Travelers of Space - [Adventures in Science Fiction 03]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  ~ * ~

  Ramsay considered the order. “Down toward the warehouse.” That was too simple to be ambiguous at all. He glided down. If only he could muster the initiative to lean forward against the wheel and smash the vial! He would get no opportunity to twist their words. He had been a fool to think he would. He strained with every ounce of determination he had to lean forward.

  Nothing. He did not even break into a sweat as he had imagined he would. Meanwhile the aircar had swooped near the building, where the rocket waited.

  “Land by the ship, like a good little Terran,” said Evash sarcastically.

  Ramsay gave thorough consideration to the Kosorian’s figure of speech, in both languages. He decided that its translated equivalent indicated a Terran child of about a six-year intelligence. Obediently, he slammed the aircar toward the ground with probably the most accurate imitation ever conceived of a six-year-old’s skill!

  “No, no! Up again!” shrieked Evash frantically.

  The aircar smacked against the ground and jolted along for several yards before Ramsay’s reflexes obeyed the order to rise. There were a number of dull, thudding blows in the rear as the Kosorians thrashed about with terrified tentacles. Ramsay tried to push himself away from the wheel, against which he had been slapped like a wet rag. He was aware of a sharp stinging in his chest as he reached out to the controls.

  “What was I going to do?” he wondered. “Oh, yes, go up.”

  The aircar rose straight up, its interior quite silent.

  Good thing they build them right, thought Ramsay. Not fragile like— Say! What is that? Yeow!

  He had discovered the pungent smell in the aircar. Also, he was aware that he had made up his own mind about it.

  “Maybe I can even turn my head,” he thought happily.

  He could. It made him feel very gay. The three Kosorians were a tangled mass in the rear, completely relaxed. It seemed very funny. He began to chuckle, then to laugh.

  Ramsay guffawed at the top of his lungs all the while he calmly and coldly considered whether he would have time for what was necessary.

  About fifteen minutes later, he was still snickering as he crawled again into the front seat.

  “I’ll kick that O’Brien onto a curve for the Edge,” he vowed as he began to hiccup. “What did he put in it anyway? Laughing gas? What a mixture I have in me by now!”

  He had not been as lightning fast as the dysenine had led him to imagine; but, in the end, two small strips of film had come to light in a hollow ornament on one of Ozul’s tentacles.

  Ramsay tucked these into his boot and headed for the warehouse. His landing, beside the building, in front of the rocket, was only slightly drunken, but he expected the guards to remember his earlier try. Surprised when no one molested him, he looked around as he opened a few windows. He saw Jack peering at him from the darkness of an open doorway.

  Ramsay beckoned, and the chauffeur sprinted out to him.

  “Under control, sir?” he panted.

  “Just about,” said Ramsay. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “I called Mr. Fuller right after you left. We been on your tail one way or t’other ever since.”

  “Good,” said Ramsay, pulling the film strips from his boot “Here, grab these and clear out fast. Tell them to act around here as if nothing happened.”

  Jack scorched a trail back to the building. Ramsay, after glancing at the Kosorians, quickly checked his cash and identocard. As soon as he saw another aircar rise from behind the rocket and speed off to the north, he leaned forward over the wheel, head in arms. When they came to, so would he.

  ~ * ~

  Later, he watched Fuller’s eyes gleam as the B.S.T. man poured a pair of drinks.

  “Did they know?” he asked Ramsay.

  “I doubt it,” said the spaceman. “I don’t think they knew any better than I did exactly how long we were up. We exchanged compliments before they went aboard the rocket.”

  “What did they have to say?”

  “Oh, their usual line. They hated to part from me, but hoped to make a better profit at their next stop, since they would surely have less brilliant people to deal with.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Said I’d never dream of being on Terra the next time they came, because I don’t have the brains to keep up with them. They hoped so, as they wouldn’t dare try any sharp deals if I were. Anyway, they had some other places in mind.”

  “Other places,” mused Fuller. “That sounds good. Those were the films, but do you think they will figure it out?”

  “Sure,” said Ramsay. “Evash will come back to the time he can’t remember between landing and getting out. He’ll catch on. That’s what I’m enjoying!”

  ‘That leaves only one or two details,” said Fuller. “I intend to stretch a point because you have been of considerable assistance.”

  “What?” asked Ramsay.

  “That ten pounds of dysenine you had—very clever to have it crystallized to look like cheap jewelry. One of our men checked your quarters. Routine, you know.”

  Ramsay had visions of being dismissed with no other wages than this “favor” he had not known he needed.

  “Listen,” he said, “was the stuff hard to find? Or was it practically in plain sight? It sounds like something Evash would have thought was funny.”

  Fuller reflected. He nodded slowly.

  “I dare say that was it,” he said. “Well, the Bureau will send a suitable fee around to your hotel tomorrow. I intend to include my own little letter of recommendation. You will be surprised how much help it will be—in the most unexpected places.”

  “I can imagine,” grinned Ramsay.

  “You think you can!” said Fuller. “Sorry, I shall have to have back the identocard. It gives its bearer carte blanche, and might prove embarrassing to us.”

  “Sure,” said Ramsay, reaching for his credit folder.

  He noticed that Fuller refrained from questioning the thick stack of credits he removed to look for the card. The Bureau was not niggardly, whatever its slick practices. He should have the card by now; there did not seem to be any more compartments in which to look.

  “Do you mean to tell me—?” began Fuller, choking.

  Ramsay’s shoulders drooped. He nodded sadly.

  Fuller sat motionless for several moments. The spaceman thought his complexion darkened some. His expression froze.

  Then, with perfectly bland features, Fuller reached out for the glass from which he had been drinking. He raised it shoulder-high and hurled it against the far wall of the office. Ramsay ducked instinctively as the splinters flew.

  The Bureau man drew a long breath. He smoothed down his mustache with a trembling finger.

  “Oh, well,” he sighed, “they’re gone!”

  <>

  ~ * ~