Collected Short Fiction, page 490
Three days later, with the Fair in full swing, I woke up sober, finally. May told me all about the contract she had signed. She told me all about the check they had given her. She told me all about Validusian movie techniques. It seems the Validusian producers were in a hurry, and they had filmed their May Loreen sequences while I slept.
As she talked, May watched my expression changing.
“But—but—you said it was all right for me to make the film!” she protested.
“I said? Me? I’ve been doped up on Denebian joy-juice all week. I didn’t approve anything! I didn’t know anything about this! May, do you realize you may very well have signed yourself into bondage on this planet for the rest of your life? You—you . . .”
I fell back against my pillow, gasping for breath. A movie had been made. With May Loreen in it. And it had all been done behind my back.
I sobbed like a baby.
YOU KNOW most of what happened after that. The two glib little Validusian producers got their film out in record time. The translation from Validusian is kind of awkward, but they tell me the name of the film is “The White-Skinned Hideous Horror From A Distant World.”
Yeah. A monster movie.
Starring May Loreen. As the monster.
When I found out what the score was, I did my best to buy up the film. I offered untold millions for the film, the negatives, the prints, even the studio. No go. The Validusians weren’t selling. They had a fortune in those film-cans, and they weren’t parting with it.
So “The White-Skinned Hideous Horror From A Distant World” is the biggest money-making hit of all time, even though there have been scads of imitators in the six years since it was made. The film is still making the rounds of the distant galaxies; the enthusiastic promoters are peddling it in Andromeda now, I hear.
The gimmick is that to the Validusianoid race, there’s no more hideous sight than a Terran. We look even uglier to them than they do to us. On first sight, a Terran scares the bejeepers out of one of them. And it’s the same on thousands of worlds.
Those Validusian producers were brave beings. They almost jumped out of their skins when May turned that corner. But they stuck to their guns and they got what they wanted.
They made the greatest horror film of all time, it seems. People queue up for miles to get into the theater, and when May appears, dressed in a revealing swimsuit that leaves very little to the imagination, it really rocks them. Hundreds have died of heart failure while watching the film. And still they go. They love it.
WELL, YOU see what happened to us. Word got back to Earth fast that the paragon of Earthly beauty was a loathsome monster to half the universe. I never saw a bubble deflate as fast as May Loreen’s. She got out of the mess with a bank account up in seven figures, and managed to marry a childhood sweetheart and vanish from the public eye as fast as she could. Last I heard she was living in the Procyon system and had just had twins.
Me? I haven’t dared to go back to Earth yet, and I’m not going to. Half the people think I was guiled into letting her sign, and the rest think more rightly that I was out of commission while the Validusians sold May a bill of goods. Either way I look bad. So I salvaged a good hunk of my earnings and here I am on Zeno XII amid the palm-trees.
Why am I here? Simple. There’s a local law that prohibits the showing of motion pictures on Zeno XII. There are also no beauty contests here. As time goes by, maybe I’ll forget the whole thing. But I doubt it. Somehow I’m never going to live down the fact that in the distant reaches of the universe beings are gaping and screaming in marrowfrozen terror as the lovely form of May Loreen, the fairest flower of Terra, crosses the silver screen.
Delivery Guaranteed
We were off course, and there wasn’t enough fuel for making corrections—not without jettisoning everything on board, ourselves included. And I had guaranteed delivery of Erna’s cargo!
THERE AREN’T many free-lance space-ferry operators who can claim that they carried a log cabin half way from Mars to Ganymede, and then had the log cabin carry them the rest of the way. I can, though you can bet your last tarnished megabuck that I didn’t do it willingly. It was quite a trip. I left Mars not only with a log cabin on board, but a genuine muzzle-loading antique cannon, a goodly supply of cannonballs therefrom, and various other miscellaneous antiques—as well as the Curator of Historical Collections from the Ganymede Museum. There was also a stowaway on board, much to his surprise and mine—he wasn’t listed in the cargo vouchers.
Let me make one thing clear: I wasn’t keen on carrying any such cargo. But my free-lance ferry operator’s charter is quite explicit that way, unfortunately. A ferry operator is required to hire his ship to any person of law-abiding character who will meet the (government-fixed) rates, and whose cargo to be transported neither exceeds the ship’s weight allowance nor is considered contraband by any System law.
In short, I’m available to just about all comers. By the terms of my charter I’ve been compelled to ferry five hundred marmosets to Pluto, forced to haul ten tons of Venusian guano to Callisto, constrained to deliver fifty crates of fertilized frogs’ eggs from Earth to a research station orbiting Neptune. In the latter case I made the trip twice for the same fee, thanks to the delivery guaranteed clause in the contract; the first time out my radiation shields slipped up for a few seconds, not causing me any particular genetic hardships but playing merry hell with those frog’s eggs. When a bunch of four-headed tadpoles began to hatch, they served notice on me that they were not accepting delivery and would pay no fee—and, what’s more, would sue if I didn’t bring another load of potential frogs up from Earth, and be damned well careful about the shielding this time.
So I hauled another fifty crates of frogs’ eggs, this time without mishap, and collected my fee. But I’ve never been happy about carrying livestock again.
THIS NEW offer wasn’t livestock. I got the call while I was laying over on Mars after a trip up from Luna with a few colonists and their gear. I had submitted my name to the Transport Registry, informing them that I was on call and waiting for employment—but I was in no hurry. I still had a couple of hundred megabucks left from the last job, and I didn’t mind a vacation.
The call came on the third day of my Martian layover. “Collect call for Mr. Sam Diamond, from the Transport Registry. Do you accept?”
“Yes,” I muttered, and $30,000 more was chalked to my phone bill. A dollar doesn’t last hardly any time at all in these days of system-wide hyperinflation.
“Sam?” a deep voice said. It was Mike Cooper of the Transport people.
“Who else would it be at this end of your collect call?” I growled. “And why can’t you people pay for a phone call once in a while?”
COOPER SAID said cheerfully. “You know the law, Sam. I’ve got a job for you.”
“That’s nice. Another load of marmosets?”
“Nothing live this time, Sam, except your passenger. She’s Miss Vanderweghe of the Ganymede Museum. Curator of Historical Collections. She wants someone to ferry her back to Ganymede with some historical relics she’s picked up along the way.”
“The Washington Monument?” I asked. “The Great Pyramid of Khufu? We could tow it alongside the ship, lashed down with twine—”
“Knock it off,” Cooper said, unamused. “What she’s got are souvenirs of the Venusian Insurrection. The log cabin that served as Macintyre’s headquarters, the cannon used to drive back the Bluecoats, and a few smaller knickknacks along those lines.”
“Hold it,” I said. “You can’t fit a log cabin into my ship. And if it’s going to be a tow job, I want the Delivery Guaranteed clause stricken out of the contract. And how much does the damn cannon weigh? I’ve got a weight ceiling, you know.”
“I know. Her entire cargo is less than eight tons, cannon and all. It’s well within your tonnage restrictions. And as for the log cabin, it doesn’t need to be towed. She’s agreed to take it apart for shipping, and reassemble it when it gets to Ganymede.”
THE LAYOVER had been nice while it lasted. I said, “I was looking for some rest, Mike. Isn’t there some angle I can use to wiggle out of this cargo?”
“None.”
“But . . .”
“There isn’t another free ferry in town tonight. She wants to leave tonight. So you’re the boy, Sam. The job is yours.”
I opened my mouth. I closed it again. Ferries are considered public services, under the law. The only way I could get a vacation that was sure to last was to apply for one in advance, and I hadn’t done that.
“Okay,” I said wearily. “When do I sign the contract?”
“Miss Vanderweghe is at my office now,” Cooper said. “How soon can you get here?”
I WAS IN a surly mood as I rode downtown to Cooper’s place. For the thousandth time I resented the casual way he could pluck me out of some relaxation and make me take a job. I wasn’t looking forward to catering to the whims of some dried-up old museum curator all the way out to Ganymede. And I wasn’t too pleased with the notion of carrying relics of the Venusian Insurrection.
The Insurrection had caused quite a fuss, a hundred years back. Bunch of Venusian colonists decided they didn’t like Earth’s rule—the taxation-without-representation bit, though their squawk was unjustified—and set up a wildcat independent government, improvising their equipment out of whatever they could grab. A chap name of Macintyre was in charge; the insurrectionists holed up in the jungle and held off the attacking loyalists for a couple of weeks. Then the Venusian local government appealed to Earth, a regiment of Bluecoats was shipped to Venus, and inside of a week Macintyre was a prisoner and the Insurrection ended. But some diehard Venusians still venerated the insurrectionists, and there had been a few murders and ambushes every year since the overthrow of Macintyre. I could have done without carrying Venusian cargo.
I was going to say as much to Cooper, too, in hopes that some clause of my charter would get me out of the assignment and back on vacation. But I didn’t get a chance. I went storming into Cooper’s office.
THERE WAS a girl sitting in the chair to the left of his desk. She was about twenty-five, well built in most every way possible, with glossy, short-cropped hair and an attractive face.
Cooper stood up and said, “Sam, I’d like you to meet Miss Erna Vanderweghe of Ganymede. Miss Vanderweghe, this is Sam Diamond, one of the best ferry men there is. He’ll get you to Ganymede in style.”
“I’m sure of that,” she said, smiling.
“Hello,” I said, gulping.
I didn’t bother raising a fuss about the political implications of my cargo. I didn’t grouse about weight limits, space problems aboard ship, accommodation difficulties, or anything else. I reached for the contract—it was the standard printed form, with the variables typed in by Cooper—and signed it.
“I’d like to leave tonight,” she said.
“Sure. My ship’s at the spaceport. Can you have your cargo delivered there by—oh, say, 1700 hours? That way we can blast off by 2100.”
“I’ll try. Will you be able to help me get my goods out of storage and down to the spaceport?”
I started to say that I’d be delighted to, but Cooper cut in sharply, as I knew he would. “I’m sorry, Miss Vanderweghe, but Sam’s contract and charter prohibit him from any landside cargo-handling except within the actual bounds of the spaceport. You’ll have to use a local carrier for getting your stuff to the ship, I’m afraid. If you want me to, I’ll arrange for transportation—”
MY MOOD was considerably different as I returned to the Deimos to check out. My tub would need five days for the journey between Mars and Ganymede. Now, conditions aboard my ship allow for a certain amount of passenger privacy, but not a devil of a lot. Log cabin or no log cabin, I was going to enjoy the proximity of Miss Erna Vanderweghe. I could think of worse troubles than having to spend five days in the same small ferry with her, and only a log cabin and a cannon for chaperones.
I was grinning as I walked over to the desk to let them know I was pulling out. Nat, the desk clerk, interpreted the grin logically enough, but wrongly.
“You talked them out of giving you the job, eh, Sam? How’d you work it?”
“Huh? Oh—no, I took the job. I’m checking out of here at 1800 hours.”
“You took it? But you look happy!”
“I am,” I said with a mysterious expression. I started to saunter away, but Nat called me back.
“You had a visitor a little while ago, Mr. Cooper. He wanted me to let him into your room to wait for you, but naturally I wouldn’t do it.”
“Visitor? Did he leave his name?”
“He’s still here. Sitting right over there, next to the potted palm tree.”
FROWNING, I walked toward him. He was a thin, hunched-up little man with the sallow look of a Venusian colonist. He was busily reading some cheap dime-novel sort of magazine as I approached.
“Hello,” I said affably. “I’m Sam Diamond. You wanted to see me?”
“You’re ferrying Erna Vanderweghe to Ganymede tonight, aren’t you?” His voice was thinly whining, nasty sounding, mean.
“I make a practice of keeping my business to myself,” I told him. “If you’re interested in hiring a ferry, you’d better go to the Transport Registry. I’m booked.”
“I know you are. And I know who you’re carrying. And I know what you’re carrying.”
“Look here, friend, I—”
“You’re carrying General Macintyre’s cabin, and other priceless relics of the Venusian Republic—and all stolen goods!” His eyes had a fanatic gleam about them. I realized who he was as soon as he used the expression “Venusian Republic.” Only an insurrectionist-sympathizer would refer to the rebel group that way.
“I’m not going to discuss business affairs with you,” I said. “My cargo has been officially cleared.”
“It was stolen by that woman! Purchased with filthy dollars and taken from Venus by stealth!”
I started to walk away. I hate having some loudmouthed fanatic rant at me. But he followed, clutching at my elbows, and said in his best conspiratorial tone, “I warn you, Diamond—cancel that contract or you’ll suffer! Those relics must return to Venus!”
Whirling around, I disengaged his hands from my arm and snapped, “I couldn’t cancel a contract if I wanted to—and I don’t want to. Get out of here or I’ll have you jugged, whoever you are.”
“Remember the warning . . .”
“Go on! Shoo! Scat!”
HE SLINKED out of the lobby. Shaking my head, I went upstairs to pack. Damned idiotic cloak-and-dagger morons, I thought. Creeping around hissing warnings and leaving threatening notes, and in general trying to keep alive an underground movement that never had any real reason for existing from the start. It wasn’t as if Earth had oppressed the Venusian colonists. The benefits flowed all in one direction, from Earth to Venus, and everyone on Venus knew it except for Macintyre’s little bunch of ultranationalistic glory-hounds. Nobody on Venus wanted independence less than the colonists themselves, who had dandy tax exemptions and benefits from the mother world.
I forgot all about the threats by the time I was through packing my meager belongings and had grabbed a meal at the hotel restaurant. Around 1800 hours I went down to the spaceport to see what was happening there. The mechanics had already wheeled my ferry out of the storage hangars; she was out on the field getting checked over for blastoff. Erna Vanderweghe and her cargo had arrived, too. She was standing at the edge of the field, supervising the unloading of her stuff from the van of a local carrier.
THE LOG CABIN cabin had been taken apart. It consisted of a stack of stout logs, the longest of them some sixteen feet long and the rest tapering down.
“You think you’re going to be able to put that cabin back the way it was?” I asked.
“Oh, certainly. I’ve got each log numbered to correspond with a diagram I’ve made. The reassembling shouldn’t be any trouble at all,” she said, smiling sweetly.
I eyed the other stuff—several crates, a few smaller packages, and a cannon, not very big. “Where’d you get all these things?” I asked.
She shrugged prettily. “I bought them on Venus. Most of them were the property of descendants of the insurrectionists; they were quite happy to sell. There weren’t any ferries available on Venus, so I took a commercial liner on the shuttle from Venus to Mars. They said I’d be able to get a ferry here.”
“And you did,” I said. “In five days we’ll be landing on Ganymede.”
“I can’t wait to get there—to set up my exhibit!”
I frowned. “Tell me something, Miss Vanderweghe. Just how did you manage to—ah—make such an early start in the museum business?”
She grinned. “My father and grandfather were museum curators. I just come by it naturally, I suppose. And I was just about the only colonist on Ganymede who was halfway interested in having the job!”
I chuckled softly and said, “When Cooper told me I was ferrying a museum curator, I pictured a dried-up old spinster who’d nag me all the way to Ganymede. I couldn’t have been wronger.”
“Disappointed?”
“Not very much,” I said.
WE HAD THE ship loaded inside of an hour, everything stowed neatly away in the hold and Miss Vanderweghe’s personal luggage strapped down in the passenger compartment. Since there wasn’t any reason for hanging around longer, I recomputed my takeoff orbit and called the control center for authorization to blast off at 2000 hours, an hour ahead of schedule.
They were agreeable, and at 1955 hours the field sirens started to scream, warning people of an impending blast. Miss Vanderweghe—Erna—was aft, in her acceleration cradle, as I jabbed the keys that would activate the autopilot and take us up.
I started to punch the keys. The computer board started to click. There was nothing left for me to do but strap myself in and wait for brennschluss. A blastoff from Mars is no great problem in astronautics.
