Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) (3 page)

I needed some expert help from a crime-solving robot and this was the place to get it.

As I passed through the entrance hatch a trapdoor snapped open under me and I slid down a long metal chute which dumped me on my ass in the museum's foyer, where Hu Albin himself met me. Well, not the original Albin, but a clone brother made from one of his cells, which was close enough. He didn't look a day over 125.

I stood up dusting my clothes.

"About that trapdoor," Albin said in a cracked, quavery voice. "It tends to annoy people. Are you annoyed?"

"Not particularly," I said, "I just don't like being dumped on my ass."

"A perfectly understandable reaction," quavered Albin. "But it's one of our atmospheric touches. Not very popular though." He blinked a rheumy eye at me. "You wouldn't like to subscribe to TADD, would you?"

"Who's he?"

"Not a he, an
it
," said Albin. "My magazine, TADD, short for 'The Automated Deductive Detective'. Lots of swell features. Crime crossword in every ish. Super letters column. Comes out once every two and three-quarters Marsmonths. Only costs —"

I cut into his dribble: " I'm here for Sherlock Holmes. Can I get him by the day, or do I have to shell out for a week in advance?"

The old guy shook his frazzled white head. "Always Holmes," he grunted. "Holmes … Holmes … Holmes! Nobody ever comes in to rent Bulldog Drummond or Miss Marple. And the Lone Wolf goes begging!" He sighed. "We've got a whole shitpile of robo-detectives in here and it's always
Holmes
they want! Oh, we got a prevert once who wanted to rent Nancy Drew for unnatural purposes, but nine times out of ten —"

"Look," I cut in again, "is Sherlock out on loan? Is that what you're telling me? If so, I'll take Nero Wolfe or Nick Carter. I'm not picky."

"Well, you can't have
any
of 'em," the old man snorted.

"You mean, they're
all
rented? I thought you said —"

"Not rented … demented," he wheezed. "Coo-coo. Bonkers. Flippo. I knew that when Philo Vance began exposing himself."

"Mr. Albin, what is it you're trying to tell me?"

"McSherry, our repair man, quit a month ago. Ran off to one of Saturn's moons with a buxom Bronx Earthwoman. You know what 'buxom' means?"

I started to say I knew, but he rattled on.

"Means 'big-titted.' And that's what she was, a big-titted Bronx matron."

"What has this got to do with —"

"Only repair man we had. Keeping these robos in good working condition is a lost art. McSherry was a real master — one of the last of his breed. After he left, things began to happen."

"What things?"

"First … .Father Brown turned atheist," said Albin. "Bulldog Drummond started barking. Boston Blackie wet his bed. Charlie Chan became a nudist and Travis McGee got waterlogged when his boat sprang a leak."

"I think it's
sprung,
" I said.

"Who
cares
?" shouted the old man, waving his arms. "Don't you comprehend our problem here? The robo-detectives are all wigged out and there's nobody to put their screws right!"

"What about Holmes? You didn't mention him."

"Spends all his time chasing Dr. Watson. Says he wants just 'one little kiss.' Disgusting! And Ned Nickerson — he keeps trying to back Nancy Drew into a corner. Claims he's been going with her for over a hundred years without a feel."

I'd heard enough. It was obvious I wasn't going to get any help at the Hu Albin Amazing Automated Crime Clinic.

The old duff was still mumbling when I left the joint. For my money, he was as wacko as any of his robots.

I needed some lunch in my gut.

On Red Sands at 73rd I popped into an eatden for a nearburg replicate and realized that I was being eyed by a stunning redhead in the end slotbooth. She was an Earthling: tall, early 20s, with great legs. And she used perm-erect on her nipples.

I walked over to her. "You
know
me, don't you?"

"Yes, Sam, I do. And I also know you're working a case for Brother Thaddius of the Cosmic Universal Church Realized."

"It's the Universal Cosmic Church Realized," I corrected.

She came up with a slow smile, crossed and uncrossed her great legs. "Let me give you a free tip," she said. Her lipglo almost blinded me as she ran her pink tongue across it.

"So give," I said, trying to figure her.

"Try Iberia," she said.

And was gone.

That's right,
gone
. One second she was sitting there, lipglo, erect nips and all, and the next second she wasn't. The slotseat was empty.

I didn't know what to make of it, so I didn't try. In my game you get some weird tips.

I decided to follow up on this one.

On Zuber III you flipperfloated — so I was flipperfloating approx six Earthfeet above the city surface. It's a keen sensation, but kind of spooky. Knowing how to use your flarepak is the key to the thing. Turning, reversing direction, all forward and backward movements, are accomplished by nozzle force from your flarejets, assisted by your suitflippers. If you live on Zuber III you buy or lease, but since I was here on a short-term trace my flippers were rented. Since there's no other form of transport on this planet, you flipperfloat or you don't go anywhere.

I was pretty clumsy at first, flipperfloating right smack into one of the female natives. I'd misdirected my left elbow nozzle and got myself into a spin. Bam, right into this big, tough looking female Zuberite.

"That was a personal violation," she said. " I ought to report you."She shuddered and her rainbow skin rippled. "I find personal skin contact with an Earthling repulsive and revolting."

"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional," I told her. "I'm new at flipperfloating, and I'm just getting the hang of it."

"Your experience, or lack of it, is of no concern to me. Simply keep your loathsome skin to yourself,"

And she flippered off, still muttering.

Zuberites are a moody bunch. They never smile. Four mouths to each of them — two in front, two in back — but you never get a smile from any of them. They're down-droopers. Sour. Unhappy. In fact, laughing physically offends a Zuberite and is punishable by law. I remember reading about a Gay Lib group that held a convention here. A hundred guys from Cincinnati, Ohio, thought Zuber III would be a darling place for a convention. A bad decision. They got arrested for giggling in public and spent the equivalent of five Earthyears in a humorless Zuberite jail.

I'd taken a crash sleepcourse in Zuberite Foibles and Folk Customs back in Bubble City before coming up here to contact Franklin Elster Iberia.

A native of Zuber III, an outcast eccentric tritrillionaire who'd married an Earthwoman, Iberia had named all of his children, male and female, after the wives of Ancient American Presidents, reflecting his impassioned interest in political Earthhistory.

On the vidphone I had represented myself as an authority on Harry Truman in order to wrangle an appointment, because getting in to see Rankin Elster Iberia is no cinch. If I had admitted to being a Mars op working a caper his scanclerk would have blacked the connection and that would have been that. But Harry's name was magic and I got my appointment.

Iberia's huge gumba (which is what they call estates on Zuber III) was a hell of a flipperfloat from the heart of town, and by the time I arrived I was racked out from trying to maintain an even nozzle flow and yet not exceed local speed limits.

Breathing hard, I landed in the viscourt just outside the gumba's main gate and was instantly surrounded by sour looking Zuberite guards.

"Are you a zorch (enemy)? Have you come in wupple (war)?" I was asked. This question, I knew, was traditional and I wondered, puckishly, what would happen if I said yes, I was a zorch and that I
had
come in wupple. But of course I gave back the traditional reply."I am a geek (friend) and I come in pinkum (peace)."

That did it. They opened the gate for me.

I checked my flippers and was told to lie down on what looked like a rug. I wanted to know why.

"All guests must enter horizontally," a guard said. "Or do you wish to offend?"

I said I didn't.

"Then lie down."

I did, and the visitor's rug folded itself around me; I felt it being lifted and carried. After a good deal of carrying, some closing and opening of doors, the rug with me still in it was finally set down and I heard a guard say, "Here is Harry Truman."

"Bully! Absolutely bully!" The response was deep and booming; apparenty the voice of Iberia himself.

The rug unrolled and I sat up and sneezed. Rugs make me sneeze no matter what planet they come from.

"Welcome to my gumba, President Truman," said the round rainbow-skinned figure of Franklin E. Iberia. Naturally, he was not smiling. The two mouths I could see were dour and down-turned. In keeping with the indoor custom on Zuber III, he was totally nude. I noted that his sexual organs were in back, which meant he had to sit on them. No wonder Zuberites lacked a sense of humor.

"My name is Samuel Gorkins," I said, standing. "I am an authority on President Truman but I am not,
personally,
President Truman himself."

"How truly unfortunate," the rotund rainbowed tritrillionaire said."I was quite beside myself with excitement at the idea of meeting Mr. Truman. I had assumed that you Earth geeks had found a way to bring back deceased personages of particular historic import and that you were, indeed, President Truman. How truly unfortunate that you are not."

"Sorry, I said.

"My children will be distressed, most especially my eldest son, Bess who was so looking forward to meeting you."

"Your scanclerk obviously misinformed you. I made it quite clear to him that I was not Harry Truman."

He stared at me with his twin pairs of lashless popeyes. Then he sighed. "Well, at least you can take off your clothes and tell me all about him. I'm hungry for details."

"Of course," I said, stripping my flarepak and flysuit. I was stepping gracefully out of my stippled shorts when Iberia said, "Dear, this is Mr. Gorkins."

I looked up, blinking, to see a tall, blond-haired Earthwoman ankle toward me. A beautiful number. Flat tummy, lushly rounded thighs, full forward thrusting breasts dusted with glonip at their tips.

"He's yummy," she said, and kissed me full on the lips.

I dropped my shorts.

"My wife does not see many of her Earthpeople," said Iberia. "She is naturally and wholesomely effusive when one visits us."

By now she had pressed her glonips into my chest and was running her long fingers through my hair, nipping at my left earlobe and pressing one of her knees into my groin.

"How do you do?" I managed to say, unsteadily, breaking contact to duck behind a gaschair. She'd aroused the beast in me and, in view of my present situation, I didn't think flouting a rampant erection would accomplish much.

"I do all right," said Mrs. Iberia with a gleam of teeth, "and, from what I saw before you ducked behind that chair, I bet you don't do so badly yourself."

Iberia sauntered over to tweak his wife's left nipple. "I'm afraid Jackie has made an outcast of me," he said. "The fact that I indulge in sexual intercourse with an Earthling sickens my fellow Zuberites. They find you folks revolting."

"So I discovered," I said. "How do you manage it? Intercourse, I mean."

"I had to work hard to conquer my normal revulsion," admitted Iberia.

"He used self-hypnosis," said Jackie. "Then, with his organ in
back,
he never has to face me. That helps."

"I kept telling myself that Jackie's loathsome Earthskin was attractive," he said. "Finally, I reached the point of being able to keep my skin from rippling but I never licked the sneezing."

"When we make love he sneezes," said Jackie.

"My few remaining friends find her basically repellent, of course, but they've learned to accept her if she keeps her distance."

"Sounds like a safe way to play it," I said

"Meaning you'd like me to 'keep my distance' from you, Mr. Gorkins?"

"It's just that I find it difficult to concentrate on Ancient American Presidents with a nude blonde plastered against my groin."

She giggled at this, and Iberia covered his ears.

"What a disgusting sound! My dear, I must insist you leave the room until our meeting is concluded."

Jackie shrugged, gave me a smoky farewell smile, tossed back her bright mane of hair and jiggled from the room, buttocks bouncing.

"Please excuse my wife, Mr. Gorkins. Seeing another Earthling adversely affects her personality."

I came out from behind the gaschair, sexually becalmed. "She's a real sweetheart," I said.

Iberia was puffing on a portable waterpipe. "Well … shall we get back to Mr. Truman?"

"By all means," I nodded.

"You know, in a way I'm sorry you are not an authority on Teddy Roosevelt," Iberia told me, setting aside the waterpipe. "Mr. Truman is, in actual fact, my
second
favorite Ancient American President."

"You favor Teddy, eh?"

"Mainly because he charged things," said Iberia.

He slapped his stomach, which is as close as a Zuberite ever comes to expressing happiness. "He charged up San Juan Hill, you know."

I told him I knew.

"I admire people who charge things. The Earthrhino wins my respect because he'll charge you nine times out of ten."

Before I could say anything to that, Iberia lowered his head and charged me.

Acting on reflex, I side stepped, and the fat, rainbow-striped tritrillionaire slammed full tilt into a large nearglass display case. The case smashed to the floor and three guards appeared, weapons in hand.

Regaining his balance, Iberia waved them back.

"Please don't be alarmed," he told me. "I was merely indulging myself with an impromptu charge. One can never plan these things. Spoils the spontaneous element if you plan in advance. I charge as the spirit moves me."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said.