“Well, sir,” the voice continued, “I’ll admit that for a little while there I was stumped. I was supposed to meet them down by the hydroponics shed at eight, and by seven-thirty I was getting a mite desperate. Then suddenly, just when I was about to give up, it hit me.” There was a reflective chuckle. “Worked, too. Yes, sir, Big Head, I reckon I’m the only man in history that ever . . .”
Bull snapped off the speaker again and ducked out the door.
“Captive audience,” said Windy as Bull came into the engine room. “Been trying to get somebody to sit through that story for the last twenty years and it looks like I’m finally going to get a chance to finish it.” He had die gambler propped up against a bulkhead, with his arms and legs securely trussed, and an unkind adhesive-tape gag in place. There was an expression of confused fury in die man’s red and streaming eyes.
“I think you two have met before,” said Windy.
A moment later the girl came aft from the control room. “Nothing stirring on the plates,” she said. She examined the gambler with savage interest. “Take off his gag, I want to talk to him.”
Big Head let out a squawk of pain as the tape was jerked roughly from his mouth. He licked his bruised lips, obviously making an attempt to keep his emotions under control. Finally he said, “I know when I’m licked. What’s your asking price to turn me loose?”
“This isn’t a snatch,” said Windy. “We’re turning you over to die Patrol.”
That hit hard. “What for?”
“For ten thousand credits, cash on the barrelhead.”
“I’ll give you twenty if you take me back,” said Big Head quickly.
The redheaded girl stepped forward. Her fists were clinched so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “You don’t buy your way out of this one,” she said in a choked voice. “Cash Shirey is my father.” Big Head seemed to shrink suddenly.
“You remember Cash, don’t you?” The question cracked like a whiplash. “You remember the partner you skipped out on—the nice guy you let take the rap for the patrolman you’d gunned down?” She paused and looked at him with savage satisfaction. “It took me two years, Big Head, but I finally made it. Dad’s going to be glad to see you.”
The gambler’s face froze. But when he spoke his voice was steady. “Putting me in won’t get him out.” He paused for effect and then said softly, “What if I could get Cash out from underneath that murder rap.”
“You couldn’t . . .” Her voice caught in her throat.
“But I could.” He looked at her calculatingly. “A voluntary confession would do it.”
Windy held up a cautioning hand. “Watch it, kid, he’s slippery.”
“Look,” said the gambler earnestly, “I’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose. The Patrol can’t touch me as long as I stay on Engstrum. The fact that they have a confession in their files isn’t going to hurt me any. But it will clear Cash. All they’ll have him on then is the hijacking, and he’s already served enough time to cover that.” The girl turned and looked questioningly at Windy and Bull. The old man shook his head.
“It’s too easy,” he said. “He’s got something up his sleeve.”
“Not this time,” said the gambler quickly. “And don’t worry about that reward money. I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The old man put one thin hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Look, honey,” he said earnestly. “If I could help I would, but we’d just be cutting our own throats. Big Head has a reputation for always settling up a score. Even if he couldn’t get off Engstrum to handle it himself, he’s got hired guns who could.”
She turned to Bull, her jade-green eyes looking up into his pleadingly. He felt himself being caught by a familiar emotion and fought against it. Every time he let himself get tangled up with either dice or women he ended up in trouble.
“I’m sorry, Red,” he said uncomfortably, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to go along with Windy.”
She let out a strangled half-sob and started out of the engine room. At the door she paused, reached down as if to straighten her skirt, and then suddenly spun around, wicked looking little needle gun that had been concealed in a tiny holster strapped to her thigh leveled at them.
“Reach!” she snapped. “I’m not joking—get your hands up.”
Bull took a tentative step toward her. “All right, so you aren’t. But hand over that thing before it accidentally goes off and hurts somebody.” He advanced another step, hand outstretched. “Come on, honey.”
Her eyes narrowed and then without warning she fired. There was a soft splat and a needle beam scorched the air three inches above his head and burned a neat little hole in the bulkhead behind him.
Bull’s hand and jaw dropped simultaneously.
“That was a deliberate miss,” she said coldly. “Now get those hands up and face the wall.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bull and he and Windy turned obediently. He felt his heavy blaster jerked from its holster and then the girl said, “O.K., you can drop them now.”
“What’s going on around here?” demanded Windy, indignantly. “We’re partners, remember? You don’t have to come in here waving hardware at us. If you want something, all you have to do is ask.”
“Sorry,” she said. She seemed to be. “But what I’m after is going to cost you ten thousand credits. This way saves argument.”
She waved the gun toward Big Head. “Untie him!”
“What for?” demanded Windy.
“Because I said so.” She waved the gun again. “Get hopping.” A moment later the gambler stood massaging his wrists. She gestured toward the door. “Get up to the control room.” Big Head eyed her gun uneasily and obeyed.
Her voice softened somewhat as she turned to the two bewildered spacemen.
“I’m going to have to lock you in. I’ve got enough to worry about without you two wandering around the ship getting into mischief.”
The hatch swung shut behind her with a clang and then there was a clanking sound as she dogged it down from outside. Bull thought regretfully of his useless blaster. If it were loaded he could have cut through the thick plate like butter.
“What now?” said Windy.
Bull thought for a moment and then went over and set the emergency dogs on the engine room side of the door.
“We can’t get out, they can’t get in.” He went over to the control panel and threw the massive switches on the lines that piped power to the drive tubes and the Bensons. “What’s more, unless they want to get out and push, they aren’t about to take this old clunker anyplace. Give them a call on the intercom and break the news as gently as you can.”
Stalemate.
The controls were forward and the power was aft—and neither was any good without the other. The Pelican orbited aimlessly as one hour went by and then another. Three times Big Head offered a deal and three times Bull and Windy turned him down after careful thinking had uncovered the hidden joker. Now it was their turn. Bull turned on the intercom.
“Still there, Big Head? Windy and I have a feeling we aren’t getting any place.”
“Got something in mind?”
“Yeah. We’ll admit we’re whipped, but we want to keep on living. We’ll take the deal you offered in the first place but we have to have some protection. Here’s what we got in mind . . .”
Big Head McCall, clumsy in heavy space armor, looked with satisfaction at the image of Engstrum Four that completely filled the forward vision plate. In its center a large patch of winking lights marked the spaceport. There was a soft hum as the gambler made a final test of the small anti-grav units built into the back of the suit and then awkwardly he signed the detailed confession that would clear Cash Shirey. His gauntleted left hand held the gun the girl had given him.
Bull gestured at the screen. “We’re only twenty miles up. This is as close in as I’m going. You can ride your anti-gravs down and be home in five minutes. And don’t get
any bright ideas about taking a couple of snap shots at us on your way out. You’ve got to have power to operate the airlock and Windy’ll cut the switches at the first sign anything is wrong.”
“I know,” said the gambler regretfully. “Maybe next time.” He picked up the confession and with the gun still at ready, he backed into the emergency escape lock. Placing the thin sheet of paper in the jamb of the inner port, he pulled the heavy hatch shut. A corner of the paper stuck through into the control room.
“O.K., Bull,” said the girl. “Everything’s clear.” The pilot pushed a release button and with a pop of escaping air, the gambler tumbled free into outer space.
She rushed over, jerked open, the inner door of the emergency lock, and grabbed up the precious piece of paper. There were tears in her eyes when she turned to the pilot.
“I’m sorry for everything, Bull,” she said miserably. “But I had to clear my father. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer where he was.”
Bull nodded soberly. “I suppose I’d have done the same if I’d been in your spot,” he said. “Anyway, maybe things aren’t as bad as they look. Let’s go down and bail out Windy.”
Two miles away from the Pelican a space-suited figure drifted slowly, trying dazedly to figure out why the planet that a short time before had been so close that it filled the whole forward screen of the Pelican was now a distant glimmering disk, far beyond the reach of the limited little propulsion unit that was built into his suit. His attempts to understand what had happened weren’t helped by the happy voice that sounded tinnily from the little suit speaker.
“And so,” it continued, “like I was saying before I got so rudely interrupted, there I was behind the hydroponic shed with three redheaded identical triplets. The way I worked it was . . .”
Back on the Pelican a grinning Bull led a bewildered girl out of the control room and shut the door gently behind them.
“Bull,” she protested, “I want to know what happened!”
“You’re too young,” he said virtuously.
She stamped one little foot impatiently. “You know very well what I mean. What happened with Big Head? Why’s he still drifting alongside instead of floating down toward Engstrum on his anti-gravs? And how can the Patrol be coming to pick him up—we can’t be more than twenty miles out of atmosphere?
“Well, honey, it’s this way,” said Bull in a passable imitation of Windy’s cracked voice. “Instead of coming, we went. We’re twenty thousand miles out and getting farther away every minute.”
He led her down into the engine room, went over to the far wall where the scanner gear was mounted, and pointed to the two shielded leads that were plugged in at one end.
“Lead from the forward scanner,” he said, tapping one, “and lead from the aft. Switch them around and a picture of what’s behind comes in on the forward plate. What Big Head saw was a picture of what we were moving away from.”
“But it kept getting bigger!”
“Sure it did.” He pointed to an awkwardly constructed piece of equipment that was bolted to the side of the cabinet. “This is Windy’s idea of a replacement for the amplification control on the forward screen. He just sat down here behind locked doors and kept jacking up the magnification.” He grinned down at her. “It was just like he said, there’s nothing wrong with the Pelican that a little tinkering can’t fix up.”
He stretched out comfortably and settled down in the engineer’s chair.
He wasn’t too surprised when she slid into his lap.
“It’s too bad,” he said as he put an arm around her.
“What is?”
“That you aren’t triplets. I wonder if it’s really possible.”
She made a little cat sound and snuggled closer.
“Couldn’t we just pretend?” she said.
1958
PAIN REACTION
Those who attempt to spy out and steal the plans for a secret weapon from a modern laboratory had better know the full secret before they begin their project
BONG! BONG! BONG!
Kerchoff swore nervously at the sudden clanging of alarm bells throughout the building. They must have spotted something wrong with his forged pass. The sound of excited voices coming down the corridor outside the laboratory told him he had to act fast. He slammed shut the notebook he had just opened and hastily put it back in the place where the technician had left it when he went to lunch. Patting his pocket to be sure that the small bottle of RSX-400 he had just stolen was safe, he picked up an already prepared hypodermic needle and jabbed it through his coat sleeve into his arm. There was only a slight stinging sensation as he emptied it.
An open storage cabinet stood behind the rat cages. He raced over to it and frantically pulled out several large containers that stood on the bottom shelf until there was just room enough behind them for him to lie on his side at full length. He wiggled in, and just as he pulled the concealing cannisters back into place the door of the laboratory was thrown violently open and armed guards came running in.
Kerchoff stifled a sigh of relief when a voice shouted, “Not in here!” and the door banged shut again. The respite was short, however, for the door opened almost immediately and new voices were heard.
“. . . and this is where you’ll be spending most of your time.”
“Think they’ll catch him?”
“That’s Security’s business. We get paid for giving shots to rats.”
“Let’s take a look around anyway. If we were the ones to catch him it’d really be something!”
“Yeah, especially if he had a gun. Look, kid, stop making like a Junior G-Man and help me get the next run set up. You do know how to use a hypo, don’t you?”
“Sure.” The voice sounded slightly offended. “Why?”
“You can get the rat set up while I load the camera drum. Haul out that one in cage 27. If we get a good set of pictures this time maybe Doc Karris’ll be satisfied and switch us over to something that isn’t so messy.”
The conversation stopped and Kerchoff could hear movements as the technicians went about their work. He wondered if they would pick up Darton, the janitor who had been able to pass on the information about the existence of the new drug.
Darton was better than nothing—security was so tight these days that one couldn’t be too choosy about ones agents—but he hadn’t been able to get hold of a sample of RSX-400, and he didn’t have enough of a technical background to make sense out of the laboratory notes he had seen. As a result Kerchoff had ordered to come himself. All that he knew was that RSX-400 stood for ‘Reaction Speed Times 400’ and that with it they had been able to speed up rats for four hundred times their normal activity rate. Its potential as a military weapon was obvious. If his country could use it first . . .!
HIS thoughts switched back to himself as he felt a sudden giddiness. If he had not already been stretched out, he would have fallen. He found it difficult to move as he tried to shift his position slightly.
“That’s got it. Did you check his earmarks for the number?”
“Yeah. 1236.”
“O.K. As soon as he goes into paralysis, put him in front of the camera. I’ll time him from there.”
Paralysis! Kerchoff became aware of a sudden pervading numbness. He broke into an involuntary cold sweat. If the guards came back to make a more thorough search . . .
“Got it. In forty-three seconds I’ll start the camera. Hope I figured the injection and body weight properly. With three seconds of camera time at 6000 frames, we have about one second leeway if we expect to get the whole action in. That forty-three seconds should catch him just as he comes out of paralysis and goes into superspeed.”
A warm wave of relief swept over Kerchoff. He hadn’t guessed wrong after all—the paralysis was just one phase of the reaction. As soon as it passed he would be able move at four hundred times his normal rate. He smiled inwardly as he saw himself whizzing through the great center like an invisible man, looking in on one top
secret project after another, and then streaking out through the main gate to safety—out past the impotent guards to the safe hiding place from where the others of the network would smuggle him safely out of the country. This would warrent more than a decoration.
“It’s almost time. Look, kid, you’d better look the other way when it starts. I don’t want you up-chucking all over my nice clean floor.”
Kerchoff felt the numbness leave his muscles. As it did the voices of the technicians slowed and became lower in pitch. With a voice like an old fashioned phonograph slowing to a stop, they became inaudible. It was just as well.
“. . . forty-two. Now!”
Kerchoff braced himself, ready to send the concealing cannisters hurtling as he made a sudden dive for freedom. It would be necessary to kill the technicians but that could be done quickly, very quickly. “There she goes!”
A moment later there was a sudden unpleasant noise of somebody retching and then an irritated voice exclaimed, “Damn it, I told you to look the other way. As many times as I’ve been through this I still have trouble hanging on to my own lunch.”
“Sorry,” said an embarrased voice, “I guess I’m not as tough as I thought I was. Isn’t there any way they can keep that from happening?”
“Not unless they could get somebody to repeal a couple of basic laws of physics. Flesh and bone just can’t take movement at that speed. In a way it’s like pulling a heavy block with a string. A slow pull and the block comes along. A quick pull and the string breaks. Think of that rat’s bones as the block and its muscles as the string. Inertia tries to keep it at rest, and the first time it makes a movement, twang! snap!”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Look, before you can make movement some muscles have to tighten up. Right?”
“Right.”
“So when you tighten up four hundred times as fast as you usually do, you’re up against inertia and the contraction rips the ligament away from the bone.
“The trouble is that it doesn’t stop there. The ripping hurts so the rat tries to stop the painful movement by pulling back with the complimentary muscle. Crack! again. Either the bones snap or the second muscle tears away. The pain from this kicks off another movement and you’ve got a chain reaction that makes your rat pound himself into a bloody pulp.”
Collected Fiction Page 45