"Aye-firm, Semiramide, from North Venus Tower."
"Semiramide requesting landing instructions, give with the dope, Tower."
"Tower to Semiramide. Beacon Nine at one hundred thousand feet, Landing
Area Twelve. Traffic is One Middleton Seven-Six Two at thirty thousand
taking off from Beacon Two and one Lincoln Four-Four landing at Beacon
Seven. Keep an eye peeled for a Burbank Eight-Experimental that's been
scooting around at seventy-thousand. That's all."
"Aye-firm, Tower."
Then had come the voice of a woman behind him. Just a murmur, perhaps
a sigh of wonder from a woman who had just been shown for the first
time in her life the intricacies of rack and panel, of meter and gage
and lever and shining device that surround the space pilot to demand
every iota of his attention during take-off or landing. In Farradyne's
recollection, there were two kinds of people; one kind stood in the
center of such an array and held their hands together for fear of
upsetting something, and the other kind couldn't keep their hands off a
button or a lever if it meant their own electrocution.
There were thirty-three people aboard, thirteen of them women and
Farradyne wondered which of them it was. He didn't care. "Get the hell
below," he snarled over his shoulder. The man who had brought her up
made some sound. Farradyne was even shorter with the man. A woman
might wander up, interested, but a man should know that this was a
deadly curiosity. "Take her below, you imbecile," he snapped.
An older man chimed in with something that sounded like an agreement
with Farradyne's order. There was a brief three-way argument that
lasted until one of them had fallen for the lure of a dark pilot lamp
and an inviting pushbutton. The Semiramide bucked like a wasp-stung
colt and the silver-dull sky over Venus Spaceport whirled....
* * * * *
Farradyne was shocked out of this vivid daydream by the matter-of-fact
voice of the Mercury Port's dispatcher, "Lancaster from Tower, you are
half a degree off landing course. Correct."
Farradyne responded, "Instructions received, Tower. Will correct. Will
correlate instruments after landing."
"Aye-firm, Lancaster Eighty-One."
Farradyne's remembrances ended and his solo landing was firm and easy;
almost as good as he used to do in the days before....
He put it out of his mind and went below to Clevis and Donaldson. The
latter asked him what had been the matter with the course.
"I hit a daydream of the Semiramide," admitted Farradyne.
"Better forget it," suggested Clevis, drily.
"I came out of it," said Farradyne shortly.
"Okay?" Clevis looked at Donaldson. The pilot nodded. "Okay, Farradyne,
you're ready. This is your ship; you're cleared to Ganymede on
speculation. You'll play it from there. There's enough money in the
strong-locker to keep you going for a long time on no pickups at all;
you'll get regular payment for the Pluto run. Play it flat, and help us
out. Just remember, no shenanigans."
"No games," promised Farradyne.
Clevis stood up. "I hope you mean that," he said earnestly. "If nothing
else remember that your--er,--misfortune on Venus four years ago may
have put you in a position to be a benefactor to the mankind you hate
at the moment. I hope you'll find that they are as quick to applaud a
hero as to condemn a louse. Don't force me to admit that my hope of
running down the hellblossom outfit was based on a bum hunch. Don't let
me down, Farradyne."
Clevis left then, before Farradyne could find words. Donaldson left
with him, but stopped at the spacelock to hurl one sentence. "Pilots
are a proud lot, Farradyne. Luck, fella."
An hour later Farradyne was a-space between Mercury and Ganymede. On
his own in space for the first time in four long, aching years. Not
quite a free man, but at least no prisoner. He took a deep breath
once he was out of control-range and could put the Lancaster on the
autopilot. Gone were the smells and the rotting filth of the fungus
fields and here were the bright, clear stars in the velvety sky. Here
was freedom--freedom of the body, at least. Maybe even freedom of the
soul. But not freedom of the intellect, yet. He had a tough row to hoe
and the tougher row of his innocence to turn up into the light of day.
But for the first time since he was thrown flat on his face he felt he
had a chance.
Eventually he hit the sack....
Ganymede was in nightfall and Jupiter was a half-rim over the horizon
when he landed. He checked in at the Operations Office and listed
his Lancaster as available for a pickup job. The clerk that took his
license to make the listing raised a mild eyebrow at the big rubber
stamp reading "Reinstated" across the face of the card, but made no
comment. Farradyne's was not the only one so stamped and Farradyne
knew it. Pilots had been suspended for making a bounce-landing with
an official aboard or coming in too slantwise instead of following a
beacon down vertically.
He folded the leather case and slipped it back in his pocket. He looked
at the pickup list which was not too long. Farradyne knew that he had
a fair chance of picking up a job here, and if he did it would add to
whatever backlog Clevis had left him. The space business was an odd
one and Farradyne found himself able to figure his chances as though
he had not spent his time digging mushrooms on Venus. His chances were
excellent; the pilot that owned his own ship outright was a rare one.
The rest were mortgaged to the scuppers and it was a touch and clip
job to make the monthly payments. Some pilots never did get their
ships paid off but managed to scratch out a living anyway. A pilot
with a clear ship could eventually start a string of his own. This was
the ultimate goal which so many aimed at but so few achieved. With no
mortgage to contend with, Farradyne could loaf all over space and still
make out rather well, picking up a job here, a job there.
He waved a hand at the registry clerk and went out into the dark of the
spaceport.
Rimming the edge of the field were three distant globs of neon, all
indicating bars. One was as good as the next, so Farradyne headed
toward the nearest. He entered it with the air of a man who had every
right to land his ship anywhere he pleased and head for the nearest
bar. He waggled a finger at the barkeep, called for White Star Trail,
and dropped a ten-spot on the bar with a gesture indicating that he
might be there long enough for a second.
Then he turned and hooked one heel in the brass rail, leaned back on
the mahogany with his elbows and surveyed the joint like a man with
time and money to spare, looking for what could be found.
Appropriately, it was called The Spaceman's Bar even though the name
indicated a lack of imagination, for there were about sixteen hundred
Spaceman's Bars rimming spaceports from Pluto to Mercury. The customers
were about the same, too. There were four spacemen playing blackjack
for dimes near the back of the room. Two women were nursing beers,
hoping for someone to come and offer them something more substantial.
Two young fellows were agreeing vigorously with one another about the
political situation which neither of them liked. One character should
have gone home eighteen drinks earlier and was earning a ride home on
a shutter with a broken nose by needling a man who showed diminishing
patience. A woman sat in a booth along the wall, dressed in a copy
of some exclusive model. The copy had neither the material nor the
workmanship to stand up for much more than the initial wearing, and it
looked now as though she had worn it often. The woman herself had the
same tired, overworked look as her dress. She was too young to have
that look, but she had it and Farradyne wondered how she had earned it.
He looked away, disinterested. He favored the vivacious brunette who
sat gayly across the table from a young spaceman and enticed him with
her eyes.
Farradyne shrugged, the girl had eyes for no one else and she probably
couldn't have been pried away from her young man by any means, fair or
foul. It occurred to Farradyne from the way she was acting, that if
some other guy slipped her a love lotus, the girl would take a deep
breath, get bedroom eyed, and then leave the guy to go looking for her
spaceman. Farradyne grinned at the idea; the hapless spendthrift who
bought the love lotus would probably go roaring back to the seller
raising hob about being rooked on the deal because the lotus hadn't
worked.
He finished his drink and then turned back to the bar for a refill. As
he turned to face the road again he saw that a man had come in and was
standing just inside the door, blinking at the light. He was eyeing the
customers with a searching look.
Eventually he addressed the entire room, "Who owns the Lancaster
Eighty-One that just came in?"
"I do," said Farradyne.
"Are you free?"
"Until the third of August."
"Terran, I see."
"Right. Anything wrong in being Terran?"
"Not at all. Just an observation. I'm Timothy Martin of the Martian
Water Commission and I'd like to hire you for a trip to Uranus."
"My name is Charles Farradyne and maybe we can make a deal. What's the
job, Mr. Martin?" Farradyne eyed the room furtively, wondering if the
mention of his name would ring any cracked bells among the spacemen. It
didn't seem to, and Farradyne did not know whether to be gratified at
man's forgetfulness or depressed.
"Only three of us and some instruments," said Martin.
"That's hiking all the way to Uranus empty, you know."
"I know, but this is of the utmost importance. Government business."
"It's up to you; I'll haul you out there on a three passenger charter,
since you probably haven't enough gear to make it a payload. Okay?"
"It's a bit high," objected Martin, "but this is necessity. Can you be
ready for an early morning hop off?"
"You be there with your gear and we'll hike it at dawn." He turned to
the barkeep and wagged for a refill, then indicated that Martin be
served. The government man took real bourbon but Farradyne stuck to his
White Star Trail. The two of them clinked glasses and drank. Farradyne
was about to say something when he felt a touch against his elbow. Her
glazed eyes were small and glittering, and her face was hardened and
thin-lipped.
"You're Charles Farradyne?" she asked in a flat voice. Beneath the tone
of dislike and distrust the voice had what could have been a pleasant
throatiness if it had not been strained.
Farradyne nodded.
"Farradyne--of the Semiramide?"
"Yes." He felt a peculiar mixture of gratification and resentment. He
had been recognized at last, but it should have come from a better
source.
She shut him out by turning to Martin. "Do you know whom you've hired?"
she asked in the same flatness of tone. Profile-wise, she was not much
more than a girl. Maybe twenty-three at the most. Farradyne could not
explain how a woman that young could possibly have crammed into the
brief years all the experience that showed in her face.
Martin fumbled for words. "Why, er--" he started, lamely.
"This rum-lushing bum is Charles Farradyne, the hot-rock that dumped
his spacer into The Bog."
"Is this true?" demanded Martin of Farradyne.
"I did have an accident there," said Farradyne. "But--"
The woman sneered. "Accident, you call it. Sorry, aren't you? Reeking
with remorse. But not so grief stricken that you'll not take this man
out and kill him the way you killed my brother."
Farradyne grunted. "I don't know you from Mother Machree," he said.
"I've had my trouble and I don't like it any more than you do."
"You're alive, at least," she snarled at him. "Alive and ready to go
around skylarking again. But my brother is dead and you--"
"Am I supposed to blow out my brains? Would that make up for this
brother of yours?" demanded Farradyne angrily. Some of the anguish
of the affair returned. He recalled all too vividly his own mental
meanderings and the feeling that suicide would erase that memory. But
he had burned himself out with those long periods of self-reproach.
"Blow your brains out," advised the girl, sharply. "Then the rest of us
will be protected against you."
"I suppose I'm responsible for you, too?" he asked bitterly.
Timothy Martin gulped his drink down. "I think I'd better find another
ship," he said hurriedly.
Farradyne nodded curtly at Martin's back. He looked down at the girl.
He felt again the powerful impulse to plead his case, to explain. But
he knew that this was the wrong thing to do. Martin had refused the
job once Farradyne had been identified. This might be the start of the
game that Clevis wanted. Farradyne could louse it up for fair by saying
the wrong thing here and now. So instead of making some appeal to the
woman, Farradyne eyed her coldly.
There was something incongruous about her. She looked like the standard
tomato of the spacelanes; she dressed the part and she acted it. The
rough-hewn language and the cynical bitterness were normal enough but
her acceptable grammar and near-perfect diction were strange. He had
catalogued her as a drunken witch but she was neither drunk nor a
witch. Nor was she a thrill-seeking female out slumming for the fun of
it. She belonged in the "Spaceman's Bar" but not among the lushes.
He caught it then. He had been too far from it for too long. The
glazed, bored eyes, the completely blasé attitude gave it away first;
then the fact that she had become animated at the chance to start a
scene. Dope is dope and all of it works the same way. The first sniff
is far from dangerous, but the second must be larger, and the third
larger still until the body craves a massive dose. In some dope it is
physical, in others the effect is mental. With the love lotus it was
emotional. The woman had been on an emotional toboggan; her capacity
for emotion had been dulled to such an extent that only a scene of real
violence could cut through the emotional scars to give her a reaction.
Someone had slipped the girl a really topnotch dose of hellflower.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Norma Hannon," she snapped. "And I don't suppose you remember Frank
Hannon at all."
"Never met him."
"You killed him."
Farradyne felt a kind of hysteria, he wanted to laugh and he knew that
once he started he could not stop easily. Then the feeling went away
and he looked around the room.
Every eye in the place was on him, but as he looked at them and
met their eyes, they looked down or aside. He knew the breed, they
were spacemen, a very strange mixture of high intelligence and hard
roughness; Farradyne knew that to a man they understood that the most
damaging thing they could do to him was to deny him the physical
satisfaction of a fight. He could rant and roar and in the end he would
be forced to leave the joint. It would be a lame retreat, a defeat.
He looked back at the girl. She stood there in front of him with her
hands on her hips, swaying back and forth and relishing the emotional
stimulus of hatred. She wanted more, he could see. Farradyne wanted out
of here; the girl had done her part for him and could do no more. To
take her along as a possible link to the hellblossom operators was less
than a half-baked idea. She would only make trouble because trouble was
what she relished.
"I've got it now," she blurted. Her voice rose to a fever-pitch, her
face cleared and took on the look of someone who is anticipating a
real thrill. Norma Hannon was at that stage in addiction where bloody,
murderous butchery would thrill her only to the same degree as a normal
woman being kissed goodnight at her front door. "I've got it now," she
said, and her voice rang out through the barroom. "The only kind of a
rascal that could dump a spacer and kill thirty-three people and then
turn up with another spacer, is a big-time operator. You louse!" she
screamed at him. Then she turned to the rest of the room.
"Fellows, meet Charles Farradyne, the big-time hellflower operator!"
Farradyne's nerves leaped. He knew his spacemen. A louse they could
ignore but a dope-runner they hated viciously. Their faces changed from
deliberate non-recognition of him to cold and calculated hatred, not
of Farradyne, but of what he represented. Farradyne knew that he had
better get out of here quickly or he would leave most of his skin on
the floor.
Something touched him on the shoulder, hard. He snapped his
head around. The bartender had rapped him with the muzzle of a
double-barreled shotgun.
"Get the hell out of here, Farradyne," said the barkeep between
narrowed lips. "And take your rotten money with you!"
He scooped up the change he had dropped beside Farradyne's glass and
hurled the original ten-dollar bill at him. It went over the bar and
landed in a spittoon between the brass rail and the bar.
"Pick it up," growled the barkeep coldly. He waved the shotgun and
forced Farradyne to retrieve the soggy bill. "Now get out--quick!" Then
his voice rose above the growing murmur of angry men. "Sit down, God
dammit! Every bloody one of you sit the hell down! We ain't going to
have no trouble in here!" He covered the room with the shotgun.
Farradyne left. It was an ignominious retreat but it kept him a whole
skin. He burned inwardly, he wanted to have it out, but this was the
game Clevis wanted him to play and it was the price of his freedom from
the fungus fields. So he left, burning mad. He took it on the run to
his Lancaster, knowing that the barman would hold the room at bay only
until a bare escape was made.
He took the ship up as soon as the landing ramp had been retracted and
only then did his nerves calm down. He looked at the whole affair--he
seemed to have started with a bang. If Clevis wanted a decoy, what
better decoy than to make a noise like a small guy muscling in on a big
racket? The word would travel from bar to bar, from port to port until
it reached the necessary person.
Time was unimportant now. The word must get around. So instead of
driving to some definite destination, Farradyne set the Lancaster in a
long, lazy course and let the big ship loaf its way into space.
3
Big Jupiter and tiny Ganymede were dwindling below by the time
Farradyne was finished at the control panel. He was hungry and he was
tired, so he was going to eat and hit the sack. He turned and saw her.
Norma Hannon sat in the computer's chair behind the board. Her hands
were folded calmly and her body was listless. She had been quietly
waiting for him to get finished with the important part of his piloting
before she started anything. Farradyne grunted uncertainly because he
was completely ignorant of her attitude, except perhaps the feeling
that she would enjoy violence.
"Well?" he said.
"I caught the landing ramp as it came running in."
"Why?"
"You owe me a couple," she told him. "You're a lotus runner, you can
give me one. Simple as that."
"How do you figure?"
"You killed my brother," she said. There was more vigor in her tone as
the anger flared again. "So you owe me more than a couple of blossoms
for it, at least."
"What makes you think--"
"Another thing," she interrupted. "I wanted to come along with you."
"Now see here--"
"Don't bother pretending you give a damn for the lives of the people
you sell those things to. Run your dope and get your dough and skip
before you have to see the ruin you bring." The flare of anger was with
her and she wriggled in her chair with an animal relish that was close
to ecstasy.
"But I can't--"
"Keep it up," she said. "You'll satisfy me, one way or another." She
eyed him critically. "You can't win, Farradyne. I've had my love lotus,
and all that is left of my feeling is heavy scar-tissue. Pleasure and
surprise are too weak to cut through; only a burning anger or a deep
hatred are strong enough to make me feel the thrill of a rising pulse.
I can get a lift out of hating you, but if you kissed me it would leave
me cold." She paused speculatively. "No, would it? Farradyne, come
here."
"But why?"
"Because I hate your guts. Of all the people in the solar system, I
hate you the most. I can keep telling myself that you killed Frank, and
that does it. And I add that you are a love lotus runner and in some
way part and parcel of this addiction of mine and that builds it up.
Now if you came over and kissed me, I'd let you and the very thought
of being kissed and fondled by such a completely rotten reptile as
Farradyne makes me seethe with pleasant anger."
Farradyne recoiled.
"Afraid?" she jeered, wriggling again. "You know, as a last thrill I
might kill you. But only as a last thrill. Because then the chance to
hate you actively would be over and finished and there could be no
more. So between hating your guts and getting an occasional hellflower
from the man I hate, I can feel almost alive again."
Farradyne shook his head. This sort of talk was above and beyond him.
No matter what he said or did it was the wrong thing, which made it
right for Norma Hannon.
He did not know much about the love lotus. All he knew was from
hearsay. But that did not include this sort of completely illogical
talk. Like many another man, Farradyne had always scorned the use of
any chemical means to lower the inhibitions of a woman. He wanted them
to love him for himself, not because of a sniff of perfume that made
them any man's woman.
Seeing this end result actually made Farradyne feel better about the
lot he had been cast in. If Clevis was the kind of man who boiled
inwardly from a sense of outraged civic responsibility, Farradyne was
beginning to feel somewhat the same.
He looked at Norma Hannon more critically. She had been a good-looking
woman not too long ago. She had probably laughed and danced and fended
off wolves and planned on marriage and happy children in a pleasant
home. Someone had cut her out of that future and Farradyne felt that he
wanted to get the man's neck between his hands and squeeze. He shook
himself and wondered whether this addiction to hatred were contagious.