"Pleased to meet you, Pilot Kendall," said an immensely fat Martian
humped in an encircling webwork cradle. His small eyes were burned in
rings of fat; his slit-like mouth was spread in a broad, unsavory grin.
"I am Das Shamra," he said, in a deep, harsh voice.
Kendall poised himself on the balls of his toes, waiting uncertainly.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"All in good time. Sit down, won't you? Care for a drink?"
He indicated a dark bottle of _valdoz_ by his side. Kendall shook his
head immediately.
"No, I don't want any."
"Ah, I see. A spacepilot must beware lest he damage the all-important
reflexes. Very well, then; I shall drink alone unless you object."
"Go right ahead," Kendall said tightly. "And I'm not worried about my
reflexes. I just want to keep a clear head while you tell me whatever
you want to tell me."
"You sound as if you don't trust me," Das Shamra wheezed. His fat body
quivered as the liquor went down. "A most unfortunate attitude."
Kendall drummed on the edge of his chair impatiently. "You sent your
boy out to bring me here. What for?"
The Martian smiled bleakly at him. "How badly would you like to get
back to your native world, Mr. Kendall?"
Kendall was silent for a moment. Then he said, "What the hell do you
mean?"
"I mean that I'm aware of your unfortunate run-in with several of the
local police this morning. They happened to be in my employ, and they
told me your motive for causing a disturbance. I offer my sympathies,
Mr. Kendall."
_He's dropped the Pilot_, Kendall thought. _Now it's just plain_ Mister.
"Okay, you know then. Sympathy isn't enough."
"I'm aware of that," Das Shamra said. "But is eight thousand dollars
enough?"
Kendall stiffened. "Eight thousand dollars is exactly the passage-fee
back to Earth," he said. "It happens to be exactly the sum I need." His
voice was cold and flat.
Das Shamra grinned affably. "Indeed? Then we can talk business--for
eight thousand dollars happens to be exactly the sum I'm prepared to
offer you if you do a certain job for me."
"What kind of a job?"
"Piloting a spaceship."
"But that's impossible--" Kendall started to say, and stopped. By
law, all space commerce was to be handled through Space Service and
its authorized pilots. There was a reason for that; a spaceship out
of control could destroy half a continent in a crash landing, and so
only authorized personnel could be permitted to handle spacecraft. No
private piloting was allowed.
But it might be worthwhile to hear him out. "Go on," Kendall said.
"Give some details."
"First I must know if you're interested."
"I might be. Talk away."
The Martian's chubby face was darkened momentarily by a frown. "Very
well," he said. "Here's the job: a cargo of dionate extract is going to
be unloaded at Phobos Depot tomorrow night. Some--friends of mine--are
actively interested in securing this cargo. They've gone to the extent
of securing a small spacecraft for the purpose of intercepting the
incoming ship. Unfortunately, we Martians are completely unable to
operate the ship, inasmuch as Earth's Space Service has reserved
interplanetery commerce as a monopoly for itself. However, you are both
a skilled pilot and a free agent without loyalty to the organization
that so rudely ejected you. Therefore--"
Dionate extract was the newest of the wonder drugs. A cargo of it was
probably worth millions. "You want me to pilot a hijack ship, is that
it?"
"Not so loud, please. Yes, that's it, crudely."
"It won't work, Das Shamra. I'm not a qualified spaceman any more.
The computer said I don't have the reflexes--and computers don't lie.
There's no telling what might happen if I got behind the control panel
of a spaceship."
Das Shamra squinted one eye contemplatively. "And what if your lack of
reflexes were a temporary condition--one that perhaps could by remedied
by some Martian medical genius? Would you take the job, then--eight
thousand dollars, and a chance to re-enter the Space Service?"
"You mean you think you can cure me?"
"I'm sure of it."
Kendall stood up. His nostrils quivered; he hung on the brink of
decision. It was tempting--but part of him argued that it was a filthy
crime, that he'd never be able to live with himself afterward. So what
if he got the eight g's and was able to return to Earth? Could he ever
face Kathy and the kid, knowing that he had returned home because
of--of--
"No," he said. "I like the price, but I won't do it."
He turned and headed for the door. Das Shamra uttered a quick, curt
syllable and the Martian who had found him suddenly stepped out of the
shadows.
"You know too much to leave now," he said.
Kendall didn't bother to reply. He kicked out viciously with his
heavy booted foot, then leaped into the air to drive a fist into the
Martian's mouth. Teeth crunched. The blueskin yelled in pain, and
Kendall heard the thunder of Das Shamra pounding across the floor
toward him.
He threw open the door and dashed out into the filthy corridor. He
found the stairs, and raced down them without looking back, out into
the cold, chill late-afternoon air.
* * * * *
He ran. He didn't know how far he ran, nor how long. All he knew was
that he paced through the narrow streets of Mars City for block after
squalid block, feeling his heart pounding as if trying to break through
the cage of his ribs. Finally, exhausted, he paused on a street-corner,
gasping for breath, and looked around.
He wasn't being followed. Not now. But he knew his life wasn't going to
be worth much unless he got off Mars in a hurry. And he had no way of
doing that. He couldn't even radio Earth for money. There was no such
thing as a collect call between planets--the cost of transmission was
too great to risk a refusal--and in his present battered condition he
knew he would never find anyone who'd lend him enough to call Kathy.
His shoulders slumped despondently. A neon sign said, "BAR" and he
decided to go in. For six years in the Space Service he had kept away
from liquor. He had plenty of lost time to make up for now.
He took a seat at a table in the rear. When the bartender approached,
he said "Double _valdoz_. Straight."
Kendall slouched and nursed the drink, then ordered another. And
another. Drinks were cheap, on Mars.
After a while another Earthman came over and hovered by Kendall's ear.
"Mind if I sit with you a while, friend?"
"Go right ahead. The seat's free."
The newcomer was a man in his late thirties, seedy and weary looking.
A week's growth of beard sprouted on his face. He was, Kendall knew,
an ex-spacer living from day to day on Mars, probably looking for a
handout. Kendall shuddered. He saw his own future staring him in the
face.
"I'm almost out of cash," he said. "I can't buy you a drink."
"Didn't ask for one. I'll pay for my own. Just want company. Someone to
talk to."
It developed, after a while, that the newcomer was--as Kendall had
guessed--a former spaceman. He, like Kendall, had flunked his six-month
test between legs of an Earth-Mars run. That had been four years ago.
He was still here, doing menial jobs to stay alive.
"That's okay," Kendall said, slurring his words. He had already had
much too many _valdoz_ doubles. "I won't live long. Some bigwig here is
out for my neck."
"What for?"
Kendall explained what Das Shamra had wanted, and what the outcome had
been. The old spacer grinned.
"Funny. Same thing happened to me. I said no, and they let me go. It's
an old trick, planting a distorter in a man."
"_What?_" Kendall was suddenly sober. "Distorter? What do you mean?"
He reached across the table and shook the older man.
"Lemme alone. I'll tell you. It's a dodge they use to get men to flunk
out. Least they tried it on me; I didn't find out what they did till
later. They're damned clever surgeons. They slip up on a spacer when
he's asleep and bury a neural distorter on his body. It louses up his
reflexes so he flunks the six-monther. They spring the job offer on
him. If he takes it, they remove the distorter and he's as good as new.
If he turns it down--well, then he finishes like me."
"How come you haven't reported this?"
"What's the use? Who'd believe me? Hey, wait a minute! You didn't
finish your drink!"
* * * * *
But Kendall had dashed the full length of the bar, dropped a crumpled
bill on the counter, and raced outside. He snagged a taxi.
"Hotel Cosmos, in a hurry."
The driver, a sneering blueskin, said, "Five bucks. Earthmen pay in
advance."
Kendall cursed and dug into his pocket. He had five dollars and change.
He handed the blueskin the bill, pocketed the few coins again, and got
in.
Minutes later he was outside the Hotel Cosmos. He threaded his way to
Das Shamra's suite, listened outside the door for an instant. Voices
were talking, murmuring low in Martian.
He knocked.
"Who's there?" a harsh voice said.
"Kendall. The Earthman. I came back."
"Put your hands up," came the voice. "When the door opens, enter
slowly."
"Okay." He raised his hands.
Slowly the door opened. Kendall peered in and found himself facing
enough artillery to blow a hole in Jupiter. There were five Martians in
the room, none he had seen before, and each had a blaster trained on
him. Das Shamra was sitting in his web-chair. There was no sign of the
Martian Kendall had clobbered.
"The prodigal returns," Das Shamra remarked. "To what do we owe this
visit, Mr. Kendall?"
Hesitantly, Kendall said, "I've--changed my mind. I'll do your damned
job for you."
"Oh? A strange reversal of philosophy."
"I can't help it. I just spent some time with some other guy who turned
you down. I don't want to end up like him. I want to get home to my
wife, and I don't care how I get there. What do you want me to do?"