Space For Hire (Seven For Space) (6 page)

Sam clapped me on the shoulder. "I always said that if I could ever split myself in half I'd be twice as effective. Thanks, ole buddy. You saved Umani for me."

"Do you know anything about F. that I don't?"

He shrugged. "Depends on what you know."

"Just that he uses the initial F. — and that this office may be his. I'm not even sure of that."

Sam pursed his lips. "Sorry, but that's the full extent of my own info."

"Well," I said, "let's check out the joint and see if we come up with anything."

We combed the unit together top to bottom. Nothing in the flow-drawers. Nothing in the wallcabs. A blank.

We did find a bottle of starhooch. Expensive stuff from Sirius. Sitting on the couch, swapping the bottle back and forth, we both began to relax.

"Did O'Malley give you a tough hustle over Nicole's body?" Sam wanted to know.

I shook my head. "Didn't report it. I just left her there in the unit, same as you. Why ask for trouble I don't need? Let Sergeant O'Malley find his own stiffs."

Sam arched a heavy black eyebrow. "That bastard is Captain O'Malley in this universe. Got a promotion last year for busting agreeb-slave racket in the horsehead nebula."

I snorted. "Must have had a fix in. He couldn't find snow in December."

We both chuckled over how dumb O'Malley was. Then I asked about the weird metal hat Sam had mentioned. "What happened to it?"

He shrugged. "I didn't know what it was, so I took it with me back to the launch port."

"Then what?"

"Then I stowed it in a palmlocker. Meant to check the thing out later. Like I said, it was damned weird. Had wires and stuff attached to it."

"I'm sure it's the portable universe transporter they used on me," I said. "Exactly where'd you stow it?"

"Locker zzz-one-half, lower tier," Sam told me.

"Ok," I said. "Since we have the same palm pattern I can get it open. I'd better scoot. Wish I could stay on the case with you but I'm overdue back home."

"I could always use another me if you'd care to drop back after things are settled," he said. "We could be equal partners. Space and Space."

"Thanks, but I plan to work my own sand pile from here on. Oh, a last question."

"Which is?"

"You wouldn't happen to know what kind of experiment doc Umani is cooking up would you?"

"Nope. I just know this creep named F. is trying to stiff him before he can finish."

I sighed. "Looks like we both need to learn a lot more. And fast."

He nodded and shook my hand. "Good hunting, Sam."

"You too, Sam," I said.

He looked a little bereft as I walked out the door.

It's kind of sad, saying goodbye to yourself.

I'd been right about the metal hat. It was a portable dimensional transporter — and simple enough to operate. No tougher than a kid's toy.

I set the dial, clamped it on, and attached some wires. Then I pressed a red stud on the side of the hat.

Zip! I was home. Hatless, naturally, since the thing automatically returned to its parent universe.

This time, at least, Nicole hadn't croaked. Nor had she taken it on the lam. In fact, when I materialized in her unit she was standing directly above me with a shocked where-the-hell-did-he-come-from expression; the glass of iced bourbon she was holding dropped from her hand.

"Didn't expect to see me again, did you, chicken?" I snarled the words. I was plenty burned at this broad.

"Look, Sam, I swear that —"

I got up and clipped her across the mouth before she could finish whatever new lie she was going to tell me. Then I grabbed the front of her blouse and gave her a good shakeup. Her lush breasts bounced like two vibraballs in a robo game but I wasn't interested in sex at the moment.

"You either spill what you know or I mess you up a lot," I warned her. My voice was ice. "And I don't mind belting crooked dames that have me sapped and shipped out. So spill."

"It was my ex-bedmate," she gasped, falling back on the couch.

"The same one who threatened to kill me. He must have been waiting for us here in the unit, and when you came in he —"

I gave her another good one across the mouth. "Try again," I snapped. "And this time start with F."

She whitened, biting her lower lip. Her eyes were fear-glazed. "How — did you know about F.?"

"You've got a faxletter from him in your trip trunk. Never mind how I found it. Just drop the lies and talk straight."

"First, may I have another drink?" she asked. "You made me spill my last one."

I nodded.

She got up and hipped into the kitchcove. I kept my eye on her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Yeah, now that you mention it, I'm starved. I could use a cheese on wheat, whole grain; hold the butter and mayonnaise, light on the salt, no pepper."

"Coming up."

I eased into the couch, keeping her in sight. My bones ached. This unscheduled universe-hopping had taken a lot out of me. And that knockdown battle I'd had with myself in Domehive sure hadn't helped any.

By the time Nicole returned with the food and drinks I'd vid-checked the
Reagan
. The coldpacs had arrived safely in Bobble City but when Dr. Umani discovered I wasn't along he'd refused to accept the shipment. Which meant the old geezer had more sense in this universe than he had in some others. Score one for the doc.

I sent him a vidfax, telling him I was coming back on the next flight with some fresh bodies.

The cheese-on-wheat was delicious, and I'd taken three hefty bites, washed down with Scotch, before I paused in mid-swallow. I felt like a chump.

When Nicole noticed me staring at the half-eaten sandwich she let out a girlish giggle.

"Funny, huh?" I said.

"You think maybe I doctored the cheese," she said. "You're furious because you didn't make me take the first bite. Correct?"

"Correct," I admitted sourly.

"Hunger before suspicion," she giggled.

I thrust the cheese-on-wheat at her. "Here, you finish the thing. If it's lethal we'll both end up stiffed."

She took a nip, chewed, swallowed and handed the rest back. "Goon, you're the starving man. I wouldn't be dumb enough to try a double-cross two times running. You'll get indigestion worrying over nothing, Sam."

I snarled, still feeling like a chump, but finished the sandwich. All I could do was believe her; she seemed to be all through with her phony act and ready to spill what she knew. I told her I was waiting to hear about F. "Who is he? Describe him."

"Can't. I've never seen him, never talked directly to him." She flushed, sipped at her bourbon. "He had something on me dug up by one of his sneaky subworld contacts and he used it to make me work for him. He's ruthless. I knew he'd turn what he had over to Sergeant O'Malley if I didn't cooperate in decoying you."

I let that sink in.

"What's the F. stand for?"

"I don't know that either. I'm just a small pawn in whatever cosmic game he's playing." She tossed her red hair and gave me a long, level stare. "I've told you everything I know, Sam."

"Not quite," I said. "What does F. hold against you? What dirt did his goons dig up?"

"It has nothing to do with this case," she declared with some heat."It's personal and I don't intend to reveal it to anyone." Her sea-green eyes flashed. "If you'd like to slap me around some more then go ahead. But I've told you all I'm going to. Period."

I knew she wasn't bluffing. And I like my chickens spirited. I'd leave her pride alone.

"Okay, then, forget it," I said, dumping the last of the Scotch down my craw. "There's just one more thing I want from you."

"What's that?"

"Can't you guess?" This time I was leering. The cheese-on-wheat and the Scotch had put me back in a mood to dally.

And Nicole knew how to dally.

She peeled off the glosex blouse and joined me on the couch.

I peeled off everything else.

* * *

Before I left her, Nicole did remember one more thing to tell me — that F. had another branch office on Jupiter, in Whisker Town. She recalled the address on a faxcard he'd sent her.

This info made me change my plans about going directly back to Mars. It might be well worth my while to take a shot at seeing what I could find on Jupiter.

I vidfaxed Umani and told him to hold the fort until he heard from me. Warned him not to leave his unit. With Esma there I was gambling he'd be okay until I could run down this new lead.

"Be careful, Sammie," Nicole cautioned in a husky after-bed voice. She tickled my nose with one of her exposed nipples. "F. plays for keeps."

"I can handle anything he can throw at me," I said. "Trouble is my middle name."

"I don't believe you," she said.

"Okay, take a look," I showed her my license. She giggled. Then I kissed her and left.

I didn't tell her what the T really stood for. My mother had exercised a wild sense of humor in naming me. Samuel T Space.

T for Temperance.

I was heading for the Fat Marble. That's what I call Jupiter, and that's the way the planet looks to me, coming in toward it: like a giant fat agate in the black sky. I never liked going there for a lot of reasons. For one, I figure that nobody needs twenty-five billion square miles of anything; the damned planet is just too big for comfort. For another, they haven't yet licked the gravity problem on Jupiter inside the domes, and I hate wearing a contra-gravbelt. But a guy like me, at about 190Earthpounds, would weigh close to 450 on the surface without one. And you can't hop around much at 450.

We were nearly there, so I put my belt on, snapping it into place. I guess what bugged me most about it was that the damn thing always reminded me of how pudgy I was getting around the breadbasket. I needed more exercise; maybe finding F. would provide it.

Nicole's faxcard had listed his Jupiter office address as 129 G-Section, Whisker Town — and that's where I headed after landfall. No use playing paddyfoot; I was going right up to F.'s and beard the lion in his den. Providing the lion was at home.

G-Section was built with future expansion in mind — a midclass nabe of massive spider units, suspended web-fashion from the central citydome. The hollow support cables doubled as tubeways. I took No. 6 and tabbed up slowly toward 129, riding with hundreds of other commuters, a scattering of whom were Martians and fellow-Earthmen. Most were native Jupes, the ambitious little mouse people who made up the bulk of the planet's citizenry.

"Are you a tourist?" one of the mice asked me. He was hatted, suited and toted a small briefbag — a respectable member of the business community.

"Nope," I said. "I'm here for other reasons."

"Having to do with enforcement, I would guess," he piped. "Otherwise, why carry a weapon?"

Being as small as he was, he could look directly up and see the holstered .38 under my coat.

"I'm a licensed detective working a case," I said.

"Oh, how Mickey!"

In Jupetalk, Mickey meant great or wonderful. It tied in with their religion; they worshipped one called the Big Mouse who came first to Earth way back in the 1920s to prepare the way for universal joy. The Mouse was supposed to have created a benevolent Earthling named Walt Disney as his human spokesman. Before the Great Quake, which knocked out the Old West Coast in 2020, this Walt Disney had — so went the legend — built a giant shrine in honor of the Mouse. In a place they called Anaheim. That was how the Sacred Mouse Book told it. But I wasn't much for religious history. Worshipping some ancient rodent seemed pretty dumb to me.

"You wouldn't think what I do was so Mickey if you had to do it," I told him. "I hear you mouse folk don't approve of killing."

"Oh, no," he squeaked, ruffling his neck fur. "The Big Mouse would punish us if we killed. His wrath is genuine and immediate. Yet it is nonetheless exciting, in a perverse manner of speaking, to encounter a bonafide Earth detective. Do you plan on killing anyone here?"

"Maybe," I admitted. "That depends."

"Could I watch?" the mouse asked.

"Hell, no!" I snapped, glaring down at him.

"Just inquiring," said the mouse. His whiskers twitched apologetically. "I meant no offense."

I stepped free of the tube, leaving him to continue upward. I was glad to see him go; the little devil asked too many questions. But I admired his gall. Jupes are tiny but they have plenty of gall.

According to the wallgram, F.'s office was directly ahead, just two tall doors to the left. I tensed, preparing myself for action. My plan was harsh and simple: kick my way inside, .38 in hand, and face F. square-on. If he wasn't there I'd force whoever was there to tell me where I could find him.

Simple.

But things didn't quite happen that way. I had my .38 out, facing the tall door, when a swarm of police mice hit me — at least a dozen of them, squeaking furiously and clubbing my ankles with their small nearwood billies.

I dropped the .38 as pain blazed and exploded up my ankles. Any cop in the System can tell you that a billy on the ankle is damned effective. And a dozen of them, no matter how small, could put the toughest spacer out of action within seconds.

"You are officially under city-state arrest," one of the copmice informed me. He was a squad leader, with dyed neckfur indicating his rank. Several of the other mice had stun weapons aimed at me. "Do you wish to resist?"

Rubbing my sore ankles, I told them hell no I didn't wish to resist. This seemed to disappoint the squad leader; I think he would have enjoyed putting me to sleep. He reminded me of a miniature Sergeant O'Malley.

They quick-marched me back into the tube and we headed for ground level. All twelve of the stern-eyed mice kept their weapons centered on me all the way to the bottom.

Outside the building they had a police vancab waiting. It was a surface vehicle, and large enough to carry Earthlings.

"To enter," directed the squad leader, waving his stungun at me.

I climbed inside, feeling a little ridiculous, and the dozen armed mice joined me for the trip to HQ. The squad leader sat next to the driver, holding my .38 on his lap in a giant zipsack. The gun was larger than he was which made things a bit awkward for him.