Forgotten Fiction

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Forgotten Fiction Page 69

by Lloyd Eshbach


  He drew the Fuzzy from his jacket, felt its pulsing life beneath the infinitely soft fur—fur whose hairs were so incredibly fine that they formed almost perfect insula t i o n against cold or heat—necessary on a planet like Mars where temperature ranged from above freezing to fifty below zero Centigrade.

  “Nathan,” Landis said slowly, “I’d better leave you out of this. Understand, I don’t like this business either—but it’s a job that has to be done. You understand, don’t you?”

  There was no answer. Landis reddened. He felt silly, talking like this to an unresponsive ball of fur—but so much depended on the Fuzzy.

  With a scowl and a shrug he placed the creature in a niche in the wall.

  He patted the gun at his hip. He had carried it ever since landing on Ganymede—but now it was loaded! Grim faced Ken opened the doorway in his half of the shelter and touched the button in the facing wall which opened the door from the outside except when locked from within. Now it flashed a green signal inside telling of the arrival of company. Normally it would be opened instantly by a prospector eager for sight of a human face; and Landis grinned in sardonic anticipation of the shock he’d see in Swain’s.

  The door did not open. Instead, a faint voice said: “Go away, Landis. You don’t want to see me.”

  Landis grimaced. Swain knew through his Fuzzy, of course. “You mean you don’t want to see me—and you know why! But you’ll see me anyway. Open up or I’ll blast a hole in the door!”

  It was an idle threat, as both men must know, since no armament that Landis would logically be carrying could penetrate the shell of the half-blister. But Swain’s voice answered, “Have it your way.” After a brief pause the door slid aside.

  Landis crouched, gun in hand. But he did not shoot. Instead, he stared angrily down at Herb Swain, sprawling awkwardly on the narrow cot with which the shelter was equipped. His face was pale, what could be seen above his black whiskers, and there was a feverish light in his dark eyes.

  “Imagine meeting you here,” he said mockingly. “I’d ask you to come in and sit down but my quarters are rather cramped.”

  “Get up!” Landis roared. “It’s taken me a year to catch you—but your running days are over. This time my gun is loaded!”

  Swain said evenly, “Unfortunately I’m unarmed. Richard—that’s my Fuzzy—objects to weapons.” He made no attempt to rise.

  Rage ran through Landis, barely held in check. “Yellow,” he sneered. “You figured some day we’d meet—and you’re depending on my having scruples about shooting an unarmed man.” He halted, breathing hard. “You had no such scruples. Why should I?”

  Swain’s eyes met his and they did not waver. He smiled faintly, though there was only a stark realization of death’s nearness in his gaze. “Following that line of thought I guess there’s no reason why you should. Go ahead and shoot. I won’t haunt you.”

  For moments Swain’s life hung on a thin thread. More than anything else Landis wanted to shoot—but he couldn’t. Suddenly he flung the weapon aside.

  “Okay, then. Hand to hand. It’s better than you deserve—but I’ll give you a break you never gave me. Now get up!

  Or must I drag you up?”

  Swain’s lips drew into a hard thin line. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he reached a sitting position. Slowly he arose to his feet, the veins pulsing violently in his throat as though he were drawing upon every latent resource—and abruptly, with a stifled groan, he collapsed!

  Landis, fists clenched in readiness, leaped forward with a cry of consternation.

  No doubt about it—Swain was out, cold! Effortlessly, in Ganymede’s weak gravity, he caught him up and placed him on his cot. Swiftly he examined him; found the trouble in moments. His left leg, just below the knee, was splotched with greenish-purple and was swollen to twice its normal size. A bad break, unquestionably. And he’d had the guts to stand up on it! Had somehow been able to get inside his shelter after he’d broken his leg, had gotten out of suit, had put it away, and had managed to get his cot out of the wall. Grudging respect replaced some of Landis’ wrath.

  Slowly he straightened and looked down at the unconscious man who had been the object of his hatred for so long a time. Then he turned toward the Fuzzy in its niche in the wall.

  Ruefully he said, “So this is why you brought me here! I should have known there was a joker in the deck.”

  Again he looked at Swain, then shrugged resignedly.

  Swiftly he sat to work in the marvelously compact quarters of his shelter. Water came from the base of the half-blister, automatically taken from the ice of Ganymede, which, through electrolysis, also provided the air he breathed. He set two vessels of water to heating on tiny intra-red units, one for coffee, the other to bathe that fractured leg.

  Swain came to his senses while he worked on the injured limb. He said mockingly, “I suppose you know I didn’t really pass out. I faked it to get out of fighting.”

  Landis nodded. “Sure. I’m letting you get away with it because it’ll be a lot more satisfaction to beat up a well man than a cripple. I wouldn’t take advantage of a rat or weasel—or even just plain skunk.” He could feel Swain stiffen but he didn’t look at him.

  With the leg bathed and wrapped as best he could do it, Landis approached the injured man with freshly brewed coffee and some food concentrate. “Here,” he said tersely, “swallow this. I want you to live till I get you back to Center City.”

  “Center City?” Swain’s voice faltered. “You’re not going to—”

  “I’m dragging you back! You don’t suppose I’d let you get away from me now, do you? Not when I’ve been on your trail as long as I have. Now drink this and shut up.”

  “It’s probably poisoned,” Swain growled. But he drank the coffee and ate the food.

  After Landis himself had eaten, he got out some of the mineral salts which the Fuzzies—absorbed—and put the required amounts of it in the niches that held Nathan and Richard. Then drawing his own cot from its compartment, he dropped on it and took a much needed nap.

  He awoke about six hours later. Swain’s condition seemed unchanged. He fed him and the Fuzzies, ate, and prepared to travel. He encountered some minor complications because he now had to haul a full blister behind him; but his exit from the shelter was finally accomplished without mishap; it was again sealed and the hemisphere was clamped to his suit. The hauling wasn’t as difficult as might be supposed, since the weak gravity multiplied his strength and endurance.

  As he plodded along under Nathan’s direction, Ken Landis was barely conscious of the keening wind, swirling snow and endless white plain. His thoughts were on the man in the shelter behind him. He reviewed again, as he bad done many times before, the incidents leading up to the shooting which had sent him to the hospital.

  The quarrel had started in the office of the Registrar of Claims in Center City. There had been three of them in the fracas at first. There had been difficulty about their claims overlapping. Swain had been first to report in, his Fuzzy sending in the position of the claim from the field. He had been second, and the third man—he couldn’t recall his name—had been last. When the argument began in the Claims office, this third man had stepped out of the picture, saying he’d be satisfied with that portion of his claim which did not infringe on the other two. Neither he nor Swain had been willing to agree to any such arrangement. The quarrel had continued after they had left the office; and they had finally agreed to go outside the city and settle the matter as such affairs are usually settled in frontier regions.

  It was only when they were shooting that Landis discovered that his gun had been emptied—and by that time it was too late for him to do anything about it. Between the cold, loss of air, and his wounds, he’d been in pretty bad shape. Swain had taken him inside the City, saving his life; but it had taken a long time for him to recover. As he thought of that seemingly endless siege, his expression grew grim and he vowed anew that he’d give Swain all he had coming t
o him.

  Landis became aware of the distressed thought of his Fuzzy. There was a more vigorous attitude of protest than ever before. It irritated Landis. Didn’t these beings have a sense of justice?

  The answer formed sharply in his mind: “Of course we do.”

  “Then how can you condone Swain’s removing the shells from my gun?”

  “We do not,” came the clear thought. “He did not.”

  “What!” Landis cried. “Then who did?”

  “The other man with a crystal claim. His name was Tully. His claim was involved with yours only, not with Swain’s. He wanted you to die.” There was a momentary pause. “His Fuzzy left him. He is dead.”

  With his thoughts in a turmoil, Landis halted, stood still. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I might have shot Swain.”

  “You did not ask.”

  Uncertainly, Landis stared back at the metal dome. He thought of Swain, of the, till then, strange contradictions in his character. What should he do?

  The quiet answer came from Nathan. “Richard says Swain is badly in need of the attention of a physician. And we have not very far to go.”

  With new vigor Ken Landis strode ahead, putting every ounce of available energy into the effort. The white miles passed swiftly. As he strode on, the dry ice storm ceased abruptly in one of those excessively rare times when a part of Ganymede enjoys a brief period of calm. And near the horizon he saw Center City.

  Minutes later he and the merged half-blisters were within the shelter of the huge metal dome. Even before the frost crystals had ceased sprouting on his suit, he was out of the pondrous thing, ready to dash for a doctor. He faced the gate attendant. “Quick—a doctor!” he exclaimed. “There’s an injured man in the blister.”

  The other nodded imperturbably. “An ambulance is already on its way. Your Fuzzy relayed your message a while ago.”

  “Oh.” Landis raised an eyebrow. He should have thought of that. “Good. And you’ll see to the gear, as usual. Charge everything to me—Ken Landis, License 4669. Five percent for yourself, naturally.”

  The attendant smiled enthusiastically. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll give it my personal attention.”

  Moments later the ambulance appeared, and Landis stood helplessly by while efficient doctors and nurses got the injured man out of his half-blister and onto a stretcher. He seemed to be unconscious. Just before they bore him into the ambulance he opened his eyes and looked at Landis with a grin. “So long, sucker,” he said with a feeble wave of his hand.

  Grinning in turn, Landis waved and turned away, heading toward the office of the Registrar of Claims. He had a claim to file this time that would really create a stir—one of the richest, according to Nathan, that had ever been found.

  “Hello, Landis,” the clerk greeted him. “Here to confirm your claim, eh? We have the preliminary report from your Fuzzy? It’s in the clear. Any changes?”

  “None on the position, of course. Nathan’s figures stand. But I want this one filed in my name and my partner’s, Herb Swain. Fifty-fifty.”

  The clerk looked at Landis respectfully. “Say—you fellows are really hitting it big! The checker’s report on the other claim show it’s unusually rich.”

  Landis stared uncomprehendingly. “The other claim?”

  “Sure—the one Swain’s Fuzzy filed a couple of weeks ago. Hasn’t been in to confirm it yet. In his name and yours—equal shares.”

  For moments Landis stared dumbly, then realizing how odd he must appear, he nodded briefly. “Yeah—a good claim,” he mumbled, and turning, hastily left the office.

  Outside he paused and took a deep breath.

  His hand reached up and touched the downy fur of the Fuzzy in his pocket—the Fuzzy which, in common with all Fuzzies, liked only likeable people—and abhored violence and the thought of violence. The Fuzzy which must be intelligent, and about which Terrans knew so very little . . .

  “Nathan,” Landis said with mock severity, “I’ll bet you and Richard planned this entire deal—from start to finish. Didn’t you?”

  Nathan’s thought held a trace of indignation. “We had nothing to do with Swain’s broken leg. He stepped into a fissure in the ice.” There was a pause. “He has reached the hospital now; and Richard says he would be pleased to see you.”

  “Oh yes!” Landis grinned broadly as he strode along the metal sidewalk. “I’d better see to it that my partner gets everything that’s coming to him.” His grin widened.

  “Thanks, Nathan, you fuzzy old fraud.”

  1988

  SISTER ABIGAIL’S COLLECTION

  He buried his wife with that pendant. So why was it in the pawn shop?

  Rob Moreland had walked past the pawnship countless times over the years and he knew it was there, of course; but ordinarily for him its dirty windows, screened by a heavy steel latticework, simply did not exist.

  Except today.

  It was the skull that caught his attention, impinging on the very edge of his perception. He halted, faced the window and peered through the dinginess. He moved closer for a better view. Unusual. A time-browned human skull skillfully encrusted with carefully fitted fragments of polished turquoise. Mexican, probably, and centuries old. Or possibly Mayan. Amazing, the skill of the primitive lapidaries; and strange to find this, a museum piece, in a pawnshop window.

  He appreciated good gem work. Gem polishing and silver smithing—jewelry making—was his hobby.

  He half turned away—spun back, staring. As he gazed, it seemed as though a hand had clutched his throat, cutting off his breath. His eyes widened in unbelief. It—couldn’t be!

  There on a strip of black felt amid a disordered spread of all sorts of jewelry was a beautiful oval pendant of pierced silver about three inches long. Set in its center was a large opal, flashing its vari-colored beauty even through the smudged glass, encircled by small, evenly spaced cabochons of alternating bright green and lavender jade. More-land stared at the pendant with total incredulity. It was beautiful—and he knew every stone, every construction detail—for he had made it himself—but it simply could not be there!

  Eight months ago he had buried his wife—and that pendant, her favorite jewel, on a Sterling chain and resting on her breast, had been buried with her.

  With features set in grim lines Rob Moreland entered the pawnshop, pausing momentarily inside the door. With a single glance he took in the crowded confusion of merchandise covering walls and filling cases, then strode up to the store’s single occupant, a short, heavy, dark-haired man standing behind a counter.

  “That opal pendant in the window—where did it come from?”

  Heavy brows lowered and the professional smile vanished. “That’s information we never give out. Are you interested—?”

  “Mister, that happens to be stolen goods.” Moreland’s tones were icy. “And don’t tell me I’m wrong. I made that piece and there’s not another like it in existence.”

  The pawnbroker forced a smile. “My friend, you must be wrong. The lady who brought it in is known to us—and she wouldn’t be the kind—”

  “Get it out of the window,” Moreland cut in. “Engraved on the back you’ll find the words, ‘For Ann—with all my love—Rob.’ “

  The man hesitated on the verge of protesting, then shrugged, opened the little door leading into the window and slid inside. Moreland’s thoughts raced. What was his next move? If he called the police what could he say? The implication would be dishonesty on the part of someone at the funeral home, the most respected in the city, and he really had no proof. One thing was certain. No matter what developed, he wouldn’t leave the piece here. He’d buy it if he had to—but he’d insist on getting the name and address of the woman who had brought it to the pawnshop. She must be the key. And he had to learn the answer to this impossible affair.

  The short man reappeared, his gaze fixed on the pendant cradled in one heavy hand. He nodded grudgingly. “That’s what it says,” then added defensively, �
��but that doesn’t prove it was stolen.” He changed the subject. “You do nice work, my friend.”

  Moreland’s eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “Mister, that pendant was buried with my wife in Pleasant View Memorial Park eight months ago!”

  The pawnbroker gasped, his eyes widening. Carefully he placed the jewel on a square of black velvet on the countertop. He pursed his heavy lips, obviously weighing the situation, then finally spoke.

  “My friend, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know what this is all about—and I don’t want to know. But first, who are you?”

  Moreland produced a business card. “I’m a lawyer. So what’s next?”

  The pawnbroker grimaced, then nodded. “All I want is to get my investment back. The woman sold it outright—she always does—and I gave her a hundred. I’ve been asking three but you can have it for the hundred.”

  Moreland grinned sardonically. “I’ll believe fifty. And I want the name and address of the woman. Otherwise I’ll call the police. Probably should anyway.”

  Discussion followed; it ended with Rob Moreland leaving with the silver pendant, a signed receipt, and an address: Amelia Lowry, 818 Waverley—a tree-lined street in the oldest and most respected part of town.

  As he continued on his interrupted way to his office, Moreland’s mind was in a turmoil. The several blocks’ walk did nothing to bring order to his thoughts. He greeted his secretary absently and entered his private office, closing the door behind him.

  He placed the opal-and-jade pendant on his desk and stared at it intently, as though to solve its secret by his concentration. His thoughts moved back to the funeral, eight months ago. Tears blurred his vision as he again felt his loss—the end of almost thirty years of happy companionship. He visualized the last moments in the funeral home—saw again the pendant on Ann’s breast, almost flamboyant in its vivid coloring, but her wish.

  And then, sudden as a bell sounding he recalled Ann’s cousin taking pictures—ghoulish, he had thought at the time. She had sent him a set of color prints; he remembered tossing them into a drawer. After a brief search he found the envelope and the picture that clearly showed the jewel. Sternly repressing any emotional reaction, he placed the single photograph in an envelope and slid it into an inside jacket pocket. Over the intercom he spoke to his secretary.

 

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