SPACE FOR HIRE
Book One in the
Seven For Space Series
by
William F. Nolan
Introduction by
George Clayton Johnson
Cover & Interior
Illustrations by
Ron Lemen
Space for Hire
Copyright © 1971 by William F. Nolan
Copyright © renewed 1989 by William F. Nolan
Preface Copyright © 2008 by William F. Nolan
"A Letter" Introduction Copyright © 2008 by George Clayton Johnson
Cover art © 2008 by Ron Lemen
Interior illustrations © 2008 by Ron Lemen
Additional interior illustration © 2008 Ed Roeder
Creative services provided by The Creative Plantation
Art direction & interior design (print edition) by Neil Uyetake
Art direction & cover design by Ed Roeder
Editing by Allison Bocksruker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced in any format without the permission of the author and publisher.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
About William F. Nolan
Introduction: 'A Letter' by George Clayton Johnson
Preface: Welcome to Sam's Universe!
The Stories
Sungrab
Deadtrip
Moonjob
Timehop
Bubblebeast
Space: A Film Treatment
Space for Hire: A Screenplay
Fiction by William F. Nolan
To Charles Holloway
A good man
A good friend
WILLIAM F. NOLAN is a prime example of the Renaissance Man. He has raced sports cars, acted in films and television, worked as a cartoonist for Hallmark Cards, been a biographer and playwright, narrated a Moon documentary, had his work selected for more than 300 anthologies and textbooks, taught creative writing at the college level, painted outdoor murals, designed book covers, operated his own art studio, created Mickey Mouse adventures for Walt Disney, been the conductor on a miniature railroad, been cited as a Living Legend by the International Horror guild, voted Author Emeritus by the SF Writers of America, won the Edgar Allan Poe Special Award twice, been cited by the American Library Association, has over 85 books to his credit (including 3 volumes of verse) ,served as a job counselor for the California State Department of Employment, prepared pamphlets on eye care, created his own TV series for CBS, written more than a dozen novels including the best-selling SF classic Logan's Run, performed as a lecturer and panelist at a variety of conventions, handled publicity for Image Power, Inc., has had 700 items printed in 250 magazines and newspapers (including 165 short stories), won numerous other awards, had 20 of his 40 scripts produced, and functioned as a literary critic and commercial artist.
"A Letter"
by
George Clayton Johnson
Mr. Charles Holloway
Escondido, California
Dear Charles:
Congratulations!
First music, then video, now publishing: yet another Holloway Production.
It's wonderful to hear that you've decided to publish Seven for Space by William F. Nolan.
As you are aware, I've been friends with Ol' Bill for many decades, but I always think of him as William F.
You may not fully appreciate who William F. is. His honesty, sincerity and warmth only point toward the character of the man. He has a fierce integrity, an enormous persistence, and an incredible memory, qualities that make him a good man to work with. He taught me by example. I've tried to be as straight-arrow as he is. After all, Charles, I was locked in a motel room with him for twenty-one days while we talked about possible futures and wrote the novel Logan's Run.
In close quarters like that, arguing about something you consider important, you learn what a man is made of.
I've never met anyone like him.
The range of his interests.
The precision of his facts.
His ability to complete things.
The limberness of his imagination.
His sense of fair play.
These are only some of the reasons that I chose to collaborate with him from among all of my writer friends.
You may not be aware of the size of his fan base. How beloved he is by collectors. How rich his publishing history is. The collector's edition of the book alone should give you a handsome profit.
The sheer number of his accomplishments is numbing. When I nagged William F. for precise figures he sent me a note that made me blink a number of times. I considered some of the implications of his listing, aware that even now he is putting the finishing touches on a massive 900-page book on the life of Dashiell Hammett.
My history with Nolan goes back to the 50s. He'd already published the Ray Bradbury Review, the first complete index of Bradbury's stories to that date. The fact impressed me on a scholarly level. His early stories impressed me even more. His first collection, Impact 20, was published in 1963. I first met the prototype for Sam Space there (as "Sam Slammer") in "The Beautiful Doll Caper".
Read that book sometime. It's a stunner. Great stories, no two alike. A real showcase of his writing talent.
Ironically, the first story in Impact 20 is a beauty titled "The Small World of Lewis Stillman", wherein the last adult male in the city is tracked down and beaten to death by a rag-tag band of what prove to be surviving children. It is this image, Charles, that I credit with being the inspiration for Logan's Run.
I am a total fan of Nolan's. He has been one of my many teachers and much of what I know about working in harness I learned from him.
Our working credo seemed to be, "Give it to me with the bark off and I won't hate you, this time."
When William F. has turned the laser beam of his mind upon a subject, don't be surprised by what he will see or how he will give that Nolan tilt to his perception. Remember, Charles, this is a perception fired in the same kiln with Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson, and myself.
Remember, we are all products of the days when those ancient pulp magazines you see at science fiction conventions were new, and movies like Karloff's Frankenstein and Lugosi's Dracula were showing for the first time in neighborhood theaters, and when you could find classic books in paperback editions for a quarter on bus station magazine racks — a new experience for America. Radio was just coming into its own and comic books were expanding the minds of the young. That was when Nolan developed his undying love for Batman and I became an offspring of Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan. After all, his name is John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, and am I not George Clayton John's son?
I met William F. 50 years ago at the same time I met Charles Beaumont and John Tomerlin. The four of us became fast friends and lived in each other's lives for many years, drawn together by our devotion to writing and the magnetic quality of Charles Beaumont, who tested us all with his knowledge, sense of humor, depth of understanding, strength of character and sense of honor. It is easy to love the people who love the people you love.
Both Nolan and I were especially saddened by the fact that Beaumont didn't live long enough to see the major success we had with our Logan's Run.
Had he not died I'd still be living in his shadow, and happy to be doing so, I believe.
Are you aware that Space for Hire is Nolan's first novel after Logan's Run? Logan's Run and Seven for Space have in common a mythos shared by William F. and me, taken from our nostalgic remembrances of childhoods spent watching Karloff and Lugosi, reading Sam Spade and
Philip Marlowe, laughing at Laurel & Hardy, thrilling to Flash Gordon and Tarzan, and listening to radio shows like "I Love a Mystery" and "Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy".
I can't really tell you how it was then, but that "reality" stamped itself into Bradbury and Beaumont and Nolan and me and others in indescribable ways that are reflected in just how Nolan structures and objectifies those nascent memories.
I see "Sam Space" as the basis for a big splashy Broadway musical. Nolan's comic vision of a seedy, worn-out future featuring the ultimate pop-culture icon, the Private Detective, is a natural for the Great White Way.
Charles, I can see it now! The hottest musical in town! Singing — dancing — satire — humor — a send-up of every science fiction theme.
And Nolan is the perfect person to write it. A musical comedy is the only art form that he has not yet taken a crack at.
It could pay off big for both you and William F.
I hope so.
Best Wishes,
George Clayton Johnson
Pacoima, California
2007
Welcome to Sam's Universe!
The truly manic exploits of Sam Space were written over a 36-year period between a multitude of more rational books, scripts, stories, and articles. Sam's insane adventures encompass two short novels and five stories, all but the last narrated by Sam himself.
When I finished Space For Hire back in December of 1970 I figured that I'd had my say about Sam. What kept bringing me back to him? Love, for one thing. Yeah, that's right, I loved conjuring up the big lug's madcap adventures. I'm very fond of Sam and his wacky universe of three-headed females and leaking robot dragons. I'm fond of nutty Nate Oliver and his goofy inventions. I enjoy writing about my talking mice on Jupiter (the mouse planet) , the sadly-reflective Zububirds of Pluto, and Sam's always-grumpy Martian hovercar. All great fun.
More importantly, I think they also provide great fun for my readers. That's the goal of every writer — to please his or her audience.
Sam is a guy to like. I like him, and if you're meeting him here for the first time, I think you'll like him too.
Of course, if Dash Hammett had never invented San Francisco's Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon I would never have created his alter ego, Sam Space. So I owe a big debt to Mr. Hammett. Both detectives are tough, pragmatic, and sharp-minded.
However, there are major differences …
Space works out of Bubble City on Mars, and his cases are far wilder than anything Hammett's man may have dealt with in San Francisco. Sam Spade didn't lay eggs, or have to deal with triple-headed clients, evil Froggies, Moongoons, age machines, parallel universes(going to his own funeral was a shock) , stolen asteroids, and orgasmic machines. Nor did he have to run around trying to solve a case with his head on backwards.
After two novels and five shorter tales, am I through writing about Sam? I believe I am. The contents of this book you hold in your hand represent his complete adventures.
I've had my say. Now it's your turn to explore Sam's mad universe.
Dive in.
Enjoy!
W.F.N.
Bend, Oregon
2007
Sungrab
· · · · · · · · · · ·
a story
Sherlock Holmes was spitting up.
"Gaaa, gaa," he said, eyes rolling in his leonine skull.
"What's wrong with him now? " I asked Hu Albin.
"A temporary regression to infancy," Al told me, carefully wiping a bubble of saliva from the great detective's chin.
I scowled, kicking open a flowcab for the office bottle. "How can he regress to what he never was?"
"Holmes is equipped with programmed tapes extending back to a womb state. His powers of deductive reasoning must embrace the full spectrum of life." Albin stroked his pale mustache. "He retains memories of a childhood he never actually experienced."
"I think you're overdoing things with these robos," I said, pouring myself a solid shot from the bottle.
"You are paying for the services of a master detective," Albin said, whacking Holmes sharply on the right side of the head. "There! That should do it."
Holmes blinked rapidly. A thin smile replaced the look of infant blankness. "Ah," he said, drawing a heavy black pistol from the folds of his Inverness cape and pointing the gun at me. "It seems we have finally bagged our game! The infamous Moriarty is ours!"
I scowled at Albin. "He's still wacko. Tell him who I am before he fires that bloody antique!"
Albin leaned close to Holmes. "This is Samuel Space. He is a private investigator, and we are in his office on Mars. He has rented you to work with him."
"Yeah," I nodded. "Fifty solarcreds a day, and look what I get!"
"Stand aside! " ordered Holmes, keeping the pistol aimed at my chest. "This arch-fiend is a master of disguise, and has cleverly chosen to portray a cheap, shabbily clad private operative of limited intelligence and inferior vocabulary in order to mask his true identity!"
"Shabbily clad! " I snapped. "I bought this zipsuit two weeks ago on Mercury — and the shirt's a pop-cuff self-wash from Allnew York." To Akbin: "Better crack him again."
He palm-whacked Holmes once more, this time on the left side of his head.
Holmes gulped, slipping the gun back into his cape. He replaced it with a curving deep-bowled antique pipe, into which he tapped a rare blend of mutated Turko-Greek Earthtobacco. He puffed, expelling a cloud of aromatic intensity, regarding me with languid eyes. "I have analyzed the fragment of crushed leaf-mold from the riding boot of Lady Wheatshire, and you will be pleased to know, Mr. Space, that I have solved the Case of the Missing Claw."
"Hey, wait a sec! " I started to protest, but Holmes silenced me with an upraised hand.
"The jeweled bird we assumed was in the hands of Lord Willard Wheatshire was, in actuality, never in his possession during his tenure at Suffox Hall. In a shameless yet clever act of duplicity, perpetrated by Lady Wheatshire prior to the time of their arrival in Suffox, a fake bird, with the left claw removed, was substituted — while the genuine Egyptian Eagle, with the worthless right claw missing, was passed tithe blind hunchbacked gardener called Fedor, who was, of course, none other than the dastardly Mayfair pederast known as the Earl of Clax."
"Look, I —" But my words were ignored as Holmes' voice rose in triumph: "Ergo — Clax had the Claw — the left claw containing, within its taloned grip, the Blood Pearl of the Bonfidinis which was …" and he dramatically spaced his words, "never — actually — missing — at — all!"
"Brilliant" breathed Albin, his mustache trembling. He clapped Holmes on the shoulder. "Absolutely brilliant, old fellow!"
"Except it's the wrong case," I said. "I rented you to help me solve the Saturn Time-Machine Swindle, remember!"
Holmes shrugged, looking at me with sheepish, haggard eyes.
I put the office bottle away. "C'mon," I said, grabbing my classic hat. "I'm takin' you back to the Amazing Automated Crime Clinic." To Albin: "I'm due a refund."
Which is what I did. The next thing I did was vidphone my client on Saturn and admit I couldn't crack the time-machine caper.
You can't win' em all.
My office in the Boor Building. A little worn at the edges. It wouldn't cop any design awards. Neither would the cheap fleahut I rent on Redsand Avenue, but it's all I can afford on the limited solarbread I earn. It's a bum's game. Even in its heyday this racket never paid much, but my great-grampa was a private Earthdick back in Old Los Angeles in the Twentieth Century so I guess it runs in the blood.
But let's get back to the case at hand …
Here I am, half-swacked on Moonjuice, leaving the Happy Hours Alcoholic Emporium after that vidcall to my erstwhile client.
I didn't want to go home because home was a cramped lifeunit full of Martian sandflies and broken dreams — if you'll pardon a poetic reference to personal despair. My last pairmate had walked on me three Marsmonths ago, claiming that our relation
ship lacked sexual intensity. She was right. I'd used up most of my sexual intensity on a Venusian triplehead during a multi-operational star-dodge tax fraud assignment on Ganymede.
So my unit was empty now — just me and the sandflies — which explains why I was in no big rush to get back there on this particular evening.
I needed a prime brainblast — a full sensory vacation from the lousy detective biz — so I found the nearest Mindmaze, zipped myself into a Tripchair, snapped on the lobe pads, and blasted.
I was deeped, clam-happy, really into it, when an abrupt power break made me surface.
I blinked up at a tall, cat-eyed Earthgirl in a tiger-striped wig. She was poured into a tri-glo slimsuit and knee-high lifeleather bootkins. An absolute knockout.
"I'm sorry I broke your contact," she said, facing my chair, looking very determined, "but I knew you wouldn't be back in your office before morning and I had to see you now."
"You could have let me finish my blast," I said, popping my pads
and leaving the Tripchair. "This matter is quite urgent, Mr. Space."
"You know me, but I don't know you."
"Amanda Nightbird," she said. "I shake with the Saints."
"Right," I said. "I've seen you on the vids. How'd you get my
name?"
"You were recommended by a friend as a reliable private hop," she said.
"Private op," I corrected. "Short for operative."
"The term is not familiar," she told me. "That's because there aren't many of us around these days."
"Anyhow," she said with impatience, "I know what you do and I want you to do it."
"Do what, Miss Nightbird?"
"Protect. You do protect people, don't you? … I mean, isn't that part of what you do as a … private whatever?"
"Sure," I nodded. "Protection's in my line. Two hundred solarcreds a day, plus expenses. Now, just who do I protect?"
"Me," said the girl with a shake of her tiger hair.
"And when do I begin?"
"Now," she said, nodding toward the exit. "There's something outside, waiting to kill me!"
Space Tales (Seven For Space) Page 1
