Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) (14 page)

He was giving it to me straight.

"Okay, Nate, if that's how it has to be. Thanks for saving my ears."

"
And
your nose," he reminded me.

We shook hands. Blindly, in my case. But when he embraced me in an emotional farewell hug his head was on my side and I could see another tear roll down his cheek.

Nate Oliver was always a very sentimental eccentric, as eccentrics go.

I left Earth on an express warper for the Fat Marble.

I had a mouse to meet.

* * *

When I got to Jupiter I was in a hurry. I grabbed a jumper direct to Mouse Headquarters, where I demanded to see Lt. Pennington.

"He's not available," said the cute little recept rodent at the front desk.

"To me, he is," I said, stepping over her.

"Brash tactics based on your commanding size won't accomplish anything in this instance," she assured me. My head was still facing her desk as I walked away from her. I stopped walking.

"You mean, he isn't in his office?"

"Exactly, Mr. Space. You have put all of my clues together and, in your deductive brilliance, have arrived at the proper conclusion. He … is … out."

"Out
where?
" I glared down at her. "I need to know."

"For what reason?"

"We're working an important case together." I flashed my ID. "He needs info I have, and I need to know what he's found out."

"I can tell you that the Lieutenant is on special duty. Which is normal." She furrowed her mousey brow. "But what
isn't
normal …"

"Spill it, sister. If there's a kink in Pennington's rope, I need to know."

"Well," she said, "he hasn't reported in for several worksegs."

"Is he supposed to? Even on special duty?"

"Absolutely. Regulations require a vid report every second workseg. No exceptions."

"Maybe he got boxed. Couldn't reach a vid."

"That's possible," she agreed.

"Do you remember where his last vid report came from?"

"That is official police information. I shouldn't be telling you."

"But you will, won't you?"

She let out a tiny sigh. "Dendive. Called the Painpit. Near GooberHeights."

"Thanks," I said, heading for the door. "You're a pip."

She called me back. "I have question I'm dying to ask."

"Which is?"

"Why is your head on backwards?"

"That's a long, sad story, sugar. I'll tell you all about it sometime. Right now, I'd better jump out to the Painpit. There's a mouse that may need my help." I gave her my best grin. "Keep your whiskers clean!"

My head was still grinning at her as the rest of me walked out.

The Painpit crawled with lowlife: slugbellies from Callisto, sponge-weeders from Ursa Major, seedy multipeds from Capella, Saturnian squeakers with grimed tentacles …

Despite my freakish condition I didn't rate a second glance here; in this kind of slimeden, nobody cared if your head was on backwards. The dusky odor of fried punk mixed with the sharp aroma of raw peetliquor assailed my nostrils. I leaned my back against the bar and ordered a "house double."

The barkeep laid out the shot and I reached for it awkwardly, cursing Nate Oliver under my breath. How long would I have to go around with my head reversed? I'd vidbuzzed my service on my way to the Painpit: no word from Chicago yet. Nate was still fiddling with his damned invention.

I put away the shot, almost retching. Foul stuff, strong enough to melt the hull of a Moon freighter.

"A copmouse was in here not so long ago," I said to the barkeep. "Named Pennington. I'll
pay
to find him."

The barkeep was nine feet tall, a Dogstar male with furry orange ears that could have used a shampoo and trim. And his dewlaps were greasy. He leaned toward me, eyes sweating greed. "How much are you willing to pay?"

"Fifty creds."

"Let's see the skim."

I showed him.

"I could roll ya for that, and then tell ya to go buzz a rock," he growled.

"Try it," I said tightly. "But first you should know that I'm packing a .38 nitro-charge and I'd as soon ventilate your hairy skull as spit in the dark."

I was running a bluff; the only .38 I still owned was back in Bubble City.

"Okay, boyo," the barkeep muttered, scooping up his fifty. "The mouse came in here to meet a redhead."

"With erect nips?"

He nodded, slavering a little. "She's a
ripe
one, boyo! Enough to curl your scuppers."

One thing was clear: Sylvester had found my mystery woman.

"Where did she take him?"

He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "She keeps a room. Upstairs."

"You mean she
lives
in this dump?"

He bristled, his wet black nose twitching. "We run a respectable dendive, boyo, an' I don't like cheapies insultin' the place!"

"Sorry," I said, adding a ten to his fifty, which cooled him fast. "I just didn't expect to find her here." I finished my drink. "She up there now?"

"Maybe."

"The mouse, too?"

"Could be."

"Which room?"

"Last one. End of the hall."

"Thanks," I said.

And headed upstairs.

* * *

This time, I told myself, I'd
grab
the redhead if I found her. I didn't want her pulling another vanishing act. And if Sylvester wasn't with her, I'd find out where she'd stashed him. My guess was he'd been suckered. By now, maybe he was dead.

The hall was deserted as I held a collision course for the door at the end. It wasn't locked, so I didn't have to kick it open. But the tacky room, with its worn plastofurniture and threadbare nearcarpet, was empty.

Suddenly the redhead was standing in front of me. Or she
would
have been standing in front of me if my head hadn't been reversed. As it was, she was actually
behind
me, in the hallway.

"Looking for me, peeper?"

I turned, glaring at her. She looked exactly the same as the last couple of times I'd glommed her, in Bubble City and at Wrenhurst's Moon pad. As beautiful as ever. And as calm.

"What have you done with the mouse?" I snapped.

She gave me a liquid smile. "You can forget your furry little cop-friend," she told me. "He came mousing around here and got just what he deserved."

"You iced him, eh?"

"Let's just say that he's in Mouse Heaven." And her smile became a snicker.

I couldn't take any more lip from her; she'd goaded me enough. Rage bubbled up in me.

I lunged for her. And came up with a handful of empty air.

She was gone. Again. But this time I'd learned something about her I hadn't known before: she wasn't flesh and blood.

My hands had gone right
through
her.

* * *

"And you expect me to believe that she just
wasn't
there at all?"

I was back in O'Malley's office on Mars and he was yelling at me as usual, his beefcake of a face as red as a spanked bottom.

"She was
there,
but not in the flesh. It was some kind of … apparition."

"A talking ghost, eh?" he snorted, chomping on his cigar.

"I dunno, O'Malley. I just came here to tell you the facts. I'm convinced she works for Wrenhurst. His pretending she was a stranger was an act he put on for me. I'm also convinced that she lured Pennington to that dive so Wrenhurst could have him killed — the same way he had
me
shanghaied aboard that Hellship!"

O'Malley glared. "Where's your proof, Sam? You
admit
you didn't get a chance to check his faxfiles before he caught you in his den."

"The man's a master criminal! Do you deny it?"

"No, I don't deny it. We've been onto Wrenhurst for a long time now. He's mean and he's slippery. But he's
careful.
If master criminals were easy to catch, they wouldn't
be
master criminals." He paced around his desk and tossed the mangled cigar into a burnbin. "I need something more than the cockeyed convictions of a second-rate private snoop with his head on backwards to make a Moonking's arrest stick in a Martian court of law!"

"What does the fact that my head is on backwards have to do with my credibility as a witness?"

"Absolutely nothing, Space, because you
have no
credibility as a witness!

A long moment between us as we exchanged hard looks.

"Okay," I said in a cold tone. "Okay. I should have known it was a total waste of time to come to you and expect justice. Just forget everything I said. I don't need you. I'll take care of Wrenhurst
my
way."

And I stormed out.

The law only takes you so far; sometimes you have to go beyond it.

And this was one of those times.

I intended putting Pendorf Wrenhurst out of business, even if it meant bending the legal code into an Earthpretzel. Sometimes, in the game I'm in, you have to use extraordinary measures to deal with extraordinary people.

Harry Hogg was extraordinary.

I didn't have to leave Mars to see him. Hogg's agency office was just a quick beltrun from mine in Bubble City, in the heart of the theatrical district.

I'd heard about Hogg from some of my unsavory contacts and had filed his name away in my mind. For the right time.

Which was now.

* * *

His office waitroom was blazing with wall posters advertising some of the cheese circuit acts Harry had agented: Angell's Amazing Acrobatic Ants … The Dancing Centipods from Neilsen's Nebula … The Happy Crocks from Upper Capella. Acts like that.

The roboclerk asked me to take a number slip, saying that Mr. Hogg would call me when my number came up. You can't argue with a robo, so I took the slip which popped out of her left ear. "You are Number 3."

Which meant there were two others ahead of me in the waitingroom: a nude blonde with a nice pair of thrusters, and a potty old guy with a cased fooby across his lap. Fooby players were a dime a dozen on Mars.

I sat down next to the nude blonde.

"Hi, there," I said.

"We're very lucky," she told me in a bright, husky voice. "Some acts have to wait for hours to see Mr. Hogg. We'll be able to audition in jig time. This is one of his slower days."

"That's real nice," I said.

"I think you're going to have a
good
chance with Mr. Hogg," she said, staring hard at me.

"How come?"

"With your head on backwards, you're bound to attract an audience," she said. "What's your act?"

"I imitate extinct animals," I said.

"That's unique!" She beamed at me. "I'll bet you are simply wonderful at it."

I shrugged modestly. "Just average." My head was facing the wall, and I had to twist my neck violently to converse with the blonde."What's
your
act?"

"Singing nipples," she said brightly, and swung her naked thrusters toward me.

"Huh?"

"I've trained my nipples to sing," she explained. "I do mostly popstuff with them, but I can handle opera if I have to. But there's just not much call for space opera, is there?"

"No, there isn't," I agreed, wondering what her nipples sounded like.

The potty old guy looked over at us. "Fooby players are a dime a dozen," he said with immense sadness. "I should have never taken up playing the fooby. But you can blame my mother for that. She forced it on me as a wee child. I had no choice."

"That's tough," I said.

"I really hate playing the thing," he told us. "But what's a man to do when he's spent his whole adult life playing a fooby?"

"I wouldn't know," I said.

"You're just lucky your head is on backwards," the potty guy told me. "Right away, you got something going for you. Freak acts are always popular."

I didn't have to answer that one because the inner door opened and Harry Hogg was there, yelling: "Gimme number one!"

"That's me," sighed the potty guy in a weary, beaten tone. He got up with his fooby and shambled into the office.

The door closed.

"That poor clod," said the blonde. "I'm just grateful that I was able to develop a popular talent."

"Yeah," I nodded. "Nipples are always popular."

"As long as I keep them in tiptop condition, I'll always have a job."

I was about to ask how you exercise a nipple when the door opened again and the potty guy came out, looking zottled.

"No luck, eh?" I asked.

"No jobs," he moaned, and ankled out. "Dime a dozen," he mumbled, voice fading down the hall.

"What a clod," said the blonde.

"Gimme number two!" yelled Hogg, and the nude blonde jumped up, waving her number slip. "That's me!"

"Right, sister. Get your jaybird ass inside the office."

The door closed behind them and I was alone again.

The blonde stayed in there long enough for me to take a light snooze. Which I needed. Sleep, of late, was a luxury for me and I had to grab it where I could get it.

Harry's harsh voice brought me out: "Gimme number three!"

I got up and walked past the outgoing blonde.

"How did you do?" I asked her.

"Terrific," she grinned. "Mr. Hogg thinks he can get me a booking in the Orion star cluster for next weekend! I'll follow a dancing snake act."

"Good going!" I said, tweaking one of her nipples.

She went out glowing, and I went in to face Harry Hogg.

He was barrel-shaped, bald, and sweating, with shagged brows and huge square teeth. He waved toward a chair.

"Sit," he told me.

"I'd rather stand," I said. "When I sit, my head is facing the wrong direction."

"So stand," he growled, settling in behind his desk. "The blonde tells me you do extinct animals. Well, you're lucky you came to Harry Hogg because Harry Hogg can make a star outa ya. Ever hear of the Mug-witch Cookoos?"

"Nope," I said.

"They were zilch before I took 'em over. How about the Black Hole Harmony Boys? Ever hear of them?"