hearing—they can hear forty thousand cycles: the fact that they mature
both mentally and physically long before they do sexually: some of their
utterly barbarous customs: it’s quite a shock to learn how—‘queer,’
shall I say?—some of the Vegian mores are to us of other worlds.”
“‘Queer’ is certainly the word—as queer as a nine-credit bill. But
confound it, Joan, I _like_ ’em!”
“So do I, Storm,” she replied quietly. “They _aren’t_ human, you know,
and by Galactic standards they qualify. And now we’ll go and whack those
vortices right on their center of impact.”
“We’ll do that, chum,” he said. Then, in perfect silence he went on in
thought: “Chum? Sweetheart, I meant. . . . My God, _what_ a sweetheart
you’d. . . .”
“Storm!” Joan half-shrieked, eyes wide in astonishment. “You’re
_sending_!”
“I’m not either!” he declared, blushing furiously. “I can’t—you’re
_snooping_!”
“I’m not snooping—I haven’t snooped a lick since I started talking. You
_got_ it back there, Storm!” She seized both his hands and squeezed.
“You _did_ it, and neither of us realized it ’til just this minute!”
_Chapter 13_
▂▂▂▂▂▂GAMES WITHIN GAMES
THE METHODS of operation of the _Vortex Blaster II_ had long since been
worked out in detail. Approaching any planet Captain Ross, through
channels, would ask permission of the various governments to fly in
atmosphere, permission to use high explosive, permission to land and be
serviced, and permission—after standard precautions—to grant planetary
leave to his ship’s personnel. All this asking was not, of course,
strictly necessary in his case, since every world having even one loose
atomic vortex had been demanding long and insistently that Neal Cloud
visit it next, but it was strictly according to protocol.
Astrogators had long since plotted the course through planetary
atmosphere; not by the demands of the governments concerned and not by
any ascending or descending order of violence of the vortices to be
extinguished, but by the simple criterion of minimum flight-time ending
at the pre-selected point of entry to the planet.
Thus neither Joan nor Cloud had anything much to do with planetary
affairs until the chief pilot notified Joan that he was relinquishing
control to her—which never happened until the vessel lay motionless
with respect to the planet’s surface and with the tip of her nose three
two zero zero point zero meters distant from the center of activity of
the vortex.
Approaching Chickladoria, the routine was followed precisely up to the
point where Joan’s mechanical brain took over. This time, however, the
brain was not working, since Joan was in the throes of rebuilding “Lulu”
into “Margie.” On Chickladoria, then, the chief pilot did the piloting
and “Storm” Cloud did the blasting, and everything ran like clockwork.
The ship landed at Malthester spaceport and everyone who could possibly
be spared disembarked.
Ready to leave the ship, Cloud went to the computer room to make one
last try. There, seated at desks, Joan and her four top experts were
each completely surrounded by welters of reference books, pamphlets,
wadded-up scratch-paper, tapes, and punched cards.
“Hi, Joan—Hi, fellows and gals—why don’t you break down and come on
out and get some fresh air?”
“Sorry, Storm, but the answer is still ‘no’. We’ll need all this week,
and probably more. . . .” Joan looked up at him and broke off. Her eyes
widened and she whistled expressively. “Myohmy, ain’t he the
_handsomest_ thing, though? I wish I _could_ go along, Storm, if only to
see you lay ’em out in rows!”
For, since Chickladoria was a very warm planet—fully as hot as Tominga
had been—Cloud was dressed even more lightly than he had been there; in
sandals, breech-clout, and DeLameter harness, the shoulder-strap of the
last-named bearing the three silver bars of a commander of the Galactic
Patrol. He was not muscled like a gladiator, but his bearing was
springily erect, his belly hard and flat, his shoulders were wide, his
hips were narrow, and his skin was tanned to a smooth and even richness
of brown.
“Wellwell! Not bad, Storm; not bad at all.” One of the men got up and
looked him over carefully. “If I looked like that, Joan, I’d play hookey
for a couple of days myself. But I wouldn’t dare to—in that kind of a
get-up I’d look like something that had crawled out from under a rock
and I’d get sunburned from here to there.”
“That’s your own fault, Joe,” a tall, lissom, brunette lieutenant
chipped in. “You _could_ have the radiants on while you do your daily
dozens, you know. Me, I’m mighty glad that _some_ of the men, and not
only us women, like to look nice.”
“Wait a minute, Helen!” Cloud protested, blushing. “That’s not it, and
you know it. These fellows don’t _have_ to mix socially with people who
run around naked, and I do.”
“And how you hate it.” The other man offered mock sympathy, with a wide
and cheerful grin. “_How_ you suffer—I don’t think. But that
holster-harness. It looks regulation enough, but isn’t there somehing a
little different about it?”
“Yes. Two things.” Cloud grinned back. “Left-handed, and the holster’s
anchored so it can’t flop around. Don’t know as I ever told you, but
ever since that alleged pirate burned my arm off I’ve been practising
the gun-slick’s draw.”
“Did you get it?” Joan asked impishly. “How good are you?”
“Not bad—in fact, I’m getting plenty good,” Cloud admitted. “Come on up
to the range sometime with a stop-watch and I’ll show you.”
“I’ll do that. Right now—shall we?”
“Uh-uh. Can’t. I’m due at the High Mayor’s Reception in twenty minutes,
and besides, I want to breathe some air that hasn’t been rehabilitated,
rejuvenated, recirculated, reprocessed, repurified, and rebreathed until
it’s all worn out. Happy landings, gang—I’ll be thinking of you while
I’m absorbing all that nice new oxygen and stuff.”
“Particularly the stuff—and especially the _liquid_ stuff!” Joe called
after him just before he shut the door on his way out to join Thlaskin
and Maluleme.
Going through customs was of course the merest formality, and an aircab
whisked them into the city proper. Cloud really did enjoy himself as he
strode along the walkway from the cabpark toward the Mayor’s . . . well,
if not exactly a palace, it was close enough so as to make no
difference. And he did attract plenty of attention. Not because of his
dress or his build—most of the men on the street wore less than he did
and many of them were just as trim and as fit—but because of the nature
and variety of his bodily colors, which were literally astounding to
these people, not one in twenty of whom had ever before seen a Tellurian
in person.
For Chickladorians are pink; pink all over. Teeth, hair, skin, and
nails; all pink. Not the pink of red blood showing through translucency,
but that of opaque pigment. Most of their eyes, even—queerly triangular
eyes with three lids instead of two—are of that same brick-reddish
pink; although a few of the women have eyes of a dark and dusky green.
This visitor’s skin, however, was of a color so monstrous it simply had
to be seen to be believed. In fact, it wasn’t the same color in any two
places—it VARIED! His teeth were white; a horrible, dead-bone color.
His lips, hair, and eyes—funny, round, flat-opening things—were of
still other sheerly unbelievable colors—there wasn’t a _bit_ of
natural, healthy pink about him anywhere!
Thus the crowds of Chickladorians studied him much more intensively than
he studied them; and Maluleme, strutting along at his side, basked
visibly in the limelight. And thus, except for the two Chickladorians at
his side and except for the unobtrusive but efficient secret-service men
who kept the crowding throng in hand, Cloud could very well have been
mobbed.
The walk was very short, and at its end:
“How long we got to stay, boss?” Thlaskin asked, in spaceal. “As soon as
we can get away we want to join our folks and grab a jet for home.”
“As far as I’m concerned you don’t need to stay at all, or even come.
Why?”
“Just checking, is all. His Nibs sent us a special bid, so we got to at
least show up. But he don’t know us from nothing, so after we tell him
hello and dance a couple of rounds and slurp a couple of slugs we can
scram and nobody’ll know it unless you spill.”
“No spill,” Cloud assured him. “You dance with Maluleme first. I’ll take
the second—that’ll drive it in that she’s here. After that, flit as
soon as you like. For the record, you’ll be here until the last gilot is
picked clean.”
“Thanks, boss,” and the three, entering the extravagantly-decorated
Grand Ballroom, were escorted ceremoniously up to the Presence and the
Notables and their surrounding V. I. P.’s.
They were welcomed effusively, Cloud being informed through several
different interpreters that he was the third-most-important human being
who had ever lived. He made—through two interpreters, each checking the
other’s accuracy—his usual deprecatory speech concerning the
extinguishment of loose atomic vortices. He led the Grand March with the
president’s wife, a lady whose name he did not quite catch and who,
except for a pound or so of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other
baubles, was just as bare as Maluleme was. So was the equally heavily
bejeweled mayor’s wife, with whom he had the first dance. She was
neither young or slender, nor was she sexy. Then, as agreed, he danced
with Maluleme, who was—but definitely!—all three.
However, as he circled the floor in time with the really excellent
music, he thought, not of the attractive package of femininity in his
arms—who was one of his crew and Thlaskin’s wife—but of Joan. She’d
been training down, he’d noticed, and wearing more makeup, since those
other girls had come aboard. She was getting to be a regular
seven-sector callout—he’d _like_ to dance with Joan this way!
There were other dances; some with girls like Maluleme, some with women
like Madam Mayor, most with in-betweens. There was food, which he
enjoyed thoroughly. There were drinks; which, except for ceremonial
beakers of fayalin with the president and the mayor, he did not touch.
And, finally, there was the very comfortable bed in his special suite at
the hotel. Instead of sleep, however, there came a thing he expected
least of any—a sharp, carefully-narrowed Lensed thought.
“This is Tivor Nordquist of Tellus, Commander Cloud, on my Lens,” the
thought flowed smoothly in. “I have waited until now so as not to
startle you, not to make you show any sign of anything unusual going on.
There must be no suspicion whatever that you even know there’s a Lensman
on the planet.”
“I can take care of my part of that. One thing, though; I’ve got exactly
one week to work with you. One week from today any possible excuse for
me staying on Chickladoria goes p-f-f-t.”
“I know. One day should button it up, two at most. Here’s the print. I’m
a narcotics man, really but. . . .”
“Oh—Fairchild, eh?”
“Yes. Ellington told me you’re quick on the uptake. Well, all leads to
him via any drug channels fizzled out flat. So, since all these zwilnik
mobs handle all kinds of corruption—racketeering, gambling, vice, and
so on, as well as drugs—we decided to take the next-best line, which
turned out to be gambling. After a lot of slow digging we found out that
Fairchild’s gang controls at least four planets; Tominga, Vegia,
Chickladoria, and Palmer III.”
“What? Why, those planets cover. . . .”
“Check. That’s what made the digging so tough, and that’s why they did
it that way. And you’re scheduled for Vegia next, is why I’m meeting you
here. But to get back to the story, we haven’t got dope enough to find
Fairchild himself except by pure luck. So we decided to make Fairchild’s
mob tell us where he is.”
“That’ll be a slick trick if we can do it.”
“Here’s how. _Somebody_ on this planet knows how to call Fairchild in
emergencies, so we’ll create an emergency and he’ll do it.”
“My mind is open, but I’m a bit skeptical. What kind of an emergency
have you got in mind?”
“Some of the details you’ll have to ad lib as you go along, but it’ll
be, basically, bold-faced robbery without a blaster and with them
jittery as glaidos because they can’t figure it. I was going to try to
do it myself, but I can’t work without my Lens and I can’t come near the
hot spots without their spy-rays catching the Lens and blowing the whole
show. Doctor Janowick told Phil Strong that she could, without using her
sense of perception and after only a short practise run, beat any
crooked card game any gambler could dream up—something about random and
nonrandom numbers. Can she?”
“Um-m . . . never thought of it . . . _random_ numbers . . . Oh, I see.
Yes, she can. Especially the most-played one, that over-and-under-seven
thing. And with a little telepathy thrown in, I can do the same with any
crooked game they’ve got except a magnetically-controlled wheel; and I
could do a fair job on that.”
“Better and better. You and Miss Janowick, then; and be sure and bring
Vesta the Vegian along.”
“Vesta? Um . . . Maybe, at that. Adolescent Vegians not only can be, but
are, interested in everything that goes on, everywhere. They’re born
gamblers, and she’s already got a reputation for throwing money around
regardless—and she’s rich enough to afford it. And in a winning streak
she’ll stir up so much excitement that nobody will pay any attention to
anybody else. However, things being what they are, I’ll have to be
mighty careful about letting her go on a gambling spree.”
“Not too much so. Just hint that you won’t fire her if she takes a fling
or two at the tables and she’ll be so happy about it and love you so
much that she won’t even think of wondering why.”
And so it proved. After a long discussion of details with the Lensman,
Cloud went to sleep. The following afternoon he went back to the ship
and sought out Vesta, whom he found slinking dejectedly about with her
tail almost dragging on the floor. Scarcely had he begun his suggestion,
however, when:
“_Really_, chief?” Vesta’s tail snapped aloft, her pointed ears quivered
with eagerness. She hugged him ecstatically, burying her face in the
curve of his neck and inhaling deeply. “You zmell _zo_ wonderful,
chief—but a wonderful man like you would _have_ to smell zo, wouldn’t
he? I thought you’d smack me bow-legged if I even hinted at wanting to
lay a ten-cento chip on the line. But I _know_ I can beat the games
they’ve got on _this_ planet . . . and besides, I’ve been gone half a
year and haven’t spent a hundred credits and I’ve learned nine languages
including your cursed English. . . .”
She took out her book of Travelers’ Cheques and stared at it
thoughtfully. “Maybe, though, just to be on the safe side, I’d better
tear one of these out and hide it in my room. It’d be _awful_ to have to
call my mother for jet fare home from the ’port. She and dad both’d yowl
to high heaven—they’d claw me ragged.”
“Huh? But listen!” Cloud was puzzled. “If you shoot such a terrific wad
as that, what possible difference would it make whether you had plane
fare for a few hundred miles left or not?”
“Oh, lots,” she assured him. “They don’t expect me to have much of any
of my allowance left when I get home, and I never intended to, anyway.
But _anybody_ with half a brain is expected to be able to get home from
a party—_any_ kind of a party—without crying for help, and without
walking, either; so I’ll go hide one of these slips.”
“If _that’s_ all that’s bothering you, no matter,” Cloud said quickly.
“You’ve got another pay day coming before we get to Vegia, you know.”
“Oh, I never thought of that—I’ve never been on a payroll before, you
know, and can’t get used to being paid for doing nothing. But can we go
now, Captain Nealcloud, please? I can’t wait!”
“If Joan’s ready we can. We’ll go see.”
But Joan was not ready. “Did you actually think she would be?” Helen
asked. “Don’t you know that the less a woman puts on the longer it takes
her to do it?”
“Nope—I s’posed Doctor Joan Janowick would be above such frippery.”
“You’d be surprised. But say, how’d you talk her into this vacation?
Your manly charm, no doubt.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. All she wanted was half an excuse and the
promise I wouldn’t get sore if we have to kill a couple of days in space
before starting shooting on Vegia . . . Hot Dog!—just _look_ who’s
here!”
Joan came in, pausing in embarrassment, at the burst of applause and
whistles that greeted her. She was richly, deeply tanned; taut, trim,
and dainty—she had trained down to a hundred and fifteen pounds—her
bra was a triumph of the couturier’s art. She, too, was armed; her
DeLameter harness sported the two-and-a-half silver bars of a lieutenant
commander.
“Ouch—I’m bedazzled!” Cloud covered his eyes ostentatiously, then,
gradually and equally ostentatiously recovering his sight: “Very nice,
Joanie—you’re a ver_ee_ slick chick. With a dusting of powdered sugar
and a dab of cream you’d make a right tasty snack. Just one thing—a bit
overdressed, don’t you think?”
“_Overdressed!_” she exclaimed. “Listen, you—I’ve never worn a bathing
suit _half_ as skimpy as this in my whole life, and if you think I’m
going to wear any _less_ than this you’re completely out of your mind!”
“Oh, it isn’t _me_!” Cloud protested. “Patrol Regs are strict that
way—when in Rome you’ve got to be a Roman candle, you know.”
“I know, but I’m Roman candle enough right now—in fact, I feel like a
flaming skyrocket. Why, this thing I’ve got on is scarcely more than a
G-string!”
“QX—we’ll let it pass—this time. . . .”
“Hey, you know something?” Joe interrupted him before Joan did. “Vegia
is a couple of degrees warmer than this, and they don’t overdo the
matter of clothes there, either. I _am_ going to start basking under the
radiants. If I get myself cooked to a nice, golden brown, Helen—like a
slice of medium-done toast—will you do Vegiaton with me?”
“It’s a date, brother!”
As Joe and Helen shook hands to seal the agreement, the two Patrol
officers and Vesta strode out.
They took a copter to the Club Elysian, the plushiest and one of the
biggest places on the planet. The resplendently decorated—in an
undressed way, of course—doorman glanced at the DeLameters, but,
knowing the side-arm to be the one indispensable item of the Patrol
uniform wherever found, he greeted them cordially in impeccable Galactic
Spanish and passed them along.
“The second floor, I presume, sir and mesdames?” The host, a very good
rule-of-thumb psychologist, classified these visitors instantly and
suggested the region where both class and stakes were high. Also, and as
promptly, he decided to escort them personally. Two Patrol officers and
a Vegian—especially the Vegian—rated special attention.
The second floor was really a place. The pile of the rug was over half
an inch deep. The lighting was neither too garish nor too dim. The
tastefully-placed paintings and tapestries adorning the walls were
neither too large nor too small, each for its place; and each was a
masterpiece.
“May we use Patrol currency, or would you rather we took chips?” Cloud
asked.
“Either one, sir; just as you wish.”
“We Tellurians are all set, then, but Miss Vesta here would like to cash
a few Travelers’ Cheques.”
“Certainly, Miss Vesta. I’ll be delighted to take care of it for you.
How do you wish the money, please?”
“I’ll want a little small stuff to get the feel of the house . . . say a
thousand in tens and twenties. The rest of it in fifties and hundreds,
please—mostly hundreds.”
Vesta peeled off and thumb-printed ten two-thousand credit cheques and
the host, bowing gracefully, hurried away.
“One thing, Vesta,” Cloud cautioned. “Don’t throw it away too fast. Save
some for next time.”
“Oh, I always do, chief. This’ll last me the week, easily. I run wild
only when I’m in a winning streak.”
The host came up with her money; and as Vesta made a beeline for the
nearest wheel:
“What do you like, Joan?” Cloud asked. “A wheel?”
“I don’t think so; not at first, anyway. I’ve had better luck with the
under-and-overs. They’re over there, aren’t they, sir?”
“Yes, madame. But is there anything I can do first? Refreshments of any
kind—an appetizer, perhaps?”
“Not at the moment, thanks.”
“If you wish anything, at any time, just send a boy. I’ll look you up
from time to time, to be sure you lack nothing. Thank you very much, sir
and madame.”
The host bowed himself away and the two officers strolled over to the
bank of “under-and-over” tables, which were all filled. They stood at
ease for a few minutes; chatting idly, enjoying their cigarettes, gazing
with interest and appreciation around the huge, but wonderfully
beautiful room. There was no indication whatever that either of the two
Patrolmen was the least bit interested in the fall of the cards, or that
two of the keenest mathematical minds in space knew exactly, before the
man ahead of them got tired of losing fifty-credit chips, the
denomination and the location of every card remaining in the rack.
Joan could, of course, have read either the cards, or the dealer’s mind,
or both; but she was not doing either—yet. This was a game—on the
side, so to speak—between her and Storm. Nor was it at all unequal, for
Cloud’s uncanny ability to solve complex mathematical problems was of
very little assistance here. This was a matter of more-or-less simple
sequences; of series; of arrangements; and her years of cybernetic
training more than made up for his advantage in speed.
“Your pleasure, madame or sir? Or are you together?”
“We’re together, thanks. We’ll take the next, for an M.” Cloud placed a
one-thousand-credit note in the velvet-lined box.
Two thin stacks of cards lay on the table at the dealer’s right; one
pile face up, the other, face down. He took the top card from the rack,
turned it over, and added it to the face-up stack. “The ten of clubs,”
he droned, sliding a one-thousand-credit bill across the table to Cloud.
“What is your pleasure, sir and madame?”
“Let it ride. Two M’s in the box,” Cloud said, tossing the new bill on
top of its mate. “Throw one.”
“Discard one.” The dealer removed the next card and, holding it so that
neither he nor the players could see its face, added it to the face-down
pile. “What is your pleasure, sir and madame?”
“Throw one.”
“Discard one.”
“We’ll take this one,” and there were four thousand credits in the box.
Throw one take one, and there were eight thousand.
The eight became sixteen; then thirty-two; and the dealer lost his
urbanity completely. He looked just plain ugly.
“Maybe that’s enough for now,” Joan suggested. “After all, we don’t want
to take _all_ the man’s money.”
“Tightwad’s trick, huh? Quit while yer ahead?” the dealer sneered.
“Why’n’cha let ’er ride just once more?”
“If you insist, we will,” Cloud said, “but I’m warning you it’ll cost
you thirty two more M’s.”
“That’s what _you_ think, Buster—I think different. Call your play!”
“We’ll take it!” Cloud snapped. “But listen, you clever-fingered jerk—I
know just as well as you do that the top card is the king of clubs, and
the one below it is the trey of diamonds. So, if you want to stay
healthy, move slowly and be damned sure to lift just one card, not two,
and take it off the top and not the bottom!”
Glaring in baffled fury, the dealer turned up the king of clubs and paid
his loss.
At the next table the results were pretty much the same, and at the
third. At the fourth table, however, instead of pyramiding, they played
only single M-bills. They lost—won—lost—lost—won—lost—won—lost.
In twenty plays they were only two thousand credits ahead.
“I think I’ve got it, Joan,” Cloud said then. “Coming up—eight, six,
jack, five, deuce?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think so. Eight, six, jack, three, one, I think. The
trey of spades and the ace of hearts. A two-and-one shift with each full
cycle.”
“Um . . . m. Could be . . . but do you think the guy’s that smart?”
“I’m pretty sure of it, Storm. He’s the best dealer they have. He’s been
dealing a long time. He knows cards.”
“Well, if you’re done passing out compliments, how about calling a
play?” the dealer suggested.
“QX. We’ll take the eight for one M . . . and it _is_ the eight, you
notice . . . let it ride . . . throw the six—without looking, of course
. . . we’ll take the jack for two M’s. . . .”
The host, accompanied by no less a personage than the manager himself,
had come up. They stood quietly and listened as Cloud took three bills
out of the box, leaving one, and went on:
“The next card is either a five or a trey. That M there is to find out
which it is.”