As has been implied, Miners' Rest was the biggest, widest-open, least
restrained joint in that entire sector of the Galaxy. And through the
underground activities of his fellows of the Patrol, Kinnison knew
that of all the king-snipes of that lawless asteroid, the man called
Strongheart was the big shot.
Therefore, the Lensman landed his battered craft at Strongheart's dock,
loaded the equipment of the hijacker's boat into a hand truck, and went
in to talk to Strongheart himself. "Supplies--Equipment--Metal--Bought
and Sold" the sign read; but to any experienced eye it was evident that
the sign was conservative indeed; that it did not cover Strongheart's
business, by half. There were dance halls, there were long and ornate
bars, there were rooms in plenty devoted to various games of so-called
chance, and most significant, there were scores of the unmistakable
cubicles in which the basest passions and lusts of man were satisfied.
"Welcome, stranger! Glad to see you. Have a good trip?" The divekeeper
always greeted new customers effusively. "Have a drink on the house!"
"Business before pleasure," Kinnison replied, tersely. "Pretty good,
yes. Here's some stuff I don't need any more that I aim to sell.
What'll you gimme for it?"
The dealer inspected the suits and instruments, then bored a keen stare
into the miner's eyes; a scrutiny under which Kinnison neither flushed
nor wavered.
"Two hundred and fifty credits for the lot," Strongheart decided.
"Best you can do?"
"Tops. Take it or leave it."
"QX, they're yours. Gimme it."
"Why, this just starts our business, don't it? Ain't you got cores?
Sure you have."
"Yeah, but not for no"--doubly and unprintably qualified--"damn robber.
I like a louse, but you suit me altogether too damn well. Them suits
alone, just as they lay, are worth a thousand."
"So what? For why go to insult me, a business man? Sure I can't give
what that stuff is worth--who could? You ought to know how I got to get
rid of hot goods. You killed, ain't it, the guys what owned it, so how
could I treat it except like it's hot? Now be your age--don't burn out
no jets," as the Lensman turned with a blistering, sizzling deep-space
oath. "I know they shot first, they always do, but how does that change
things? But keep your shirt on yet. I don't tell nobody nothing. For
why should I? How could I make any money on hot goods if I talk too
much with my mouth, huh? But on cores, that's something else again.
Meteors is legitimate merchandise, and I pay you as much as anybody,
maybe more."
"QX," and Kinnison tossed over his cores. He had sold the bandits'
spacesuits and equipment deliberately, in order to minimize further
killing.
This was his first visit to Miners' Rest, but he intended to become an
habitue of the place; and before he would be accepted as a "regular"
he knew that he would have to prove his quality. Buckoes and bullies
would be sure to try him out. This way was much better. The tale would
spread; and any gunman who had drilled two hijackers, dead-center
through the face-plates, was not one to be challenged lightly. He might
have to kill one or two, but not many, nor frequently.
And the fellow was honest enough in his buying of the metal. His
Spaldings cut honest cores--Kinnison put micrometers on them to
be sure of that fact. He did not under-read his torsiometer, and
he weighed the meteors upon certified balances. He used Galactic
Standard average-value-density tables, and offered exactly half of the
calculated average value; which, Kinnison knew, was fair enough. By
taking his metal to a mint or rare-metals station of the Patrol, any
miner could get the precise value of any meteor, as shown by detailed
analysis. However, instead of making the long trip and waiting--and
paying--for the exact analyses, the miners usually preferred to take
the "fifty-percent-of-average-density-value" which was the customary
offer of the outside dealers.
* * * * *
Then, the meteors unloaded and hauled away. Kinnison dickered with
Strongheart concerning the supplies he would need during his next trip;
the hundred-and-one items which are necessary to make a tiny spaceship
a self-contained, self-sufficient, warm and inhabitable worldlet in the
immense and unfriendly vacuity of space. Here, too, the Lensman was
overcharged shamelessly; but that, too, was routine. No one would, or
could be expected to, do business in any such place as Miners' Rest in
any sane or ordinary percentage of profit.
When Strongheart counted out to him the net proceeds of the voyage,
Kinnison scratched reflectively at his whiskery chin.
"That ain't hardly enough, I don't think, for the real, old-fashioned,
stem-winding bender I was figuring on," he ruminated. "I been out a
long time and I was figuring on doing the thing up brown. Have to let
go of my nugget, too, I guess. Kinda hate to--been packing it around
quite a while--but here she is." He reached into his kit-bag and tossed
over the lump of really precious metal. "Let you have it for fifteen
hundred credits."
"Fifteen hundred! An idiot you must be, or you should think I'm one, I
don't know?" Strongheart yelped, as he juggled the mass lightly from
hand to hand. "Two hundred, you mean ... well two fifty, then, but
that's an awful high bid, mister, believe me. I tell you, I couldn't
give my own mother over three hundred--I'd lose money on the goods.
You ain't tested it, what makes you think it's such a much?"
"No, and I notice you ain't testing it, neither," Kinnison countered.
"Me and you both know metal well enough so we don't need to test no
such nugget as that. Fifteen hundred or I flit to a mint and get full
value for it. I don't have to stay here, you know, by all the nine
hells of Valeria. There's millions of other places where I can get just
as drunk and have just as good a time as I can here."
There ensued howls of protest, but Strongheart finally yielded, as the
Lensman had known that he would. He could have forced him higher, but
fifteen hundred was enough.
"Now, sir, just the guarantee and you're all set for a lot of fun."
Strongheart's anguish had departed miraculously upon the instant of
the deal's closing. "We take your keys, and when your money's gone
and you come back to get 'em, to sell your supplies or your ship or
whatever, we takes you, without hurting you a bit more than we have
to, and sober you up, quick as scat. A room here, whenever you want
it, included. Padded, sir, very nice and comfortable--you can't hurt
yourself, possibly. We been in business here for years, with perfect
satisfaction. Not one of our customers--and we got hundreds who never
go nowhere else--have we ever let sell any of the stuff he had laid in
for his next trip, and we never steal none of his supplies, neither.
Only two hundred credits for the whole service, sir. Cheap, sir--very,
_very_ cheap at the price."
"Um-m-m"--Kinnison again scratched meditatively, this time at the nape
of his neck--"I'll take your guarantee, I guess, because sometimes,
when I get to going real good, I don't know just exactly when to
stop. But I won't need no padded cell. Me, I don't never get violent.
I always taper off on twenty-four units of bentlam. That gives me
twenty-four hours on the shelf, and then I'm all set for another
stretch out in the ether. You couldn't get me no benny, I don't
suppose, and if you could it wouldn't be no damn good."
This was the critical instant, the moment the Lensman had been
approaching so long and so circuitously. Mind was already reading mind,
Kinnison did not need the speech which followed.
"Twenty-four units!" Strongheart exclaimed. That was a heroic dose--but
the man before him was of heroic mold. "Sure of that?"
"Sure I'm sure; and if I get cut weight or cut quality I cut the guy's
throat that peddles it to me. But I ain't out. I got a few good jolts
left. Guess I'll use my own, and when it gets gone go buy some from a
fella I know that's about half honest."
"Don't handle it myself," this, the Lensman knew, was at least
partially true, "but I know a man who has a friend who can get it.
Good stuff, too, in the original tins; special import from Corvina II.
That'll be four hundred altogether. Gimme it and you can start your
helling around."
"Whatja mean, four hundred?" Kinnison snorted. "Think I'm just blasting
off about having some left, huh? Here's two hundred for your guarantee,
and that's all I want out of you."
"Wait a minute. Jet back, miner!" Strongheart had thought that the
newcomer was entirely out of his drug, and could therefore be charged
eight prices for it. "How much do you get it for, mostly, the clear
quill?"
"One credit per unit--twenty-four for the jolt," Kinnison replied
tersely and truly. That was the prevailing price charged by retail
peddlers. "I'll pay you that, and I don't mean twenty-five, neither."
"QX, gimme it. You don't need to be afraid of being bumped off or
rolled here, neither. We got a reputation, we have."
"Yeah, I been told you run a high-class joint," Kinnison agreed,
amiably. "That's why I'm here. But you wanna be mighty sure that the
ape don't gyp me on the dose--looky here!"
* * * * *
As the Lensman spoke he shrugged his shoulders and the divekeeper
leaped backward with a shriek; for faster than sight two ugly
DeLameters had sprung into being in the miner's huge, dirty paws and
were pointing squarely at his midriff!
"Put 'em away!" Strongheart yelled.
"Look 'em over first," and Kinnison handed them over, butts first.
"These ain't like them buzzards' cap-pistols what I sold you. These are
my own, and they're hot and tight. You know guns, don't you? Look 'em
over, pal--real close."
The renegade did know weapons, and he studied these two with care,
from the worn, rough-checkered grips and full-charged magazines to the
burned, scarred, deeply-pitted orifices. Definitely and unmistakably
they were weapons of terrific power; weapons, withal, which had seen
hard and frequent service; and Strongheart personally could bear
witness to the blinding speed of this miner's draw.
"And remember this," the Lensman went on. "I never yet got so drunk
that anybody could take my guns away from me, and if I don't get a full
jolt of benny I get mighty peevish."
The publican knew that--it was a characteristic of the drug--and he
certainly did not want that miner running amuck with those two weapons
in his highly capable hands. He would, he assured him, get his full
dose.
And, for his part, Kinnison knew that he was reasonably safe, even in
this hell of hells. As long as he was active he could take care of
himself, in any kind of company, and he was fairly certain that he
would not be slain, during his drug-induced physical helplessness,
for the value of his ship and supplies. This one visit had yielded
Strongheart a profit of four or five times what he had left, and each
subsequent visit should yield a similar amount.
"The first drink's on the house, always," Strongheart derailed his
guest's train of thought. "What'll it be? Tellurian ain't you--whiskey?"
"Uh-huh. Close, though--Aldebaran II. Got any good old Aldebaranian
bolega?"
"No, but we got some good old Tellurian whiskey, about the same thing."
"QX--gimme a shot." He poured a stiff three fingers, downed it at a
gulp, shuddered ecstatically, and emitted a wild yell. "Yip-yip-yipee!
I'm Wild Bill Williams, the ripping, roaring, ritoo-dolorum from
Aldebaran II, and this is my night to howl. Whee ... yow ...
owrie-e-e!" Then, quieting down, "This rotgut wasn't never within a
million parsecs of Tellus, but it ain't bad--not bad at all. Got the
teeth and claws of holy old Klono himself--goes down your throat just
like swallowing a mad Radeligian cateagle. Clear ether, pal, I'll be
back shortly."
For his first care was to tour the entire Rest, buying scrupulously one
good stiff drink, of whatever first came to hand, at each hot spot as
he came to it.
"A good-will tour," he explained joyously to Strongheart upon his
return. "Got to do it, pal, to keep 'em from calling down the curse of
Klono on me, but I'm going to do all my serious drinking right here."
And he did. He drank various and sundry beverages, mixing them with a
sublime disregard for consequences which surprised even the hard-boiled
booze fighters assembled there. "Anything that'll pour," he declared,
loud and often, and acted accordingly. Potent or mild; brewed,
fermented, or distilled; loaded, cut, or straight, all one. "Down the
hatch!" and down it went. Here was a two-fisted drinker whose like had
not been seen for many a day, and his fame spread throughout the Rest.
[Illustration: _Miners' Rest was a meeting place for a dozen races of
meteor miners--and Kim, with free-flowing liquor, made friends with
them all!_]
Being a "happy jag," the more he drank the merrier he became. He
bestowed largess hither and yon, in joyous abandon. He danced blithely
with the hostesses and tipped them extravagantly. He did not gamble,
explaining frequently and painstakingly that that wasn't none of his
dish; he wanted to have fun with his money.
He fought, even, without anger or rancor; but gayly, laughing with
Homeric gusto the while. He missed with terrific swings that would
have felled a horse had they landed; only occasionally getting in, as
though by chance, a paralyzing punch. Thus he accumulated an entirely
unnecessary mouse under each eye and a sadly bruised nose.
However, his good humor was, as is generally the case in such
instances, quite close to the surface, and was prone to turn into
passionate anger with less real cause even than the trivialities which
started the friendly fist-fights. During various of these outbursts of
wrath he smashed four chairs, two tables, and assorted glassware.
But only once did he have to draw a deadly weapon--the news, as he
had known it would, had spread abroad that with a DeLameter he was
nobody to monkey with--and even then he didn't have to kill the guy.
Just winging him--a little bit of a burn through his gun-arm--had been
enough.
* * * * *
So it went for days. And finally, it was an immense relief that the
hilariously drunken Lensman, his money gone to the last millo, went
roistering up the street with a two-quart bottle in each hand; swigging
now from one, then from the other; inviting bibulously the while
any and all chance comers to join him in one last, fond drink. The
sidewalk was not wide enough for him, by half; indeed, he took up most
of the street. He staggered and reeled, retaining any semblance of
balance only by a miracle and by his rigorous spaceman's training.
He threw away one empty bottle, then the other. Then, as he strode
along, so purposefully and yet so futilely, he sang. His voice was
not particularly musical, but what it lacked in quality of tone it
more than made up in volume. Kinnison had a really remarkable voice,
a bass of tremendous power, timbre, and resonance; and, pulling out
all the stops, in tones audible for two thousand yards against the
wind, he poured out his zestfully lusty reveler's soul. His song was
a deep-space chanty that would have blistered the ears of any of the
gentler spirits who had known him as Kimball Kinnison, of Earth; but
which, in Miners' Rest, was merely a humorous and sprightly ballad.
Up the full length of the street he went. Then back, as he put it, to
"Base." Even if this final bust did make him sicker at the stomach than
a ground-gripper going free for the first time, the Lensman reflected,
he had done a mighty good job. He had put Wild Bill Williams, meteor
miner, of Aldebaran II, on the map in a big way. It wasn't a faked and
therefore fragile identity, either; it was solidly, definitely his own.
Staggering up to his friend Strongheart he steadied himself
with two big hands upon the latter's shoulders and breathed a
forty-thousand-horsepower breath into his face.
"I'm boiled like a Tellurian hoot-owl," he announced, still happily.
"When I'm this stewed I can't say 'partic-hic-hicu-lar-ly' without
hick-hicking, but I would partic-hic-hicularly just like one more
quart. How about me borrowing a hundred on what I'm going to bring in
next time, or selling you--"
"You've had plenty, Bill. You've had lots of fun. How about a good
chew of sleep-happy, huh?"
"That's a thought!" the miner exclaimed eagerly. "Lead me to it!"
* * * * *
A stranger came up unobtrusively and took him by one elbow. Strongheart
took the other, and between them they walked him down a narrow hall and
into a cubicle. And while he walked flabbily along Kinnison studied
intently the brain of the newcomer. _This_ was what he was after!
The ape had had a screen; but it was such a nuisance he took it off
for a rest whenever he came here. No Lensman on Euphrosyne! They had
combed everybody, even this drunken bum here. This was one place that
no Lensman would ever come to; or, if he did, he wouldn't last long.
Kinnison had been pretty sure that Strongheart would be in cahoots with
somebody bigger than a peddler, and so it had proved. This guy knew
plenty, and the Lensman was taking the information--all of it. Six
weeks from now, eh? Just right--time to find enough metal for another
royal binge here. And during that binge he would really do things.
Six weeks. Quite a while ... but ... QX. It would take some time yet,
anyway, probably, before the Regional Directors would, like this
fellow, get over their scares enough to relax a few of their most
irksome precautions. And, as has been intimated, Kinnison, while
impatient enough at times, could hold himself in check like a cat
watching a mouse hole whenever it was really necessary.
Therefore, in the cell, he seated himself upon the bunk and seized
the packet from the hand of the stranger. Tearing it open, he stuffed
the contents into his mouth; and, eyes rolling and muscles twitching,
he chewed vigorously; expertly allowing the potent juice to trickle
down his gullet just fast enough to keep his head humming like a swarm
of angry bees. Then, the cud sucked dry, he slumped down upon the
mattress, physically dead to the world for the ensuing twenty-four G-P
hours.
He awakened; weak, flimsy, and supremely wretched. He made heavy going
to the office, where Strongheart returned to him the keys of his boat.
"Feeling low, sir." It was a statement, not a question.
"I'll say so," the Lensman groaned. He was holding his spinning head,
trying to steady the gyrating universe. "I'd have to look up--'way,
'way up, with a number nine visiplate--to see a snake's belly in a
swamp. Make that damn cat quit stomping his feet, can't you?"
"Too bad, but it won't last long." The voice was unctuous enough, but
totally devoid of feeling. "Here's a pickup--you need it."
The Lensman tossed off the potion, without thanks, as was good
technique in those parts. His head cleared miraculously, although the
stabbing ache remained.
"Come in again next time. Everything's been on the green, ain't it,
sir?"
"Uh-huh, very nice," the Lensman admitted. "Couldn't ask for better.
I'll be back in five or six weeks, if I have any luck at all."
As the battered but stanch and powerful meteorboat floated slowly
upward a desultory conversation was taking place in the dive he
had left. At that early hour business was slack to the point of
nonexistence, and Strongheart was chatting idly with a bartender and
one of the hostesses.
"If more of the boys was like him, we wouldn't have no trouble at all,"
Strongheart stated with conviction. "Nice, quiet, easygoing--why, he
didn't hardly damage a thing, for all his fun."
"Yeah, but at that maybe it's a good gag nobody riled him up too much,"
the barkeep opined. "He could be rough if he wanted to, I bet a quart.
Drunk or sober, he's chain lightning with them DeLameters."
"He's so refined, such a perfect gentleman," sighed the woman. "He's
nice." To her, he had been. She had had plenty of credits from the big
miner, without having given anything save smiles and dances in return.
"Them two guys he drilled must have needed killing, or he wouldn't have
burned 'em."
And that was that. As the Lensman had intended, Wild Bill Williams was
an old, known, and highly respected resident of Miners' Rest!
* * * * *
Out among the asteroids again; more muscle-tearing, back-breaking,
lonesome labor. Kinnison did not find any more fabulously rich
meteors--such things happen only once in a hundred lifetimes--but he
was getting his share of heavy stuff. Then one day when he had about
half a load there came, screaming in upon the emergency wave, a call
for help; a call so loud that the ship broadcasting it must be very
close indeed. Yes, there she was, right in his lap; startlingly large
even upon the low-power plates of his spacetramp.
"Help! Spaceship _Hyperion_, position--" a rattling string of numbers.
"Bergenholm dead, meteorite screens practically disabled, intrinsic
velocity throwing us into the asteroids. Any spacetugs, any vessels
with tractors--hurry!"
At the first word Kinnison had shoved his blast-lever full over. A few
seconds of free flight, a minute of inert maneuvering that taxed to the
utmost his Lensman's skill and powerful frame, and he was within the
liner's air lock.
"I know something about Bergs!" he snapped. "Take this boat of mine and
pull! Are you evacuating passengers?" he shot at the mate as they ran
toward the engine room.
"Yes, but afraid we haven't boats enough--overloaded," was the gasped
reply.
"Use mine--fill 'er up!" If the mate was surprised at such an offer
from the despised spacerat he did not show it. There were many more
surprises in store.
In the engine room Kinnison brushed aside a crew of helplessly futile
gropers and threw in switch after switch. He looked. He listened. Above
all, he pried into that sealed monster of power with all his sense of
perception. How glad he was now that he and Thorndyke had struggled
so long and so furiously with a balky Bergenholm on that trip to
tempestuous Trenco! For as a result of that trip he _did_ know Bergs,
with a sure knowledge.
"Number four lead is shot somewhere," he reported. "Must be burned off
where it clears the pilaster. Careless overhaul last time--got to take
off the lower port third cover. No time for wrenches--get me a cutting
beam, and get the lead out of your pants!"
The beam was brought on the double and the Lensman himself blasted
away the designated cover. Then, throwing an insulated plate over the
red-hot casing he lay on his back--"Hand me a light!"--and peered
briefly upward into the bowels of the Gargantuan mechanism.
"I thought so," he grunted. "Piece of four-oh stranded, eighteen inches
long. Ditmars number six clip ends, spaced to twenty inches between
hole-centers. Myerbeer insulation on center section, doubled. Snap it
up! One of you other fellows, bring me a short, heavy screwdriver and a
Ditmars six wrench!"
The technicians worked fast and in a matter of seconds the stuff was
there. The Lensman labored briefly but hugely; and much more surely
than if he were dependent upon the rays of the hand-lamp to penetrate
the smoky, steamy, greasy murk in which he toiled. Then:
"QX--give her the juice!" he snapped.
They gave it, and to the stunned surprise of all, she took it. The
liner again was free!
"Kind of a jury-rigging I gave it, but it'll hold long enough to
get you into port, sir," he reported to the captain in his sanctum,
saluting crisply. He was in for it now, he knew, as the officer stared
at him. But he _couldn't_ have let that shipload of passengers get
ground up into hamburger. Anyway, there was no way out.
* * * * *
In apparent reaction he turned pale and trembled, and the officer
hastily took from his medicinal stores a bottle of choice brandy.
"Here, drink this," he directed, proffering the glass:
Kinnison did so. More, he seized the bottle from the captain's hand and
drank that, too--all of it--a draft which would have literally turned
him inside out a few months since. Then, to the captain's horrified
disgust, he took from his filthy dungarees a packet of bentlam and
began to chew it, idiotically blissful. Thence, and shortly, into
oblivion.
"Poor devil--you poor, poor devil," the commander murmured, and had him
put into a bunk.
When he had come to and had had his pickup, the captain came and
regarded him soberly.
"You were a man once. An engineer, and a crackerjack; or I'm an oiler's
pimp," he said levelly.
"Maybe," Kinnison replied, white and weak. "I'm all right yet, except
once in a while--"
"I know," the captain frowned. "No cure?"
"Not a chance. Tried dozens. So--" and the Lensman spread out his hands
in a hopeless gesture.
"Better tell me your name, anyway--your real name. That'll let your
planet know that you aren't--"
"Better not," the sufferer shook his aching head. "Folks think I'm
dead. Better let them keep on thinking so. Williams is the name, sir;
William Williams, of Aldebaran II."
"As you say."
"How far are we from where I boarded you?"
"Close. Less than half a billion miles. This, the second, is our home
planet: your asteroid belt is just outside the orbit of the fourth."
"I can hop it in an hour, easy. Guess I'll buzz off."
"As you say," the officer agreed, again. "But we'd like to--" and he
extended a sheaf of currency.
"Rather not, sir, thanks. You see, the longer it takes me to earn
another stake, the longer it'll be before--"
"I see. Thanks, anyway, for us all," and captain and mate helped the
derelict embark. They scarcely looked at him, scarcely dared look at
each other, but--
Kinnison, for his part, was almost content. This story, too, would get
around. It would be in Miners' Rest before he got back there, and it
would help--help a lot.
He did not see how he could possibly, or ever, let those officers know
the truth, even though he realized full well that at that very moment
they were thinking, pityingly:
"The poor devil--the poor, brave devil!"