Space For Hire (Seven For Space) (2 page)

Space works out of Bubble City on Mars, and his cases are far wilder than anything Hammett's man may have dealt with in San Francisco. Sam Spade didn't lay eggs, or have to deal with triple-headed clients, evil Froggies, Moongoons, age machines, parallel universes(going to his own funeral was a shock) , stolen asteroids, and orgasmic machines. Nor did he have to run around trying to solve a case with his head on backwards.

After two novels and five shorter tales, am I through writing about Sam? I believe I am. The contents of this book you hold in your hand represent his complete adventures.

I've had my say. Now it's your turn to explore Sam's mad universe.

Dive in.
Enjoy!

W.F.N.
Bend, Oregon
2007

I was bored.

It was one of those long hot lazy Martian afternoons when you don't give a damn about anything. I had some paperwork to do on a Saturn time machine swindle but I was in no rush to get at it.

I was perched behind my desk, feet up, my head tipped back, speculating on the progress of a Martian sandworm who was intent on crossing the ceiling of my office. I was timing him, having made a bet with myself that, at his present rate of speed, it would take him exactly six Earth minutes to reach the far wall.

That's when she came in.

Now, as an Earthman, my taste in females in basic: I prefer just two legs, two breasts and one kisser — but I'm not prejudiced, because a ripe Venusian triplehead can do a lot for me. And this one was ripe.

She stood in front of my desk and leveled three cool pairs of liquid-green orbs at me — along with a neat little near nickelplate .25 Webley-Stanton double-thrust paralysis beamer.

I promptly forgot the sandworm and raised both hands.

"Are you Samuel Space?" she asked in a dulcet triplethroated tone.

I nodded. "If you're here to pull a heist all I've got in the office is a bottle of imported Scotch. One-third empty."

"Prove it," she said.

"Prove my Scotch bottle is one-third empty?"

She shook her three heads. "No. Prove that you're really Sam Space."

I lowered my hands slowly. Then I stood up, produced my wallet and tossed it on the desk in front of her. "It's all there. License. ID cards. The works."

"Please keep your hands palm-down on the desk," she told me. The beamer didn't waver; it was leveled on my tummy. I did as she asked, since I hate having a paralyzed stomach.

She poked her free hand among my papers. "They could be faked."Four of the eyes looked up at me; the other two continued to scan my credentials.

"But they aren't," I said.

"I happen to know your personal history, Mr. Space. Tell me about yourself. I'll decide if you're lying."

I shrugged. "Okay, sister, I'll give you the two-bit run-down. I'm an Earth op working Mars, a sun-scarred, hard-souled ex-rocket jockey out of Old Chicago, U.S.A. I've boozed the asteroids and brawled my way from Pluto to the rings of Saturn. My parents wanted me to study interstellar law but I always had a yen for travel. So I beat my way through the System. For awhile I handled Moon tugs on the Luna run. Then I banged swamp cabs around Venus for six years before I got into this crazy game."

"And just how was that?"

"My great-grandfather Challis was a private dick in a place they called California. In Los Angeles, on the pre-quake coast, way back in the 1970s when they still chased hoods in cars with gasoline engines." I grinned. "In a way, I guess you could say the detective business runs in my blood."

"Keep talking," she said, and I did.

"I'm not proud. I'll take any job that'll pay the rent on this Martian flytrap." I gave her a hard glare. "But I'm no phony. I play a straight game for my clients. I'm licensed to pack a .38 nitrocharge fingergrip Colt-Wesson under my coat, and I've had to use it more than a few times in my somewhat checkered career. I don't gamble because the one time I tried it in New Vegas I lost everything but my pivot tooth. My lusts are twofold: hard drink and soft women. I'm a sucker for a sob story, but I'm nobody's patsy." I slapped the desk. "Satisfied?"

I guess she was, because she lowered the .25 and let out a triple sigh."We need help, Mr. Space. We need your help."

"Who's we?" I asked, easing back in my chair and stowing my wallet. The sandworm had beat my time and was already halfway down the wall. I wished him luck.

"My name is Esma Pitcarn Umani. I was adopted as a child on Venus. My Earth father is Dr. Emmanuel Quantas Umani."

"The scientific gink?"

"Yes," she said, nodding one of her heads. "He's waiting outside. We wish to employ you."

"Well, I'm for hire, sister. Two hundred solar credits a day, plus expenses. If I have to work outside the System my rate doubles."

She seemed to think this was fine. "We are quite prepared to meet your fees. My father is a wealthy man."

"Then trot him in," I said.

She gave me a hesitant set of smiles and walked out to fetch papa.

I'd heard about him. A year or so back the Earthpapes did a feature spread on Dr. Umani's experiments with brain transplants. He operated a plush clinic out of Allnew York and was supposed to be a bit dotty. But brilliant.

Now he tottered in, eyes wild, weaving across the room toward my desk as his daughter tried to steady his passage.

"Sure now, an' what foine broth of a lad have we here?" he shouted in a thick Irish brogue. He reached over the desktop and soundly thumped my shoulder. I could smell peatbog whiskey on his breath. "Are ye from Dublin, then, me boy?"

"I'm not Irish," I said.

"Neither is father," Esma assured me. "It's just his current body that's Irish."

I looked blank.

"He's presently inhabiting the body of a drunken Irishman," she explained. "In his last body he was a drunken Welshman. Father prefers colorful bodies."

I was impressed. "Guess his brain transplant gimmick works," I said.

"Oh, of course. All the bugs are out of that. Father's brain has been placed in any number of bodies. In fact, that's why we're here."

I rocked back in my creaking swivel chair and uncorked the Scotch, took a solid pull at the bottle, felt it burn down into the soles of my feet.

"Bless me sweet soul, but a taste of the devil's own would quench this ole man's ragin' thirst," said Dr. Umani, staring morosely at me from his bloodshot Irish eyes as I drank.

"Don't give him a drop," Esma warned. "Daddy's been imbibing all the way from Luna City."

I put away the Scotch.

Esma sat down in my best client's chair. Below her three necks she had a near Earth body, curved like a range of Martian sand hills. Her snug skinflex outfit — which must have set papa back at least three hundred solar credits — accented her full-thrusting bosom. She had my favored ratio of arms and legs, two each, and her thighs were plump and made for biting. I'll bite a plump thigh any time I can get one.

"Tell me what you want me to do," I said.

She began in a soft voice. "It's really quite a simple assignment. We wish you to —"

Dr. Umani, who'd been dozing on my couch, suddenly leaped up. waving his fists in the air. "Faith, an' I think they're here again!"

Esma's three faces went pale.

We all heard the same sound: a rustling patter of running feet in the hall. I swore heartily. My .38 was in the safe, where I kept it between cases — but Esma had her .25 aimed at the door.

It opened, and three hard-muscled Loonies came in, firing .45 micro-laser Siddley-Armstrong heavyweights at us. I'd dived behind the desk, pulling Esma down with me. But I couldn't do anything for Dr. Umani. He took three .45 laser slugs in the chest — whap whap whap. There's no mistaking the wet slippery sound of a .45 Siddley-Armstrong doing its job.

The hall was empty by the time I'd palmed the dial safe for my loaded .38 — and ole Umani was gasping out his last on the floor of my office.

"Call a priest!" sobbed the old geezer. "Let me poor tarnished soul reach the pearly gates unstained by the sins of the flesh!"

"Rot!" snapped Esma, kneeling beside him. "Stop that silly blather and pay attention. Did you bring the last one?"

Dr. Umani looked up at her, eyelids fluttering. He nodded his head weakly. "Ship … second locker from the back." His eyes rolled up white.

"He's going fast," I said.

"Doesn't matter," said Esma. "Just stay with him until I get back. If the Loonies return don't hesitate to destroy them."

I'd handled my share of cheap Moongoons and had no qualms about gunning down three more of them.

"Where are you going?"

"To our ship on the roof. I won't be a sec."

She was wrong. Actually she took three minutes. She returned with the inert body of a slender black man slung over her shoulder. He was dressed in striped trousers and a bright red shirt studded with gold buttons. She stretched him out alongside her father.

"Who's this?" I wanted to know.

"Never mind your questions." She brushed loose strands of hair back from two of her heads. "Keep watching for those Loonies. I've work to do."

She'd also carried in a medical bag, which she hastily opened. I'm no expert on operating equipment, but I know a brain buzzer when I see one.

She thumbed it into life and neatly cut the top of Dr. Umani's drunk-en Irish head off. Then she calmly reached inside and scooped out a large egg-shaped steel cylinder. "Hold this," she said, handing it to me.

"What is it?"

"Daddy," she said. "It's Daddy, of course."

I looked down at the cylinder; it was pulsing red deep inside and was warm to my touch.

Esma was working on the black man. She buzzed open his head, took the steel cylinder from me and deftly inserted it. She used a quick-stitcher to sew up the incision. "There," she said, all three of her heads wreathed in smiles. "All done."

The slender black man sat up, rubbing his skull. He grinned at me. Then he began to sing. "Poor boy work in de pits all day, shapin' and scrapin' de Luna clay, sweatin' and strainin' fer de white man's pay …"

"Just what the hell's going on?" I demanded.

Esma knitted most of her brows and sighed. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me," I said.

"Daddy's brain has been transplanted into the body of this authentic black jazz singer obtained from our NewOld New Orleans branch. Daddy has always been fond of authentic black jazz singers."

"Workin' all day in de white man's way," sang the new Dr. Umani.

"Does he know who he is?"

"Naturally," said Esma. She put her green Venusian hand in his gnarled black one. "Daddy, you'd better tell Mr. Space all about why we wish to hire him."

"Righto, and sho' nuff," said Dr. Umani, affecting a broad early-stage Southern dialect; it was not nearly as impressive as his Irish brogue. "What we gots hyar is de last body." He thumped his chest. "An' I'm in it. No more spares hyar on Mars. De bad folk keep sendin' dose Loonies to gun dis ole man, an' iffen I don't have no more of dese hyar bodies on tap I'm cooled out for good." He looked at me with yellow-flecked eyes. "You diggo?"

"Not exactly," I said.

"My father has vital work to do here on Mars and must remain alive to do it. His enemies want him dead. So long as he lives, and continues to function, his work remains a threat to them."

"What kind of work?"

"We'd rather not go into that," she said flatly. "Our business with you is simple; we wish to hire a bodyguard. You are to accompany our next shipment of coldpac bodies out of Allnew York and guard them until they reach Bubble City here on Mars. My father's life depends on his having plenty of spares handy."

"Oh, yass. Yass, yass, oh, yass indeedy!" agreed Dr. Umani.

I drummed my fingers on the desktop. Logic seemed to have vanished, and I missed it. I like to keep things logical. "Look," I said, "wouldn't it make a lot more sense if you hired me as a personal bodyguard for your father?"

"But why?"

"To keep him from being shot again."

"Oh, he'll be shot again," Esma assured me. "My father's enemies are very persistent. They'll keep killing him off, no doubt of that. But I'll be around to see to it that Daddy's brain is re-transplanted whenever necessary."

"But won't they try and kill you?"

"They already have. Several times. But my particularly heavy, durable, all-weather Venusian skin resists their weapons. At least it has thus far. Of course there are many ways I
could
be destroyed and they may try one of them soon. But I'm not afraid. I just want to live long enough to see my father's experiment succeed."

"Sounds a little screwy," I muttered. "Couldn't someone else guard your father's spares en route to Mars?"

"Deedy nossir, deedy not!" exclaimed Dr. Umani. He jigged around me, shaking his black head and laughing. "You is de one for dis hyar job. Dere ain't nobody else dis hyar darkie gonna trust!"

"What father means, Mr. Space, is that we both know your record. You are a very brave, straightforward and resourceful man." Her six green eyes glowed softly. "We both feel that you are best qualified to get my father's bodies safely to Mars.
Will
you accept?"

The quaver in her tone got to me. "Okay, sister," I told her. "When do I start?"

"My father has already arranged for a ship to pick you up within the next half-hour and take you to Earth-launch. You are booked aboard flight 12, out of Bubble City for Allnew York at 0800, which just about gives you time to pack your .38 and your bottle of Scotch and take off."

"How come you were so sure I'd go?"

Her eyes softened again. "I knew you would, Mr. Space. Remember what you admitted about yourself — that you're a sucker for a sob story? I simply counted on the fact that you'd respond to mine."

"But like I said, I'm nobody's patsy. Let's see the color of your solar credits."

She fished in her purse, drew out a hefty bundle and handed it over. "I'm sure this will get you started."

I whistled through my pivot tooth, counting it. "Diggo!"