Short Fiction · Asteroid of the Damned (2/3)

MacCauley deciphered the scribble. He shrugged and said, “Okay. Hop to it, sonny.” He walked beside the diminutive policeman for a few hundred feet, glancing incuriously at the small burrows which pierced the rock walls and kicking away chunks of the queer, spongy rock on which the Kiddies subsisted, the equivalent of Earthly garbage.

He should have thought of the cops before, he realized. The Kiddies, as a race, were not numerous, and he could probably bully them into finding the thief and recovering his money. After all, why not?

He soon found out. The lolling half-breed Venusian interpreter who loafed around the ratty, worm-infested police station heard his complaint and deftly translated it for the benefit of a moth-eaten Kiddie who seemed to be as much in charge here as anyone else. MacCauley drew an easy breath, his first in two hours, and then⁠—

The interpreter singsonged, “Forty Earth-dollars, please. Filing fee.”

MacCauley’s eyes narrowed. The old squeeze play. “Don’t be a sap,” he said flatly, his thin lips tight against his teeth. “I haven’t got forty cents. That little louse took everything that was in my pocket.”

The Venusian smirked, and regarded his greenish, webbed hand with great interest. “That is very bad, my friend,” he said, and flicked a flea from a fold in the skin of his wrinkled wrist. “Here on Pallas we have a law; the citizens must be protected. When a foreigner makes an accusation against a citizen, it is quite possible that he is wrong, and a great injustice will have been done. As you know, there is only one way to soothe a Palladian⁠ ⁠… money.”

MacCauley cursed bitterly, harsh, biting oaths. “All right,” he said then, forcing his tone to evenness. “I’ll sign a guarantee of the money. When you catch this pickpocket, you’ll reclaim the money; then I’ll put up the bond pending trial.”

By great effort the interpreter managed to look shocked. “That is absurd. You must pay now; if the Palladian is innocent, he will not have the money. No, it is impossible.”

“If he’s innocent it’ll be because you caught the wrong guy. Why, by all the Plutonian Ice Devils, should I have to pay for your mistake?”

The green-skinned man smirked again. “It is the law. The law is very strict. If you do not like it, you can go back to the planet you came from.” And he turned away, busying himself with some important-looking papers, dusty and much-handled. MacCauley was not too preoccupied to note that the blubbery Venusian was holding them upside-down.

MacCauley socked his balled fist into his palm and wondered if pacing the littered floor would help. He was now, he assured himself, in the worst of all fixes. The time he’d been trapped between two hostile groups of Mercurians who were settling a private argument with quarter-mile lightning bolts was a pleasure compared to this. Then he’d had his guns, at least, and no restrictions about using them.

He had to have his kit. Which meant getting his money back. It was necessary, he decided, to play his trump card. He hadn’t wanted to reveal himself as a freelancing T.P.L. man; word would be sure to leak out. But he certainly couldn’t accomplish anything otherwise; the chance of recovering the credits, and eventually his matériel, was nil without some sort of aid. And that was what he could get only by showing these small-time constables that he was Mr. Law himself. It may be also that he was motivated by justifiable conceit in T.P.L. itself.

“Okay,” he snapped suddenly, startling the pudgy hybrid with the sharpness of his voice. “I guess there’s no point in keeping under wraps any longer. Let me tell you who I am.⁠ ⁠…”

Twenty minutes later, as he stumbled out of the warped stone building, he was wondering dazedly why his T.P.L. affiliation had done him no good.

Tri-Planet Law was an organization that had considerable history, nor could all of it be written. It was the most potent single force in the history of any planet of the Solar System, figured any way you like. It was the only force whose rule was hardly ever challenged.

When you broke the law within the territories mandated by T.P.L., you did so with the very greatest caution. And you never tried to fight back if you were caught. It wasn’t really a large organization, relative to the vast throngs of intelligent life that swarmed the System. It was only a tiny decimal of one percent of the entire population of the thirty inhabited globes. But when you consider that the total census showed more than a hundred billion individuals of high enough brainpower to be rated sentient, you can understand that a fraction of a percent does mean close to a hundred and thirty thousand persons united into the best-organized police and military force that a hundred trained social technicians could evolve.

That is why MacCauley couldn’t understand the fact that the half-breed interpreter had practically laughed in his face.

True, T.P.L.’s hundred and thirty thousand of personnel were largely on the planets of Earth, Mars and Venus, plus their possessions and allied states. T.P.L. had no standing here, officially, but the organization had a de facto reign over all of space by virtue of the fastest and best-armed spaceships made. And Pallas, dependent upon the transient trade, certainly shouldn’t be able to afford to anger a representative of the body that ruled the space-lanes.

Something, Mac decided, was thoroughly rotten in the local checking office of T.P.L. Something that might show why the operative on Pallas hadn’t begun to be able to find the man or men behind the narcophene racket.

MacCauley hadn’t shown himself there before because he didn’t want himself identified with the Law group. Now that he’d uselessly exposed himself, that obstacle was nullified.

He’d found out where the place was just so he could avoid it. Pausing a second to puzzle out its probable direction, he started off.

It was close, of course; nothing was far from anything on Pallas. Within five minutes he was standing outside the building, rubbing his chin and deciding that he could stand a wash-up before going in.

Like most of the asteroid’s structures, this one seemed to have been made by a blind moron for his elder brother’s fifth birthday. Stepping gingerly to avoid bringing the ceiling down about his ears, he made for the washroom.

The Kiddie attendant was scrunched up in a corner, luminescing happily over a former airlock handle. “Hey!” Mac said uselessly. A wadded paper towel brought better results, and the Kiddie glanced up.

Of course, it had to be the Kiddie who lifted Mac’s roll. The gods of chance saw to that. In a trice Mac had backed the frightened Kiddie into a corner, looking rather threatening what with his grim expression and the bronze knife suddenly sprouting from his fist. He was fumbling for the gesture that would convey, “Gimme!” to the asterite when the interruption came.

“Having fun?”

Mac dropped the Kiddie and spun around, automatically reaching for a blaster that wasn’t there. “Who the devil are you?” he snarled.

The long Terrestrial newcomer leaned gingerly on a soot-covered washstand and frowned. “Me? I work near here. Who are you?” He stuck a cigarette in his taut lips, pinched the tip and inhaled sharply as it flared bluely.

Something clicked in MacCauley’s memory. Remembrances of long rows of files, photographs.⁠ ⁠… The T.P.L. agent for Pallas. He said, “You’re Kittrell, right?”

The long man nodded. “I might be,” he said, “if you’re somebody that’s got a right to know. So what?” He hadn’t moved but his posture seemed subtly altered, caution in every line of his frame. From the position of his hands, Mac more than suspected he was armed.

Easing his hands behind his back, he twisted the stem of his wristwatch. Kittrell jumped. “Hey!” he exclaimed. Sparks were fairly snapping from the blazing dial of his own heavy, old-fashioned timepiece⁠—the recognition signal of T.P.L. operatives. “I guess I am Kittrell,” the man acknowledged. “They told me they were sending someone from the Narcotics division to take over on that narcophene business. You him?”

“Yeah. Right now I’m having trouble of my own, though. This Kiddie rolled me last night. Every cent I had; I can’t even get back to my hotel.”

“Rolled you?” Kittrell’s eyes widened. “I know this fella. He cleans up around the office. Wait a minute.” His thin, pale hands flashed in intricate motions, meaningless to Mac. They were significant to the Kiddie, though, for he replied as rapidly. Kittrell nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought it of him. Always thought he was too stupid to rob anybody over ten.”

That was a pretty dubious remark, Mac thought, but he ignored it. “Do you suppose you can make him cough up?”

“Sure!” The other smiled cheerfully. “Like this!”

Mac was unprepared for the next move. Kittrell pulled his punch, of course, because he didn’t want to kill the frail Palladian, but his heavy fist bounced the Kiddie off the floor and flung him to the base of the wall. He lay there, his glow-glands jetting crimson beams of fear and rage.

“Hey!” cried MacCauley. “Don’t murder the poor son! That’s no way to get my dough back!”

Kittrell stared. Then a shadow passed over his face and he seemed to lose interest. He shrugged. “Have it your way. What do you want me to do⁠—adopt him?”

“Ask him what he did with the money. Tell him he can have the metal stuff; all I want back is the bills.”

Kittrell, looking disgusted, semaphored the message. Kiddie faces don’t react as a human’s does, but MacCauley was pretty sure there was gratitude glowing on this one’s knobby features. After a couple of seconds’ gesticulation, Kittrell looked around. “He says he’s sorry he took it. If you come with him he’ll give you the money. He’s got it stashed away in the sty he lives in, a little farther along this corridor.”

“Will he do it?”

Kittrell shrugged again. “Guess so. Anyway, you’re bigger than him⁠—or don’t you like rough stuff?”

That, MacCauley thought, was hardly a friendly remark. He resolved to take it up later; after all, it wasn’t his fault that he was superseding Kittrell. There really was no cause for jealousy in the long man. “Coming?” Mac asked.

Kittrell shook his head. “Got to go back to the office for a minute. I’ll drop around in about ten minutes, though.”

“Okay,” said Mac, satisfied, and went out behind the Kiddie.

The Kiddie’s dwelling was ugly and cluttered, but moderately clean.

The little asterite, with somewhat the attitude of a man who expects a poke in the face, gestured to Mac to be seated on a hassock-like affair. MacCauley rumbled: “Sure I’ll sit down. I’ll stay right here until I get my dough back.”

The Kiddie seemed to shrug resignedly; probably he just gave that impression from his general demeanor. He slipped away into another room. Mac just had time to think of the possibility that the Kiddie had made a getaway when he was back again, holding MacCauley’s billfold.

Mac counted it swiftly. “Where’s the rest of it?” he grunted. The bills were there, but there had been about two dollars in change⁠—gone now.

The Kiddie looked scared but shook his head. “Won’t tell me, huh?” Mac blustered. “How would you like to be put away for robbery? I swore out a complaint against you today; if I turn you over, it’ll be a long time before you get out.”

The Kiddie looked more frightened than ever; he was practically trembling. Mac was encouraged, but surprised by the reaction to his threat⁠—it shouldn’t have been so great. He lived to regret the fact that he didn’t find out just why the Kiddie was so affected by the threat of imprisonment.

“All right,” he went on. “Suppose I let you keep the metal. Suppose I pay you well, get you lots more. Gold and silver dollars. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

From the Palladian’s sudden attitude of doglike devotion, it was more than clear that he would.

“Okay,” Mac said. “I’ll pay you one hundred dollars in silver quarters, if⁠—”

The Kiddie was ablaze with interest. Not taking his eyes off Mac, he scuttled crabwise over to a tablette, snatched up a notebook and scrawled: “Il do anyhin wat do yu wan.”

Mac grinned. “Fine. Listen carefully now. I’m looking for an Earthman. He’s somewhere on this planet, but I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. He is about two inches taller than me; weighs maybe two hundred pounds⁠—a little fatter than I am. He’s blind, practically, in one eye. That’s all I can tell you, because those are the only things he can’t disguise.”

The Kiddie seemed suddenly reluctant, but was persuaded by a gesture of Mac’s⁠—a gesture that cost him dear, as it turned out.

“Here,” he said, to seal the bargain. “Here’s an advance for you.” Dexterously he flipped his knife from some recess of his shirt and presented it to the Kiddie.

Ecstasy was clearly shown by that Kiddie. His glow-glands fairly spat large orange sparks of joy. The tempered bronze⁠—it was made of that metal only to avoid magnetic spotters⁠—wasn’t much good for cutting, but it certainly was a conductor of electricity.

“Well?” MacCauley said, growing impatient. He tapped the engrossed Kiddie and repeated the question. The asterite bobbed his head and pressed a stud on his pad. The writing vanished, and he was scribbling again.

“Hello there!” boomed a new voice from the doorway. “What’s going on?”

MacCauley whirled. Kittrell was standing there, beaming broadly. “Hi,” Mac said. “We were wondering⁠—Hey! What the hell!”

Kittrell’s eyes had narrowed and a snarl flashed out on his face. With the fastest draw MacCauley had ever seen, he snapped out his gun and blasted⁠—

Not MacCauley. There was a stomach-squeezing hiss of sizzling flesh behind Mac. He spun again, to see the Kiddie, his shoulder and half his neck gone, slumped to the floor.

Mac knelt swiftly beside him. Dead as a Ganymedan Secessionist. “Now what the hell did you do that for?” Mac demanded. “I was on the trail of something hot.” He stared at the pad and stylus that had dropped from the dead asterite’s limp hand.

“I kni the man yu wan he is th.” That was all it said.

“That’s a big help,” said MacCauley, confronting the other man, who was strangely tense. He thrust the tablet at him. “Now what do I do?”

Kittrell scanned it briefly, and relaxed a bit. “It looked bad to me,” he explained. “There was that damned Kiddie with a knife in his hand. He had it up to throw at you⁠—or me. Can’t take chances.”

Mac sighed, resigning himself to continued hard luck. “We all make mistakes, I guess,” he said. Then, hardening: “But you’ve made your last boner on this case. From now on stay the hell away from me. I don’t like you and I don’t like the way you do things.” He moved toward the door. Kittrell, lounging across it, obstructed his path⁠—just enough to stop him.

“Where’re you going?” the bigger man asked.

“To report this,” Mac snapped. “You’ll get out of it all right.”

“Don’t report it.”

“Why not?”

Kittrell grimaced distastefully. “Too much red tape. What the devil, who’ll know we were here?”

Mac snorted and filled his lungs preparatory to telling Kittrell just what he thought of him. There was a sweetish, balsam-like taste to the air, like the smell of a fir forest.

Or like the smell of narcophene.

He had picked up the knife; still had it in his hands. While he was still figuring things out, his hand swept up with the knife still in it, pressed against Kittrell’s abdomen. Kittrell’s draw had been fast. Maybe he was naturally gun-slick⁠—fast enough, maybe, for a lightning draw like that to be natural to him. Maybe he was, but maybe he was just burning up the years of his life twice as fast as normal under the influence of the drug.

“If you don’t want your gut slit, Kittrell, keep your hands where they are!” Mac grated, his voice suddenly gone flat and hard.

Kittrell’s hand had fluttered toward his shoulder holster; it stopped as Mac spoke.