“No gun, worse luck. With the best of intentions I forgot to stock one.”
Fries hesitated. “Uh, Captain, pardon me, but are you in good practice for free-fall suit work?”
“Truthfully, no.”
“Then let me send a boy across to put a line on you. No, no! I insist.”
Hazel, the Captain, and the twins suited up, went outside, and waited. They could make out a small figure on the ship across from them; the ship itself looked larger now, larger than the Stone. City Hall was an obsolete space-to-space vessel, globular, and perhaps thirty years old. Roger Stone surmised correctly that she had made a one-way freighter trip after she was retired from a regular run.
In close company with City Hall was a stubby cylinder; it was either smaller than the spherical ship or farther away. Near it was an irregular mass impossible to make out; the sunlight on it was bright enough but the unfilled black shadows gave no clear clues. All around them were other ships or shapes close enough to be distinguished from the stars; Pollux estimated that there must be two dozen within as many miles. While he watched a scooter left a ship a mile or more away and headed toward City Hall.
The figure they had seen launched himself across the gap. He seemed to swell; in half a minute he was close by, checking himself by the line he carried. He dropped to an easy landing near the bow of the Stone; they went to meet him.
“Howdy, Captain. I’m Don Whitsitt, Mr. Fries’ bookkeeper.”
“Howdy, Don.” He introduced the others; the twins helped haul in the light messenger line and coil it; it was followed by a steel line which Don Whitsitt shackled to the ship.
“See you at the store,” he said. “So long.” He launched himself back the way he came, carrying the coiled messenger line and not bothering with the line he had rigged.
Pollux watched him draw away. “I think I could do that.”
“Just keep on thinking it,” his father said, “and loop yourself to that guide line.”
One leap took them easily across the abyss, provided one did not let one’s loop twist around the guide line. Castor’s loop did so; it braked him to a stop. He had to unsnarl it, then gain momentum again by swarming along the line hand over hand.
Whitsitt had gone inside but he had recycled the lock and left it open for them. They went on in, to be met there by the Honorable Jonathan Fries, Mayor of Rock City. He was a small, bald, pot-bellied man with a sharp, merry look in his eye and a stylus tucked back of his ear. He shook hands with Roger Stone enthusiastically. “Welcome, welcome! We’re honored to have you with us, Mister Mayor. I ought to have a key to the city, or some such, for you. Dancing girls and brass bands.”
Roger shook his head. “I’m an ex-mayor and a private traveler. Never mind the brass bands.”
“But you’ll take the dancing girls?”
“I’m a married man. Thanks anyhow.”
“If we had any dancing girls I’d keep ’em for myself. And I’m a married man, too.”
“You certainly are!” A plump, plain but very jolly woman had floated up behind them.
“Yes, Martha.” They completed the rest of the introductions; Mrs. Fries took Hazel in tow; the twins trailed along with the two men, into the forward half of the globe. It was a storeroom and a shop; racks had been fitted to the struts and thrust members; goods and provisions of every sort were lashed or netted to them. Don Whitsitt clung with his knees to a saddle in the middle of the room with a desk folded into his lap. In his reach were ledgers on lazy tongs and a rack of clips holding several hundred small account books. A miner floated in front of him. Several more were burrowing through the racks of merchandise.
Seeing the display of everything a meteor miner could conceivably need, Pollux was glad that they had concentrated on luxury goods—then remembered with regret that they had precious little left to sell; the flat cats, before they were placed in freeze, had eaten so much that the family had been delving into their trade goods, from caviar to Chicago sausage. He whispered to Castor, “I had no idea the competition would be so stiff.”
“Neither did I.”
A miner slithered up to Mr. Fries. “One-Price, about that centrifuge—”
“Later, Sandy. I’m busy.”
Captain Stone protested, “Don’t let me keep you from your customers.”
“Oh, Sandy hasn’t got anything to do but wait. Right, Sandy? Shake hands with Captain Stone—it was his wife who fixed up old Jocko.”
“It was? Say, I’m mighty proud to know you, Captain! You’re the best news we’ve had in quite a while.” Sandy turned to Fries. “You better put him right on the Committee.”
“I shall. I’m going to call a phone meeting this evening.”
“Just a moment!” objected Roger Stone. “I’m just a visitor. I don’t belong on your Citizens’ Committee.”
Fries shook his head. “You don’t know what it means to our people to have a medical doctor with us again. The Committee ain’t any work, really. It’s just to let you know we’re glad you’ve joined us. And we’ll make Mrs. Stone—I mean Doctor Stone—a member if she wants it. She won’t have time for it, though.”
Captain Stone was beginning to feel hemmed in. “Slow down! We expect to be leaving here come next Earth departure—and my wife is not now engaged in regular practice, anyhow. We’re on a pleasure trip.”
Fries looked worried. “You mean she won’t attend the sick? But she operated on Jock Donaher.”
Stone was about to say that she positively would not under any circumstances take over a regular practice when he realized that he had very little voice in the matter. “She’ll attend the sick. She’s a doctor.”
“Good!”
“But, confound it, man! We didn’t come here for that. She’s on a vacation.”
Fries nodded. “We’ll see what we can work out to make it easy on her. We won’t expect the lady to go hopping rocks the way Doc Schultz did. Get that, Sandy? We can’t have every rock-happy rat in the swarm hollering for the doctor every time he gets a sore finger. We want to get the word around that if a man gets sick or gets hurt it’s up to him and his neighbors to drag him in to City Hall if he can possibly wear a suit. Tell Don to draft me a proclamation.”
The miner nodded solemnly. “That’s right, One-Price.”
Sandy moved away; Fries went on, “Let’s go back into the restaurant and see if Martha has some fresh coffee. I’d like to get your opinion on several civic matters.”
“Frankly, I couldn’t possibly have opinions on your public affairs here. Things are so different.”
“Oh, why don’t I be truthful and admit I want to gossip about politics with another pro—I don’t meet one every day. First, though, did you have any shopping in mind today? Anything you need? Tools? Oxy? Catalysts? Planning on doing any prospecting and if so, do you have your gear?”
“Nothing especial today—except one thing: we need to buy, or by preference rent, a scooter. We’d like to explore a bit.”
Fries shook his head. “Friend, I wish you hadn’t asked me that. That’s the one thing I haven’t got. All these sand rats booming in here from Mars, and even from Luna, half of ’em with no equipment. They lease a scooter and a patent igloo and away they go, red hot to make their fortunes. Tell you what I can do, though—I’ve got more rocket motors and tanks coming in from Ceres two months from now. Don and I can weld you up one and have it ready to slap the motor in when the Firefly gets here.”
Roger Stone frowned. “With Earth departure only five months away that’s a long time to wait.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see what we can scare up. Certainly the new doctor is entitled to the best—and the doctor’s family. Say—”
A miner tapped him on the shoulder. “Say, storekeeper, I—”
Fries’ face darkened. “You can address me as ‘Mr. Mayor’!”
“Huh?”
“And beat it! Can’t you see I’m busy?” The man backed away; Fries fumed, “‘One-Price’ I’m known as, to my friend
s and to my enemies, from here to the Trojans. If he doesn’t know that, he can call me by my title—or take his trade elsewhere. Where was I? Oh, yes! You might try old Charlie.”
“Eh?”
“Did you notice that big tank moored to City Hall? That’s Charlie’s hole. He’s a crazy old coot, rock-happy as they come, and he’s a hermit by intention. Used to hang around the edge of the community, never mixing—but with this boom and ten strangers swarming in for every familiar face Charlie got timid and asked could he please tie in at civic center? I guess he was afraid that somebody would slit his throat and steal his hoorah’s nest. Some of the boomers are a rough lot at that.”
“He sounds like some of the old-timers on Luna. What about him?”
“Oh! Too much on my mind these days; it wanders. Charlie runs sort of a fourth-hand shop, and I say that advisedly. He has stuff I won’t handle. Every time a rock jumper dies, or goes Sunside, his useless plunder winds up in Charlie’s hole. Now I don’t say he’s got a scooter—though you just might lease his own now that he’s moored in-city. But he might have parts that could be jury-rigged. Are you handy with tools?”
“Moderately. But I’ve got just the team for such a job.” He looked around for the twins, finally spotted them pawing through merchandise. “Cas! Pol! Come here.”
The storekeeper explained what he had in mind. Castor nodded. “If it worked once, well fix it.”
“That’s the spirit. Now let’s go test that coffee.”
Castor hung back. “Dad? Why don’t Pol and I go over there and see what he’s got? It’ll save you time.”
“Well—”
“It’s just a short jump,” said Fries.
“Okay, but don’t jump. Use your lines and follow the mooring line over.”
The twins left. Once in the airlock Pollux started fuming. “Stow it,” said Cas. “Dad just wants us to be careful.”
“Yes, but why does he have to say it where everybody can hear?”
Charlie’s hole, they decided, had once been a tow tank to deliver oxygen to a colony. They let themselves into the lock, started it cycling. When pressure was up, they tried the inner door; it wouldn’t budge. Pollux started pounding on it with his belt wrench while Castor searched for a switch or other signal. The lock was miserably lighted by a scant three inches of glow tube.
“Cut the racket,” Castor told Pollux. “If he’s alive, he’s heard you by now.” Pollux complied and tried the door again—still locked.
They heard a muffled voice: “Who’s there?”
Castor looked around for the source of the voice, could not spot it. “Castor and Pollux Stone,” he answered, “from the Rolling Stone, out of Luna.”
Somebody chuckled. “You don’t fool me. And you can’t arrest me without a warrant. Anyhow I won’t let you in.”
Castor started to explode; Pollux patted his arm. “We aren’t cops. Shucks, we aren’t old enough to be cops.”
“Take your helmets off.”
“Don’t do it,” Castor cautioned. “He could recycle while we’re unsealed.”
Pollux went ahead and took his off; Castor hesitated, then followed. “Let us in,” Pollux said mildly.
“Why should I?”
“We’re customers. We want to buy things.”
“What you got to trade?”
“We’ll pay cash.”
“Cash!” said the voice. “Banks! Governments! What you got to trade? Any chocolate?”
“Cas,” Pollux whispered, “have we got any chocolate left?”
“Maybe six or seven pounds. Not more.”
“Sure we got chocolate.”
“Le’me see it.”
Castor interrupted. “What sort of nonsense is this? Pol, let’s go back and see Mr. Fries again. He’s a businessman.”
The voice moaned, “Oh, don’t do that! He’ll cheat you.”
“Then open up!”
After a few seconds of silence the voice said wheedlingly, “You look like nice boys. You wouldn’t hurt Charlie? Not old Charlie?”
“Of course not. We want to trade with you.”
The door opened at last. In the gloom a face, etched by age and darkened by raw sunlight, peered out at them. “Come in easy. Don’t try any tricks—I know you.”
Wondering if it were the sensible thing to do the boys pulled themselves in. When their eyes adjusted to the feeble circle of glow tube in the middle of the space they looked around while their host looked at them. The tank, large outside, seemed smaller by the way it was stuffed. As in Fries’ shop, every inch, every strut, every nook was crammed, but where the City Hall was neat, this was rank disorder, where Fries’ shop was rational, this was nightmare confusion. The air was rich enough but ripe with ancient and nameless odors.
Their host was a skinny monkey of a man, covered with a single dark garment, save for head, hands, and bare feet. It had once been, Pollux decided, heated underwear for spacesuit use far out starside, or in caves.
Old Charlie stared at them, then grinned, reached up and scratched his neck with his big toe. “Nice boys,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt Charlie. I was just foolin’.”
“We wouldn’t hurt anybody. We just wanted to get acquainted and do a little business.”
“We want a—” Pollux started; Castor’s elbow cut off the rest; Castor went on,
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Comfortable. Practical. Just right for a man with no nonsense about him. Good place for a man who likes to be quiet and think. Good place to read a book. You boys like to read?”
“Sure. Love to.”
“You want to see my books?” Without waiting for an answer he darted like a bat into the gloom, came back in a few moments with books in both hands and a half dozen held by his feet. He bumped to a stop with his elbows and offered them.
There were old-style bound books, most of them, the twins saw, ships’ manuals of ships long dead. Castor’s eyes widened when he saw the dates on some of them, and wondered what the Astrogation Institute would pay for them. Among them was a dog-eared copy of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi.
“Look ’em over, boys. Make yourselves comfortable. Bet you didn’t expect to find a literary man out here among these yokels. You boys can read, can’t you?”
“Sure we can.”
“Didn’t know. They teach such funny things nowadays. Quote a bit of Latin to ’em and they look like you’re crazy in the head. You boys hungry? You want something to eat?” He looked anxious.
They both assured him that they had fed well and recently; he looked relieved. “Old Charlie ain’t one to let a man go hungry, even if he hasn’t got enough himself.” Castor had noted a net of sealed rations; there must have been a thousand of them by conservative estimate. But the old man continued, “Seen the time, right here in this node—no, it was the Emmy Lou—when a man didn’t dare make breakfast without he barred his lock first and turned off his beacon. It was about that time that Lafe Dumont ate High-Grade Henderson. He was dead first, naturally—but it brought on a crisis in our community affairs. They formed up the vigilantes, what they call the Committee nowadays.”
“Why did he eat him?”
“Why, he was dead. I told you that. Just the same, I don’t think a man ought to eat his own partner, do you?”
The boys agreed that it was a breech of etiquette.
“I think he ought to limit it to members of his own family, unless the two of them have got a signed and sealed contract. Seen any ghosts yet?”
The acceleration was so sharp that it left both the twins a bit confused. “Ghosts?”
“You will. Many’s the time I’ve talked to High-Grade Henderson. Said he didn’t blame Lafe a bit, would’a’ done the same thing in his place. Ghosts all around here. All the rockmen that have died out here, they can’t get back to Earth. They’re in a permanent orbit—see? And it stands to reason that you can’t accelerate anything that doesn’t have mass.” He leaned toward them
confidentially. “Sometimes you see ’em, but mostly they whisper in your earphones. And when they do, listen—because that’s the only way you’ll ever find any of the big strikes that got found and then got lost again. I’m telling you this because I like you, see? So listen. If it’s too faint, just close your chin valve and hold your breath; then it comes clearer.”
They agreed and thanked him. “Now tell me about yourselves, boys.” To their surprise he appeared to mean it; when they slowed down he taxed them for details, filling in only occasionally with his own disjointed anecdotes. At last Castor described the fiasco of the flat cats. “So that’s why we don’t have much food to trade with. But we do have some chocolate left and lots of other things.”
Charlie rocked back and forth from his perch in the air. “Flat cats, eh? I ain’t had my hands on a flat cat in a power of years. Nice to hold, they are. Nice to have around. Philosophical, if we just understand ’em.” He suddenly fixed Castor with his eye. “What you planning to do with all those flat cats?”
“Why, nothing, I guess.”
“That’s just what I thought. You wouldn’t mind giving a poor old man who hasn’t kith nor kin nor wife nor chick one of those harmless flat cats? An old man who would always give you a bite to eat and a charge for your suit bottle?”
Castor glanced at Pollux and agreed cautiously that any dicker they reached would certainly include a flat cat as a mark of faith in dealing. “Then what do you want? You talked about scooters. You know old Charlie hasn’t got a scooter—except the one I have to have myself to stay alive.”
Castor broached the notion about repairing old parts, fitting together a scooter. Charlie scratched an inch-long stubble. “Seems to me I did have a rocket motor—you wouldn’t mind if it lacked a valve or two? Or did I trade that to Swede Gonzalez? No, that was another one. I think—just a second while I take a look.” He was gone more nearly six hundred seconds, buried in the mass; he came out dragging a piece of junk behind. “There you are! Practically new. Nothing a couple of bright boys couldn’t fix.”
Pollux looked at Castor. “What do you think it’s worth?”
Castor’s lips moved silently: “He ought to pay us to take it away.” It took them another twenty minutes but they got it for three pounds of chocolate and one flat cat.
The Rolling Stones Page 19
