Space Tales (Seven For Space)

by William F. Nolan

  "Hello, pal," said the shoddy detective. "You'll have to excuse the fact that my robo secretary isn't here to buzz you in. Had to send her back to the shop to have her buttocks refurbished. Edna's a good kid. Keeps the bill collectors off my back — of which you're not one, eh?"

  "No, I am most assuredly not."

  "I could tell from your fancy duds." He stood aside and gestured me to a chipped nearchair. Then he settled into place behind an unsightly desk whose glowtubing had shorted out. I noted a brown fedora with a turndown brim under a bell jar on the desk, marked "Classic Hat." How colorfully eccentric!

  "So … let's open your can of beans."

  "I am not carrying foodstuffs on my person," I informed him.

  "I meant … what's on your mind, fella. Just who are you?"

  "John H. Watson, M.D.," I replied, presenting my card. "I came directly from the Hu Albin Amazing Automated Crime Clinic at Red Sands Avenue and 72nd Street here in Bubble City. I reside with Mr. Sherlock Holmes in an upper flat at 221B."

  "Sure, I know Albin's joint. Me and ole Hu go way back. He's been renting out those robo detectives of his since I was in knee pants. Last time I saw him he'd just added Bulldog Drummond and Miss Marple to his string. Already had Philo Vance, Boston Blackie, Charlie Chan and Nero Wolfe. Plus your pal, Sherlock. Who was a little wacko the day I was there."

  "Holmes … 'wacko' … Surely you jest."

  "Nope, I'm feeding you the straight goods. Sherlock must have had a couple of screws loose because he pulled a horse pistol on me and insisted I was the infamous Professor Moriarty. Might have damn well shot me if Albin hadn't cooled him out. Hu apologized for the problem. Told me Holmes would be hunky-dory once he had his solenoids replaced."

  "Mr. Holmes is perfectly sound now, I assure you."

  "That's good to hear. So … what brought you to my neck of the woods?"

  "My conveyance was an egg-shaped hovercab."

  "Don't take everything I say so damned literally," Space protested, plainly vexed. "Just tell me what you want."

  "Mr. Holmes insisted that I come here straightaway to fetch you. He is most anxious to be rented."

  Space made an unpleasant snorting sound. "Forget it! The last time I rented one of Hu's robos, the damn machine squashed my mechanized cat."

  I bristled at his words. "Sherlock Holmes is much more than a 'damn machine,' Mr. Space. He possesses the most brilliant, supremely deductive mind in the entire solar system."

  "Yeah, well maybe he does — when his wires aren't crossed. But why should I rent him? I don't need extra help. My caseload is anything but fat right now."

  "You fail to understand the situation, sir, I declared. "Being a robot under the ownership of Mr. Hubert Albin, my friend is not a free agent. He cannot rent himself. In order for him to work on a case he must be acquired by a legally-qualified second party. You, Mr. Space, are that second party.

  "You mean, he needs me to bail him out so he can go solve some case that's bugging him?"

  "Precisely!" I nodded. "It has come to Holmes' attention that his services are urgently required at Baskerville Hall. The family curse is once again exacting its fearful toll. Two of the male Baskervilles, in the direct line of descent, have, on the moor within these past months, been mauled and savaged in a most appalling manner. In each case, the unfortunate victim's head was completely ripped from his body." My voice rose with the heat of emotion. "Only Sherlock Holmes can save the final heir to the Baskerville fortune. Even as we speak the life of young Jonathan Baskerville hangs in the balance." I stood up from the chair, waving my cane. "I tell you, sir, the Hound of the Baskervilles once again stalks Grimpen Moor!"

  Space was grinning at me. "That's some speech, Doc. You remind me of a guy I worked for once on a Neptunian pig caper. Talked just the way you do. Lots of bluster and bombast. Even had a dinky little mustache like yours. He hired me to find out who was stealing all of his prize pigs from this farm he owned on Neptune. I disguised myself as a fat porker and rooted around in the pigpen — a nasty job, I can tell you — until these two pignappers showed up. Real mean characters. Frogboys from the Luani cluster. They have these super-long green tongues they catch bugs with and I —"

  "Please, Mr. Space, must you regale me with useless doggerel from your past? I am on a vital mission regarding the House of Baskerville. There is simply no time for this pig twaddle!"

  "Fine, he said. "You want to talk about the Baskervilles? I know all about 'em. Rich as sin. When they emigrated to Bubble City last year, they had the family castle dismantled and shipped up here in a special rocket. Even imported their own moor. And, from what you've told me, they also brought along the family curse."

  "Indeed they did!" I declared.

  Another unpleasant snort from the seedy detective. "Tommyrot! There is no curse and never was. The Hound is pure flapdoodle, a fairy tale made up to scare witless idiots. I read about these two murders — and it's obvious that somebody is hot after the family. An old enemy maybe. Or a psycho who just hates their guts. I don't know who killed those poor schmucks out on that moor, but you can bet it sure wasn't any Hound from Hell."

  "You are a rigid, cynical man, Mr. Space."

  "No, I'm a realist. I just don't happen to believe in fairy tales."

  I sighed. "Believe what you must, but your intransigence has no bearing on the reason for my visit here. Will you, sir, in the name of justice, rent Mr. Sherlock Holmes so that he may be permitted to save the life of Jonathan Baskerville?"

  "Why me? Why can't the Baskervilles go rent your tin pal on their own?"

  "Because they are not qualified to do so. A robot detective can be retained only by an officer of the law, a court official, or a licensed private investigator. Those are the rules."

  "Okey doke, let's say I agree to play in your ballpark. What's in it for me? I'm gonna need some heavy moolah."

  "That poses no problem. As you know, the Baskervilles are extremely well fixed financially. Holmes will see to it that you are reimbursed his rental fee and paid a very handsome sum for your cooperation in this matter."

  "How handsome?"

  "He has named a figure of five thousand solarcredits."

  The rumpled detective stood up. "Doc … you got yourself a deal." He lifted the bell jar to remove his classic hat, clapped it on his head, and accompanied me from the office.

  The game, as my learned friend so often remarked, was truly afoot.

  Mr. Hubert Albin met us at the Crime Clinic and seemed genuinely pleased to encounter the grubby detective once again.

  "Hey, Sam! Long time no see!" Albin pumped his friend's hand in a vigorous manner.

  "Yeah, it's been a while."

  "You know, the other day I got to thinking about that pig guy from Neptune — the one who stiffed you out of your fee after you played porker for him in order to grab those two froggies."

  Space nodded. "The creep really did a number on me. I had to pawn my electronic chimp to pay the office rent." He shook his head sadly. "I really loved that monkey."

  "Whatever happened to him?"

  "The chimp?"

  "No, the pig guy."

  "Well now, that's quite a story, began Space.

  "Come, come, gentlemen!" I protested. "We are here to see Sherlock Holmes. Cannot these piggish recollections be explored at another more propitious time?"

  Albin shot a smile at Space. "So the good doc convinced you to rent out ole Sherlock, eh?"

  "You got it, Hu. That's why I'm here."

  As we rode a jumplift to the upper level, Space asked how things were going at the clinic.

  "Well, crime is always good during the Christmas season, said Albin, "so I've been renting out some of the robos, but it's rough trying to keep them in shape. Miss Marple is always yapping about her chilblains and Philo Vance keeps wetting his bed. Then, last week, Travis McGee ran off to Florida with the robot maid."

  "Is Holmes functioning okay?" inquired Space. "I don't want any more horse pisto
ls pointed at me."

  "He's in great shape. Just finished rewiring his cortex."

  Albin opened the door to 221B and the rumpled detective whistled through his teeth. "Wow! You've really done a job here!"

  Hu Albin nodded proudly. "Cost me a bundle, lemme tell ya. It's an exact duplicate of the original London sitting room from Baker Street."

  He pointed out the bearskin rug and elephant's foot umbrella stand, the deep armchair by the fireplace, the Persian slipper holding Sherlock's tobacco, the tall bookcase jammed with technical tomes and journals, the collection of antique pipes on the desk, and the research area in the corner, fully-stocked with chemicals and scientific paraphernalia. Two alabaster lamps were reflected in the wide mirror above the mantel, and a crystal decanter of Napoleon brandy stood on the Indian coffee table.

  I felt a warm glow suffuse me; I was very fond of this room. Holmes and I had spent many a happy hour here.

  "You've done yourself proud, Hu, Space declared. "But where's Sherlock?"

  "In the sound-proof closet, said Albin. "I can't stand listening to him sawing away on his damn fiddle."

  "Yeah, nodded Space. "A violin can drive you bats. Now, if he played a good jazz trumpet …"

  Albin opened the closet door. "Hey, Sherl, you got company."

  It was odious to hear Holmes referred to as 'Sherl,' but the great man took it in stride, smiling thinly and setting aside his violin. He extended a lean-fingered hand to the grinning detective.

  "Ah, Mr. Space, we meet again. I trust you have forgiven my somewhat aberrated behavior when last you graced these humble lodgings."

  "Sure, sure. No sweat."

  Holmes broadened his smile. "I am duly gratified to know that Dr. Watson was able to prevail upon your good nature in having you come here at such short notice."

  "My good nature had nothing to do with it, Space corrected him. "It's the dough I'm after."

  "Ah, but of course. Personal remuneration is always a primary factor. I assume the good doctor named the amount I am prepared to have paid to you through the Baskerville auspices?"

  "Yep. Five thou — plus what I'll be shelling out to rent you."

  "Then we are in mutual accord?"

  "Definitely."

  Holmes withdrew his caped greatcoat and deerstalker from the clothes rack. "We must make haste, Watson. Time is of the essence if I am to intervene in this dark business and save the last male Baskerville from a grisly and distressing death upon Grimpen Moor."

  Albin had already prepared the necessary rental forms, and once Mr.

  Space had affixed his signature and turned over the proper amount of money the transaction was complete. The great man was free to go.

  "You may return to your unkempt offices, Mr. Space, while Watson and I pursue this most urgent affair, Holmes told him. "I shall, of course, see to it, my dear chap, that the agreed-upon sum is delivered to you upon my —"

  "No dice, Sherlock!" Space cut in rudely. "I'm sticking with you for the whole nine yards. If your skull gets ripped off out on that moor I don't get my fee, plus I lose my deposit, plus I have to pay for your new head. So, my 'dear chap,' we're together on this one all the way, whether you like it or not."

  "Very well, nodded Holmes. "So long as I am allowed to handle the case exactly as I see fit, without interference of any sort. Is this understood?"

  "Yeah, said Space. "The caper's all yours."

  "Then let us repair at once to Baskerville Hall." He turned to me. "Watson, would you be so kind as to summon a cab?"

  As I left to do so I heard Mr. Albin chuckle: "Good luck, Sam. I hope you and Sherlock come back in one piece."

  It was a sentiment I wholeheartedly endorsed.

  * * *

  Baskerville Hall was at the fringe of Bubble City, part of the new Martian Urbanization Development Project sponsored by the mayor and city council. The Baskervilles had been given a large amount of tax-free land in return for their emigration to the Red Planet. As the richest family in Bubble City, they had brought prestige to the area. At least until the curse became public knowledge with the shocking deaths of Alexander and Reginald Baskerville. Now the family name was associated with madness and murder.

  The house itself was massive, sprawling across a full acre, a castle-like assemblage of stone and wood and glass and nearbrick, of crenellated towers, of turrets and battlements and courtyards and formal gardens.

  Jonathan's aunt, Dame Agatha, a stout, rosy-cheeked woman in her mid-sixties who had initially phoned Holmes at the Crime Clinic, took us on a tour of the house. Holmes displayed particular interest in the library, with its vaulted Tudor ceiling and gracefully-arched doorway, carefully examining several of the richly-bound volumes contained therein.

  Eventually, we were led to the west wing in which resided Sir Jonathan Rodney Baskerville, the last heir to the vast family estate. The lad was unmarried, and there were no other children to carry on the Baskerville name.

  Sir Jonathan awaited us in his ornate bedroom, fitted out like a king's chamber; he was propped up with pillows in a high-backed gilt antique chair next to a crackling hearth fire. He gave each of us his bony, cold-fleshed hand to shake, seemed exhausted by the effort, and fell back into the pillows with a groan of pure anguish.

  "Jonathan is terrified of the Beast, Dame Agatha informed us. "He is certain it will find a way to strike him down — although he seldom ventures beyond the confines of these four walls."

  The youth was fearfully unattractive. Small of stature, with bird-thin legs, frail arms, and a long reedy neck, his undersized head sat above his sloped shoulders like an egg on a stick. Although still in his early twenties, he was almost completely bald; a thin mist of hair did little to conceal the high dome of his forehead, and his eyes were pale and watery above a beaked nose and a thin, nearly-lipless mouth. In all, a most unprepossessing individual.

  After greeting the young heir, Holmes said very little, but had been poking about the room; now he walked to the high leaded windows, drawing back the thick brocade drapes. Below, spreading over a wide area, like a befouled gray blanket, lay Grimpen Moor. It was late afternoon and ominous black-granite outcroppings threw long, jagged shadows across the moor's barren surface. It was a sere, desolate landscape of bracken and bramble, of dripping moss, of stunted trees with gnarled roots, of lichen and gorse, of green-scummed ponds, of deep bog holes and cragged cairns.

  "I beseech you, close the drapes!" Jonathan croaked. "I cannot bear that awful view, it oppresses me mightily."

  "Why then, Sir Jonathan, remain in a room which overlooks the moor?" queried Holmes. "You could easily occupy other quarters."

  Young Baskerville shook his balding head. "No, no. I must face my enemy. The Hound is out there, and I cannot deny its foul presence."

  "Have you actually seen this creature?" I asked him.

  "Yes! On two occasions — the nights my brothers met their fate. My first sighting of the Beast was when I was watching Alex cross the moor from my windows. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, an immense hound, bathed in spectral fire with phosphor-red eyes, leapt from a stand of boulders and struck out after my brother. It moved over the terrain with frightening speed. Alex heard it coming, and turned to face it, hands thrown protectively across his face. The creature sprang forward and … and …"

  Baskerville closed his eyes against the dreadful image, lapsing into sobs, his body quivering with the horror of remembrance.

  "And you witnessed Reginald's death in the same manner the following month?" asked Holmes.

  "Yes! … God help me, yes."

  "And is it not true, Sir Jonathan, that on both of these fated nights, the twin moons of Mars were at the full?"

  "Yes. On both nights. That's why I could see so clearly what was happening out there on the moor. I witnessed both murders from this very room!"

  "Seems to me you could have opened the damn window and yelled a warning, said Space, now directly facing Baskerville. "When you saw that thing go after t
hem, why didn't you yell?"

  "I was frozen with fear, said the pale young man. "My throat was locked tight. And even if I had shouted a warning, what possible good would it have done? My brothers were doomed from the moment they set foot on Grimpen Moor."

  I posed a basic question. "After Alexander's grisly death, why did Sir Reginald choose to traverse the moor after dark?"

  "Reggie was a stubborn fool who mistakenly believed that he could defeat the creature who had struck down Alex. I did my best to warn him of the family curse, but he scoffed at the idea, and coldly ignored my fervent pleas not to walk Grimpen Moor once the sun had set."

  "Was Sir Reginald armed at the time of his encounter?" asked Holmes. "The newspapers indicated that two weapons were found near the body."

  "That's correct, said the youth. "Reggie carried a brace of fully-loaded pistols with him that night. During the attack, I saw him fire point-blank at the Beast, unleashing a veritable hail of bullets, but they had absolutely no effect. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, this creature is not of mortal flesh, it is of the Devil himself!"

  Holmes folded his arms behind his back, a glint of determination in his shadowed eyes. I had seen him like this many times and I knew he was about to do something extraordinary.

  "I intend to explore the moor tonight, he told us. "Both moons will again be at the full and conditions should be ideal."

  I was incredulous. "Ideal? Ideal for what, in heaven's name? For the Hellhound's attack? Great Scott, Holmes, are you bent on achieving your own destruction at the jaws of this horror?"

  "Not at all, my dear Watson, he told me, a casual note to his tone. "I have already formed a theory about the Hound, and I assure you I shall be in no great jeopardy if I am correct."

  "And what if you are not correct?"

  Holmes smiled indulgently, tenting his long-fingered hands. "When have I ever been wrong in matters of deduction?"