The 34th Golden Age of Science Fiction: C.M. Kornbluth

by C. M. Kornbluth

  “This is Captain Gulbransen. Who is calling, please?”

  I yelled into the phone respectfully: “Captain Gulbransen, this is Interstellar News Service on Frostbite.” I knew the way conservative shipping companies have of putting ancient, irritable astrogators into public-relations berths after they are ripe to retire from space. “I was wondering, sir,” I shouted, “if you’d care to comment on the fact that Esmeralda is overdue at Frostbite with 1,000 immigrants.”

  “Young man,” wheezed Gulbransen dimly, “it is clearly stated in our tariffs filed with the ICC that all times of arrival are to be read as plus or minus eight Terrestrial Hours, and that the company assumes no liability in such cases as—”

  “Excuse me, sir, but I’m aware that the eight-hour leeway is traditional. But isn’t it a fact that the average voyage hits the E.T.A. plus or minus only fifteen minutes T.H.?”

  “That’s so, but—”

  “Please excuse me once more, sir—I’d like to ask just one more question. There is, of course, no reason for alarm in the lateness of Esmeralda, but wouldn’t you consider a ship as much as one hour overdue as possibly in danger? And wouldn’t the situation be rather alarming?”

  “Well, one full hour, perhaps you would. Yes, I suppose so—but the eight-hour leeway, you understand—”

  I laid the phone down quietly on the desk and ripped through the Phoenix for yesterday. In the business section it said “Esmeralda due 0330.” And the big clock on the wall said 0458.

  I hung up the phone and sprinted for the ethertype, with the successive stories clear in my head, ready to be punched and fired off to Marsbuo for relay on the galactic trunk. I would beat out IS clanging bells on the printer and follow them with

  INTERSTELLAR FLASH

  IMMIGRANT SHIP ESMERALDA SCHEDULED TO LAND FROSTBITE WITH 1,000 FROM THETIS PROCYON ONE AND ONE HALF HOURS OVERDUE: OWNER ADMITS SITUATION “ALARMING” CRAFT “IN DANGER.”

  And immediately after that a five-bell bulletin:

  INTERSTELLAR BULLETIN

  FROSTBITE—THE IMMIGRANT SHIP ESMERALDA, DUE TODAY AT FROSTBITE FROM THETIS PROCYON WITH 1,000 STEERAGE PASSENGERS ABOARD IS ONE AND ONE HALF HOURS OVERDUE. A SPOKESMAN FOR THE OWNERS, THE FRIMSTEDT ATOMIC ASTROGATION COMPANY, SAID SUCH A SITUATION IS “ALARMING” AND THAT THE CRAFT MIGHT BE CONSIDERED “IN DANGER.”

  ESMERALDA IS AN 830 THOUSAND-TON FREIGHTER-STEERAGE PASSENGER CARRIER.

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE PORT AT FROSTBITE ADMITTED THAT THERE HAVE BEEN RUMORS CIRCULATING ABOUT THE CONDITION OF THE CRAFTS ATOMICS THOUGH THESE WERE RATED “A” ONE YEAR AGO. THE PURSER OF THE SPACESHIP, CONTACTED IN SPACE, WAS AGITATED AND INCOHERENT WHEN QUESTIONED. HE SAID—

  “Get up, Spencer, get away from the machine.”

  It was Joe Downing, with a gun in his hand.

  “I’ve got a story to file,” I said blankly.

  “Some other time.” He stepped closer to the ethertype and let out a satisfied grunt when he saw the paper was clean. “Port captain called me,” he said. “Told me you were nosing around.”

  “Will you get out of here?” I asked, stupefied. “Man, I have flash and bulletin matter to clear. Let me alone!”

  “I said to get away from that machine or I’ll cut ya down, boy.”

  “But why? Why?”

  “George don’t want any big stories out of Frostbite.”

  “You’re crazy. Mr. Parsons is a newsman himself. Put that damn-fool gun away and let me get this out!”

  I turned to the printer when a new voice said, “No! Don’t do it, Mr. Spencer. He is a Nietzschean. He’ll kill you, all right. He’ll kill you.”

  It was Leon Portwanger, the furrier, my neighbor, the man who claimed he never knew Kennedy. His fat, sagging face, his drooping white mustache, his sad black eyes enormous behind the bull’s-eye spectacles, were very matter-of-fact. He meant what he said. I got up and backed away from the ethertype.

  “I don’t understand it,” I told them.

  “You don’t have to understand it,” said the rat-faced collector of the port. “All you have to understand is that George don’t like it.”

  He fired one bullet through the printer, and I let out a yelp. I’d felt that bullet going right through me.

  “Don’t,” the steady voice of the furrier cautioned. I hadn’t realized that I was walking toward Downing and that his gun was now on my middle. I stopped.

  “That’s better,” said Downing. He kicked the phone connection box off the baseboard, wires snapping and trailing. “Now go to the Hamilton House and stay there for a couple of days.”

  I couldn’t get it through my head. “But Esmeralda’s a cinch to blow up,” I told him. “It’ll be a major space disaster. Half of them are women! I’ve got to get it out!”

  “I’ll take him back to his hotel, Mr. Downing,” said Portwanger. He took my arm in his flabby old hand and led me out while that beautiful flash and bulletin and the first lead disaster and the new lead disaster went running through my head to a futile obbligato of “They can’t do this to me!” But they did it.

  Somebody gave me a drink at the hotel, and I got sick, and a couple of bellboys helped me to bed. The next thing I knew I was feeling very clear-headed and wakeful and Chenery was hovering over me looking worried.

  “You’ve been out cold for forty-eight hours,” he said. “You had a high fever, chills, the works. What happened to you and Downing?”

  “How’s Esmeralda?” I demanded.

  “Huh? Exploded about half a million miles off. The atomics went.”

  “Did anybody get it to ISN for me?”

  “Couldn’t. Interplanetary phones are out again. You seem to have got the last clear call through to Gammadion. And you put a bullet through your ethertype—”

  “I did? Like hell—Downing did!”

  “Oh? Well, that makes better sense. The fact is, Downing’s dead. He went crazy with that gun of his, and Chief Selig shot him. But old Portwanger said you broke the ethertype when you got the gun away from Downing for a minute—no, that doesn’t make sense. What’s the old guy up to?”

  “I don’t give a damn. You see my pants anywhere? I want to get that printer fixed.”

  He helped me dress. I was a little weak on my legs, and he insisted on pouring expensive eggnog into me before he’d let me go to the bureau.

  * * * *

  Downing hadn’t done much of a job, or maybe you can’t do much of a job on an ethertype without running it through an induction furnace. Everything comes apart, everything’s replaceable. With a lot of thumbing through the handbook, I had all the busted bits and pieces out and new ones in. The adjustment was harder, needing two pairs of eyes. Chenery watched the meters while I turned the screws. In about four hours, I was ready to call. I punched out:

  NOTE MARSBUO ISN. FRBBUO RESTORED TO SVC AFTR MECHNCL TRBL ETILLNESS.

  The machine spat back:

  NOTE FRBBUO. HW ELLNSS COINCDE WTH MJR DISSTR YR TRRTRY? FYI GAMMADION BUO ISN OUTRCHD FR ESMERALDA AFTR YR INXPLCBL SLNCE ETWS BDLY BTN GAMMADION BUGS COMPTSHN. MCG END.

  He didn’t want to hear any more about it. I could see him stalking away from the printer to the copydesk slot to chew his way viciously through wordage for the major splits. I wished I could see in my mind’s eye Ellie slipping over to the Krueger 60-B circuit sending printer and punching out a word or two of kindness—the machine stirred again. It said: “JOE JOE HOW COULD YOU? ELLIE”

  Oh, God.

  “Leave me alone, will you?” I asked Chenery.

  “Sure—sure. Anything you say,” he humored me, and slipped out.

  I sat for a while at the desk, noticing that the smashed phone connection had been installed again, that the place had been policed up.

  Leon Portwanger came waddling in with a bottle in his hand. “I have here some prune brandy,” he said.
/>
  Things began to clear up. “You gave me that mickey,” I said slowly. “And you’ve been lying about me. You said I wrecked the ethertype.”

  “You are a determinist, and I was trying to save your life,” he said, setting down two glasses and filling them. “Take your choice and I will have the other. No mickeys.”

  I picked one and gulped it down—nasty, too-sweet stuff that tasted like plum peelings. He sipped his and seemed to enjoy it.

  “I thought,” he said, “that you were in with their gang. What was I to think? They got rid of poor Kennedy. Pneumonia! You too would have pneumonia if they drenched you with water and put you on the roof in your underwear overnight. The bottles were planted here. He used to drink a little with me, he used to get drunk now and then—so did I—nothing bad.”

  “You thought I was in their gang,” I said. “What gang are you in?”

  “The Frostbite Interplanetary Party,” he said wryly. “I would smile with you if the joke were not on me. I know, I know—we are Outs who want to be Ins, we are neurotic youngsters, we are led by stooges of the Planetary Party. So what should I do—start a one-man party alone on a mountain-top, so pure that I must blackball everybody except myself from membership? I am an incorrigible reformer and idealist whether I like it or not—and sometimes, I assure you, I don’t like it very well.

  “Kennedy was no reformer and idealist. He was a pragmatist, a good man who wanted a good news story that would incidentally blow the present administration up. He used me, I used him. He got his story and they killed him and burglarized the bureau to remove all traces of it. Or did they?”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “Why did you dope me? Did Downing really go crazy?”

  “I poisoned you a little because Downing did not go crazy. Downing was under orders to keep you from sending out that story. Probably, after he had got you away from the ethertype, he would have killed you if I had not poisoned you with some of my heart medicine. They realized while you were ill and feverish that it might as well be one as another. If they killed you, there would only be another newsman sent out to be inveigled into their gang. If they killed Downing, they could blame everything on him, you would never be able to have anything more than suspicions, and—there are a lot more Downings available, are there not?”

  My brain began to click. “So your mysterious ‘they’ didn’t want a top-drawer story to center around Frostbite. If it did, there’d be follow-ups, more reporters, ICC people investigating the explosion. Since the news break came from Gammadion, that’s where the reporters would head, and that’s where the ICC investigation would be based. But what have they got to hide? The political setup here smells to high heaven, but it’s no worse than on fifty other planets. Graft, liquor, vice, drugs, gambling—”

  “No drugs,” said the furrier.

  “That’s silly,” I told him. “Of course they have drugs. With everything else, why not drugs?”

  He shrugged apologetically. “Excuse me,” he said. “I told you I was a reformer and an idealist. I did not mention that I used to be an occasional user of narcotics. A little something to take the pressure off—those very small morphine sulphate tablets. You can imagine my horror when I emigrated to this planet twenty-eight years ago and found there were no drugs—literally. Believe me when I tell you that I—looked hard. Now, of course, I am grateful. But I had a few very difficult weeks.”

  He shuddered, finished his prune brandy and filled both our glasses again. He tossed down his glass.

  “Damn it all!” he exploded. “Must I rub your nose in it? Are you going to figure it out for yourself? And are you going to get killed like my poor friend, Kennedy? Look here! And here!” He lurched to his feet and yanked down “WHO’S WHO IN THE GALAXY” and the United Planets Drug Committee Report.

  His pudgy finger pointed to:

  “PARSONS, George Warmerdam, organic chemist, news-ppr pubr, b. Gammadion 172, s. Henry and Dolores (Warmerdam) P., studied Gammadion Chem. Inst. B.Ch 191, M.Ch 193, D.Ch 194; empl. dir research Hawley Mfg Co. (Gammadion) 194-198; founded Parsons Chem Mfg Labs (Gammadion) 198, headed same 198-203; removed Frostbite 203; founded newspaper Frostbite Phoenix 203. Author, tech papers organ chem 193-196. Mem Univ Organ Chem Soc. Address c/o Frostbite Phoenix, Frostbite.”

  And in the other book:

  “—particular difficulty encountered with the stupefiant known as ‘J-K-B.’ It was first reported on Gammadion in the year 197, when a few isolated cases presented themselves for medical treatment. The problem rapidly worsened through the year 203, by which time the drug was in widespread illicit interplanetary commerce. The years 203-204 saw a cutting-off of the supply of J-K-B for reasons unknown. Prices soared to fantastic levels, unnumbered robberies and murders were committed by addicts to obtain possession of the minute quantities remaining on the market, and other addicts, by the hundreds of thousands presented themselves to the authorities hoping more or less in vain for a ‘cure.’ J-K-B appeared again in the year 205, not confined to any segment of the inhabited galaxy. Supplies have since remained at a constant level—enough to brutalize, torment, and shorten the lives of the several score million terrestrial and extra-terrestrial beings who have come into its grip. Interrogation of peddlers intercepted with J-K-B has so far only led back through a seemingly endless chain of middlemen. The nature of the drug is such that it cannot be analyzed and synthesized—”

  My head spun over the damning parallel trails. Where Parsons tried his wings in chemistry, J-K-B appeared. When he went on his own, the quantity increased. When he moved to another planet, the supply was cut off. When he was established, the supply grew to a constant level and stayed there.

  And what could be sweeter than a thoroughly corrupt planet to take over with his money and his newspaper? Dominate a machine and the members’ “regularity” will lead them to kill for you—or to kill killers if need be. Encourage planetary ignorance and isolationism; keep the planet unattractive and depressed by letting your freebooters run wild—that’ll discourage intelligent immigration. Let token parties in, fleece them fast and close, let them spread the word that Frostbite’s no place for anybody with brains.

  “A reformer and idealist I am,” said Portwanger calmly. “Not a man of action. What should be done next?”

  I thought it over and told him; “If it kills me, and it might, I am going to send a rash of flashes and bulletins from this Godforsaken planet. My love life depends on it. Leon, do you know anybody on Mars?”

  “A Sirian fellow named Wenjtkpli—a philosophical anarchist. An unreal position to take. This is the world we are to, there are certain social leverages to apply. Who is he to say—?”

  I held up my hand. “I know him too.” I could taste that eleventh stinger again; by comparison, the prune brandy was mellow. I took a gulp. “Do you think you could go to Mars without getting bumped off?”

  “A man could try.”

  * * * *

  The next two weeks were agonizing. Those Assyrian commissars or Russian belshazzars or whatever they were who walked down prison corridors waiting to be shot in the back of the head never went through what I did. I walked down the corridor for fourteen days.

  First Leon got off all right on a bucket of bolts. I had no guarantee that he wouldn’t be plugged by a crew member who was in on the party. Then there was a period of waiting for the first note that I’d swap you for a mad tarantula.

  It came:

  NOTE FRBBUO HOW WELL XPCT KP CLNT IF UN-ABL DROP COPY? MCG MARSBUO.

  I’d paved the way for that one by drinking myself into a hangover on home brew and lying in bed and groaning when I should have been delivering the printer copy to the Phoenix. I’d been insulting as possible to Weems to insure that he’d phone a squawk to McGillicuddy—I hoped. The tipoff was “hell.” Profanity was never, ever used on our circuits—I hoped. “Hell” meant “Portwanger contacted me, I got
the story, I am notifying United Planets Patrol in utmost secrecy.”

  Two days later came:

  NOTE FRBBUO BD CHMN WNTS KNO WOT KIND DAMN KNUCKLHED FILING ONLY FOURFIVE ITMS DAILY FM XPNSVE ONEMAN BUO. XPCT UP-STEP PRDCTN IMMY, RPT IMMY MCG MARSBUO.

  “Damn” meant “Patrol contacted, preparing to raid Frostbite.” “Fourfive” meant “fourfive”—days from message.

  The next note would have got ISN in trouble with the Interplanetary Communications Commission if it hadn’t been in a good cause. I’m unable to quote it. But it came as I was in the bureau about to leave for the Honorable Homer Witherspoon’s testimonial banquet. I locked the door, took off my parka, and rolled up my sleeves. I was going to sweat for the next few hours.

  When I heard the multiple roar of the Patrol ships on rockets, I very calmly beat out fifteen bells and sent:

  INTERSTELLAR FLASH

  UNITED PLANETS PATROL DESCENDING ON FROSTBITE, KRUEGER 60-B’S ONLY PLANET, IN UNPRECEDENTED MASS RAID ON TIP OF INTERSTELLAR NEWS SERVICE THAT WORLD IS SOLE SOURCE OF DEADLY DRUG J-K-B.

  INTERSTELLAR BULLETIN

  THE MASSED PATROL OF THE UNITED PLANETS ORGANIZATION DESCENDED ON THE ONLY PLANET OF KRUEGER 60-B, FROSTBITE, IN AN UNPRECEDENTED MASS RAID THIS EVENING. ON INFORMATION FURNISHED BY INTERSTELLAR NEWS REPORTER JOE SPENCER. THE PATROL HOPES TO WIPE OUT THE SOURCE OF THE DEADLY DRUG J-K-B, WHICH HAS PLAGUED THE GALAXY FOR 20 YEARS. THE CHEMICAL GENIUS SUSPECTED OF INVENTING AND PRODUCING THE DRUG IS GEORGE PARSONS, RESPECTED PUBLISHER OF FROSTBITE’S ONLY NEWSPAPER.

  INTERSTELLAR FLASH

  FIRST UNITED PLANETS PATROL SHIP LANDS IN FROSTBITE CAPITAL CITY OF PLANET.

  INTERSTELLAR FLASH

  PATROL COMMANDER PHONES EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW TO INTERSTELLAR NEWS SERVICE FROSTBITE BUREAU REPORTING ROUND-UP OF PLANETARY GOVERNMENT LEADERS AT TESTIMONIAL DINNER (WITH FROSTBITE) FROSTBITE—ISN—ONE INTERSTELLAR NEWS REPORTER HAS ALREADY GIVEN HIS LIFE IN THE CAMPAIGN TO EXPOSE THE MAKER OF J-K-B. ED KENNEDY, ISN BUREAU CHIEF, WAS ASSASSINATED BY AGENTS OF DRUGMAKER GEORGE PARSONS THREE MONTHS AGO. AGENTS OF PARSONS STRIPPED KENNEDY AND EXPOSED HIM OVERNIGHT TO THE BITTER COLD OF THIS PLANET, CAUSING HIS DEATH BY PNEUMONIA. A SECOND INTERSTELLAR NEWS SERVICE REPORTER, JOE SPENCER, NARROWLY ESCAPED DEATH AT THE HANDS OF A DRUG-RING MEMBER WHO SOUGHT TO PREVENT HIM FROM SENDING NEWS OVER THE CIRCUITS OF THE INTERSTELLAR NEWS SERVICE.