Iron Head: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

by E. C. Tubb

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Is it? How long will it be before you and the other companies begin forming price-rings? What about the cartels and monopolies? Business doesn’t like competition, Harry, it’s bad for profits. A dictatorship doesn’t like competition, either. No, Harry. When a thing gets too big it goes bad. It loses the common touch and thinks in terms of units instead of men and women. Consolidated can take over the Belt, yes, but only as far as we let it.”

  “We?” He looked surprised. “Aren’t you going to retire? Go back to Earth and enjoy your money?”

  “Should I?”

  “Why not? Isn’t that what you wanted it for?”

  “Perhaps.” I stared at him. He was smiling, his eyes crinkled at the corners and, though he was dressed in expensive synthsilks, he looked just the same as when I had met him in Carmodine’s bar. “Am I still a fall guy, Harry?”

  “Isn’t that up to you, Jim?”

  “I’m not so sure. One man can’t beat a system, and one man can’t beat a company. Not even with a hundred thousand credits behind him. Suppose I stay here and do what I think should be done? Would I stand a chance?”

  “That’s up to you, Jim.” He smiled again, and then became serious. “You’re right about business, Jim. Nothing that is soulless can be trusted. No company means to be that way, but to survive at all they have to be ruthless. And they grow, Jim. They can’t help but grow. Success and growth go hand in hand. The danger is that they will grow too big. Something has to keep them in check. The law can’t do it; they operate within the law. Individuals can’t do it. Who cares for the grievance of a single man? The public must do it. The consumers and customers, the people who, though they never realise it, are more essential to the company than the company is to them. If the public let themselves be exploited then they must blame themselves, not the companies who do the exploiting.”

  He rose, and held out his hand.

  “Think about it, Jim. Society needs balance to remain healthy. Too much organisation is as bad as too little. Together the public and the companies can turn the Belt into a new world. But if one operates without the other, you’ll wind up with something not fit to live in. Do I have to tell you what should be done?”

  He left then and I smoked and stared up at the ceiling as I thought about what he had said. We needed balance, and that meant arousing the seventh decant to an awareness of what it was. We needed a police force, public utilities, safeguards against exploitation. At the moment I was a hero. I could talk and the others would listen, and it wouldn’t be hard to get something started.

  I could even be Mayor.

  I smiled as I thought about it; then as I remembered the cheque I lost the smile.

  Was that what the company wanted?

  A thriving community so that people could buy more goods and so increase the profits? A new source of labour and a new market for their products? Was I just their stooge?

  I thought about it until I fell asleep. I dreamed of intermeshed wheels and, when I awoke, I felt like hell.

  But I was going to do the job.

  SPACE HOBO

  CHAPTER 1

  ONE EVERY MINUTE

  One day I’m going to kill John Western, me, Dusty Dribble. I haven’t done it yet because I can’t find him, but when I do…

  Maybe you know the man I mean? Small, stooped, looks a little like a monkey or would do if he had hair. Wears those ridiculous old fashioned spectacles and stammers when he gets annoyed. No? Brother, you’re lucky.

  I met him while working the Exhibition circuit in England. You know, Manchester two weeks, Liverpool three, ten days at Glasgow, then an entire month at the Perfect Dwellings Exhibition in London. It means a lot of moving about and, from my point of view, it’s bad in that you keep meeting the same people. It doesn’t take long to get known, and it takes even less time to get blacklisted. The promoters don’t really care what you sell but they draw the line at outright robbery with violence. Me, I never believed in violence, either, until I met up with the Goon.

  That’s Weston. I called him that because that’s what he was; what he is, I should say. The past tense will come after I catch up with him. What he did to me shouldn’t be done to a dog, and it’s no good trying to justify him. Sure, I was eager to make a little money, all right then, a lot of money, but look what happened to me. The very thought of it makes me ill.

  I met him while working the old sucker bait. You know, the hydratic duster. You’ve seen it, I suppose? It takes the dirt off anything with just a quick once-over. It works, too; at least it always works for me, and there are a million reasons to give if it doesn’t work in just the same way after you take it home. I used to buy it from Mackigry; paid him five credits a time, sealed and powered, wrapped and delivered. At ten it would have been cheap. At twenty it was robbery. I charged twenty-five.

  The patter was the same as the old time peddlers used to use and, as far as I know, it was the same as heard in the bazaars of Babylon. The only difference was that I’d dressed it up with a lot of scientific jargon, and, in between the actual demonstrations, I used to blind the pitch with talk of molecular frequency, opposed hydrostatic charges, dirt-shifting vibrations and the red-shift. It sounded good even to me, and from their expressions it must have dazzled the customers beyond sanity. That, at least, is the only reason I can think of for my staying in business for so long. Not that it was an outright swindle—never think that. It was just that, while it worked perfectly for me, it didn’t work so good for others. Maybe the high-frequency coil I had beneath the dem table made a difference, or maybe it was that the dirt I used contained a lot of iron, but what the hell? It was still dirt, wasn’t it?

  I became aware of the Goon one afternoon during the third week of the Perfect Dwellings. I never did care for that exhibition too much. It was too long for one thing, and I always began to get a bit fidgety towards the end. The only saving grace was that the visitors had to pay to come in and most of them were out-of-towners. Even if the duster folded up on them after the first two weeks, there was a good chance that they would find it cheaper to throw it away than come back to complain.

  But about the Goon.

  Working behind a dem table you can see a lot more than most people think, and, feeling as I did, it didn’t take me long to spot that he had hung around for too long a time. Normally you always get a few kibitzers, people with no intention of buying but who stay for the free entertainment. You also get the smart-alecks, the big-mouths who wait until you’re getting ready to hit the bat and then tell you that it doesn’t work. You also get those who just can’t wait to buy, those who want to know item by item just what it will clean, and sometimes, though not often, the people who really know all about it.

  The Goon was in the last category.

  He stood at the back of the pitch, a silly grin on his puss, his eyes looking like a couple of pebbles behind his spectacles. As I swung into the final leg and worked up to hitting the bat he grinned even wider. It put me off a little. You never know what a man like that will do, and it only takes a word out of place to make the women close their purses and the men stuff back their wallets. Still, he had the sense to keep quiet, and I hit the important moment just right.

  “It takes off dirt,” I said, seriously. “It removes grime and dust, spots and stains, oil and grease. It makes washing a thing of the past and will renovate your homes.’’ I held up a package. “Ladies.” I always appealed to the women. “Ladies, can you afford to be without it? Why not enjoy the benefits of modern science? Launder your carpets, your upholsteries, your personal clothing, your curtains, synthsilks, brocades, tapestries, velvets. Clean them the easy way with the Hydratic Duster.”

  Without looking at what I was doing I swept the dem model over the prepared carpet and held it up in my other hand.

  “See? Over a million of these dusters are sold on Mars every month; more than two million are sold on Venus, and why? Because those ladies are scientifically
minded. They are too busy to waste time on the old fashioned methods. They use the Hydratic Duster and, believe me, they pay a lot more for it than I am asking you. Twenty-five credits, ladies, twenty-five credits and your problems are over.”

  Quickly, before they could change their minds, I thrust the packages towards them. There is a neat bit of psychology about that. Most people will automatically accept anything shoved into their hands and, once they’ve taken it, they lack the moral courage to give it back.

  I was counting the money when I became aware of the Goon standing right up against the dem table.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Aren’t you ever afraid of being caught?”

  “I’m afraid that I fail to understand you.” I used my best English and gave him the eye. It didn’t upset him.

  “You know what I mean. You’ve a coil beneath the table and your dirt is loaded with iron. That iron picks up a charge from the coil and is repelled. When you pass the duster over it the extra charge attracts the dirt to the face of the box.” He rubbed one finger over a prepared carpet. “Am I right?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He was, but I couldn’t tell him that. “The Hydratic Duster works on the principle of opposed charges, yes, but my claims are genuine.” I looked at him with sudden understanding. “Of course, if you have purchased a duster and are dissatisfied, I am always ready to refund your money.”

  “I didn’t have to buy one,” he said. “I know all about it.”

  “Indeed?” I still wasn’t ready to give in. “May I refer you to the Scientific Journal of the Drapers’ World in which the Hydratic Duster principle was investigated and found to be of inestimable value.” I smiled a little. “Of course, if you doubt the word of accepted scientific authorities...”

  “Bunk,” he said, rudely. “You can’t double-talk me. What you’re talking about was an idea to prevent dust from settling on fabrics. It proved impracticable because it was found too difficult to make the fabric retain a charge. Why don’t you admit that I’m right?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Me? No one, much. Just a man who is going to stand opposite you and ruin every pitch you get unless you see things my way.” And there it was.

  I’d met it before, of course; every demonstrator has. Usually it’s some petty criminal who thinks he can do damage unless he gets a few free drinks. Once a bright spark tried to really organise it, but he changed his mind after a few of the boys met him in a dark alley one night. The Goon obviously didn’t know what he was letting himself in for.

  “You could ruin a few pitches,” I admitted, “but so what? It won’t get you anything but a beer bottle in the chops and a hospital bill. Try robbing a bank; it’s safer.”

  “I could protest to the promoters,” he suggested. “I don’t really think they would encourage bare-faced theft.”

  He was wrong, of course. The promoters are the biggest crooks of the lot, too big in fact to be anything but legally honest, but the Goon had a point. Once the complaints started getting bothersome they would clamp down to save their own hides. I’d be blacklisted and have to peddle the duster from door-to-door or in markets. And there weren’t any markets.

  “What’s on your mind?” I said, not quite admitting that he was right but not denying it, either.

  “I want money,” he said, with a frankness which amazed me. “I don’t want you to give it to me, but I want you to take me as a partner.”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “The profit on the item is so small and the overheads so high...”

  “I’ve got a better thing to sell than that stupid box. I’ve invented a polish which...”

  “No,” I said, and I was firm about it. “Not polish. Anything but polish. I’ve gone bankrupt twice messing about with that stuff.”

  “This isn’t just something to brush on and make things shine,” he snapped, impatiently. “This is new. A complex flourine-silicone molecular chain which binds with the surface on which it is applied and forms a heat-resisting, acid, rot and weather-proof coating which...”

  “If it’s so good then why isn’t it already in use?” I interrupted. He grinned at me in that stupid way he has.

  “Why isn’t the Hydratic Duster?”

  “You mean there’s a catch?”

  “Naturally. Unless the surface is chemically clean the coating will flake off in about three months. Oxidisation.”

  I nodded as though I knew what he was talking about, and then got down to business.

  “Sounds good. What about cost of manufacture? Drying time? Readiness for tests? Demonstrability? Weight? Flashpoint?” I stared at him. “You know what I’m getting at?”

  “Of course. First, it’s cheap. An eight ounce bottle would cost about ten credits. It dries in two days and ...”

  “That’s enough. We’re out of business.

  “But it’s good!” He seemed really hurt. “It really works—for three months, anyway, and if you clean the surface properly it works for years and years.” He was almost crying.

  “It’s no good for this racket,” I explained patiently. “Too dear for one thing.”

  “At ten credits for eight ounces?”

  “Anything costing more than the bottle it’s in is too dear. And the drying time! Man, unless it dries within half a minute it’s useless. How can I ask the pitch to come back in two days’ time? Be reasonable.”

  “You’re all the same,” he snapped, and began to stammer. “Y-y-you’re all a-a-like.”

  “Calm down,” I suggested. I didn’t know then that he only stammered when annoyed. “If you can fix your gunk to be cheap, dry fast, and look good, then I’m interested. Without that, I don’t care how good it is. You’re wasting your time.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, and the expression in his eyes should have warned me. “I’ll do just as you say.”

  He did, too.

  Even now it seems incredible, and at the time it seemed too good to be true. The Goon came back three days later with a jar of some thin, syrupy stuff and a brush. He didn’t say anything but began smearing his goo over the dem stand. I watched him, half-annoyed, half-tolerant. I’d had a good day. Then I pushed my eyeballs back in and made him do it again.

  The drying’ time was just under the half-minute. The stuff spread thin and knit without join. You could put one layer over the other and it didn’t clog the, brush. But against what happened when it dried the rest was unimportant. It dried—and it glowed. It shone like crushed radium, like mother-of-pearl, like splintered diamonds, like... I can’t describe it, but it was beautiful. It seemed to have an inner radiance, luminous, as if it were a sheet of mica enclosing a fire. I could hear the money pouring into the bank as I looked at it.

  “Will it do?” The Goon watched me as I tried not to be too eager.

  “It might just go,” I said, doubtfully. “Cost?”

  “One credit the bottle. I had to use different compounds and the effect isn’t the same, but it should last at least four weeks.”

  “How did you make it shine like that?”

  “I don’t know. Accident, I guess, some luminous quality or retention of light.” He poked at it with his finger. “As far as I can see it soaks up light and then releases it, or maybe it slows it down. Does it matter?”

  “Not really, just so long as it lasts at least four weeks.” Already I was busy with the proposed dem. Insistence on prior cleanliness, of course, that would cover me against complaint. What if “clean” literally did mean steeping the object in acid, sand-blasting it, sterilising it, scraping it down to bare wood or metal? The instructions would be on the bottle, wouldn’t they? Could I help it if people didn’t read the small print? I grinned at the prospect, then lost the grin as I heard what the Goon was saying.

  “…twenty thousand credits for the formula…”

  “Wait a minute!” I felt something cold touch my spine. “We’re partners!”

  “No we’re not.” He looked smug. “You can buy this formula
if you wish, but I want my money down. Sorry, but there it is.” And there it was.

  I argued, of course, I had to, but the least he would take was eighteen thousand. I raised it, but it meant selling my car, borrowing from certain characters who demanded twenty per cent, interest, and mortgaging my future. Even at that it looked a rosy future and, in a way, I was glad to be in sole control of the wonder polish. I should have been shot.

  At first it was smooth sailing-. I knew a small manufacturer who agreed to make up the stuff, bottle it, and ship it as requested. He didn’t employ a chemist, but the instructions were plain and he’d had no trouble mixing the sample batch. That attended to, I booked up a whole string of Exhibitions, using credit to pay the deposits. I could have cut in any of a dozen partners but first I wanted to show them what they were missing. Afterwards, when I’d spread the word, I intended letting them in on a strict commission only basis and, while they worked for me, I’d be resting somewhere warm and comfortable.

  That was the general plan.

  I opened at Manchester and sold the polish as fast as it could be shipped. Ten days later I was in Leeds on a two-week show, and my supplier had doubled his premises and dropped all other contracts. From Leeds I went to Glasgow, to the big, four-week Exhibition at Kelvin Hall. The new one, I mean. The old one got burned during the end-century riots.

  It happened at Glasgow.

  If it hadn’t been for luck I’d never have known. Most small demonstrators working on their own have the habit of carrying their dem tables about with them. I was stuck with the habit and my stand, one I’d had made for the job, travelled around with me. It was a good one and it looked wonderful with its glowing film. Naturally, remembering the time-limit of the polish, I painted it fresh each week and it was while I was busy giving it a fresh coat that it happened.