The Rolling Stones (18 page)

Pollux shot Castor a glance of warning; Castor nodded. This man’s ancestors, he realized subconsciously, had plied the Mediterranean, sizing up customers, buying cheap and selling dear. “You’re Mr. Angelo?”

“I’m Tony Angelo. Which one did you want?”

“Uh, no one in particular, Mr. Angelo. We were just looking around.”

“Help yourselves. Looking for souvenirs?”

“Well, maybe.”

“How about this?” Mr. Angelo reached into a box behind him and pulled out a battered face mask. “A sandstorm mask with the lenses pitted by the sands of Mars. You can hang it up in your parlor and tell a real thriller about how it got that way and how lucky you are to be alive. It won’t add much to your baggage weight allowance and I can let you have it cheap—I’d have to replace the lenses before I could sell it to the trade.”

Pollux was beginning to prowl the stock, edging towards the bicycles; Castor decided that he should keep Mr. Angelo engaged while his brother picked up a few facts. “Well, I don’t know,” he replied. “I wouldn’t want to tell a string of lies about it.”

“Not lies, just creative storytelling. After all, it could have happened—it did happen to the chap that wore it; I know him. But never mind.” He put the mask back. “I’ve got some honest-to-goodness Martian gems, only K’Raath Himself knows how old—but they are very expensive. And I’ve got some others that can’t be told from the real ones except in a laboratory under polarized light;
they
come from New Jersey and aren’t expensive at all. What’s your pleasure?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Castor repeated. “Say, Mr. Angelo, what is this? At first I thought it was a fur cap; now I see it’s alive.” Castor pointed to the furry heap on the counter. It was slowly slithering toward the edge.

The shopkeeper reached out and headed it back to the middle. “That? That’s a ‘flat cat.’”

“‘Flat cat?’”

“It has a Latin name but I never bothered to learn it.” Angelo tickled it with a forefinger; it began to purr like a high-pitched buzzer. It had no discernible features, being merely a pie-shaped mass of sleek red fur a little darker than Castor’s own hair. “They’re affectionate little things and many of the sand rats keep them for pets—a man has to have someone to talk to when he’s out prospecting and a flat cat is better than a wife because it can’t talk back. It just purrs and snuggles up to you. Pick it up.”

Castor did so, trying not to seem gingerly about it. The flat cat promptly plastered itself to Castor’s shirt, fattened its shape a little to fit better the crook of the boy’s arm, and changed its purr to a low throbbing which Castor could feel vibrate in his chest. He looked down and three beady little eyes stared trustfully back up at him, then closed and disappeared completely. A little sigh interrupted the purrs and the creature snuggled closer.

Castor chuckled. “It
is
like a cat, isn’t it?”

“Except that it doesn’t scratch. Want to buy it?”

Castor hesitated. He found himself thinking of Lowell’s anxiety to see a “real Martian.” Well, this was a “Martian,” wasn’t it? A sort of a Martian. “I wouldn’t know how to take care of it.”

“No trouble at all. In the first place they’re cleanly little beasties—no problem that way. And they’ll eat anything; they
love
garbage. Feed it every week or so and let it have all the water it will take every month or six weeks—it doesn’t matter really; if it isn’t fed or watered it just slows down until it is. Doesn’t hurt it a bit. And you don’t even have to see that it keeps warm. Let me show you.” He reached out and took the flat cat back, jiggled it in his hand. It promptly curled up into a ball.

“See that? Like everything else on Mars, it can wrap itself up when the weather is bad. A real survivor type.” The shopkeeper started to mention another of its survival characteristics, then decided it had no bearing on the transaction. “How about it? I’ll make you a good price.”

Castor decided that Lowell would love it—and besides, it was a legitimate business expense, chargeable to good will. “How much?”

Angelo hesitated, trying to estimate what the traffic would bear, since a flat cat on Mars had roughly the cash value of still another kitten on a Missouri farm. Still, the boys must be rich or they wouldn’t be here—just in and with spending money burning holes in their pockets, no doubt. Business had been terrible lately anyhow. “A pound and a half,” he said firmly.

Castor was surprised at how reasonable the price was. “That seems like quite a lot,” he said automatically.

Angelo shrugged. “It likes you. Suppose we say a pound?”

Castor was again surprised, this time at the speed and the size of the mark-down. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

“Well…ten per cent off for cash.”

Out of the corner of his eye Castor could see that Pollux had finished inspecting the rack of bicycles and was coming back. He decided to clear the decks and establish that good will, if possible, before Pol got down to business. “Done.” He fished out a pound note, received his change, and picked up the flat cat. “Come to papa, Fuzzy Britches.” Fuzzy Britches came to papa, snuggled up and purred.

Pollux came back, stared at the junior Martian. “What in the world?”

“Meet the newest member of the family. We just bought a flat cat.”

“We?” Pollux started to protest that it was no folly of his, but caught the warning in Castor’s eye in time. “Uh, Mr. Angelo, I don’t see any prices marked?”

The shopkeeper nodded. “That’s right. The sand rats like to haggle and we accommodate them. It comes to the same thing in the long run. We always settle at list; they know it and we know it, but it’s part of their social life. A prospector doesn’t get much.”

“That Raleigh Special over there—what’s the list on it?” Pollux had picked it because it looked very much like the sand cycle their father had delivered for them to Captain Vandenbergh when he had gone into quarantine.

“You want to buy that bike?”

Castor shook his head a sixteenth of an inch; Pollux answered, “Well, no, I was just pricing it. I couldn’t take it Sunside, you know.”

“Well, seeing that there are no regular customers around, I’ll tell you. List is three hundred and seventy-five—and a bargain!”

“Whew! That seems high.”

“A bargain. She’s a real beauty. Try any of the other dealers.”

“Mr. Angelo,” Castor said carefully, “suppose I offered to sell you one just like it, not new but reconditioned as good as new and looking new, for just half that?”

“Eh? I’d probably say you were crazy.”

“I mean it. I’ve got it to sell. You might as well have the benefit of the low price as one of your competitors. I’m not going to offer it retail; this is for dealers.”

“Mmm…you didn’t come in here to buy souvenirs, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“If you had come to me with that proposition four months ago, and could have backed it up, I’d have jumped at it. Now…well, no.”

“Why not? It’s a good bike I’m offering you. A real bargain.”

“I’m not disputing it.” He reached out and stroked the flat cat. “Shucks, it can’t hurt anything to tell you why. Come along.”

He led them into the rear, past shelves crammed with merchandise, and on out behind the store. He waved a hand at stacks of merchandise that looked all too familiar. “See that? Second-hand bikes. That shed back there is stuffed with ’em; that’s why I’ve got these stored in the open.”

Castor tried to keep surprise and dismay out of his voice. “So you’ve got second-hand bikes,” he said, “all beat-up and sand pitted. I’ve got second-hand bikes that look like new and will wear like new—and I can sell them cheaper than you can sell these, a lot cheaper. Don’t you want to bid on them, at least?”

Angelo shook his head. “Brother, I admit that I didn’t take you for a jobber. But I have bad news for you. You can’t sell them to me; you can’t sell them to my competitors; you can’t sell them anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“
Because there aren’t any retail customers.
”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you heard of the Hallelujah Node? Didn’t you notice I didn’t have any customers? Three fourths of the sand rats on Mars are swarming into town—but they’re not buying, leastwise not bicycles. They’re stocking up for the Asteroids and kicking in together to charter ships. That’s why I have used bikes; I had to take them back on chattel mortgages—and that’s why you can’t sell bikes. Sorry—I’d like to do business with you.”

The twins had heard of the Hallelujah, all right—the news had reached them in space: a strike of both uranium and core metal out in the Asteroids. But they had given it only intellectual attention, the Asteroids no longer figuring into their plans.

“Two of my brothers have already gone,” Angelo went on, “and I might give it a whirl myself if I weren’t stuck with the store. But I’d close and reopen as strictly a tourist trap if I could unload my present stock. That’s how bad things are.”

They crept out into the street as soon as they could do so gracefully. Pollux looked at Castor. “Want to buy a bicycle, sucker?”

“Thanks, I’ve got one. Want to buy a flat cat?”

“Not likely. Say, let’s go over to the receiving dock. If any tourists are coming in, we might find another sucker to unload that thing on. We might even show a small profit—on flat cats, that is.”

“No, you don’t. Fuzzy Britches is for Buster—that’s settled. But let’s go over anyway; our bikes might be down.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Even if we can’t sell them, we can ride a couple of them. My feet hurt.”

Their shipment was not yet down from Phobos but it was expected about an hour hence. They stopped in the Old Southern Dining Room & Soda Fountain across from the Hall of Welcome. There they nursed sodas, petted Fuzzy Britches, and considered their troubles. “I don’t mind losing the money so much—” Castor started in.

“I do!”

“Well, so do I. But what really hurts is the way Dad will laugh when he finds out. And what he’ll say.”

“Not to mention Hazel.”

“Yes, Hazel. Junior, we’ve just got to figure out some way of picking up some money before we have to tell them.”

“With what? Our capital is gone. And Dad wouldn’t let us touch any more of our money even if he were here—which he isn’t.”

“Then it has to be a way without capital.”

“Not many. Not for real money.”

“Hazel makes plenty credits without capital.”

“You aren’t suggesting that we write a television serial?” Pollux sounded almost shocked.

“Of course not. We don’t have a customer for one. But there must be a way. Start thinking.”

After a glum silence Pollux said, “Grandpa, did you notice that announcement in the Hall of Welcome of the Mars chess championship matches next month?”

“No. Why?”

“People bet on ’em here—same as race horses Earthside.”

“I don’t like bets. You can lose.”

“Sometimes. But suppose we entered Buster?”

“Huh? Are you crazy? Enter him against the best players on Mars?”

“Why not? Hazel used to be Luna champion, but Buster beats her regularly.”

“But you know why. He reads her mind.”

“That’s precisely what I am talking about.”

Castor shook his head. “It wouldn’t be honest, Junior.”

“Since when did they pass a law against telepathy?”

“Anyhow, you don’t know for certain that he does read her mind. And you don’t know that he could read a stranger’s mind. And it would take plenty cash to set up a good bet—which we haven’t got. And besides, we might lose. No.”

“Okay, okay, it was just a thought. You produce one.”

Castor frowned. “I don’t have one. Let’s go back over and see if our bikes are in. If they are, let’s treat ourselves to a day off and go sightseeing. We might as well get some use out of those bikes; they cost us enough.” He stood up.

Pollux sat still and stared at his glass. Castor added, “Come on.”

Pollux said, “Sit down, Grandpa. I think I’m getting an idea.”

“Don’t frighten it.”

“Quiet.” Presently Pollux said, “Grandpa, you and I have just arrived here. We want to go sightseeing—so we immediately think of our bikes. Why wouldn’t tourists like to do the same thing—and pay for it?”

“Huh?” Castor thought about it. “There must be some catch in it—or somebody would have done it long before this.”

“Not necessarily. It has only been the past few years that you could get a tourist visa to Mars; you came as a colonist or you didn’t come at all. I’d guess that nobody has thought of shipping bikes to Mars for tourists. Bikes cost plenty and they have been imported just for prospectors—for
work
, because a sand rat could cover four or five times as much territory on a sand cycle as on foot. I’ll bet nobody here has ever thought of them for pleasure.”

“What do you want us to do? Paint a sign and then stand under it, shouting, ‘Bicycles! Get your bicycle here! You can’t see the sights of Mars without a bicycle.’”

Pollux thought it over. “We could do worse. But we would do better to try to sell somebody else on it, somebody who has the means to get it going. Shucks, we couldn’t even rent a lot for our bike stand.”

“There’s the soft point in the whole deal. We tell somebody and what does he do? He doesn’t buy our bikes; he goes to Tony Angelo and makes a deal with him to put Angelo’s bikes to work, at a lower cost.”

“Use your head, Grandpa. Angelo and the other dealers won’t rent their new machines to tourists; they cost too much. And tourists won’t rent that junk Angelo has in his back lot, they’re in a holiday mood; they’ll go for something new and shiny and cheerful. And for rental purposes, remember, our bikes aren’t just practically new; they
are
new. Anybody who rents anything knows it has been used before; he’s satisfied if it looks new.”

Castor stood up again. “Okay, you’ve sold me. Now let’s see if you can sell it to somebody else. Pick a victim.”

“Sit down; what’s your hurry? Our benefactor is probably right under this roof.”

“Huh?”

“What’s the first thing a tourist sees when he first comes out of the Hall of Welcome? The Old Southern Dining Room, that’s what. The bike stand ought to be right out in front of this restaurant.”