Adventure Tales, Volume 6

by John Gregory Betancourt

  And then, as he said that, I saw why men cursed the name of Runt Hake. It was not in his face. His golden hair, his pink cheeks, his soft mouth—all these were but gilding for the rottenness within him. The real Hake was in his eyes. Those dancing, glinting, gloating eyes that leaped into swift, flaming delight as he hinted at that which was to come.

  He was a devil. A pint-sized devil, perhaps, but a devil nonetheless. I knew, now, that the stories were all true; that we could expect no mercy of this man. He would amuse himself with us for a while, toying with us in feline fashion. Then he would leave. And we would stay. Like the broken things Iliad seen in the Sargossa.

  He was speaking again. Softly, melodiously, as if he were a warrant officer at some cargo port on Earth rather than a midspace pirate appraising his “take”.

  “The cargo, of course, Captain, is mine. Even now my men will be transferring it to my ship beside yours. But there are a few other things we will do while aboard. It is lonely, being in space for months on end. And we do not dine luxuriously. You have, I suppose, a well-stocked larder? With fine foods; wines, perhaps, to tempt the palate?”

  Hanson tried again.

  “We have, Hake. And they are all yours if you’ll promise me the men will be unharmed.” He hesitated. “Take me along as hostage, if you want to. That’ll be all right. But—”

  “But, no, Captain! That would never do. I think you had best remain—with your men.” Again there was that tiny, dancing light in Hake’s eyes. “You see, many know my name, Captain, and I understand I have a small reputation. But none have ever seen my face—and lived. It would be unfortunate if I were to be identified, would it not?”

  He turned to his followers.

  “Disarm them,” he designated us negligently. “And. when the cargo has been transferred, have our men come in to dine. We will dine aboard the Saturn.”

  * * * *

  You Earthlubbers will think this part strange, maybe? That we showed no more resistance than this to Hake’s invasion? Well, I don’t blame you. I’ve read Martian Tales and Spaceways Weekly, too. The writers for those mags would like you to believe that every freighter captain is a horny-fisted John Paul Jones. But think it over! The Saturn was a lumbering old cow compared to Hake’s streamliner. Hanson had adopted the only sane policy. To placate the pirate, be nice to him, hope we could stall off his scuttling plans until the S.S.C.B. cruiser reached us.

  So for more than two hours, unarmed and disconsolate, we of the Saturn sat around and diddled our fingers while Hake’s men, using our engine crew, the wipers and blasters, for porters, transferred the more valuable parts of our cargo to their ship. They didn’t take the bulk stuff. Just small necessities that could be fenced from a hideout on one of the rogue asteroids.

  Meanwhile, Runt Hake had made at least one special trip. Down to the galley. He took Todd and Cap and me along so he could keep an eye on us. Down there we found Lancelot Biggs, quietly reading.

  Hake said in that soft purr of his, “You —you’re the cook on this ship?”

  Biggs answered, “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You will address me,” suggested the little outlaw, “as ‘Sir.’ Very well, Slops. I want you to prepare a meal for us. A good meal. Fresh meats and vegetables. You have no idea—“ He drawled this last to Hanson. “How one wearies of canned concentrates.”

  Hanson just glowered. But Biggs looked confused. He said, “I—I’ll have to get produce from the storage bins if you want a big meal. This galley’s small—“ He looked about him helplessly.

  Hake nodded. “That is granted. But, mind you, attempt no medieval—ah—toxicological exploits. I remember the chef of the Spica tried something of the sort. Poor lad! He screamed horribly…I shall never forget it.”

  I bet he wouldn’t! The louse. But I hoped, now, that Biggs would understand I had been right. He couldn’t pull any funny business on Runt and get away, with it.

  He seemed to understand, all right. He said, goggling, “I’ll do the best I can—sir. It will take a little time, of course.”

  “We have time and to spare,” agreed Hake. “A good meal, that is what we want. And now, gentlemen—?”

  He motioned, us toward the turret room. We started to leave the galley. I was the last to pass through the door. As I did so, I felt a fumbling at my side. Mr. Biggs was shoving something into my pocket. He whispered in my ear, “Sparks—give each of our men a piece. Tell them to chew it!”

  * * * *

  For a moment my hopes flamed high. I didn’t know what Biggs had up his sleeve, but I dared dream that he had devised some way of overcoming the pirate menace. But when I managed to get away, unobserved, a few minutes later to see what he had thrust in my jacket, my hopes died as suddenly as they had been born.

  The stuff was nothing but pepsin. Plain, ordinary pepsin; a by-product from the outspread Venusian ranches.

  I was half minded to chuck the damn stuff away. I thought maybe worry, desperation, had made Biggs slips his gravs. Then I thought better of it. After all, he may have had some reason. And in a spot like this, any gamble was worth taking…

  So, slowly, I started getting the stuff distributed around. I managed to slip half the package to Doug Enderby, the steward, with instructions to get it to the black gang. I met Chief Garrity ‘tween decks, and gave him some for his engine room crew. Todd took a piece, wondering, reluctant, but put it in his mouth when I signalled him to do so. Me? Sure, I had some, too. After all, it tasted good. And a man might as well check out with a clean taste in his mouth.

  The only man I couldn’t slip a piece to at any time was Cap Hanson. Runt Hake had the old eagle eye on the Skipper. Matter of fact, Hake had the eagle eye on all of us. He didn’t miss a trick, that murderous little squirt. Just before dinner was served he made my heart miss a beat when he asked, “What are you chewing on, Sparks? Gum?”

  He gave me the fright and the out at the same time. I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. Then, fearful not to ask, “You want a piece?”

  He shuddered delicately. “Barbarian custom. I do not want a piece.”

  Boy, was that a break for our side!

  * * * *

  So, like I said, Biggs donged out the dinner call, and we all went into the mess hall. Talk about irony! Here we were, a score of honest, hard-working spacemen and an equal number of pirates, sitting down to the same table, eating the same meal.

  Screwy? Sure—but that was Hake for you. As Mr. Biggs had said, he was a showoff. But don’t think he took any chances. We were unarmed, his men were walking hardware stores. As for the conviviality of that banquet, that was strictly on the stinko! To outward appearances, we were all palsy-walsy at the banquet table; actually we of the Saturn were being fattened for the slaughter to follow.

  Still—well, you know the old gag. “The condemned man ate a hearty meal.” That’s what I did, and that’s what most of the other fellows did, too. Because Mr. Lancelot Slops had come up with another Q.E.D. that cooking is, after all, nothing but applied chemistry.

  We had, just to make you drool a little, chilled consommé with a light sherry. Then a tempting wisp of baked whiting, served with Moselle Erdener Treppchen, and was the Old Man fuming! (He’d been saving that for his golden anniversary). Then a chicken sauté Florentine.

  They were the preludes. The main drag-’em-out was a saddle of lamb accompanied by peas in mint, potatoes Parisienne, and served along with Pommard, 1974. The salad was a Salad Alma; the dessert was something which Biggs told me later was Plombière a l’Havane Friandises (pineapples, bananas, frozen custard, and not a damn bit of tapioca in it!)

  This came along with the Piper Heidsieck, ‘65. A demi-tasse was next, then liqueurs—

  It was here that Runt Hake called a halt. “We’ll transfer the beverages,” he said, “to our own ship. We want no drunkenness aboard while we—ah—do that which is now necessary. Captain Hanson?”

  He nodded significantly toward the turret room. I rose, so did Todd. Surprisingly, Biggs joi
ned our group as we moved up deck. Hake said, with a malevolent regretfulness I shall never forget, “We have enjoyed our banquet exceedingly, Captain. But you understand I can allow nothing to stand in the way of my next—ah—duty. So—”

  Hanson said stonily, “You will give us a lifeskiff before scuttling the Saturn, Hake?”

  Hake lied, “Captain, I had planned to do that very thing. But a most unfortunate accident…it seems that some of my men were so careless as to blast holes in each of the skiffs. Of course if you’d still like to take your chances in the damaged craft—?”

  Oh, he was a whipper, that Hake! I looked at Todd and saw the same thought mirrored in his eyes that I was thinking. This was our last chance. If we didn’t get Hake now, it would be too late. I tensed myself. If we could grab the pirate chieftain, maybe his men would not dare do anything for fear of hurting him. And Hake, quick as he was on the trigger, might not get us both before

  Then once again Lancelot Biggs intervened. To me he barked, “No! No, Sparks!” And to Hake, quietly, almost tenderly, “Why, Mr. Hake—it’s all a big mistake, isn’t it? These rough, nasty old men think you want to hurt them! And you don’t at all. Aren’t they the old meanies?”

  * * * *

  And then—hold your hats, folks!—and then Runt Hake’s soft mouth began to twitch! Yes, twitch! It pursed up like the mouth of a kid, his eyes wrinkled, and he began to blubber!

  “Hurt them?” he complained. “Me hurt them? Why, I wouldn’t do a thing like that! I love them! They’re my pals.” And he tossed his pierce gun away, reached out and patted Biggs’ cheek!

  Beside me I heard Lt. Todd whisper hoarsely, “Good gods of Greece, what is this?” I myself was stunned for a moment. But I had sense enough to stoop down and get Runt Hake’s gun before this crazy interlude had passed. “He’s blown his fuses!” I squalled. “Grab him, Todd! Mr. Biggs, come with me! You and I will round up his crew—”

  But Biggs said quietly, “Take your time, Sparks. There’s no hurry. See?”

  He stepped to the wall; flicked on the visiplate that showed the interior of the mess hall. And there, where a moment before, a grim-faced score of space pirates had maintained watch over our crew, now our crew were standing staring with blank, uncomprehending faces at twenty men who looked and acted for all the world like affectionate puppies!

  They were hugging each other, patting each other’s arms and faces, murmuring soft words of endearment. It was stupefying. More than that—it was embarrassing! Off in one corner a bearded, one-eyed outlaw dandled a companion on his knee. Another burly bruiser, big enough to tear a man in half with his bare hands, was playing piggy-back with a buddy!

  I gulped and stared and gulped again. I choked, “But, what—what—”

  Biggs said suddenly, “Sparks! You didn’t give the Skipper a piece of that pepsin!”

  “I didn’t get a chance. But how—”

  Then I saw. The Skipper and Runt Hake were sitting in the same chair, murmuring soft words of tenderness at each other, stroking each other’s hair fondly. Just as I looked, the Old Man leaned forward and gave the pirate a big, juicy kiss on the forehead!

  And just then there came a welcome interruption. The audio throbbed to electric life; a brusque voice rasped, “Calling the Saturn! Saturn, ahoy! S.S.C.B. Cruiser Iris calling. Stand by! We’ll come alongside you in twenty minutes…”

  * * * *

  Afterward, when Runt Hake and his pirates, still babbling incoherent protestations of endearment, had been removed to the patrol ship and taken back toward the Venusian prison that had long awaited them, we held a confab in my radio room. Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Lancelot Biggs and myself. Also a very foggy-eyed, befuddled Captain Hanson who seemed to be having a hard time keeping from saying we were all “dear, sweet boys”—as he had told us quite a few times in the past hour or so.

  I couldn’t make head or tail of it. So I asked Biggs bluntly, “But what was it, Mr. Biggs? We all-know it was something you put in the food. Something from which the pepsin saved us. But what? Surely no drug would make a man act like that.”

  Biggs grinned, his Adam’s-apple jerking amiably. “No, not a drug. But a chemical. Prolactin, to be exact. If you’ll remember, I started to tell you we were carrying a load of it to earth.”

  “Prolactin?” said Todd. “What’s that?”

  “An extract of the pituitary gland; the hormone that governs human affections. Prolactin is the hormone that is responsible for all acts of parental love. It causes roosters to brood and set on eggs, tomcats to give milk and milk-deficient females to become normal. It is commonly known as the ‘mother-love’ crystal.”

  “And we,” I. said, “were carrying a load of it. I still don’t understand, though, why we had to chew the pepsin. And why it failed to turn all of us into bunny-huggers like—”

  I glanced at the Old Man, then glanced away again. He looked at me fondly.

  “Well, you see,” explained Biggs, “prolactin happens to be a pure protein. And pure proteins are insoluble in most things, alcohol, water, anything you might normally take in your diet.

  “I cooked Hake’s banquet, and his goose, with liberal sprinklings of prolactin. But, as you had previously pointed out, I had to find some way of keeping our men from being affected by the hormone that disrupted their morale. Pepsin was the answer. Pepsin breaks down pure proteids into soluble peptones. That is why it is commonly used as a digestive agent.”

  “Drwstbynlvy—“ mumbled the Skipper soothingly.

  “Eh?” I demanded, “What’s that?”

  Biggs looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think he’s saying, ‘You’re a dear sweet baby and I love you very much!’ Er—Sparks—I think maybe we’d better put him to bed until it wears off . . .”

  So that was that. And maybe I shouldn’t have told you all this; I don’t know. Because the Skipper, recovered now from his spell of “maternal affection” is rather sensitive on the subject. And I’m still clicking the bug on the Saturn.

  Anyhow, now you know. But if you ever tell Cap Hanson I told you, it’s going to be just too bad for I may have to catch the next express for Pluto and points west. Me and Biggs both. There’s not much “mother love” in Cap Hanson’s right cross!

  THE GRAY MOUSER: 1 by Fritz Leiber

  The city lifts black roof-shields toward the stars

  And shuts the jungle out with mortised stones

  And seals the scent of flowers in glass jars

  And locks the Earth’s secrets up in brass-clasped tomes.

  No satyr may live there, no faun survive

  The stench and clangor of each crowded street.

  The white-fanged beasts of night cannot contrive

  To gnaw an entrace through its black concrete.

  Yet ’mongst the gargoyles on the slated roofs

  One gray-masked face peers down with living grin

  That mocks the scurry of the city’s floor.

  Two gray-gloved hands tease ope’ the library’s door

  And break the ponderous books and scribble in

  Footnotes that give the lie to all proud proofs.

  SURPRISE IN SULPHUR SPRINGS, by H. Bedford-Jones

  It wasn’t the jolt so much as the way Uncle Dudly handed it to me. Whenever he made up his mind where a man ought to get off he rigged a thank-you-ma’am and bounced him in a way that left a profound impression.

  After hanging on to the ragged edge in Denver for two weeks, trying to promote a played-out sulphur mine to the tune of $50,000, I picked up a copy of the Meteor and casually hit upon this:

  Attention, Ladies (single)—How would you like a dower interest in $75,000? Just one condition; a man goes with it. Don’t all flock down here in a bunch; write first to Old Man Blue (not the party), Hot Sulphur, Arizona, via Happenchance.

  Old Man Blue, otherwise my respected Uncle Dudly, had put a one-way ticket to Denver and six dollars in my pocket and told me to go promoting for a m
onth and bring back fifty thousand. While I conned his personal, wondering what in Sam Hill had struck said Old Man Blue, this reached me by wire:

  GEORGE AUGUSTUS BINGS, DENVER:

  COME HOME. YOU COULDN’T PROMOTE A CASE OF MEASLES IN A PEST-HOUSE. BRING WHAT’S LEFT OF EXPENSE MONEY.

  D. BLUE.

  Was there a Piute buck anywhere on the reserve who would have played it that low down on a paleface? And he asked me to bring what I had left, when I’d been sleeping in an alley to save room-rent and pulling up my belt a notch every twenty-four hours because my meal-ticket was full of holes!

  I went back on the trucks as far as Happenchance. There I switched into a two-seated buckboard, putting up my German silver Waterbury for the twenty-mile ride to Hot Sulphur. Chuck Anthony, the driver, was piling mail-bags all over the buckboard; when he got through we looked like a toy wagon toting canvas for a three-ringed show.

  “Somebody moving his household goods by parcel post?” I asked, sitting on two bags and looking at Chuck over a third which he had deposited in my lap.

  “Several-kinds-of-a-thing mail for that petered-out several-kinds-of-a-thing town of Hot Sulphur,” growled Chuck, with a degree of emphasis hard to describe.

  “Our usual mail used to be two letters, a postal, and four papers twice a week,” I said. “Maybe the mail-clerk was keyed up and dropped off the bags for Utah, Oregon, and California by mistake.”

  Chuck’s language continued to be piratical. “Every ounce of stuff is for your Uncle Dudly,” he averred between remarks more or less irrelevant.

  “Then it’ll take him five years to open it and the rest of his natural life to read it. He slips around anything with more than two syllables.”

  “Huh! How many folks yuh got left in Hot Sulphur?”

  “Fourteen, now I’m back.”

  Beyond a disgusted snort Chuck addressed no more remarks to me. About every twenty minutes he had to get down and gather in a mail-bag that leaked over. As a consequence we pulled up in front of Alfalfa Smith’s Bazaar, which was the general store and post-office, three hours late.