A Cosmic Christmas

by Hank Davis

  “And,” interrupted Kingman, “they are overconfident. They think that they’re big enough and clever enough to do as they damn well please!”

  “Indeed?”

  “Well, they’ve been doing it, haven’t they?”

  “We’ve seen no reason for interfering with their operations. And they are getting the messages through.”

  Kingman smiled. “How?”

  Hollister shrugged. “If you claim they aren’t using the station, I wouldn’t know.”

  “And if the government were to ask, you would be quite embarrassed.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” asked Hollister.

  “Venus Equilateral has failed to live up to the letter of its license, regardless of what medium they are using to relay communications around Sol,” said Kingman. “Therefore, I recommend that you suspend their license.”

  “And then who will run Venus Equilateral?” asked Hollister.

  “As of three years ago, the Terran Electric Company of Evanston, Illinois, received an option on the operation of an interplanetary communications company,” said Kingman. “This option was to operate at such a time as Venus Equilateral ceased operating. Now, since Venus Equilateral has failed, I suggest that we show them that their high-handedness will not be condoned. I recommend that this option be fulfilled; that the license now held by Venus Equilateral be suspended and turned over to Terran Electric.”

  Hollister nodded vaguely. “You understand that Venus Equilateral has posted as bond the holdings of the company. This of course will be forfeit if we choose to act. Now, Mr. Kingman, is the Terran Electric Company prepared to post a bond equivalent to the value of Venus Equilateral? Obviously, we cannot wrest holdings from one company and turn them over to another company free of bond. We must have bond—assurance that Terran Electric will fulfill the letter of the license.”

  “Naturally, we cannot post full bond,” replied Kingman stiffly. “But we will post sufficient bond to make the transfer possible. The remainder of the evaluation will revert to the Commission—as it was previously. I might point out that had Venus Equilateral kept their inventiveness and efforts directed only at communications, they would not be now in this position. It was their side interests that made their unsubsidized and free incorporation possible. I promise you that Terran Electric will never stoop to making a rubber-stamp group out of the Interplanetary Communications Commission.”

  Hollister thought for a moment. But instead of thinking of the ramifications of the deal, he was remembering that in his home was a medium-sized duplicator made by Terran Electric. It had a very low serial number and it had been delivered on consignment. It had been sent to him not as a gift, but as a customer-use research—to be paid for only if the customer were satisfied. Not only had Terran Electric been happy to accept the thousand-dollar bill made in the duplicator, but it had happily returned three hundred dollars’ worth of change—all with the same serial number. But since Hollister received his consignment along with the very first of such deliveries, he had prospered very well and had been very neatly situated by the time the desperate times of the Period of Duplication took place. Hollister recalled that Venus Equilateral wanted to suppress the duplicator. Hollister recalled also that Venus Equilateral had been rather tough on a certain magistrate in Buffalo, and though he thought that it was only a just treatment, it was nevertheless a deep and burning disrespect for the law.

  Besides, if this deal went through, Hollister would once more be a guiding hand in the operation of Venus Equilateral. He did believe that Channing and Franks could outdo Terran Electric any day in the week, but business is business. And if Kingman failed, the license could always be turned back to Channing & Co.—with himself still holding a large hunk of the pie.

  “You will post bond by certified identium check,” said Hollister. “And as the new holder of the license, we will tender you papers that will direct Venus Equilateral to hand over to you, as representative of Terran Electric, the holdings necessary to operate the Venus Equilateral Relay Station and other outlying equipment and stations.”

  Kingman nodded happily. His bit of personal graft had begun to pay off—though he of course did not consider his gift anything but a matter of furnishing to a deserving person a gratuity that worked no hardship on the giver.

  The bond annoyed Kingman. Even in an era when material holdings had little value, the posting of such securities as demanded left Kingman a poor man. Money, of course, was not wanted nor expected. What he handed over was a statement of the equivalent value on an identium check of the Terran Electric Company, his holdings in the Research Services Corporation, and just about everything he had in the way of items that could not be handled readily by the normal-sized duplicator. At Terran Electric, for instance, they had duplicators that could build a complete spacecraft if done in sections, and these monstrous machines were what kept Terran Electric from the cobweb-growing stage. A man could not build a house with the average household-sized duplicator, and to own one large enough to build automobiles and the like was foolish, for they were not needed that often. Kingman didn’t like to post that size of bond, but he felt certain that within a year he would be able to reestablish his free holdings in Terran Electric because of revenues from Venus Equilateral. Doubtless, too, there were many people on Venus Equilateral that he could hire—that he would need desperately.

  For Kingman had no intention of losing.

  * * *

  A duplicator produced snowflakes by the myriad and hurled them into the corridor ventilators. They swirled and skirled and piled into deep drifts at the corners and in cul-de-sacs along the way. A faint odor of pine needles went with the air, and from newly installed water pipes along the cornices long icicles were forming. There was the faint sound of sleigh bells along the corridors, but this was obviously synthetic since Venus Equilateral had little use for a horse.

  Kids who had never seen snow nor known a cold snap reveled in their new snowsuits and built a huge snowman along the Mall. One long ramp that led into a snaky corridor was taken over by squatters—or rather “sledders”—rights and it became downright dangerous for a pedestrian to try to keep his ankles away from the speeding sleds. Snow forts were erected on either side of one wide corridor and the air was filled with flying snowballs.

  And from the stationwide public announcement system came the crooned strains of “Adeste Fideles” and “White Christmas.”

  A snowball hissed past Arden’s ear and she turned abruptly to give argument. She was met by another that caught her full in the face—after which it was wiped off by her husband.

  “Merry Christmas,” he chuckled.

  “Not very,” she said, but she could not help but smile back at him. When he finished wiping her face Arden neatly dropped a handful of snow down his collar. He retaliated by scooping a huge block out of a nearby drift and letting it drape over her head. Arden pushed him backward into a snowbank and leaped on him and shoveled snow with both hands until her hands stung with cold and Don was completely covered.

  Channing climbed out of the drift as Arden raced away. He gave chase, though both of them were laughing too much to do much running. He caught her a few hundred feet down the hall and tackled her, bringing her down in another drift. As he was piling snow on her, he became the focal point of a veritable barrage from behind, which drove him to cover behind a girder. His assailants deployed and flushed him from behind his cover, and he stood in the center of a large square area being pelted from all sides.

  Channing found a handkerchief and waved it as surrender.

  The pelting slowed a bit, and Channing took that time to race to one side, join Jim Baler, and hurl some snowballs at Barney Carroll across the square. That evened things, and the snow fight was joined by Arden, who arose from her snowdrift to join Barney Carroll and Keg Johnson.

  “We used to freeze ’em,” grunted Don.

  “Me too,” Jim agreed. “These things wouldn’t stop a fly.”

 
Then down the corridor there hurtled a snowball a good two feet in diameter. It caught Channing between the shoulder blades and flattened him completely. Baler turned just in time to stop another one with the pit of his stomach. He went “Oooof!” and landed in the drift beside Don. Another huge one went over their heads as Don was rising, and he saw it splat against a wall to shower Barney Carroll and Arden with bits.

  “Those would,” remarked Don. “And if Walt weren’t honeymooning somewhere, I’d suspect that our Captain Lightning had just hauled off and reinvented the ancient Roman catapult.”

  “There’s always Wes Farrell, or does the physicist in him make him eschew such anachronisms?” asked Jim.

  Arden scurried across the square in time to hear him, and she replied, “Not at all. So long as the thing is powered by a new spring alloy and charged by a servo-mechanism run by a beam energy tube. Bet he packs ’em with an automatic packing gadget, too.”

  Barney caught one across the knees that tripped him headlong as he crossed the square. He arrived grunting and grinning. “We can either take it idly,” he said, “or retreat in disorder, or storm whatever ramparts he has back there.”

  “I dislike to retreat in disorder,” said Channing. “Seems to me that we can get under that siege gun of his. He must take time to reload. Keep low, fellers, and pack yourself a goodly load of snowballs as we go.”

  “How to carry ’em?” Arden asked.

  Don stripped off his muffler, and made a sling of it. Then down the corridor they went, dodging the huge snowballs that came flying over at regular intervals. Channing finally timed the interval, and they raced forward in clear periods and took cover when fire was expected.

  They came upon Farrell eventually. He was “dug in” behind a huge drift over which the big missiles came looping. Farrell had obviously cut the power of his catapult to take care of the short-range trajectory, but his aim was still excellent.

  With as many snowballs as they could carry, the attackers stormed the drift, pelting without aim until their supply was gone and then scooping snow up and throwing without much packing.

  Behind the rampart was Farrell with a trough-shaped gadget and a pair of heavy coil springs. Above the rear end of the trough was a duplicator. It dropped a snowball on the trough and the springs snapped forward.

  The flying ball caught Don Channing in the pit of the stomach just as he attained the top of the rampart.

  When he regained the top once more, the festivities were about over. The shooting was stopped, and the others of his side had Farrell held face upward on the trough while the duplicator dropped snowball after snowball on him.

  “Wonder how far we could shoot him,” suggested Jim Baler.

  Farrell did not think that funny. He struggled to his feet and then grinned. “Fine war,” he told them. “Anybody ready for a bit of hot toddy?”

  Channing grunted. “Yeah, and a hot bath and a hearty dinner and a seven-hour sleep. So you’ve taken over Walt’s job of making weapons, huh?”

  “Walt will be green with envy,” said Arden.

  Don sobered. “He’s missing plenty. I’ve got all the word out that if he’s seen, get here quick. He must have dropped the Relay Girl in some out-of-the-way place. He hasn’t landed on any regular spaceport.”

  “There’s lots of room for that in the Palanortis Country,” said Farrell.

  “We’ve got likker and wassail and turkey,” said Arden. “Also mistletoe. Let’s go to our place and drink Walt’s health and Christine’s happiness.”

  “And that’s appropriately apportioned,” remarked Don with a grin. “Walt’s health and Christine’s happiness. But I’ll bet a hat that they’d not mind being cold if they knew what fun this is.” He brushed snow from the back of his neck and grinned. “Let’s add fuel for the inner man,” he suggested, leading the way to the Channing apartment.

  Walt Franks sat dully in a chair, his eyes glazed over and but half-open. Through them dimly, and out of focus, he could see Christine, who was huddled and quiet under the blankets. Her lips were blue and Walt felt dully that this should not be so but had trouble remembering why. There was but one thought in his mind, and that was to awaken Christine before he himself fell asleep. They’d been doing that for—for—for years? No, that was not right. It must have been days, because he hadn’t been living with Christine for years. Fact, he hadn’t really lived with Christine at all; he’d just found her when this all happened—and—and—

  He shook himself, and the motion hurt inside and outside. His muscles ached and where his skin touched a bit of clothing that hadn’t been against his skin before, it was bitterly cold. Quickly Walt opened his hands and then drew out his left hand from the pocket and took a quick look at his wristwatch. He stuffed his hand back in again quickly and tried to stand up.

  His legs were numb and he almost fell forward, which carried him where he wanted to go anyway, so he just let himself stumble forward heartlessly until he fell on his knees beside the couch.

  “Christine,” he mumbled.

  To himself, his voice sounded loud, but it was faint and cracked. It hurt his lips to move, but he moved them for Christine, where he would have moved them for no one else.

  “Christine,” he said, a bit more clearly and loudly on the second attempt. “Christine!”

  Dull eyes opened and cracked lips smiled faintly and painfully.

  “Mus’ wake up,” he warned.

  She nodded—painfully slowly. She made no effort to move.

  Walt stood up and made his way to the accursed feeding machine. He pressed the button and collected dollops of hot food in a shallow bowl. It was a mess because coffee mingled with the many other items of a fine balanced diet, including appetizer and dessert, made just that—a mess. But it was hot and it was food, and though there was not a single bit of silverware in the place, Walt managed. He carried the bowl to the couch and offered it to Christine, who protestingly permitted Walt to feed her with his fingers. She did not eat much, but it did warm her. Then Walt finished the plate.

  Christine shuddered under the blankets. “Suits losing ground?” she asked.

  Walt nodded pitifully.

  Christine thought that over for a full minute. Then she said: “Must get up, Walt.”

  Walt wanted to let her stay there, but he knew that she must arise and move in order to keep from freezing. He nodded dumbly.

  “Losing ground,” he said, meaning the heated suits. Minutes he considered it. Long minutes . . .

  There was suddenly a faint crackling noise, and a pungent odor. It increased without either of them noticing it because their senses were numbed. A curl of smoke wreathed Walt’s chest and rose above his face and got into his eyes. He coughed and tears came, and the salty water dribbled down his cheeks, dropped to his suit, and froze.

  “Something burning,” he mumbled, looking around to see what it was.

  “It’s you!” cried Christine.

  Walt looked down at his hip, where the tiny power tube was, and saw it smoking. As he watched, flame burst from the inside and came through.

  He shucked the suit just as it burst into open flames, and watched it burn on the metal floor. He warmed himself against the flames, but they were too meager to really help, and five minutes later all that was left of the heated suit was a still-operating power tube and a tangled maze of red-hot heater-resistance wire.

  Walt shivered. Beneath the suit he wore the usual slacks and short-sleeved shirt, and it was pitifully inadequate. The dullness that had been assailing him for hours reasserted itself—strengthened by the exertion of removing the suit—and helped not at all by the scant warmth from the charred remains.

  He reeled dizzily, his eyes half-closed, beads of ice from the tears on his lashes gave the scene a dazzlingly sparkling tone that prevented him from seeing clearly.

  He fell forward and his body twitched violently as his skin touched the viciously cold metal of the floor.

  Christine hurled the covers ba
ck and with great effort pulled and lifted Walt onto the couch. She covered him and then leaned down and kissed him with dry, cracked lips. As she stood up, she felt a spear of pain at her side.

  Looking, she found her suit on fire as Walt’s had been. As she fumbled with cold fingers at the fastenings, she realized that only the added warmth of the blankets had kept both suits from burning out at the same time. For they were duplicated models and were identical, therefore, they would burn out at exactly the same temperature.

  She shivered in her thin summer frock even though she stood with the flames licking at her sandals.

  Then there were two useless tangles of wire on the floor, their red-hot wires struggling hopelessly against the monstrous quantity of cold.

  Christine shuddered convulsively, and turned slowly to look at Walt. He was asleep already.

  The sleep of frozen death.

  Christine’s eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away quickly. She smiled faintly.

  It seemed warmer under the blankets, or maybe it was warmer there beside him. His arm went around her instinctively, though he slept, and Christine pressed against him partly to gain what warmth there was from him and partly to give him what warmth there was in her.

  It was warmer beneath the blankets.

  Or, she thought just before the dizzying but welcome waves of black slumber crept over her, this is that feeling of warmth that goes before—

  * * *

  “Now that,” said Arden with complimentary tones, “is something that duplicating can’t buy.”

  She meant the twenty-piece orchestra that filled the vast hall with music. It was an immense place, for it contained three thousand people, all talking or dancing. Joe presided over a bowl of punch that would have made Nero die of jealousy—it was platinum, fifteen feet in diameter, studded profusely with huge gold chasings and inlays, and positively alive with diamonds and emeralds. On the edge of the huge bowl hung Joe’s original sign, and Joe handled a huge silver ladle to scoop the highly charged punch into small gold cups.