The Past Through Tomorrow Read online

  “Easy stages, hell!” He stood up quickly. “Owl My head!”

  The Master-at-Arms referred them to the Chief Master-at-Arms in order to get rid of them. Hartley waited with Wingate outside the stateroom of the Chief Master-at-Arms to keep him company. “Better sell ‘em your bill of goods pretty pronto,” he advised.

  “Why?”

  “We’ll ground on the Moon in a few hours. The stop to refuel at Luna City for deep space will be your last chance to get out, unless you want to walk back.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Wingate agreed delightedly. “I thought I’d have to make the round trip in any case.”

  “Shouldn’t be surprised but what you could pick up the Morning Star in a week or two. If it’s their mistake, they’ll have to return you.”

  “I can beat that,” said Wingate eagerly. “I’ll go right straight to the bank at Luna City, have them arrange a letter of credit with my bank, and buy a ticket on the Earth-Moon shuttle.”

  Hartley’s manner underwent a subtle change. He had never in his life “arranged a letter of credit.” Perhaps such a man could walk up to the Captain and lay down the law.

  The Chief Master-at-Arms listened to Wingate’s story with obvious impatience, and interrupted him in the middle of it to consult his roster of emigrants. He thumbed through it to the Ws, and pointed to a line. Wingate read it with a sinking feeling. There was his own name, correctly spelled. “Now get out,” ordered the official, “and quit wasting my time.”

  But Wingate stood up to him. “You have no authority in this matter—none whatsoever. I insist that you take me to the Captain.”

  “Why, you—” Wingate thought momentarily that the man was going to strike him. He interrupted.

  “Be careful what you do. You are apparently the victim of an honest mistake—but your legal position will be very shaky indeed, if you disregard the requirements of spacewise law under which this vessel is licensed. I don’t think your Captain would be pleased to have to explain such actions on your part in federal court.”

  That he had gotten the man angry was evident. But a man does not get to be chief police officer of a major transport by jeopardizing his superior officers. His jaw muscles twitched but he pressed a button, saying nothing. A junior master-at-arms appeared. “Take this man to the Purser.” He turned his back in dismissal and dialed a number on the ship’s intercommunication system.

  Wingate was let in to see the Purser, ex-officio company business agent, after only a short wait. “What’s this all about?” that officer demanded. “If you have a complaint, why can’t you present it at the morning hearings in the regular order?”

  Wingate explained his predicament as clearly, convincingly, and persuasively as he knew how. “And so you see,” he concluded, “I want to be put aground at Luna City. I’ve no desire to cause the company any embarrassment over what was undoubtedly an unintentional mishap—particularly as I am forced to admit that I had been celebrating rather freely and, perhaps, in some manner, contributed to the mistake.”

  The Purser, who had listened noncommittally to his recital, made no answer. He shuffled through a high stack of file folders which rested on one corner of his desk, selected one, and opened it. It contained a sheaf of legal-size papers clipped together at the top. These he studied leisurely for several minutes, while Wingate stood waiting.

  The Purser breathed with an asthmatic noisiness while he read, and, from time to time, drummed on his bared teeth with his fingernails. Wingate had about decided, in his none too steady nervous condition, that if the man approached his hand to his mouth just once more that he, Wingate, would scream and start throwing things. At this point the Purser chucked the dossier across the desk toward Wingate. “Better have a look at these,” he said.

  Wingate did so. The main exhibit he found to be a contract, duly entered into, between Humphrey Wingate and the Venus Development Company for six years of indentured labor on the planet Venus.

  “That your signature?” asked the Purser.

  Wingate’s professional caution stood him in good stead. He studied the signature closely in order to gain time while he tried to collect his wits. “Well,” he said at last, “I will stipulate that it looks very much like my signature, but I will not concede that it is my signature—I’m not a handwriting expert.”

  The Purser brushed aside the objection with an air of annoyance. “I haven’t time to quibble with you. Let’s check the thumbprint. Here.” He shoved an impression pad across his desk. For a moment Wingate considered standing on his legal rights by refusing, but no, that would prejudice his case. He had nothing to lose; it couldn’t be his thumbprint on the contract. Unless—

  But it was. Even his untrained eye could see that the two prints matched. He fought back a surge of panic. This was probably a nightmare, inspired by his argument last night with Jones. Or, if by some wild chance it were real, it was a frameup in which he must find the flaw. Men of his sort were not framed; the whole thing was ridiculous. He marshalled his words carefully.

  “I won’t dispute your position, my dear sir. In some fashion both you and I have been made the victims of a rather sorry joke. It seems hardly necessary to point out that a man who is unconscious, as I must have been last night, may have his thumbprint taken without his knowledge. Superficially this contract is valid and I assume naturally your good faith in the matter. But, in fact, the instrument lacks one necessary element of a contract.”

  “Which is?”

  “The intention on the part of both parties to enter into a contractual relationship. Notwithstanding signature and thumbprint I had no intention of contracting which can easily be shown by other factors. I am a successful lawyer with a good practice, as my tax returns will show. It is not reasonable to believe—and no court will believe—that I voluntarily gave up my accustomed life for six years of indenture at a much lower income.”

  “So you’re a lawyer, eh? Perhaps there has been chicanery—on your part. How does it happen that you represent yourself here as a radio technician?”

  Wingate again had to steady himself at this unexpected flank attack. He was in truth a radio expert—it was his cherished hobby—but how had they known? Shut up, he told himself. Don’t admit anything. “The whole thing is ridiculous,” he protested. “I insist that I be taken to see the Captain— I can break that contract in ten minutes time.”

  The Purser waited before replying. “Are you through speaking your piece?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. You’ve had your say, now I’ll have mine. You listen to me, Mister Spacelawyer. That contract was drawn up by some of the shrewdest legal minds in two planets. They had specifically in mind that worthless bums would sign it, drink up their bounty money, and then decide that they didn’t want to go to work after all. That contract has been subjected to every sort of attack possible and revised so that it can’t be broken by the devil himself.

  “You’re not peddling your curbstone law to another stumble-bum in this case; you are talking to a man who knows just where he stands, legally. As for seeing the Captain—if you think the commanding officer of a major vessel has nothing more to do than listen to the rhira-dreams of a self-appointed word artist, you’ve got another think coming! Return to your quarters!”

  Wingate started to speak, thought better of it, and turned to go. This would require some thought. The Purser stopped him. “Wait. Here’s your copy of the contract.” He chucked it, the flimsy white sheets riffled to the deck. Wingate picked them up and left silently.

  Hartley was waiting for him in the passageway. “How d’ja make out, Hump?”

  “Not so well.‘ No, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got to think.” They walked silently back the way they had come toward the ladder which gave access to the lower decks. A figure ascended from the ladder and came toward them. Wingate noted it without interest.

  He looked again. Suddenly the whole preposterous chain of events fell into place; he shouted in
relief. “Sam!” he called out. “Sam—you cockeyed old so-and-so. I should have spotted your handiwork.” It was all clear now; Sam had framed him with a phony shanghai. Probably the skipper was a pal of Sam’s—a reserve officer, maybe—and they had cooked it up between them. It was a rough sort of a joke, but he was too relieved to be angry. Just the same he would make Jones pay for his fun, somehow, on the jump back from Luna City.

  It was then that he noticed that Jones was not laughing.

  Furthermore he was dressed—most unreasonably—in the same blue denim that the contract laborers were. “Hump,” he was saying, “are you still drunk?”

  “Me? No. What’s the i—”

  “Don’t you realize we’re in a jam?”

  “Oh hell, Sam, a joke’s a joke, but don’t keep it up any longer. I’ve caught on, I tell you. I don’t mind—it was a good gag.”

  “Gag, eh?” said Jones bitterly. “I suppose it was just a gag when you talked me into signing up.”

  “I persuaded you to sign up?”

  “You certainly did. You were so damn sure you knew what you were talking about. You claimed that we could sign up, spend a month or so, on Venus, and come home. You wanted to bet on it. So we went around to the docks and signed up. It seemed like a good idea then—the only way to settle the argument.”

  Wingate whistled softly. “Well, I’ll be—Sam, I haven’t the slightest recollection of it. I must have drawn a blank before I passed out.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Too bad you didn’t pass out sooner. Not that I’m blaming you; you didn’t drag me. Anyhow, I’m on my way up to try to straighten it out.”

  “Better wait a minute till you hear what happened to me. Oh yes—Sam, this is, uh, Satchel Hartley. Good sort.” Hartley had been waiting uncertainly near them; he stepped forward and shook hands.

  Wingate brought Jones up to date, and added, “So you see your reception isn’t likely to be too friendly. I guess I muffed it. But we are sure to break the contract as soon as we can get a hearing on time alone.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We were signed up less than twelve hours before ship lifting. That’s contrary to the Space Precautionary Act.”

  “Yes—yes, I see what you mean. The Moon’s in her last quarter; they would lift ship some time after midnight to take advantage of favorable earthswing. I wonder what time it was when we signed on?”

  Wingate took out his contract copy. The notary’s stamp showed a time of eleven thirty-two. “Great Day!” he shouted. “I knew there would be a flaw in it somewhere. This contract is invalid on its face. The ship’s log will prove it.”

  Jones studied it. “Look again,” he said. Wingate did so. The stamp showed eleven thirty-two, but A.M., not P.M.

  “But that’s impossible,” he protested.

  “Of course it is. But it’s official. I think we will find that the story is that we were signed on in the morning, paid our bounty money, and had one last glorious luau before we were carried aboard. I seem to recollect some trouble in getting the recruiter to sign us up. Maybe we convinced him by kicking in our bounty money.”

  “But we didn’t sign up in the morning. It’s not true and I can prove it.”

  “Sure you can prove it—but how can you prove it without going back to Earth first!“

  “So you see it’s this way,” Jones decided after some minutes of somewhat fruitless discussion, “there is no sense in trying to break our contracts here and now; they’ll laugh at us. The thing to do is to make money talk, and talk loud. The only way I can see to get us off at Luna City is to post non-performance bonds with the company bank there—cash, and damn big ones, too.”

  “How big?”

  “Twenty thousand credits, at least, I should guess.”

  “But that’s not equitable—it’s all out of proportion.”

  “Quit worrying about equity, will you? Can’t you realize that they’ve got us where the hair is short? This won’t be a bond set by a court ruling; it’s got to be big enough to make a minor company official take a chance on doing something that’s not in the book.”

  “I can’t raise such a bond.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of it.”

  Wingate wanted to argue the point, but did not. There are times when it is very convenient to have a wealthy friend.

  “I’ve got to get a radiogram off to my sister,” Jones went on, “to get this done—”

  “Why your sister? Why not your family firm?”

  “Because we need fast action, that’s why. The lawyers that handle our family finances would fiddle and fume around trying to confirm the message. They’d send a message back to the Captain, asking if Sam Houston Jones were really aboard, and he would answer ‘No’, as I’m signed up as Sam Jones. I had some silly idea of staying out of the news broadcasts, on account of the family.”

  “You can’t blame them,” protested Wingate, feeling an obscure clannish loyalty to his colleagues in law, “they’re handling other people’s money.”

  “I’m not blaming them. But I’ve got to have fast action and Sis’ll do what I ask her. I’ll phrase the message so she’ll know it’s me. The only hurdle now is to persuade the Purser to let me send a message on tick.”

  He was gone for a long time on this mission. Hartley waited with Wingate, both to keep him company and because of a strong human interest in unusual events. When Jones finally appeared he wore a look of tight-lipped annoyance. Wingate, seeing the expression, felt a sudden, chilling apprehension. “Couldn’t you send it? Wouldn’t he let you?”

  “Oh, he let me—finally,” Jones admitted, “but that Purser—man, is he tight!”

  Even without the alarm gongs Wingate would have been acutely aware of the grounding at Luna .City. The sudden change from the high gravity deceleration of their approach to the weak surface gravity—one-sixth earth normal—of the Moon took immediate toll on his abused stomach. It was well that he had not eaten much. Both Hartley and Jones were deep-space men and regarded enough acceleration to permit normal swallowing as adequate for any purpose. There is a curious lack of sympathy between those who are subject to spacesickness and those who are immune to it. Why the spectacle of a man regurgitating, choked, eyes streaming with tears, stomach knotted with pain, should seem funny is difficult to see, but there it is. It divides the human race into two distinct and antipathetic groups—amused contempt on one side, helpless murderous hatred on the other.

  Neither Hartley nor Jones had the inherent sadism which is too frequently evident on such occasions—for example the great wit who suggests salt pork as a remedy—but, feeling no discomfort themselves, they were simply unable to comprehend (having forgotten the soul-twisting intensity of their own experience as new chums) that Wingate was literally suffering “a fate worse than death”—much worse, for it was stretched into a sensible eternity by a distortion of the time sense known only to sufferers from spacesicknesses, seasicknesses, and (we are told) smokers of hashish.

  As a matter of fact, the stop on the Moon was less than four hours long. Toward the end of the wait Wingate had quieted down sufficiently again to take an interest in the expected reply to Jones’ message, particularly after Jones had assured him that he would be able to spend the expected lay-over under bond at Luna City in a hotel equipped with a centrifuge.

  But the answer was delayed. Jones had expected to hear from his sister within an hour, perhaps before the Evening Star grounded at the Luna City docks. As the hours stretched out he managed to make himself very unpopular at the radio room by his repeated inquiries. An over-worked clerk had sent him brusquely about his business for the seventeenth time when he heard the alarm sound preparatory to raising ship; he went back and admitted to Wingate that his scheme had apparently failed.

  “Of course, we’ve got ten minutes yet,” he finished unhopefully, “if the message should arrive before they raise ship, the Captain could still put us aground at the last minute. We’ll go back and haun
t ‘em some more right up to the last. But it looks like a thin chance.”

  “Ten minutes—” said Wingate, “couldn’t we manage somehow to slip outside and run for it?”

  Jones looked exasperated. “Have you ever tried running in a total vacuum?”

  Wingate had very little time in which to fret on the passage from Luna City to Venus. He learned a great deal about the care and cleaning of washrooms, and spent ten hours a day perfecting his new skill. Masters-at-Arms have long memories.

  The Evening Star passed beyond the limits of ship-to-Terra radio communication shortly after leaving Luna City; there was nothing to do but wait until arrival at Adonis, port of the north polar colony. The company radio there was strong enough to remain in communication at all times except for the sixty days bracketing superior conjunction and a shorter period of solar interference at inferior conjunction. “They will probably be waiting for us with a release order when we ground,” Jones assured Wingate, “and we’ll go back on the return trip of the Evening Star—first class, this time. Or, at the very worst, we’ll have to wait over for the Morning Star. That wouldn’t be so bad, once I get some credit transferred; we could spend it at Venusburg.”

  “I suppose you went there on your cruise,” Wingate said, curiosity showing in his voice. He was no Sybarite, but the lurid reputation of the most infamous, or famous—depending on one’s evaluations—pleasure city of three planets was enough to stir the imagination of the least hedonistic.

  “No—worse luck!” Jones denied. “I was on a hull inspection board the while time. Some of my messmates went, though… boy!” He whistled softly and shook his head.

  But there was no one awaiting their arrival, nor was there any message. Again they stood around the communication office until told sharply and officially to get on back to their quarters and stand by to disembark, “—and be quick about it!”

  “I’ll see you in the receiving barracks, Hump,” were Jones’ last words before he hurried off to his own compartment.

  The Master-at-Arms responsible for the compartment in which Hartley and Wingate were billeted lined his charges up in a rough column of two’s and, when ordered to do so by the metallic bray of the ship’s loudspeaker, conducted them through the central passageway and down four decks to the lower passenger port. It stood open; they shuffled through the lock and out of the ship—not into the free air of Venus, but into a sheetmetal tunnel which joined it, after some fifty yards, to a building.