Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) (6 page)

Now a fugg is one sour son of a bitch. In Earth terms, it looks like a cross between a camel with six legs and a giraffe with two heads. Except that one head is in front and one is in back, each attached to a long furry neck. You're supposed to hang on to the front neck and keep yelling "Fugg! Hup. Hup. Fugg!" to get the bastard moving. Plus punching it with your fist whenever it slows down.

The rented fugg I rode kept trying to bite me from behind with its big square teeth whenever I punched it, and this put me in a lousy moody the time I finally reached the outlaw mining town.

"Hop off that fugg, mister! And no funny moves while you're doin' it."

I glared down at the raw young space rustler who faced me with an upraised .40-76 Koppler-Babish double-lock side-load stun rifle.

"Listen, kid," I said coolly. "I'm hungry, saddle sore and fugg bit. I suggest you say 'please' when you ask me anything."

"What you doin' here?" he demanded. "This town's closed to miners."

"I'm no stoop-assed miner," I snapped, climbing down from the fugg's humped back. "I'm here to see your boss, the one they call Half-cat. Where is he?"

"First, the passpoem," the raw kid said.

I sighed, and began spieling: "Suns will fade and moons will die, "I said, "but love like ours stays ever new. In the vaulting arc of sky … there's none else here but just us two."

The kid tipped up the rifle. "Second verse," he prompted. I gave him a hard look.

"Lovers through the breadth of time, yearning for a fairy's kiss; Yea, this simple bit of rhyme, binds us in eternal bliss."

"I'm embarrassed," the kid confessed with a sheepish smile as he lowered the stun rifle. "The thing is, our boss is nuts for 'fairy kisses. 'This one's the third passpoem in a row that has lovers in it who yearn for a fairy's kiss. Sometimes I think the boss is kind of spooky — if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," I said. "I know what you mean."

"But don't tell him I said so," whispered the young rustler. "Nobody kids the boss about his fairy kisses."

"My lips are sealed," I assured him. "Now, where do I find your boss?"

The raw kid grinned at me. "You don't find Halfcat," he said. "Halfcat finds you."

* * *

Which is why I ended up sitting alone and bored at the mouth of anion mine watching my tethered fugg nibble Baileyweed with one head and glare at me with the other.

There was no love lost between us.

A scuffle of rocks behind me. I swung around, staring into the dark cave mouth, as a shape materialized there. All I could really see at this point was a pair of slanted yellow eyes shining out of the tunnel.
Cat's
eyes.

"Name?" barked a snarling voice attached to the eyes.

"Samuel Temperance Space," I said. "I'm a private investigator."

"What do you want with me?"

"I was told you could possibly aid me in locating a —"

"I don't
aid
people; I
eat
people," said the shape.

That shook me a little, but I bulled on. "As I understand it, that's not your
usual
pattern." The yellow eyes were closer. "Admittedly, I was told that you once ate an Earth policeperson, bones and all, but I assumed that this was as extreme case, brought on by —"

"You assume too much, peeper!"

I backed slowly toward my fugg. "Well, then, I'll just be heading home. I can see you're in no mood to trade."

"Trade?" The yellow eyes narrowed.

"I brought in some prime grade High-L. Hard to come by these days. Thought I could maybe swap it for the info I need."

Halfcat emerged into the waning light of day — and I could see where he got his nickname. Below the waist he was a common biped, but his head was furry, with long, pointed ears; his mouth stretched back over curved fangs and his slanted yellow eyes were indeed catlike. Now, at the mention of High-L, those eyes were glowing.

"How come a squiff like you carries High-L?"

"I've got my contacts," I said. "Do we deal or don't we?"

"What you want, shamus?"

I was amused by his subtle use of the ancient slang term for a private detective.

"Like I said — info."

"About what?"

"A missing asteroid. I know you … deal in them. If you took it, I want to buy it back; no questions asked. And I'll pay a fair price on behalf of my client."

"Describe the rock."

I gave him the specs.

"Too small," Halfcat snorted. "We don't pick up pebbles. No percentage in it."

"Who could I talk to? You must know who handles the smaller stuff."

"Maybe I do. But first …"

"A jolt of L, right?"

"Don't play smart with me, peeper. I'm doing you a big favor just talking to you, when I could snort the L and have you for dessert!"

I remembered McKabe's advice about not getting Halfcat sore and fished out a plasflask of L, tossed it to him. I was impressed with the fact that he caught it in his teeth.

He split open the flask with a central fang, dumping the colorless powder onto his long, pink cat's tongue. Then he threw back his furry head and snorted.

I watched the High-L take him into Limbo, that wacko mental state instantly induced by the drug. I didn't have to snort L to know it was plenty potent. These days, since I'd quit the booze, a Moonrim Fizz or a shot of Martian Monkweed was enough to frazzle my brainpan; I was never dumb enough to get into any hard stuff. That was for cheap rock rustlers like Halfcat who needed a prime jolt to operate at anything above a moron's level.

Patiently I waited for the stuff to run his system, knowing he wouldn't be any good for questions and answers until the L had peaked.

"Whoo — eeee!" Halfcat's yellow eyes pinwheeled in his skull. He folded himself into a ball, rolled around in a circle, hopped up, yowled at the sky, twitched his cat ears — and suddenly nipped me on the right calf.

"Hey! No biting, dammit!" I yelled, jumping back and grabbing at my leg.

The fugg was looking at us sourly with both of its heads. It was never in a good mood, since half of it was always going in the wrong direction.

Halfcat began to giggle. His pink tongue lolled. He flopped down on a large rock just inside the mine entrance, giggled again, then stared at me. His eyes focused, narrowed.

"That's good prime," he said in a cool, level tone. "You got more?"

"One more," I said. "But this is a trade, catman. You owe me."

He shook his head violently, clearing away some of the drug mist. "Talk to Collingo. He's my buyer. He's into the whole picture. Buys and sells. Large and small."

I whistled through my pivot tooth. "Collingo! … into hot asteroids. C'mon, the man's a legit Saint!"

"He bought Sainthood, like he buys everything else."

"Why should he tell
me
anything?"

"He probably won't. He'll probably kill you. You asked for a lead, not a guarantee. That's the trade. Let's have the other jolt." He grinned, revealing the full length of his curving yellow fangs. "Or do I suck your bones for breakfast?"

I didn't reply to that question — just tossed him the second plasflask and got back on my fugg.

It was like he said: In my game, you get no guarantees.

Times Square, in Newer New Old New York, hadn't changed much. Still brash, noisy, crowded, mean, foul smelling and hell to get around in. Especially at rush hour, when the jet tubes emptied their home-from-work crowd onto the pedways. There were always at least a dozen citizens trampled to death at each rush period. Ped victims. You took your chances.

I was switching lanes at 42nd Street, trying for a faster pedbelt, when I got lucky. A lev floated past me with his beepie on — meaning he was for hire. I grabbed him.

"Where to, bud?" he asked, killing his beepie.

"CenPark. Saint's Church."

He sniffed. "You converting?"

I shook my head. "Private biz."

Most levs are nosey, and he was no exception.

"Okay, saddle up," he said, crouching and flipping on his chest meter.

I climbed onto his shoulder saddle and we took off. I always feel a little goofy riding a lev. But since they banned the old rocket cabs about a century back you either tubed or rode a lev. The pedways took forever.

As we soared above 42nd Street I asked him when he knew he had the Talent.

"My old man had the Talent, and his old man had it before him," he told me. "My whole fam's gifted. My Aunt Nabby was into Faith Healing — worked with Martian freebs mostly — and Uncle Ferdinand was a Foot Teller. He read big toes on Saturn. Me, I could levitate before I could walk. Used to float over the chicken house and drop eggs on Grampa."

"I'll bet that pissed him off," I said.

"Yeah. Usta get mad as hell. Gramps was a telek and he'd get the house furniture after me. Our big leather sofa was the worst. Gramps would have that thing chasing me all over the house."

"Telekinesis isn't all that common. Did he use it commercially?"

"When he was younger, he did. Used to floatload the Luna tugs. He could mind lift up to five thousand pounds of freight at a crack. But he got old … retired. Dead now. I miss that feisty geezer."

By the end of his story we were over CenPark and I spotted the Church right off. As tall as old St. Pat's. Vaulting arches. Flying buttresses. A real landmark. Made of quick-erect tentstone, but durable looking.

He dropped me onto the pedway next to the front entrance and zoomed off without thanking me for the tip. It figured. A lev never thanked anybody for anything — but they sure love to gab.

The Saints were having a Major Conversion that afternoon and the place was packed with religious zealots. A flush-faced female tried to get friendly.

"I've had three
minor
conversions," she told me, "but this is my first major. Isn't it enchanting?"

I told her I was enchanted and edged away from her, deeper into the crowd, moving toward the main altar, passing a robed glostatue of Collingo. I had to admit the thing was impressive. Life size, supposedly. Which meant he was eight feet six inches in height. There had to be a gimmick.

And there was.

When Collingo, the Head Saint, stepped onto the altar, I could see he was wearing stiltsoles, adapted from the old 21st century carny days when it helped the con to be taller than the rubes.

The crowd murmured, then fell silent as Collingo raised his hands.

His robes were stitched with Body Ads: "Use Hollowell's Holy Oil in Your Classic Crankcase! It's the Finest!" …"House Hunters! Visit Happy Bob's Blessed Acres for Celestial Bargains on Real Estate!" …"Heavenly Stock Market Tips! Let a Saint Guide You to Financial Security!" … The usual body hype.

His eyes burned with Godfire under deep brows and his multicolored globeard vibrated as he spoke: "Brothers … Sisters … Geeks … Are you
ready
for Conversion?"

"Yes!" In chorus. "We are ready!"

Seemed I was the only non-convert in the bunch.

"Well, then …" intoned Collingo, " … let the ceremony
begin
!"

The hypnowall of the church behind the altar began to whirl and flicker with glowing patterns of light and I ducked my head. I wasn't ready for a Saint's brainwash and I knew if I looked at that wall for more than a few seconds I'd be ripe for any line Collingo was ready to lay out.

So I looked at my toes while the wall did its job on the rubes.

After a few more seconds, Collingo's voice rang out: "Feel God's power feeding into your brains … open your body cells to the power of Sainthood — and repeat after me …"

"We will repeat!"

His voice became a powerhouse of emotion: "I will buy Hollowell's Holy Oil."

They said that.

"I will visit Happy Bob's Blessed Acres for Celestial Bargains!"

They said that, too.

"I will treat my children to Uncle Harley's Heavenly Fudge Bars!"

Well, you get the drift. He was doing a mass sell on these crackers and, after socking another half dozen products into their brainpans, he switched off the wall, brought them out of their trance and told them they were converted.

They filed out, dizzy with celestial joy, while two other Saints collected donations at the door.

I stepped behind the altar where a Saint ducked out to stop me."Sorry, citizen, but this is sacred territory."

I didn't bother to argue; I just cold-cocked him with my .38 and went on.

Collingo was in the Holy Room doffing his glorobes for a common streetsuit. Out of his stiltsoles he was a runty five seven.

"Great show," I told him. "I'd say you've really got the calling. Does God get a rakeoff, or do you keep the full take?"

"This is sacred territory, bud. Who let you back here?"

"I let myself," I said. "Halfcat sent me."

His eyes were edgy as he stripped his globeard. "For what?"

"For info. I'm an op, working out of Bubble City. My client had his asteroid stolen. I'm trying to find it for him."

"So?"

"So Halfcat said you might have bought it. If so, I'd like to buy it back, no questions asked."

I handed him the specs.

He shook his head, which was round and bald; he looked like an uncooked zingo egg. "Too dinky. I don't buy the dinky ones, I buy the fat ones. Kleptos steal the dinks. A pro won't touch 'em."

"Kleptos?"

"People who are
compelled
to steal things. Some of 'em steal these dinky little rocks — like the one you're after."

"How would I get a line on this?" I asked, more than a little confused.

He pasted a small brush mustache under his nose. "Wear this so I don't get swamped for autographs. People all know Collingo. I always go out in disguise."

"Makes sense," I said. "Now, about …"

"Oh, sure … let's see … I know one klepto who's into the compulsion. Used to shack her before I became a Saint. You might want to talk to her."

"I'll need a name and a place to reach her."

His jaw tightened. "I don't give out free info to anybody, especially Bubbleheads."