She was accurate; it wasn't "someone" — it was "something." A nine-foot multi-armed spider assassin from the Rings of Orion. I was ready for him when he dropped from the roof onto the person he thought was Amanda Nightbird.
He got a royal shock: I was wearing Amanda's tiger striped wig, knee-high lifeleather bootkins and tri-glo slimsuit. Amanda remained inside the building in her skimpies.
I'm trained in seventeen forms of solar combat so when this spiderguy landed on my lower back (planning to sink his poison fangs into my neck — or, to be precise, into Amanda's neck) I dipped into a lateral reverse Mercurian half-twist and sent him flying. Before he could regain balance I delivered a neatly-executed double heel snap to his upper mandibles. Hissing, he lunged at me again — but by this time I had my .38 nitrocharge fingergrip Colt-Wesson out and working for me. I re-distributed his atoms, blasting him into a multitude of hairy black pieces. (Universal law: nothing ever dies in the cosmos.)
Then I went back inside and asked Amanda Nightbird why a spider assassin from Orion was trying to kill her.
She wore glitternip on her breasts, and looked so great in her skimpies, with her perfect skin shining in the semi-gloom, that I found it difficult to concentrate on her reply — but it had to do with a risk-debt she'd refused to pay after losing to a rigged Gravgame at Honest Al's Pleasure Palace.
"I know Al," I told her, squeezing her right breast. "I can square it for you."
"He's a crook! " she said with heat. "I wish you wouldn't."
"Square it?"
"No, squeeze my breast. I don't like them pinched or squeezed. My first bedmate did that and it absolutely ruined our pairup. I like them flat-palmed or caressed lightly around the inner aureole."
"Oke," I said, handing over her tiger-striped wig. "But you do want me to fix things with Al?"
"Oh, yes, I do," she said as I passed her clothes back to her. "But I refuse to pay him a thousand creds when I know he manipulated the gravity field on that spinwheel."
"Gotcha," I agreed, watching her slide into her slimsuit.
"There's something else," she said, looking up at me with deep-lashed eyes. "What do you know about the meaning of dreams?"
"I'm an op not a headpsych," I said. "What kind of dreams?"
"Nightmares. I keep dreaming that frost is everywhere, freezing all life. Over and over lately … the same dream. What do you make of it?"
I was watching her tab her bootkins when I realized we were cosmically destined to pairmate.
"I'll have to pass on the meaning of your dreams," I told her. "But I'm convinced we're prime pairmate material. What say?"
Her eyes cat-flashed. "You are attractive," she agreed. "But our body-jag will have to wait. I'm due with the Saints — for a shake sesh on the Marble, and you have to square me with Honest Al."
"Ummmmm," I said.
"How much is all this going to cost me?"
"No way to tell," I said. "Depends on what I can do with Al."
"I trust you, Sam." Her voice was a purr as I flat-palmed her right breast. "My future rests with you."
I knew that cosmic destiny could be depended upon. Somewhere in the multi-layered Swiss cheese of the universe, in a counter-dimensional reality, we were already body-jagging like crazy.
I looked forward to it.
Honest Al's was located just beyond Mars, on a runt-sized private asteroid called Burton's Rock, which was a quick hop from Bubble City. The Rock got a lot of local action since Gambledens were illegal in B City. I'd been there often enough to know my way around, and I was never dumb enough to buck a spinwheel. I stuck to mag craps. At least you can't rig a set of magnetic dice, so all you had to beat were house odds. Sometimes I got lucky.
You couldn't miss Al's joint; it was set smack into the fat lip of a big radioactive crater. You could see the glow for miles coming in from the dark side of Mars.
Inside, Al's Pleasure Palace was no palace. Al kept the upkeep down and play-profits up; he didn't need high gloss to attract the suckers. I spotted him at a corner drinktable with two fleekers from the Capella System. Al was buttering them up for a big spend. Fleeks have a natural urge for high-stakes action, which Al happily encouraged.
I walked over to his table.
"Samuel! " he beamed. "How jolly to see you again."
"We need to talk," I said, tight-voiced. "Alone. "
The two fleeks looked up at me with lidless orbs. "Later, Samuel. I'm with friends."
Al was big, maybe three hundred Earthpounds, and his tri-color changesuit didn't flatter his bulk. I put my left thumb against the upper ridge of his bloated neck, applied pressure. He grunted in sudden pain.
"We talk now," I said. "You two … up!"
The fleeks wavered to their feet; a fleek panics easy. They don't like violence in any form.
"Frap off! " I told them. And they waddled away, their stalk eyes bugged in fear.
I took my thumb out of Al's neck and sat down.
"What'll you have? " asked the drinktable. I ordered a double Irish, no cubes. Al was glaring at me, his wide face flushed and beaded with sweat bubbles.
"I could have you iced for this," he said tightly. His eyes were smoked steel with heat in the center. I grinned at him.
"You're real good at having people iced," I said. "That's why I'm here."
"Huh? " He blinked at me.
"You put out the killword on a Saint, and she came to me. I told her I'd have it canceled."
"You told her wrong, peeper," said Al. "She owes. She won't pay. She dies. One-two-three."
I shook my head slowly. "She was stiffed on a rigged spin, and you know it," I said. "Either you call off the hounds or I bring this seedy joint down around your fat pink ears!"
I sipped my Irish as Al thought that one over.
"You're running a bluff, Sam," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
I gestured toward a vidphone near the bar. "Try me. One call to my ole buddy, Solarpolice Captain Shaun O'Malley, telling him what I know about your sleazy operation and you're out of biz." I leaned close to Al's sweating face. "Cancel the word on my client, or I cancel your whole operation."
Then I sat back and lit a cigar. Al let out a long sigh, raised a fat hand. One of his boys glided to the table, giving me a hard look-over. Al snapped out two words: "Nightbird lives."
The goon nodded and slid back into the crowd.
"Thanks," I said to Al. "That was a real sweet thing to do."
But Al was still sweating; I wondered why. "Look, Sam …" His voice was soft. "There's more to this than wheel money. I was under orders. The debt was just a cover. Take my word and stay clear of her. She's going down, Sam. One way or another."
I'd never seen Al like this. He was gut-scared.
"Tell me about it," I said. "All of it. Who hired you to kill the girl? And why?"
He looked up with agonized eyes. His jowls were quivering. "I tell you — and I'm dead, Sam. Just like her."
"Nobody has to know you told me anything."
"It's too dangerous. I only said what I did to keep you out of it."
"No good, Al. I'm in it. Now spill!"
His voice went all whispery; I could barely make out the words: "Amanda knows something she shouldn't … about the Big Lizard."
"Stanton P. Henshaw, the onion magnate?"
Al nodded. "She was hired for one of his bash-parties on Pluto — with the Saints. They were doing a shake up there that night and between sessions Amanda wandered into the garden next to the main poolhouse. She overheard Henshaw. He was with some galactic high-wigs. She heard them talking."
"About what?"
"Dunno, but something big," Al whispered. "Big enough for Henshaw to hire me to get a job done on Amanda Nightbird. I rigged the Gravgame, and after she lost at the wheel I let her find out about the rig. I knew she'd refuse to pay — which gave me the excuse I needed to put out the killword. She doesn't know the real reason."
"But if she heard something impo
rtant enough to scare the Big Lizard wouldn't she have told someone?"
Al's voice became even more intense: "That's just it, Sam … she doesn't know she knows what she knows!"
"Run that by me again."
"What she actually overheard has been erased from her conscious mind. Henshaw deeped her before she left Pluto — so the words now exist only in her subconscious. But a police data-scan could reveal those words, and the Lizard wants her dead."
"Then why didn't he kill her himself?"
Al shook his fleshy head. "Couldn't afford the risk. Everyone knew she was shaking at his place that night. He had to make sure her death wouldn't tie in to him — and that's why he contacted me for the ice job."
I leaned back, twisting my classic hat in my hands. "The question is — just what did she overhear?"
"I swear you don't want to know," Al said. "Just like I don't want to know. Sure, I'll call off the kill, but it won't save her. When she walked into that garden she bought herself a ticket to the boneyard, and you can't save her. Stay out of it, Sam. Nobody fraps around with the Big Lizard."
"Just let me worry about that slimy green bastard! I've dealt with him before."
"But when he finds out I've called in the word … he'll …"
"He won't do anything. We'll nail him first."
Al's thick eyebrows rose. "We?"
"Me and Shaun O'Malley. The Captain's had a long line out on Henshaw's scaly hide. My guess is that whatever's inside Amanda's head will provide the hook he needs to pull in the Lizard!"
After leaving Al's I booked an express-warper for Jupiter. I had to locate Amanda fast and get her to O'Malley at Solar HQ in Allnew York. I'd have him run a brain-scan to uncover what she knew.
When we touched down on the Marble I hailed an aircab for Juketown. I knew Amanda was shaking with the Saints at the Bent Tentacle, an upper class drinkdive in the heart of town. Most of the hot off-planet acts played there — and the Saints were steaming. Their tri-disc of "Ionized Particle Blues" was numero uno on the starcharts.
At the club they told me she was doing a celeb vidstint as a guest panelist at KRAB, the local Tri-Vid Station. Her appearance was slated as prime PR for the Saints.
The Tri-Vid cameras were still on Amanda as she left the station, so I had to wait until she reached the liftlot outside KRAB before approaching her.
She was startled to see me.
"Sam! What are you doing here? I thought you were squaring me with Honest Al."
"That's done — but it isn't over."
"I don't understand."
An aircab touched down next to us, and I pushed her inside.
"Launchport," I told the cab.
"But I'm due back at the club!"
"Nix on that. We've got to see O'Malley in Allnew York."
"The solar cop?"
"Yep. He doesn't like private ops, but when I bring you in he's gonna love me!"
Her eyes flashed anger. "I have no intention of going to Allnew York with you. I shake tonight at the Tentacle."
"I didn't figure you'd want to go, and I haven't got time to argue, so …" I pressed a spot just at the base of Amanda's skull. Her eyes saucered, she let out a small sigh — and slumped loosely against my shoulder.
So far, so good.
When we reached Earth, Amanda was totally zonked: I'd slipped her some L-17 on the flight, and I had to carry her into Solar HQ. When I located O'Malley I told him to break out the brain-scan equipment, that we had a prime candidate for a Reading.
He didn't see it that way.
"Space, you're under arrest," he told me, spitting out the words around a cigar the size of a New Texas fence-post. He was tall and wide and tough — and he seemed to enjoy glaring at people.
I glared back, into his steamed Irish face: "On what charge?
"Kidnapping," snapped O'Malley. "You admit you took Miss Night-bird off Jupiter in a disabled condition without her free consent?"
"Sure I admit it, but I brought her directly to you, didn't I?"
"It's not where you brought her, it's how you brought her! She's still zonked. We can't get a word out of her."
Several other solarcops, equally tough, lounged around the captain's office, giving me the sour eye. The place smelled of stale sweat and cigar smoke. The coolvents were jammed, and the room was windowless.
"The words you want are all locked in her subconscious," I told O'Malley. "Just do what I said, run a mind-scan on her."
"I don't take orders from sleazy, lowlife private snoops," growled the tall Irishman. "I'll decide on a scan — depending on what Miss Nightbird has to say when she norms out."
"I gave her L-17. That's strong stuff. If you wait till she's back to normal we might lose the Big Lizard."
"We? " O'Malley stumped out his massive weed against the side of his nearwood desk and ambled over to me. I was in a holdchair, facing the desk, and he leaned down to cup my chin in a beefy paw. "There's no 'we' in this case, there's only me! If the Lizard gets nailed, I nail him."
He uncapped my chin, walked back to his desk and slid into his nearleather swivchair. "Okay, Sammy," he said, "I'll take a chance and play it your way." O'Malley leaned forward, eyes hard and glittering. "But it better pay off … It just better! "
I'd never witnessed a scan, so it was all new to me. The Reading Room was small and white and sterile. Two robos moved inside as we watched the action through a transview wall. Amanda, still out of it, was webbed into the Bodytable and a faceless robo was attaching brain-pads to her skull. A second faceless robo handled the Scanner — a large, floor-to-ceiling console filling one side of the chamber.
"How come we're not allowed inside? " I asked O'Malley.
"A scan requires isolation," he said. "The isometric electrovibrations would be affected if any other brains were in the room. "O'Malley thumbed a speakswitch. "You can begin."
The lights inside dimmed to black as Amanda's skull began to glow; I could see her brain inside, like Jell-O in a bowl, pulsing with light.
"Sub-con level achieved," reported the console robo.
"Scan," ordered O'Malley.
Words flashed in erratic patterns across the console's scan-screen, words deep-buried in Amanda Nightbird's subconscious:
… CAN DO IT? … YES … HAVE THE POWER … TOW INTO NEW ORBIT … WITHOUT SUN … SYSTEM DIES …
The words went on, revealing Stanton P. Henshaw's plan as totally monstrous: using a newly developed Moon Machine, the Big Lizard intended to steal our Sun, tow it into a new orbit outside the System, and put its vast solar energy to his own infernal purpose, as fuel for a destructive Device so powerful that Sol itself was needed to power it! With this Device he could control most of the Milky Way!
The words spilled out of Amanda's mind onto the screen as she lay, serene of feature, eyes closed, totally unaware of the incredible data she was giving us.
No wonder Stanton P. Henshaw wanted her dead!
"Now I know what her dreams really meant," I told O'Malley.
"Dreams?"
"Nightmares about frost being everywhere, freezing all life … with ole Sol towed away things would get damned chilly!"
O'Malley stared at me shaken. "Can he do it, Sam? … Can he grab our Sun?"
I nodded. "Sure. Unless he's stopped."
"But how? " O'Malley slammed a beefy fist against the wall. "If I nab him his lawboys will have him sprung before I can spit! We need to have proof! We need to find out where that Moon Machine of his is stashed!"
"Obviously on a Moon outside our System," I said. "But which?"
"Yeah … which? " He scowled. "We need more than some words inside a dame's head to shut down the Lizard!"
"Then I'll get what you need," I promised O'Malley. "We know the Lizard has an Onion Palace near Alpha Centauri. I can infiltrate the Palace and get our proof. A plan like this is bound to be fully documented. I'll bring back what you need to nail him."
"Just remember one thing," said the big Irishman. "If y
ou die, Earth dies with you."
A commercial starliner got me into the Alpha Centauri System, but I wasn't riding as a paid passenger. I arrived at Henshaw's in a box — as one of a houseserve squad of work robos, part of an exchange shipment. His old work robos were to be picked up for restoration, replaced by these new models.
I knew that my robo disguise was flawless, but I was a bit apprehensive as the Froggie Housemom released me from my insulated Paccrate.
"Name, origin, and work specialty," snapped the tall froggie. She was soot-green and stalk-eyed, like all froggies, with the usual spotted stomach and big flat wet eyes. I never liked froggies. They're naturally vicious and anti-social, which is one of the reasons the Big Lizard employed them.
"Speak up! " she demanded.
My bulb-eyes blinked at her; a metalspeak altered my voice tone: "Name: Ernesto. Origin: the Earthcoast of Sicily."
"Specialty?"
"I am a faxcab refurbisher," I told her.
She jabbed that info into her punchsheet, nodding her spade-shaped green head.
I was being very clever, since I knew that Henshaw never took the risk of sending his faxfile cabinets out for refurbishing. It was an in-Palace project. The robo I'd replaced in the shipment had been programmed to handle this job — which gave me easy entry to the Lizard's personal files.
And I was fully prepared: my left eye housed a minicam, operated by blinking the bulb on my right eye. I could shoot faxphotos as fast as I could blink.
I was grinning behind my faceplate as I walked into Henshaw's Palace. It took genius to pull off a caper like this.
My kind of genius.
By the end of the first workperiod I'd cased the whole setup: the fax-files, method of data-storage, location of primary info. I waited until the work shutdown, when all the robos were de-activated, before making my move. The Housemom was off duty, and it was a cinch to slip past the corridor guard.
Inside the faxroom, I did a quick compcheck on primary data and — presto! Jackpot! There it was: Henshaw's full Sungrab plan. I got it all, minicam whirring, and was slotting it back into the proper cab when I heard a slithering sound directly behind me. I spun around, going for the .38 under my chestplate, but I wasn't fast enough. The gun was tongue-snapped from my hand before I could squeeze the trigger. A froggie nightguard faced me, snapping a set of nippers over my wrists.
Space Tales (Seven For Space) Page 2
