A large anthology of sci.., p.590
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 590
“It adds up,” said Warhurst impassively. Picking up the drinks, he took them across, carefully placed them on the table. He sat down and looked at Harlow. “In the long ago those drinks would have been two tantalising globules floating around in mid-air. We’d have had to swim after them, gulping like goldfish. But now we can lay gravity on the floor like a carpet or roll it up and hide k m the attic when we don’t want it. Things have changed. I told you that before, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Well, I apologize for doing so. I took k for granted that you hadn’t been on a ship in yean—and you said nothing to disillusion me. I was wrong.”
“How have you figured k out?” asked Harlow, eyeing him carefully.
Warhurst jerked a thumb toward the bar. “Joe there says nobody but planetary scouts ever asked for hammerhead juice.”
“Fat lot he knows about it. He’s not old enough to remember.”
“His father told him.”
“That so? Maybe he was right I dunno.”
“You do know,” Warhurst insisted. “I think you’ve been a planetary scout and that you may be one of the last of the original legion.”
“There’ll never be a last, not so long as photographic reconnaissance isn’t enough and somebody has to trudge on foot to see what’s under the mist and the trees.” Harlow gulped his drink, clamped his eyes shut and gripped the rim of the table. Then he opened the eyes, let out a brief gasp and said, “Not bad for cough medicine. Gives a feller a slight jolt.”
“Joe thinks it verges on cyanide.”
“He would. They’re weak at the knees these days.”
“See here, Bill, tell me something. When were you last on a ship?”
“Couple of years ago.”
“A passenger liner?”
“No—it was a government survey ship.”
“With null-G?”
“You bet,” said Harlow emphatically. “Couldn’t have gone the distance otherwise. Even at that it took plenty long enough to return to base.”
“How long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing at all,” admitted Warhurst. “I’m just plain nosey. How long did it take?”
“Fourteen years,” informed Harlow with some reluctance.
Warhurst rocked back. “Fourteen? Ye gods! Any G-less ship using up that much time must have been out to the very edge of exploration.”
“That’s right. Fourteen out and fourteen back. And I was stuck there for eight years as well, given up for lost. That makes thirty-six in all. A slice out of a man’s life.” He took a good suck at his drink, repeated the eye-closing and tablegripping business, said, “Hah!” and then finished, “After which I had a fight on my hands.”
“Over what?”
“Feller called me a liar.”
“Didn’t he believe you’d been gone that long?”
“He believed it all right. Couldn’t deny the facts. Made a long, oily speech about the time I’d put in and the immense value of the reports I’d made. Real greasy type he was, with medals and badges and gold rings on his sleeves and a fancied-up cap like yours. Buttered me all over—and then called me a liar.”
“Why?”
“Said that around the time I had left—which was before he was born—I’d not told the truth about my age and that he had the documentary evidence to prove it. Said I should never have been sent out in the first place and that it was a damned disgrace.”
“Had you told the truth?” Warhurst pressed.
“Didn’t tell a lie,” Harlow evaded. “Told ’em I was plenty young enough to go ten times round the galaxy.”
“And were you?”
“Yes, sir! I still am.” Harlow scowled at the floor. “This pudding-headed pipsqueak wasn’t buying that. Said I was far too old for further service and that I’d be given free passage back to Terra. Durn it, I’m only eighty-eight and that’s me, bang, slap, finish. A dead dog.
I got riled. Terra, I yelled, Terra? Haven’t seen the place in nearly seventy years and don’t know a soul there. What’s on Terra for me? Nothing! If you’re exporting the garbage you can ship me to Kangshan. At least I’ve got an old partner there.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Wouldn’t look me straight in the eyes. Muttered something about how Kangshan was strictly for characters a lot younger than me. Said he didn’t think they’d have me there even if he got down on his knees and begged.”
“You had an answer to that one, I guess?”
“Sure did. Told him he wasn’t old enough to speak for others. Told him to signal Kangshan and ask if they’d take me.”
“Which I presume he did.”
“Must have done, though he took long enough about it. Eventually another official nincompoop handed me my sailing orders and made another oily speech. I tell you, Warble—”
“Warhurst. Steve Warhurst.”
“I tell you if brass-hat gab could be boosted through tubes we’d all be way out beyond. Seems more talk than action these days. Human race is losing its capacity to suffer.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Bill. Things done the hard way aren’t necessarily done better. Nor are they done badly because done the easy way. The essence of progress consists of finding ways of avoiding oldtime difficulties.”
“That may be, but—” Harlow paused, mused a short while, ventured, “Well, maybe I’m not as young as I used to be. But that doesn’t make me a dead dog, does it?”
“Not at all.”
“Kangshan doesn’t think so.”
“You say you’ve got a partner there?”
“Yes, Jim Lacey. He’s all I’ve got in creation. No scout operates alone except by accident. They go places in small bunches or often in pairs. You fellows who zoom around in shiploads don’t know what partnership really means. A man’s sidekick is his only contact with the human race when the rest of it is mukinmillkin miles away. He’s another brain to help solve problems, another pair of hands to work and fight. With each other a couple of trouble-seekers can get by in circumstances where if alone they’d go nuts. So I’m telling you that in faraway places partnership is something very special.”
“I can well imagine,” said Warhurst.
“Lacey was my first and longest space-partner. We were born in the same town, lived on the same street, went to the same schools and eventually joined the service together. We were dropped into some hot spots and shared the grief when things became rough and tough. Now I’m going to Kangshan. I promised I’d meet him there.”
“After best part of forty years he wouldn’t figure on seeing you again, would he?”
With a stubborn set to his jaw, Harlow repeated, “I said I’d meet him and that’s all that matters.” He stood up, a little creakily, “My turn. Same again?” Warhurst nodded.
Taking the empty glasses, Harlow carried them to the bar. “A crew-rum and another shot of that green hair oil.”
“Like it, Pop?” asked Joe, willing to be sociable.
Harlow hammered on the bar and bawled, “Don’t call me Pop, you bottle-juggling ape! I could outmarch you with a ninety-pound pack and then do a tap dance.” Grabbing the drinks, he brought them back, seated himself and snarled, “Booze-slingers in space. They’ll be organizing beauty contests next. Human race is on die skids.”
“Here’s to the old days,” said Warhurst. He drank, wobbled his Adam’s apple, closed his eyes and held on tight. “For a beginner you show promise, Wharton.”
“Warhurst, if you don’t mind.”
There was the inevitable spell of rushed work before the landing but Warhurst got through it in good time and stationed himself at the head of the gangway. The formality was always the same; as each passenger began the descent Warhurst put on his most cordial smile and speeded the parting guest with a word of good cheer.
“Hope you’ve enjoyed your trip, Mr. Soandso. Good-by! Best of luck!”
Harlow came last, having listened to the swan song a dozen times while waiting beside his big case. Heaving the case forward, he stopped at the top of the steps.
“Why don’t they tape it and save you the bother? Thought you said there’s nothing wrong with doing things the easy way.”
“Passengers like the personal touch.”
“They would. Mothers’ pets. Think they’re mighty tough but I could beat ’em away with my hat.” His watery eyes gazed across the primitive spaceport and into the far distance. “Last landing for me. Just as well, I reckon. Got to come sometime and it might as well be now.”
Warhurst held out a hand. “Good-by, Bill. Glad to have known you.”
Giving the hand a couple of prim shakes, Harlow responded with, “We got along, Warburton.” Then he lugged his case down the steps and across the tarmac. A big, beefy man met him, chatted briefly, tried to take the case and was fiercely repelled. The big man then led him to a private floater and climbed aboard. Harlow got his case in and followed. A few seconds later the floater emitted a high-pitched whine, shuddered a couple of times, then soared. Heading swiftly northward, it diminished to a dot and vanished.
Winterton appeared at the exit, said with satisfaction, “All off. That’s got rid of another menagerie.”
“I often wonder just what happens to them,” Warhurst ventured.
“I don’t,” said Winterton. “Couldn’t care less. Got more than enough to worry about.”
Soon afterward the ship took off and headed back to base with little load aboard. Outward cargo was always plentiful, inward usually small. All they took out of Kangshan was ten tons of osmiridium and two passenger.
The ship made six relatively short hauls from base and one long run to Terra. Then it arrived at Kangshan again. Three years had passed since its last visit but the scene had changed only slightly. The spaceport was now a fraction larger and had a new control tower. The adjacent capital town of Wingbury had added a couple of hundred houses and that was all.
Winterton came along and asked, “Want to go out?”
“Who wouldn’t?” responded Warhurst. “Aren’t we beating it yet?”
“The refinery says it can boost the return load if we’ll wait four days. The agent says we’re to stand by and take it. Anyone who wants to run around on solid earth can do so.” He waved an arm in the general direction of Wingbury. “Go help yourself.”
“Thanks,” said Warhurst. “Nine thousand population and one soda-bar.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I’ll go. Give my legs some exercise if nothing else.”
Donning his dress uniform, he went into town. He’d been there a couple of times before and knew what to expect. One main street with forty quiet, understocked shops. It was a settlement right on the space frontier, growing and developing with chronic slowness. One could not expect the sophisticated joys of civilization on a planet with two small towns, thirty villages and a total population of less than fifty thousands.
He strolled ten times up and down the main street and stared into the half-empty windows of shops. Becoming bored, he visited the soda-bar, took a stool near to the only other customer, a leathery-faced character in his early thirties.
The customer nodded. “Hi, sailor! What ship?”
“Salamander.”
“Should have known she was due. I lose touch these days, being well out of town. When are they going to start sending the really big boats?”
“Darned if I know.”
The other nodded again, mused a bit, went on, “Hard luck on you fellows. Nothing for you here. Progress takes time. But things will be different if you can live long enough to see ’em.”
“I know,” said Warhurst.
“Got no relatives here, no friends, nobody you can visit?”
“Not a soul.”
“Too bad.”
“I palled on with a fellow who landed on the last trip, three years ago. Wouldn’t mind seeing how he’s making out.”
“Well, what’s to stop you?”
“Lost track of him,” Warhurst explained. “Saw him off the ship and don’t know where he went.”
The other twisted around on his stool and pointed across the road. “Try the governmental building over there, department of immigration. They register every arrival and should be able to tell you where he is.”
“Thanks!” Finishing his drink, Warhurst crossed the road, entered the building and found the department on the second floor. He spoke to the young clerk behind the counter. “I’m trying to trace a recent immigrant.”
“Date of arrival and full name?” Warhurst gave the information. Digging out a ledger, the clerk thumbed through it, asked, “Ex the Salamander?”
“Yes, that’s my ship.”
“William Harlow,” said the clerk. “Exempted from age restriction. Taken into the charge of Joseph Buhl. I don’t know what—” Another clerk standing nearby interrupted with, “Buhl? I saw Joe Buhl a couple of minutes ago. He went up the road as I was looking through the window.”
“He’s your man,” informed the first clerk. “You should have no trouble finding him.” He extracted a register and consulted it. “His floater is numbered D117. You’ll find it in the park alongside the spaceport.”
“What does he look like?”
“As tall as you but a lot heavier. Has a slight paunch, big red face and bushy eyebrows.”
“I’ll track him down,” Warhurst said. “It’ll give me something to do.”
Trudging back to the spaceport, he reached the floaterpark and found machine D117. He sat on the fat tire of a landing wheel and waited. There were twelve other floaters hi the park. Far across the tarmac stood only one spaceship, his own, waiting for its promised payload. After forty minutes a hefty, floridfaced man approached. Warhurst came to his feet.
“Mr. Buhl?”
“That’s right.”
“Thought I’d like to see Bill Harlow. I’ve been told that you should know where he is.”
Buhl studied him levelly. “Got bad news for you.”
“Is he—?”
“Died a year ago, aged ninety.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You an old friend of his?” Buhl inquired.
“Couldn’t be, having only half his years. I kept him company on the last trip. Took a liking to the cantankerous old cuss and he seemed to find me bearable.”
“I understand. Why did you figure on looking him up—got some time on your hands?”
“A bit.”
“Well, maybe I can fill it in for you, mister—?”
“Steve Warhurst.”
“I’ll give you a ride and show you something mighty interesting.”
Buhl unlocked the floater’s door and motioned the other to enter. Warhurst got in and settled himself. Buhl plumped heavily into the pilot’s seat, slammed the door, took the machine up and turned its nose to the north.
“Know much about this planet?”
“Not a lot,” Warhurst confessed. “There are so many newly settled worlds these days that we space wanderers get to learn little about any of them. On each planet the spaceport and adjacent town is about all we’re familiar with.”
“Then I’ll educate you somewhat,” Buhl said. “This planet was discovered by a survey ship called the Kangshan and its captain named h after his ship. He made the usual aerial survey but—as is always the case—it wasn’t enough. He came down low to test the atmosphere and found it satisfactory. So he dumped a couple of scouts and took off, leaving them to face a forty days’ survival test.”
“Bait,” Warhurst contributed. “Correct. Scouts are bait.’ That’s what they’re for—among other things.” Buhl gazed meditatively forward while the floater hissed steadily on. “The two were Jim Lacey and Bill Harlow.”
“Ah! I never knew that.”
“You know now. They tramped around looking for exploitable prospects—and trouble. Eventually they arrived at a big quartzite monolith known today as The Needle. Mineral-rich mountains lay to the west, a big river and falls to the east. Time was pressing. Guess what?”
“They split,” Warhurst hazarded.
“Correct. They broke the rules and split up. It was no crime but it was a risk. Harlow headed west and Lacey went east They agreed to meet at The Needle four days later. Harlow returned on time lugging a load of stuff for assay. He camped at The Needle for a couple of days and then went looking for Lacey. He found him near the river, dead.”
“Huh?” Warhurst looked baffled. “The old fellow talked as if Lacey were still alive.”
“He would,” said Buhl. “That’s the way these oldtimers were made.” He dropped the floater’s nose and began to lose altitude. “Lacey had had his feet bitten off by a mud-wallower. He’d blasted it as he fell and thus didn’t get eaten. But then he went under from loss of blood. Harlow buried him, marked the grave, examined the wallower and made careful notes about it. In due time the Kangshan homed on his tiny beacon and picked him up. The planet was settled on the strength of his report and wallowers have since been hunted down and exterminated.”
“Harlow didn’t say a word about all this,” complained Warhurst.
“Typical of him. If he bragged it was always about how he could keep going long after us softer types had dropped.” Buhl pointed downward. A wide river now wound beneath with a monster cascade straight ahead. “Lacey Falls.” Turning away from the river he brought the floater down to twenty feet above a rough dirt road. He followed the road for a few miles until a small town rolled into sight. “Look to your right.”
Obediently, Warhurst looked and was in time to see a large roadside sign that said: HARLOW. Pop. 820.
“Named after him, eh?”
“That’s right. I’m the mayor. We gave him a home, comfort and companionship in his last days. It was all we could do for him.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Wasn’t much use, though. He’d been kept alive beyond his years by change, activity and danger. He was killed by leisure and safety. There was no solution to the problem and he knew it. Often he’d leave town, walk out to The Needle and brood.”
