Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One Page 8

  Jean thought to tease him, draw him out. “Know what?”

  “Whatever it was you were curious about.”

  “Pooh. Men are mostly alike. They all have the same button. Push it, they all jump in the same direction.”

  Fotheringay frowned, glanced at her under narrowed eyes. “Maybe you aren’t so precocious after all.”

  Jean became tense. In a curious indefinable way, the subject was very important, as if survival were linked with confidence in her own sophistication and flexibility. “What do you mean?”

  “You make the assumption most pretty girls make,” he said with a trace of scorn. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Jean frowned. There had been little abstract thinking in her background. “Well, I’ve never had it work out differently. Although I’m willing to admit there are exceptions…It’s a kind of game. I’ve never lost. If I’m kidding myself, it hasn’t made much difference so far.”

  Fotheringay relaxed. “You’ve been lucky.”

  Jean stretched out her arms, arched her body, smiled as if at a secret. “Call it luck.”

  “Luck won’t work with Earl Abercrombie.”

  “You’re the one who used the word luck. I think it’s, well—ability.”

  “You’ll have to use your brains too.” He hesitated, then said, “Actually, Earl likes—odd things.”

  Jean sat looking at him, frowning.

  He said coolly, “You’re making up your mind how best to ask the question, ‘What’s odd about me?’”

  Fotheringay made no comment.

  “I’m completely on my own,” said Jean. “There’s not a soul in all the human universe that I care two pins for. I do just exactly as I please.” She watched him carefully. He nodded indifferently. Jean quelled her exasperation, leaned back in her chair, studied him as if he were in a glass case…A strange young man. Did he ever smile? She thought of the Capellan Fibrates who by popular superstition were able to fix themselves along a man’s spinal column and control his intelligence. Fotheringay displayed a coldness strange enough to suggest such a possession…A Capellan could manipulate but one hand at a time. Fotheringay held a knife in one hand, a fork in the other and moved both hands together. So much for that.

  He said quietly, “I watched your hands too.”

  Jean threw back her head and laughed—a healthy adolescent laugh. Fotheringay watched her without discernible expression.

  She said, “Actually, you’d like to know about me, but you’re too stiff-necked to ask.”

  “You were born at Angel City on Codiron,” said Fotheringay. “Your mother abandoned you in a tavern, a gambler named Joe Parlier took care of you until you were ten, when you killed him and three other men and stowed away on the Gray Line Packet Bucyrus. You were taken to the Waif’s Home at Paie on Bella’s Pride. You ran away and the Superintendent was found dead…Shall I go on? There’s five more years of it.”

  Jean sipped her wine, nowise abashed. “You’ve worked fast…But you’ve misrepresented. You said, ‘There’s five years more of it, shall I go on?’ as if you were able to go on. You don’t know anything about the next five years.”

  Fotheringay’s face changed by not a flicker. He said as if she had not spoken, “Now listen carefully. This is what you’ll have to look out for.”

  “Go ahead. I’m all ears.” She leaned back in her chair. A clever technique, ignoring an unwelcome situation as if it never existed. Of course, to carry it off successfully, a certain temperament was required. A cold fish like Fotheringay managed very well.

  “Tonight a man named Webbard meets us here. He is chief steward at Abercrombie Station. I happen to be able to influence certain of his actions. He will take you up with him to Abercrombie and install you as a servant in the Abercrombie private chambers.”

  Jean wrinkled her nose. “Servant? Why can’t I go to Abercrombie as a paying guest?”

  “It wouldn’t be natural. A girl like you would go up to Capricorn or Verge. Earl Abercrombie is extremely suspicious. He’d be certain to fight shy of you. His mother, old Mrs. Clara, watches him pretty closely, and keeps drilling into his head the idea that all the Abercrombie girls are after his money. As a servant you will have opportunity to meet him in intimate circumstances. He rarely leaves his study; he’s absorbed in his collecting.”

  “My word,” murmured Jean. “What does he collect?”

  “Everything you can think of,” said Fotheringay, moving his lips upward in a quick grimace, almost a smile. “I understand from Webbard, however, that he is rather romantic, and has carried on a number of flirtations among the girls of the station.”

  Jean screwed up her mouth in fastidious scorn. Fotheringay watched her impassively.

  “When do I—commence?”

  “Webbard goes up on the supply barge tomorrow. You’ll go with him.”

  A whisper of sound from the buzzer. Fotheringay touched the button. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Webbard for you, sir.”

  Webbard was waiting, the fattest man Jean had ever seen.

  The plaque on the door read, Richard Mycroft, Attorney-at-Law. Somewhere far back down the years, someone had said in Jean’s hearing that Richard Mycroft was a good attorney.

  The receptionist was a dark woman about thirty-five, with a direct penetrating eye. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” said Jean. “I’m in rather a hurry.”

  The receptionist hesitated a moment, then bent over the communicator. “A young lady—Miss Jean Parlier—to see you. New business.”

  “Very well.”

  The receptionist nodded to the door. “You can go in,” she said shortly.

  She doesn’t like me, thought Jean. Because I’m what she was and what she wants to be again.

  Mycroft was a square man with a pleasant face. Jean constructed a wary defense against him. If you liked someone and they knew it, they felt obligated to advise and interfere. She wanted no advice, no interference. She wanted two million dollars.

  “Well, young lady,” said Mycroft. “What can I do for you?”

  He’s treating me like a child, thought Jean. Maybe I look like a child to him. She said, “It’s a matter of advice. I don’t know much about fees. I can afford to pay you a hundred dollars. When you advise me a hundred dollars’ worth, let me know and I’ll go away.”

  “A hundred dollars buys a lot of advice,” said Mycroft. “Advice is cheap.”

  “Not from a lawyer.”

  Mycroft became practical. “What are your troubles?”

  “It’s understood that this is all confidential?”

  “Certainly.” Mycroft’s smile froze into a polite grimace.

  “It’s nothing illegal—so far as I’m concerned—but I don’t want you passing out any quiet hints to—people that might be interested.”

  Mycroft straightened himself behind his desk. “A lawyer is expected to respect the confidence of his client.”

  “Okay…Well, it’s like this.” She told him of Fotheringay, of Abercrombie Station and Earl Abercrombie. She said that Earl Abercrombie was sick with an incurable disease. She made no mention of Fotheringay’s convictions on that subject. It was a matter she herself kept carefully brushing out of her mind. Fotheringay had hired her. He told her what to do, told her that Earl Abercrombie was sick. That was good enough for her. If she had asked too many questions, found that things were too nasty even for her stomach, Fotheringay would have found another girl less inquisitive…She skirted the exact nature of Earl’s disease. She didn’t actually know, herself. She didn’t want to know.

  Mycroft listened attentively, saying nothing.

  “What I want to know is,” said Jean, “is the wife sure to inherit on Abercrombie? I don’t want to go to a lot of trouble for nothing. And after all Earl is under twenty-one; I thought that in the event of his death it was best to—well, make sure of everything first.”

  For a moment Mycroft made no move, but sat regarding her quietly.
Then he tamped tobacco into a pipe.

  “Jean,” he said, “I’ll give you some advice. It’s free. No strings on it.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Jean. “I don’t want the kind of advice that’s free. I want the kind I have to pay for.”

  Mycroft grimaced. “You’re a remarkably wise child.”

  “I’ve had to be…Call me a child, if you wish.”

  “Just what will you do with a million dollars? Or two million, I understand it to be?”

  Jean stared. Surely the answer was obvious…or was it? When she tried to find an answer, nothing surfaced.

  “Well,” she said vaguely, “I’d like an airboat, some nice clothes, and maybe…” In her mind’s eye she suddenly saw herself surrounded by friends. Nice people, like Mr. Mycroft.

  “If I were a psychologist and not a lawyer,” said Mycroft, “I’d say you wanted your mother and father more than you wanted two million dollars.”

  Jean became very heated. “No, no! I don’t want them at all. They’re dead.” As far as she was concerned they were dead. They had died for her when they left her on Joe Parlier’s pool-table in the old Aztec Tavern.

  Jean said indignantly, “Mr. Mycroft, I know you mean well, but tell me what I want to know.”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Mycroft, “because if I didn’t, someone else would. Abercrombie property, if I’m not mistaken, is regulated by its own civil code…Let’s see—” he twisted in his chair, pushed buttons on his desk.

  On the screen appeared the index to the Central Law Library. Mycroft made further selections, narrowing down selectively. A few seconds later he had the information. “Property control begins at sixteen. Widow inherits at minimum fifty percent; the entire estate unless specifically stated otherwise in the will.”

  “Good,” said Jean. She jumped to her feet. “That’s what I wanted to make sure of.”

  Mycroft asked, “When do you leave?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “I don’t need to tell you that the idea behind the scheme is—not moral.”

  “Mr. Mycroft, you’re a dear. But I don’t have any morals.”

  He tilted his head, shrugged, puffed on his pipe. “Are you sure?”

  “Well—yes.” Jean considered a moment. “I suppose so. Do you want me to go into details?”

  “No. I think what I meant to say was, are you sure you know what you want out of life?”

  “Certainly. Lots of money.”

  Mycroft grinned. “That’s really not a good answer. What will you buy with your money?”

  Jean felt irrational anger rising in her throat. “Oh—lots of things.” She rose to her feet. “Just what do I owe you, Mr. Mycroft?”

  “Oh—ten dollars. Give it to Ruth.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mycroft.” She stalked out of his office.

  As she marched down the corridor she was surprised to find that she was angry with herself as well as irritated with Mr. Mycroft…He had no right making people wonder about themselves. It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t wondering a little already.

  But this was all nonsense. Two million dollars was two million dollars. When she was rich, she’d call on Mr. Mycroft and ask him if honestly he didn’t think it was worth a few little lapses.

  And today—up to Abercrombie Station. She suddenly became excited.

  III

  The pilot of the Abercrombie supply barge was emphatic. “No sir, I think you’re making a mistake, nice little girl like you.”

  He was a chunky man in his thirties, hard-bitten and positive. Sparse blond hair crusted his scalp, deep lines gave his mouth a cynical slant. Webbard, the Abercrombie chief steward, was billeted astern, in the special handling locker. The usual webbings were inadequate to protect his corpulence; he floated chin-deep in a tankful of emulsion the same specific gravity as his body.

  There was no passenger cabin and Jean had slipped into the seat beside the pilot. She wore a modest white frock, a white toque, a gray and black striped jacket.

  The pilot had few good words for Abercrombie Station. “Now it’s what I call a shame, taking a kid like you to serve the likes of them…Why don’t they get one of their own kind? Surely both sides would be the happier.”

  Jean said innocently, “I’m going up for only just a little bit.”

  “So you think. It’s catching. In a year you’ll be like the rest of them. The air alone is enough to sicken a person, rich and sweet like olive oil. Me, I never set foot outside the barge unless I can’t help it.”

  “Do you think I’ll be—safe?” She raised her lashes, turned him her reckless sidelong look.

  He licked his lips, moved in his seat. “Oh, you’ll be safe enough,” he muttered. “At least from them that’s been there a while. You might have to duck a few just fresh from Earth…After they’ve lived on the station a bit their ideas change, and they wouldn’t spit on the best part of an Earth girl.”

  “Hmmph.” Jean compressed her lips. Earl Abercrombie had been born on the station.

  “But I wasn’t thinking so much of that,” said the pilot. It was hard, he thought, talking straight sense to a kid so young and inexperienced. “I meant in that atmosphere you’ll be apt to let yourself go. Pretty soon you’ll look like the rest of ’em—never want to leave. Some aren’t able to leave—couldn’t stand it back on Earth if they wanted to.”

  “Oh—I don’t think so. Not in my case.”

  “It’s catching,” said the pilot vehemently. “Look, kid, I know. I’ve ferried out to all the stations, I’ve seen ’em come and go. Each station has its own kind of weirdness, and you can’t keep away from it.” He chuckled self-consciously. “Maybe that’s why I’m so batty myself…Now take Madeira Station. Gay. Frou-frou.” He made a mincing motion with his fingers. “That’s Madeira. You wouldn’t know much about that…But take Balchester Aerie, take Merlin Dell, take the Starhome—”

  “Surely, some are just pleasure resorts?”

  The pilot grudgingly admitted that of the twenty-two resort satellites, fully half were as ordinary as Miami Beach. “But the others—oh, Moses!” He rolled his eyes back. “And Abercrombie is the worst.”

  There was silence in the cabin. Earth was a monstrous, green, blue, white and black ball over Jean’s shoulder. The sun made a furious hole in the sky below. Ahead were the stars—and a set of blinking blue and red lights.

  “Is that Abercrombie?”

  “No, that’s the Masonic Temple. Abercrombie is on out a ways…” He looked diffidently at her from the corner of his eyes. “Now—look! I don’t want you to think I’m fresh. Or maybe I do. But if you’re hard up for a job—why don’t you come back to Earth with me? I got a pretty nice shack in Long Beach—nothing fancy—but it’s on the beach, and it’ll be better than working for a bunch of side-show freaks.”

  Jean said absently, “No thanks.” The pilot pulled in his chin, pulled his elbows close against his body, glowered.

  An hour passed. From behind came a rattle, and a small panel slid back. Webbard’s pursy face showed through. The barge was coasting on free momentum, gravity was negated. “How much longer to the station?”

  “It’s just ahead. Half an hour, more or less, and we’ll be fished up tight and right.” Webbard grunted, withdrew.

  Yellow and green lights winked ahead. “That’s Abercrombie,” said the pilot. He reached out to a handle. “Brace yourself.” He pulled. Pale blue check-jets streamed out ahead.

  From behind came a thump and an angry cursing. The pilot grinned. “Got him good.” The jets roared a minute, died. “Every trip it’s the same way. Now in a minute he’ll stick his head through the panel and bawl me out.”

  The portal slid back. Webbard showed his furious face. “Why in thunder don’t you warn me before you check? I just now took a blow that might have hurt me! You’re not much of a pilot, risking injuries of that sort!”

  The pilot said in a droll voice, “Sorry sir, sorry indeed. Won’t happen again.”

>   “It had better not! If it does, I’ll make it my business to see that you’re discharged.”

  The portal snapped shut. “Sometimes I get him better than others,” said the pilot. “This was a good one, I could tell by the thump.”

  He shifted in his seat, put his arm around Jean’s shoulders, pulled her against him. “Let’s have a little kiss, before we fish home.”

  Jean leaned forward, reached out her arm. He saw her face coming toward him—bright wonderful face, onyx, pale rose, ivory, smiling hot with life…She reached past him, thrust the check valve. Four jets thrashed forward. The barge jerked. The pilot fell into the instrument panel, comical surprise written on his face.

  From behind came a heavy resonant thump.

  The pilot pulled himself back into his seat, knocked back the check valve. Blood oozed from his chin, forming a little red wen. Behind them the portal snapped open. Webbard’s face, black with rage, looked through.

  When he had finally finished, and the portal had closed, the pilot looked at Jean, who was sitting quietly in her seat, the corners of her mouth drawn up dreamily.

  He said from deep in his throat, “If I had you alone, I’d beat you half to death.”

  Jean drew her knees up under her chin, clasped her arms around, looked silently ahead.

  Abercrombie Station had been built to the Fitch cylinder-design: a power and service core, a series of circular decks, a transparent sheath. To the original construction a number of modifications and annexes had been added. An outside deck circled the cylinder, sheet steel to hold the magnetic grapples of small boats, cargo binds, magnetic shoes, anything which was to be fixed in place for a greater or lesser time. At each end of the cylinder, tubes connected to dependent constructions. The first, a sphere, was the private residence of the Abercrombies. The second, a cylinder, rotated at sufficient speed to press the water it contained evenly over its inner surface to a depth of ten feet; this was the station swimming pool, a feature found on only three of the resort satellites.

  The supply barge inched close to the deck, bumped. Four men attached constrictor tackle to rings in the hull, heaved the barge along to the supply port. The barge settled into its socket, grapples shot home, the ports sucked open.