Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) (9 page)

For my practice runs I naturally left off the pac, meaning my lap times were nothing to write home over. I was mainly trying to wring out the boat, to see what she'd do and what she wouldn't in terms of handling.

She was sweet in the tight stuff, and I could take her through the dogleg nearly flat out. No wobble or whiffling.

Joe was some kind of a genius.
Irmaline
hugged the sand like a second skin. I was sloppy with her, getting the hang of the course, but she forgave me everything.

A prime sweetheart.

In fact, the ole racing fever hit me when I was out there at speed, and in the gut-clutch of socking a saucy sander around a singing circuit I almost forgot why I'd come to Dark Side.

Then I saw Wrenhurst.

He'd just driven into the pits, arriving like the king he was. Hugeracevan, carrying his prize winning
Kingfisher
, plus three spare boats just like her in case he got a scratch on the hull. Half a dozen spare jato units. Suspension kits. Tools enough to build another Rim City. And a dozen fat Moonies to run his errands. Plus a covey of mechanics to make sure he won in style.

"Acts like he owns the course," I said to the racer who shared my pitspace. Called himself Skeeter Watson. Skinny as a fence rail in New Montana. Hangdog face. Never smiled.

"He
does,
" said Skeeter. "He built this whole shebang to fit his style of racing. We got the only mile long straight on Luna. Mr. Wrenhurst likes to feed the boys his dust on that straight. Nobody's passed him there in the last three hundred twenty-seven races." Skeeter sighed."But we all keep trying."

I grinned to myself. History was about to be made on Dark Side! Wrenhurst slid from the vancab to the ground and I got my first plain squint at him. Regal. That's the word. Dressed in flared ridetops, gold-piped, with a silver mesh bodyblouse slashed to the navel to show his dyed chest hair. Zircon rings on each thumb. Ivory shark teeth in his pierced earlobes. A spun-pearl hairnet protecting his long locks from Moongrit. He had the vulpine features of a Martian lopewolf, and his eyes were as cold as a winter's night in the Horsehead Nebula.

I didn't like him.

"So he always wins, eh?"

Skeeter nodded sadly. "Always. Mr. Wrenhurst doesn't like losing at anything. When his house computer beat him at three-hand stud, he had it short circuited."

I waited until Skeeter left the pits before digging out Joe's atompac and snapping it into place on the
Irmaline
. I made the proper connections without anyone being the wiser.

Neat. I'd doubled my thrustpower.

Nobody was going to beat me.

Not even Pendorf Wrenhurst.

* * *

Two dozen sandboats were competing, lined up in rows of three at start-finish according to their lap times.

Wrenhurst, in his golden
Kingfisher,
claimed lead position, of course. One quick session around the circuit had earned him the pole. To nobody's surprise.

I was back in row seven, just one up from the last three boats. Even Skeeter's old mudtub had posted a faster lap time — and with a warped gorkle in his booster. He was in front of me, in row six.

I adjusted my wraparound headhat, checked my skingoggles, and tightened the holdbelt across my chest.

Nobody was worried about me in this race. Here I was, a spoiled hotshot from Mars in my first Moon event, a dumbo playboy with no lake experience. Why, they'd cream me out, they would. They'd stomp and bury me.

Only they didn't.

When the green flag dropped I was with the first dozen boats into Turn 1, blasting away from the slower tubs with a jolt of speed that laid my head back against the cushbar and tied knots in my tummy.

Irmaline
was fast!

In fact, due to this unexpected surge of atom power, I slid wide on 2, and almost put her into the rocks. As it was, I scraped an inch of red paint off her left tweeter.

Throttle down, fella, I told myself. You've got another nineteen laps ahead of you. Learn how this rig handles with double thrust. Lay back and pick off the boys one at a time. And stay clear of the rocks!

I smoothed out and began picking up slots.

By the end of the third lap I was running with the top ten — and the geeps were watching me closely. They had one perched on every turn, long-billed and armor-feathered, with those big wide greenish eyes of theirs scanning each boat as it powered by.

A geep didn't miss anything.

So, okay. So they figure I'm running hot. But they had no way of
proving
it. Not until they ran a tech check on me — and I was going to make sure that never happened.

Let the geeps mutter and blink.

To hell with 'em.

My job was nailing Wrenhurst.

It was good to be at speed again.

Until now, I hadn't realized just how much I missed the old swamp-busting days on Venus. There's no real way to describe the feeling inside your nog when you're out there at full-throttle, with a fast rig under you and the curves coming at you and the crowd cheering you.

And, by now, they
were
cheering me. I was the thousand-to-one shot, the off-planet underdog, the guy nobody figured could do much of anything against Wrenhurst and his top monkeys. But here I was, going like the hammers, riding fifth with half the race to go. Every time I buzzed past start-finish the crowd went dingo for me, yelling and jumping and waving.

On the next lap I moved up to third, skimming
Irmaline
down the straight under full atompower, and passing two more boats before taking the curve.

The geeps were really upset — fluttering their pin feathers at me as I whisked past them.

Now only Wrenhurst and a tentacled, orange-skinned fleek from Mercury in a custom sander were ahead of me, and I was already moving up fast on the fleek.

Five laps to go.

I was on the fleek's tweeter going into the dog leg. A mistake. I'd been warned.

His fantail blinded me.

In the rolling billow of gritty Moondust I couldn't see the turn. Everything was a kind of milky gray-white in front of my goggles.

I braked hard, falling back, telling myself: This one's on instinct, Sam! You take it blind, and you hope your line's correct, cuz if it
isn't,
you're into the rocks for sure.

Slipping, sliding, scraping bottom, I made it around the dogleg okay. Barely.

All right, you big lummox! Do it
right.
Take him on the straight.

I did.

Which made me second.

Now, with just three laps to the flag, I was closing on Mr. Big himself. His streaking
Kingfisher
, glinting gold under the lasers, was a full half-lap ahead of me, but I wasn't worried about catching him. The king was about to lose his crown.

On the straight I gave
Irmaline
full juice and made up a quarter lap. Skimming the next five turns, I picked up more.

Wrenhurst was directly ahead. Not too close to him, I warned myself. Stay clear of his fantail. But I had him now and he knew it. His Moonies had been waving pitboards at him each time he lapped with FASTER! scribbled on them.

He couldn't. I had the power and he didn't.

The crowd was going out of its mind. One fat lizardman from Capella got so excited he fell tail-first into a cluster of Venusian tripleheads, causing a hell of a riot in the watchstands.

They all wanted to see me beat the king.

Wrenhurst twisted his head around to see just where I was as we entered the dog leg. His mouth was snarling and I could see he wasn't exactly delighted about the raw amateur riding his tweeters.

I threw him a big, toothy smile. And a little wave. He was so mad his boat wobbled.

Horray for Space!

Last lap. Two more curves, then the straight, and the final sweep under the checker at start-finish. A wrap.

I held back a little on the curves, riding easy, making sure nothing went wrong.

On the straight I did two things: I passed Wrenhurst and I removed a nitropac from my zipsuit, which I set for full destruct.

I'd win, but my boat wouldn't be around for anybody to inspect.

Poor
Irmaline
.

End of the straight. Around the last turn. Headed for the flag. Wrenhurst well back. (My burst of speed on the straight had put him far behind me.)

The flag whipped down.

Winner!

I zinged past the stands, with everybody up and cheering, a rolling wave of sound. Then I hit the brakes to get my speed down to a point where I could safely bail out. I knew I was riding a time bomb.

But suddenly I had
big
problems: the brakes weren't doing their job. They were at half-power, and I wasn't stopping fast enough. I'd overused them in the race, burned them out.

Turn 1 loomed up at me.

I threw
Irmaline
into a full sideways drift; she heeled over at a severely-raked angle, sliding hull down, dead for the rocks.

Which is when I went over the side.

Would I end up alive? I hit, rolled, slid, bounced along the course, taking out the seat of my zipsuit.

I slid to a stop.

Ahead of me,
Irmaline
exploded in a murderous thunder crack of flame and flying metal.

I ducked as her pieces rained down. Part of her codcock rapped my nog, but my sturdy headhat saved me from a concussion.

Finally — silence. Well, not really. The geeps were squawking and the track officials were yelling and the crowd was getting wild. But inside my hat, everything was sweet and serene.

I'd done what I set out to do.

I'd beaten Pendorf Wrenhurst.

* * *

After the track sawbones had pronounced me fit (I'd suffered a few bruises and some scraped skin, but was basically okay) I walked over to Wrenhurst's pit.

The king was in a foul mood, cursing his head mechanic, blaming the poor sod for his having lost the race.

"Scumhead!" shouted Wrenhurst. "Quarterbrain!"

I tapped him on the shoulder. "Mr. Wrenhurst," I said in a clear voice. "My name is Tyrus Steadman."

He stared at me coldly, his vulpine chin quivering. "I
know
you. What the dab do you want with me?"

"I merely wished to inform you, sir, that I do
not
consider myself the winner of the race."

He blinked. "I don't …"

"My craft having been totally destroyed against the rocks of Turn 1, I am unable to refute certain strong rumors that my machine was illegal in terms of power equipment."

"Damned
right
it was, and I'll personally see to it that you never …"

I smoothly cut him off once again. "Therefore since my boat cannot be inspected and the charge cleared, I officially concede the contest to you, sir." I held out my hand. "My sincere congratulations!"

I knew I had him. What could he say? He'd never refuse the gesture because he wanted his victory record to remain intact. I
had
to end with him in my debt.

Wrenhurst's face softened. He smiled tightly and shook my hand. His voice was gruff but hearty: "Steadman, I'm in your debt."

See, Sylvester, I told you it would work!

The weekend following the race Pendorf Wrenhurst threw a wingding at his illuminated mansion on Dark Side — a modest little get-together for several hundred of his "galaxy-wide intimates" (as the local Moonpape phrased it).

For entertainment he'd imported a band of giraffeheads from Oberon, specializing in nose-flute concertos. Wrenhurst was class all the way.

Naturally, I was invited. Which was just the way I'd pegged it: beat the king on the track, concede the race to him, become an "intimate."All guaranteed to put me in a position to do some prime snooping into Mr. W's worm slave biz.

If he
was
the gimbo behind all the kidnaps, I'd find that out. But quick.

I decided to play my role of wealthy sportsman to the hilt. Flash and glitter. That's what I'd give 'em. So I wore phosphor flamepants, with a vented snug-crotch, boots of unborn galactic mollusk (actually faked, since I don't favor making
anything
out of an unborn mollusk), an open suitshirt, bodyribbed and collared in glofur. And, topping it all: a hat of pleated gratch feathers.

I stood in front of the mirror in my rented pitroom. No doubt about it, I flashed and glittered.

"Hello, sweetheart," I said to myself. And I grinned, thinking what a mug like Joe Hopper would say if he could see me now.

I took a U-drive sandbug out to Wrenhurst's pad, which was no sweat to find. Built entirely of glostone, the mansion blazed like an immense jewel set into the south face of Dandelion Crater. Palace is a better word for the joint — a huge, ten-story structure of shining towers and looping balconies and crystal pillars. Rumor had it that two dozen Moonies had died in its construction, and no other mansion in the System surpassed it for sheer grandeur.

Class. All the way.

When I arrived at the Outer Guestdoor the party was roaring: I could hear wild laughter and a variety of lust shrieks from inside. One of Wrenhurst's faceless robos took my invite card at the door and pressed it into his stomach. A little green light went on inside his skullcase and he bowed to me.

"This way, sir." And he rolled ahead of me down a hallway wide enough to park swamp cabs three abreast. At the end of the hall he gave my card to a second robo, bowed again, and rolled off.

The new robo didn't press the card into his stomach; he
sat
on it. "You are Tyrus … You are Tyrus … You are Tyrus …" Smoke began coming out of his ears.

Then he stood up again, grabbed my hat and began eating it.

I snatched it back. "Hey, you metal mucker, gratch feathers don't come cheap!"

He looked at me with his blank face. "Ty is you is … Yipe is Tyrus … Tip is yipus …"

Which is when Wrenhurst appeared at the hall door with a big smile. "Steadman! Good to see you made it."