Starman Jones Read online

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There are excellent reasons of discipline and efficiency why crew members do not associate with passengers.”

  Max gulped. “I know, sir.”

  “Mind your Ps and Qs. The members of my department are careful about this point—even then it is difficult.”

  Max left feeling deflated. He had gone there feeling that he was about to be awarded something—even a chance to become an astrogator. He now felt sweated down to size.

  10

  GARSON’S PLANET

  Max did not see much of Sam during the weeks following; the stiff schedule left him little time for visiting. But Sam had prospered.

  Like all large ships, the Asgard had a miniature police force, experienced ratings who acted as the First Officer’s deputies in enforcing ship’s regulations. Sam, with his talent for politics and a faked certification as steward’s mate first class, managed during the reshuffle following Max’s transfer to be assigned as master-at-arms for the Purser’s department. He did well, treading on no toes, shutting his eyes to such violations as were ancient prerogatives and enforcing those rules of sanitation, economy, and behavior which were actually needed for a taut, happy ship…all without finding it necessary to haul offenders up before the First Officer for punishment—which suited both Mr. Walther and the crew. When Stores Clerk Maginnis partook too freely of Mr. Gee’s product and insisted on serenading his bunk mates, Sam merely took him to the galley and forced black coffee down him—then the following day took him down to ‘H’ deck, laid his own shield of office aside, and gave Maginnis a scientific going over that left no scars but deeply marked his soul. In his obscure past Sam had learned to fight, not rough house, not in the stylized mock combat of boxing, but in the skilled art in which an unarmed man becomes a lethal machine.

  Sam had selected his victim carefully. Had he reported him, Maginnis would have regarded Sam as a snoop, a mere busybody to be outwitted or defied, and had the punishment been severe, he might have been turned into a permanent discipline problem—not forgetting that reporting Maginnis might also have endangered a sacred cow, Chief Steward Giordano. As it was, it turned Maginnis into Sam’s strongest supporter and best publicist, as Maginnis’s peculiar but not unique pride required him to regard the man who defeated him as “the hottest thing on two feet, sudden death in each hand, a real man! No nonsense about old Sam—try him yourself and see how you make out. Go on, I want to lay a bet.”

  It was not necessary for Sam to set up a second lesson.

  A senior engineer’s mate was chief master-at-arms and Sam’s nominal superior; these two constituted the police force of their small town. When the technician asked to go back to power room watch-standing and was replaced by an engineer’s mate third, it was natural that Walther should designate Sam as Chief Master-at-Arms.

  He had had his eye on the job from the moment he signed on. Any police chief anywhere has powers far beyond those set forth by law. As long as Sam stayed well-buttered up with Mr. Kuiper, Mr. Giordano, and (to a lesser extent) with Mr. Dumont, as long as he was careful to avoid exerting his authority in either the engineering spaces or the Worry Hole, he was the most powerful man in the ship—more powerful in all practical matters than the First Officer himself since he was the First Officer’s visible presence.

  Such was the situation when the ship grounded at Garson’s Planet.

  Garson’s Planet appears to us to be a piece of junk left over when the universe was finished. It has a surface gravity of one-and-a-quarter, too much for comfort, it is cold as a moneylender’s heart, and it has a methane atmosphere unbreathable by humans. With the sky swarming with better planets it would be avoided were it not an indispensable way station. There is only one survey Horst congruency near Earth’s Sun and transition of it places one near Theta Centauri—and of the thirteen planets of that sun, Garson’s Planet possesses the meager virtue of being least unpleasant.

  But there are half a dozen plotted congruencies accessible to Theta Centauri, which makes Garson’s Planet the inevitable cross-roads for trade of the Solar Union.

  Max hit dirt there just once. Once was plenty. The colony at the space port, partly domed, partly dug in under the domes, was much like the Lunar cities and not unlike the burrows under any major Earth city, but to Max it was novel since he had never been on Luna and had never seen a big city on Terra other than Earthport. He went dirtside with Sam, dressed in his best and filled with curiosity. It was not necessary to put on a pressure suit; the port supplied each passenger liner with a pressure tube from ship’s lock to dome lock.

  Once inside, Sam headed down into the lower levels. Max protested, “Sam, let’s go up and look around.”

  “Huh? Nothing there. A hotel and some expensive shops and clip joints for the pay passengers. Do you want to pay a month’s wages for a steak?”

  “No. I want to see out. Here I am on a strange planet and I haven’t seen it at all. I couldn’t see it from the control room when we landed and now I haven’t seen anything but the inside of a trans tube and this.” He gestured at the corridor walls.

  “Nothing to see but a dirty, thick, yellow fog that never lifts. Worse than Venus. But suit yourself. I’ve got things to do, but if you don’t want to stick with me you certainly don’t have to.”

  Max decided to stick. They went on down and came out in a wide, lighted corridor not unlike that street in Earthport where Percy’s restaurant was located, save that it was roofed over. There were the same bars, the same tawdry inducements for the stranger to part with cash, even to the tailor shop with the permanent “CLOSING OUT’ sale. Several other ships were in and the sector was crowded. Sam looked around. “Now for a place for a quiet drink and a chat.”

  “How about there?” Max answered, pointing to a sign reading THE BETTER ’OLE. “Looks clean and cheerful.”

  Sam steered him quickly past it. “It is,” he agreed, “but not for us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t you notice the customers? Imperial Marines.”

  “What of that? I’ve got nothing against the Imperials.”

  “Mmm…no,” Sam agreed, still hurrying, “but those boys stick together and they have a nasty habit of resenting a civilian who has the bad taste to sit down in a joint they have staked out. Want to get your ribs kicked in?”

  “Huh? That wouldn’t happen if I minded my own business, would it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Suppose a hostess decides that you’re cute—and the spit-and-polish boy she was with wants to make something of it? Max, you’re a good boy—but there just ain’t no demand for good boys. To stay out of trouble you have to stay away from it.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd for another hundred yards before Sam said, “Here we are—provided Lippy is still running the place.” The sign read THE SAFE LANDING; it was larger but not as pleasant as THE BETTER ’OLE.

  “Who’s Lippy?”

  “You probably won’t meet him.” Sam led the way in and picked out a table.

  Max looked around. It looked like any other fifth-rate bar grille. “Could I get a strawberry soda here? I’ve had a hankering for one for ages—I used always to get one Saturdays when I went to the Corners.”

  “They can’t rule you out for trying.”

  “Okay. Sam, something you said—you remember the story you told me about your friend in the Imperials? Sergeant Roberts?”

  “Who?”

  “Or Richards. I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  “But…”

  “Never heard of him. Here’s the waiter.”

  Nor had the humanoid Sirian waiter heard of strawberry soda. He had no facial muscles but his back skin crawled and rippled with embarrassed lack of comprehension. Max settled for something called “Old Heidelberg” although it had never been within fifty light-years of Germany. It tasted to Max like cold soap suds, but since Sam had paid for it he nursed it along and pretended to
drink it.

  Sam bounced up almost at once. “Sit tight, kid. I won’t be long.” He spoke to the barman, then disappeared toward the back. A young woman came over to Max’s table.

  “Lonely, spaceman?”

  “Uh, not especially.”

  “But I am. Mind if I sit down?” She sank into the chair that Sam had vacated.

  “Suit yourself. But my friend is coming right back.”

  She didn’t answer but turned to the waiter at her elbow. “A brown special, Giggles.”

  Max made an emphatic gesture of denial. “No!”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Look,” Max answered, blushing, “I may look green as paint—I am, probably. But I don’t buy colored water at house prices. I don’t have much money.”

  She looked hurt. “But you have to order or I can’t sit here.”

  “Well…” He glanced at the menu. “I could manage a sandwich, I guess.”

  She turned again to the waiter. “Never mind the special, Giggles. A cheese on rye and plenty of mustard.” She turned back to Max. “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Max.”

  “Mine’s Dolores. Where are you from?”

  “The Ozarks. That’s Earthside.”

  “Now isn’t that a coincidence! I’m from Winnipeg—we’re neighbors!”

  Max decided that it might appear so, from that distance. But as Dolores babbled on it became evident that she knew neither the location of the Ozarks nor that of Winnipeg, had probably never been on Terra in her life. She was finishing the sandwich while telling Max that she just adored spacemen, they were so romantic, when Sam returned.

  He looked down at her. “How much did you take him for?”

  Dolores said indignantly, “That’s no way to talk! Mr. Lipski doesn’t permit…”

  “Stow it, kid,” Sam went on, not unkindly. “You didn’t know that my partner is a guest of Lippy. Get me? No ‘specials,’ no ‘pay-me’s’—you’re wasting your time. Now how much?”

  Max said hastily, “It’s okay, Sam. All I bought her was a sandwich.”

  “Well…all right. But you’re excused, sister. Later, maybe.”

  She shrugged and stood up. “Thanks, Max.”

  “Not at all, Dolores. I’ll say hello to the folks in Winnipeg.”

  “Do that.”

  Sam did not sit down. “Kid, I have to go out for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  Max started to rise, Sam motioned him back. “No, no. This I’d better do by myself. Wait here, will you? They won’t bother you again—or if they do, ask for Lippy.”

  “I won’t have any trouble.”

  “I hope not.” Sam looked worried. “I don’t know why I should fret, but there is something about you that arouses the maternal in me. Your big blue eyes I guess.”

  “Huh? Oh, go sniff space! Anyway, my eyes are brown.”

  “I was speaking,” Sam said gently, “of the eyes of your dewy pink soul. Don’t speak to strangers while I’m gone.”

  Max used an expression he had picked up from Mr. Gee; Sam grinned and left.

  But Sam’s injunction did not apply to Mr. Simes. Max saw the assistant astrogator appear in the doorway. His face was redder than usual and his eyes looked vague. He let his body revolve slowly as he surveyed the room. Presently his eyes lit on Max and he grinned unpleasantly.

  “Well, well, well!” he said as he advanced toward Max. “If it isn’t the Smart Boy.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Simes.” Max stood up.

  “So it’s ‘good evening, Mr. Simes’! But what did you say under your breath?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Humph! I know! But I think the same thing about you, only worse.” Max did not answer. Simes went on, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “Have a seat, sir,” Max said without expression.

  “Well, what do you know? The Smart Boy wants me to sit with him.” He sat, called the waiter, ordered, and turned back to Max. “Smart Boy, do you know why I’m sitting with you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “To put a flea in your ear, that’s why. Since you pulled that hanky-panky with the computer, you’ve been Kelly’s hair-faired—fair-haired—boy. Fair-haired boy,” he repeated carefully. “That gets you nowhere with me. Get this straight: you go sucking around the Astrogator the way Kelly does and I’ll run you out of the control room. Understand me?”

  Max felt himself losing his temper. “What do you mean by ‘hanky-panky,’ Mr. Simes?”

  “You know. Probably memorized the last half dozen transitions—now you’ve got Kelly and the Professor thinking you’ve memorized the book. A genius in our midst! You know what that is? That’s a lot of…”

  Fortunately for Max they were interrupted; he felt a firm hand on his shoulder and Sam’s quiet voice said, “Good evening, Mr. Simes.”

  Simes looked confused, then recognized Sam and brightened. “Well, if it isn’t the copper. Sit down, Constable. Have a drink.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Sam pulled up another chair.

  “Do you know Smart Boy here?”

  “I’ve seen him around.”

  “Keep your eye on him. That’s an order. He’s very, very clever. Too clever. Ask him a number. Pick a number between one and ten.”

  “Seven.”

  Mr. Simes pounded the table. “What did I tell you? He memorized it before you got here. Someday he’s going to memorize one and they’ll stencil it across his chest. You know what, Constable? I don’t trust smart boys. They get ideas.”

  Reinforced by Sam’s calming presence, Max kept quiet. Giggles had come to the table as soon as Sam joined them; Max saw Sam write something on the back of a menu and pass it with money to the humanoid. But Mr. Simes was too busy with his monologue to notice. Sam let him ramble on, then suddenly interrupted. “You seem to have a friend here, sir.”

  “Huh? Where?”

  Sam pointed. At the bar Dolores was smiling and gesturing at the assistant navigator to join her. Simes focused his eyes, grinned and said, “Why, so I do! It’s my Great Aunt Sadie.” He got up abruptly.

  Sam brushed his hands together. “That disposes of that. Give you a bad time, kid?”

  “Sort of. Thanks, Sam. But I hate to see him dumped on Dolores. She’s a nice kid.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’ll roll him for every thin he has on him—and a good job, too.” His eyes became hard. “I like an officer who acts like an officer. If he wants to pin one on, he should do it in his own part of town. Oh, well.” Sam relaxed. “Been some changes, eh, kid? Things are different from the way they were when we raised ship at Terra.”

  “I’ll say they are!”

  “Like it in the Worry gang?”

  “It’s more fun than I ever had in my life. And I’m learning fast—so Mr. Kelly says. They’re a swell bunch—except for him.” He nodded toward Simes.

  “Don’t let him worry you. The best soup usually has a fly in it. Just don’t let him get anything on you.”

  “I sure don’t intend to.”

  Sam looked at him, then said softly, “Ready to take the dive?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m getting our stake together. We’ll be all set.”

  Max found it hard to answer. He had known that his transfer had not changed anything basic; he was still in as much danger as ever. But he had been so busy with the joy of hard, interesting work, so dead for sleep when he was not working, that the subject had been pushed back in his mind. Now he drew patterns on the table in the sweat from the glasses and thought about it. “I wish,” he said slowly, “that there was some way to beat it.”

  “There is a way, I told you. Your record gets lost.”

  Max raised his eyes. “What good would that do? Sure, it would get me another trip. But I don’t want just another trip; I want to stay with it.” He looked down at the table top and carefully sketched an hyperboloid. “I’d better go with you. If I go back to
Terra, it’s the labor companies for me—even if I stay out of jail.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What?”

  “Understand me, kid. I’d like to have you with me. A time like that, having a partner at your elbow is the difference between—well, being down in the dumps and being on top. But you can stay in space, with a record as clean as a baby’s.”

  “Huh? How?”

  “Because you are changing guilds. Now only one paper has to get lost—your strike-out record with the stewards, cooks, and clerks. And they will never miss it because you aren’t on their books, anyhow. You start fresh with the chartsmen and computers, all neat and legal.”

  Max sat still and was tempted. “How about the report to the Department of Guilds and Labor?”

  “Same thing. Different forms to different offices. I checked. One form gets lost, the other goes in—and Steward’s Mate Jones vanishes into limbo while Apprentice Chartsman Jones starts a clean record.”

  “Sam, why don’t you do it? With the drag you’ve got now you could switch to…uh, well, to…”

  “To what?” Sam shook his head sadly. “No, old son, there is nothing I can switch to. Besides, there are reasons why I had better be buried deep.” He brightened. “Tell you what—I’ll pick my new name before I take the jump and tell you. Then someday, two years, ten, twenty, you’ll lay over at Nova Terra and look me up. We’ll split a bottle and talk about when we were young and gay. Eh?”

  Max smiled though he did not feel happy. “We will, Sam. We surely will.” Then he frowned. “But, Sam, I don’t know how to wangle the deal—and you’ll be gone.”

  “I’ll fix it before I leave. I’ve got Nelson eating out of my hand now. Like this: half cash down and half on delivery—and I’ll fix it so that you have something on him—never mind what; you don’t need to know yet. When you ground at Earthport, he asks you to mail the reports because you are going dirtside and he has work to finish. You check to see that the two reports you want are there, then you give him his pay off. Done.”

  Max said slowly, “I suppose that’s best.”

  “Quit fretting. Everybody has a skeleton in the closet; the thing is to keep ’em there and not at the feast.” He pushed an empty glass aside. “Kid, would you mind if we went back to the ship? Or had you planned to make a night of it?”