Look Out For Space (Seven For Space)

by William F. Nolan

  LOOK OUT FOR SPACE

  Book Two in the

  Seven For Space series

  by

  William F. Nolan

  Cover & Interior

  Illustrations by

  Ron Lemen

  Look Out for Space

  Copyright © 1985 by William F. Nolan

  Preface Copyright © 2008 by William F. Nolan

  Cover art ©2008 by Ron Lemen

  Interior illustrations ©2008 by Ron Lemen

  Additional interior illustration ©2008 Ed Roeder

  Creative services provided by The Creative Plantation

  Art direction & interior design (print edition) by Neil Uyetake

  Art direction & cover design by Ed Roeder

  Editing by Allison Bocksruker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any format without the permission of the author and publisher.

  CONTENTS

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About William F. Nolan

  Preface: "Welcome to Sam's Universe" by William F. Nolan

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fiction by William F. Nolan

  To Charles Holloway

  A good man.

  A good friend

  WILLIAM F. NOLAN is a prime example of the Renaissance Man. He has raced sports cars, acted in films and television, worked as a cartoonist for Hallmark Cards, been a biographer and playwright, narrated a Moon documentary, had his work selected for more than 300 anthologies and textbooks, taught creative writing at the college level, painted outdoor murals, designed book covers, operated his own art studio, created Mickey Mouse adventures for Walt Disney, been the conductor on a miniature railroad, been cited as a Living Legend by the International Horror guild, voted Author Emeritus by the SF Writers of America, won the Edgar Allan Poe Special Award twice, been cited by the American Library Association, has over 85 books to his credit (including 3 volumes of verse) ,served as a job counselor for the California State Department of Employment, prepared pamphlets on eye care, created his own TV series for CBS, written more than a dozen novels including the best-selling SF classic Logan's Run, performed as a lecturer and panelist at a variety of conventions, handled publicity for Image Power, Inc., has had 700 items printed in 250 magazines and newspapers (including 165 short stories), won numerous other awards, had 20 of his 40 scripts produced, and functioned as a literary critic and commercial artist.

  Welcome to Sam's Universe!

  The truly manic exploits of Sam Space were written over a 36-year period between a multitude of more rational books, scripts, stories, and articles. Sam's insane adventures encompass two short novels and five stories, all but the last narrated by Sam himself.

  When I finished Space For Hire back in December of 1970 I figured that I'd had my say about Sam. What kept bringing me back to him? Love, for one thing. Yeah, that's right, I loved conjuring up the big lug's madcap adventures. I'm very fond of Sam and his wacky universe of three-headed females and leaking robot dragons. I'm fond of nutty Nate Oliver and his goofy inventions. I enjoy writing about my talking mice on Jupiter (the mouse planet) , the sadly-reflective Zububirds of Pluto, and Sam's always-grumpy Martian hovercar. All great fun.

  More importantly, I think they also provide great fun for my readers. That's the goal of every writer — to please his or her audience.

  Sam is a guy to like. I like him, and if you're meeting him here for the first time, I think you'll like him too.

  Of course, if Dash Hammett had never invented an Francisco's Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon I would never have created his alter ego, Sam Space. So I owe a big debt to Mr. Hammett. Both detectives are tough, pragmatic, and sharp-minded.

  However, there are major differences …

  Space works out of Bubble City on Mars, and his cases are far wilder than anything Hammett's man may have dealt with in San Francisco. Sam Spade didn't lay eggs, or have to deal with triple-headed clients, evil Froggies, Moongoons, age machines, parallel universes(going to his own funeral was a shock) , stolen asteroids, and orgasmic machines. Nor did he have to run around trying to solve a case with his head on backwards.

  After two novels and five shorter tales, am I through writing about Sam? I believe I am. The contents of this book you hold in your hand represent his complete adventures.

  I've had my say. Now it's your turn to explore Sam's mad universe.

  Dive in.

  Enjoy!

  W.F.N.

  Bend, Oregon

  2007

  One

  The cell door crashed open, waking me, and I sat up, sniffling. Fat round tears rolled down my cheeks as I began to sob again. I had cried myself to sleep, and for a man as tough as I am that's a little degusting.

  A pair of snarling froggies dragged me from the bunk and hustled me down an onion-smelling corridor. Froggies are mean to deal with, since their reaction time is incredible. They know how to use those long tongues of theirs — and I didn't need another demonstration. I'll stack my speed in unholstering a .38 nitrocharge against any gink in the System, but they'd been faster — a lot faster.

  So here I was, gunless, handcuffed and sobbing like some sappy Earthbrat, being herded along the corridors of a Plutonian onion mine, on my way to see Mr. Big himself, the king lizard — outwardly known as Stanton P. Henshaw, the highly-respected shipping magnate

  Well, he wasn't always so highly respected. We'd tangled once before, when he'd tried to stiff me. But I got away clean. When I finally turned him over to the law, I figured the Big Lizard was permanently out of business. I was wrong. He bribed a furry-eared judge from the Dogstar Cluster. They both had tails. Which may have influenced the fact that Henshaw walked. No jail time. He just waltzed away, a free lizard. Anyhow, here I was, after him all over again, and not doing such a hot job of it.

  I dabbed at my tears with a shackled wrist as the lead froggie unlocked a door. He grunted me inside. Froggies don't talk, they grunt.

  And when they grunt, you jump. A wrong move and they'll use those tongues on you, sharp and edged like sandglass. My skin still burned from a tongue job.

  I was now inside a high-domed chamber carved from raw Plutonite, obviously one of Henshaw's undersurface meetdens. He was standing, motionless, beside a richly-finished nearoak antique desk, his back to us. I saw his big scaled-green ears twitch as I entered the room. A bad sign; it meant he was enraged.

  "Leave him," he said to the froggies, without turning.

  They grunted and let go of me. I staggered back against the door after it had closed, trying not to weep. It wasn't easy.

  Stanton Prentiss Henshaw swiveled around, and I read cruel hate in his flat-black lizard's eyes. "Did you really think I'd be fooled by a clumsy plasto job?"

  "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Henshaw," I said, choking back a sniffle.


  "You still claim mechanoid status?"

  "Of course, sir. I am Earth Work Robot number 555632249 J, manufactured in Much Greater Connecticut for commercial use in planetary mining operations within the System. I am extremely economical in that my self-adjusting atomic power unit allows me to operate without sleep."

  "Then why did you crap out on the cell bunk?" Scaled green lids slid down over Henshaw's cold eyes; he was baiting me, playing the line, knowing he could hook me when he was ready.

  "I was mauled and knocked about by two of your associates. As a result, my primary power source was affected and I drowsed off."

  Henshaw let out a short, barking lizard's laugh. "You were caught snooping in the fax files on Level G — and you were foolish enough to go for a .38 nitrocharge. Please tell me, what the hell kind of work robot packs a .38 under his armpit?"

  I remained silent, having no handy answer for that one.

  "You're a fake," declared Henshaw, sliding up to me and opening his industrial robe of office. A giant onion swung from his neck, held by a looped chain. He pushed the onion in my face.

  I burst into tears.

  "Robots don't cry!" he said, green lips smacking in triumph over the words.

  "My papers are in order," I sobbed brokenly. "My tears represent a simple malfunction. Nobody's perfect."

  "Hah!" Henshaw unzipped my worksuit from chin to navel and began to fumble at my chest plate.

  "Easy there, sir," I warned him. "You'll damage my wiring."

  "Hah!" he said again, and with a swift, clawing motion, he ripped loose my false chest plate, exposing pink Earthskin.

  Then he stepped back, for dramatic emphasis, and pointed a long green-nailed finger at me. "Admit it — you are Samuel T. Space, a low grade private op working out of Mars for my chief rival, Josiah Herman Rabarnack!"

  "At least Josh Rabarnack's a decent, law abiding Martian," I said in a cool tone, dropping my tinny servile robot's accent. "You're trying to ramrod your way to kingpin of the onion empire on ten planets, using corrupt practices and outright violence to eliminate your honest competitors. I was hired to prove it and I have my proof. In here." I tapped my skull. "I've seen enough in the last two Plutoperiods to send you back to the swamps along with your foul froggie friends, Henshaw."

  "Hah!" Again the short, barking lizard's laugh. "And do you think, for one Earthsecond, that I'll let you leave Pluto with this information? You'll die here, Mr. Space. Most horribly."

  "That I doubt, fella," I said beginning to weep again. "You made the mistake of calling off your froggies. When they left, and I stumbled back against the door, I locked it. So we're in here alone, big boy, just the two of us. If there's any dying to be done you'll be doing it because killing is one job I know a lot about."

  Henshaw didn't say anything more; his flat eyes glistened with fury as he came at me, claws extended. I still had the wrist grips on, but they didn't limit my action. When you're trained in seventeen forms of solar combat you don't let a lousy pair of grippers slow you down.

  As Henshaw charged in I dropped to one knee and used the ancient tried-and-true Mercurian headbutt thrust — which sent him reeling back across his nearoak desk. Moving swiftly, talking full advantage of the situation, I brought up both elbows in a tight arc, jabbing them into his stomach. His eyes bugged as he fought to breathe. With both my thumbs now closing off his windpipe, I figured to kill him.

  But I'd forgotten S.P. Henshaw's lethal appendage.

  I still had him by the throat when his long scaly tail whipped up, encircling my head. A hard jerk from the onion magnate and my choke-hold was broken. Suddenly I found myself slammed to the neardirt floor, a flat green lizard's foot on my neck.

  "You see, Mr. Space," he hissed, "I don't need the help of my froggies in attending to you. I am quite capable of dispatching you on my own. In another two micromoments your neck will snap like a Venusian breadstalk under the power of my foot."

  And he was right about that. It would have. Except that in two micromoments the door had melted and Police Sergeant Shaun O'Malley of Mars Homicide had lobbed a 206-F paralysis doughnut into the meetden.

  Stanton Prentiss Henshaw could not move a single muscle anywhere on his lizard's body.

  I slid out from my awkward position beneath his paralyzed foot and stood up to shake O'Malley's calloused hand. "We've had our differences, Sarge," I sobbed, tears cascading down my face, "but this time I owe you one."

  He brushed angrily at his misting eyes. The six Earthmen with him were all weeping openly. "How come," asked O'Malley, "you ain't stiffed like the big lizard?"

  "I've been injected against doughnut paralysis," I told him. "One of the precautions I take in my checkered profession."

  "Yeah," he growled, sniffing. You're some smart cookie."

  "Am I to take that as a compliment?"

  "Take it any way you like," O'Malley told me. He blew his nose into a large red police kerchief. "I'd say you're damn lucky we got here when we did."

  "I'd say so, too."

  "How'd you reach us, anyhow?"

  I tapped my hip. "Pelvic transmitter. Set into the lower part of my back just above the buttocks. When I exert a certain amount of pressure on either buttock it transmits a distress signal which, in this case, was homed into your office. I knew you'd hustle up here when you got my signal. I was sending it from my buttocks for quite a while. Before I finally dropped off to sleep, that is."

  "Why buzz Mars Homicide?" O'Malley wanted to know. "This case is way out of my jurisdiction."

  "Normally it would be," I sniffed, "but your scaly friend here is subject to Martian law. He's the —"

  O'Malley cut into my explanation with an oath. He swung his tousled Irish head toward the six men behind him. "Stop that damned sniveling, the lot of you!"

  "Sorry, Sarge," one of them said. "But all these lousy onions would make a brass monkey cry. Right, boys?"

  His five companions nodded, wet-eyed.

  "Just be quiet about it, then," snapped the Sergeant. "I want to hear what kinda info this cheap snoop has to offer."

  "Why do you hate private detectives so much?" I asked him. "I'd really like to know."

  "I don't have to tell you anything, Space," he said, dabbing at a tear. "It's you who's doin' the telling. Now spill!"

  "Okay, okay." I nodded. "As I was saying — Henshaw's the boy who arranged the Milo Hickam Petrovanny knock-off in Bubble City. First he tried a pressure play on Milo, but the guy wouldn't buckle under and sign over his Martian onion concessions. So Henshaw had him murdered. Which is where Mars Homicide comes into it. He's all yours now."

  "And I guess you got proof of this?"

  "Of this and a lot more. Enough to put away Mr. Henshaw for the rest of his unnatural life. I'd say the onion king has just lost his onions!"

  Two

  The big onion caper in chapter one has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this book, but I wanted to avoid starting out in my crummy office since too damn many cases start out in the detective's crummy office.

  On Mars. In Bubble City, where I grind for bread. What can I say about my office? It's cheap and seedy. Worn nearcarpet. A jammed flowdrawer in the faxfile. And my glowindow doesn't glo.

  But I make out okay. I'm not complaining. Sure, I get lonely sometimes. And depressed. But I'm in a lonely, depressing business. I don't get many jobs as colorful as the Milo Petrovanny onion case. Most of my time is spent on dull, routine capers such as uncovering a multidimensional star dodge tax racket on Ganymede, or doing a tail job one girdle importer from Outer Capella who runs off with the overweight underaged daughter of a rich but diseased Neptunian pork stuffer.

  Routine. Simon simple.

  But the case at hand, the one this book is all about, was anything but simple.

  I was faxfiling some plastic when he came in — my new client, that is. My office door is easy to walk through because it isn't there anymore; I sent it out for repair when a Moon Looney kicked it
into splinters during the last lunar eclipse. They go kind of wacko when this happens, so it didn't surprise me much. Anyhow, I sent the door out to be fixed and never bothered to pick it up. That was a long time ago — and explains why potential clients are always walking in when my backs turned. This one had a voice soft as an angel's eyelash. The first thing he said was, "Bless you, my son."

  Shutting the flowdrawer, I gave him a quick look-over. Earthborn, and on the tall side, maybe eight feet. Dressed in a long fur top velvcape. Colorless deadman's hands and a zealot's eyes, ringed with dark pouches. His white hair was wild and seemed to explode from his high skull. I pegged him for a freako and said, " I don't want any."

  "Want any what, my son?"

  "Any of whatever it is you're selling. And I'm not your son."

  "Ah, but we are, all of us in this great universe, sons and daughters, interconnected and ever flowing within the divine cosmic bloodline."

  "Look, just what are you peddling, Pops?"

  Storklike, he walked over to my cracked client's chair and folded down into it, arranging his velvcape so that it covered his skinny knees — which I appreciated since a freako's skinny knees inevitably turn me off.

  Then he said, "My wares are those of eternity. I sell blessings, Mr. Space."

  "You already laid a free one on me when you came in," I said, sitting behind my desk.

  "Ah, but I do not wish to sell you. Indeed, I wish to buy you. Or, that is to say, your services." Suiting action to words, he hauled out a fat wad of solarcredits, leaned forward and fanned them neatly across the front of my desk. A beautiful sight.

  For the first time, I grinned at him. "After this little display I'd ask you to sit down if you weren't already sitting. Since you are, I'll move on to the next two questions: who are you and why are you here?"

  "I am Brother Thaddius of the Universal Cosmic Church Realized. And I am here because I have lost something I wish to find. Private detectives find lost things, do they not?" His pouched eyes burned at me from his bony, wild-haired skull.

  "They do," I said.