Hellflower (1957)

by George O. Smith

  Hughes was going to be a sick man. Therefore the marks of battle should not be visible to his companions when they wanted to look in on the ill professor. Farradyne got a washcloth, soaped it well and went to work. He let the hot cloth soak into Hughes’ face for a minute or two massaging the face under the cloth with agile fingers. Then he began to scrub.

  The caked blood came away. And so did some dark pigment that stained the cloth. The dark-complected Hughes lightened in color; the lines in his face seemed to become less deep as the shadowing pigment was washed away. Schoolteacher Hughes came off into Farradyne’s washcloth and what was left was the would-be hellflower trader, Brenner.

  “Brenner,” breathed Farradyne in astonishment But the dope had taken effect and Brenner was out cold. Farradyne bemoaned his enthusiasm for doping the man because questions would fall on deaf ears. Then Farradyne took a more rational view. There would be plenty of time to question the hellflower operator after the schoolteachers left. Meanwhile, Brenner would be kept doped, quiet and nailed-down for the duration. He left Brenner and went to his own bed where—to his surprise—he went to sleep at once instead of lying awake with the myriad questions in his mind…

  He carried his book on Medicology with him to the breakfast table the following morning, and at the questioning looks, Farradyne made his announcement, “We have a sick man aboard. Hughes.”

  Professor Martin asked, “What happened, Mr. Farradyne?”

  “It must have been about midnight, I was working below. I heard a rather strange noise up in the passengers’ section and went up to find out what was going on. I found Mr. Hughes coughing and sneezing in the passageway, obviously in distress. I inspected him as best as I knew how and we got out my Medicology and compared symptoms. I’ll read this section: ” ‘Coryosis, one of the nine allied infections which are frequently grouped under the ambiguous term “Common Cold,” is extremely contagious but fatal only in cases of extreme sensitivity. Treatments consist of isolation amounting to a formal quarantine, and frequent injections of MacDonaldson’s Formula 2, Ph-D3; Ra7. The patient is to be kept warm at all times and must remain quiet.’

  “So we went to his cabin and I slipped him a shot and he went to bed. Now I’ll read a bit more: ” ‘Contagion measures: Since the source of infection is a filterable virus, care must be taken to remain outside of the twenty-foot range of water droplets resulting from a cough or sneeze. All things touched by the patient must be either sterilized or burned. It is suggested that only one person tend the patient and that this person be immunized with MacDonaldson’s Formula at regular intervals. Visiting should be discouraged, and if necessary must be carried on at a distance and for a very few minutes only. The incubation period is very short; the duration of coryosis is approximately fourteen days. It is, however, possible for a re-infection to take place which often resembles the initial infection, thus giving rise to the six-week cold.’

  “There’s more along this line but I think we have the picture well enough,” Farradyne concluded.

  Professor Martin’s face was grave. “What must we do?” he asked anxiously.

  “Nothing,” said Farradyne firmly.

  “But he shouldn’t stay on Pluto.”

  “That is correct. Pluto is very cold, even with the Terra conversion program going on. Mr. Hughes should be returned to Terra.”

  “But—”

  Farradyne smiled “I’ve got to make a freight pick-up on Pluto for Terra,” he said quietly. “I’ll take Mr. Hughes back home.”

  “That would be very considerate of you, Mr. Farradyne.”

  Farradyne shook his head in disclaimer. “It’s only what any man would do,” he said “What do we know about Mr. Hughes?”

  Miss Tilden said, “Not very much, I’m afraid. Mr. Hughes teaches Ancient History in Des Moines, Iowa. He joined us on Pluto, you know.”

  “No,” said Farradyne, “I didn’t know. I thought you were all together.”

  “Apparently Mr. Hughes was traveling alone until he heard of our group,” offered Professor Martin. “He was, he said, seeking a reduced-rate trip to Pluto—as we were— when he noticed our flight-plan filed on the bulletin board He got in touch with me and offered to join.”

  Farradyne nodded. “There’s really plenty of time,” he said. “No use getting excited. I’ll contact the Des Moines Board of Education later—after we’ve made our landing and take-off, and are close enough to Terra to make the radio effective. It’ll save us some money that way.” The latter, he thought, would appeal to these people.

  It was left that way. Farradyne did not assume for one moment that Hughes was a complete fake. One of two ideas was certainly true: either there was a real schoolteacher named Hughes who looked like the made-up Brenner, or Brenner had been masquerading as Hughes and really taught school in Des Moines when he was not peddling hellflowers.

  There were more important things to be considered, too. Was there another hellflower operator in the ship? Farradyne watched them all like the proverbial hawk but he could see no evidence of another hellflower man. He decided to take no chances; it would be very much like the higher-ups in this racket to have put a second operator aboard the Lancaster to take over in the case of Brenner’s failure; the second undercover man could escape as easily as could Brenner and in the same way as soon it became evident that the Lancaster had been properly sabotaged. To forestall this possibility, Farradyne built a small photoelectric alarm and put it across the stairway that led from the passengers’ cabin to the below-deck section of the ship.

  Some of Hughes’ friends went with Farradyne to watch him tend the stricken one. They stood in the doorway while Farradyne gave Hughes his shot of marcoleptine out of an ampoule carefully labeled “MacDonaldson Formula 2, PH-D3; Ra 7.” There was no doubt in their faces; Farradyne was a fine man, doing all he could to relieve the illness of another man.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful. Farradyne was asked periodically about Hughes’ condition and he replied carefully and cheerfully, once going so far as to remark with a slightly bitter laugh, “Hughes will probably feel fit as a fiddle by the time I get back to Terra, and he’ll then hate me for lugging him home. But we couldn’t leave him on Pluto with that coryosis, could we?”

  Since none of them cared to have a man coughing and sneezing in their midst, they all agreed solemnly.

  Then, inevitably, the trip wore to a close. Pluto loomed large in the sky, and Farradyne went below to see Hughes-Brenner about an hour before they were due to land.

  11

  Farradyne found Brenner awake but logy. “How do you feel?” he asked Brenner.

  “I feel dopy,” admitted Brenner dully.

  “Good. You’ve been a very sick man, Brenner. Or should I call you Hughes? Which is your name?”

  “What difference can it make?”

  “I like to know these things,” said Farradyne. “I seem to collect a lot of information, one way and another, and I admit a lot of it is useless, but I find it interesting. For instance, Brenner, can you make that triple-tongued sound?”

  “What triple-tongued sound?”

  “Come off it, Brenner. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Do I?”

  “You do and I intend to find out,” said Farradyne. He loaded his needle and approached Brenner with it. “This is for the last time, Brenner. And I’ve ideas on how to make a man talk—or sing a trio.”

  “You’re a devil from hell,” Brenner snarled. “And you’re an angel from heaven, ripping out the control rods to give us the Long Ride? Brenner, I owe you a lot that I’m going to collect. You’ll wish you had died, Brenner. And you probably will die not long after your friends find out that you’ve talked.”

  Brenner eyed Farradyne wearily. “You haven’t won your bet yet,” he said. “And even if you do, there’s the problem of extracting payment.”

  Farradyne shrugged. “You’ll talk,” he said flatly. Then he reached for Brenner’s arm, imprisoned it so tha
t Brenner could not move without dislocating the shoulder, and slid the needle home. “Just to be sure,” he told the man, who was showing all the defiance that a man in a weakened condition could display, “I gave you a slightly larger dose. The Medicology says that this is accepted practice with marcoleptine, when the patient is in some danger of an excitement-crisis.”

  He waited until Brenner’s eyes closed and the breathing became deep and regular. Then Farradyne left Brenner, went aloft and made contact with Pluto Spaceport. He came down with one hand poised above the power lever; at the first glimmer of any hanky-panky, Farradyne was going to slam the power home and take off for space at full power. Questions could be asked afterwards.

  The landing was as good as any that Farradyne had ever made, but he was almost a nervous wreck worrying about the possibility of a recurrence of the Semiramide incident. He relaxed only after he had peeked, unobserved, at Hughes, still doped, and then led the covey of schoolteachers down the landing ramp.

  It was a happy parting, with just the right tone of regret and a large amount of congratulations as to his ability, helpfulness and willingness to explain things to them that other pilots brushed away. They shook his hand and Miss Carewe permitted him to kiss her cheek and called him “Son” and Miss Tilden giggled and lifted her face for a chaste peck. Mrs. Logan’s lips were warm and soft but completely uncooperative.

  Then Professor Martin made an “ahem” in his throat and said, “Young man, we’ve all decided that you should have something to show our gratitude. Unfortunately it cannot be expensive or exotic although we have all agreed that an appropriate gift should be both. So since we cannot go to the high extreme that we all feel, we have decided that the next best thing is something completely valueless except for its sentiment.”

  He fumbled in his side pocket and brought out a small piece of slate, broken from some outcropping, somewhere.

  “On this slate we’ve signed our names with a sharp instrument. I hope you like it, Charles.”

  Farradyne took the bit of slate. It said, “To Charles Farradyne, Pilot First Class, in memory of a very pleasant flight.” It was signed by all of them.

  “Thanks,” he said, shortly. A lump hit his throat and his eyeballs stung. He felt ashamed. He had been playing games and holding high intrigue almost under their noses and they had responded with this very simple gesture of sincerity: Pilot, First Class—with a forged license and a record of hell-raising. “Thanks,” he said again.

  “It’s signed by everybody but Mr. Hughes,” said Professor Martin. “But you can ask him to sign it before you leave him. He will be happy to, I know.”

  There was a sound at the spacelock. “I’ll sign it now!” said Hughes.

  They all whirled. Hughes, eyes alight, the smile on his pale face eager, came down the ramp with his suitcase in one hand.

  “But you—” said Professor Martin.

  Hughes laughed and his voice was hearty, “I kept telling Mr. Farradyne that he was too heavy with the medicine.” Hughes poked Farradyne humorously on the shoulder. “Coryosis, Mr. Farradyne, is nowhere near as violent an illness as you have been led to believe. Our ancestors called it the common cold and most of them spent a few weeks each year fighting one form or another, frequently several forms at the same time. Sleep and isolation cured me. I’m quite all right now.”

  “You’re certain?” Farradyne managed.

  “I’ll let any doctor on Pluto look down my throat,” promised Hughes. “And I’ll go back with you if he doesn’t say I’m fit I’m a bit pale, I admit, and I won’t regain my color until we get back sunward, but I’m telling you that I am quite cured of my brief encounter with coryosis.”

  The spaceport bus came to a stop at that moment and Hughes, pausing to scratch his name on the plaque, thanked Farradyne for the thorough medication that had kept him quiet, got on the bus, waved and was whisked away.

  Farradyne, stunned, could only wave like a reluctant schoolboy.

  So Hughes-Brenner disappeared again, wandering away under the protection of a group of honest, unsuspecting human beings who would have been aghast at the first cry of villain against one of their number.

  Farradyne felt like a seven-year-old who had just been trapped into admitting that he has been a naughty boy. But out of the maze of items one thing was obvious.

  Hughes or Brenner or whatever he called himself was a very extraordinary man. He had been able to walk off the ship with his eyes bright and his system hale, when he should have been flat on his spine with a brainful of marcoleptine. And marcoleptine was one of the most completely paralyzing drugs that had ever been synthesized. Hughes had feigned his doped slumber and his helplessness because he had known that Farradyne would not attempt to ask questions until he had Hughes alone. He had also lulled Farradyne into thinking him drugged so that he could come out nice and easy to join his fellow-travelers in such a way as to turn Farradyne’s own explanation against him. Then he had walked away without a murmur of dissent from Farradyne who had no legal right to raise a cry against him.

  Hughes-Brenner was a very remarkable fellow.

  Farradyne watched the truck bringing out his shipment of refined thorium ore. Outpointed, outsmarted, outnumbered, the evidence he had was so very meager. He sneered at himself. Evidence? It was more a mere belief.

  But what was a case history but snippets and bits of inconclusive evidence that somehow fitted together like the sections of an interlocking jigsaw puzzle? What did he have to fit together? A common pattern of love lotus background. A man who died with a discordant moan. A man who grunted in a polytone when surprised, and who could take a paralyzing dose of marcoleptine and then walk out jauntily. A family of apparently well-to-do formality with a proud place in the community, and a girl who worked hand-in-glove with hellflower manipulators but who obviously had never had her delicate nose near one of the hellish thing. Or maybe she was immune, as Hughes was immune to marcoleptine? And did she make multiple-toned sounds when she was startled?

  A few very remarkable people…

  Farradyne took off for Newark with his cargo, still trying to think the matter out. Two things were certain: Farradyne himself was afraid to take a needleful of marcoleptine because be knew damned well that he was not immune; Farradyne could not make a polytonal sound with his vocal cords.

  He sat in the salon, alone and quietly thinking, and finally realized that he was completely isolated from everyone else in the solar system. He could sing crazily or go to bed, and no one would know which he did.

  He essayed a sound. It sounded like the croak of a Terran tree-frog. He made the whimper of a cocker spaniel and succeeded in getting a cramp in his throat trying to get down an octave below his normal register. He hummed and he spoke in a falsetto that made his tongue ache way down deep in back, and he tried humming and speaking and groaning at the same time and the result of that was a toneless croak.

  It struck him funny after a bit, and while he was laughing at himself, he concocted a ludicrous picture of himself kissing Carolyn Niles, and she responding in a three-toned moan.

  Alone and lost in his own thoughts, Farradyne slipped deeper and deeper into his daydream, until he answered her throaty little sound with an audible reply.

  “I love you,” he said, straining at his vocal cords. It sounded like an over-age choir boy whose voice was not ready to stay in one key yet. Soprano and baritone and tenor sounded the words, but they came out in sequence instead of all at once. A bit sing-songy, like Chinese.

  The sound, at discordant odds with the smooth, pleasant daydream, jarred Farradyne’s mind into wakefulness. The chances were that if he had been able to create a three-toned reply he might have gone on with the pleasant reverie. But now aware, Farradyne tried it again.

  “I love you,” he said aloud. He was not particularly aware of the meaning of the words, they had just been appropriate to the dream. If Farradyne had been daydreaming about dinner he probably would have been trying the strange triple
tone on, “Please pass the mashed potatoes.”

  He tried it again. What Farradyne wanted to do was to say “I” in F; “Love” in A Natural; and “You” in E Flat, which would have been a nice chord in B Flat Minor and somehow appropriate to the context of the words. “I hate you” would have been just as likely.

  Old Brenner-Hughes might have said, “That’s very neat!” when he had seen Norma Hannon with the sun shining through her skirt. Or its equivalent, all coming out in one surprised grunt.

  Carrying this line of thought still farther, Farradyne considered the original saboteur, who might have said, “That takes care of you, Farradyne,” as he clobbered the relays in the Semiramide. And Mike Cahill, who might have cried, “I’ve been shot!” or more probably something completely unprintable.

  Farradyne sat bolt upright. As a countersign to tell another hellflower operator your own identity it was a fine job. But could a whole language be constructed out of this three-tongued hodgepodge?

  Or was his entire trend of thought based upon the ultimate hope of discovering something that would absolve him from the responsibility of the wreck of the Semiramide? Actually, what did he have to go on? An exclamation, a surprised grunt, a death cry. Absolutely nothing but his own suspicion. That plus the fact mat Farradyne’s ship had been subjected to some intercepted sabotage, by a hellflower operator, who had made a sound that might have been polytonal.

  If nothing else, the fact that the dope-running gang was trying to clip him was enough for Farradyne to seek Clevis’ help. He went down into the hold and started to wash the ends of the thorium drums.

  Then he spent a lot of time tinkering with a little semicircle of soft plastic material across the opening of which he stretched two, thin, flat strips of hard-surfaced waterproofed paper. As a boy, Farradyne had been bilked out of fifty cents for a gadget advertised in a cheap magazine that purported to give the user the powers of ventriloquism. It hadn’t enabled Farradyne to throw his voice into a trunk but it had made a rather interesting bird call. Such a gimmick now might enable him to make a multiple tone.