by Ron Goulart
Yet another Old Punk landed on the roof of the bus, directly over Hildy.
“Goodness,” she exclaimed in a soft and innocent voice. She was blonde and demure-looking, in a high-collar two-piece school suit. She seemed no more than twenty-one, had a violin case resting on her lap.
The young woman in the seat beside her was plump and dark, cradling a trumpet case. “I’m going to flop,” she said.
“Gosh, don’t go talking like that,” said Hildy. “I’ll just bet you’re going to be swell.”
“When I get nervous I loose my lip,” she confided. “My name’s Laura Levine.”
“I’m Betty Fairfield.”
A green old lady waving a machete clung briefly to their side of the bus, mouthing threats.
“Old age is somewhat mysterious, isn’t it?” reflected Laura. “I hope I don’t end up painting myself green and poking nails through my nostrils. Are you afraid of getting old, Betty?”
Hildy’s fingers tapped the violin case. “Right now I’m only afraid about this darn audition.”
“Me, too,” said the plump trumpeter. “You know, I’m not even all that sure I want a job in a harem. Except the pay sounds pretty good, and the work can’t be all that tough. After all, this shiek’s a man in his late forties. He’s already got a couple dozen girls in his stable. So how many times a week do you figure you’d have to ball him? Once or twice at best. Not that living underground, or underwater actually, is my idea of great fun. Do your ears feel funny?”
“It’s mostly my stomach,” said Hildy in her demure voice. “You see, I’ve never … well, you know.”
“Really? Wow, that’s something,” said Laura, impressed. “That’ll be a big plus for you. These oil tycoons like virgins I hear.”
“True, except you also must have talent,” reminded Hildy. “That’s equally important.”
“I wonder how much talent’s going to count really? You’re awfully pretty; plus you’re a virgin. You ought to win hands down.”
“You never can tell. There are lots of very attractive young women on this bus.”
Laura watched a trio of screaming Old Punks jogging along beside their armored bus. “How’d you find out about these secret auditions?”
Hildy had contacted an Odd Jobs, Inc., informant in the Ghetto Number Two Sector of the Frisco Enclave for some background on the tunnel. He’d mentioned that Shiek Sahl al-Haml was holding clandestine tryouts to pick a new addition to the spare harem he kept in his tunnel home. Another contact had arranged to get her aboard tonight’s busload of twenty-three contestants, a third had come up with the violin.
“Through a friend,” Hildy answered.
“Same here. It really is hush-hush, sort of like it was going to be government work and not simply diddling around.”
Hildy caused herself to blush. “You sure can talk about all these things right out in the open, Laura.”
“I’m forthright, sure.” She patted her trumpet case. “Things haven’t been going so well with my career lately. I had a really great quartet going last year, we had a terrific following in the Fresno Farmbelt Sector. We specialized in bebop. Know what kind of music that is?”
“Gee, no.”
“Something like jazz, only stranger. Very big in the last century, and there’s been a revival of interest among farm hands. You should’ve heard my solo on ‘Scrapple from the Apple.’ Anyway, our alto sax marries a guy with a seaweed ranch in the Merced Sector and then my drummer runs off to shack up with a fellow who was very big in the synthetic chicken business. I had to fold up.”
Hildy said, “I’ve never really played professionally, although I’ve been told I was quite good in the college orchestra. I’d never have considered trying out for a job such as this if I hadn’t become an orphan.”
“You poor kid. What happened?”
“My mom and dad were set to go on a Brazilian vacation,” explained Hildy. “Dad was always uneasy about teleporting, but Mom pointed out it sure was time saving. Well, they stepped on a teleport platform in our hometown, the High IQ Sector of Berkeley, and that’s the last anyone ever saw of either of them. Although for awhile the company thought they’d located one of my father’s suitcases and his left foot in Ft. Lauderdale Florida.”
Laura shivered. “That’s really terrible.”
“It did upset me quite a lot,” admitted Hildy. “Gosh, six months ago I’d never have considered trying for a spot in a harem.”
“There are plenty of worse jobs,” said Laura. “And this Shiek al-Haml runs his recruiting pretty well. I mean, I’ve heard of other harems where an agent just pinches your backside and they don’t care about talent or brains.”
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” inquired the bus driver. “We made it through the Old Punk region relatively smoothly. I only ran over one of them, and even he wasn’t, I don’t believe, fatally hurt. The worst hazards are behind us now, ladies. The last few miles we’ll be running through the Mushroom Herders area. They’re harmless for the most part, although, due to the mutant fungi they deal with, many of them glow in the dark. Don’t let it scare you.”
“Oh look, there’s a really good-looking fellow glowing over there by the tunnel wall.” Laura pointed. “I wonder if he glows all over. Might be interesting in the sack, huh?”
“Golly, you sure have some imagination,” said Hildy.
“Open up the case, willya, hon?” requested the Chinese in the candy-stripe funsuit.
Hildy stepped off the probe platform, halted by a floating glaz table and placed the case upon it. “I thought that fancy machine would tell you if I had a weapon or anything.”
“Lemme handle the security on this detail, huh, sweets?” The Chinese opened the case, lifted out the violin. He poked into the case with a pen-size metal rod. “Clean as a whistle.” He ran the rod over the violin itself.
“Don’t scratch it, it’s been in our family for—”
“We don’t want anybody should bump off the shiek, get me?” He held the violin up over his sleek head, shaking it. “Though if ya ask me the lug oughta of kept his hot pants in gear, ya know? Geeze, thousands of crazed gas station attendants and garage mechanics dying to put his arse in a sling, not to mention flocks of assassins. What he should of did was lie low and not hold an audition for new cuties.”
He dropped the violin back in the case, shut it and returned it to Hildy. “Go along the green corridor and through Door 20A. Got that?”
“Door 20A, yes. Thank you.” With the case swinging in her left hand Hildy walked along the indicated corridor.
It was a long one, its walls paneled in squares of embossed green plaz which looked almost like carved wood.
Stepping through the doorway, she found herself on a small stage. A girl was playing the harp at stage center. A girl with a trombone resting next to her occupied one of the two chairs at the side of the platform.
Out in the audience section were three people. Hildy smiled when she recognized one of them as Shiek Sahl al-Haml. He was leaning with his hands draped over the seat in front of him, clad in a conservative five-piece black bizsuit. Two seats over sat Lady Jane Pistol. A row behind a lean man with high-standing red hair was slouched.
“Thanks, kiddo,” he said to the harpist.
“I’m not finished.”
“That’ll be all,” he said. “Move along and let’s hear the kid with the ’bone.”
“You mean to tell me I hauled this dumb harp all the way from the Seattle Redoubt, suffered a ride through a dank tunnel which rivals the worst parts of the fiery regions as depicted in Dante’s classic—”
“We are running quite a bit behind schedule, Miss Lore,” said Lady Jane. “Be a darling and wait in Room 20B. We’ll be making our announcement soon.”
“Sure, I get it.” The harpist stood. “I’m on to you now, Shiek al-Haml. Talent and grace don’t mean diddly-squat to you. It’s knocker you go for. Big knockers. Well, let me tell you—”
“Miss Lore,
hey!” said the red-haired man, rising. “Scram or I’ll have to let the eunuchs loose on you.”
“I bet you’re one yourself.” She went striding off the stage and out of the room.
“Hey, you forgot your damn harp!” The redheaded man came trotting up onto the stage. “Blondie, give me a hand with this thing, will you?”
Hildy obliged and they carried the abandoned harp to a spot at the stage edge. “What’s your function here, sir?” she asked.
“I’m one of the judges,” he answered. “The shiek likes to have a couple of us at these shindigs, gives it a legit look. Haven’t you seen me on the wall? I’m Red Smeck, the comic.”
“I don’t watch much wall,” Hildy apologized. “My music lessons take up—”
“Red, get off so Miss Calcagno can play her damn trombone,” suggested Lady Jane.
“Talk to you later.” Smeck patted Hildy’s left buttock before leaping from the stage.
Miss Calcagno reached the second chorus of “Night in Tunisia” when the shiek himself bellowed, “Enough. Why so many beboppers tonight?”
The girl lowered her trombone, unpuckered her lip and trudged forlornly out of the audition area.
“We’ll listen to you next, Miss Fairfield.”
Unpacking her violin, Hildy moved to the front of the stage and smiled shyly at the three of them. “This is a little tune I learned in the wild reaches of Outer Mongolia,” she announced. “Although Western minds initially scoff at the notion, the notes of this ancient ditty do indeed have the power to put anyone who hears them into a trance state.” She tucked the violin under her chin, began playing. “It works quite rapidly, in less than a minute you’ll all three be dozing. You, especially you, Shiek al-Haml, will be compelled to answer any questions put to you.”
“Eh?” The ample shiek struggled to his feet. “This is quite ridiculous, my dear young. …” He toppled over, fast asleep.
CHAPTER 27
“THEY’RE REAL?”
“One of my father’s quirks. It’d be simpler and much cheaper to make robot sea gulls out of space mining by-products, but he insists on real sea gulls.”
“What do they eat?”
“Real garbage,” replied Amanda. “It’s shuttled up regularly from Earth, too.”
They were sitting on the imitation beach, watching the real gulls circle and circle over the simulated sea.
Jake said, “We can use one of those shuttles.”
“To escape?”
“Yeah, all we have to do is get hold of one,” he said. “We’re not that far from the docking area. I’ve figured that out these past few days while Herr Doctor Hibbler’s been picking me up to take to his various death ray demos.”
“But we’ve got to outwit the force screens first,” the blonde girl reminded. “So far you’ve been stumped by—”
“Not exactly stumped, Amanda.” Jake stood, brushing simulated sand from his trousers. “The security system is fairly sophisticated, takes time to outwit. I’m going to have to con Dr. Hibbler into taking us both out of this area. Once we’re clear, we’ll be—”
“I’m not sure how much time we have,” she said. “Hibbler must be about to use his ray and issue his ultimatum.”
“Could be he’s going to wait until they catch Hildy,” Jake said. “With her loose, it’s not safe for him to—”
“Never having met your wife, Jake, maybe I shouldn’t say this,” she said, “but is she really all that dangerous to Hibbler and my father?”
“Hildy’s a … Hey, that sea gull!”
“Which?”
“The chap who just flew over to perch on that tree stump yonder.”
“Gulls like to perch on—”
“The stump is outside the force screen.”
“Could be small things like birds don’t—”
“Nope, I’ve been watching the damn things. They can’t cross through, and they avoid the screen.” Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet. “Something’s gone wrong. Let’s see if the restraining screen out back is flooey, too.”
He led the girl up across the beach and into the real jungle beyond. When they reached the spot where their invisible boundary was, Jake reached out a hand.
“Careful,” Amanda warned.
“Nothing here.” He took two more steps, arms waving. “Thing’s dead, come on along.”
She followed along the mossy path. “You think something’s gone wrong with the colony?”
“Don’t know, but whatever’s going on, we’ll take advantage of it.”
The trees thinned, the ground ended and they were on a metal walkway which clung to a metal wall.
Up ahead, some fifty feet off, was a lone palm tree.
“It’s Father,” said Amanda, running ahead.
Tenn was sprawled on his back, one stiff arm circling the base of the potted palm.
“Stungunned,” judged Jake.
Amanda knelt. “Funny, when I thought he might be dead, I felt bad,” she said, rising. “Don’t know why, since he’s really not a very worthwhile person.”
“When you encounter a parent flat on his back, it can trigger a guilt pang.” Jake frisked the unconscious tycoon. “Armpit holster’s empty.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
“I’d say SC Number 33 has been invaded,” Jake replied. “Probably by a gang who snuck in aboard the latest delivery shuttle.”
“Friends?”
“We’ll determine that now.” He caught her arm, continued along the walkway.
From up ahead came a shot. “Stan still, you dodgosted female!”
“That’s coming from Hibbler’s test rooms.” Jake let go of Amanda to go dashing away.
He kicked the door of the test area open. There was no one in the glaz-walled room, but down in a new model city he saw Dr. Hibbler ducking behind a scale model of the Westport Commuter Station. Hunkered in back of the nearby Nature Center was Hildy. She held a stungun, the formerly frozen Nazi held a kilgun.
Jake bounded to the doctor’s control panel. He tapped on the glass with his fist. When he had Hibbler’s attention he pointed at him and then at the red button. He made a face meant to convey sizzling and turning to dust.
“Up yours, Herr Pace!” yelled the doctor, getting off another shot in Hildy’s direction.
It took the roof off the Nature Center but didn’t touch her.
Scowling, Jake studied the controls of the model death ray. Nodding to himself, he turned a knob, flipped a switch, adjusted three dials. He took a breath and pushed the red button.
The commuter station, along with several fashionable restaurants and grog shops, flickered away to dust.
Hibbler was in the open.
Hildy fired her stungun.
“Dodgosted troublemakers!” Dr. Adolph Hibbler managed to complain before toppling over into the Saugatuck River.
CHAPTER 28
JAKE CROSSED HIS LIVING room, picked up a metal-bodied guitar from atop the piano and carried it to a plaz hassock which faced the wide-view window. Twilight was spreading through the wooded acres.
He settled on the hassock, played about half a minute of fiery flamenco music before putting the guitar aside. He sat, slightly hunched, watching the darkness grow.
“Drink?” inquired Hildy as she came into the room.
“Nope.”
“Is this post-adventure depression or a sulk?”
Jake stood to face his wife. “I was stupid,” he said. “I don’t like that.”
“You do have a touch of the showboat in you, Jake. Sometimes the opposition has been able to take advantage of that.”
“Walking right into that fake CWS studio, accepting those nitwit andies as real.” Jake shook his head. “Stupid.”
“Every great man has a flaw or two,” said Hildy. “Yours just happens to be stupidity.”
“I’m not too happy about having to be saved from the Hibbler-Tenn forces by you, either,” he said. “Should have been able to do it m
yself.”
“Thanks.”
“Admittedly you did a great job. Taking over that shuttle full of tropical plants, disguising your hired gang of free-lance commandos as gardeners and interior decorators, taking out Tenn, getting the force screens turned off, confronting Hibbler. All well done.”
“I try to do my best.” She sat in a sling chair, crossed her legs. “You did, remember, prevent Hibbler from probably killing me.”
“You’d have outfoxed the old coot even if I hadn’t stumbled along.”
Hildy smiled. “Jake, we’re a team, equal partners. You save me sometimes, I save you sometimes.”
“You’re right, Hildy, I’m letting my pride and vanity cloud my judgment.”
“Roots Stackhouse called while you were meditating.”
“To say what? They want a refund?”
“On the contrary. The President and the entire cabinet, especially Roots, are overjoyed at the way we worked things out,” said Hildy. “That is, the way we saved Earth from the domination of the likes of Tenn and Hibbler.”
“That would have made life somewhat unpleasant for us all, yes.”
“I sensed that the Prez, and more importantly the Pentagon folks, are a little miffed about what happened to the Death Ray and all the models.”
“That was an accident,” said Jake, grinning. “They must realize that. I mean, I gathered up the models of the ray and the actual big one itself and was all set to load them aboard a shuttle craft. Somehow, though, I put them into the disposal shaft instead and sent them off into the depths of space.”
“The government feels the ray could have been put to good use, peaceful stuff.”
“What a pity I was such a butterfingers,” said Jake. “I’d like to have seen them peacefully using a death ray.”