in. But we pay off only once a year. That way I'm not burdened with guarding money the whole year around. I have well over fifty thousand credits in the safe now. And tomorrow I begin paying off."

  "Then we'll have to be ready for him," Hawkes said, "though I don't expect him until tonight. Probably just about the time you're ready to close. He'll need you to open the safe. I can count on your help?"

  Johnson nodded.

  * * * * *

  That night as they waited in his office, Johnson turned to Hawkes. "I've been giving some thought to what you told me this afternoon about the robberies. I have a theory that might account for some of the things we don't understand."

  "Yes?" Hawkes looked closely at Johnson.

  "You've probably heard of our tourist attraction called Nature's Moebius Strip? As far as we know, no one has ever gone beyond a certain point--and returned. Suppose there's a time flaw at that point--and the bearded man has somehow learned about it. Suppose anyone completing the Moebius circle, and returning, finds--say, twenty years have elapsed, while to him only a few minutes have passed?"

  "Go on." Hawkes leaned forward intently.

  "He makes his first holdup," Johnson continued, "and goes around the Strip. When he comes out twenty years later they're no longer looking for him. He leaves Marlock, and during the next five years he goes through the money he stole. He returns and repeats the process. This time the money lasts only three years. Now he's back to try it again. Do you see how that would tie everything up in a neat little package?"

  Hawkes smiled, as he relaxed and sat back. "A bit too neat," he said. "Also, you don't have an ounce of concrete evidence to back up your theory."

  "That's right. I don't," Johnson agreed.

  Outside the door a board creaked. Johnson glanced quickly across the room to where Hawkes sat with a pistol on his lap. Hawkes' eyebrows raised, but he made no sound.