by J F Bone
“Of course. The fleet’s been informed. I’ve already sent message torps, sir. It’s too bad that they’re on maneuvers and under communication silence—but they should get the message early tomorrow. But we didn’t know. Central clamped on a security blackout and our agents couldn’t get messages out.”
“Tomorrow!” Varden exploded. “This message says two days!”
“I know, sir—but that’s the first sign we have had the Confederation was considering action against us. You could accede to their demands if you don’t feel up to tackling the Grand Fleet.
“Do you think I’ll crawl to them?” Varden roared.
“I suppose not, sir, but two days is a short time. We’re going to be at a disadvantage.”
“I know,” Varden said. “But if we get the ships here in time—”
“It’ll still be messy.”
“Well, then—what do you suggest?”
“I’d suggest that you resign. That’d satisfy the Confederation. You could always resume control later.”
“It’s no good. With this bunch of power-grabbers at the top I’d never make it. Besides the Confederation wants my scalp!” Varden looked unhappy. “What did I do to provoke them to action like this?”
“The Krishnan government protested?”
“No—it’s something else. That takeover went strictly according to plan. I’d bet it was the Firemen. This smells like their work. But why? We were careful not to provoke anyone.”
“Probably they thought that if you succeeded with Krishna, you could succeed again,” Ballerd said, “and every other would-be emperor in the Confederation would try to follow your footsteps. You’re just the horrible example. You can’t be allowed to succeed. The Union is no worse than many other tyrannies except for one thing. It’s successful! And that success is due to you. You are the Union. Without you its ambitions would be limited and in time it would degenerate into just another oligarchy—too obsessed with its petty internal affairs to become troublesome. But with you at its head, the Union is a four alarm fire that can wreck the Confederation. If you had been content with this world, then we would have been content with you, but your profile is a conqueror’s. And of course we can’t allow conquest to succeed. It disrupts the peace.”
Comprehension and fury chased each other across Varden’s face. “We?” he exploded. “Us?—You dirty spy!”
Ballerd shook his head. “Fireman,” he corrected.
Varden’s hand slapped his desk.
Ballerd watched—motionless. Nothing happened.
Varden reached for his jacket.
“Hold it!” Ballerd’s voice was sharp. The gun was in his hand.
Varden looked with blankfaced surprise. “But—you’ve been searched. His expression turned to one of horror as he looked past Ballerd at the hall.
There was a half sad, half cruel smile on Ballerd’s face. “You have a lot to learn but you’re getting the idea,” he said as he squeezed the trigger.
The expression of surprise was still on Varden’s face as he fell.
Ballerd spun around to face the open door. A duplicate Varden was standing there, gun in hand, indecision on his face. “Dammit, man,” Ballerd gritted, “you know what to do! Get it over!”
Flame blossomed in the synthetic Varden’s hand. A crushing blow hit Ballerd in the chest. And everything went dark . . .
It was like floating upward out of a pit of ink. Slowly there was movement, light, sound—and pain. But the pain wasn’t unbearable.
“Thank God,” someone said.
“I was afraid that it was too low. He’ll live but it was close—damned close!”
Someone was crying. He opened his eyes. Annalee was bending over him and the expression on her face was radiant.
“Well—” he asked, “did it work?”
“Perfectly. You looked convincingly dead, and Varden—our Varden—liquidated Suzuke before he could investigate. Accused him of criminal carelessness in letting the automatics fail, and letting an assassin like you get that close to him. But he’s having a hard time keeping things under control. He isn’t the leader type. He’ll have to be replaced. He was the best we had at the time.”
“Did you get Varden out?”
She nodded. “It worked just like you figured. With you supposedly dead and Suzuke liquidated, the Committee went into a king-sized flip. He went out with the bodies and nobody thought a thing about it until it was too late, and what with our boy threatening hellfire and damnation, everyone was too glad to save his skin without worrying too much about an extra body. But they’ll start thinking pretty soon unless someone gets out there who can run things. Our lad can’t.”
“Who’s been picked?”
“Guess—Just why do you think we were so eager for, you to survive?”
“Not me. I want no part of it!”
“You have no choice. It’s tissuemold for you tomorrow, my lad, then off to Vishnu. We’ve got a slick transfer scheme all worked out. And, incidentally, you’ve added a new tactic. The chief’s all worked up about it. Don’t assassinate, replace, and you’re the guinea pig. Better do a good job.”
Ballerd shrugged. Tissuemold had restored his smashed shoulder. He was as good as new. “Take care of Varden,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” said Annalee, “he’s getting a complete reorientation. When they’re through with him, he’ll be a better fireman than either of us. That was another idea that clicked. Someday you’re going to be sitting behind a big desk here at Earth Central giving orders. You have the executive mentality, and running Vishnu should help develop it.”
“God forbid, but if so, I shall need a secretary.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?” Annalee asked.
THE END
NOBLE REDMAN
It was a big joke on all concerned. When you look back, the whole thing really began because his father had a sense of humor. Oh, the name fit all right, but can you imagine naming your son . . .
A PAIR of words I heartily detest are noble and redman, particularly when they occur together. Some of my egghead friends from the Hub tell me that I shouldn’t, since they’re merely an ancient colloquialism used to describe a race of aborigines on the American land mass.
The American land mass? Where? Why—on Earth, of course—where would ancestors come from? Yes—I know it’s not nice to mention that word. It’s an obscenity. No one likes to be reminded that his ancestors came from there. It’s like calling a man a son of a sloat. But it’s the truth. Our ancestors came from Earth and nothing we can do is going to change it. And despite the fact that we’re the rulers of a good sized segment of the galaxy, we’re nothing but transplanted Earthmen.
I suppose I’m no better than most of the citizens you find along the peripheral strips of Martian dome cities. But I might have been if it hadn’t been for Noble Redman. No—not the noble redman—just Noble Redman. It’s a name, not a description, although as a description his surname could apply, since he was red. His skin was red, his hair was red, his eyes had reddish flecks in their irises, and their whites were red like they were inflamed. Even his teeth had a reddish tinge. Damndest guy I ever saw. Redman was descriptive enough—but Noble! Ha! that character had all the nobility of a Sand Nan—.
I met him in Marsport. I was fairly well-heeled, having just finished guiding a couple of Centaurian tourists through the ruins of K’nar. They didn’t believe me when I told them to watch out for Sand Nans. Claimed that there were no such things. They were kinda violent about it. Superstition—they said. So when the Nan heaved itself up out of the sand, they weren’t ready at all. They froze long enough for it to get in two shots with its stingers. They were paralyzed of course, but I wasn’t, and a Nan isn’t quick enough to hit a running target. So I was out of range when the Nan turned its attention to the Centaurians and started to feed. I took a few pictures of the Nan finishing off the second tourist—the female one. It wasn’t very pretty, but you learn to keep a camera handy whe
n you’re a guide. It gets you out of all sorts of legal complications later. The real bad thing about it was that the woman must have gotten stuck with an unripe stinger because she didn’t go quietly like her mate. She kept screaming right up to the end. I felt bad about it, but there wasn’t anything I could do. You don’t argue with a Nan without a blaster, and the Park Service doesn’t allow weapons in Galactic Parks.
Despite the fact that I had our conversation on tape and pictures to prove what happened, the Park cops took a dim view of the whole affair. They cancelled my license, but what the hell—I wasn’t cut out for a guide. So when I got back to Marsport, I put in a claim for my fee, and since their money had gone into the Nan with them, the Claims Court allowed that I had the right to garnishee the deceaseds’ personal property, which I did. So I was richer by one Starflite class yacht, a couple of hundred ounces of industrial gold, and a lot of personal effects which I sold to Abe Feldstein for a hundred and fifty munits.
Abe wasn’t very generous, but what’s a Martian to do with Centaurian gear? Nothing those midgets use is adaptable to us. Even their yacht, a six passenger job, would barely hold three normal-sized people and they’d be cramped as kampas in a can. But the hull and drives were in good shape and I figured that if I sunk a couple of thousand munits into remodelling, the ship’d sell for at least twenty thousand—if I could find someone who wanted a three passenger job. That was the problem.
Abe offered me five thousand for her as she stood—but I wasn’t having any—at least not until I’d gotten rid of the gold in her fuel reels. That stuff’s worth money to the spacelines—about fifty munits per ounce. It’s better even than lead as fuel—doesn’t clog the tubes and gives better acceleration.
Well—like I said—I was flusher than I had been since Triworld Freight Lines ran afoul of the cops on Callisto for smuggling tekla nuts. So I went down to Otto’s place on the strip to wash some of that Dryland dust off my tonsils. And that’s where I met Redman.
He came up the street from the South airlock—a big fellow—walking kinda unsteady, his respirator hanging from his thick neck. He was burned a dark reddish black from the Dryland sun and looked like he was on his last legs when he turned into Otto’s. He staggered up to the bar.
“Water,” he said.
Otto passed him a pitcher and damned if the guy didn’t drink it straight down!
“That’ll be ten munits,” Otto said.
“For water?” the man asked.
“You’re on Mars,” Otto reminded him.
“Oh,” the big fellow said, and jerked a few lumps of yellow metal out of a pocket and dropped it on the bar. “Will this do?” he asked.
Otto’s eyes damn near bulged out of their sockets. “Where’d you get that stuff?” he demanded. “That’s gold!”
“I know.”
“It’ll do fine.” Otto picked out a piece that musta weighed an ounce. “Have another pitcher.”
“That’s enough,” the big fellow said. “Keep the change.”
“Yes, sir!” You’da thought from Otto’s voice that he was talking to the Prince Regent. “Just where did you say you found it.”
“I didn’t say. But I found it out there.” He waved a thick arm in the direction of the Drylands.
By this time a couple of sharpies sitting at one of the tables pricked up their ears, removed their pants from their chairs and began closing in. But I beat them to it.
“My name’s Wallingford,” I said. “Cyril Wallingford.”
“So what?” he snaps.
“So if you don’t watch out you’ll be laying in an alley with all that nice yellow stuff in someone else’s pocket.”
“I can take care of myself,” he said.
“I don’t doubt it,” I said, looking at the mass of him. He was sure king-sized. “But even a guy as big as you is cold meat for a little guy with a Kelly.”
He looked at me a bit more friendly. “Maybe I’m wrong about you, friend. But you look shifty.”
“I’ll admit my face isn’t my fortune,” I said sticking out what little chin I had and looking indignant. “But I’m honest. Ask anyone here.” I looked around. There were three men in the place I didn’t have something on, and I was faster than they. I was a fair hand with a Kelly in those days and I had a reputation. There was a chorus of nods and the big fellow looked satisfied. He stuck out a hamsized hand.
“Me name’s Redman,” he said. “Noble Redman. My father had a sense of humor.” He grinned at me, giving me a good view of his pink teeth.
I grinned back. “Glad to know you,” I replied. I gave the sharpies a hard look and they moved off and left us alone. The big fellow interested me. Fact is—anyone with money interested me—but I’m not stupid greedy. It took me about three minutes to spot him for a phony. Anyone who’s lived out in the Drylands knows that there just isn’t any gold there. Iron, sure, the whole desert’s filthy with it, but if there is anything higher on the periodic table than the rare earths, nobody had found it yet—and this guy with his light clothes, street boots and low capacity respirator—Hell! he couldn’t stay out there more than two days if he wanted to—and besides, the gold was refined. The lumps looked like they were cut off something bigger—a bar, for instance.
A bar!—a bar of gold! My brain started working. K’nar was about two days out, and there had always been rumors about Martian gold even though no one ever found any. Maybe this tourist had come through. If so, he was worth cultivating. For he was a tourist. He certainly wasn’t a citizen. There wasn’t a Martian alive with a skin like his. Redman—the name fitted all right. But what was his game? I couldn’t figure it. And the more I tried the less I succeeded. It was a certainty he was no prospector despite his burned skin. His hands gave him away. They were big and dirty, but the pink nails were smooth and the red palms soft and uncalloused. There wasn’t even a blister on them. He could have been fresh from the Mercury Penal Colony—but those guys were burned black—not red, and he didn’t have the hangdog look of an ex-con.
He talked about prospecting on Callisto—looking for heavy metals. Ha! There were fewer heavy metals on Callisto than there were on Mars. But he had listeners. His gold and the way he spent it drew them like honey draws flies. But finally I got the idea. Somehow, subtly, he turned the conversation around to gambling which was a subject everyone knew. That brought up tales of the old games, poker, faro, three card monte, blackjack, roulette—and crapshooting.
“I’ll bet there isn’t a dice game in town.” Redman said.
“You’d lose,” I answered. I had about all this maneuvering I could take. Bring it out in the open—see what this guy was after. Maybe I could get something out of it in the process. From the looks of his hands he was a pro. He could probably make dice and cards sing sweet music, and if he could I wanted to be with him when he did. The more I listened, the more I was sure he was setting something up.
“Where is this game?” he asked incuriously.
“Over Abie Feldstein’s hock-shop,” I said. “But it’s private. You have to know someone to get in.”
“You steering for it?” He asked.
I shook my head, half puzzled. I wasn’t quite certain what he meant.
“Are you touting for the game?” he asked.
The light dawned. But the terms he used! Archaic was the only word for them!
“No,” I said, “I’m not fronting for Abie. Fact is, if you want some friendly advice, stay outa there.”
“Why—the game crooked?”
There it was again, the old fashioned word. “Yes, it’s bowed,” I said. “It’s bowed like a sine wave—in both directions. Honesty isn’t one of Abie’s best policies.”
He suddenly looked eager. “Can I get in?” he asked.
“Not through me. I have no desire to watch a slaughter of the innocent. Hang onto your gold, Redman. It’s safer.” I kept watching him. His face smoothed out into an expressionless mask—a gambler’s face. “But if you’re really anxious,
there’s one of Abie’s fronts just coming in the door. Ask him, if you want to lose your shirt.”
“Thanks,” Redman said.
I didn’t wait to see what happened. I left Otto’s and laid a courseline for Abie’s. I wanted to be there before Redman arrived. Not only did I want an alibi, but I’d be in better position to sit in. Also I didn’t want a couple of Abie’s goons on my neck just in case Redman won. There was no better way to keep from getting old than to win too many munits in Abie’s games.
I’d already given Abie back fifty of the hundred and fifty he’d paid me for the Centaurians’ gear, and was starting in on the hundred when Redman walked in flanked by the frontman. He walked straight back to the dice table and stood beside it, watching the play. It was an oldstyle table built for six-faced dice, and operated on percentage—most of the time. It was a money-maker, which was the only reason Abie kept it. People liked these old-fashioned games. They were part of the Martian tradition. A couple of local citizens and a dozen tourists were crowded around it, and the diceman’s flat emotionless voice carried across the intermittent click and rattle of the dice across the green cloth surface.
I dropped out of the blackjack game after dropping another five munits, and headed slowly towards the dice table. One of the floormen looked at me curiously since I didn’t normally touch dice, but whatever he thought he kept to himself. I joined the crowd, and watched for awhile.
Redman was sitting in the game, betting at random. He played the field, come and don’t come, and occasionally number combinations. When it came his turn at the dice he made two passes, a seven and a four the hard way, let the pile build and crapped out on the next roll. Then he lost the dice with a seven after an eight. There was nothing unusual about it, except that after one run of the table I noticed that he won more than he lost. He was pocketing most of his winnings—but I was watching him close and keeping count. That was enough for me. I got into the game, followed his lead, duplicating his bets. And I won too.
People are sensitive. Pretty quick they began to see that Redman and I were winning and started to follow our leads. I gave them a dirty look and dropped out, and after four straight losses, Redman did likewise.