MINIMUM SENTENCE
His secret was no secret, the amiable alien insisted—which was the cause of the trouble!
FLIP DANIELSON came striding into his forty-credit-a-day suite at the Hotel Metro, wearing a broad grin and a checked suit.
“I’ve got him right where we want him,” he said. “He’s hanging on the ropes.”
Stretched out on the bed with a wet towel swathed around his head like a turban, the pudgy figure groaned and turned over, burying his face in the covers. “Go ’way. I’m a sick man.”
Flip skipped across the room, tossed the covers aside, and bounced up and down on the bed.
“Snap out of it, Potsy. I’ve got us an out.”
The fat man winced at the motion and feebly raised his head.
“I’ll never live to use an out. What was I drinking last night—straight fusel-oil?”
“Quang Dal was mixing cocktails out of creme-de-menthe and anisette, and you were taking two to every one of his just to be sociable.”
“That explains it,” groaned Potsy. “Hand me that bottle on the bureau, like a good fellow. I’ve got to do something to get rid of that aftertaste.”
Flip went over and got it, stopped to take a short sample himself, and then handed it over. There was a liquid gurgle as the bottle dropped an inch and a half, and then a satisfied sigh.
“Maybe I’ll live, after all. Now, who’s on the ropes?”
“Quang Dal. No thanks to you, though. You were passed out in the comer, snoring like a pig, when I rolled him.”
THE fat man looked up in sudden interest “How much did you get?”
“Looks like about four thousand. I haven’t bothered to count it yet.”
“Toss it over. I’ll be glad to.”
“It’ll do for chicken feed.” Potsy clucked like a hen and grabbed the billfold. He pulled out a thick sheaf of currency and ran his fingers over it reverently.
“Think of the time we can have—” He broke off suddenly and tossed the money despondently on the floor. “Could have had, I mean. We won’t have any use for money where we’re going. Twenty years—minimum.’ ” He grabbed his head between his hands as it started in throbbing again.
“And forty years maximum,” said Flip unsympathetically. “Next time you line up an easy mark, make sure she’s not the Police Commissioner’s mother-in-law.”
“Maybe something will happen. We’ve still got three weeks before we have to report for sentencing.”
“So?”
“We’ve still got the ship. We could make a run for it.”
“Where to? If it’s any place in the Solar System where people can live, the law’s there. And if it’s a place where the law isn’t, people can’t live.”
Potsy drank unhappily from his bottle. “What gets me is that the floppers and the crawlers and the wigglers and the rest can hop around the Galaxy in just about nothing flat while we humans can’t go past Pluto. If we could just get our hands on one of their faster-than-light drives, we could thumb our noses at the law.” He sighed. “If wishes were horses . . .”
“Get ready to saddle up.” There was a complacent smile on Flip’s face as he tossed a long manila envelope on to the bed. “The thought of sitting in a Lunar prison cell for the next twenty years with nothing to look at but your fat face was just too much—so I went and did something about it.”
Potsy opened the envelope and stared at its contents in bewilderment.
Flip grinned. “Return ticket, passport, identity card—the works. His ship takes off at ten and I’ve pumped enough DDT into him to keep him under for another six hours. When Quang Dal comes to, he’s going to be an unhappy little Centaurian—broke, stranded, and friendless. Do you begin to get the picture?”
Potsy looked up at his partner with open admiration. “Not friendless. He’s got us.”
WHEN Quang Dal’s six legs had recovered sufficient strength to carry him down the corridors in a tottering crawl, the first thing he did was to go to the police.
“Get outta here before I squash ya,” growled the desk sergeant. “If we’re such ignorant bums we ain’t good enough to be let in your Galactic Union, we sure ain’t smart enough to help you out when you get into a jam.”
“But, sir,” protested Quang Dal, “I am just poor priwate Centaurian citizen who have nothing to do with admission standards whatsoewer. Is not to be despairing for that, howewer. Has not Grand Council giwen fine promise that admission shall be accompaniment of attainment of minimumnal socialization percentile?”
“Scram,” said the desk sergeant. “I ain’t paid to get lectured by cockroaches.”
Quang Dal drew himself up with dignity. “Is, one, inaccurate statement—terrestrial cockroach is not sapient being. Is, two, obviously hostile manifestation. Is through politeness and well wishing comes minimumnal socialization, not harsh speaking. In Cosmos, all entities are siblings. Translation: brothers and/or sisters.”
With a quick wabble to the left, he avoided the descending boot and scuttled toward the door.
“I love you,” he said ceremoniously, but earnestly. “Is well wishing with a wengeance.”
At the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Affairs, he received a politer reception, but little in the way of help.
“Terribly sorry, old man,” said the Third Assistant. “Wouldn’t have had it happen for all the worlds. Don’t know quite what I can do about it, though, now that your ship’s gone. It was the first one in twenty years and there’s no telling when the next one will stop by. It is rather shameful the way the rest of the Galaxy tends to avoid us, you know. I mean, after all, if you chaps would let us in on the faster-than-light drive and a few things like that, we wouldn’t be so embarrassingly provincial.”
“Are explaining many times before,” said Quang Dal patiently. “Is no such thing as faster-than-light drive. As your good man Einstein show you long time ago, is theoretical impossibility.”
The Third Assistant sniffed his disbelief. “And how many months has it been since you left Alpha Centauri?”
“Three months between time, but is not workable for Solar peoples. Is only what you call a conwenience.”
The official maintained his professional calm, but there was a little edge to his voice.
“I take it, then, that you consider us too stupid to know how to use it?”
“Did not say,” said Quang Dal. “Is only unachievement of minimumnal socialization. Are principles inwolved that might be used for harm to other entities.”
The Third Assistant glanced at his watch, rose from his desk, and ushered the little Centaurian to the door.
“You’ll have to excuse me, old man. Tea time, you know. Sorry I can’t offer you a lift home on one of our ships, but since we’ve never been able to do better than one-fifth light speed, I’m afraid that we’ll just have to putter around inside our own solar system until you chaps decide we’re socialized enough to be given the galactic drive. I’ll make a personal note of your case, however, and when an extraterrestrial ship drops in, one of my successors will get in touch with you immediately.”
Quang Dal’s attempt to explain again that there was no such thing as a faster-than-light drive was cut short by the closing of the door in his face. Rearing up on his hind legs, he ran his voice tube through the keyhole and said politely, “Note, please—I love you.”
HIS only friends in a strange and hostile world, Potsy and Flip, were waiting for him when he got back to the hotel.
“How did it go?”
“Is, as you say, without soap,” said Quang Dal mournfully. “Is constant expectoration upon by unwell-wishers.”
“Don’t let it get you down, pal,” comforted Potsy. “What do you expect from a bunch of bums with a low-grade socialization index?” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bulging billfold, and peeled off several bills, “Here’s a little ready cash. Just remember that no matter what happens, you’ve still got us.”
Flip nodded his agreement. “What’s our
s is yours. It may be fifty years before another galactic ship stops by, and even then it may be going the wrong way, but we’ll stand by you!”
“If fifty years, not too bad,” said Quang Dal. “Is sewenty-five, is too late, I think so maybe. Is now Ides of March. Would be most inconweniencing to spouses-to-be if not returning by June. Is getting married then,” he explained, “and sewening no good with only six.”
“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying,” Potsy said, sympathetically, “you’re in a tough spot. If you’ve got to wait fifty years, it won’t be much of a marriage.”
“Yeah,” agreed Flip. “I can just see the poor girls waiting for their lover to come home, hopefully setting a light in their windows each night, slowly losing hope as the years pass—growing lined and gray and bitter with the thoughts of what might have been.”
“Is many misconceptions here,” said Quang Dal. “In first place, is not year question, is month question. In second, is not females on Alpha Centauri same kind like Earth. Is seven sexes. I am splanton, number four kind.” He went into a detailed description of relations and permutations that left the two Earthmen confused.
“If this is what is meant by being socialized,” said Potsy finally, “I don’t see how Earth will ever make it.”
“POTSY,” Flip said, “if our friend has to be home by June to get married, we’re going to see that he makes it. Like he’s always saying, all entities are siblings under the epidermis.”
“I’m all for it,” said his partner, “but how?”
“We’ve got a ship, haven’t we?”
“Yeah, but without the galactic drive, it would take him twenty years to get back and he’s due in June.”
“He can make it,” said Flip confidently. “All he has to do is build one of those faster-than-light gadgets and install it in the ship. Then he could make it back in time.”
“Is not faster than light,” objected Quang Dal once more. “Is merely conwenience. But if loanation of ship could be made, would be well-wishing with a wengeance and impressive sign of attainment of minimumnal socialization.”
THREE weeks later, the job was done.
“Is all fix and workable fine,” said Quang Dal. “You come down and see me off in morning. Is needful to express final love and gratitude.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Flip.
“I think I go make last-time checkup.”
When he left, Potsy pulled off his shoes and stretched on the bed.
“Looks like we’ll make it.”
“Just in time, too,” said Flip. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re due down at the Justice Department at noon tomorrow for sentencing.” He shuddered. “Twenty years would have been a long time!”
“Not as long as forty,” said Potsy. “I think I’ll have a bottle sent up. I feel like celebrating.”
“Excellent idea. Order up five women while you’re at it. We owe it to our race to see if we can get onto this sevening.”
At eight sharp the next morning, the two were standing in the control room of their spaceship listening to Quang Dal’s last grateful good-bys.
“It’s nothing at all,” said Flip. “We’d do the same for any friend. How about showing us around before you take off?”
Quang Dal thought for a moment and then quivered assent.
“Would be no real wiolation of Galactic Union order. Secret things are all behind panels.” The control room had been considerably altered. In place of the complicated banks of controls that had flanked the pilot’s seat, there were two push buttons set in a simple black box.
“This one take care of nawigation,” explained Quang Dal. “One push, I go home. Start, go, stop—whole thing automatical. Could not change course if wanted to.”
“You don’t have to tell us what the other one controls,” said Potsy. “One push and WHOOSH, Alpha Centauri in June.”
“Is not whoosh. Is putt-putt-putt. Wery conwenient, though.”
“Well, I guess we’re ready,” said Potsy. “Do you want to do the honors, Flip, or shall I?”
“Is not understanding,” Quang Dal equivalently frowned.
“Didn’t you tell him?” asked Flip.
“I thought he’d take it for granted. After all, somebody has to bring the ship back.”
Quang Dal reared up on his back four legs in an agitated fashion.
“Accompaniment cannot be, sweet entities. Is not only Galactic Union law wiolation, but not possible for two-legged human peoples.”
FLIP produced a large and vicious-looking gun.
“Anything bugs can do, we can do better. Get aft before I splatter you against the bulkhead!”
“Weapon-using is sign of low socialization,” said Quang Dal with regret and pity.
“Are you talking or walking?” demanded Flip, sighting down the barrel of his gun.
“Is terrible thing you doing,” warned the little Centaurian as he backed out of the control room. “You have no right to do this to selves.”
Potsy walked over to the control box. He reached out to press the first button and then hesitated.
“What if something should happen?” he asked worriedly.
“Couldn’t be worse than twenty years in a Lunar isolation cell,” said Flip. “You can stay behind if you want to, but I’m getting out of here.”
Potsy still hesitated. Finally he came back and sat down.
“You push it,” he offered.
Flip snorted in disgust and tossed his gun over to his partner. “Go on back and lock our little friend up in the aft stateroom. If we let him run around loose, he might get into mischief. I’ll take care of things up here.”
When Potsy had left the compartment, Flip took a deep breath, walked over to the control box, and slowly pushed the first button. The results weren’t spectacular. There was a hum of lifters as the ship rose slowly, and then, with a gentle push, they were off. Once out of the atmosphere, the ship pointed its nose toward Alpha Centauri and began to pick up speed.
Potsy came back into the control room and took a quick look out the side port to where the Moon hung like a great pockmarked balloon. The penal colony itself couldn’t be seen, but Lunaport was visible as a small glittering splotch.
He gave a little shiver and turned away.
“Everything under control?”
“So far. Do you think I ought to hit the other stud?”
Potsy shook his head. “The galactic ships never seem to use their drives until they are far enough away to be out of detection range. There must be a reason for it. Maybe the gadget blows up if it’s set off near a sun.”
They waited two days before Flip pressed the second button. There was a low whine from beneath the deck and then a squeal of fright from Potsy as a nerve-scraping vibration ran through the ship. A strange mistiness covered everything, as though the matter of which the ship was composed were turning to nothingness and then back again a thousand times a second.
With a final shudder, the ship returned to normal.
Potsy gave a sigh of relief and mopped his forehead. “Well, we’re still in one piece. And I guess we’re finally on our way.”
“Go let Quang Dal out,” said Flip. “If these controls are as completely automatic as he says, he can’t do us any harm now.” Potsy came back five minutes later, alone.
“He’s got his door locked from the inside. He says that he’s going to take a little nap and we should wake him come June.”
Flip shrugged. “If that’s the way he wants it.”
AS the weeks crawled slowly by, the two Earthmen found themselves growing more and more irritable.
“I think I’d almost prefer the Lunar prison colony,” said Potsy.
“Oh, well,” growled Flip, “we’ve only got two weeks left. I guess I can stand your ugly face that long.”
Potsy gestured toward Alpha Centauri which glimmered palely directly ahead. “You’d think it would be getting bigger by now.”
“It’ll Stay l
ike that almost to the end,” said Flip. “The way I got it figured, we’re going so fast that most of the light shoots past before it has a chance to get in.
If you want to see the difference, go take a look through the rear ’scope. The Sun should be out of sight by now.”
Potsy trotted obediently to the rear and took a look out through the aft telescope. A moment later, he returned and asked in a timid and somewhat frightened voice, “If the Sun’s supposed to be so far away, how come I can still see most of the planets?”
“Huh? You can?” Flip looked nervous as Potsy nodded. “That lousy little bug must have given us cockeyed instructions, knowing the galactic drive is Greek to us.”
“But why should he?”
“How do I know? Maybe he wants us to break our necks some way while he’s safe in his cabin. Well, I’ll break his if he doesn’t give us the right dope!”
“Go easy,” Patsy advised anxiously. “Try to con the information out of him first. Then let him have it if he won’t talk.” After considerable pounding, they managed to wake Quang Dal. His voice tube poked out through the grille at the top of his locked door and he asked politely, “Is June already?”
“No,” said Flip, “it’s only the middle of May. Potsy and I are sorry to have to wake you up, but something seems to have gone wrong with the drive. Would you mind coming out and fixing it?”
“Is nothing wrong,” replied Quang Dal. “Can hear with properness from here. Sound smooth.”
“The planetary drive is on, all right, but the faster-than-light didn’t cut in. After all this time, we’re still only a stone’s throw from Earth. We should be almost to Alpha Centauri by now.”
THERE was silence within the stateroom for a minute. “Is unhappiness to say this,” the little Centauri an said regretfully, “but as I explain past times, faster-than-light drive is theoretical impossibility. Galactic Union scientists work two, maybe three million years now. For all this time, nothing, except once in a while little conwenience. Is still taking twenty years going Earth, Alpha Centauri, or wice-wersa.”
Collected Fiction Page 13