The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (25 page)

Oh, you could do it faster by accelerating at multiple gee. But not much. If your acceleration could be instantaneous (killing all passengers!) and you decelerated the same way (
splat!
), you could raise your average speed to just over six thousand kilometers per hour and trim your time back by
almost three minutes!
But that’s the ultimate.

That is also the best possible time for a rocketship between Kong and L-City. In practice a jumpbug rocket will usually take about half an hour—depends on how high its trajectory is.

But surely a half hour is short enough. Why tunnel under maria and mountains when a rocket can do the job?

A rocket is the most lavishly expensive transportation ever invented. In a typical rocketship mission half the effort is spent fighting gravity to go up and the other half is spent fighting gravity in letting down—as crashing is considered an unsatisfactory end to a mission. The giant catapults on Luna, on Terra, on Mars, and in space are giant statements against the wastefulness of rocket engines.

Contrariwise, the ballistic subway is the most economical transportation ever devised: No mass is burned up or thrown away and the energy used in speeding up is given back at the other end in slowing down.

No magic is involved. An electric catapult is a motor generator. Never mind that it doesn’t look like one. In its acceleration phase it is a motor; electric power is converted into kinetic energy. In its decelerating phase it is a generator; the kinetic energy extracted from the capsule is pulled out as electric power and stored in a Shipstone. Then the same energy is taken from the Shipstone to hurt the capsule back to Kong.

A Free Lunch!

Not quite. There are hysteresis losses and other inefficiencies. Entropy always increases; the second law of thermodynamics can’t be snubbed. What it most resembles is regenerative braking. There was a time, years ago, when surface cars were slowed and stopped by friction, rudely applied. Then a bright lad realized that a turning wheel could be stopped by treating it as a generator and making it pay for the privilege of being stopped—the angular momentum could be extracted and stored in a “storage battery” (an early predecessor of Shipstones).

The capsule from Kong does much the same; in cutting magnetic lines of force at the L-City end it generates a tremendous electromotive force, which stops the capsule and changes its kinetic energy into electrical energy, which is then stored.

But the passenger need know nothing of this. He simply lounges in his “hammock” rack for the gentlest ride possible.

We had just spent most of three days in rolling seven hundred kilometers. Now we traveled fifteen hundred kilometers in eighteen minutes.

We had to shoulder our way out of the capsule and into the tube station because there were Shriners impatiently awaiting the opportunity to board for Kong. I heard one say that “they” (that anonymous “they” who are to blame for everything)—“they ought to put on more cars.” A Loonie tried to explain to him the impossibility involved in his demand—just one tube, able to handle only one capsule, which could be at this end or at the far end or in free flight in between. But never two capsules in the tube—impossible, suicidal.

His explanation met with blank disbelief. The visitor seemed to have trouble, too, in grasping the idea that the ballistic tube was privately owned and totally unregulated…a matter that came up when the Loonie finally said, “You want another tube, go ahead! Build it! You are free to do so; nobody is stopping you. If that doesn’t satisfy you, go back to Liverpool!”

Unkind of him. Earthworms can’t help being earthworms. Every year some of them die through inability to comprehend that Luna is
not
like Liverpool, or Denver, or Buenos Aires.

We passed through the lock separating the pressure owned by Artemis Transit Company from the municipal pressure. In the tunnel just beyond the lock was a sign
:
GET YOUR AIR CHITS HERE. Seated under it at a table was a man twice as handicapped as I was; his legs ended at his knees. This did not seem to slow him down; he sold magazines and candy as well as air, advertised both sightseeing and guide service, and displayed the ubiquitous sign: TRACK ODDS.

Most people breezed back and forth past him without stopping. Bill had started to do so, when I checked him. “Wups! Wait, Bill.”

“Senator, I’ve got to get some water onto this tree.”

“Wait just the same. And stop calling me ‘Senator.’ Call me ‘Doctor’ instead. Dr. Richard Ames.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind; just do it. Right now, we’ve got to buy air. Didn’t you buy air at Kong?”

Bill had not. He had entered the city pressure helping with Auntie and no one had asked him to pay.

“Well, you should have paid. Did you notice that Gretchen paid for all of us at Lucky Dragon? She did. And now we’ll pay here, but I’ll arrange for longer than overnight. Wait here.”

I stepped up to the table. “Hi there. You’re selling air?”

The air vendor glanced up from working a double-crostic, looked me over. “No charge to you. You paid for air when you bought your ticket.”

“Not quite,” I said. “I’m a Loonie, cobber, returning home. With a wife and one dependent. So I need air for three.”

“A nice try. But no prize. Look, a citizen’s chit won’t get you citizens’ prices—they’ll still look at you and charge you tourist prices. If you want to extend your visa, you can. At city hall. And they’ll collect air fee to cover your extended visa. Now forget it, before I decide to cheat you.”

“Choom, you’re hard to please.” I dug out my passport—glanced at it to make sure it was my “Richard Ames” passport—and handed it to him. “I’ve been away several years. If that makes me look like a groundhog to you, that’s regrettable. But please note where I was born.”

He looked it over, handed it back. “Okay, Loonie, you had me fooled. Three of you, eh? For how long?”

“My plans aren’t firm. What’s the shortest period for the permanent-resident scale?”

“One quarter. Oh, another five percent off if you buy five years at a time…but with today’s prime rate at seven point one, it’s a sucker bet.”

I paid for three adults for ninety days and asked what he knew about housing. “Having been away so long I not only don’t have cubic, I don’t know the market—and I don’t relish dossing in Bottom Alley tonight.”

“You’d wake up with your shoes gone, your throat cut, and rats walking over your face. Mmm, a tough question, cobber. You see the funny red hats. Biggest convention L-City has ever had; between it and Independence Day the town is booked solid. But, if you’re not too fussy—”

“We’re not.”

“You’ll be able to get something better after the weekend, but in the meantime there is an old place in level six, the Raffles, across from—”

“I know where it is. I’ll try there.”

“Better call them first and tell them I sent you. I’m Rabbi Ezra ben David. Reminds me. ‘Ames, Richard.’ Are you the Richard Ames who’s wanted for murder?”

“My word!”

“Surprise you? Too true, cobber. I’ve got a copy of the notice here someplace.” He shuffled through magazines and penciled notes and chess problems. “Here it is. You’re wanted in Golden Rule habitat—seems you chilled some VIP. So they say.”

“Interesting. Is there a tab out on me here?”

“In Luna? I don’t think so. Why would there be? Still the same old standoff; no diplomatic relations with Golden Rule until they qualify under the Oslo Convention. Which they cannot without a basic bill of rights. Which is not bloody likely.”

“I suppose so.”

“Still…if you need lawyer help, come see me; I do that, too. Catch me here any day after noon, or leave your name at Seymour’s Kosher Fish Emporium across from Carnegie Library. Seymour’s my son.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember. By the way, who is it I’m supposed to have killed?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Since I didn’t kill anybody how could I know?”

“There are logical lacunae in that which I will not examine. It is set forth here that your victim hight Enrico Schultz. Does that name trigger your memory?”

“‘Enrico Schultz.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name. A stranger to me. Most murder victims are killed by close friends or relatives—not by strangers. And, in this case, not by me.”

“Odd indeed. Yet the owners of Golden Rule have offered a substantial reward for your death. Or, to be precise, for delivering you alive or dead, with no emphasis on keeping you alive—just your body, cobber, warm or cold. Should I point out that, if I were your attorney, I would be ethically bound not to exploit this opportunity?”

“Rabbi, I don’t think you would anyhow; you’re too much the old Loonie. You’re simply trying to chivvy me into hiring you. Mmm. I claim the Three Days.”

“Three days, it is. Do you want skin receipts or will chits suffice?”

“Since I’ve lost the look of a Loonie, we had better have both.”

“Very well. A crown or two for luck?”

The Reverend Ezra stamped our forearms with the date three months hence and with his chop, using a waterproof ink visible only in black light, and showed us, using his test lamp, that we were marked and now could legally breathe for one quarter anywhere in L-City municipal pressure—and enjoy other concomitant privileges such as passage through public cubic. I offered him three crowns over what I had paid for air; he accepted two.

I thanked him and bade him good day; we went on down the tunnel, each somewhat awkwardly burdened. Fifty meters farther along, the tunnel debouched into a main corridor. We were about to exit, and I was checking my orientation, deciding whether to go left or right, when I heard a whistle and a soprano voice. “Hold it! Not so fast. Inspection first.”

I stopped and turned. She had a face that spells “civil servant”—and don’t ask me how. I simply know, from three planets, several planetoids, and still more habitats, that after racking up a number of years toward retirement, all civil servants have this look. She wore a uniform that was neither police nor military. “Just in from Kong?”

I agreed that we were.

“Are you three together? Put everything on the table. Open up everything. Any fruits, vegetables, or food?”

I said, “What is this?”

Gwen said, “I have a Hershey bar. Want a bite?”

“I think that counts as bribery. Sure, why not?”

“Of course I’m trying to bribe you. I have a small alligator in my purse. He’s neither fruit nor vegetable; I suppose he could be food. In any case he’s almost certainly against your stuffy rules.”

“Wait a minute; I’ll have to check the lists.” The inspector consulted a very large loose-leaf volume of terminal printout. “Alligator pears; alligator skins, cured or tanned; alligators, stuffed—Is this one stuffed?”

“Only when he overeats; he’s greedy.”

“Dearie, are you trying to tell me that you’ve got a
live
alligator in that purse?”

“Put your hand in my purse at your own risk. He’s trained as a guard alligator. Count your fingers before you reach in, then count them again as you take your hand out.”

“You’re joking.”

“What odds? And how much? But remember, I warned you.”

“Oh, piffle!” The inspector reached into Gwen’s purse—gave a yelp as she snatched her hand out. “It bit me!” She stuck her fingers into her mouth.

“That’s what he’s there for,” said Gwen. “I warned you. Are you hurt? Let me see.”

The two women inspected the hand, each decided that red marks were the extent of the damage. “That’s good,” said Gwen. “I’ve been trying to teach him to grasp firmly but not to break the skin. And never, never bite fingers off. He’s learning; he’s still young. But you shouldn’t have been able to get your hand back that easily. Alfred is supposed to hang on like a bulldog while the radio alarm causes me to come a-running.”

“I don’t know anything about bulldogs but he certainly tried to take my finger off.”

“Oh, surely not! Have you ever seen a dog?”

“Just dressed-out carcasses in meat markets. No, I take that back; I saw one in Tycho Zoo when I was a little girl. Big ugly brute. Scared me.”

“Some are small and some aren’t ugly. A bulldog is ugly but not very big. What a bulldog is best at is biting and hanging on. That’s what I’m training King Alfred to do.”

“Take him out and show him to me.”

“No indeed! He’s a guard beast; I don’t want him getting petted and cooed over by other people; I want him to bite. If you want to see him,
you
reach in and take him out. Maybe this time he’ll hang on. I hope.”

That ended any attempt to inspect us. Adele Sussbaum, Unnecessary Public Servant First Class, agreed that Tree-San was not verboten, admired it, and inquired as to its flowers. When she and Gwen started exchanging recipes, I insisted that we had to get moving—if the municipal health and safety inspection was finished.

We slanted across Outer Ring; I smelted out the Causeway and was oriented. We went down a level and passed through Old Dome, then headed down the tunnel where my memory said the Raffles Hotel ought to be.

But en route Bill exposed me to some of his political opinions. “Senator—”

“Not ‘Senator,’ Bill. Doctor.”

“‘Doctor.’ Yes, sir. Doctor, I think it’s wrong, what happened back there.”

“Yes, it is. That so-called inspection is pointless. It’s the sort of expensive, useless accretion all governments acquire over the years, like barnacles on an ocean ship.”

“Oh, I don’t meant
that
. That’s okay; it protects the city and gives her an honest job.”

“Strike the word ‘honest.’”

“Huh? I was talking about charging for air. That’s wrong. Air should be free.”

“Why do you say that. Bill? This isn’t New Orleans; this is the Moon. No atmosphere. If you don’t buy air, how are you going to breathe?”

“But that’s just what I mean! Air to breathe is everybody’s right. The government should supply it.”

“The city government does supply it, everywhere inside the city pressure. That’s what we just paid for.” I fanned the air in front of his nose. “This stuff.”

“But that’s what I’m saying! Nobody should have to pay for the breath of life. It’s a natural right and the government should supply it free.”