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The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
July, 1960
Volume 18, Number 7
Custom eBook Created By
Jerry eBooks
June 2018
Originally an Illinois farm-boy, later an Illinois motion-picture projectionist, freelance reporter, s.f. magazine collector, and prolific writer of mysteries and science fiction (his last two books were THE LINCOLN HUNTERS and THE MAN IN MY GRAVE), Wilson Tucker is well qualified to tell this particularly convincing story of crime detection plus life on a small spaceship.
Toronto: August, 2009
KATHY BRISTOL ENTERED HER supervisor’s office by the side door, slipping from the public corridor into his room without having to run the gauntlet of curious faces in the outer offices. She let herself in with her own key, and the supervisor mumbled a perfunctory greeting without glancing up from his paperwork. He said, “Umm, Kate,” merely to acknowledge her presence. His desk was littered and untidy.
“Umm, Kate,” she retorted. “Five or six people have keys to that door.”
“But all of the others are elephants in wooden clogs. And none of the others wears perfume.” He paused to sniff. “You’ve changed it.”
“Look at me, governor.”
The supervisor turned from his desk and blinked at the young woman. He blinked again. She reminded him of a tall, extroverted showgirl—the brassy, half-educated kind of girl who supposed that successful showgirls should resemble courtesans. “Umm,” he said again. “You have changed.” And then he noticed her hair. “I say, you’ve also changed your hair.”
“I like change, governor.”
“Yes, I expect so. Come around and sit down.” He prowled over the littered desk and finally found the object of his search, which he handed across to her as she took the proffered chair. “This is your script.”
“I’ve read the script,” Kate reminded him, but she accepted the volume and thumbed through it once more.
The script consisted of nearly fifty pages of typed matter, plus numerous handwritten annotations on the margins of several pages; all were stapled together and bound with a stiff blue cover. A man’s name—Irvin Webb—and his city of residence was written on the cover, together with the file number assigned to him. The bulky volume was a reasonably complete dossier on that man and his career and his vehicle. It detailed the grim case in which he was presently involved. Printed in minute type on the outside back cover of the dossier was the name and headquarters address of the Interworld Insurance Company. Several employes of the company, working under the direction of the supervisor had compiled the document. Kate Bristol had needed to read it out once to commit the contents to memory.
A colored photograph of Irvin Webb was included in the volume and she studied that photograph anew. She noted the network of harsh lines on his face and neck, and the tiny cancer scars marking his burnt skin—lines and scars that readily identified his poor profession. Irvin Webb was a sky tramp.
“He is long overdue,” she said flatly.
The supervisor agreed to that. “Forty-odd, I think. Umm, yes, he’s forty-three years old. Five to ten years beyond the ordinary death or retirement date, I would say. And he knows it, Kate. That certain knowledge may have pushed him over the edge.”
“They seldom quit in time.” She peered at the eyes in the photograph and found them black, contrasting starkly with the white or grey hair.
“Greed,” the supervisor reminded her. “Or aimlessness. They always seem to believe they can find one more cargo, make one more trip. They continue to pay us expensive premiums and continue to fly to the bitter end, seldom realizing the latter affect the former. This Webb, now . . .”
“Compelling motive,” the woman suggested.
“Most compelling,” her supervisor nodded. “A considerable sum is involved here. With one partner dead and the other in jail—well, there you are.”
“What about the one in jail?”
“Forget him. You know absolutely nothing of him.”
“All right, governor.” She tapped the dossier. “Irvin Webb is our prime suspect?”
“He is; otherwise the assignments would have been different.” The supervisor had no compunction on the assignment; he knew the woman to be cold, efficient and tough-minded—he knew her for a huntress. And he had long ago learned, via the grapevine, that at least one man in the outer office had discovered her statuesque body was not to be played with. He said, “I expect this will be routine. For you, at any rate.”
“Routine,” she repeated. “Give Webb the works.”
“But subtly, of course. Remember that you are only the interrogator; not the judge, nor the jury, nor the executioner. We will leave all that to the proper authorities when you have completed your examination.”
“Oh, very subtly,” she smiled. “He is an odd character.”
“He is a deadly character, if my suspicions are correct.”
Kate said thoughtfully, “It was a dirty way to die. A dirty way for anyone to die.”
“It was a most unusual way,” the supervisor pointed out. “Men have died before in similar fashion, quite by accident. Proven accident. Men have met death in many strange and disquieting ways, but this particular kind of death is revolting—and, just perhaps, ingenious. That is what worries me.” He studied his hands on the desktop. “You must ascertain if this man—this Webb—committed murder. And if you find that he did, then you must bring me sufficient evidence to take into court.” He looked up quickly at the woman’s rouged face. “And I know you well enough, Kate, to know that you relish the job.”
She answered him with an old cliché. “I’ll hound him to the Tombaugh Station for you.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary,” he said dryly. “Now, please, let us examine the matter of your identity.” He opened a desk drawer and removed a sealed envelope. “Open it.”
Kate ripped the envelope. A bankbook, a partially-used check book, a birth certificate and an I.D. card tumbled into her lap.
The supervisor said, “Read them, handle them, cover them liberally with your fingerprints. The bankbook is a record of your deposits, of course, and the checkbook will show your current balance posted in the proper place.”
“How did I earn all this money?”
“In any way that suits your fancy; it is a matter which cannot be easily proven or disproven. We have assumed that a Webb-inspired investigation—if any—will not probe beyond that Omaha bank.” He stared at her new appearance. “You might be an actress, you know. A rather flamboyant creature, not quite deserving top billing.”
“Thank you for the flattery. Will this be enough money?”
“We believe so. You will be charged an exorbitant sum, and you should react accordingly, but this amount should be sufficient.” She stared at him. “Exorbitant? Where am I going?”
“You are going to book passage on Webb’s vessel.”
“But where am I going?”
“I really don’t know,” was the bland reply. “I wish I did. To the far moons? Titan, perhaps? To the Ice Rings? I don’t know, Kate. You are going to any distant place that will require a journey of several weeks. You are going to any far moon where he may have business. You will remain with him for a considerable length of time, and that is certain to involve a flight to somewhere or other. Your objective is sufficient time to gather indisputable evidence, evidence to convince the police and the courts.”
“Great Smith, governor, I said I’d hound hi
m to the Tombaugh Station, but I didn’t expect to be taken seriously. Do you know where he does business?”
“Certainly. We insure him, his vehicle and his cargo. Kate, if this man is guilty of murdering his associate for the sake of their partnership insurance, he will not simply confess overnight for your convenience. Remember that he is stubborn, and enduring. Stay with him, pry it out of him. I expect it may take considerable time.”
She slapped a quick hand on the desktop. “How much is the bounty? I work for money, governor.”
“Twenty percent of the principle sum involved.”
“And what is the principle sum involved?”
The supervisor named a figure that caused her to whistle with surprise. “No wonder you want to show misrepresentation! The company is on the hook.”
“Oh, now, it isn’t too large a figure for men and machines in that trade,” he said defensively. “We find these vehicles and their personnel an attractive risk.”
“Except when the personnel tries to con you.”
“Well said. We simply cannot allow an unjust death to masquerade as an accident. What will people think?”
“They’ll think it can happen twice or a dozen times. But I won’t get off the ground with these papers.”
“Of course not. You did not anticipate the journey in advance; at least, not in time to secure standard clearances. Ask Webb’s advice. He will tell you to buy what you need on the black market. Do so.”
Kate studied the card and the certificate. “Do I really appear to be thirty-two years old?”
“Much older, I expect.”
“You’ve been married too long, governor; you’ve lost the tactful touch. All right, I’m thirty-two, I have some money and I want to go barreling out across the solar system. Do you have anything more to show me?”
“Nothing more. Now you show me.”
Kate removed her gloves and extended her hands, knowing that the supervisor wanted to see. Her skin was softly feminine with just a shade of natural tan, the skin of a well-groomed woman in her middle twenties. The man behind the desk sucked in his breath when she parted her fingers. The webbing of skin between the fingers was cracked and rotting, and seemed ready to peal away.
When the supervisor had examined the apparent affliction to his satisfaction, Kate said, “My toes are the same.”
“Let me see, please.”
She removed her shoes and long colored stockings to reveal her feet. There, the crowded and wrinkled skin between her toes seemed to show an advanced stage of disease.
“It seems to be an adequate job,” he commented.
“It is an adequate job.”
“And the remaining parts of your body?”
“Adequate,” she repeated dryly. “Sufficient to cause a man to stop and reconsider?”
“Sufficient to stop a man in his tracks unless he is blind.” The huntress grinned maliciously. “Irvin Webb isn’t blind.”
“Well and good. And now, your radio?”
“Buried, and sending,” she stated flatly.
The supervisor had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman was laughing at him. He passed his hand over an intercom panel and said, “Radio room.”
A distant voice responded. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you now receiving Kate Bristol?”
“Yes, sir. A constant signal mixed with some static, but we attribute that to interference within the building. We have a fix on your office, sir.”
“Very well.” The supervisor broke the connection. His following sigh revealed his age and his burden. “Well, Kate, we seem to have completed your defenses, and I sincerely hope they are adequate. It is useless to pretend I don’t worry about you. I do. But it would be equally useless to place a man on this assignment; Webb will not tolerate another man, although he may accept you because of your sex. I am hoping he will.
“Now, Kate, don’t take unnecessary risks. Do nothing beyond what is needed to determine his guilt or innocence. I am prepared to accept your decision on that. If you find him innocent the company will put through the check without delay; but if you find him guilty—well, the evidence must convince the authorities, must be strong enough to give us the legal right to withhold payment. You know, of course, that a beneficiary cannot profit from murder. But whatever the outcome, the bounty will be paid you, of course.
Kate grinned. “Of course. Anything else?”
He was solemn for a moment and then asked, “Have you ever been shipwrecked? Or jettisoned?”
“No. Am I missing something?”
“If either catastrophe should occur, your life will depend on your radio,” he said gravely. “Another vehicle cannot follow to closely, for it would stand revealed on his screen; your safety will depend upon how soon we can reach you from an unobserved point in space. Kate, if you go overboard for any reason, depress that panic button on the radio—it will then broadcast a continuous distress signal on several bands. With luck, someone can reach you within a week.”
She grinned at the man beyond the desk. “Assuming that I am wearing a lifesuit when I go, and that the suit is stocked with provisions?”
He blinked away the levity. “Naturally. You must be prudent.”
“But have you considered the possibility of me throwing him overboard?”
The supervisor actually smiled. “Yes, you would probably do that. This man is tough, but you would probably do that, Kate. After all, I chose you.” His smile faded. “The best of hunting, Kate.”
She winked at him and slipped out the private door.
Irvin Webb pulled worms from the ground and flung them to a hungry beggar.
The beggar was a young robin with speckled wings and a pale yellow belly, too young to be sensibly afraid of man. It performed a nervous, erratic dance on the lawn a scant dozen feet from the kneeling man and watched every vicious bite of the blade into the turf. There—it had happened again. Webb turned another savage scoop of earth and his fingers pulled loose a moist worm, flicking it at the hungry bird. The man stared at the ground between his knees and compared this new hole with Singleton’s grave. The lawn around him was pocked with a dozen—a score of freshly dug holes and each one of them was akin to Singleton’s grave.
Singleton had been in his grave since early afternoon. The funeral was a crashing bore. Webb had remembered Singleton’s dream of a burial on the moon—if he ever died. Young men seldom thought of dying.
Singleton didn’t get his wish, of course; he had died some twenty miles above the earth a few days ago, and had been buried six feet beneath it, in an Ontario cemetery, a few hours ago. So much for the dreams of young men. Webb jabbed the spade into the ground again and went on making still another hole.
The robin took flight in sudden alarm.
Webb heard a swift step and a woman’s voice.
“Oh, hello there . . .”
Webb turned on his knees and found a woman standing before him, a very tall woman clad in some kind of opaque green fabric. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of white gloves to match. The gloves had long sleeves which reached to her elbows and beyond, disappearing beneath the sleeves of the dress. Under her large hat she had combed brown hair and a faintly pleasant if heavily made-up face. The woman looked like an actress or a whore.
“I rang,” she said, “but there was no response. Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell.”
“It’s disconnected. What do you want?”
She seemed taken aback at his attitude. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . on a matter of business.”
“Is it important?”
“I think so.” She frowned and then studied him closely. “That is, if you are Irvin Webb. Are you?”
“I’m Webb. I’m not buying anything.”
“And I am not selling anything. May I talk?”
Webb looked her over more carefully and then got up to offer her a lawn chair. She was tall, easily matching his own spare six fee
t, and the tightly covered slimness of her graceful body served to emphasize it. The only square inches of naked flesh to be seen anywhere were the neck and face, and that was spoiled by the excessive cosmetics. Webb knew a sudden conviction that the woman wasn’t as soft as she seemed. He outweighed her by fifty or sixty pounds, and was at least ten years older, but the conviction grew on him that she would likely hold her own in a wrestling match.
“What about the guys at the field?”
She smiled and nodded. The heavy lipstick moved awkwardly with the muscles around her mouth. “I was seeking a ship, and they said you were the only pilot available.”
“Tight board,” Webb agreed cryptically. “What do you want?”
“I would like to arrange a flight A charter.”
Webb had figured as much, and he also surmised that she represented money. Money was what he needed right now. That damned funeral, as cheap as it was, had taken a chunk from his meagre bank account; and those other funds he was expecting were exasperatingly slow in coming—he had never before been an insurance beneficiary, and he had no knowledge of how soon or how late they paid off.
“Sure,” he said. “Where to?”
“Oh, I don’t know really. Just anywhere, I guess.”
“You can’t just fly off into the wild blue yonder. Flights have to be plotted.”
“Yes, I understand that.” She paused for a moment. “Perhaps to Ganymede?”
“The far moons?” Webb shook his head in dismay. If she really wanted that the fare was as good as lost. “I’ve only got a can. Didn’t they tell you at the field?”
“What is a can?”
“A rebuilt South Bend JB-9.”
“But what is that?”
“A can—a bucket! A freight job with a two-man crew.”
“Well?”
“Two men in the cabin—like this.” He held up his two fingers closed together. “The thing is a bucket and there ain’t any better name for it. The cabin sleeps two, one up on the other—the man in the top bunk sleeps with his behind rubbing the belly of the man in the bunk below. It feeds two, and you eat sitting on the floor. It carries air and water for two, if you don’t breathe and drink too much. Hell, there ain’t even a door on the toilet—doors make excess weight. Sister, I’ve got a bucket.”
To the Tombaugh Station Page 1
