Starrigger

by John Dechancie

  “Drugs?”

  “Antigeronics.” He snorted. “You didn’t think you could get ‘em here as easy as you can back in T-Maze, did you?”

  “I can’t imagine anything being under tighter control than anti-g’s,” I said. “My last treatment was after a four-year wait and a dozen different permits. And it cost a fortune.”

  “Sometimes you can’t get them here at any price, and you’ll die waiting. But I have good connections.”

  “How much are we talking about?” I asked, stringing him along.

  “I can give you, say, a quarter-treatment’s worth. The full oral series.”

  In a dark comer of the lounge, a quartet struck up a vaguely Latin American number: The instruments were acoustic marimba, trap drums, and double bass—except for the lead omniclavier. I listened to the music for a while, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at a night sky aglow with moonlight over a silver-flecked sea.

  “Paul, a quarter-treatment’s not going to do me any good if I can’t get the rest.”

  “Best I can do, Jake. We’re talking big money here.”

  “If you can swing a full treatment, forget the cash. I’ll take just the drugs.”

  “Can’t do it, Jake. Like I said, my connection is good, but the supply is short.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  He flashed a smug grin. “My source is the source, friend. None better, but that’s the deal. Think about it.” He drained his mug and wiped his mouth with two fingers. “Here, let me give you my card.”

  He gave me his card, which read PAUL HOGAN ASSOCIATES, EMPLOYMENT SPECIALISTS, with an address in Seahome. I finished my beer, made my excuses, and got out of there.

  When I got back to the stateroom, nobody was there. I knocked on the connecting hatch and opened it. No one.

  I sprawled on one of the double beds and keyed Sam.

  “Yo!”

  “Keeping busy down there? Anything interesting?”

  “Oh, sure, nothing like watching a stomach wall ooze.”

  “It’s oozing?”

  “Yeah, but they keep spraying the place down with some kind of stuff. How’s it going up there? Any trouble?”

  “Things are coming to a head, but I keep getting the feeling I’m the pimple.” I filled Sam in about Lori and Winnie, then ran down all the new bits of data I’d picked up, especially what I’d gleaned from Hogan.

  “This is all getting very interesting,” Sam said, “It’s also getting a lot clearer.”

  “There’re still some big murky areas, but I think…”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Sam, just a thought. I know we’re wedged in pretty tight down there, but could you muscle your way out if you had to?”

  “No problem. May have to flatten latten a few buggies to do it, though. Why? Where do we go then?”

  “I have an insane idea.”

  “Oh, God.”

  I heard the hatch opening. It was Darla, letting herself in with her key. She stopped dead when she saw me. “Jake! Where the hell have you been?”

  “Talk to you later, Sam.”

  “Any time.”

  “Hi, Darla.”

  She came over and sat on the bed beside me. “You disappeared.”

  “Sorry. We went for a walk.”

  “Where’s Winnie?”

  “Wanted to talk to you about that. I gave her to somebody.”

  Her face didn’t change expression, but a submerged ripple of surprise crossed it, once, and was gone. “You gave her to somebody? Who?”

  “Uh, guy by the name of Paul Hogan. Deals in exotic animals, for zoos and such. I thought it best.” I put my hands behind my head nonchalantly. “Had to do something sooner or later. Right?”

  “Zoos? They have those here?”

  “Apparently. Well, he didn’t say zoos exactly. Now that I think of it, it seems improbable. Exotic pets, maybe.” She frowned at me. “Darla, I don’t like it any better than you, but it had to be done. He said he’d find her a good home.”

  She didn’t like it, but said nothing. She was thinking. “Where’s the gang?”

  “Hm? Oh, they’re out shopping.”

  “Did you go with them?”

  “No, I was looking for you.”

  “I should have let you know, but we got to wandering, then we met Hogan, and then … well, I wanted to get the matter taken care of. Sorry.”

  She didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Where did you—?”

  Voices in the next room interrupted her. A knock came on the connecting hatch.

  John poked his head in. “Hello?”

  “Come on in,” I said.

  John stepped in, decked out in a bush outfit. He looked like a khaki beanpole. “What do you think?” he said, turning like a ballerina.

  “Nice outfit,” I said. “Yours too, Suzie.”

  Susan’s was more conventional, a green all-climate suit with brown knee-high boots. “We got backpacks too,” she said, proudly displaying hers. “And some camping equipment, new eggs, everything.”

  “Yes,” John said. “We thought we’d be proper starhikers for a change. Spent a bloody fortune. The prices!”

  Roland walked in wearing a match for Susan’s outfit. “Jake! Where the punking hell were you?—if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “With Winnie. I found someone to take her.”

  “Oh, Jake, you didn’t!” Susan was shocked.

  John, in a sudden reverie, said, “Odd… I was wondering where all this stuff comes from. I didn’t think to check the labels. They seem good quality.”

  “I checked them,” Roland said. “The labels were all from Terran Maze. Where else?”

  John furrowed his brow. “But I was under the impression…”

  “You get the door prize, Roland,” I said. “The Outworlds aren’t as far out as you think.”

  “Lots of things don’t make sense here,” Roland said.

  “You mean goods are being shipped here from back home?” John said.

  “Exactly,” Roland answered.

  “But how are the suppliers getting paid? I mean how…?” He was lost in thought.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But nobody dumps goods through a one-way hole, do they?”

  “Not likely,” Roland said.

  “Then there’s a way back?” John said, shocked at his own conclusion. Susan was round-eyed, hope springing to her face.

  “Apparently somebody knows a way,” I said, “but they may not be telling.”

  “But if we could find it,” John said.

  “If this maze is as big as most are,” Roland said, “that could take years. A century. And I have a feeling a great deal of this maze is unexplored.”

  “Well.” John sighed and sat down. “Food for thought.” Susan looked crestfallen.

  “Speaking of food,” Roland said, thumping his stomach. “I suppose they have cabin service.”

  “I’m for the dining room,” I said, drawing a strange look from Darla. “I want good food, civilized conversation, wine, and wit.”

  A knock at the outer hatch, and everyone froze. “Come in!” I yelled.

  Darla’s Walther was in her hand before I could see her move. “Jake! What’re you doing?” she gasped.

  “Roland, get the hatch, will you? I keep forgetting the thing locks automatically.”

  Roland gave me a puzzled look, then went to answer it. “Darla, put that thing away. We have guests.”

  “Mr. McGraw?”

  “No, he’s over there.”

  A ship’s officer stepped in. “Mr. McGraw?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good evening. Jean Le Maître, Executive Officer.”

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Le Maître. Comment Va-vas?”

  “Bon, Monsieur. Et vous? Comment allez-vous ce soir?”

  “Tres bien. Et qu’y a-t-il-pour votre service?”

  “Le Capitaine presente ses compliments, et il voudrait… excuse me. Does everyone spea
k French here?”

  “I’ve just exhausted my knowledge,” I said.

  He laughed. “Then I’ll speak English. Captain Pendergast presents his compliments, sir, and requests the honor of your company at dinner this evening, at his table.”

  “Tell the Captain,” I said, “that we’d be delighted.”

  “Would eight bells be convenient for you?”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “Excellent. The Captain will be expecting you. Until eight, then … mesdames et messieurs.” He clicked his heels together, bowed, and left.

  “La plume de ma tante est sur le bureau de mon oncle,” Susan said dully.

  Chapter 18

  I NEEDED A Weapon. I had been getting and losing them at a rapid rate lately. Another squib would be just the thing, but I doubted one could be found, as they aren’t a popular item. Everybody wants a hand-cannon, for some reason. True, you can’t cut through vanadium steel with a squib, but I know of few dangerous beings made of steel. You get few shots with a palm-size weapon, but you only need the one that does the job. There was a hitch, however. From the shootout at Sonny’s everyone knew I favored a squib and knew exactly where I kept it hidden, if they didn’t know before. All right; I’d get a shooting iron too.

  The shopping area was large, divided up into stores that sold anything and everything, with no particular emphasis on any one market. I browsed through one that offered clothing, toiletries, camping equipment, food, and shelves of miscellaneous bric-a-brac. They sold weapons too. A pretty middle-aged woman showed me to a display case. The selection wasn’t much; there were half a dozen odd pieces in various models, an S & W like Hogan’s among them. I had second thoughts about getting a wall-burner. Maybe the 10kw would be enough. She took it out of the case for me. It was basically the same as the slave trader’s, but the powerpack was a different, earlier design and was a good deal bulkier, awkwardly so. I didn’t like it, but the alternatives were few. There were two Russian slug-throwers, a Colonial-made beamer, and one antique replica that qualified as a hand-cannon by anyone’s lights, if you didn’t mind throwing a barely supersonic projectile.

  “Let me see that one,” I said.

  She chuckled. “Are you going to shoot it out with the sheriff?”

  “I think you have the wrong period. It’s a nice piece, though. What’s its rating … er, caliber?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said.

  I looked. “Oh, it says right here. Forty-four magnum. Hm. Have any ammunition?”

  “I only have one box of twenty shells. Sorry, but I let someone talk me into taking that thing on a trade. Thought I could get a good price from a collector. No takers.”

  “It’s authentic?”

  “Oh, yes. Reconditioned, but it’s the genuine article.”

  I doubted it. In fact, it looked as if it had been doctored up to look the part. She’d gotten stung, all right, and she was trying to off-load it on me. “No kidding?” I said innocently.

  “Shoots pretty good, too,” she said. “I used it to bang away at some croakers once. Didn’t hit anything, of course.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll take it. How much?”

  She’d let me steal it from her for fifty consols. I pilfered it for thirty-five, and I could see by her eyes that she was glad to get that. She even threw in a holster. I put the thing on, then slipped the gun into it. “Nice doing business with you…”

  She smiled prettily. “Belle. Belle Shapiro. Hey, you’re not going to walk around the ship with that thing, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “No rule against it. Most people like to keep their hardware concealed, that’s all.”

  “I’m a straightforward sort of person.”

  Her grin widened. “I think you are too. That makes two of us. Like to join me in a drink later? I’m about ready to close up shop.”

  “Love to, Belle, but I’m expected at the Captain’s table, and something tells me a heavy evening lies ahead.”

  “Too bad. Well, some other time.”

  “You’re sure there’s no problem about wearing this?” I asked, taking the gun out and loading it with five shells, leaving the hammer over an empty chamber. I’d seen those old mopix too.

  “No problem, though the Old Man has been threatening to start a policy of having all beam weapons checked at the desk. We’ve had a rash of fires lately. But it’d take too much time, and no one’s been able to come up with a way to scan the luggage. Can’t get the equipment.”

  As she spoke, a wild thought came into my head from parts unknown. “Belle, is there a pharmacy aboard?”

  “No, not really. What do you need?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Something to keep me awake.”

  “Oh, I have plenty of high-altitude stuff.” She went to another part of the store and brought back two big glass jars filled with pills of different colors and sizes. She popped the lid of one jar and began fingering through it. “Let’s see … I think these little green ones are pretty good. You say you want to stay awake?”

  “Yeah, very awake.”

  “Well, maybe these pink numbers.” She bit her lip. “No, those are broad-spectrum antineoplasmics. I think.” She looked at me. “Very awake … or extremely awake?”

  “Like this,” I said, making my eyes round and crazed.

  She snickered. “That much? Wait, I might have something.” She opened the other jar and dug her hand into the contents like a kid searching for just the right shade of jelly bean.

  “Do you know what’s in any of these?”

  “Most of them,” she said. “I used to keep a list, but I lost it. Here they are.” She pulled out one big choker of a horsepill, bright purple in color. “Now, I don’t know what’s in this one, but it’s some kind of antidepressant.”

  “You don’t know the chemistry?”

  “No, but it’ll cure the blues, that I can tell you. They’re a popular item.”

  “I’ll take one. Can you get me a glass of water?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  She brought the water, and I managed to gulp down the pill. Then I got out of there.

  I was late for dinner:

  Chapter 19

  THE STEWARD ANNOUNCED me. “Mr. McGraw, sir.”

  I was admitted into the Captain’s private dining room.

  It made the rest of the ship look like a tramp steamer by comparison. The walls were swaddled in gold fabric with red and white trim, hung with tasteful seascapes. The carpet was red and knee-high to a dwarf. Hanging above the broad expanse of table was an ornate crystal chandelier, throwing lambent light to glint off the silver service and the gold sconces. The china was pale chalk, probably porcelain, the tablecloth satin white and immaculate. I was impressed and stood at the door for a moment.

  “Come in, Mr. McGraw.” Captain Pendergast wiped his mouth delicately with a gold-colored napkin. “Please,” he said, smiling warmly and gesturing to a chair. The other guests looked up at me. Darla, John, and company were there, but I recognized no one else except the redoubtable Mr. Krause. Darla and Susan were the only women.

  “Sorry I’m late, Captain.” I nodded to the other guests. Krause didn’t look up.

  “Not at all, Mr. McGraw. Please sit down.”

  Pendergast’s dark blue eyes followed me until I was seated a few places down from him. I unfolded my napkin and laid it on my lap like a proper gentleman, then remembered that I don’t like sitting at a table with a cloth draped over my knees, and put it back on the table.

  “I suggest you try the seafood dish, Mr. McGraw: I do hope you like seafood.”

  “I wish you would call me Jake, Captain. Is it local?”

  “As you like, Jake.” His Intersystem was clipped and Teutonic, but with a Low Dutch broadness around the edges. “Yes, it’s local catch. Some people consider it quite a delicacy, although its nutritional value is limited.” The corners of his thin-lipped mouth curled upwards. “But we don’t always eat to live
. Do we?”

  “I always enjoy eating,” I answered, “and I always hope to live to eat again.”

  “Yes, it’s a perilous universe,” he said. “To the natives this particular fish is pure poison. Strange, isn’t it? If you don’t care for it, we have a choice of entrees.”

  “I would like the fish,” I told the steward standing patiently at my side. He left the room quietly. I turned to Pendergast. “You mentioned the natives. You can communicate with them?”

  “With some difficulty, yes.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “The name for their tribe… we like to call it a crew … is—” He barked twice, then smiled. “As you can see, the language barrier is formidable. Most English speakers call them Arfbarfs.”

  “Arfbarfs?”

  At the other end of the table, Susan giggled into her wine. “Yes, or Arfies, if you like. Properly speaking, they are Akwaterran Aboriginals, or simply Akwaterrans.”

  “Are they sentient?”

  Pendergast stroked his dark beard. “I’ll leave that judgment to the exopologists. Do have some wine, Jake.”

  A young officer to my left filled a long-stemmed glass. “Tell me, Captain,” I said. “What is the proper term for the …?” My Intersystem failed me, and I stumbled about for words.

  “Would it be better for you if we spoke your native language, Jake?” Pendergast’s English came out even better than his ‘System. As usual, other people’s language-hopping abilities made me feel sublingual.

  “It’d be great,” I said. “Thanks, and I’m sorry for the trouble.”