Patiently I waited for the stuff to run his system, knowing he wouldn't be any good for questions and answers until the L had peaked.
"Whoo — eeee!" Halfcat's yellow eyes pinwheeled in his skull. He folded himself into a ball, rolled around in a circle, hopped up, yowled at the sky, twitched his cat ears — and suddenly nipped me on the right calf.
"Hey! No biting, dammit!" I yelled, jumping back and grabbing at my leg.
The fugg was looking at us sourly with both of its heads. It was never in a good mood, since half of it was always going in the wrong direction.
Halfcat began to giggle. His pink tongue lolled. He flopped down on a large rock just inside the mine entrance, giggled again, then stared at me. His eyes focused, narrowed.
"That's good prime," he said in a cool, level tone. "You got more?"
"One more," I said. "But this is a trade, catman. You owe me."
He shook his head violently, clearing away some of the drug mist. "Talk to Collingo. He's my buyer. He's into the whole picture. Buys and sells. Large and small."
I whistled through my pivot tooth. "Collingo! … into hot asteroids. C'mon, the man's a legit Saint!"
"He bought Sainthood, like he buys everything else."
"Why should he tell me anything?"
"He probably won't. He'll probably kill you. You asked for a lead, not a guarantee. That's the trade. Let's have the other jolt." He grinned, revealing the full length of his curving yellow fangs. "Or do I suck your bones for breakfast?"
I didn't reply to that question — just tossed him the second plasflask and got back on my fugg.
It was like he said: In my game, you get no guarantees.
Eight
Times Square, in Newer New Old New York, hadn't changed much. Still brash, noisy, crowded, mean, foul smelling and hell to get around in. Especially at rush hour, when the jet tubes emptied their home-from-work crowd onto the pedways. There were always at least a dozen citizens trampled to death at each rush period. Ped victims. You took your chances.
I was switching lanes at 42nd Street, trying for a faster pedbelt, when I got lucky. A lev floated past me with his beepie on — meaning he was for hire. I grabbed him.
"Where to, bud?" he asked, killing his beepie.
"CenPark. Saint's Church."
He sniffed. "You converting?"
I shook my head. "Private biz."
Most levs are nosey, and he was no exception.
"Okay, saddle up," he said, crouching and flipping on his chest meter.
I climbed onto his shoulder saddle and we took off. I always feel a little goofy riding a lev. But since they banned the old rocket cabs about a century back you either tubed or rode a lev. The pedways took forever.
As we soared above 42nd Street I asked him when he knew he had the Talent.
"My old man had the Talent, and his old man had it before him," he told me. "My whole fam's gifted. My Aunt Nabby was into Faith Healing — worked with Martian freebs mostly — and Uncle Ferdinand was a Foot Teller. He read big toes on Saturn. Me, I could levitate before I could walk. Used to float over the chicken house and drop eggs on Grampa."
"I'll bet that pissed him off," I said.
"Yeah. Usta get mad as hell. Gramps was a telek and he'd get the house furniture after me. Our big leather sofa was the worst. Gramps would have that thing chasing me all over the house."
"Telekinesis isn't all that common. Did he use it commercially?"
"When he was younger, he did. Used to floatload the Luna tugs. He could mind lift up to five thousand pounds of freight at a crack. But he got old … retired. Dead now. I miss that feisty geezer."
By the end of his story we were over CenPark and I spotted the Church right off. As tall as old St. Pat's. Vaulting arches. Flying buttresses. A real landmark. Made of quick-erect tentstone, but durable looking.
He dropped me onto the pedway next to the front entrance and zoomed off without thanking me for the tip. It figured. A lev never thanked anybody for anything — but they sure love to gab.
The Saints were having a Major Conversion that afternoon and the place was packed with religious zealots. A flush-faced female tried to get friendly.
"I've had three minor conversions," she told me, "but this is my first major. Isn't it enchanting?"
I told her I was enchanted and edged away from her, deeper into the crowd, moving toward the main altar, passing a robed glostatue of Collingo. I had to admit the thing was impressive. Life size, supposedly. Which meant he was eight feet six inches in height. There had to be a gimmick.
And there was.
When Collingo, the Head Saint, stepped onto the altar, I could see he was wearing stiltsoles, adapted from the old 21st century carny days when it helped the con to be taller than the rubes.
The crowd murmured, then fell silent as Collingo raised his hands.
His robes were stitched with Body Ads: "Use Hollowell's Holy Oil in Your Classic Crankcase! It's the Finest!" …"House Hunters! Visit Happy Bob's Blessed Acres for Celestial Bargains on Real Estate!" …"Heavenly Stock Market Tips! Let a Saint Guide You to Financial Security!" … The usual body hype.
His eyes burned with Godfire under deep brows and his multicolored globeard vibrated as he spoke: "Brothers … Sisters … Geeks … Are you ready for Conversion?"
"Yes!" In chorus. "We are ready!"
Seemed I was the only non-convert in the bunch.
"Well, then …" intoned Collingo, " … let the ceremony begin!"
The hypnowall of the church behind the altar began to whirl and flicker with glowing patterns of light and I ducked my head. I wasn't ready for a Saint's brainwash and I knew if I looked at that wall for more than a few seconds I'd be ripe for any line Collingo was ready to lay out.
So I looked at my toes while the wall did its job on the rubes.
After a few more seconds, Collingo's voice rang out: "Feel God's power feeding into your brains … open your body cells to the power of Sainthood — and repeat after me …"
"We will repeat!"
His voice became a powerhouse of emotion: "I will buy Hollowell's Holy Oil."
They said that.
"I will visit Happy Bob's Blessed Acres for Celestial Bargains!"
They said that, too.
"I will treat my children to Uncle Harley's Heavenly Fudge Bars!"
Well, you get the drift. He was doing a mass sell on these crackers and, after socking another half dozen products into their brainpans, he switched off the wall, brought them out of their trance and told them they were converted.
They filed out, dizzy with celestial joy, while two other Saints collected donations at the door.
I stepped behind the altar where a Saint ducked out to stop me."Sorry, citizen, but this is sacred territory."
I didn't bother to argue; I just cold-cocked him with my .38 and went on.
Collingo was in the Holy Room doffing his glorobes for a common streetsuit. Out of his stiltsoles he was a runty five seven.
"Great show," I told him. "I'd say you've really got the calling. Does God get a rakeoff, or do you keep the full take?"
"This is sacred territory, bud. Who let you back here?"
"I let myself," I said. "Halfcat sent me."
His eyes were edgy as he stripped his globeard. "For what?"
"For info. I'm an op, working out of Bubble City. My client had his asteroid stolen. I'm trying to find it for him."
"So?"
"So Halfcat said you might have bought it. If so, I'd like to buy it back, no questions asked."
I handed him the specs.
He shook his head, which was round and bald; he looked like an uncooked zingo egg. "Too dinky. I don't buy the dinky ones, I buy the fat ones. Kleptos steal the dinks. A pro won't touch 'em."
"Kleptos?"
"People who are compelled to steal things. Some of 'em steal these dinky little rocks — like the one you're after."
"How would I get a line on this?" I asked, more than
a little confused.
He pasted a small brush mustache under his nose. "Wear this so I don't get swamped for autographs. People all know Collingo. I always go out in disguise."
"Makes sense," I said. "Now, about …"
"Oh, sure … let's see … I know one klepto who's into the compulsion. Used to shack her before I became a Saint. You might want to talk to her."
"I'll need a name and a place to reach her."
His jaw tightened. "I don't give out free info to anybody, especially Bubbleheads."
He was referring bitterly to the fact that I was from Bubble City. Newer New Old New Yorkers hate the place the way people used to hate Los Angeles before the quake swallowed it. They seem to need a city to hate and mine fit the bill. I decided to ignore his crack.
"I can pay," I said, unpeeling a roll of solar credits.
He gave me a smile. "That's more like it."
And I paid.
Nine
I didn't have to switch planets to find my klepto. She was attending some kind of alien "scificon" in Alamogordo, New Mexico, a quick ten minute jet jaunt from Newer New Old New York.
This event was taking place at the White Sands Atomic Blast Motel and at the receptdesk they told me she was representing Earth on a "Cosmic Sex Customs" panel in the main fenroom.
The panelists were into it hot and heavy when I got there. A purple twinhead from Antar, with mottled chestfarbs, was yelling at a tri-tongued toadwoman from Capella.
"Are you trying to tell me, Miss Petzler, that satisfactory intercourse is possible with a single penis?" the twinhead bellowed.
"Absolutely!" the toadwoman yelled back. "Just because the males on your planet have two heads and three pricks, you assume an offensive air of sexual superiority!"
"Talk about offensive!" countered the twinhead. "At least I don't openly refer to the male sex organ as a 'prick'!"
"Ladies … ladies … let's have order!" shouted the moderator, a reed-skin from the Dogstar System. Her snaky tail bristled with dignity.
A testy silence settled over the panelists.
"I think we should let Susan Sunbright, our panelist from Earth, respond to Miss Grinstead's question." And she nodded to my klepto.
Susan Sunbright was a knockout. An elfin face dusted with sun freckles; long, gold-flecked hair to her waist; a pouting, sensuous mouth. She was seated, so I couldn't see her legs, but I knew they would be first rate (which they were). Her voice matched the rest of her, lush and vibrant.
"Well, I really don't have a great deal of multi-penis experience," she admitted. "But, to quote the saying, 'It ain't no matter who owns the store, it's how you use the merchandise.' At least I …"
"No, no. That's not how it goes," cut in the fourth panelist, a feathered tri-sexual from Titan. "It's 'Never mind the mishkas, just deliver the mulligan!' I'm sure that …"
This touched off a strident shouting match between the three off-Earth panelists, which was terminated by the angry moderator who declared the discussion at an end.
When Susan Sunbright stepped down from the speaker's pod I introduced myself.
"I've never met a private detective from Mars," she said. "How many penises do you have?"
"Just one," I said. "I'm Earthborn, like you."
She nodded, looking me over. "You'd be quite attractive without your hair."
"You like baldies, eh?"
"My sexual bent lies in that direction," she admitted.
"Look, could I buy you a cofcup? We need to talk."
"About what?"
"Tell you over cof."
She shrugged a pretty shoulder. "Why not?" And her smile gave me an instant erection.
* * *
In the cofshop I found out that her name wasn't really Susan Sunbright.
"My legal name is Emma Irmaline Gretch." And she grimaced. Even then she was beautiful. "Can you imagine going through life with a name like that?"
"I love your freckles," I said.
"They're not mine. I use Freckle On. But I'm glad you approve of the effect." She stirred sugar into her cof. "Do you like my breasts?"
"Definitely," I said."I'm small breasted. Always worried about whether males will like small jugs. A lot don't.""You're terrific all over," I said. She looked at me with intense, long lashed, blue lake eyes. "Don't you think it's time to tell me what you came here for?""I came to find this," I said, handing her the spec sheet on Brother
T's asteroid. She studied it carefully. Handed it back."Sorry, but I've never stolen one quite that small." An elfin smile.
"You do know I'm a klepto, of course."
"Of course." I folded away the specsheet. "And what you steal is your business. Mine is getting back this piece of rock. How can I be sure you're not lying to me?"
"You can't be sure of anything, Mr. Space," she said, and I felt her right leg rub against my left one under the plastable. "For example, I never thought I'd want to bed down a fly-by-night detective with a gross amount of body hair — but I suppose one is truly never sure of anything."
I gulped.
* * *
I had five erections before I left Earth and Susan Sunbright took care of all five. By the time I was back in Bubble City I was desperately in love. Again.
Ten
Thus far, I'd drawn a total blank on the missing asteroid. Not one of my leads had paid off: not Iberia, or McKabe or Halfcat or Collingo or Susan Sunbright. None of them had the rock. That much I was sure of. It was just too goddam puny to merit their attention, and I began to feel like a prize chump for taking on the case.
I should be working class stuff, I told myself. Like that big onion caper I was hired for by Josiah Herman Rabarnack. Chasing a piddle-poop asteroid halfway around the universe was nothing short of depressing.
I made up my mind to vid Brother Thad when I got back to the office, telling him I was off the case. Send him a faxbill and call it a wrap.
But when I walked into my sleazy office, my plans changed.
I wasn't going to be vidding Brother T. because he was right there in my warped flexchair, his back to me. He didn't move when I walked around the desk to face him and that was easy to understand. You wouldn't be moving either if somebody dumped a .38 nitro-charge into your belly.
I was leaning toward him for a bod check when a sharp voice warned me not to touch the evidence. I recognized the cadenced Irish lilt of my ole pal, Police Sergeant O' Malley of Mars Homicide.
He was standing in the doorway with two cops as mean looking as he was. They had their guns out.
"You're under arrest for murder, Sam," O' Malley growled. "Do you have a statement to make?"
"Sure, I have one to make," I said. "I'm innocent."
O'Malley tipped back his red-nosed Irish head and snorted out a laugh. "That's what you always say, every time I pin ya for murder."
"Yeah, and every time I say it you end up letting me go for lack of evidence."
"Well, this time we got the evidence, Space!" snapped the big Irishman. He counted off on his fingers: "Victim of your acquaintance. Dead in your office. Shot with a .38 nitro — which you carry." He chuckled. "I figger that's enough for a start, laddie!"
"Why would I shoot my own client?"
"We'll get to your motive in due course. Right now …" He gestured toward one of the two beefcakes with him. "Put the grippers on him, Kelly."
While Kelly was doing this I tried more logic with O'Malley.
"And if I did kill him, why would I be dumb enough to come back here to visit the body?"
"Don't you ever read detective fiction?" he asked me. "Murderers always return to the scene of the crime."
And they led me out.
* * *
"Who tipped you on Brother T's demise?" I asked. We were in the Questionroom at HQ and my wrists were still grippered behind my back as I sat blinking into the raw flare of a pinbeam.
"Redhaired woman with erect nipples," said O'Malley.
"I thought so," I said. "And after put
ting the finger on me, she disappeared. Right?"
O'Malley clucked his thick Irish tongue against the roof of his mouth. "As a matter of fact, she did," he admitted. "How did you know that?"
"Because this same frail sent me on a wild gooser to Zuber III," I told him. "For some reason I can't fathom, she's out to nail my skin to the wall. And I also can't fathom that quick vanish act of hers."
O'Malley leaned close to me; his breath smelled like an abandoned tubeway. "Why did Brother Thaddius come to you to find his asteroid when he could have gone to the police?"
"It was a gray market buy and he wasn't ready to admit that to a cop," I said.
Kelly spoke up. "Maybe that hard-nippled frail is mixed up with all the missing rocks, Sarge."
"What's he talking about?" I asked O'Malley.
"Brother T's asteroid isn't the only hunk of private rock that's been snatched of late," said the Irishman. "We've had a whole rash of scattered reports on stolen asteroids in the last Marsmonth."
"How scattered?"
"Well, the main concentration has come from around the Fat Marble," he said. "But we've also had maybe a dozen or so snatched from our area."
I pondered this. "Any suspects?"
"At first we figured it was rock rustlers — but since all of these rocks are so small, we figured they wouldn't be worth a pro's effort."
I found this a very interesting piece of info. "No big ones snatched?"
"Nope. The specs show them well below average size. All dinks."
"I say you'd better find that redhead and ask her some questions."
"We intend to, Sam," O'Malley said. "But we owe her for telling us where to grab you." He fired up one of this foul smelling Mercurian cigars and blew the smoke into my face. "Now all this asteroid crapolais obscuring the real question at hand which is: How come you croaked the planet preach?"
"Check my .38 against the charge in his tummy," I said. "You'll find they don't match. Which means you can't hold me."
O'Malley answered a light tapping at the door. One of his lab boys was there with a foil report. "We checked out Sam's .38 against the charge in the guy's belly," said the lab jockey. "They don't match, Sarge."
Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) Page 5
