Masters of the Galaxy

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “State your name and business. We will not be responsible for you or your vehicle if you attempt to enter the grounds without permission.”

  “I’m Jake Masters, and I’m expected. Tell your boss I need to talk to him.”

  “Please wait.”

  I waited a full two minutes. Then the gate vanished, and I realized I’d been looking at one hell of a hologram. I suspected that the entire wall was nothing but a carefully constructed image. For all I knew, so were the robots. The aircar began moving forward, and once we were inside the estate I ordered it to stop. Then, just to see if my guess about how the place was really protected was right, I picked up a titanium drinking mug that came with the vehicle and tossed it at the wall. It was instantly atomized. which is exactly what would happen to anyone who tried to enter without first being cleared.

  The aircar glided up to the front door of a mansion that would have been impressive on any world and especially out here on the edge of the Inner Frontier, and I found three men—real men, not images or robots—waiting for me. Nobody was displaying any weapons, but they each had a few telltale bulges under their tunics.

  “Well?” said the smallest of them.

  “He is carrying a laser pistol,” replied the aircar.

  “Anything else?”

  “A wallet, a passport, 37 credits in change, two Maria Theresa dollars…”

  “That’s enough. Please hand me your burner, butt first, and step out of the vehicle, Mr. Masters.”

  I did as he said, and the two larger men frisked me about as thoroughly as I’d ever been frisked.

  “What was that for?” I asked when they had finished.

  “Mr. Jeffries has a lot of enemies,” the small man explained. “And of course there are always bounty hunters.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve already scanned me and got my burner.”

  “You can’t be too careful, Mr. Masters,” he replied. “Last week a man tried to enter the house with a ceramic gun that got past every sensor. Step over here, please.”

  I walked over to a scanner that read my retina, my bone structure, and my fingerprints and checked them against my passport. Then they checked my passport against the registry office back on Odysseus. Finally they were satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, and that if I tried to kill their boss it wouldn’t be with any weapons that had gotten past them.

  “Please follow me,” said the small man, turning and entering the mansion. We passed through a huge foyer with a floor made of marble with the distinctive blue tint that identified it as coming from far Antares, then down a corridor lined with alien artifacts on quartz shelves, and finally entered a luxurious study lined with books—not disks or cubes, but real books made of paper. The carpet was very thick, and seemed to shape itself around my feet with each step I took.

  A tall man was standing beside a desk made of half a dozen different alien hardwoods. He was a steel gray man—hair, clothing, even his expression—and I knew he had to be Ben Jeffries. I half-expected to see the hatchet that made his reputation and gave him his sobriquet displayed on a wall or in a glass case, but there was no sign of it.

  “Mr. Masters?” he said, extending his hand.

  I took it. The grip was as firm and steel gray as the rest of him.

  “Call me Jake.”

  “Have a seat, Jake,” he said, snapping his fingers, and a chair quickly floated over to me, as responsive as a well-trained dog. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said.

  “Cygnian cognac, I think,” he said, and before he could ask for it a robot had entered with two half-filled glasses. I took one, so did he, and as the robot exited he nodded to the man who had brought me to the study, and he left too. Now it was just the two of us.

  “I’ve checked you out thoroughly, Jake,” he said. “A man in my position has to be very careful. After all, you’re a detective and there are close to eighty warrants for my arrest all across the Cluster. You’ve been scanned, so I know you’re not carrying any recording devices, but just the same we’re going to need some ground rules. You said you wanted to talk to me about my son. Fine—but that’s the only subject that’s open for discussion. Is that okay with you?”

  I had a feeling that if it wasn’t agreeable, I probably wouldn’t live to make it back to the spaceport.

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “I assume Andy’s mother hired you?”

  I nodded. “Mrs. Vanderwycke, right.” I took a sip of the cognac. I’d heard of Cygnian cognac for years, but I could never afford it. I’m used to cheap booze, and I could tell this was special. But since it was Hatchet Ben’s cognac, I didn’t let on and kept my observation to myself.

  “Mrs. Vanderwycke,” he repeated with an amused chuckle. “When I knew her she was just plain Betty Wickes. Well, maybe not so plain.” He took a sip of his cognac. “All right, what do you need to know?”

  “Your son has gone missing,” I said, “and I’ve been hired to find him.”

  “Yeah, I gathered as much,” said Jeffries.

  “Has he been in contact with you? Asked for money or help?”

  “No. He’d never show that much initiative.”

  “I take it you don’t think too much of him?”

  “He’s a decent enough kid,” said Jeffries. “But he’s a weakling.”

  “He looked pretty sturdy in the holos I’ve seen.”

  “There are all kinds of weaklings,” said Jeffries. “He’s the kind I have no use for. If you push him, he won’t push back. He never stands up to Betty, which is an open invitation to get walked all over. The kid’s got no guts. He lets every little thing get to him. Hell, he was actually catatonic for a while back when he was five or six. You wouldn’t believe how much I had to pay a team of shrinks to snap him out of it.”

  “Sounds like an unhappy kid,” I said.

  “I was an unhappy kid too,” said Jeffries. “You learn to overcome it—if you’re tough enough. Andy isn’t.” He paused. “Maybe he’d have turned out better if I’d raised him. It’s hard to develop toughness growing up around Betty.”

  “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Watch your back around her,” he said. “You know what I do for a living, I’m not going to lie about it. I deal with the scum of the galaxy every day—killers and worse.” He stared at me. “Believe me when I tell you she’s more dangerous than any of them.”

  “If that’s so, why did you hook up with her?”

  “She was young and gorgeous, and I was young and foolish. It didn’t last long. I was gone before Andy was born.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Maybe fifteen or sixteen years ago,” he said. “No, wait a minute. I saw her a couple of years ago when Milos Arum was inaugurated as Governor of Beta Capanis III. I didn’t talk to her, but I saw her across the room.”

  “Beta Capanis,” I said. “That’s way to hell and gone, out on the Rim. I take it Arum’s a close friend?”

  “That’s not part of our ground rules, Jake,” he said with a hint of steel beneath the friendly smile. “Stick to Andy.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “What can you tell me about a Gromite called Crozchziim?”

  “I never met him, but Andy talked about him a lot.”

  “Any idea where he might be?”

  “He? You mean the alien? Isn’t he back on Odysseus?”

  “Not as far as I can tell,” I said.

  “So you think he’s with Andy?”

  “It makes sense,” I said. “They’re friends, and they’re both missing.”

  “Interesting,” said Jeffries. “All I know about him is that he used to be an entertainer, a juggler or tumbler or something. He broke an arm or a leg, I don’t remember which. He was on Odysseus, and they let him go. Betty hired him to amuse the kid.”

  “He performed on stage?” If he worked for a theatre company that played human worlds, he had to belong to a union, and that w
ould make him a little easier to trace.

  “In a circus or a carnival, something like that.” I must have looked my disappointment, because he added: “I’ll have one of my men find out exactly where it was and get the information to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I guess that covers everything.”

  “Almost. Now I’ve got one for you.”

  “Fair is fair. Go ahead and ask.”

  “Twelve years ago you put three of my men away for a long time on Odysseus. You were a good cop. Why did you quit?”

  “I wasn’t corrupt enough,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about your problems when you arrested the wrong guys.”

  “Right guys, wrong administration,” I replied. I wanted to ask if they were his, but I knew he wouldn’t answer, so I got to my feet and he did the same.

  “Have you got any idea where he might be?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll find him sooner or later—unless Mrs. Vanderwycke gets tired of paying my expenses and per diems.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Jeffries, walking me to the door of the study. “If she stops paying you, I’ll pick up the tab and you’ll report to me.”

  I looked at him for a moment without saying anything.

  “What are you staring at?” he said.

  “I’m trying to picture you as a concerned father.”

  Suddenly he was all steel again. “Just find him.”

  Then I was being escorted back to the car by another of his men, and an hour later I was on a spaceliner bound for Odysseus. When the trip was a little less than half over, the robot host handed me the printout of a subspace message that had just arrived from the Corvus system:

  “The show Crozchziim worked for is long defunct. There are presently 137 circuses and carnivals touring the Albion Cluster. For what it’s worth, only one of then, the Benzagari Carnival and Sideshow, is owned by a Gromite, Crozchziim’s former partner in a juggling act.“

  It was as good a place as any to start, so before we landed I ran a check and learned that the carny had been playing on Brutus II for eight days and was slated to be there for four more. I didn’t even leave the Odysseus spaceport; half an hour after we touched down I was en route to the Alpha Pirias system, where I’d transfer to a local ship that hit all the inhabited worlds within a three-system radius, including Brutus II.

  When I got to Brutus I found that the carny had been kicked off the planet for running crooked games, which at least showed that the management had some respect for tradition, and was now on New Rhodesia. It took me another day to make connections. We touched down on nightside, and I got off with perhaps ten other passengers while the ship continued on toward its ultimate destination in the Roosevelt system.

  I got in line to pass through Customs. When it was my turn I stepped up and handed over my passport disk to the robot Customs officer that was running the booth.

  “Are you visiting New Rhodesia for business or pleasure?” it asked me.

  “Business.”

  “The nature of your business?”

  “I am a duly licensed private investigator,” I replied. “I don’t believe I’m required to tell you more than that.”

  “Will you require a copy of our constitution and penal code so that you may study what is and is not permitted in the pursuit of your business?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “How long do you plan to stay on New Rhodesia?”

  “One day, two at the most.”

  “I have given you a three-day visa,” said the robot, handing me back my disk. “It will vanish from your passport at that time, and if you are still on New Rhodesia and have not filed for an extension, you will be in violation of our laws.”

  “I understand.”

  “Our standard currency is the New Rhodesia shilling, but Democracy credits and Maria Theresa dollars are also accepted. If you have other human currencies, you may exchange them at any of the three banks within the spaceport.” It paused as if waiting for a question, but I didn’t have any. “Our atmosphere is 21% oxygen, 77% nitrogen, and 2% inert gasses that are harmless to carbon-based life forms. Our gravity is 96% Standard, and our day is 27.23 Standard hours.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “May I pass through now?”

  “I must check to make sure you have sufficient funds to purchase passage away from New Rhodesia,” it replied, as it transmitted my thumbprint to the Master Computer back on Deluros VIII. I tensed, because while I’d just deposited the money Mrs. Vanderwycke had given me, my credit history was what they call spotty. “Checking… satisfactory. You may enter the main body of the spaceport, Jacob Masters.”

  I walked straight to an information computer and asked where the Benzagari Carnival and Sideshow was performing. It gave me an address than didn’t mean a thing, so I took it to the Transport Depot and hired an aircar to take me there.

  It was about ten miles out of town, a series of tents and torch-lit kiosks that were meticulous recreations of the ones that had plied their trade on Earth before Man had reached the stars, with the added advantage that they were climate-controlled and a cyclone couldn’t blow them away. There were games of every variety, games for humans, games for aliens, even races for the ugly little six-legged creatures that passed for pets on New Rhodesia. The barkers and shills were everywhere—Men, Canphorites, Lodinites, Mollutei, Atrians, even a couple of Belargans.

  The din was deafening. There were grunts and growls, trills and shrill whistles, snorts and clicks, and here and there even some words I could understand. The standard language in the galaxy is Terran since Men are the dominant race, and usually the other races wear t-packs—translating mechanisms that were programmed to work in Terran and their native tongues—but someone had decided the carnival would have a more exotic flavor if the t-packs weren’t used, and I have to admit they had a point: it certainly felt different from anything I’d ever encountered.

  Except for the frigid, methane-breathing Atrians who had to wear protective suits, all the other aliens were warm-blooded oxygen breathers, and they were all more-or-less humanoid. There were half a dozen races I’d never seen before, ranging from a ten-foot-tall biped that looked like an animated tent pole to a short, burly, three-legged being covered with what seemed to be dull purple feathers.

  Finally I walked up to one of the human barkers and asked him to point out a Gromite to me. He looked around for a moment, then turned back to me.

  “I don’t see any right now, but they’re all over the place,” he said.

  “What do they look like?”

  “Maybe a foot shorter than you, rich red skin, two arms, two legs, too damned many fingers and toes. They don’t wear clothes. I know this is supposed to be a sexual galaxy, but if they’ve got genders, they keep it to themselves.” Suddenly he pointed. “There’s the boss, making his collections.”

  I looked, and decided I’d never mistake a Gromite for anything else. The legs had an extra joint, the elbows seemed to bend in both directions, there was no nose but just a narrow slit above a broad mouth, the eyes were orange and were faceted like an insect’s, and if he had any genitals they sure as hell weren’t external.

  “Maybe he doesn’t need pants,” said the barker, “but he sure as hell could use a money belt. We’re really raking it in tonight.”

  “Have you been with the show long?” I asked.

  “A year, give or take.”

  “Do you know if there’s a Gromite called Crozchziim working here?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “It’s not a name I’d remember.” Then: “Who’d he kill?”

  “Why do you think he killed anyone?”

  “Why else would you be looking for him?”

  “He no killer. I just need to talk to him. I’m told that he’s a juggler, or some kind of entertainer.”

  “Well, there’s your answer. He’d be in the big tent, and I work the Midway. We could both work the show f
or a year and never meet.”

  “This particular Gromite might be traveling with a young human.”

  “Bully for him,” said the barker, losing interest. “You got any other questions, or do you mind if I go back to work?”

  I left him and headed over to Benzagari. I flashed my credentials at him and he came to a stop.

  “We’re breaking no laws,” he said. “If you have any complaints, please speak to Lieutenant James Ngoma.”

  “I’m not here to arrest you or shake you down,” I said. “I just need some information.” He didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I’m looking for a young human named Andy Vanderwycke. He’s probably traveling with a Gromite named Crozchziim.”

  “I have never heard of either of them.”

  Birds of a feather. I already knew that he’d been Crozchziim’s partner in an act years ago, so he was obviously protecting a fellow Gromite. I considered explaining that I didn’t want the damned Gromite, that I was after the Man, but he had no reason to believe me and aliens don’t sell out their brothers to humans.

  I left him and headed for the main tent. It was packed, split just about evenly between humans and everything else. New Rhodesia was a human world, but it was also a center of commerce, and it had a large Alien Quarter. The Men still outnumbered the aliens three or four to one, but Men had a lot of things to do with their evenings, and obviously the aliens didn’t.

  There were a trio of Lodinite tumblers in the center, and a couple of human clowns were walking the perimeter of the ring, entertaining some of the kids of all species who couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for alien acrobats. They were just finishing up their act when I got there, and a minute later a human knife-thrower entered the ring. A pretty, scantily-clad girl was tied to a huge spinning wheel, the wheel was set in motion, and the man hurled his first knife. There was an audible gasp as the knife buried itself in the woman’s stomach and she uttered a shrill scream. The man released four more knives in quick succession, and each one failed to miss the girl, whose screams grew weaker each time. Then, just before the audience could charge the ring to dismember the knife thrower, the wheel came to a stop, the shackles came loose, and the “dying” girl walked briskly to the center of the ring, pulled all five knives from her body, politely handed them back to the thrower, and bowed to the audience.