by J F Bone
Involuntarily I turned to look up the waterway behind me, and the head of Bellini’s axe whizzed through the spot where I’d been.
“What’s the big idea?” I yelped.
“The idea is that Mr. Martinelli told me to get you out of the way,” Bellini grunted. “And since you’re no use to me now—” he swung the axe again.
I stumbled backward as the curved razor-edge split the air in front of me. I was numbed. I had expected almost anything except this. But the next time Bellini drew his axe back for a swing I was ready for him. I jabbed with the axe head, catching him in the chest. His feet slipped on the slimy deck and he slid backward into the nest of filaments still covering the turret. He screamed once as the stinging cells bit into his flesh and struck the deck as stiffly rigid as though someone had short-circuited his nervous system.
I felt for his pulse. His heart was still beating, so I dragged him back to the after deck. I felt like pushing him over the side, but there would be no profit in that. After all, he was the one who knew the way out of this swamp. I was no surface navigator.
Quickly I cut the remaining strands and dragged Bellini inside. Hardly had I fastened the hatch when the water boiled alongside us, and a great net of filaments shot out to enfold the severed end of the dead swampsucker as it floated low in the water. Bellini had been right after all. We had attracted another sucker.
Freed of the weight of the dead monster we drifted slowly toward shore, and once near an estuary that ran into the waterway, I started the engine and headed full speed into the shallow water. Behind us the main waterway boiled as a dozen filaments snapped out of the sullen surface to fall short by a good ten feet as we churned up the shallow waterway. The big suckers couldn’t follow us up here, and I wasn’t afraid of the little ones.
I spent the next hour getting the engineer’s leg bandaged, and a plastiform compress on O’Banion’s aching head. Bellini was still alive and still rigid in a tetanic convulsion that left his limbs locked in extension. There was nothing I could do for him, so I went outside and cautiously removed the remnants of the sucker that were still clinging to the deck and checked the turret. It moved easily. Once again we were ready for trouble.
Then I checked the ship. The engines were all right, but the jolt the sucker had given us had damaged our radio. It was dead, and so was our main power supply. That collision had done more than cripple our crew. It had shorted out the main power leads from the generator and our entire electronic complex was a mess. Our inertial navigator was out, our computer was dead, our radio direction finder was a hopeless mass of fused circuits.
“Think you can fix the electronics?” I asked O’Banion.
“I can try,” he said grimly. “But I don’t think so.”
“Just what in hell happened to the relays?” I complained as I surveyed the wreckage.
“Someone wired across them,” O’Banion said, as he pried into the breaker box. “Not a one of them had a chance to work.”
“Why?” I demanded.
“This is Venus,” Albertini said. “These gadgets are Earth-built and Earthers don’t understand what we have up here. We work on hundred percent overload most of the time. We have to jump the relays. They turn our gear off when we need it most.”
I didn’t say anything but I thought plenty. Here we were, three thousand kilometers from base in a crippled ship, hopelessly lost, and without communication. We could travel, but we were in a bad way.
“Well—go ahead,” I said. “Meanwhile we’ll, sit here. It seems safe enough and it’s going to be nightfall before long. There’s no use getting worse lost than we are already.
TOWARDS morning Bellini began to stir, and by early afternoon was capable of some movement. O’Banion, however, couldn’t fix the radio or anything else.
“About half the transistors are burned out,” O’Banion said. “That jolt broke the primary leads loose and dropped them across the main bus bars from the generator. The circuitry’s ruined.”
“Oh great! How do we do without it?”
O’Banion shrugged. “Maybe we’d better ask Bellini. He should know how to get us out of here. Incidentally, what happened to him?”
“He slipped,” I answered. “Slid into a couple of stingers.”
“Hmm—sure made him stiff, didn’t it?”
“It’s lucky he wasn’t killed. But I wish he’d come to. He’s the only one of us with knowledge enough to get us out of here.”
“Not the only one,” Albertini interrupted. “I can do it too. It’s easy.”
“So?”
“Sure—all water on Venus flows from the poles toward the equator. Except for the polar mountains in the northern and southern hemispheres, the whole land’s damn near flat. Down in the equatorial regions the water’s literally boiled off as steam and the water from the polar condensation flows into refill what’s boiled off. So you just pick a big waterway with a visible current and work upward against it. Ultimately it’ll get you north again, and once we hit civilization it’ll—be easy to make a call into Venus city.”
“Sounds easy,” I said. “What’s the catch?”
“Swampsuckers. The big waterways are full of them this far south.”
“And how do we beat that? We haven’t enough size or power to blast our way through a wall of sucker meat. Not if they’re as big as those last two.”
“They’re not—at least I don’t think they are,” Albertini said. “And we’ll have to take the chance. Otherwise we can run around in circles until our fuel deteriorates—and then we’re done.”
“Not a pleasant thought,” O’Banion commented.
Funny, I mused, how different environments produce different responses. On Mercury, O’Banion funked out worse than I did, but here, in a situation just as bad, he was as cool as ice. I wondered what made the difference.
BELLINI never really became conscious the entire four weeks it took us to claw our way northward against the opposition of swampsuckers and other noxious forms of Venerean life that were smaller but no less deadly. He had moments of lucidity but quickly relapsed into the partial coma that had held him since the tetanic rigidity had worn off. He couldn’t move and we took turns massaging his flaccid body to keep the circulation going and to prevent decubital ulcers. From what I saw, I doubted if Ivan Bellini would ever again be a useful member of society.
And as the days passed I became increasingly anxious. After two weeks I became frantic, after three, resigned, and when the fourth week arrived I lost hope. My contract was violated. By no stretch of the imagination could the “Queen” make it back to Earth in time for me to fulfill it. Time was up in another two weeks, and Martinelli would enforce the penalty clause for nonconformance.
I’d been suckered. Everything pointed to it. Martinelli wanted a free trip and a chance to enforce the penalty clause in our contract. At one stroke he could avoid payment and stand to collect a sizeable penalty fee. Yet, somehow, I didn’t believe Bellini’s story that Martinelli wanted me dead. It was out of character. You can’t collect from a dead man, and I knew that my contract had the proper escape clauses. In the event of my death the “Queen”, if she survived, went to my family in Oregon. They’d sell her, of course, but Martinelli wouldn’t be able to collect from my estate. Probably my crooked employer meant it literally when he told Bellini to get me out of the way and the dumb slob had interpreted him wrong.
No matter how it came out I was going to be taken. My passage money, the bort, and maybe the “Queen” herself would have to be sacrificed to satisfy Martinelli. As I thought it out a cold anger filled me. Martinelli might have me over a legal barrel, but I would have payment out of his hide if it took the rest of my life.
We ran into a swampland ranch about midway through the third day of the fourth week. The rancher, a leathery muscular character, superficially like Bellini, was glad to loan us a radio and a directional loop and give us directions how to reach Venus City. As quickly as I could I contacted the spaceport
operator. “Get me Egon Bernstein, chief engineer of the ‘Virgin Queen’ in dock at Bay 18.”
“Sorry,” the operator said.
“Sorry, hell! This is Lundfors—I’m skipper of that can.”
“That’s impossible,” the spaceport said.
“So it’s impossible. I’m still Captain Lundfors!” I yelled.
“And I’m still sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. You see, the ‘Queen’ filed a flight plan for Earth over two weeks ago. By now, she should be half way there.”
“Without me?”
“I assumed you were aboard, sir. At least the flight plan was filed in your name.”
I sighed—so I was marooned. I wondered how Martinelli had accomplished that trick. It was easy to see what he planned. He’d loaf across the ecliptic and arrive a day or so late—which would be enough for the penalty, but not enough to hurt his plans. I wondered how he’d gotten the crew to back him up—probably told them I was dead and gave them some smooth story that they swallowed like sugar-coated cascara. If I had been angry before, I was furious now. Martinelli would pay for this—and he’d pay plenty.
TO MY surprise, I found an account listed in my name at the Spaceport finance office. It held slightly over ten thousand credits and a note from Bernstein:
Martinelli says you’re dead. None of us believe it, but time is running out and the ‘Queen’ will have to be on Earth to finish her contract. Martinelli doesn’t want to go—says it’s your ship and until you’re proven dead we have no right to take off. But I think he’s trying to get out of the contract. So whether he wants to or not, he’s coming aboard. He’ll probably have plenty to say about what we’re planning to do with him, so to keep the record straight and get it out of a bind with the law, here’s your passage money on the next liner. With luck you should be waiting for us when we land. Sorry we can’t wait, but you and I both know the ship comes first.
Bernie.
Good old Bernie! My thoughts jumped ahead. Without a licensed pilot aboard, Bernie wouldn’t be able to land on Earth. Sure, he could call one up, but those things take time. It could be a couple of weeks before the “Queen” could get down if they arrived in a crowded period—and all periods were crowded on Earth. I had to get home quick.
I went down to the dispatcher’s office. “Anything fast for Earth?” I asked.
“The ‘Silver Streak’ ,” he said. “One of IPC’s plush jobs with a two-week flight time.”
“Good. I’ll take a passage.”
“Sorry—she’s full up. But you can sign up and hope there’s a no-show.”
I grimaced, signed, and placed five hundred credits on the line to guarantee my passage. The dispatcher turned to deposit the cash to my passage credit and I took a quick look at the “Streak’s” passenger list. One name struck my eye—Bellini—Ivan Bellini! He must have reserved passage before we went after the swamp sucker. But he wouldn’t be aboard. The sucker had seen to that. I was almost grateful to the beast.
TWO weeks later I was stretching my legs against the nearly forgotten gravity of Earth.
It didn’t take me long to find that the “Queen” was still in orbit waiting for a pilot. She had three days left to fulfill her contract. It took me two of the three days to find a rocket jockey who’d take me upstairs and match orbits with the “Queen”, and another half day to persuade my friends around the port to advance me enough money to pay him. But I managed it finally, and half an hour after the jockey got his greedy little hands on the money I was entering the “Queen’s” emergency airlock.
Bernie met me on the inside. “Skipper!” he said. “You made it!”
“Naturally,” I replied. “After what you did, do you think I’d let you down?” I looked at him with that special look that says so much without saying anything. The same look he had given me on Mercury. “But we’re not safe yet,” I added. “We have less than seven hours to get downstairs. Now get cracking. We have work to do.”
“Yes sir,” Bernie said with a grin that nearly split his face.
“Oh, wait a second,” I said as he turned toward the companionway.
He paused, half turned in the hatchway.
“Where’s Martinelli?”
“Locked in his cabin. Should I let him out?”
I grinned thinly. “No, leave that to me. I’d like to see him again.”
Bernie chuckled grimly. I suppose what I was thinking showed pretty plainly on my face.
Since we had a dock reserved, and I had a pilot’s ticket for Earth’s atmosphere, we received our clearance in quick time and I laid the “Queen” in dock at precisely 2345.15 hours, nearly fifteen minutes before the deadline. The contract had been completed on schedule, and Martinelli would have to pay up. But first he was going to pay in another fashion.
I made my way down to his cabin, unlocked it and dragged him out. He looked at me with goggle eyed surprise. “Lundfors! How did you get here? You’re supposed to be on Venus.”
I grinned and shook my head. “You’re on Earth,” I corrected. “On time. Now pay up—two million one hundred thirty thousand five hundred and twenty seven credits.”
“I haven’t got it,” he said. “I’m broke.” He laughed a flat bark that was nervous rather than amused, and I suppose he had a right to be nervous, since there’s nothing lower in my book than a contractee who can’t pay his bills when they come due.
I poked him in the ribs with a thick forefinger. “What do you mean?—You weren’t broke when we left.”
“But I am now.”
“You still have the symphony?”
He shrugged. “Of course, but what use is it? I can’t produce it. Or don’t you remember. Raposnikov’s will gives it to me only if I can present it at the Decennial Celebration.”
“So you produce the symphony.”
“How?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care how. You produce it, or I’ll hang you up to dry. No court on Earth will deny my claim.”
“He nodded. “Admitted,” he said, “but you can’t squeeze blood out of—”
“A turnip,” I finished. I eyed him appraisingly. It was a strain not to knock his teeth down his throat, and he wasn’t helping matters any. But I held back the temptation and tried to remain sweetly reasonable. Since I held all the cards there was no sense in weakening my hand with a case of assault and battery.
“Why did you do it?” I asked. “What’s the idea of trying to break your contract?”
“I told you. I’m broke, busted, penniless. I have no money.”
“You had plenty when we started this trip.”
“That was a year ago.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s gone,” he said. He grinned at me. That did it. I hit him then, a good solid smash to the mouth that dropped him to the deck and made my knuckles tingle pleasantly. I’d wanted to do that for better than a month, and the feeling was good. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
He picked himself off the deck and wiped the blood from his lips. “I suppose I had that coming,” he said reasonably.
“There’s more,” I said. “That’s just the beginning. That was for conning me. There’s Nalton, Anderson, T’shonke, and Stanley not to mention Vance M’bonga and Tayler. You have a lot more coming to you.”
He shrugged. “I suppose so,” he said dully. The defiance was drained out of him. “But before you beat me to a pulp, I want you to know I’m sorry. I had no intention of killing or injuring anyone, and I had no intention of cheating you until I reached Venus. I did bribe Bellini to keep you out of the way until you defaulted on your contract, but that was only after I discovered that I was broke. I had radioed Earth for more funds and they told me that there wasn’t any. I had to make a decision, and knowing how you feel about money, I thought that if I could make you default on your contract, you’d be forced to wait until I presented the symphony. I wasn’t going to cheat you. I intended to pay you once I had sold the “Nine Worlds” copyr
ight.”
I laughed humorlessly. “I don’t believe it,” I said.
“That’s your privilege. But you can believe this. Eight now I’m not worth a cent. Without money to hire an orchestra I can do nothing. Unless I produce the music it’s not mine, and if I use a public orchestra I will not receive more than a percentage of the copyright fees. So figure it out. If you want your money, you’ll have to help me produce the symphony.”
“I suppose you want me to give you a loan?” I asked sarcastically.
“Precisely. The diamonds you have will be plenty.” He said this without batting an eyelash.
I COULDN’T help laughing.
The sheer effrontery of the man was amusing. He was an artist all right. No one else would have the unmitigated gall to attempt to cheat a man and then try to borrow money from him. I shook my head. “Just what do you think I am?” I asked.
“Sensible, I hope,” he said. “I also think you’re a man who owes about two million credits to the spaceport authority.”
“You’re right there,” I agreed. “Then look at it reasonably. If you pay part of your debt with the money you have, you’ll still be owing too much. You’ll lose the “Queen” and with her your reason for existence, But if you take what you have left and back me you’ll recoup everything.”
I laughed at him.
“I’ll give you a contract,” Martinelli said desperately. “You can have all the profits if I can conduct the music.”
“It wouldn’t be legal,” I said. “You could break a contract like that without half trying since it would obviously be given under duress. The money involved—”
“Money! Do you think I care about money? If you do you’re an idiot!” Martinelli’s voice was angry. “I can always get money. This means more to me than all the credits I can spend. I want the honor of conducting the greatest music ever written on its first public performance. I want to be worthy of the faith Nicolai Ilarionovitch had in me. He was my friend. He respected my skill as I honored his genius. He left his music to me because he knew I would treat it properly. Money! Bah! I spit on it!”
