The Big Jump

by Leigh Brackett

  He was off into technicalities, until Comyn pulled him out of them rudely.

  “Listen, that’s enough to go on. What I want to know most is: would transuranic elements have any financial importance, and how?”

  Dubman looked at him more closely. “So this isn’t a wench, after all? What kind of a game are you up to, Comyn?”

  “I told you. I just want to run a bluff on someone.”

  “Well, anyone with two-bits’ worth of education will call your bluff. But in answer to your question: we get our atomic power from the heaviest elements, uranium, radium, thorium, and so on. Transuranic elements are heavier. Some of them can’t be handled. Others are packed with power but prohibitively expensive and obtainable only in small quantities. Does that answer you?”

  “Yeah,” said Comyn. “That’s answer enough.” He walked out, brooding.

  Answer enough. Even with his limited knowledge of science, it was brilliantly obvious to him what the discovery of natural transuranic elements, in probably as plentiful supply as the high-number elements on Earth, would mean to the man or men who could control them. Here would be new sources of power greater than uranium, new properties as yet unknown to be explored and exploited from elements that had up to now been only the expensive toys of laboratory researchers. Perhaps, even, elements that hadn’t been discovered or even guessed at yet…

  By the time Comyn stepped out of the lift his brain was whirling with wild visions of atoms, electrons, and blazing bursts of power that paled the Sun. They were vague, but immensely impressive. They frightened him.

  He picked up his customary shadow outside the building, and, under cover of lighting a cigarette, looked around for the other one. This second watcher was more careful and expert than the first, who did not seem to care much whether Comyn saw him or not. If it hadn’t been for that accident of reflection, Comyn would probably never have noticed him.

  As it was, he had to let three matches blow out before he spotted the man again, a tall slightly stooping figure in a gray suit. Comyn couldn’t see his face, but something about the set and stance of him sent that cold flash up his spine again. Comyn didn’t know nuclear physics, but he knew men. This one meant business.

  Was he the stand-by, the hatchet-man sent along by the Cochranes in case things got beyond the capabilities of the mild-faced individual who seemed only to be doing a not-too-interesting job? Or had somebody else dealt himself a hand in the game?

  Transuranic, whispered Ballantyne’s ghostly voice in his ear. Transuranic—the echo of a scream.

  There was a bar on the corner and Comyn made for it.

  A couple of stiff ones stopped his insides from shaking. He switched to beer because he thought better on it, and went back to his brooding. He had found a place in the corner where nobody could get behind him. The bar was crowded, but even so he could see his twin satellites. They were behaving like casual customers, apparently unaware of him and of each other.

  As he watched them through the haze of smoke, the din of voices and the yeasty stirring of the crowd, he grew certain of one thing. The mild-faced man was unaware of the other one. If the Cochranes had sent him along for the dirty work, they hadn’t told their other boy anything about it.

  The afternoon wore away. The big videoscreen at the end of the bar poured out a steady stream of speeches, special bulletins, rehashes and fresh opinions about the Big Jump. The crowd picked them up, chewed them over, argued and chattered and had another drink. Comyn stared gloomily at the bubbles rising in his glass.

  It became evening…and then night. The crowd changed constantly, but Comyn was still there, and so were the two men: the mild-faced gent in the rumpled jacket, and the other one who was not mild. Comyn had drunk a lot of beer by now and done a lot of thinking. He was watching the men and there was a curiously bright glint in his eye.

  The name of Cochrane sounded over and over from the screen, as often as the name of Ballantyne. It began to prick a nerve in Comyn, a nerve connected with whatever center it was inside him that made hate.

  “Mr. Jonas Cochrane, president of the Cochrane Corporation, today announced that his company would consider the Ballantyne star-drive as something to be held in trust for the good of all peoples…”

  Comyn laughed into his beer. He could just imagine the old bandit sitting up in that fantastic castle on the Moon, thinking of the common good.

  “The Cochrane Corporation has voted one hundred thousand dollars to the survivors of each of the five heroes of the first star-flight…”

  Well, that was a nice gesture. Good publicity and deductible from income tax.

  “Miss Sydna Cochrane has consented to say a few words about this historic achievement which her family helped to make possible. We switch you now to our on-the-spot reporter at the famous Rocket Room…”

  The picture dissolved to the interior of a night club, furnished up in the style of such a ship as never sailed the seas of space. The camera focused in on a woman who was part of a group of expensively dressed young people being very gay at one of the tables. Comyn stared and forgot his beer.

  She wore something white and severely plain that showed her off in exactly the right places, and it was all worth showing. Her skin was very brown, with the magnificent kind of tan you can only get from a lunar solarium. And her hair—probably bleached, Comyn thought, but damned effective—was almost as light as her dress and was drawn straight to the back of her head, where it hung down in a thick hank as uncurled as combed flax. She had features that were bold and handsome and verging on the angular. Her mouth was wide, and her eyes were positively lambent. She was well geared, but held it like a man.

  The voice of the announcer came over, trying to make his introduction heard above the noise. Miss Sydna Cochrane closed her strong brown hands round her champagne glass and leaned her brown and splendid shoulders almost into the lens. She smiled.

  “Money,” she said in a beautiful throaty voice, “is only money. Without the courage and the genius of men like Ballantyne it accomplishes nothing. But I’m not going to talk about him. Millions of others are doing that. I’m going to talk about some other people that seem to have been more or less forgotten.”

  Her eyes had an odd intensity, almost as though she were trying to see through the camera lens, through the screen, and find somebody. For some reason not associated with her low-cut gown, Comyn’s pulses began to hammer strangely.

  Her voice rolled out again. “I’m going to talk about the four men who went with Ballantyne across the Big Jump, and died doing it. Not our money nor Ballantyne himself could have done anything without these four men.”

  She lifted her champagne glass, in a gesture that could have been corny but was not.

  “I’m going to drink to those four men: to Strang, Kessel, Vickrey and—”

  Was the pause deliberate, or was she just trying to remember the name? Her eyes were brilliant with some obscure deviltry.

  “—and Paul Rogers. And I know at least one man who’ll be glad to drink with me, if he’s listening.”

  The mild-faced man started and glanced at Comyn in the bar mirror. The other one kept his eyes fastened on nothing, but his body moved on the stool with a slow snakelike undulation, and he smiled. Comyn’s heart jolted and then ran on again with a fast steady beat. From that moment he knew exactly what he was going to do.

  He didn’t hurry. He didn’t give any outward sign that he had heard Miss Sydna Cochrane or got her meaning. After a while he rose and went unsteadily into the washroom.

  There was nobody in it. His unsteadiness disappeared. He flattened himself against the wall beside the door and waited. The one low window in the place was barred and there was no way out of it, but if he waited long enough the boys out there would get uneasy…

  Footsteps came from outside, going slow. Then there was the absence of sound that meant somebody was listening. Comyn held his breath. The door opened.

  It was the harmless-looking gent in the ru
mpled jacket. Without malice, Comyn stepped forward and planted one on his jaw so swiftly that the man hardly had time to look surprised. Then Comyn tucked him away in a place ideally adapted for concealment. He risked a fast run-through of his pockets before he left him. The man’s identification said his name was Lawrence Hannay and his occupation: operative for a well-known private detective agency. He carried no weapon.

  Comyn went back and stood again beside the door.

  This time he had a little longer to wait. A stranger came in and Comyn sweated blood until he left. Then there was silence again.

  There was no sound of footsteps. The tall man walked silently. Comyn could feel him listening outside the door. Then it opened softly and slowly and the man came inside a step at a time, his left hand swinging free, his right hand in his pocket, his head hunched forward between his stooping shoulders.

  Comyn slugged him hard behind the ear.

  He twisted, as though the movement of air in front of Comyn’s fist had been enough to warn him. The blow didn’t hit square. He fell, still twisting, and Comyn threw himself aside. Something made a tiny shrilling sound like an insect going past him and snicked against the tiled wall. Comyn sprang.

  The man was only half stunned. His body whipped and writhed under Comyn’s knees and his breath hissed. He had a narrow face and a bristle of rusty hair, and the teeth he sank into Comyn’s wrist were brown and bad. He wanted hard to get his right hand up so he could shoot his little toy into Comyn without any danger of hitting himself. But Comyn was kneeling on it, crushing it down into the man’s own belly, and both of them knew better than to let go. Comyn grunted and his fist went up and down two or three times. The narrow skull cracked audibly on the tile floor. After the third time the man relaxed.

  Comyn sat him against the wall with his head bent over his knees, in the attitude of a drunk who has passed out. With great care he took the small ugly weapon out of his pocket. It was one of the kind Comyn had threatened the guard with on Mars, and he thought how glad that guard would be to know that he had been shot at with it. He dropped it in the wastebasket under a drift of paper towels. Then he searched the man.

  There was nothing on him: not a card, not a name. He was a careful man.

  Comyn filled his cupped hands with cold water and threw it in the man’s face. Then he slapped him. Eyes opened, narrow and colorless under rusty brows, and looked into Comyn’s face.

  “You’re no private op. Who are you?”

  Three short unhelpful words.

  “Come on, buster. Who hired you to kill me?”

  Comyn lifted his hand again, and the man showed his brown and broken teeth.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “See if you can make me.”

  Comyn considered him. “It would be a lot of fun, but the lady won’t wait all night. And this isn’t exactly the place for that kind of a talk, either.” He showed his own teeth. “Anyway, you’ll have a nice time explaining to your boss just why you didn’t earn his money.”

  “I’ll be back. I got a reason now.”

  “Aw,” said Comyn, “I’ve made you real mad—just because I wouldn’t stand still! Isn’t that too bad.” He hauled back his fist and let it go with deliberate and vicious intent. The man folded up quietly against the wall. Comyn went out, paid his check in the bar and left. This time he was not followed by anybody.

  He found a cab and headed for the Rocket Room. He wondered about two things as he rode. The first was whether Miss Sydna Cochrane had chosen a rather peculiar way of giving the signal to have him finished off. The second was whether her legs would measure up to the rest of her. He rather thought they would.

  FOUR

  There were nine pretty little worlds that moved slowly around the softly glowing orb of their Sun. They moved quite silently in the ceiling, but you couldn’t have heard them anyway, so loud was the buzz in the Rocket Room.

  And the buzz of voices had the one name all through it, the same as everywhere. Comyn got it all the way, from the men and women at the shimmering bar that had real pilot-seats and a phony space-window instead of a mirror, and from the crowded tables he passed.

  He thought of a screaming man, and wondered bitterly, Are you happy, Ballantyne? You made the Big Jump and you died, but you’re a hero to all these people. Wasn’t it worth it?

  The waiter who happened into Comyn’s path asked deferentially, “Did you want to see someone at Miss Cochrane’s table, sir?”

  But it wasn’t a waiter, not a real one. When Comyn looked closer, he knew this man hadn’t just happened.

  Comyn said wearily, “Yes, I do. Can you take that to the Crown Princess yourself, or does it have to go through the captain of the guard?”

  The waiter examined him, without seeming to. “It would depend…”

  “Yeah. Well, ask her if she still wants to drink to Paul Rogers.”

  The waiter glanced at him sharply. “Your name is…?”

  “Comyn.”

  “You’re expected, Mr. Comyn.”

  He turned and led the way to the big table that was apparently in the best position in the place. It was the one Comyn had been making for when he was stopped. Miss Sydna Cochrane watched them come.

  The man who was pretending to be a waiter spoke to her, received a nod and went back to his post. She leaned back in her chair, showing the fine strong lines of her throat and breast, and smiled up at Comyn. She had had a few more champagnes since he saw her on the videocast, but she was still holding them well.

  “So!” she said. “You look like the type that could do it, all right. Would it please you to know you’ve still got ’em spinning?”

  “Who?”

  “The Cochranes. Round and round.” She described circles with her forefinger. “All except me, of course. Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  Chair, glass, champagne and genuine waiter had appeared like magic. Comyn sat. The dozen or so others at the table were chattering like magpies, demanding to be told who Comyn was and what the mystery was all about. Sydna ignored them. The tall willowy boy who sat on her left peered across her shoulder and glowered. She ignored him, too.

  “Pretty clever of me, I thought. That spur-of-the-minute speech, I mean.”

  “Real cute, Miss Cochrane. So cute it nearly got me killed.”

  “What?”

  “Five minutes after you made that crack about Paul Rogers somebody took a shot at me.”

  She frowned and a shadow of some dark thought he couldn’t read came into her eyes.

  “Was that your idea?” he asked her softly.

  “My friend,” she said, “they shoved a camera in my face, and I spoke. Even in this modern age there are thousands of places that don’t have videos. You might have been in any one of them.” She began to get her temper up. “And furthermore, if you think—”

  “Whoa!” he said, and grinned. “Okay, I take it back. What about that drink?”

  She continued to stare at him, her red mouth set and sulky, her brows drawn down. The clamor had now become deafening around the table. Comyn leaned back, rolling the stemmed glass slowly between his hands, not thinking about it, looking at the white dress and what it covered, and what it didn’t cover, letting her take her time. He was in no hurry. He could look at that all night.

  The anger went out of her eyes, leaving them lazy and full of sparks. “I’m not sure I’m going to like you,” she said, “but I’m willing to find out. Come on.”

  She uncoiled out of the chair, and Comyn rose with her. In her high heels she stood as tall as he did. “You’re lovely people, but you make too much noise. ’Bye.”

  The willowy lad sprang up. “Now see here, Sydna,” he said angrily, “I’m your escort and I won’t have—”

  “Johnny.”

  “You can’t just go off with this—this character in the middle of the night! It isn’t—”

  “Johnny,” said Sydna, “you’re a nice boy, but Comyn can lick you. And if you don’t stop minding my business I’
ll have him do it.” She touched Comyn’s arm and swept on ahead of him, walking with a long arrogant stride that even the high heels couldn’t ruin. Comyn followed her, anxious to get away from the red-faced Johnny before he had to make good on Sydna’s promise whether he wanted to or not.

  Her back, bare to the waist, was brown as a copper penny and the hank of flaxen hair swung against it. Comyn watched the smooth play of muscles up and down that back as she walked. He thought that she could probably have licked the kid herself, without help. Quite a dame.

  He settled down beside her on the cushions of a limousine that arrived at the door almost as soon as they did. He turned a little sideways so he could see her.

  “Well,” he said, “what now?”

  She crossed her knees, burrowed her head back into the cushions and yawned like a cat. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  The chauffeur, apparently accustomed to such vagaries, began to drive slowly along, going nowhere in particular. Sydna lay back in her corner and watched Comyn from under half-closed lids. The flicker of passing lights gleamed on her white dress, touched her hair, her mouth, the angle of a cheekbone.

  “I’m sleepy,” she said.

  “Too sleepy to tell me what you wanted with me?”

  “Curiosity. Wanted to see the man the Cochranes couldn’t keep out.” She smiled with sudden malice. “I wanted to see the man that got Willy in dutch.”

  “Who’s Willy?”

  “My little cousin’s beloved husband. Stanley.” She leaned forward. “Do you like Stanley?”

  “I can’t say I’m bursting over with affection for him.”

  “He’s a louse,” said Sydna, and relaxed again into the upholstery, brooding. Then she clicked open the communicator. “I’ve decided,” she said. “Take us to the spaceport.”

  “Yes, Miss Cochrane,” said the chauffeur, stifling a yawn, and the communicator snapped shut again.