A Novel by
GEORGE O. SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The book had been thrown at Charles Farradyne. Then they had added the
composing room, the printing press, and the final grand black smear
of printer's ink. So when Howard Clevis located Farradyne working in
the fungus fields of Venus four years later, Farradyne was a beaten
man who no longer burned with resentment because he was all burned
out. Farradyne looked up dully when Clevis came into the squalid
rooming-house.
"I am Howard Clevis," said the visitor.
"Fine," mumbled Farradyne. "So what?" He looked at one of the few white
shirts in a thousand miles and grunted disapprovingly.
"I've got a job for you."
"Who do you want killed?"
"Take it easy. You're the Charles Farradyne who--"
"Who dumped the Semiramide into The Bog ... and you're Santa Claus,
here to undo it?"
"This is on the level, Farradyne."
Farradyne laughed shortly, but the sound was all scorn and no humor.
While the raw bark was still echoing in the room, he added, "Can it,
Clevis. With a thousand licensed spacemen handy everywhere, willing to
latch onto an honest buck, any man that comes halfway across Venus to
offer Farradyne a job can't be on the level."
Clevis eyed Farradyne calculatingly. "I should think you might enjoy
the chance."
"It doesn't look good."
Clevis smiled calmly. He had the air of a man who knew what he was
doing. He was medium tall, with a sprinkle of gray in his hair and
determined lines near the eyes and across the forehead. There was
character in his face, strong and no doubt about it. "I'm here,
Farradyne, just because of the way it looks. But the fact is that I
need you. I know you're bitter, but--"
"Bitter!" roared Farradyne, getting to his feet and stalking across the
squalid room towards Clevis. "Bitter? My God! They haul me home on a
shutter so they can give me a fair trial before they kick me out. You
don't think I like it in this rat hole, do you?"
"No, I don't. But listen, will you?"
"Nobody listened to me, why should I listen to you?"
"Because I have something to say," said Clevis pointedly. "Do you want
to hear it?"
"Go ahead."
"I'm Howard Clevis of the Solar Anti-Narcotic Department."
Farradyne snorted. "Well, I haven't got any. I don't use any. And I
don't have much truck with those that do."
"Nobody is on trial here--nothing that you say can be used in any
way. That's why I came alone. Look ... if I were in your shoes I'd do
anything at all to get out of this muck-field."
"Some things even a bum won't do. And I don't owe you anything."
"Wrong. When you dumped the Semiramide into The Bog four years ago, you
killed one of our best operatives. We need you, Farradyne, and you owe
us for that. Now?"
"When I dumped the Semiramide no one would listen to me. Do you want to
listen to me now?"
"No, I don't."
"I got a raw deal."
"So did the man you killed."
"I didn't kill anybody!" yelled Farradyne.
* * * * *
Clevis eyed Farradyne calmly, even though Farradyne was large enough
to take the smaller, older man's hide off if he got angry enough. "I'm
not here to argue that point," said Clevis, "and I don't intend to.
Regardless of how you feel, I'm offering you a chance to get out of
this mess. It's a space job, Farradyne."
"What makes you think I'll play stool pigeon?"
"It's no informer's job. It's space-piloting."
"I'll bet."
"You bet and I'll cover it a thousand to one."
Farradyne sat down on the dingy bed and said, "Go ahead and talk,
Clevis. I'll listen."
Clevis dug into his brief case and brought out a flower. "Do you know
what this is?" he asked, handing the blossom to Farradyne.