No Man's World

II

Dave Cahadine finished his meal. Feeling comfortable and at ease, he walked through into the hotel’s smoking room, where he cut himself a yellow Krono and lit up. He’d have to ration the Kronos. They were not an item the worlds of Hora-kah imported. Well, there was an interesting lead there, already.

The man sitting in the low-slung spring chair watching the local station’s evening TV program was smoking a short, scarlet, pudgy cigar that smelled, when Caradine deliberately caught a whiff, like boiled and shredded radiation-burn pads. The TV was running some information program on the latest increase in rates of pay in the armed forces, and tying it in with a recruiting campaign. There were dramatic color shots of battleships passing in various fighting formations before a suitably artistic planetary background. Caradine had always preferred to review the fleets right out in interstellar space, where the grim gray battlewagons belonged.

Hell! All that was dead and gone; dust, along with the Second CST.

He puffed a contemplative yellow cloud towards the scarlet cigar owner.

The perfume got through.

The man took the cigar from his lips and half-turned his head from the TV. He was medium-height, with a humorous twirl to his nostrils, and brown hair, thinning fractionally, neatly brushed into a cowlick over the forehead. He smiled.

“Nice cigar you have there, friend.”

Caradine puffed again. “Yes, I like ’em. Kronos. Ever tried ’em?”

“No. Never heard of them.”

Well, it could be looked at in the line of an investment.

Caradine extended the transparent pack. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” There was no gawky shyness. The man reached out and took one of the slim yellow cigars. “Mind if I just finish this one? I’m a trifle addicted.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I’m Greg Rawson. You just get in today?”

“John Carter. That’s right. In from Shanstar.”

“Really? Nice little setup you people have there. I hear you’re expanding fast.”

Caradine put on the fatuous home-boy pride. “Sure are. Just heard another two planets elected to join up.”

“Elected?”

“Yep. We’re expanding through trade and economics.” Rawson chuckled. He lifted the Krono. “Like this?”

“Sort of.”

“I’m from Ahansic. When I left on this trip we’d better than sixty planets in the Confederation. And—” the same lowered confidential tone Caradine had used on the customs man “—two smaller combines were dickering to join us.”

“Sounds an interesting setup. Maybe we could get together. You on business, too?”

“Sure.”

Was that a shade too fast, too pat?”

The difference in the social scale between a planetary grouping of fifty-plus worlds and better than sixty worlds was small but definite. Rawson could have been loftily condescending, had he wished. But he was acting like a human being, and Caradine wondered why.

The possible answer to that lay in the common bond between two outworlders on a planet. Then Caradine remembered that Ahansic was a stellar cluster not so very far away from the powerful Horakah group. Maybe the two smaller groupings wishing to join up were also being chased by Horakah? Could be friction there.

That could be why Greg Rawson was studying the Horakah Space Navy buildup on the TV with such interest.

Spy?

Well, and if so, so what? Dave Caradine was a businessman now, and as he’d never been a spy he didn’t think he’d worry about the problem now. As a problem, it wasn’t his.

That was the wonderful thing about the freedom after the great smashup. There were no real problems any more.

Only minor trivia like trying to sell goods, and trying to wangle visas to visit difficult planets. He’d never wind up on an alienist’s couch now, thank God.

It might be an idea to see what Rawson knew about Alpha.

“Horakah seems a pretty big-time outfit,” he said pleasantly. “Thought I might try my luck on Alpha.”

Rawson laughed moderately. “You’ll be lucky.”

“That’s what the customs man said.”

“I’ve been applying for a travel permit for a year, now. No go.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Closed shop. Preferential treatment. They use their outlying planets, like this one, Gamma, to dicker with other stellar peoples. Then they ship the goods themselves. A mere matter of economics. Keeps the colonial worlds happy.”

“Inefficient.”

“Not necessarily. A starship line can trade in and out of the Horakah Cluster on a shoestring. We take the long haul shipping the goods in here.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He was getting no change out of Rawson. And bed called. “Well, I’ll be shoving off. See you in the morning?”

“Sure thing. Good night.”

“Good night.”

As he left the smoking room a strikingly attractive girl entered. She had a tumbled pile of silver-blonde hair that emphasized the slant of her cheekbones and the glint of mischief in her eyes. She was wearing a white slit-blouse, red toreador pants and black, gilt-finished slippers. She wore no jewelry. Caradine stood aside to let her pass. She flashed him a smile and went on.

She began to talk to Greg Rawson, but Caradine had had enough for one day and he crossed slowly to the elevator. After all, he didn’t have to worry about a single thing or person on this planet.

Worry, he’d often surmised, grew into a habit.

And when he’d broken the habit the release had opened up a new world—new worlds, in fact. Worrying about finagling a trip to Alpha-Horakah and puzzling over upping his selling index were mere minor elements that had no power whatsoever to bother him.

But, still and all, he missed the great days, the thump and excitement and stirring wonder of it all...

The following morning at breakfast Rawson introduced the girl as Sharon Ogilvie. She smiled warmly and shook hands. “From Ahansic, too, Mr. Carter.”

“Our meeting was quite by chance,” Rawson said quickly. “We’re not in business together or anything.”

“I’m sure,” said Caradine politely.

He wondered what the other two thought he thought was covered by the “or anything.” Well, it seemed pretty open and shut and it certainly wasn’t his business.

That refreshing feeling of power swept over him. Nothing that he didn’t wish to be was his business, now. The days of sweating out the destinies of… Well, they were all over.

He finished his second cup of surprisingly good coffee, wiped his lips, tossed the napkin into the robotic disposal, and smiled at Rawson and Sharon.

“I think I’ll take a stroll down to the travel office. Check up on a visa.”

Sharon laughed and pulled a face. “No soap, Mr. Carter.”

“Can but try.”

He decided to walk. The city scarcely meant a thing to him, apart from his normal orienting interest in any new surroundings. It was a city, clean, bright, filled with traffic and pedestrians, with flashing traffic lights and well-filled shop fronts, the usual mixture of old and new buildings and facilities. He appreciated the sunshine, warm on his shoulders. Gamma-Horakah owned a rather nice sun. He wondered why Rawson had made such a thing out of denying any business or other relationship with Sharon Ogilvie.

A few blocks short of his destination as indicated to him by robotic street guides, he decided to drop into a restaurant for coffee. The walk had made him thirsty. His choice was purely random.

He settled on a discreet place with only four neon signs flashing out front and a glass swing door that reflected odd angles of the street and passing vehicles. He pushed the gilt bar and went round with the door.

The air-conditioning was well-balanced and caused no sudden shivery shock; civilized, the people of Horakah. But then they ought to be, considering their size and importance in the interstellar groupings and their distance from the final periphery of the Blight.

Checking the robot with a thousandth of a Galaxo—the little plastic coin was always called a Joey, no matter where you seemed to go in the galaxy—he crossed over to a side table and sat down. The delivery slot opened and his cup of coffee slid out. He stirred sugar, relaxing, feeling fine.

Well, maybe he wouldn’t get to Alpha-Horakah, after all. Sitting quiedy here with the blood running freely in his veins and arteries after the pleasant morning stroll, with a friendly sun shining in the windows, a good cup of coffee and—well why not?—a Rrono to smoke contemplatively, he really couldn’t see any reason for haste and bustle and the chasing after that tiny extra edge of business so beloved by the high-power salesman. The usual arrangement here seemed to be to sell your stuff to Gamma—any of the other satellite planets might have done—and then to take your commission and let the space fines of Horakah worry about shipping in to Alpha. His business friends and contacts back in Shanstar would be pleased with any business he could put their way.

Maybe the Krono angle was a good one. He knew the smoke to be excellent, well up to his old Earth brands.

Yes, he was roughing it out, now. After the fluttery feeling in passing through customs, the rest of it all was mere routine. Not uninteresting; he still had contacts to make. Even so, he sometimes wondered why he bothered to go from stellar grouping to stellar grouping, doing business, when he could be back on Shanstar, seeing about setting up a new home in the ranch house he had bought last time through. Shanstar… Well, it wasn’t Earth, but it was an acceptable substitute.

One or two other people had entered and left the restaurant. He took little notice. Pretty soon he’d finish up the coffee and walk the few blocks to the travel office. Loud laughter attracted his attention. Over by the counter a group of young men was horse-trading, swapping jokes, living it up. Clerks, probably, out for their mid morning break whilst the robots carried on unsupervised.

He rose to go. He had to pass the group and he was totally unprepared. A foot came from nowhere and he went sprawling. His automatic reflex caused a hand to flash out and grasp a chair leg. Then chair and all came crashing down. The all turned out to be a table, and the table had been’ loaded with cookies, plates, knives and forks, all set for a slap-up meal. That slap-up meal was now a gooey mess on the vinyl flooring.

“Say, mister. Why’n’t you look where you’re going?”

Still unprepared, Caradine said: “Sorry.” He scrambled up.

“The man says he’s sorry.”

He bent to wipe away berry pie from his black trousers.

The same voice, hectoring, patronizing, said: “He says he’s sorry when this lady’s food is all over the floor.”

Caradine remembered the foot. These people were living on Horakah. They belonged to the planet, and were members of a strong interstellar cluster. Take it easy, boy.

“That’s all right.” The girl was speaking in a scared voice. Caradine looked at her. Young, freckled, dressed in a simple frock of lime green that left her arms and knees showing. Brown eyes, brown hair. Nice, pleasant, home-loving type-on the surface.

She was trying to talk out of the bully-boy’s racket. Of those there were four, and Caradine at once selected the leader, the hectoring one.

“Is this lady with you?”

“Wha-at? Say, what’s that got to do with you, mister?”

“I was merely going to suggest that as it was your foot that tripped me up you should offer to pay for her meal.”

The reply was unintelligible to Caradine, but the girl colored and looked embarrassed so it was probably currendy obscene.

“Yon wanting to have your face pushed in, outworlder?”

“Who says I’m outworld?” Caradine said pugnaciously. It might work. He might get out of here without further trouble, but he doubted that. It all made him feel so weary.

“Look at your clothes.”

Certainly the four youths were dressed rather remarkably. Each had a dirty brown-mustardy waistcoat, open down the front to show a three-inch gap of hairy—or almost hairy; they were quite young—chest. The pants puffed at the hips and were slashed to show scarlet tights beneath. The hose came up high and were yellow. Each boot was a different color.

Caradine bad grown so used to odd clothes among the people of the galaxy that these he’d passed over as a retrograde fashion step. He gave a quick glance at his own clothes, as though in obedience to the bully-boy’s command.

A white shirt, short-sleeved, open at the throat and fastened with two magneclamps. Black trousers with a dark-blue cummerbund. A nice, quiet, sensible and conservative outfit. Evidently, it jarred upon these four more enlightened denizens of Horakah.

He only hoped that his shoulder holster wasn’t showing.

The girl stood up and tried to say something about not bothering about the meal, but she was brutally cut off by the leader.

“Sit, Tisha, and do as you’re told.” Perhaps, Caradine wondered critically, he wasn’t supposed to make anything out of that.

“All right, lads,” he said. “You’ve had your fun. Now disappear, scram, flitter. I’ve an appointment.”

“Outworlder poof.” The leader put a hand into the pocket concealed in the puffed pants. Something came out that gleamed. The others followed the leader.

“Get him!” On the words the four thugs bore down on Caradine, their eyes hard and hating, their lips drawn back involuntarily in a rictus of unthinking alien hate.