"Then we are in basic agreement."
"That depends on what you've lost and on whether or not I think I can find it."
"Excellent! I mistrust quick affirmations. You are a most wary and suspicious individual."
"Glad I've won your approval." I said flatly. "Now, Brother, what have you lost?"
He laced his deadman's fingers carefully together in his lap and said, very softly, "My asteroid."
What could I say to that? I just sat back and listened, raising an eyebrow to let him know I was with him.
"You see, Mr. Space, I am what the public press call a 'Planet Preacher.' As was my sainted father before me who established, unfunded — and notwithstanding the scorn of his contemporaries — the Universal Cosmic Church Realized."
I switched eyebrows as he continued.
"Since our solar population is expanding so rapidly, within and beyond this System, good people of the cloth such as myself are sorely needed to place the seal of cosmic blessings upon new worlds. For a specified fee, paid in advance, I stand prepared to travel to any body of matter in our known universe and bless it."
"Okay, Brother, I get the picture. You bless for bread. But what has all this got to do with a missing asteroid? I don't see the tieup."
The tallish preacher unfolded himself from the chair and walked to my non-glo glowindow, looking upward. One of his bony arms gestured toward the sky. "It seemed a wise investment — a simple expansion of my trade."
"What did?"
"My purchase of an asteroid." He kept his gaze fixed on the Martian sky. "It was modest in size and quite a bargain, really. Out in the Horsehead Nebula. I reasoned that if purchased a few asteroids at reduced rates I could rent them, pre-blessed, to solar families for a comfortable fee. I could even throw in a bonus blessing every now and again to thicken the soup, as it were." He turned in my direction. "Do you follow me?"
I nodded. "Like you said, a simple trade expansion."
"My taxie advised me that owning rental property in the Horsehead would, at worst, offer a capital gains shelter and, at best, a potential enlargement of my annual gross intake, not to mention the obvious advantage of deductible reverse assets and —"
"Sure, sure," I cut in. "But get to the point, Brother."
"Well … I made the final payment and journeyed joyfully out to bless my property when I discovered it had vanished. I double-checked my star coordinates to make certain, but there was no mistake. My asteroid was missing."
"Could you describe it?"
He unrolled a starmap from his velvcape pocket and placed it in front of me. "Here, as you'll note, are the asteroid's total terminal polar specs, including marginal pattern data as well as diametric horizon readouts."
I glimmed the map while Brother Thaddius kept blabbing.
"I realize all too well that going to the police with my problem would be utterly useless. Obviously there's been foul play. Plainly and simply, my asteroid was stolen. No other explanation is possible. For what reason, I cannot imagine since it contains no material of intrinsic value within its textural makeup. I reasoned that only a man in your clandestine and somewhat unsavory under-the-counter line of endeavor could hope to locate it." He placed his bony face close to mine. "Can you find it, Mr. Space?"
"Maybe," I said. "And maybe not. There are a few places I could look."
He sighed. "I suppose this is all 'old hat' to you. Just another vanishing asteroid clapper. Isn't that the term?"
"The term is caper," I said, "and you're wrong about it being 'old hat' to me. In fact, you're the first gink to pop in with a vanishing asteroid since I opened this office."
The preacher looked startled; his pouched eyes blinked rapidly. "Then … if I may ask … how do you know where to begin looking?"
"That's for me to know and you to pay to find out," I said. "Let's talk solarcredits."
"Ah, by all means. Naturally I am prepared to pay your normal fee."
"My normal fee doubles when I have to work outside the System.
Normally my services run two hundred solarcreds per Marsday. But, on a job like this one, it'll cost you twice that much."
"I accept," said Brother Thaddius, offering me a deadman's hand. "Please, do find my asteroid for me, Mr. Space."
"I make no promises."
"Nor have I attempted to extract any."
I stood up. "Where can I contact you?"
He handed me a plascard. "I can always be reached at this address. If I'm on a planet call your message will be forwarded without delay."
I said fine to that.
"Bless you!" he intoned, slipping a silver shaker from his pocket and sprinkling me and my desk with what I guessed was holy water. "My prayers and the prayers of all those who reside within the holy embrace of the Universal Cosmic Church Realized ride with you on your eventful journey into star-blazed depths. Bless you, bless you, bless you."
I wiped two beads of holy water off my nose. "How much will that little act cost me?"
Brother Thaddius folded his dead white hands into the thickish velvcape and bowed to me. And, without replying to my wisecrack, glided out of the office.
Storklike. Very definitely storklike.
Three
In what some knucklehead historians still call 'the good old days' — way back in the 20th century — private dicks were famous for using muscle power in place of brainpower, for bullying and blustering their way into an investigation without regard to proper police procedures. Now I can bull and bluster when I have to, and I've got the knots on my nog to prove it, but I've also learned to take full advantage of the wondrous age we live in. A private dick doesn't have to depend on just himself these days. If he needs some expert help, it's available. The scientific gimbos are always coming up with a new wrinkle.
Which is why, after my storklike client ankled out, I jetcabbed over to utilize the latest wonder of modern science, the Hu Albin Amazing Automated Crime Clinic at Red Sands Avenue and 72nd Street.
Albin, who'd lived to be 126 on a diet of raw blueberries and gork's milk, owned the largest collection of crime fiction on ten planets by the time he was ten. By twelve, he'd memorized over 236,000 clues and was a Junior Consultant to the Greater Federated Clue Finders of Bigger Bearlake, Minnesota. He doted on 20th century fictional detectives; their cases fascinated him.
Inspired by a Martian research grant of six billion zorcas, Albin left Earth at age of 76 to perfect his Amazing Automated Crime Clinic here in Bubble City — a computerized, mile-long building which is famous throughout the System.
In his twilight years, Albin became a tart-tongued crusty old geeze, and his oft-repeated declaration, which inspired the Clinic, was boldly carved into the building's arched ziggolite entrance hatch:
PISS ON CRIME FACTS! GIVE ME CRIME FICTION EVERY GODDAMN TIME!
As old Albin used to say: "The crimes of the mind are often more complex and fascinating than crimes executed by the physical body." I was never quite sure just what the hell that meant, but I figured that Hu Albin's Amazing Automated Crime Clinic was a good bet for me at the moment.
I needed some expert help from a crime-solving robot and this was the place to get it.
As I passed through the entrance hatch a trapdoor snapped open under me and I slid down a long metal chute which dumped me on my ass in the museum's foyer, where Hu Albin himself met me. Well, not the original Albin, but a clone brother made from one of his cells, which was close enough. He didn't look a day over 125.
I stood up dusting my clothes.
"About that trapdoor," Albin said in a cracked, quavery voice. "It tends to annoy people. Are you annoyed?"
"Not particularly," I said, "I just don't like being dumped on my ass."
"A perfectly understandable reaction," quavered Albin. "But it's one of our atmospheric touches. Not very popular though." He blinked a rheumy eye at me. "You wouldn't like to subscribe to TADD, would you?"
"Who's he?"
"Not a he, an it," s
aid Albin. "My magazine, TADD, short for 'The Automated Deductive Detective'. Lots of swell features. Crime crossword in every ish. Super letters column. Comes out once every two and three-quarters Marsmonths. Only costs —"
I cut into his dribble: " I'm here for Sherlock Holmes. Can I get him by the day, or do I have to shell out for a week in advance?"
The old guy shook his frazzled white head. "Always Holmes," he grunted. "Holmes … Holmes … Holmes! Nobody ever comes in to rent Bulldog Drummond or Miss Marple. And the Lone Wolf goes begging!" He sighed. "We've got a whole shitpile of robo-detectives in here and it's always Holmes they want! Oh, we got a prevert once who wanted to rent Nancy Drew for unnatural purposes, but nine times out of ten —"
"Look," I cut in again, "is Sherlock out on loan? Is that what you're telling me? If so, I'll take Nero Wolfe or Nick Carter. I'm not picky."
"Well, you can't have any of 'em," the old man snorted.
"You mean, they're all rented? I thought you said —"
"Not rented … demented," he wheezed. "Coo-coo. Bonkers. Flippo. I knew that when Philo Vance began exposing himself."
"Mr. Albin, what is it you're trying to tell me?"
"McSherry, our repair man, quit a month ago. Ran off to one of Saturn's moons with a buxom Bronx Earthwoman. You know what 'buxom' means?"
I started to say I knew, but he rattled on.
"Means 'big-titted.' And that's what she was, a big-titted Bronx matron."
"What has this got to do with —"
"Only repair man we had. Keeping these robos in good working condition is a lost art. McSherry was a real master — one of the last of his breed. After he left, things began to happen."
"What things?"
"First … .Father Brown turned atheist," said Albin. "Bulldog Drummond started barking. Boston Blackie wet his bed. Charlie Chan became a nudist and Travis McGee got waterlogged when his boat sprang a leak."
"I think it's sprung," I said.
"Who cares?" shouted the old man, waving his arms. "Don't you comprehend our problem here? The robo-detectives are all wigged out and there's nobody to put their screws right!"
"What about Holmes? You didn't mention him."
"Spends all his time chasing Dr. Watson. Says he wants just 'one little kiss.' Disgusting! And Ned Nickerson — he keeps trying to back Nancy Drew into a corner. Claims he's been going with her for over a hundred years without a feel."
I'd heard enough. It was obvious I wasn't going to get any help at the Hu Albin Amazing Automated Crime Clinic.
The old duff was still mumbling when I left the joint. For my money, he was as wacko as any of his robots.
I needed some lunch in my gut.
On Red Sands at 73rd I popped into an eatden for a nearburg replicate and realized that I was being eyed by a stunning redhead in the end slotbooth. She was an Earthling: tall, early 20s, with great legs. And she used perm-erect on her nipples.
I walked over to her. "You know me, don't you?"
"Yes, Sam, I do. And I also know you're working a case for Brother Thaddius of the Cosmic Universal Church Realized."
"It's the Universal Cosmic Church Realized," I corrected.
She came up with a slow smile, crossed and uncrossed her great legs. "Let me give you a free tip," she said. Her lipglo almost blinded me as she ran her pink tongue across it.
"So give," I said, trying to figure her.
"Try Iberia," she said.
And was gone.
That's right, gone. One second she was sitting there, lipglo, erect nips and all, and the next second she wasn't. The slotseat was empty.
I didn't know what to make of it, so I didn't try. In my game you get some weird tips.
I decided to follow up on this one.
Four
On Zuber III you flipperfloated — so I was flipperfloating approx six Earthfeet above the city surface. It's a keen sensation, but kind of spooky. Knowing how to use your flarepak is the key to the thing. Turning, reversing direction, all forward and backward movements, are accomplished by nozzle force from your flarejets, assisted by your suitflippers. If you live on Zuber III you buy or lease, but since I was here on a short-term trace my flippers were rented. Since there's no other form of transport on this planet, you flipperfloat or you don't go anywhere.
I was pretty clumsy at first, flipperfloating right smack into one of the female natives. I'd misdirected my left elbow nozzle and got myself into a spin. Bam, right into this big, tough looking female Zuberite.
"That was a personal violation," she said. " I ought to report you."She shuddered and her rainbow skin rippled. "I find personal skin contact with an Earthling repulsive and revolting."
"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional," I told her. "I'm new at flipperfloating, and I'm just getting the hang of it."
"Your experience, or lack of it, is of no concern to me. Simply keep your loathsome skin to yourself,"
And she flippered off, still muttering.
Zuberites are a moody bunch. They never smile. Four mouths to each of them — two in front, two in back — but you never get a smile from any of them. They're down-droopers. Sour. Unhappy. In fact, laughing physically offends a Zuberite and is punishable by law. I remember reading about a Gay Lib group that held a convention here. A hundred guys from Cincinnati, Ohio, thought Zuber III would be a darling place for a convention. A bad decision. They got arrested for giggling in public and spent the equivalent of five Earthyears in a humorless Zuberite jail.
I'd taken a crash sleepcourse in Zuberite Foibles and Folk Customs back in Bubble City before coming up here to contact Franklin Elster Iberia.
A native of Zuber III, an outcast eccentric tritrillionaire who'd married an Earthwoman, Iberia had named all of his children, male and female, after the wives of Ancient American Presidents, reflecting his impassioned interest in political Earthhistory.
On the vidphone I had represented myself as an authority on Harry Truman in order to wrangle an appointment, because getting in to see Rankin Elster Iberia is no cinch. If I had admitted to being a Mars op working a caper his scanclerk would have blacked the connection and that would have been that. But Harry's name was magic and I got my appointment.
Iberia's huge gumba (which is what they call estates on Zuber III) was a hell of a flipperfloat from the heart of town, and by the time I arrived I was racked out from trying to maintain an even nozzle flow and yet not exceed local speed limits.
Breathing hard, I landed in the viscourt just outside the gumba's main gate and was instantly surrounded by sour looking Zuberite guards.
"Are you a zorch (enemy)? Have you come in wupple (war)?" I was asked. This question, I knew, was traditional and I wondered, puckishly, what would happen if I said yes, I was a zorch and that I had come in wupple. But of course I gave back the traditional reply."I am a geek (friend) and I come in pinkum (peace)."
That did it. They opened the gate for me.
I checked my flippers and was told to lie down on what looked like a rug. I wanted to know why.
"All guests must enter horizontally," a guard said. "Or do you wish to offend?"
I said I didn't.
"Then lie down."
I did, and the visitor's rug folded itself around me; I felt it being lifted and carried. After a good deal of carrying, some closing and opening of doors, the rug with me still in it was finally set down and I heard a guard say, "Here is Harry Truman."
"Bully! Absolutely bully!" The response was deep and booming; apparenty the voice of Iberia himself.
The rug unrolled and I sat up and sneezed. Rugs make me sneeze no matter what planet they come from.
"Welcome to my gumba, President Truman," said the round rainbow-skinned figure of Franklin E. Iberia. Naturally, he was not smiling. The two mouths I could see were dour and down-turned. In keeping with the indoor custom on Zuber III, he was totally nude. I noted that his sexual organs were in back, which meant he had to sit on them. No wonder Zuberites lacked a sense of hu
mor.
"My name is Samuel Gorkins," I said, standing. "I am an authority on President Truman but I am not, personally, President Truman himself."
"How truly unfortunate," the rotund rainbowed tritrillionaire said."I was quite beside myself with excitement at the idea of meeting Mr. Truman. I had assumed that you Earth geeks had found a way to bring back deceased personages of particular historic import and that you were, indeed, President Truman. How truly unfortunate that you are not."
"Sorry, I said.
"My children will be distressed, most especially my eldest son, Bess who was so looking forward to meeting you."
"Your scanclerk obviously misinformed you. I made it quite clear to him that I was not Harry Truman."
He stared at me with his twin pairs of lashless popeyes. Then he sighed. "Well, at least you can take off your clothes and tell me all about him. I'm hungry for details."
"Of course," I said, stripping my flarepak and flysuit. I was stepping gracefully out of my stippled shorts when Iberia said, "Dear, this is Mr. Gorkins."
I looked up, blinking, to see a tall, blond-haired Earthwoman ankle toward me. A beautiful number. Flat tummy, lushly rounded thighs, full forward thrusting breasts dusted with glonip at their tips.
"He's yummy," she said, and kissed me full on the lips.
I dropped my shorts.
"My wife does not see many of her Earthpeople," said Iberia. "She is naturally and wholesomely effusive when one visits us."
By now she had pressed her glonips into my chest and was running her long fingers through my hair, nipping at my left earlobe and pressing one of her knees into my groin.
"How do you do?" I managed to say, unsteadily, breaking contact to duck behind a gaschair. She'd aroused the beast in me and, in view of my present situation, I didn't think flouting a rampant erection would accomplish much.
"I do all right," said Mrs. Iberia with a gleam of teeth, "and, from what I saw before you ducked behind that chair, I bet you don't do so badly yourself."
Iberia sauntered over to tweak his wife's left nipple. "I'm afraid Jackie has made an outcast of me," he said. "The fact that I indulge in sexual intercourse with an Earthling sickens my fellow Zuberites. They find you folks revolting."
Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) Page 2
