Shards of Space

by Robert Sheckley

  Then the water stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Morrison asked.

  His video screen went blank. Then it cleared, and Morrison found himself staring into a man’s narrow face. The man was seated in front of a large desk. The sign in front of him read Milton P. Reade, Vice President, Accounts.

  “Mr. Morrison,” Reade said, “your account is overdrawn. You have been obtaining water under false pretenses. That is a criminal offense.”

  “I’m going to pay for the water,” Morrison said.

  “When?”

  “As soon as I get back to Venusborg.”

  “With what,” asked Mr. Reade, “do you propose to pay?”

  “With goldenstone,” Morrison said. “Look around here, Mr. Reade. The traces are rich! Richer than they were for the Kirk claim! I’ll be hitting the outcroppings in another day—”

  “That’s what every prospector thinks,” Mr. Reade said. “Every prospector on Venus is only a day from goldenstone. And they all expect credit from Public Utility.”

  “But in this case—”

  “Public Utility,” Mr. Reade continued inexorably, “is not a philanthropic organization. Its charter specifically forbids the extension of credit. Venus is a frontier, Mr. Morrison, a far flung frontier. Every manufactured article on Venus must be imported from Earth at outrageous cost. We do have our own water, but locating it, purifying it, then ‘porting it, is an expensive process. This company, like every other company on Venus, necessarily operates on a very narrow margin of profit, which is invariably plowed back into further expansion. That is why there can be no credit on Venus.”

  “I know all that,” Morrison said. “But I’m telling you I only need a day or two more—”

  “Absolutely impossible. By the rules we shouldn’t even help you out now. The time to report bankruptcy was a week ago, when your sandcar broke down. Your garage man reported, as required by law. But you didn’t. We would be within our rights to leave you stranded. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, of course,” Morrison said wearily.

  “However, the company has decided to stretch a point in your favor. If you turn back immediately, we will keep you supplied with water for the return trip.”

  “I’m not turning back yet. I’m almost on the real stuff.”

  “You must turn back! Be reasonable, Morrison! Where would we be if we let every prospector wander over the desert while we supplied his water? There’d be ten thousand men out there, and we’d be out of business inside of a year. I’m stretching the rules now. Turn back.”

  “No,” said Morrison.

  “You’d better think about it. If you don’t turn back now, Public Utility takes no further responsibility for your water supply.”

  Morrison nodded. If he went on, he would stand a good chance of dying in the desert. But if he turned back, what then? He would be in Venusborg, penniless and in debt, looking for work in an overcrowded city. He’d sleep in a community shed and eat at a soup kitchen with the other prospectors who had turned back. And how would he be able to raise the fare back to Earth? When would he ever see Janie again?

  “I guess I’ll keep on going,” Morrison said.

  “Then Public Utility takes no further responsibility for you,” Reade repeated, and hung up.

  Morrison packed up his telephone, took a sip from his meager water supply, and went on.

  The sandwolves loped along at each side, moving in closer. Overhead, a delta-winged kite found him. It balanced on the up-drafts for a day and a night, waiting for the wolves to finish him. Then a flock of small flying scorpions sighted the waiting kite. They drove the big creature upstairs into the cloud bank. For a day the flying reptiles waited. Then they in turn were driven off by a squadron of black kites.

  The traces were very rich now, on the fifteenth day since he had left the sandcar. By rights, he should be walking over goldenstone. He should be surrounded by goldenstone. But still he hadn’t found any.

  Morrison sat down and shook his last canteen. It gave off no wet sound. He uncapped it and turned it up over his mouth. Two drops trickled down his parched throat.

  It was about four days since he had talked to Public Utility. He must have used up the last of his water yesterday. Or had it been the day before?

  He recapped the empty canteen and looked around at the heat-blasted landscape. Abruptly he pulled the telephone out of his pack and dialed Max Krandall in Venusborg.

  Krandall’s round, worried face swam into focus on the screen. “Tommy,” he said, “you look like hell.”

  “I’m all right,” Morrison said. “A little dried out, that’s all. Max, I’m near goldenstone.”

  “Are you sure?” Krandall asked.

  “See for yourself,” Morrison said, swinging the telephone around. “Look at the stone formations! Do you see the red and purple markings over there?”

  “Traces, all right,” Krandall admitted dubiously.

  “There’s rich stuff just beyond it,” Morrison said. “There has to be! Look, Max, I know you’re short on money, but I’m going to ask you a favor. Send me a pint of water. Just a pint, so I can go on for another day or two. We can both get rich for the price of a pint of water.”

  “I can’t do it,” Krandall said sadly.

  “You can’t?”

  “That’s right. Tommy, I’d send you water even if there wasn’t anything around you but sandstone and granite. Do you think I’d let you die of thirst if I could help it? But I can’t do a thing. Take a look.”

  Krandall rotated his telephone. Morrison saw that the chairs, table, desk, filing cabinet and safe were gone from the office. All that was left in the room was the telephone.

  “I don’t know why they haven’t taken out the phone,” Krandall said. “I owe two months on my bill.”

  “I do too,” said Morrison.

  “I’m stripped,” Krandall said. “I haven’t got a dime. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not worried about myself. I can always eat at a soup kitchen. But I can’t port you any water. Not you or Remstaater.”

  “Jim Remstaater?”

  “Yeah. He was following a trace up north past Forgotten River. His sandcar broke an axle last week and he wouldn’t turn back. His water ran out yesterday.”

  “I’d bail him out if I could,” said Morrison.

  “And he’d bail you out if he could,” Krandall said. “But he can’t and you can’t and I can’t. Tommy, you have only one hope.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find goldenstone. Not just traces, find the real thing worth real money. Then phone me. If you really have goldenstone, I’ll bring in Wilkes from Tri-Planet Mining and get him to advance us some money. He’ll probably want fifty per cent of the claim.”

  “That’s plain robbery!”

  “No, it’s just the high cost of credit on Venus,” Krandall answered. “Don’t worry, there’ll still be plenty left over. But you have to find goldenstone first.”

  “Okay,” Morrison said. “It should be around here somewhere. Max, what’s today’s date?”

  “July thirty-first. Why?”

  “Just wondering. I’ll call you when I’ve found something.”

  After hanging up, Morrison sat on a little boulder and stared dully at the sand. July thirty-first. Tomorrow was his birthday. His family would be thinking about him. Aunt Bess in Pasadena, the twins in Laos, Uncle Ted in Durango. And Janie, of course, waiting for him in Tampa.

  Morrison realized that tomorrow might be his last birthday unless he found goldenstone.

  He got to his feet, strapped the telephone back in his pack beside the empty canteens, and set a course to the south.

  He wasn’t alone. The birds and beasts of the desert marched with him. Overhead, the silent black kites circled endlessly. The sandwolves crept closer on his flanks, their red tongues lolling out, waiting for the carcass to fall...

  “I’m not dead yet!” Morrison shouted at them.

  He drew his revolve
r and fired at the nearest wolf. At twenty feet, he missed. He went down on one knee, held the revolver tightly in both hands and fired again. The wolf yelped in pain. The pack immediately went for the wounded animal, and the kites swooped down for their share.

  Morrison put the revolver back in its holster and went on. He could tell he was in a badly dehydrated state. The landscape jumped and danced in front of him, and his footing was unsure. He discarded the empty canteens, threw away everything but the testing kit, telephone, and revolver. Either he was coming out of the desert in style or he wasn’t coming out at all.

  The traces continued to run rich. But still he came upon no sign of tangible wealth.

  That evening he found a shallow cave set into the base of a cliff. He crawled inside and built a barricade of rocks across the entrance. Then he drew his revolver and leaned back against the far wall.

  The sandwolves were outside, sniffing and snapping their jaws. Morrison propped himself up and got ready for an all-night vigil.

  He didn’t sleep, but he couldn’t stay awake, either. Dreams and visions tormented him. He was back on Earth and Janie was saying to him, “It’s the tuna. Something must be wrong with their diet. Every last one of them is sick.”

  “It’s the darnedest thing,” Morrison told her. “Just as soon as you domesticate a fish, it turns into a prima donna.”

  “Are you going to stand there philosophizing,” Janie asked, “while your fish are sick?”

  “Call the vet.”

  “I did. He’s off at the Blakes’ place, taking care of their dairy whale.”

  “All right, I’ll go out and take a look.” He slipped on his face mask. Grinning, he said, “I don’t even have time to dry off before I have to go out again.”

  His face and chest were wet.

  Morrison opened his eyes. His face and chest were wet—from perspiration. Staring at the partially blocked mouth of the cave, he could see green eyes, two, four, six, eight.

  He fired at them, but they didn’t retreat. He fired again, and his bullet ricocheted off the cave wall, stinging him with stone splinters. With his next shots, he succeeded in winging one of the wolves. The pack withdrew.

  That emptied the revolver. Morrison searched through his pockets and found five more cartridges. He carefully loaded the gun. Dawn couldn’t be far away now.

  And then he was dreaming again, this time of the Prospector’s Special. He had heard about it in every little saloon that bordered the Scorpion. Bristly-bearded old prospectors told a hundred different stories about it, and the cynical bartenders chimed in with their versions. Kirk had it in ‘89, ordered up big and special just for him. Edmonson and Arsler received it in ‘93. That was certain. And other men had had it too, as they sat on their precious goldenstone claims. Or so people said.

  But was it real? Was there such a thing as the Prospector’s Special? Would he live to see that rainbow-hued wonder, tall as a church steeple, wide as a house, more precious than goldenstone itself?

  Sure he would! Why, he could almost see it now...

  Morrison shook himself awake. It was morning. Painfully, he crawled out of the cave to face the day.

  He stumbled and crawled to the south, escorted closely by the wolves, shaded by predatory flying things. His fingers scrabbled along rock and sand. The traces were rich, rich!

  But where in all this desolation was the goldenstone?

  Where? He was almost past caring. He drove his sunburned, dried-out body, stopping only to fire a single shot when the wolves came too close.

  Four bullets left.

  He had to fire again when the kites, growing impatient, started diving at his head. A lucky shot tore into the flock, downing two. It gave the wolves something to fight over. Morrison crawled on blindly.

  And fell over the edge of a little cliff.

  It wasn’t a serious fall, but the revolver was knocked from his hand. Before he could find it, the wolves were on him. Only their greed saved Morrison. While they fought over him, he rolled away and retrieved his revolver. Two shots scattered the pack. That left one bullet.

  He’d have to save that one for himself, because he was too tired to go on. He sank to his knees. The traces were rich here. Fantastically rich. Somewhere nearby...

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Morrison said.

  The little ravine into which he had fallen was solid goldenstone.

  He picked up a pebble. Even in its rough state he could see the deep luminous golden glow, the fiery red and purple flecks deep in the shining stone.

  “Make sure,” Morrison told himself. “No false alarms, no visions, no wild hopes. Make sure.”

  He broke off a chunk of rock with the butt of his revolver. It still looked like goldenstone. He took out his testing kit and spilled a few drops of white solution on the rock. The solution foamed green.

  “Goldenstone, sure as sure,” Morrison said, looking around at the glowing cliff walls. “Hey, I’m rich!”

  He took out his telephone. With trembling fingers he dialed Krandall’s number.

  “Max!” Morrison shouted. “I’ve hit it! I’ve hit the real stuff!”

  “My name is not Max,” a voice over the telephone said.

  “Huh?”

  “My name is Boyard,” the man said.

  The video screen cleared, and Morrison saw a thin, sallow-faced man with a hairline mustache.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Boyard,” Morrison said. “I must have gotten the wrong number. I was calling—”

  “It doesn’t matter who you were calling,” Mr. Boyard said. “I am District Supervisor of the Venus Telephone Company. Your bill is two months overdue.”

  “I can pay it now,” Morrison said, grinning.

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Boyard. “As soon as you do, your service will be resumed.”

  The screen began to fade.

  “Wait!” Morrison cried. “I can pay as soon as I reach your office. But I must make one telephone call. Just one call, so that I—”

  “Not a chance,” Mr. Boyard said decisively. “After you have paid your bill, your service will be turned on immediately.”

  “I’ve got the money right here!” Morrison said. “Right here in my hand!”

  Mr. Boyard paused. “Well, it’s unusual, but I suppose we could arrange for a special robot messenger if you are willing to pay the expenses.”

  “I am!”

  “Hm. It’s irregular, but I daresay we.. .Where is the money?”

  “Right here,” Morrison said. “You recognize it, don’t you? It’s goldenstone!”

  “I am sick and tired of the tricks you prospectors think you can put over on us. Holding up a handful of pebbles—”

  “But this is really goldenstone! Can’t you see it?”

  “I am a businessman,” Mr. Boyard said, “not a jeweler. I wouldn’t know goldenstone from goldenrod.”

  The video screen went blank.

  Frantically, Morrison tried to reach the operator. There was nothing, not even a dial tone. His telephone was disconnected.

  He put the instrument down and surveyed his situation. The narrow crevice into which he had fallen ran straight for about twenty yards, then curved to the left. No cave was visible in the steep walls, no place where he could build a barricade.

  He heard a movement behind him. Whirling around, he saw a huge old wolf in full charge. Without a moment’s hesitation, Morrison drew and fired, blasting off the top of the beast’s head.

  “Damn it,” Morrison said, “I was going to save that bullet for myself.”

  It gave him a moment’s grace. He ran down the ravine, looking for an opening in its sides. Goldenstone glowed at him and sparkled red and purple. And the sandwolves loped along behind him.

  Then Morrison stopped. In front of him, the curving ravine ended in a sheer wall.

  He put his back against it, holding the revolver by its butt. The wolves stopped five feet from him, gathering themselves for a rush. There were ten or twelve of them, and t
hey were packed three deep in the narrow pass. Overhead, the kites circled, waiting for their turn.

  At that moment, Morrison heard the crackling sound of ‘porting equipment. A whirlpool appeared above the wolves’ heads and they backed hastily away.

  “Just in time!” Morrison said.

  “In time for what?” asked Williams 4, the postman.

  The robot climbed out of the vortex and looked around.

  “Well, young man,” Williams 4 said, “this is a fine fix you’ve gotten yourself into. Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I advise you to turn back? And now look!”

  “You were perfectly right,” Morrison said. “What did Max Krandall send me?”

  “Max Krandall did not, and could not, send a thing.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because it’s your birthday,” Williams 4 said. “We of the Postal Department always give special service for birthdays. Here you are.”

  Williams 4 gave him a handful of mail, birthday greetings from Janie, and from his aunts, uncles, and cousins on Earth.

  “Something else here,” Williams 4 said, rummaging in his bag. “I think there was something else here. Let me see...Yes, here it is.”

  He handed Morrison a small package.

  Hastily, Morrison tore off the wrappings. It was a birthday present from his Aunt Mina in New Jersey. He opened it. It was a large box of salt-water taffy, direct from Adantic City.

  “Quite a delicacy, I’m told,” said Williams 4, who had been peering over his shoulder. “But not very satisfactory under the circumstances. Well, young man, I hate to see anyone die on his birthday. The best I can wish you is a speedy and painless departure.”

  The robot began walking toward the vortex.

  “Wait!” Morrison cried. “You can’t just leave me like this! I haven’t had any water in days! And those wolves—”

  “I know,” Williams 4 said. “Do you think I feel happy about it? Even a robot has some feelings!”

  “Then help me.”

  “I can’t The rules of the Postal Department expressly and categorically forbid it. I remember Abner Lathe making much the same request of me in ‘97. It took three years for a burial party to reach him.”