by E. C. Tubb
I was thinking about it on the way to Mars. I rested in my coffin-like cabin and kept telling myself that, while free-fall might be nauseating, it wasn’t fatal. At least no one yet had died from it but, as I groaned and twisted on the bunk, I wasn’t so sure that I wouldn’t set a precedent.
I was still thinking of the relative warmth and comfort of the Luna Penal Colony when someone tapped on my door.
“Mr. Dribble?” The cook, an offensive-looking creature with a scarred face and a squinting eye, peered towards me. Probably he hoped that I was dead, or unconscious or something, because he seemed disappointed when I sat up.
“What is it?
“I thought you’d like a sip of stew.” He handed me a tube-container and made expressions of sympathy. “It’ll settle your stomach.”
“Nothing can do that,” I said. I sipped at the tube and then took another sip. “Stew?”
“That’s right.”
I didn’t argue, but took another sip. If the cook was in the habit of calling hundred-proof spirit “stew” then I wasn’t going to complain. The rot-gut warmed me and, for the first time since leaving Luna, I began to feel like a human being.
The cook waited while I sipped the rest of his mixture and, for some reason, I got the impression that he was waiting for something. Knowing the human race as I do I guessed that it could be only one thing.
I was right.
He tucked away the ten credit note and immediately became more friendly.
“This your first trip, soldier?”
“Dusty,” I corrected. “Dusty Dribble, the finest salesman yet.”
“That right?” He didn’t seem impressed. Maybe he remembered the way I had come aboard. “What you aim to sell on Mars?”
“I’ll find something.” I swallowed as the nausea returned and grabbed at my stomach. “Why don’t they put spin on this tub like they do on the passenger ships?”
“Takes fuel,” he said shortly. “The cargo don’t complain and we’re used to it.” He showed me his teeth in what he probably imagined was a smile. “You’ll get used to it, too, in time.”
He was right, too. After the second week I managed to get the hang of the magnetic boots and had lost the feeling that I’d prefer to be dead. With normal health came normal curiosity and I took a look at what was to be my home for the next few weeks.
I didn’t think much of it
The ship was an old, beat-up can with a hull like a sieve and engines which seemed almost ready to fall apart. The crew matched the vessel in being some of the most ungentlemanly characters I’d ever met. Aside from the cook there was an engineer, an astrogator, and the captain. I’d met the captain before when he’d relieved me of most of my portable cash for the passage money, and I already knew him to be a money-hungry pirate totally devoid of any form of ethics.
As there is nothing to do while in space, except make sure that you’re going in the right direction, the crew had plenty of time in which to amuse themselves. They made a habit of congregating in the one compartment which served as everything from mess hall to recreation room. I, as the sole passenger, was the only one privileged to a cabin of my own; the others all bunked in together.
As I said, a nice friendly ship to be stuck on.
Naturally, we played cards.
Poker, the game was, and it was one of the most cutthroat games I’ve ever sat in on. Luckily I still had some money left or I would have died from boredom, but as I watched my pile melt away into the capacious pockets of the captain, I began to get an uneasy suspicion that all was not as honest as it could be.
I was certain of it about halfway to Mars.
As usual, the game was jackpot, deuces wild, and I was interested in more ways than one. First, I wanted to know how the captain always managed to deal me a good hand and himself a better one; and then I was interested in learning how to win my money back. I concentrated on the play and tried to remember what old Gerard had once taught me.
Gerard was a one-time demonstrator who had operated with the Magic-Deck. He had sold a pack of cards and could tell anyone the exact hand they drew, the cards they dealt, and what would come next. For him it was easy. He wore a special set of spectacles and had painted the backs of the cards with radiant paint. Normally it was invisible, but when viewed through the special glass it was just as if he dealt the cards face up.
Add a little manipulation to the above and you’ll realise why he was chased out of more Exhibitions than he could get into. His one weakness was in not knowing when he’d made enough and the tough industrial workers didn’t like the idea of him taking all their hard-earned wages.
Anyway, I remembered Gerard and very soon I knew how I was always a consistent loser. The captain, Kinard, his name was, wore contact lenses. The cards, when I peered at them against the light, showed traces of something smeared on the backs. I was the mythical pigeon, and brother, was I being plucked!
It was time for me to do some real thinking.
I thought of the shell game.
You know it? Three shells with one pea and the trick is to find out which shell the pea is beneath. Of course it isn’t beneath any of them; the operator palms it so the sucker can’t win, but that is the game in its most crude form. I’d improved it. I had to ever since the players got the bright idea of resting their finger on one shell and making me lift the other two. I’d hit bottom before I’d thought of a way out and now I’d fixed it so that I couldn’t lose.
That, incidentally, is the only way to play that or any other so-called game of chance.
Still, even with my unbeatable set-up. I didn’t like to use it. I have a professional pride in what I do and draw the line at sheer robbery. Value for money is the way I like to operate. Of course, what value for how much money is something else again, but you can see the difference, can’t you?
Exactly.
Still, we had days of boredom to get through, I was headed for a planet where everything would be new to me, and I didn’t like the thought of landing without a credit to my name. So I dug out the equipment and checked it ready for operation.
Basically, it was simple.
I had three plastic cups with built-in permanent magnets. The pea itself was another magnet of opposite polarity. So, normally, it would cling to the top of the shell. However, just in case, I’d fixed up a gimmick to prevent any arguments. I used three peas, one for each shell. I had a battery beneath my coat, the wires taped to my lower arms and my hands dusted with flesh-coloured conductive powder. I rigged two switches in my shoe so that I could activate the current with either big toe. Get it?
That’s right. Current on and the magnet would be opposed and the pea would fall. Current off and the pea would cling to the upper part of the shell. I could select any pea, right or left hand, and so I couldn’t lose.
I hoped.
I introduced the game just as they were setting up the usual poker table.
“Here’s something new,” I said, and put out my little shells. “See?” I pressed down with my right toe, gripped the shell, and the pea dropped onto the table.
“Here is a pea. Now all we do is to move it from one shell to the other and then you bet that you can tell where it is.” While I was talking I was manipulating the shells. Naturally, I had to be careful that I didn’t get two peas sticking in the same cup, but that, to me, was simple.
I just kept talking.
It’s surprising how easy it is to numb someone’s concentration. When you’re talking they are, consciously or not, listening to you. Also, the rapid movement of the hands tends to tire the eye. Add persistence of vision, double-talk, cover the necessary with unnecessary movements, and they don’t stand a chance.
I stopped the rapid movement of the shells and waved an invitation.
“Come on, lads. Take your pick. The more you put down the more you pick up. All bets covered. Just find the pea and rake in the cash; the simplest and most honest game ever invented. You simply back the sharpness of your
eyes against the skill of my hands. You, sir!” I pointed towards Kinard. “Pick a shell. Just for fun, this time, no bets. Go on, pick one.”
He did and, naturally, he won. Or he would have had there been money down. I manipulated the shells again.
If things had been different maybe they wouldn’t have been so eager to play. But space is boring, they were sick of the eternal poker, and ready for something new. Kinard pulled money, my money, from his pocket and slapped down a ten credit note. He waited until my hands had ceased moving and then pulled the one with whiskers on. He rested his finger on one shell.
“This one.”
“That one?” I went to lift it up and he grinned at me.
“Uh, uh! Let’s see if it’s under the others.”
I sighed. Obviously he imagined that there was no pea at all. Equally obviously he didn’t dream that I had also thought of that. I tripped the switch in my right shoe, lifted the right shell, and showed him the pea. I lifted the left shell—no pea. He lifted his own with the same result. I collected the ten credits.
“Better luck next time, captain,” I said cheerfully. “Now, who’s next?”
The cook had a go, then the astrogator, then the engineer. Then two of them had a go at once, then three, then just one again. They tried everything they could think of in as many competitions as they could—and I won almost every time.
Almost. It’s bad psychology not to let a sucker win sometimes and I let them win just enough for them to get the taste. Even at that they were only winning from each other. I wasn’t that generous. By the end of the session I had recovered most of my money and only managed to shut down on the promise that I would play some more later on.
They really liked the shell game.
The radar was blipping when I entered the room for the next session. Kinard looked worried as though something had gone wrong, and he and the astrogator muttered together as they entered the control room. The cook grinned at me and I grinned back. Then I set up the shells and we began to play some more.
The blipping of the radar disturbed me a little. I kept thinking of Patrol Ships, and I let the cook win a couple of times when it wasn’t necessary for him to win at all.
“What’s that noise all about?”
“Nothing.” Kinard came into the room just as I asked the question. “Routine check. Think nothing of it.” He tugged money from his pockets and slapped down the biggest wad of notes yet. “Let’s play some more.”
We did. We played until my toes began to get sore from tripping the switches and I lost count of all I’d won. Finally, after a period in which my arms ached from manipulating the shells and raking in the money, Kinard grunted and slapped his pockets.
“You’ve cleaned me out,” he grumbled. “I haven’t got a credit left.”
“Too bad.” I picked up the shells and stuffed them into my pocket. No sense in continuing the play if there was nothing to be won. He halted me as I was leaving the room.
“Hold on a minute. I’ve been thinking about that game you showed us and I’ve got an idea that I can beat it.”
“You have?” I smiled, not grinned, and let myself be persuaded back into the room. Kinard, despite his toughness, was as dumb as the next man. He thought he could beat the shell game. The sucker!
“Look,” he said. “I own this ship. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll back a part of it against the money you won. Right?”
I thought about it. Spaceships, even wrecks like this one, were valuable. I could sell it when I got to Mars and have a fat bank account for a change. I’d be rich! I nodded and we began to play.
Kinard had his ship and cargo and I had the loose money. He set up part of the cargo against the money and I won it. I won the rest of the cargo, the engines, the control room instruments, the hull, the accessories, the equipment. I won everything but the clothes from his back and one-fifth of the fuel. That was important. I couldn’t land without the fuel.
“I’ve never seen such luck,” said Kinard. He looked anxious. “Look, I’m in a spot.I’ve got to have some cash to pay off the crew. That’s only fair, isn’t it?” I nodded.
“Well, then. I’ll back the final works against that money you’ve got. If you win you give me the cash and take the ship and cargo. If I win I’ll sell you my share of the ship for the cash, pay off the crew and settle with you after the sale of cargo. Right?”
“Right.” Either way I couldn’t lose and, more important, I didn’t want to have a mutiny aboard my spaceship. In any case Kinard couldn’t win. He didn’t.
“Well, Dusty, that makes you the full owner of ship and cargo,” he said. He held out his hand for the money and I paid him. I hated to see it go, but what I’d won in return would compensate me a hundred times for its loss.
“I’ll alter the papers and she’s all yours.” He shook his head as I picked up the shells. “Man, but you’re lucky!”
“Skill,” I said loftily. “That and the breaks. You can’t fight against the breaks.”
“That’s right,” he admitted, and grinned. It worried me that grin. It didn’t seem natural.
I found out why after we’d landed.
The port authorities at Marsville came aboard as soon as we’d opened up and the inspector, a hard-faced character, glared at us as we stood in the control room.
“Who’s the owner of this ship?”
“I am,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to give the others a chance to deny it. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” said Kinard. “You’re the full owner.” He nodded to the inspector and stepped to the head of the ramp. The cook and the rest of the crew followed him. I stepped after him and was promptly stopped.
“Not so fast, Dribble.” The inspector had got my name from the ship’s papers. “As the owner you’re responsible for this tub and you can’t leave until it’s cleared.” He gestured to the men he had brought with him. “Right, you guys. Search her, and search her good.”
While they were searching I got the first impression that all was not as it should be. Kinard had gone with all the available cash aboard and, as time passed, I began to wonder who had been smartest between us.
I knew for sure when the search had been completed. “Contraband,” said the inspector curtly. “So the tip-off was genuine. How do you account for this, Dribble?”
I stammered at him.
“We suspected something like this and so contacted you while in space and diverted you to Marsville.” He seemed to have a personal dislike for me because he just wouldn’t let me explain. “If we hadn’t you’d have probably landed somewhere in the desert, unloaded, and then touched down at an isolated field for refuelling.” He glared at me. “You’re in trouble, Dribble, real trouble.”
That was an understatement.
When I tried to tell them that Kinard had deliberately let me win the ship and cargo because he knew he was certain to be caught smuggling, they laughed. They pointed out that no one could be so lucky as all that and, as the penalties are rather nasty for any operator of a rigged game, I couldn’t tell them the whole truth.
So if you want to know what the penalties are for running contraband I can tell you.
First, they confiscate your ship.
Then they fine you three times the value of the contraband you tried to smuggle and, if you haven’t got the money to pay, they give you ten days to find it or you go to jail.
But even at that I suppose I’m lucky. If the Patrol Ship hadn’t escorted us in Kinard would have probably taken back his ship and dumped me out somewhere in the middle of a desert.
Now all I’ve got to do is to stay out of jail.
CHAPTER 4
MISTAKE ON MARS
I don’t know why men ever bothered to come to Mars in the first place. I shall never understand why, after taking a look at it, they decided to colonise it. It isn’t as though it had anything to commend it. A great ball of gritty sand splotched with dirty brown lichens and with a
permanent frost at each pole. Little air, less water, no heat and no natural comfort of any kind. That’s Mars.
Take the Sahara and put it down in the Antarctic and you’d have a fair copy of the place. Take away the air, of course, that’s important. If you left the air you wouldn’t have to manufacture your own and then you’d miss the one great charm of Mars.
The smell.
I can’t describe it; no one can. I suppose that if you were born on Mars you could possibly get accustomed to it, but that’s about the only way. It’s due to a chemical in the air which affects the olfactory nerves in such a way as to register as an odour. That, at least, is how they explained it to me, though personally, I think that the lack of water and the living in sealed domes and bubble-cities may also help. Whatever the reason, the living quarters stink, the airsuits, too, so that every second you’re on Mars you’re reminded of what a foolish thing it is for you to be there at all.
I wished that I could forget it.
I also wished that I could get away from it.
Neither wish did me much good.
I’d arrived on Mars broke and worse than broke. It wasn’t that I just had no money at all. I had negative money. I owed a heavy fine and, unless I paid it, I was due to see the inside of a jail for a long, long time. I couldn’t even run out—the commercial lines wouldn’t carry me without a passport and the others wouldn’t touch me without plenty of portable cash. I had neither. With money I could get both passport and transportation.
I found a seat in a so-called restaurant, ordered a cup of coffee which I hoped to talk my way out of paying for, and concentrated on the problem at hand.
I was still thinking about it when the tout sat down beside me.
“Want a hot tip for the races, mister?”
I looked at him. He was seedy, small, a beat-up wreck of a man with an alcoholic breath and shifty eyes. He looked a most unsavoury, unpleasant character. I warmed to him as to a brother.
“Races?”
