“That much, at least. You’re seeing to the selling of her jewelry yourself, aren’t you?”
“No, I had a new thought on that. I’m going to buy it myself—or rather, Cartiff is. They’re making up a set of paste imitations. Cartiff has to buy a stock somewhere; why not hers?”
“That’s a thought—there’s certainly enough of them to stock a wholesaler…‘Cartiff’—I can see that sign,” she snickered. “Almost microscopic letters, severely plain, in the lower right-hand corner of an immense plate-glass window. One gem in the middle of an acre of black velvet. Cartiff, the most peculiar, if not quite the most exclusive, jeweler in the galaxy. And nobody except you and me knows anything about him. Isn’t that something?”
“Everybody will know about Cartiff pretty soon,” he told her. “Found any flaws in the scheme yet?”
“Nary a flaw.” She shook her head. “That is, if none of the boys over-do it, and I’m sure they won’t. I’ve got a picture of it,” and she giggled merrily. “Think of a whole gang of sleuths from the Homicide Division chasing poor Cartiff, and never quite catching him!”
“Uh-huh—a touching picture indeed. But there goes the signal, and there’s Tellus. We’re about to land.”
“Oh, I want to see!” and she started to get up.
“Look, then,” pulling her down into her original place at his side. “You’ve got the sense of perception now, remember; you don’t need visiplates.”
And side by side, arms around each other, the two Lensmen watched the docking of their great vessel.
It landed. Jewelers came aboard with their carefully-made wares. Assured that the metal would not discolor her skin, Illona made the exchange willingly enough. Beads were beads, to her. She could scarcely believe that she was now independently wealthy—in fact, she forgot all about her money after Ilyowicz had seen her dance.
“You see,” she explained to Kinnison, “there were two things I wanted to do until Hank gets back—travel around a lot and, learn all I can about your Civilization. I wanted to dance, too, but I didn’t see how I could. Now I can do all three, and get paid for doing them besides—isn’t that marvelous?—and Mr. Ilyowicz said you said it was QX. Is it, really?”
“Right,” and Illona was off.
The Dauntless was serviced and Clarrissa was off, to far Lyrane.
Lensman Kinnison was supposedly off somewhere, also, when Cartiff appeared. Cartiff, the ultra-ultra; the Oh! so exclusive! Cartiff did not advertise. He catered, word spread fast, to only the very upper flakes of the upper crust. Simple dignity was Cartiff’s key-note, his insidiously-spread claim; the dignified simplicity of immense wealth and impeccable social position.
What he actually achieved, however, was something subtly different. His simplicity was just a hair off-beam; his dignity was an affected, not a natural, quality. Nobody with less than a million credits ever got past his door, it is true. However, instead of being the real creme de la creme of Earth, Cartiff’s clients were those who pretended to belong to, or who were trying to force an entrance into, that select stratum. Cartiff was a snob of snobs; he built up a clientele of snobs; and, even more than in his admittedly flawless gems, he dealt in equally high-proof snobbery.
Betimes came Nadreck, the Second Stage Lensman of Palain VII, and Kinnison met him secretly at Prime Base. Soft-voiced, apologetic, diffident; even though Kinnison now knew that the Palainian had a record of accomplishment as long as any one of his arms. But it was not an act, not affectation. It was simply a racial trait, for the intelligent and civilized race of that planet is in no sense human. Nadreck was utterly, startlingly unhuman. In his atmosphere there was no oxygen, in his body there flowed no aqueous blood. At his normal body temperature neither liquid water nor gaseous oxygen could exist.
The seventh planet out from any sun would of course be cold, but Kinnison had not thought particularly about the point until he felt the bitter radiation from the heavily-insulated suit of his guest; perceived how fiercely its refrigerators were laboring to keep its internal temperature down.
“If you will permit it, please, I will depart at once,” Nadreck pleaded, as soon as he had delivered his spool and his message. “My heat dissipators, powerful though they are, cannot cope much longer with this frightfully high temperature.”
“QX, Nadreck, I won’t keep you. Thanks a million. I’m mighty glad to have had this chance of getting acquainted with you. We’ll see more of each other, I think, from now on. Remember, Lensman’s Seal on all this stuff.”
“Of course, Kinnison. You will understand, however, I am sure, that none of our races of Civilization are even remotely interested in Lonabar—it is as hot, as poisonous, as hellish generally as is Tellus itself!” The weird little monstrosity scuttled out.
Kinnison went back to Cartiff’s; and very soon thereafter it became noised abroad that Cartiff was a crook. He was a cheat, a liar, a robber. His stones were synthetic; he made them himself. The stories grew. He was a smuggler; he didn’t have an honest gem in his shop. He was a zwilnik, an out-and-out pirate; a red-handed murderer who, if he wasn’t there already, certainly ought to be in the big black book of the Galactic Patrol. This wasn’t just gossip, either; everybody saw and spoke to men who had seen unspeakable things with their own eyes.
Thus Cartiff was arrested. He blasted his way out, however, before he could be brought to trial, and the newscasters blazed with that highly spectacular, murderous jail-break. Nobody actually saw any lifeless bodies. Everybody, however, saw the Telenews broadcasts of the shattered walls and the sheeted forms; and, since such pictures are and always have been just as convincing as the real thing, everybody knew that there had been plenty of mangled corpses in those ruins and that Cartiff was a fugitive murderer. Also, everybody knew that the Patrol never gives up on a murderer.
Hence it was natural enough that the search for Cartiff, the jeweler-murderer, should spread from planet to planet and from region to region. Not exactly obtrusively, but inexorably, it did so spread; until finally anyone interested in the subject could find upon any one of a hundred million planets unmistakable evidence that the Patrol wanted one Cartiff, description so-and-so, for murder in the first degree.
And the Patrol was thorough. Wherever Cartiff went or how, they managed to follow him. At first he disguised himself, changed his name, and stayed in the legitimate jewelry business; apparently the only business he knew. But he never could get even a start. Scarcely would his shop open than he would be discovered and forced again to flee.
Deeper and deeper he went, then, into the noisome society of crime. A fence now—still and always he clung to jewelry. But always and ever the bloodhounds of the law were baying at his heels. Whatever name he used was nosed aside and “Cartiff!” they howled; so loudly that a thousand million worlds came to know that hated name.
Perforce he became a traveling fence, always on the go. He flew a dead-black ship, ultra-fast, armed and armored like a super-dreadnought, crewed—according to the newscasts—by the hardest-boiled gang of cut-throats in the known universe. He traded in, and boasted of trading in, the most blood-stained, the most ghost-ridden gems of a thousand worlds. And, so trading, hurling defiance the while into the teeth of the Patrol, establishing himself ever more firmly as one of Civilization’s cleverest and most implacable foes, he worked zig-zag-wise and not at all obviously toward the unexplored spiral arm in which the planet Lonabar lay. And as he moved farther and farther away from the Solarian System his stock of jewels began to change. He had always favored pearls—the lovely, glorious things so characteristically Tellurian—and those he kept. The diamonds, however, he traded away; likewise the emeralds, the rubies, the sapphires, and some others. He kept and accumulated Borovan fire-stones, Manarkan star-drops, and a hundred other gorgeous gems, none of which would be “beads” upon the planet which was his goal.
As he moved farther he also moved faster; the Patrol was hopelessly outdistanced. Nevertheless, he took no chances. His villainous cre
w guarded his ship; his bullies guarded him wherever he went—surrounding him when he walked, standing behind him while he ate, sitting at either side of the bed in which he slept. He was a king-snipe now.
As such he was accosted one evening as he was about to dine in a garish restaurant. A tall, somewhat fish-faced man in faultless evening dress approached. His arms were at his sides, fingers bent into the “I’m not shooting” sign.
“Captain Cartiff, I believe. May I seat myself at your table, please?” the stranger asked, politely, in the lingua franca of deep space.
Kinnison’s sense of perception frisked him rapidly for concealed weapons. He was clean. “I would be very happy, sir, to have you as my guest,” he replied, courteously.
The stranger sat down, unfolded his napkin, and delicately allowed it to fall into his lap, all without letting either of his hands disappear from sight, even for an instant, beneath the table’s top. He was an old and skillful hand. And during the excellent meal the two men conversed brilliantly upon many topics, none of which were of the least importance. After it Kinnison paid the check, despite the polite protestations of his vis-a-vis. Then:
“I am simply a messenger, you will understand, nothing else,” the guest observed. “Number One has been checking up on you and has decided to let you come in. He will receive you tonight. The usual safeguards on both sides, of course—I am to be your guide and guarantee.”
“Very kind of him, I’m sure.” Kinnison’s mind raced. Who could this Number One be? The ape had a thought-screen on, so he was flying blind. Couldn’t be a real big shot, though, so soon—no use monkeying with him at all. “Please convey my thanks, but also my regrets.”
“What?” the other demanded. His veneer of politeness had sloughed off, his eyes were narrow, keen, and cold. “You know what happens to independent operators around here, don’t you? Do you think you can fight us?”
“Not fight you, no.” The Lensman elaborately stifled a yawn. He now had a clue. “Simply ignore you—if you act up, squash you like bugs, that’s all. Please tell your Number One that I do not split my take with anybody. Tell him also that I am looking for a choicer location to settle down upon than any I have found as yet. If I do not find such a place near here, I shall move on. If I do find it I shall take it, in spite of God, man, or the devil.”
The stranger stood up, glaring in quiet fury, but with both hands still above the table. “You want to make it a war, then, Captain Cartiff!” he gritted.
“Not ‘Captain’ Cartiff, please,” Kinnison begged, dipping one paw delicately into his finger-bowl. “‘Cartiff’ merely, my dear fellow, if you don’t mind. Simplicity, sir, and dignity; those two are my key-words.”
“Not for long,” prophesied the other. “Number One’ll blast you out of the ether before you swap another stone.”
“The Patrol has been trying to do that for some time now, and I’m still here,” Kinnison reminded him, gently. “Caution him, please, in order to avoid bloodshed, not to come after me in only one ship, but a fleet; and suggest that he have something hotter than Patrol primaries before he tackles me at all.”
Surrounded by his bodyguards, Kinnison left the restaurant, and as he walked along he reflected. Nice going, this. It would get around fast. This Number One couldn’t be Bleeko; but the king-snipe of Lonabar and its environs would hear the news in short order. He was now ready to go. He would flit around a few more days—give this bunch of zwilniks a chance to make a pass at him if they felt like calling his bluff—then on to Lonabar.
CHAPTER
9
Cartiff the Fence
INNISON DID NOT WALK FAR, nor reflect much, before he changed his mind and retraced his steps; finding the messenger still in the restaurant.
“So you got wise to yourself and decided to crawl while the crawling’s good, eh?” he sneered, before the Lensman could say a word. “I don’t know whether the offer is still good or not.”
“No—and I advise you to muffle your exhaust before somebody pulls one of your legs off and rams it down your throat.” Kinnison’s voice was coldly level. “I came back to tell you to tell your Number One that I’m calling his bluff. You know Checuster?”
“Of course.” The zwilnik was plainly discomfited.
“Come along, then, and listen, so you’ll know I’m not running a blazer.”
They sought a booth, wherein the native himself got Checuster on the visiplate.
“Checuster, this is Cartiff.” The start of surprise and the expression of pleased interest revealed how well that name was known. “I’ll be down at your old warehouse day after tomorrow night about this time. Pass the word around that if any of the boys have any stuff too hot for them to handle conveniently, I’d buy it; paying for it in either Patrol credits or bar platinum, whichever they like.”
He then turned to the messenger. “Did you get that straight, Lizard-Puss?”
The man nodded.
“Relay it to Number One,” Kinnison ordered and strode off. This time he got to his ship, which took off at once.
Cartiff had never made a habit of wearing visible arms, and his guards, while undoubtedly fast gun-men, were apparently only that. Therefore there was no reason for Number One to suppose that his mob would have any noteworthy difficulty in cutting this upstart Cartiff down. He was, however, surprised; for Cartiff did not come afoot or unarmed.
Instead, it was an armored car that brought the intruding fence through the truck entrance into the old warehouse. Not a car, either; it was more like a twenty-ton tank except for the fact that it ran upon wheels, not treads. It was screened like a cruiser; it mounted a battery of projectors whose energies, it was clear to any discerning eye, nothing short of battle-screen could handle. The thing rolled quietly to a stop, a door swung open, and Kinnison emerged. He was neither unarmed nor unarmored now. Instead, he wore a full suit of G-P armor or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and carried a semi-portable projector.
“You will excuse the seeming discourtesy, men,” he announced, “when I tell you that a certain Number One has informed me that he will blast me out of the ether before I swap a stone on this planet. Stand clear, please, until we see whether he meant business or was just warming up his jets. Now, Number One, if you’re around, come and get it!”
Apparently the challenged party was not present, for no overt move was made. Neither could Kinnison’s sense of perception discover any sign of unfriendly activity within its range. Of mind-reading there was none, for every man upon the floor was, as usual, both masked and screened.
Business was slack at first, for those present were not bold souls and the Lensman’s overwhelmingly superior armament gave them very seriously to doubt his intentions. Many of them, in fact, had fled precipitately at the first sight of the armored truck, and of these more than a few—Number One’s thugs, no doubt—did not return. The others, however, came filtering back as they perceived that there was to be no warfare and as cupidity overcame their timorousness. And as it became evident to all that the stranger’s armament was for defense only, that he was there to buy or to barter and not to kill and thus to steal, Cartiff trafficked ever more and more briskly, as the evening wore on, in the hottest gems of the planet.
Nor did he step out of character for a second. He was Cartiff the fence, all the time. He drove hard bargains, but not too hard. He knew jewels thoroughly by this time, he knew the code, and he followed it rigorously. He would give a thousand Patrol credits, in currency good upon any planet of Civilization or in bar platinum good anywhere, for an article worth five thousand, but which was so badly wanted by the law that its then possessor could not dispose of it at all. Or, in barter, he would swap for that article another item, worth fifteen hundred or so, but which was not hot—at least, not upon that planet. Fair enough—so fair that it was almost morning before the silently-running truck slid into its storage inside the dead-black space-ship.
Then, insofar as Number One, the Patrol, and Civilization was concer
ned, Cartiff and his outfit simply vanished. The zwilnik sub-chief hunted him viciously for a space, then bragged of how he had run him out of the region. The Patrol, as usual, was on a cold scent. The general public forgot him completely in the next sensation to arise.
Fairly close although he then was to the rim of the galaxy, Kinnison did not take any chances at all of detection in a line toward that rim. The spiral arm beyond Rift Eighty Five was unexplored. It had been of so little interest to Civilization that even its various regions were nameless upon the charts, and the Lensman wanted it to remain that way, at least for the time being. Therefore he left the galaxy in as nearly a straight nadir line as he could without coming within detection distance of any trade route. Then, making a prodigious loop, so as to enter the spiral arm from the nadir direction, he threw Nadreck’s map into the pilot tank and began the computations which would enable him to place correctly in that three-dimensional chart the brilliant point of light which represented his ship.
In this work he was ably assisted by his chief pilot. He did not have Henderson now, but he did have Watson, who rated Number Two only by the hair-splitting of the supreme Board of Examiners. Such hair-splitting was, of course, necessary; otherwise no difference at all could have been found within the ranks of the first fifty of the Patrol’s Master Pilots, to say nothing of the first three or four. And the rest of the crew did whatever they could.
For it was only in the newscasts that Cartiff’s crew was one of murderous and villainous pirates. They were in fact volunteers; and, since everyone is familiar with what that means in the Patrol, that statement is as informative as a book would be.
The chart was sketchy and incomplete, of course; around the flying ships were hundreds, yes thousands, of stars which were not in the chart at all; but Nadreck had furnished enough reference points so that the pilots could compute their orientation. No need to fear detectors now, in these wild, waste spaces; they set a right-line course for Lonabar and followed it.
Second Stage Lensmen Page 13
