Читать книгу Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1 - Edmond Hamilton - Страница 42

So I’m flatpicking up a bit of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” enjoying the hell out of it, and finish with a trademark Doc Watson run. Got lots of people gathered around me by the observation deck; touries, techies, goonies and moonies on their way back and forth between here and the Concourse. Good crowd, and there be a couple of touriefems giving me a friendly eye. It’s while I’m considering the possibilities that I click on this one nervous little moonunit in a sloppy jumpsuit hanging around the edge of the crowd. I can spell the trouble with this unit.

S-p-a-z-n-i-k.

I do a little patter about the Old Man on the Moon and how I met him my first week Up Here and how he taught me this next song which is nothing more than an old whaling song with some of the words changed. One grinning tourie recognizes the tune and whispers something to his ladyfriend. I send them a wink before the end of the song to let them in on the joke and figure the guy’ll drop an extra dollie or two in the tin for making him look clever in front of his lady.

Never hurts to let the paying public feel good about themselves. Hell, it’s the very soul of busking. Okay, the money is the heart of it, and the fun is in playing, but the soul is in the way people gather around and just gig.

I pick through and finish up another song to a scatter of applause, little kids jumping high over their parents heads to see me—enjoying the hell out of the lighter gravity—when I catch a cough from a uniformed loonie goon by the passageway entrance. They don’t mind me playing, but the crowd’s getting kind of dense and it’s time to move along.

I give a little bow to thank and amuse whilst passing the tin around. Not bad. Some loonie dollies and some meal tickets, and a button. Ha! I love kids. Where’d they find a button Up Here?

The crowd disperses (as do the touriefems, alas) and up comes my nervous little spaznik in the sloppy suit.

“You Digger?” he asks. He looks something Asian. About a meter and a half tall and stick thin. He blinks at me through a tangled mass of black hair and seems a little unsteady.

I count up my takings and divide it among many pockets. “Be me. Who you?”

Like some newbie, he sticks his hand out, “Kimochi Stan.”

Shaking hands is a Down There thing to do. It’s nothing personal—you touch friends, even some acquaintances of good reputation, but you never know when some newbie with the sniffles slips by the Quarrines. Still, the kid looks like he could use a friend so I take his hand and pump it all gregarious like.

“Cool sobriquet,” I tell him, “something like ‘feels good’ in Jappongo, right?”

He looks embarrassed. Most of us who end up bumming around the Concourse pick up these little nicknames. Sometimes they’re given, like Ice Cream Lou’s or Amazing Gracie’s or we make them up ourselves. Instant notoriety. No crime. Kimochi must be American or Canadian born though. Japan doesn’t fool around with travel visas to the moon; and my new pal Stan doesn’t seem to be weighed down with an accent.

I tune up the guitar by touch, muffling the homemade strings with my fingers. “So what’s up, ‘Feel Good’?”

“I want to go home,” he says like his heart is about to freeze up and shatter. Poor kid shivers before me. Lunar fidgets we call it. Like homesickness, but a hundred times worse. Maybe the good feelings he came up here with pffted out into vacuum. Hope he don’t bawl on me. Tears ain’t good for business not unless you’re playing real skinned knee bluegrass. I wonder how long it took before Feel Good’s fidgets started settling in. Sometimes takes a month. Sometimes they start as soon as the shuttle docks. Poor little breast fed babies.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I tell him. I stow my guitar into its carrybag and lean it against a wall.

“You got a return chit. Sooner or later they gotta send you back.”

“No, I want to go home now. I can’t take it here anymore,” he stammers and twitches like a jumping bean. “Tattooed Lydia said you could help me out.”

Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia the tattooed lady? Nice girl—looks like a living picture book. Real friendly too, if you get my drift. And she sends a lot of business my way.

The orb of Earth had long since ceased to be a gollygee sight, but the observation deck was still milling with eager-eyed touries. I look around for goons—both kinds—the loonie goons with the uniform stripes on their arms, and cheesehead goons, the muscle for Concourse queens like Amazing Gracie. The loonie goon from before is gone, and no other two legged security in sight. Plenty of cameras in a public place like this, but cameras don’t bother me. Brahe City Security isn’t who I’m concerned about.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I tell him. “How good is your chit?”

He reaches under his shirt and pulls out a gray plastic tag on a thin chain. Along the underside is a magnetic strip. “It’s got two and a half months left. I need to go home tomorrow.”

Survived two whole weeks Up Here, eh?

“Cool your jets, buddy guy,” I say. “You think you’re booking a jump to Las Vegas? Best I can do is a berth to Mexico City in a week.” That much is almost true. Let’s see what else he’s got. With only so many spots available on transports going Up and Down, even charity has its bounds. And it’s not like he can just walk up to Lunar Authority and say “take me home.” They got iron sphincter schedules with every seat going up or down booked well in advance of some poor moonunit with the fidgets. You can buy whatever kind of visa chits you want Down There but to book an early passage downside, you need an expiring chit saying you’ve used up your prepaid welcome. No Travelers Aid around here. Not yet anyway.

The best Kimochi Stan can do if he wants to bug out is either fake an illness—which will land him in the Quarrines for a spell—or do something to get tossed into Facilities for an undetermined amount of time until Lunar Authority decides they might have some cargo space available. Doing crimes got you put in jail Up Here, but once you got sent Down There you spent even more time in jail. The only smart way to get back to Earth before your time is to get hold of an expiring chit and grab the seat assignment before the shuttle takes off. Most touries know this. It’s the moonunits who think they can just wing it without a plan.

“I can’t make it another week,” says Stan, all distressed and the like—more warui by the second. Total spaznik. He pulls a handful of meal tickets from his pocket. “I have three week’s of meals. Genuine!’’

They better be. Getting caught with phony meal tickets gets you nothing but bread and water with the loonie goons until they kick you home for more of the same. I sling my guitar bag over my shoulder.

“Follow.”

I set a loping pace, wide leaping, low gravity strides, but—you know—controlled and graceful, and take a public tunnel leading away from the Concourse and crowds. I don’t think anyone is following us, but there’s no sense letting Amazing Gracie or her crew spot me taking a spaznik to a hideyhole. At the end of the tunnel I jump up a level and pull an unscrewed access panel from the wall. I motion Kimochi inside and pull the panel closed behind us.

Boxes of control switches, circuits, and pressure gauges line the walls and insulated pipes crisscross the ceiling. Things get more cramped in these rabbit holes, so instead of the arcing strides that pass for walking up here, you have to sort of pull yourself along, single file, bracing your hands against the walls while keeping your head low.

Even in enclosed quarters, there’s no sense in giving Kimochi Stan enough time to gig on the path to my hideyhole. In the techtunnels, there are no conveniently placed glowstrips to show touries the way to the food court or gift shops. The walls and circuit boxes aren’t numbered and coded in any sequential order, but if you know how to look at them—and I do—they make spiffy-skiffy landmarks. Two years ago I did some sly work for this one claustrophobic techie and got the lay of the land. Learned a lot about the ins and outs of just about every rabbit hole in Brahe City.

We take so many twists and turns, paths that double back, and others that look like dead-enders unless you squeeze past another loose panel, I figure I’ve got Stan lost enough where if he tries to branch out on his own, he’d be dead lost. Not that I want him to, mind you, but I didn’t get by for four years Up Here by being the fool. If any of Gracie’s crew grabs him and beats my hideyhole loc out of him, I’ll be all done. Busted flat. Game over and sent downside.

I weave through the maze for another fifteen minutes, until I’m abso-smoothly sure I have Kimochi thoroughly scroggled. Judging from the bitty whimpers, he’s just about there. I quit the runaround and cut across a little courtyard where eight tunnels all join together. I pick the leftmost one on the far wall and head toward my hideyhole. Well, one of the several I got scattered hither and yon.

We reach the end of the last tunnel where I switch on a battery lamp taped to the wall. I can’t really call it home; but it’s a place to sleep and sometimes just hole up. A sleeping bag sits on the floor and some boxes for clothes and incidentals lean against a wall. It’s as cozy as it’s going to get, a lost little place that only me and probably Security knows about. But like I said, this is just one of several, and Security can’t be sure which one I’d be using and when.

Not that they care much.

I swivel toward Stan and point, “About face,” I tell him. He’s looking worse and worser. Real fidgety. The Concourse is a nice big open space, like a mall, but even then it can feel real small to a lot of earthworms. The rabbit holes, by comparison, are as tiny as wombs—or coffins—depending on how you look at things. My pal Stan is not in a good state of being, but he doesn’t question me. He just nods and turns away until I say otherwise.

I put my guitar down and pull a box away from the wall. A single strand of hair sticks out from between two panels right where I left it. I push on a corner of a panel then pry it off. Inside, sitting on a plasteen pump control housing, is a chip scanner I once fished out of recycling and fixed. I grab it, replace the panel, and push the box back.

“Give me your chit,” I say, standing up.

Stan turns back around, pulls the chain over his head and hands me the chit. He looks around at my little refuge—pure envy on his face. Brother, this didn’t come easy. It took a long time before I had enough tricks to stake out a safe hideyhole in the belly of the base. Learned from those who came before me, but none of whom lasted so long. As for Stan, he probably curls himself up in some communal corner each night, hoping not to be robbed by another spaz. He doesn’t look the sort to have the dollies for a comfort room. I run his tag through a slot in the scanner and check the length of time remaining in his pre-paid stay. Not exactly eight weeks, but close enough not to make a big stink about it,

I hold up his chit. “With this and your meal slips, I’ll trade you a berth to O’Hare in three days.”

What happens next is totally my fault.

Stan launches himself at me and shoves me up against the wall. If he had taken more time to brace himself before his lunge, he might have had more luck. As it was, I’ve lived on the moon for nearly five years and I know how to move my body. Stan has only been here a couple weeks and moves as clumsy as a toddlerbabe.

Of course it don’t pay much to be overconfident. I twist and tumble him to the floor, which at one-sixth gee doesn’t hurt him much. Of course I forget how weirdly desperate these spazniks can be. Stan kicks up his legs and tangles them with mine in a clumsy sort of judo then pulls me down with him.

He rolls atop of me and sneaks in a good clip, hitting my jaw, making my teeth click and thankful that my tongue isn’t between them. Again, this guy forgets just where he is. It doesn’t take Samson to throw a guy off your chest around here. I shove him away and scramble back before he can grabble at me again.

He gets up and tries for another launch, but this time I’m ready for him. Poor spaz. I crouch on the floor and wait for him to move. Stan braces himself against the wall, then launches himself at me. I bounce to the right and rebound behind him where I grab him by the collar and yank him back. His head smacks against the wall. Whammo!

That’s all it takes.

I didn’t even slam him very hard—him being a potential customer and all—but that doesn’t stop old Kimochi Stan from breaking down into bawls. I let him go and he crumples to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and boohooing.

I could give him a good kick right there, and probably should. But I don’t. I remember my first couple of months Up Here. It can get edgy. “Want to tell me what that was all about?” I ask.

Stan just sits there for a minute, then lifts his head and winces. “I thought you might be holding out on me and had a return chit that left today,” he says.

I look at him, not really surprised. “That desperate?”

He nods glumly.

I sigh. Just a dumb spazzing cheesehead who slipped through the psyches. “A smart loonie doesn’t keep his chits all in the same place. Maybe you should stay up here longer to learn how things is done, dig?”

“No...” he moans.

I grab my scanner which got dropped in the scuffle. It looks no worse for wear—at least this isn’t Earth gravity. I toss Stan his chit back. He looks at me all worried-like. He should be. After a stunt like that I should leave him in the deepest, darkest, most remote tunnel in the Belly. I’m sorely tempted, but even an idiot like this might have gotten savik enough to let someone else know where he was going. And if he doesn’t reappear, living and breathing, sometime soon, word would get out that dealing with Digger gets you a stone-cold corpse. Bad hoodoo.

“Look, Stan. No hard feelings, but don’t try that shit again. Listen to older brother instead. Tomorrow, you meet me in the Concourse by Ice Cream Lou’s Rent-a-Room with your chit, your meal tickets, and two fully charged batteries. I’ll give you a chit for O’Hare leaving the next day. If you can’t find the dollie for some batteries, then it’s Mexico City in a week. Until Lou’s, I don’t want to see your face. Got me?”

He nods and curls himself up tighter. If the kid behaved himself maybe I’d have gotten him to O’Hare without the batteries, but I hate getting jumped, fidgeting spaznik or not.

“You’re not going to go lunar on me again.”

He nods again and mumbles something. I can’t hear him but he sounds properly contrite.

“Good. Now get up.”

I grab him by the collar and push and pull him along with me. I take a different route back to the Concourse and exit from a different panel than the one we entered. I make him repeat back the deal we struck, then send him on his way. He’s still choking tears and he looks a mess. I hope anyone who sees him will be able to figure out the story for themselves.

After I send Stan stumbling on his way I recede back into the tunnels and go around the Concourse to another hideyhole some fars aways. This one has the treasure trove hidden inside the pump housing and I check my supply of extra chits and dump my takings from the day. I got a good amount squirreled away Up Here in hideyholes spread across Brahe City. Nest eggs. There be rumors percolating about that Project Burroughs is going civvie Real Soon Now. Visa rules are gonna be tough, tougher, toughest for Mars, but money talks. I still got a ways to go to raise the funds, but without real credentials up here, I’m stuck playing the hallways for change.

Consider, brothers and sisters, there’s no work to be had up here; not unless you wrangle a contract before you blast off—and those are tough to get. The United Nations Space Agreement guarantees anyone the right to travel to the moon, but they don’t encourage immigration. Aside from the visa chits, there are meal tickets to use in the food court and loonie currency for incidentals and souvenirs from the tourie shops. Lodging costs extra too, from cheap comfort rooms to posh suites with private observation ports overlooking the dusty, dry lunar surface.

Other than to work for one of the UN tourie businesses, or in one of the research labs at the other end of the station, there’s not much left to do. You’re given some passes to a few historic sites like the Eagle landing site or the Artemis wreckage, but after that you have to pay. Fine for a tourie on a week’s holiday. Sucks for the rest of us, but we make do.

Most of the units who come up are your average touries. Here for a week to two, then gone back to the bosom of Mama Earth. Then there are the techheads and service folk and such who hang on from six to eighteen months then go home. Finally there are the squatters, like me. Not destitute or slovenly or anything. We’re more like moon groupies who come up for the atmosphere (ha!), but many of whom also come away with disillusions.

But not me.

I love the moon. I love it Up Here and Out There. But I know it’s not for everyone. You see, the trick is to find a niche and hang on tight.

Take Amazing Gracie (please!) who owns a big slice of the black market. Then there’s Ice Cream Lou who provides the playspace for the boys and girls who turn exotic sixth-G tricks for bright-eyed touries. Tattooed Lydia sells one-of-a-kind skin souvenirs—each one unique and guaranteed not to fade away for at least five years. There are others. Lots of others. Opportunity is where you find it.

Those who can’t hack it Up Here trade us their chits for ones that will send them home early. As for yours truly, I do what I can to ease their burden—be it a song, a story, or a good trade—all the while working on my own grand plan.

I stop outside the food court and look to see if I can’t add yet a few more dollies to my stash and maybe some meal tickets to sell later. I play and I sing and I do my thing while staying out of the way of the loonie goons. I’m no beggar. I work for a living thank you very much.

You try singing in a public place. I dare you.