Space For Hire (Seven For Space) (9 page)

"You're outa luck, Space," declared TeTe sourly, beginning to fix the hot java. "The Gimp here can't pay nobody nothing on no debt. He's flat."

"I saved this bum's life once on Deimos. A shagbeast had him by the ass. I gunned the shag. And for that he owes me. But I don't want what he hasn't got. I'm not after credits."

"Then what
are
you after?" She gave me a curious look in mid-gesture, the coffeepot in her hand.

"Info." I shook Hovel until his eyes jiggered; then I smacked him again. It didn't help much.

He slumped onto a nearstool by the table, groaning, holding his head in both hands.

"Get that coffee into him," I said. "Now!"

"Gimme two seconds willya?" TeTe kept fiddling with the ancient Moonstove. The pot bubbled and hissed.

"Now!" I said.

"Okay, okay," she said, carrying over the steaming pot. She got out a cup. Filled it.

I took the stuff to Hovel, made him drink it black. He coughed and sputtered but he got it down.

"More," I directed. "He's still half out and I want him talking."

We continued this routine for maybe five cups. Then I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. "I need some info, Gimpy. You understand me?"

"Sure … sure, Sam … Jus' lemme … pull myself together. My head hurts."

I stood above him while he fought the juice. He'd had plenty but the hot java plus my wakeup treatment had brought him to the surface again.

"You know every goongun for hire on Luna," I said. "I need to find out about three particular ones."

"Which … which ones, Sam?"

Hovel had smuggled illegal tobacco plants for awhile; then he'd gone into black-market soapweed. He'd even had a stable of goongirls until they gave him the ditch. He knew what I had to find out.

"Three Loonies who work for Kane. They tried for a hit on ole doc Umani twice in Bubble City. On the last trip they grabbed his daughter. I want names. And I want to know where to find them."

Hovel rubbed his forehead. "You wanta know a lot, Sam. I could get in some big trouble playin' goonstool for you."

My eyes narrowed and I leaned on the table, lowering my face to line up with his. I looked mean and I was. "Talk to me or I give you a lot more than Moon trouble. I'll toss you into that sandcar and haul you back to Earth and turn you over to O'Malley. He's got big fists and a long memory." I gave him my wolf's grin. "O'Malley would lick his chops over you."

"Aw, Sam … you wouldn't do that to a pal?"

"Not if you sing for me I won't."

He groaned, sweating, hands shaking. He was caught and he knew it; there was nothing he could do but give me what I wanted.

TeTe watched us from the far corner of the hut. She crouched there, out of the action, wanting no part of a guy like me.

"I — I think I know the goons you're after," said Gimpy. "They're on Kane's paysheet, I know. Heard' em braggin' about it. He uses 'em from time to time on hard-knuckle jobs. They don't mind tellin' about it neither. They figure it's kind of an honor, doin' knuck jobs for the Robot King."

"Names," I prodded.

"I just know ‘em by their nicks," whined Hovel. "One's called Fruit, cuz he likes eatin' all kinds of it. He especially loves them big cherry plums from Venus. Usually he's got cherry plum stains all over his shirt."

"Snap it up," I growled. "Who're the others?"

The Gimp scrubbed at his cheek. He was nervous but he was talking and that's what mattered.

"The second one's called Spider. He's shaped that way. Kinda lumpy and hairy. Third's called Kid Smiley, cuz he never does. Smile, I mean. The nick's kind of an irony, see?"

"I get it," I said. "Where do they stash?"

His face glistened with fear sweat. "I'm … I'm not sure I can —"

I doubled my fist. Hovel flinched away from me. "Wait. Wait a sec. I can remember. Yeah, I do remember."

"You're lucky to have such a good memory," I grinned. "Saves you getting your nose busted."

He returned my grin with a sour, uncertain one of his own. "Try the Jet Juicer in Rim City. Kane's goons go there for spinkas."

"How are they stocked?"

"Fruit carries a custom .30-70 quickfire sleevebreech Rugby-Powell with him. Spider's off the iron; he packs a skinner in his boot. Long blade. Kid Smiley favors a .20-40 Vickers Stemline Special with automatic side load. And they all know what to do with what they carry. They're bad news, Sam."

"They used a .45 microlaser Siddley-Armstrong heavyweight for the first hit in Bubble City," I said.

"That's off-Luna equipment. Here they stick with the lighter stuff. But they can handle just about anything. Kane's a careful picker."

"What else should I know?"

"Nothin' — except when you show don't mention my name. I'm dead if any of them Loonies ever gets the idea I'd finger 'em."

"You worry too much," I said, handing him a cup. "Drink up, Gimp."

He backhanded the empty coffee cup away from him, grabbed a bottle of Moonjuice and poured. "That coffee'll rot my gut," he said. I turned to TeTe. She hadn't moved. "You need a new man, sister.

This one's a juicehead who's all out of future."She didn't say anything, just glared at me from the corner. Gimp was still shaking when I went for the sandcar.

I was never any good at spinkas. It's strictly a Moon game utilizing spinkas balls, the big fat round kind, and the idea is to catch your opponent off-guard and knock him down with a solidly-pitched ball to the chest. Head and stomach shots are fouls. Three knockdowns and you win a round.

Under the Moon's lesser gravity such a game is possible; on Earth it would be too exhausting. Even here, you need to have the build for it.

Loonies come light and dark, tall or short, bearded or clean-shaven — but they all have one thing in common: they are muscled like pro wrestlers. Spinkas lets them work off steam between jobs.

When I got to the Jet Juicer in Rim City a game was in progress. The wet solid thwack of a spinkas ball to the chest and a gruff burst of lewd shouting told me somebody had connected.

I beamed in on three beefy types tossing the balls at each other near the back of the room.

Ordering a Venus fizz, I asked the divekeep about the trio. "I'm looking for Fruit, Spider and Kid Smiley," I said. "Would that be them?"

"It sure would, buddy." The keep set my fizz on the drink bar. He'd lost an arm on the jets and had never bothered to replace it. It was his badge of service. He waved his stump at me. "They don't like strangers bustin' into their game. If I was you, I'd stay clear of them right now."

"But you're not me," I said, downing the fizz in three quick swallows.

It was liquid fire, and I needed some heat for what I was going to do.

I walked over to the short, lumpy guy — who had to be Spider — and grabbed his spinkas before he could do anything about it. Then I swung around and whacked the ball, full-tilt, into the chest of the sour-faced Loonie who nicked as Kid Smiley. He wasn't expecting a play like this and went down hard on his butt. The third goon, Fruit — with plum stains all over his shirt — made a snake lunge toward his belt for what I guessed was his custom .3-70 quickfire sleevebreech Rugby-Powell but I had my .38 out and pointed before he could make the draw.

I disarmed all three of them. Spider tried for the skinner in his boot but I barrel-chopped it out of his hand. He looked dismayed, sucking at a cut knuckle.

The divekeep was watching the action with a hanging jaw; he'd never seen these boys roughed before.

I nodded toward the back rooms. "Start walking."

"Wait, bo, we —" began Fruit.

"Hop it!" I rib-tapped him with the .38, which he didn't appreciate. And he walked. They all walked.

A short halflit passageway led into a back gamble-room. I herded them inside, kicked the door shut.

Then I waited for their angry questions.

"What kinda heist is this?" from Spider.

"Why the fancy play?" from Kid Smiley.

"Who are you anyway?" from Fruit.

I gave them my coldest grin. "I'm here from Kane. He's not very happy with the way you three creeps handled the girl's kidnap."

"How come he isn't?" demanded Spider. He was dark and hunched and hairy. "We done a good clean job!"

"He wants to know where you've taken her."

"Just where he told us to," put in Fruit. "To the South Tower on Merc. What's his gripe?"

"Kane likes smooth work. You three are fumblers. You let a cheap private op trace you here."

"What cheap private op?" Kid Smiley wanted to know. He was about my size and height with heavy shoulders and long arms.

"This one," I said, pulling off my trick mustache and triggering the .38 three times.

They went down like axed trees — and I counted the System lucky to be rid of three murdering gungoons. I felt virtuous and cheerfully heroic. If Kane wanted more of his dirty work done on Mars he'd have to hire some new blood.

I wasn't finished with the job here yet — not until I'd taken several microsnaps of Kid Smiley. I'd packed a Poloid Zuber with me, and now I got it into action, arranging the Kid's head for side, front and rear shots.

"Okay, Kid, say cheese," I said, shooting down at his dour face. But he wasn't able to appreciate the gag.

After I had all the shots I needed I stowed the Zuber and broke out my portacarry deatomizer, the L5-J model. It wouldn't be smart to leave three stiffs in the gambleroom when I breezed, so I let each body have a blast.

Poof! No more gungoons.

The one-armed divekeep looked startled to see me come back alone."The boys decided to leave early," I told him. "They went out the back way."

"I'm not shedding any tears over that news," he admitted. "They scare off half my customers." He waved his stump. "Look at tonight, for instance. Not a soul in the joint."

"A little quiet," I agreed.

"What was all the hassle?" he wanted to know. "The gun work and all."

"Minor disagreement," I said. "Nothing to worry about. We got it all straightened out before they left."

This seemed to satisfy him. In Rim City you don't get too excited over gun work. He gave a nod toward the game corner. "Care for a round of spinkas — me against you — on the house?"

"Nope," I said. "But thanks for the offer. Right now I've got another game to play."

* * *

My next stop was Callisto. I arrived there with a half-dozen sharp tridim shots of Kid Smiley in hand. The Zuber had done a neat job.

The plasto I showed them to agreed. "Very clear," he said, checking them under a blowup torch. "The bone structure is in sharp relief and there is excellent definition."

"Glad you like ‘em," I said. "Now just make me look like that. Cando?"

"Shouldn't imagine we'll have any great problem," he said. He talked about himself as "we," but he was just one guy. His name was Zaadar and he had a solid rep as a first-class plasto. Zaadar could make an ape look like an angel for the proper price. He was flexible. He worked legit and he worked non-legit, charging whatever the traffic would bear. We agreed on a fee and I paid him in advance. He assured me that was standard in his business.

"Lie down, please, while we prepare a hypojection," he said. Zaadarwas a squint-eyed, ugly bastard, and I wondered why he didn't give himself a new face for free.

I took off my coat and stretched out on a long white medtable. I don't like needles poked into my kisser but in this case it was necessary.

"Simply relax your jaw muscles," Zaadar told me. "This won't hurt a bit."

He leaned over me and used the hypo; my skin tingled for a few seconds, then went numb.

Zaader had mounted the six shots of the Kid over the medtable — and he studied them intently, waiting for his hypo solution to take full effect.

He pinched my cheek. I didn't react. Dead flesh.

"We're ready to begin," he said.

I couldn't say a thing; my entire face felt like a mass of alien clay. Zaadar brought that clay to life with his hands and his tools, molding and sculpting my skin and bones to the shape and likeness of the late Kid Smiley. He hummed an Old Venusian brush tune under his breath as he prodded and squeezed and kneaded. He was obviously enjoying himself.

Occasionally he'd pause to check one of the photos.

"We need a bit more depth in the left cheekbone," he muttered, squinting at a mounted Zubershot. "And the eyes should be recessed another quarter-inch." He kept at it, handling my face like a baker's Earth dough. "Ummm … that right earlobe could stand a bit of tucking in."

Finally he was done. He told me I could stand up.

I felt a bit woozy on my feet but the effects of the plasto solution were disappearing rapidly and sensation was flowing back into my skin.

"You will not experience any pain," Zaadar assured me. "Your new face should withstand any normal activity. However, for the next twelve Earthours, until the bones harden and resettle completely, we would advise you to avoid any direct blows to the facial area."

"That's not so easy in my profession," I told him. "But I'll try and be careful. What about my
old
kisser?"

"We don't follow you?"

"I mean, can I get it back?"

"Whenever you wish," Zaadar said. "Just drop in anytime. Restoration is no problem."

"Ok," I said. "I'll do that. I'm kinda fond of me."

I checked my reflection in Zaadar's imagewall, running my fingers gingerly over the new bone structure.

It was perfect.

Deep-set eyes. Wide nose. Thin lips. Tucked-in earlobes.

I was Kid Smiley.

Mercury is a runt. At just over three thousand miles in diameter, it's pea-sized next to Jupiter but what it lacks in girth it makes up for in hellhot temperature, being so close to old Sol.

If you're not under a bubble on Mercury you fry like an egg. In 2030the coolsystem failed in Domeville and ten thousand unlucky citizens were roasted. After that they put most of the heavy industrial areas underground but Domeville is still on the surface. Only it isn't called Domeville anymore.