American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58

by Gary K. Wolfe

  But when he pushed the communicator aside and lit a cigarette I repressed the stomach retch that the mere sight of tobacco smoke had inspired and said, “Dak, isn’t it about time you told me the score?”

  “Plenty of time for that on our way to Mars.”

  “Huh? Damn your arrogant ways,” I protested feebly. “I don’t want to go to Mars. I would never have considered your crazy offer if I had known it was on Mars.”

  “Suit yourself. You don’t have to go.”

  “Eh?”

  “The air lock is right behind you. Get out and walk. Mind you close the door.”

  I did not answer the ridiculous suggestion. He went on, “But if you can’t breathe space the easiest thing to do is to go to Mars—and I’ll see that you get back. The Can Do—that’s this bucket—is about to rendezvous with the Go For Broke, which is a high-gee torchship. About seventeen seconds and a gnat’s wink after we make contact the Go For Broke will torch for Mars—for we’ve got to be there by Wednesday.”

  I answered with the petulant stubbornness of a sick man. “I’m not going to Mars. I’m going to stay right in this ship. Somebody has to take it back and land it on Earth. You can’t fool me.”

  “True,” Broadbent agreed. “But you won’t be in it. The three blokes who are supposed to be in this ship—according to the records back at Jefferson Field—are in the Go For Broke right now. This is a three-man ship, as you’ve noticed. I’m afraid you will find them stuffy about giving up a place to you. And besides, how would you get back through ‘Immigration’?”

  “I don’t care! I’d be back on ground.”

  “And in jail, charged with everything from illegal entry to mopery and dopery in the spaceways. At the very least they would be sure that you were smuggling and they would take you to some quiet back room and run a needle in past your eyeball and find out just what you were up to. They would know what questions to ask and you wouldn’t be able to keep from answering. But you wouldn’t be able to implicate me, for good old Dak Broadbent hasn’t been back to Earth in quite a spell and has unimpeachable witnesses to prove it.”

  I thought about it sickly, both from fear and the continuing effects of spacesickness. “So you would tip off the police? You dirty, slimy——” I broke off for lack of an adequately insulting noun.

  “Oh no! Look, old son, I might twist your arm a bit and let you think that I would cry copper—but I never would. But Rrringriil’s conjugate-brother Rrringlath certainly knows that old ’Griil went in that door and failed to come out. He will tip off the nosies. Conjugate-brother is a relationship so close that we will never understand it, since we don’t reproduce by fission.”

  I didn’t care whether Martians reproduced like rabbits or the stork brought them in a little black bag. The way he told it I could never go back to Earth, and I said so. He shook his head. “Not at all. Leave it to me and we will slide you back in as neatly as we slid you out. Eventually you will walk off that field or some other field with a gate pass which shows that you are a mechanic who has been making some last-minute adjustment—and you’ll have greasy coveralls and a tool kit to back it up. Surely an actor of your skill can play the part of a mechanic for a few minutes?”

  “Eh? Why, certainly! But——”

  “There you are! You stick with ol’ Doc Dak; he’ll take care of you. We shuffled eight guild brothers in this current caper to get me on Earth and both of us off; we can do it again. But you would not stand a chance without voyageurs to help you.” He grinned. “Every voyageur is a free trader at heart. The art of smuggling being what it is, we are all of us always ready to help out one another in a little innocent deception of the port guards. But a person outside the lodge does not ordinarily get such co-operation.”

  I tried to steady my stomach and think about it. “Dak, is this a smuggling deal? Because——”

  “Oh no! Except that we are smuggling you.”

  “I was going to say that I don’t regard smuggling as a crime.”

  “Who does? Except those who make money off the rest of us by limiting trade. But this is a straight impersonation job, Lorenzo, and you are the man for it. It wasn’t an accident that I ran across you in that bar; there had been a tail on you for two days. As soon as I hit dirt I went where you were.” He frowned. “I wish I could be sure our honorable antagonists had been following me, and not you.”

  “Why?”

  “If they were following me they were trying to find out what I was after—which is okay, as the lines were already drawn; we knew we were mutual enemies. But if they were following you, then they knew what I was after—an actor who could play the role.”

  “But how could they know that? Unless you told them?”

  “Lorenzo, this thing is big, much bigger than you imagine. I don’t see it all myself—and the less you know about it until you must, the better off you are. But I can tell you this: a set of personal characteristics was fed into the big computer at the System Census Bureau at The Hague and the machine compared them with the personal characteristics of every male professional actor alive. It was done as discreetly as possible but somebody might have guessed—and talked. The specifications amounted to identification both of the principal and the actor who could double for him, since the job had to be perfect.”

  “Oh. And the machine told you that I was the man for it?”

  “Yes. You—and one other.”

  This was another good place for me to keep my mouth shut. But I could not have done so if my life had depended on it— which in a way it did. I just had to know who the other actor was who was considered competent to play a role which called for my unique talents. “This other one? Who is he?”

  Dak looked me over; I could see him hesitate. “Mmm— fellow by the name of Orson Trowbridge. Know him?”

  “That ham!” For a moment I was so furious that I forgot my nausea.

  “So? I hear that he is a very good actor.”

  I simply could not help being indignant at the idea that anyone should even think about that oaf Trowbridge for a role for which I was being considered. “That arm-waver! That wordmouther!” I stopped, realizing that it was more dignified to ignore such colleagues—if the word fits. But that popinjay was so conceited that—well, if the role called for him to kiss a lady’s hand, Trowbridge would fake it by kissing his own thumb instead. A narcissist, a poseur, a double fake—how could such a man live a role?

  Yet such is the injustice of fortune that his sawings and rantings had paid him well while real artists went hungry. “Dak, I simply cannot see why you considered him for it.” “Well, we didn’t want him; he is tied up with some longterm contract that would make his absence conspicuous and awkward. It was lucky for us that you were—uh, ‘at liberty.’ As soon as you agreed to the job I had Jock send word to call off the team that was trying to arrange a deal with Trowbridge.”

  “I should think so!”

  “But—see here, Lorenzo, I’m going to lay it on the line. While you were busy whooping your cookies after Brennschluss I called the Go For Broke and told them to pass the word down to get busy on Trowbridge again.”

  “What?”

  “You asked for it, shipmate. See here, a man in my racket contracts to herd a heap to Ganymede, that means he will pilot that pot to Ganymede or die trying. He doesn’t get fainthearted and try to welsh while the ship is being loaded. You told me you would take this job—no ‘ifs’ or ‘ands’ or ‘buts’—you took the job. A few minutes later there is a fracas; you lose your nerve. Later you try to run out on me at the field. Only ten minutes ago you were screaming to be taken back dirtside. Maybe you are a better actor than Trowbridge. I wouldn’t know. But I know we need a man who can be depended on not to lose his nerve when the time comes. I understand that Trowbridge is that sort of bloke. So if we can get him, we’ll use him instead, pay you off and tell you nothing and ship you back. Understand?”

  Too well I understood. Dak did not use the word—I doubt if he would hav
e understood it—but he was telling me that I was not a trouper. The bitter part about it was that he was justified. I could not be angry; I could only be ashamed. I had been an idiot to accept the contract without knowing more about it— but I had agreed to play the role, without conditions or escape clauses. Now I was trying to back out, like a rank amateur with stage fright.

  “The show must go on” is the oldest tenet of show business. Perhaps it has no philosophical verity, but the things men live by are rarely subject to logical proof. My father had believed it—I had seen him play two acts with a burst appendix and then take his bows before he had let them rush him to a hospital. I could see his face now, looking at me with the contempt of a trouper for a so-called actor who would let an audience down. “Dak,” I said humbly, “I am very sorry. I was wrong.” He looked at me sharply. “You’ll do the job?”

  “Yes.” I meant it sincerely. Then I suddenly remembered a factor which could make the part as impossible for me as the role of Snow White in The Seven Dwarfs. “That is—well, I want to. But——”

  “But what?” he said scornfully. “More of your damned temperament?”

  “No, no! But you said we were going to Mars. Dak, am I going to be expected to do this impersonation with Martians around me?”

  “Eh? Of course. How else on Mars?”

  “Uh . . . But, Dak, I can’t stand Martians! They give me the heebie jeebies. I wouldn’t want to—I would try not to— but I might fall right out of the characterization.”

  “Oh. If that is all that is worrying you, forget it.”

  “Huh? But I can’t forget it. I can’t help it. I——”

  “I said, ‘Forget it.’ Old son, we knew you were a peasant in such matters—we know all about you. Lorenzo, your fear of Martians is as childish and irrational as a fear of spiders or snakes. But we had anticipated it and it will be taken care of. So forget it.”

  “Well—all right.” I was not much reassured, but he had flicked me where it hurt. “Peasant”—why, “peasants” were the audience! So I shut up.

  Dak pulled the communicator to him, did not bother to silence his message with the rumble box: “Dandelion to Tumbleweed—cancel Plan Inkblot. We will complete Mardi Gras.”

  “Dak?” I said as he signed off.

  “Later,” he answered. “I’m about to match orbits. The contact may be a little rough, as I am not going to waste time worrying about chuck holes. So pipe down and hang on.”

  And it was rough. By the time we were in the torchship I was glad to be comfortably back in free fall again; surge nausea is even worse than everyday dropsickness. But we did not stay in free fall more than five minutes; the three men who were to go back in the Can Do were crowding into the transfer lock even as Dak and I floated into the torchship. The next few moments were extremely confused. I suppose I am a ground hog at heart for I disorient very easily when I can’t tell the floor from the ceiling. Someone called out, “Where is he?” Dak replied, “Here!” The same voice replied, “Him?” as if he could not believe his eyes.

  “Yes, yes!” Dak answered. “He’s got make-up on. Never mind, it’s all right. Help me get him into the cider press.”

  A hand grabbed my arm, towed me along a narrow passage and into a compartment. Against one bulkhead and flat to it were two bunks, or “cider presses,” the bathtub-shaped, hydraulic, pressure-distribution tanks used for high acceleration in torchships. I had never seen one before but we had used quite convincing mock-ups in the space opus The Earth Raiders.

  There was a stenciled sign on the bulkhead behind the bunks: WARNING!!! Do Not Take More than Three Gravities without a Gee Suit. By Order of—— I rotated slowly out of range of vision before I could finish reading it and someone shoved me into one cider press. Dak and the other man were hurriedly strapping me against it when a horn somewhere near by broke into a horrid hooting. It continued for several seconds, then a voice replaced it: “Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes! Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes!” Then the hooting started again.

  Through the racket I heard Dak ask urgently, “Is the projector all set? The tapes ready?”

  “Sure, sure!”

  “Got the hypo?” Dak squirmed around in the air and said to me, “Look, shipmate, we’re going to give you a shot. It’s all right. Part of it is Nullgrav, the rest is a stimulant—for you are going to have to stay awake and study your lines. It will make your eyeballs feel hot at first and it may make you itch, but it won’t hurt you.”

  “Wait, Dak, I——”

  “No time! I’ve got to smoke this scrap heap!” He twisted and was out the door before I could protest. The second man pushed up my left sleeve, held an injection gun against the skin, and I had received the dose before I knew it. Then he was gone. The hooting gave way to: “Red warning! Two gravities! Two minutes!”

  I tried to look around but the drug made me even more confused. My eyeballs did feel hot and my teeth as well and I began to feel an almost intolerable itching along my spine—but the safety straps kept me from reaching the tortured area—and perhaps kept me from breaking an arm at acceleration. The hooting stopped again and this time Dak’s self-confident baritone boomed out, “Last red warning! Two gravities! One minute! Knock off those pinochle games and spread your fat carcasses—we’re goin’ to smoke!” The hooting was replaced this time by a recording of Arkezian’s Ad Astra, opus 61 in C major. It was the controversial London Symphony version with the 14-cycle “scare” notes buried in the timpani. Battered, bewildered, and doped as I was, they seemed to have no effect on me—you can’t wet a river.

  A mermaid came in the door. No scaly tail, surely, but a mermaid is what she looked like. When my eyes refocused I saw that it was a very likely looking and adequately mammalian young woman in singlet and shorts, swimming along head first in a way that made clear that free fall was no novelty to her. She glanced at me without smiling, placed herself against the other cider press, and took hold of the hand grips—she did not bother with safety belts. The music hit the rolling finale and I felt myself grow very heavy.

  Two gravities is not bad, not when you are floating in a liquid bed. The skin over the top of the cider press pushed up around me, supporting me inch by inch; I simply felt heavy and found it hard to breathe. You hear these stories about pilots torching at ten gravities and ruining themselves and I have no doubt that they are true—but two gravities, taken in the cider press, simply makes one feel languid, unable to move.

  It was some time before I realized that the horn in the ceiling was speaking to me. “Lorenzo! How are you doing, shipmate?”

  “All right.” The effort made me gasp. “How long do we have to put up with this?”

  “About two days.”

  I must have moaned, for Dak laughed at me. “Quit bellyaching, chum! My first trip to Mars took thirty-seven weeks, every minute of it free fall in an elliptical orbit. You’re taking the luxury route, at a mere double gee for a couple of days— with a one-gee rest at turnover, I might add. We ought to charge you for it.”

  I started to tell him what I thought of his humor in scathing green-room idiom, then recalled that there was a lady present. My father had taught me that a woman will forgive any action, up to and including assault with violence, but is easily insulted by language; the lovelier half of our race is symbol-oriented— very strange, in view of their extreme practicality. In any case, I have never let a taboo word pass my lips when it might offend the ears of a lady since the time I last received the back of my father’s hard hand full on my mouth . . . Father could have given Professor Pavlov pointers in reflex conditioning.

  But Dak was speaking again. “Penny! You there, honey chile?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the young woman with me answered.

  “Okay, start him on his homework. I’ll be down when I have this firetrap settled in its groove.”

  “Very well, Captain.” She turned her head toward me and said in a soft, husky, contralto voice, “Dr. Capek wants y
ou simply to relax and look at movies for several hours. I am here to answer questions as necessary.”

  I sighed. “Thank goodness someone is at last going to answer questions!”

  She did not answer, but raised an arm with some difficulty and passed it over a switch. The lights in the compartment died out and a sound and stereo image built up in front of my eyes. I recognized the central figure—just as any of the billions of citizens of the Empire would have recognized him—and I realized at last how thoroughly and mercilessly Dak Broadbent had tricked me.

  It was Bonforte.

  The Bonforte, I mean—the Right Honorable John Joseph Bon forte, former Supreme Minister, leader of the loyal opposition, and head of the Expansionist coalition—the most loved (and the most hated!) man in the entire Solar System.

  My astonished mind made a standing broad jump and arrived at what seemed a logical certainty. Bonforte had lived through at least three assassination attempts—or so the news reports would have us believe. At least two of his escapes had seemed almost miraculous. Suppose they were not miraculous? Suppose they had all been successful—but dear old Uncle Joe Bonforte had always been somewhere else at the time?

  You could use up a lot of actors that way.

  III

  I had never meddled in politics. My father had warned against it. “Stay out of it, Larry,” he had told me solemnly. “The publicity you get that way is bad publicity. The peasants don’t like it.” I had never voted—not even after the amendment of ’98 made it easy for the floating population (which includes, of course, most members of the profession) to exercise franchise. However, insofar as I had political leanings of any sort, they certainly did not lean toward Bonforte. I considered him a dangerous man and very possibly a traitor to the human race. The idea of standing up and getting killed in his place was— how shall I put it?—distasteful to me.