The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe hellflowerThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The hellflowerAuthor: George O. SmithIllustrator: Virgil FinlayRelease date: October 10, 2022 [eBook #69124]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HELLFLOWER ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The hellflowerAuthor: George O. SmithIllustrator: Virgil FinlayRelease date: October 10, 2022 [eBook #69124]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: The hellflower
Author: George O. SmithIllustrator: Virgil Finlay
Author: George O. Smith
Illustrator: Virgil Finlay
Release date: October 10, 2022 [eBook #69124]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Better Publications, Inc, 1952
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HELLFLOWER ***
The HELLFLOWERA Novel byGEORGE O. SMITH[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromStartling Stories, May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromStartling Stories, May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The book had been thrown at Charles Farradyne. Then they had added the composing room, the printing press, and the final grand black smear of printer's ink. So when Howard Clevis located Farradyne working in the fungus fields of Venus four years later, Farradyne was a beaten man who no longer burned with resentment because he was all burned out. Farradyne looked up dully when Clevis came into the squalid rooming-house.
"I am Howard Clevis," said the visitor.
"Fine," mumbled Farradyne. "So what?" He looked at one of the few white shirts in a thousand miles and grunted disapprovingly.
"I've got a job for you."
"Who do you want killed?"
"Take it easy. You're the Charles Farradyne who—"
"Who dumped the Semiramide into The Bog ... and you're Santa Claus, here to undo it?"
"This is on the level, Farradyne."
Farradyne laughed shortly, but the sound was all scorn and no humor. While the raw bark was still echoing in the room, he added, "Can it, Clevis. With a thousand licensed spacemen handy everywhere, willing to latch onto an honest buck, any man that comes halfway across Venus to offer Farradyne a job can't be on the level."
Clevis eyed Farradyne calculatingly. "I should think you might enjoy the chance."
"It doesn't look good."
Clevis smiled calmly. He had the air of a man who knew what he was doing. He was medium tall, with a sprinkle of gray in his hair and determined lines near the eyes and across the forehead. There was character in his face, strong and no doubt about it. "I'm here, Farradyne, just because of the way it looks. But the fact is that I need you. I know you're bitter, but—"
"Bitter!" roared Farradyne, getting to his feet and stalking across the squalid room towards Clevis. "Bitter? My God! They haul me home on a shutter so they can give me a fair trial before they kick me out. You don't think I like it in this rat hole, do you?"
"No, I don't. But listen, will you?"
"Nobody listened to me, why should I listen to you?"
"Because I have something to say," said Clevis pointedly. "Do you want to hear it?"
"Go ahead."
"I'm Howard Clevis of the Solar Anti-Narcotic Department."
Farradyne snorted. "Well, I haven't got any. I don't use any. And I don't have much truck with those that do."
"Nobody is on trial here—nothing that you say can be used in any way. That's why I came alone. Look ... if I were in your shoes I'd do anything at all to get out of this muck-field."
"Some things even a bum won't do. And I don't owe you anything."
"Wrong. When you dumped the Semiramide into The Bog four years ago, you killed one of our best operatives. We need you, Farradyne, and you owe us for that. Now?"
"When I dumped the Semiramide no one would listen to me. Do you want to listen to me now?"
"No, I don't."
"I got a raw deal."
"So did the man you killed."
"I didn't kill anybody!" yelled Farradyne.
Clevis eyed Farradyne calmly, even though Farradyne was large enough to take the smaller, older man's hide off if he got angry enough. "I'm not here to argue that point," said Clevis, "and I don't intend to. Regardless of how you feel, I'm offering you a chance to get out of this mess. It's a space job, Farradyne."
"What makes you think I'll play stool pigeon?"
"It's no informer's job. It's space-piloting."
"I'll bet."
"You bet and I'll cover it a thousand to one."
Farradyne sat down on the dingy bed and said, "Go ahead and talk, Clevis. I'll listen."
Clevis dug into his brief case and brought out a flower. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, handing the blossom to Farradyne.
Farradyne looked at it briefly. "It might be a gardenia but it isn't."
"How can you tell?" asked Clevis eagerly.
"Only because you wouldn't be coming halfway across Venus to bring me a gardenia. So that is a love lotus."
Clevis looked a bit disappointed. "I thought that maybe you might have some way—"
"What makes you think I'd know more than a botanist?"
Clevis smiled. "Spacemen tend to come up with some oddly interesting specks of knowledge now and then."
"So far as I know, there's only one way of telling. That's to try it out. Thanks, I'll not have my fun that way. That's one thing you can't pin on me."
"I wouldn't try. But listen, Farradyne. In the past twelve years we have carefully besmirched the names and reputations of six men, hoping that they could get on the inside. For our pains we have lost all six of them one way or another. The enemy seems to have a good espionage system. Our men roam up and down the solar system making like big time operators and get nowhere. The love-lotus operators seem to be able to tell a phony louse when they see one."
"And I'm a real louse?"
"You've a convincing record, Farradyne."
Farradyne shook his head angrily. "Not that kind," he snapped. "Your pals sloughed off my license and tossed me out on my duff to scratch, but no one ever pinned the crooked label on me and made it stick."
"Then why did they take away your license?"
"Because someone needed a goat."
"And you are innocent?"
Farradyne growled hopelessly. "All right," he said, returning to his former lethargy. "So just remember that I was acquitted, remember? Lack of evidence. But they took my license and tossed me out of space and that's as bad as a full conviction. So where am I? I'll stop beating my gums about it, Clevis."
Clevis smiled quietly. "You were a good pilot, Farradyne. Maybe a bit too good. You collected a few too many pink tickets for cutting didoes and collecting women to show off in front of. They'd have marked it off as an accident if it hadn't been Farradyne. Your record accused you of being the hot-pants pilot, the fly-fly boy. Maybe that last job of yours was another dido that caught you. But let's leave the ghost alone, Farradyne. We need you, Farradyne."
Farradyne grunted and his lips twisted a bit. He got up from the unmade bed and went to the scarred dresser to pour a stiff jolt from an open bottle into a dirty glass. He took a sip and then walked to the window and stood there, staring out into the dusk and talking, half to himself. Clevis listened.
Charles Farradyne.
Charles Farradyne.
Charles Farradyne.
"I've had my prayer," said Farradyne. "A prayer in a nightmare. A man fighting against a rigged job, like the girl in the old story who turned up in her mother's hotel room to find that every evidence of her mother's existence had been erased. Bellhops, and cab driver, and the steamship captain, and the hotel register all rigged. Even the police disbelieved her, remember? Well, that's Farradyne, too, Clevis. My first error was telling them that someone came into the control room during landing. They said that no one would do that because everybody knew the danger of diverting the pilot's attention during a landing. No one, they said, would take the chance of killing himself; and the other passengers would stop anybody who tried to go up the stairs at that time because they knew the danger to themselves.
"They practically scoffed me into jail when I told them that there were three people in the room. I couldn't look around, you know. A pilot might just as well be blindfolded and manacled to his chair during landing. So I heard three people behind me and couldn't look. All I could do was to snarl for them to get the hell out. Then we rapped the cliff and dumped the ship into The Bog, and I got tossed out through the busted observation dome. They salvaged the Semiramide a few months later and found only one skeleton in the room. That made me a liar. Besides the skeleton was of a woman, and then they all nodded sagely and said, 'Woman? Well, we know our Farradyne!' and I got the works.
"So," Farradyne sounded bitter once more, "they suspended me and took away my license. They wouldn't even let me near a spacer; maybe they thought I might steal one, forgetting that there's no place to hide. Maybe they thought I'd steal Mars, too. So if I want a drink they ask me if it's true that jungle juice gives a man hallucinations. If I light a cigarette I'm asked if it is real laughing grass. If I ask for a job they want to know how hard I'll work for my liquor. So I end up in this God-forsaken marsh playing nursemaid to a bunch of stinking toadstools." Farradyne's voice rose to an angry pitch. "The mold grows on your hide and under your nails and in your hair and you forget what it's like to be clean and you lose hope and ambition because you're kicked off the bottom of the ladder, but you still dream of someday being able to show the whole damned solar system that you're not the louse they made you. Then instead of getting a chance, a man comes to you and offers you a job because he needs a professional bastard with a bad record—and its damned small consolation, but I'll take it just to show you and everybody else that I'm not the hot-rock that I've been called."
Farradyne sniffed at the glass and then threw it into the dirty sink with a derisive gesture. "I'll ask for a lot of things," he said, quietly now. "The first thing is for enough money to buy White Star Trail instead of this rotgut."
"That can be done, but can you take it?"
"It'll be hard," admitted Farradyne. "I've been on this diet of soap and vitriol too long. But I'll do it. Give me a month."
"I can't offer you much," said Clevis. "But maybe this can be hope for you: help us clean up the hellblossom gang and you'll do a lot towards erasing that black mark on your record."
"Just what's the pitch?"
Clevis took a small leather folder from his briefcase and handed it over. Farradyne recognized it as a space-pilot's license before he opened it. He read it with a cynical smile before he asked, "Where did you get it?"
"It's probably the only official forgery in existence. The Solar Anti-Narcotics Department has a lot of angles to play, Farradyne. First, that ticket is made of the right paper and printed with the right type and the right ink because," and Clevis smiled, "it came from the right office. The big rubber stamp 'Reinstated' is the right stamp and the initials are put on properly, but not by the right man. The license will get you into and out of spaceports and all the rest of the privileges. But it has no listing on the master log at the Bureau of Space Personnel. So long as you stay out of trouble, the only people who will check on the validity will be the ones we hope to catch. When they discover that your ticket is invalid, you may get an offer to join 'em."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime you'll be running a spacer in the usual way. We've a couple of subcontracts you can handle to stay in business, and you'll pick up other business, no doubt. But there are two things to remember, always. The first is that you've got to play it flat, Farradyne. No nonsense. Just remember who and what you are. To make sure of it, I'll remind you again that you are a crumb with a bad reputation. You'll be running a spacer worth a hell of a lot of dough and there will be a lot of people asking a lot of other people how you managed the deal. Probably none of them will ever get around to asking you, but your attitude is the same as the known gangster whose only visible means of support for his million-dollar estate and his yacht and his high living is his small string of hot-dog stands. That he owns these things is only an indication of thrift and good management."
"I get it," grinned Farradyne.
Clevis snapped, "This is no laughing matter. What goes along with this is important. You'll play this game as we outline it to you and in no other way. The first time we find you playing hanky-panky we'll have you by the ears in the morning. And if you cut a dido and get pinned for it, there you'll be with a forged license and a spacer that will have some very odd-looking registration papers so far as the Master Log runs. And no one is going to admit that they know you. Certainly the SAND office won't. And furthermore if you do claim any connection at any time for any reason whatsoever, we'll haul you in for attempting to impersonate one of us. You're a decoy, a sitting duck with both feet in the mud, Farradyne, and no damned good to anybody until you get mired deeper in the same stinking mud. Now for the second item."
"Second? Weren't there ten or twelve in that last?" grunted Farradyne.
"That was only the beginning. The second is this: do not, under any circumstances make any attempt to investigate that accident of yours. The game you are going to play will not permit you to make any attempt to clear up that mess. As a character of questionable background, your attitude must be that of a man caught in a bad show and forced to undergo visible suffering long enough for the public to forget, before you can resume your role of professional louse. Got this straight?"
Farradyne looked at Clevis; gaunt has-been looking at success. The window was dark now, but there were no stars visible from the surface of Venus; only Terra and Jupiter and Sirius and Vega and a couple of others that haloed through the haze. The call of the free blackness of space pulled at Farradyne. He turned back from the window and looked at the unmade bed, the insect-specked walls, the scarred dresser, the warped floor. His nose wrinkled tentatively and he cursed inwardly because he knew that the joint reeked of rancid sweat and mildewed cloth and his nose was so accustomed to this stink that he could not smell it.
Inwardly Farradyne came to understand, in those few moments while Clevis watched him quietly, that his oft-repeated statement that there were some things that even a bum wouldn't do was so much malarkey. Farradyne would join the hellblossom operators if it gave him an opportunity to get out of this Venusian mire. He turned to Clevis, not realizing that only a few seconds had passed.
"Let's go," he said.
Clevis cast a pointed look at the dresser.
"There's nothing in the place but bad memories," said Farradyne. "I'll leave them here. Good, bad or indifferent, Clevis, I'm your man no matter how you want it played. For the first time in years I want a bath and a clean shirt."
II
He was rustier than he had realized. It was not only the four years away from the levers of the control room and the split-second decision of high speed, it was the four years of rotting in skid row. His muscles were stringy, his skin was slaty, his eyes were slow. He was flab and ached and off his feed. He was slow and overcompensating in his motions. He missed his aim by yards and miscalculated his position and his speed and his direction so badly that Donaldson, who rode in the co-pilot's seat, sat there with his hands poised over the levers and clutched convulsively or pressed against the floor with his feet, chewing his lips with concern as Farradyne flopped the sky cruiser roughly here and there like a recruit.
It took him a month of practise on Mercury to get the hang of it again. A solid month of severe discipline, living in the ship and taking exercise and routine practise to refine his control. He found that making the change from the rotgut jungle juice to White Star Trail was not too hard because his mind was busy all the time and he did not need the high-powered stuff. White Star Trail was a godsend to the man who liked the flavor of fine Scotch whiskey but could not afford to befog his coordination by so much as a single ounce of the pure quill.
Eventually they 'soloed' him; Donaldson sat in the easy chair in the salon below talking to Clevis, and he could hear them discussing problems unrelated to him. Their voices came over the squawk-box system clear enough to be understood. It gave Farradyne confidence. He took the Lancaster Eighty-One into the sky, circled Mercury and began landing procedure. For a moment, then, he relived that black day in his past:
He had called the spaceport, "Semiramide calling North Venus Tower."
"Aye-firm, Semiramide, from North Venus Tower."
"Semiramide requesting landing instructions; give with the dope, Tower."
"Tower to Semiramide. Beacon Nine at one hundred thousand feet, Landing Area Twelve. Traffic is one Middleton Seven-Six-Two at thirty thousand taking off from Beacon Two and one Lincoln Four-Four landing at Beacon Seven. Keep an eye peeled for a Burbank Eight-Experimental that's been scooting around at seventy thousand. That's all."
"Aye-firm, Tower."
Then had come the voice of a woman behind him. Just a murmur—perhaps a sigh of wonder from a woman who had just been shown for the first time in her life the intricacies of rack and panel of meter and gage and lever and shining device that surrounds the space pilot to demand every iota of his attention during take-off or landing. In Farradyne's recollection, there were two kinds of people: one kind stood in the center of such an array and held their hands together for fear of upsetting something; the other couldn't keep their damned hands off a button or a lever even if it meant their own electrocution.
There were thirty-three people aboard, thirteen of them women, and Farradyne wondered which of them it was. He didn't care. "Get the hell below," he snapped over his shoulder.
A young man made some sound. Farradyne was even sharper; a woman might wander up, interested, but a man should know that this was a deadly curiosity. "Take her below, you imbecile," he snarled.
An older man chimed in with something that sounded like an agreement to Farradyne's order; there was a very brief three-way argument that lasted until one of them fell for the lure of a dark pilot-lamp and an inviting push-button. The Semiramide bucked like a wasp-stung colt and the silver-dull sky over North Venus Spaceport whirled—
Farradyne was shocked out of his vivid daydream by the matter-of-fact voice of the Mercury Port's dispatcher: "Lancaster from Tower, you are a half degree off landing course. Correct."
Farradyne responded, "Instructions received, Tower. Will correct. Will correlate instruments after landing."
"Aye-firm, Lancaster Eighty-One."
Farradyne's solo landing was firm and easy; almost as good as he used to do in the days before—
He put it out of his mind and went below to Clevis and Donaldson. The latter asked him what had been the matter with the course.
"I hit a daydream of the Semiramide," admitted Farradyne.
"Better forget it."
"I came out of it," said Farradyne shortly.
"Okay?" Clevis looked at Donaldson. The pilot nodded. "Okay, Farradyne, you're ready. This is your ship; you're cleared to Ganymede on speculation. You'll play it from there. There's enough money in the strong-locker to keep you going for a long time on no pickups at all, and you'll get regular payment for the Pluto run. Just remember, no shenanigans."
"No games," promised Farradyne.
Clevis stood up. "I hope you mean that," he said earnestly. "If nothing else, remember that your—er—misfortune on Venus four years ago may have put you in a position to be a benefactor to the same mankind you hate. I hope you'll find that they are as quick to applaud a hero as to condemn a louse. Don't force me to admit that my hope of running down the hellblossom outfit was based on a bum hunch. Don't let me down, Farradyne."
Clevis left then, before Farradyne could find words. Donaldson left with him, but stopped at the spacelock to hurl at Farradyne: "Luck, fella."
An hour later Farradyne was a-space between Mercury and Ganymede. On his own in space for the first time in four long aching years. Not quite a free man, but at least no prisoner. He took a deep breath once he was out of control-range and could put the Lancaster on the autopilot. Gone were the smells and the rotting filth of the fungus fields; here were the bright clear stars in the velvety sky. Here was freedom—freedom of the body, at least. Maybe even freedom of the soul. But not freedom of the intellect, yet. He had a tough row to hoe and the tougher row of his innocence to turn up into the light of day.
But for the first time since he'd been thrown flat on his face, Farradyne felt that he had a chance.
III
Ganymede was in nightfall and Jupiter was a half-rim over the horizon when he landed. He checked in at the Operations Office and listed his Lancaster as available for a pick-up job. The clerk that took his license to make the listing raised one mild eyebrow at the big rubber stamp reading 'Reinstated' across the face of the card, but made no comment. Farradyne's was not the only one so stamped. Pilots had been suspended for making a bounce-landing with an official aboard or coming in too slantwise instead of following a beacon down vertically.
He folded the leather case and slipped it back in his pocket. He looked at the pick-up list, which was not too long. He had a fair chance of picking up a job, and that would add to whatever backlog Clevis had left him. Farradyne found himself able to figure his chances as though he had not spent his time digging mushrooms on Venus. The pilot that owned his ship outright was a rare one. The rest were mortgaged to the scupper and it was a touch and clip job to make the monthly payments. Some pilots never did get their ships paid off but managed to scratch out a living anyway. A pilot with a clear ship could rake in the dough, and could eventually start a string of his own. This was the ultimate goal which so many aimed at but so few achieved. With no mortgage to contend with, Farradyne could loaf all over space and still make out rather well, picking up a job here and a job there.
He waved a hand at the registry clerk and went out into the dark of the spaceport.
Rimming the edge of the field were three distant globs of neon, all indicating bars. One was as good as the next, so Farradyne headed towards the nearest. He entered it with the air of a man who had every right to land his ship anywhere he pleased and then hit the nearest bar. He waggled a finger at the barkeep, called for White Star Trail, and dropped a ten-spot on the bar with an air that indicated that he might be there long enough for a second.
Then he turned and hooked one heel in the brass rail, leaned back on the mahogany with his elbows and surveyed the joint like a man with time and money to spare, looking for what could be found. The glass in his hand dangled a bit and his posture was relaxed.
It was called 'The Spaceman's Bar,' like sixteen hundred other 'Spaceman's Bar's rimming spaceports from Pluto to Mercury. The customers were about the same, too. There were four spacemen playing blackjack for dimes near the back of the room. Two women were nursing beers, hoping for someone to come and offer them something more substantial. Two young fellows were agreeing vigorously with one another about the political situation which neither of them liked. One character should have gone home eighteen drinks earlier, and was earning a ride home on a shutter with a broken nose by needling a man with a lot of patience, which was running out. A woman sat in a booth along the wall, dressed in a copy of some exclusive model that had neither the cloth nor the workmanship to stand up for more than the initial wearing, and looked already as if she had worn it often. The woman herself had the same tired, overworked look. She was too young to have that look, and Farradyne looked away, disinterested; he favored the vivacious brunette that sat gayly across the table from a young spaceman and enticed him with her eyes. Farradyne shrugged; the girl had eyes for no one else and she probably couldn't have been pried away from her young spaceman by any means. It occurred to Farradyne that, judging by the way she was acting, if some other guy slipped her a love lotus, the girl would take a deep breath, get bedroom eyed, and then leave the guy to go looking for her spaceman. Farradyne grinned at the idea.
As far as Farradyne could tell, there was not a love lotus in the place, which hardly surprised him because he did not really expect to find one in a place such as this. He turned back to the bar for a refill. When he got it, he turned to face the room again and saw that a man had come in and was standing just inside the door, blinking at the lights. He was eyeing the customers with a searching look.
Eventually he addressed the entire room: "Who owns the Lancaster Eighty-One that just came in?"
"I do," said Farradyne.
"Are you free?"
"Until the third of August."
"I'm Timothy Martin of the Martian Water Commission. I'd like to hire you for a trip to Uranus."
"My name is Charles Farradyne, and maybe we can make a deal. What's the job, Mr. Martin?" Farradyne eyed the room furtively, wondering if the mention of the name would ring any cracked bells among the spacemen. It did not seem to, and Farradyne did not know whether to be gratified at the forgetfulness or depressed at his lack of notoriety.
"Three of us and some instruments," said Martin.
"That's hiking all the way to Uranus empty, you know."
"I know, but this is of the utmost importance. Government business."
"It's up to you; I'll haul you out there on a three-passenger charter, since you probably haven't enough gear to make it a payload. Okay?"
"It's a bit high," Martin grunted, "but this is necessity. Can you be ready for an early morning hop-off?"
"You be there with your gear and we'll hike it at dawn." Farradyne turned to the barkeep and wagged for a refill, then indicated that Martin be served. The government man took real bourbon but Farradyne stuck to his White Star Trail. The two of them clinked glasses and drank, and Farradyne was about to say something when he felt a touch against his elbow. It was the girl in the over-tired cocktail dress. Her glazed eyes were wide and glittering, her face hard and thin-lipped.
"You're Charles Farradyne?" she asked in a flat voice. Beneath a tone of distrust and hatred the voice had what might have been a pleasant throatiness if it had not been strained.
Farradyne nodded.
"Farradyne—of the Semiramide?"
"Yes." He felt a peculiar mixture of gratification and resentment. He had been recognized at last, but it should have come from a better source.
She shut him out by turning to Martin. "Do you know who you've hired?" she asked with the same flatness of tone. Profile-wise, she looked about twenty-three at most. Farradyne wondered how a woman that young could possibly have crammed into the brief years all of the experience that showed in her face.
Martin was fumbling for words. "Why, er—" he said lamely.
"This rum-lushing bum is Charles Farradyne, the hot-rock that dumped his spacer into The Bog."
"Is this true?" demanded Martin of Farradyne.
"I did have an accident there," said Farradyne. "But—"
The woman sneered. "Accident, you call it. Sorry, aren't you? Reeking with remorse. But not so grief-stricken that you'll not take this man out and kill him the way you killed my brother."
Farradyne grunted. "I don't know you from Mother Machree. I've had my trouble and I don't like it any more than you do."
"You're alive, at least," she snarled at him. "Alive and ready to go around skylarking again. But my brother is dead and you—"
"Am I supposed to blow out my brains? Would that make up for this brother of yours?" demanded Farradyne angrily. Some of the anguish of the affair returned. He recalled all too vividly his own mental meanderings at the time, and the feeling that suicide would erase that memory. But he had burned himself out with those long periods of self-reproach.
"Blow your brains out," advised the girl sharply. "Then the rest of us will be protected against you."
"I suppose I am responsible for you, too?" he asked bitterly.
Martin gulped down his drink. "I think I'd better find another ship," he said hurriedly.
Farradyne nodded curtly at Martin's back, then looked down at the girl. He felt again the powerful impulse to plead his case, to explain, to show his innocence. But he knew that this was the wrong thing to do. Martin had refused the job once Farradyne had been identified. This might be the start of what Clevis wanted. Farradyne could louse it up for fair by saying the wrong thing here and now. So instead of making some appeal to the woman, Farradyne eyed her coldly. There was something incongruous about her. She looked like the standard tomato of the spacelanes; she dressed the part and she acted it. The rough-hewn language and the cynical bitterness were normal enough, but they should not have been expressed in acceptable grammar and near-perfect diction. He had catalogued her as a drunken witch, but she was neither drunk nor a witch. Nor was she a thrill-seeking female out slumming for the fun of it. She belonged in the "Spaceman's Bar" but not among the lushes—
And then he caught it. He had been too far from it too long. The glazed, bored eyes, the completely blase attitude were the tip-off; then the fact that she had become animated at the chance to start a scene of violence. Dope is dope and all of it works the same way. The first sniff is far from dangerous, but the second must be larger and the third larger still until the body craves a massive dose. With some dope the effect is physical, with others it is mental. With love lotus it was emotional. The woman had been on the emotional toboggan; her capacity for emotion had been dulled to such an extent that only a scene of real violence could cut through the scars to give her a reaction. Someone had slipped the girl a really top-notch dose of hellflower!
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Norma Hannon," she snapped. "And I don't suppose you remember Frank Hannon at all."
"Never met him."
"You killed him."
Farradyne felt a kind of hysteria; he wanted to laugh and he knew that once he started he could not stop easily. Then the feeling went away and he looked around the room.
Every eye in the place was on him, but as he met their eyes they looked down or aside or back to their own personal affairs. He knew the breed—spacemen, a strange mixture of high intelligence and hard roughness. Farradyne knew that to a man they understood that the most damaging thing they could do was to deny him the physical satisfaction of a fight. He could rant and roar and in the end he would be forced to leave the joint. It would be a lame retreat. A defeat.
He looked back at her; she stood there in front of him with her hands on her hips, swaying back and forth and relishing the emotional stimulus of hatred. She wanted more, he could see. Farradyne wanted out of here; the girl had done her part for him and could do no more. To take her along as a possible link to the hellblossom operators was less than a half-baked idea. She would only make trouble, because trouble was what she relished.
"I've got it now," she blurted. Her voice rose to a fever-pitch, her face cleared and took on the look of someone who is anticipating a real thrill. Norma Hannon was at that stage in the addiction where bloody murderous butchery would thrill her about to the same degree as a normal woman being kissed good-night at her front door. "I've got it now," she said and her voice rang out through the barroom. "The only kind of a rascal that could dump a spacer and kill thirty-three people and then turn up with another spacer is a big-time operator. You louse!" she screamed at him. Then she turned to the rest of the room, calling:
"Fellows, meet Charles Farradyne, the big-time hellflower operator!"
Farradyne's nerves leaped. He knew his spacemen. A louse they could ignore, but a dope runner—
Their faces changed from deliberate dis-recognition of him to cold and calculated hatred, not so much of Farradyne as of what he represented in their minds. Farradyne knew that he had better get out of here quickly or he would leave most of his skin on the floor.
Something touched him on the shoulder, hard. He snapped his head around. The bartender had rapped him on the shoulder with the muzzle of a double-barrelled shotgun.
"Get the hell out of here," said the man from between narrowed lips. "And take your rotten money with you!"
He scooped up the change he had dropped beside Farradyne's glass and hurled the original bill at him. It went over the bar and landed in a spittoon between the brass rail and the bar.
"Pick it up," growled the barkeep coldly. He waved the shotgun and forced Farradyne to retrieve the soggy bill. "Now get out—quick!" Then his voice rose above the growing murmur of angry men. "Sit down, dammit! Every bloody one of you sit the hell down. We ain't going to have no trouble in here!" He covered the room with the shotgun to hold them.
Farradyne left quickly. He burned inwardly, he wanted to have it out; but this was the game Clevis wanted him to play—it was the price of his freedom from the fungus fields. He took it on the run to his Lancaster, knowing that the barkeep would hold the room until escape was made.
He took the ship up as soon as the landing ramp was retracted and only then did his nerves calm down. He seemed to have started with a bang. If Clevis wanted a decoy, what better decoy than to make a noise like a small guy muscling in on a big racket?
The word would travel from bar to bar, from port to port until it reached the necessary person. Time was unimportant now. The word must get around. So instead of driving to some definite destination, Farradyne set the Lancaster in a long, lazy course and let the big ship loaf its way into space.
IV
Big Jupiter and tiny Ganymede were dwindling below by the time Farradyne was finished at the control panel. He was hungry and he was tired and so he was going to eat and hit the sack. He turned from the board and saw her.
Norma Hannon sat in the computer's chair behind the board. Her hands were folded calmly and her body was listless. Farradyne grunted uncertainly because he was absolutely ignorant of her attitude, except perhaps the feeling that she would enjoy bloody violence.
"Well?" he said.
"I caught the landing ramp as it came running in," she said quietly.
"Why?"
"You owe me a couple," she told him. "You're a lotus runner, you can give me one. Simple as that."
"How do you figure?"
"You killed my brother," she said. There was more vigor in her tone as the anger flared again.
"What makes you think—"
"Another thing," she interrupted, "I wanted to come along with you."
"Now see here—"
"Don't be stupid," she said sharply. "I've no passion for you. I'm a love-lotus addict, remember?"
"Then why—?"
"Don't you give a damn for the lives of the people you sell those things to? Run your dope and get your dough and skip before you have to see the ruin you bring." The flare of anger was with her and she wriggled in her chair with an animal relish that was close to ecstasy.
"But I can't—"
"Keep it up," she said. "You'll satisfy me, one way or another." She eyed him critically. "You can't win, Farradyne. I've had my love lotus, and all that is left of my feelings is heavy scar-tissue. Pleasure and surprise are too weak to cut through; only a burning anger or a deep hatred are strong enough to make me feel the thrill of a rising pulse. I can get a lift out of hating you, but if you kissed me it would leave me cold." She paused speculatively, "Now, would it? Come here and kiss me."
"Why?"
"Because I hate your guts, Farradyne. Of all the people in the solar system, I hate you the most. I can keep telling myself that you killed Frank, and that does it. And I add that you are a love-lotus runner and in some way part and parcel of this addiction of mine and that builds it up. Now if you came over and kissed me, I'd let you, and the very thought of being kissed and fondled by such a completely rotten reptile as Farradyne makes me seethe with pleasant anger." Farradyne recoiled.
"Afraid?" she jeered, wriggling again. "You know, as a last thrill I might kill you. But only as a last thrill, Farradyne. Because then the chance to hate you actively would be over and finished and there could be no more. So between hating your guts and getting an occasional hellflower from the man I hate, making me hate you even more, I can feel almost alive again."
Farradyne shook his head. This sort of talk was above and beyond him. No matter what he said or did it was the wrong thing, which made it right for Norma Hannon.
He did not know much about the love lotus, and that from hearsay. But it did not include this sort of illogical talk. Seeing this end-result actually made Farradyne feel better about the lot he had been cast in. If Clevis was the kind of man who boiled inwardly from a sense of outraged civic responsibility, Farradyne was beginning to feel somewhat the same.
He looked at Norma Hannon more critically. She had been a good looking woman not too long ago. She had probably laughed and danced and fended off wolves and planned on marriage and a gang of happy children in a pleasant home. Someone had cut her out of that future, and Farradyne felt that he wanted to get the man's neck between his hands and squeeze. He shook himself and wondered whether this addiction to hatred and violence were catching.
He said softly, "Who did it, Norma?"
Her eyes changed. "I loved him," she breathed in a voice that was both soft and heavy with another kind of anger than the violence she had shown just a moment before. This was the resentment against the past, while her previous flare of anger had been against the physical present. "I loved him," she repeated. "I loved the flat-brained animal, enough to lead him into the bedroom if that's what he wanted. But no, the imbecile thought that the only way I would unfreeze was with a hellflower. So he parted with a half-a-hundred dollars for one. He could have rented a hotel room for a ten dollar bill," she added sourly. "Or bought a marriage license and had me for the rest of his life for five."
"Why didn't you refuse it?" he asked. "Or didn't you know that it wasn't a gardenia?"
Norma looked up with eyes that started to blaze, but they died and she was listless again. "Maybe because people like to flirt with danger," she said. "Maybe because men and women don't really understand each other."
"That's the understatement of the century."
There was no flicker of amusement in her face. "Look at it this way," she said. "I did say I loved him. So naturally he wouldn't be the kind of man who would bring me a lotus. Or if he did I could wear it for the lift they bring without any danger, because any man worth loving would not take advantage of his sweetheart while she's unable to object. So I wore it and when I woke up after a real orgy instead of a mild emotional binge, I was on the road toward having no feelings left. I've been on that road ever since and I've come a long way."
She looked at him again. "So you see what you and your kind have done?" she demanded. Farradyne knew that she was whipping herself into a fury again. "I was a nice, healthy woman once, but now I'm a burned-out battery—a tired engine. It takes a spot of violence to make me feel anything. Or maybe a sniff from a lotus. Maybe by now it would take more than one."
"But I haven't any."
She bared her teeth at him. "You can afford to part with one stinking flower."
"I haven't—"
Norma leaped out of her chair and came across the room, her face distorted, her hands clawing at his face. Farradyne fought her away, and saw with dismay the look of animated pleasure on her twisted face. It was an unfair fight; Farradyne was trying to keep her from hurting him without being forced to hurt her, while she went at him with heel and fingernail and teeth.
He gave up. Taking a cold aim at the point of her jaw, Farradyne let her have it.
Norma recoiled a bit and her face glowed even more. He had not struck her hard enough because of his repugnance at hitting a woman. She came after him again, enjoying the physical violence, looking for more of the same. Farradyne gritted his teeth and let her have it, hard this time.
Norma collapsed with a suddenness that scared him. He caught her before she hit the metal floor and carried her to the salon where he placed her on the padded bench that ran along one wall. His knowledge of things medical was not high, but it was enough to let him know that she did not have a broken jaw. Of one thing there was no doubt: Norma was out colder than Farradyne had ever seen man or woman.
He carried her below, to one of the tiny staterooms.
He stood there, contemplating her and wondering what to do next. He would have been puzzled as to the next move even if Norma had been a completely normal person. As it was, Farradyne decided that no matter what he did it would be wrong. The cocktail dress would not stand much sleeping in before it came apart at the seams, but she would surely rave if he took it off to save it for tomorrow. If he left her in it, she would rave at him for letting her ruin the only thing she had to wear. He shrugged and slipped the hold-down strap across her waist and let it go at that.
Then he went to his own stateroom and locked the door against any more of this ruckus and confusion. He slept fitfully even though the locked door separated him from both amour and murder—either of which added up to the same end with Norma Hannon.
V
It was a sixty-hour trip from Ganymede to Mars. Each hour was a bit more trying than the one before.
Norma bedeviled him in every way she knew. She found fault with his cooking but refused to go near the galley herself. She objected to the brand of cigarettes he smoked. She made scathing remarks whenever he touched an instrument, reminding him of his presumed incompetence as a pilot. She scorned him for refusing to open his hold and bring her the love lotus she craved.
By the time Farradyne set the Lancaster Eighty-One down at Sun Lake City on Mars, he had almost arrived at the point where her voice was just so much noise.
He landed after the usual discussion of landing space and beacon route with Sun Lake Tower, and he found time to wonder whether the word about his affiliation had been spread yet. The Tower operator paid him no more attention than if he had been running in and out of that spaceport for years.
He pressed the button that opened the spacelock and ran out the landing ramp.
"This is it," he said flatly.
"This is what?"
"The end of the line."
"I'm staying."
"No, you're not."
"I'm staying, Farradyne. I like it here. You go on about your sordid business, and see that you get enough to spare a couple for me. For I'll be here when you get back."
The woman's eyes glinted with hatred and determination.
Farradyne swore. She had moved in on him unwanted and had ridden with him unwanted. If she wanted to, she could raise her voice and that would be it. One yelp and Farradyne would spend a long time explaining to all sorts of big brass why he was hauling a woman around the solar system against her wishes.
So grunting helplessly, Farradyne left her in the Lancaster and went to register at Operations. He was received blandly, just as he had been received on Ganymede. Then he headed into Sun Lake City to stall a bit. He went to a show, had a drink or two, prowled around a bookstore looking for something that might inform him about the love lotus, bought himself some clothing to augment his scant supply. He succeeded in forgetting about Norma Hannon for a solid four hours.
Then he remembered, and with the air of a man about to visit a dentist for a painful operation, Farradyne went reluctantly back to his ship.
The silence that met him was reassuring. Even if she had been sound asleep, the noise of his arrival would have awakened her so that she would come out to needle him some more. He looked the ship over carefully, satisfying himself that Norma Hannon was not present.
This was too good to miss.
He raced to the control room, punched savagely at the button that closed the spacelock, and fired up the communications radio.
"Lancaster Eighty-One calling Tower."
"Go ahead, Lancaster."
"Request take-off instructions. Course, Terra."
"Lancaster, is your passenger aboard?"
"Passenger?"
"Check Stateroom Eight, Lancaster. Your passenger informed us that she was going into town on an errand, that you were not to leave without her."
"Aye-firm. I will check." Farradyne grimaced at the closed microphone. Willfully marooning a passenger would get him into more trouble than trying to account for the presence of his guest. Norma had done a fine job of bolting the Lancaster to the landing block in her absence.
He waited fifty seconds. "Tower from Lancaster Eighty-One. I will wait. My passenger is not aboard."
"Lancaster. Hold-down Switches to Safety, Warm-Up Switches to Stand-By. Power Switches to Off. Open your port for visitor."
"Visitor, Tower?"
"Civilian requests conference about pick-up job, Lancaster. Are you free?"
"I am free for Terra, Tower."
"Prepare to receive visitor, Lancaster. Good luck on the job."
"Aye-firm. Over and off."
Farradyne went below and rode the bottom step of the landing ramp on its way out of the spacelock. He reached the ground with the arrival of a port jeep, which brought his visitor to him.
"You're Charles Farradyne? I'm Carl Brenner. I'm told you are free for Terra. Is that right?"
"That's right."
Brenner nodded. He looked around. The jeep was idling and making enough noise so that the driver, sitting in the machine, could not possibly hear anything that was being said. The driver was not even interested in them; something in the distance had caught his eye and he was giving it all his attention. Satisfied, Brenner leaned forward and in a low voice said: "Let me see what you've got."
Farradyne shook his head. "Who, me?" he asked, as though he did not know what Brenner was talking about.
"You. I'm in the market. If they're in good shape, we can make a deal."
Farradyne felt that this was as good a time to play cagey as any. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"No? I hardly think you're telling the truth, Farradyne."
Farradyne smiled broadly. "So I'm a liar?"
"I wouldn't say that."
"Look, Brenner, I don't know you from Adam's Off Ox. From somewhere, you've got the idea that I am a hellblossom runner and you want to get into the act. Well, in the first place I am not a runner, and in the second place you have about as much chance of getting into a closed racket with that open-faced act of yours as you have of filling a warehouse with heroin by asking the local cops where to buy it."
Brenner smiled. "I can see you're cagey," he said. "I don't blame you. In fact, I'd not have come out here asking like an open-faced fool if I hadn't been completely out of stock. I'm a bit desperate." He went into an inside pocket and came out with an envelope. "This is a credential or two," he said. "When you return this way, we can maybe do business. The usual way, you know. No questions asked—nor answered. And no witnesses. Okay?"
"I'll be back—maybe—mister—er, Brenner?"
"You get the idea."
"I'll—"
Farradyne's voice trailed away as he caught sight of the object that had held the interest of the jeep driver. It was Norma Hannon, who came around the fins of the Lancaster with the sun behind her.
Her errand had been shopping. The overworn cocktail dress was gone and in its place was a white silky number that did a lot of fetching things to her figure. She had also taken the complete course at some primp-mill. She was another woman; not even Farradyne, who had seen her in her worn clothing for days, could have been convinced that this sort of beautiful perfection was not Norma's usual appearance.
Farradyne was silent. But as Brenner caught sight of her coming around the sunlit tail of the Lancaster, and with enough sun shining through her to make the pulses jump, he made a throaty discord.
"Hello," she said brightly, as though she and Farradyne were close acquaintances, but in a tone that indicated that she was paid-passenger and he the driver of the spacer. "I've some packages being delivered in a bit. We'll wait, of course?"
Farradyne nodded dumbly.
Norma nodded coolly to Brenner and went up the ramp, displaying a yard of well-filled nylon stocking at every step.
The roar of the jeep's engine snapped Farradyne's attention back to Brenner—or where he had been standing. The jeep was taking Brenner away in a cloud of spaceport dust.
Farradyne shook his head. That was not the man he wanted. Call it close but no cigar. Farradyne did not want a man to buy love lotus, he wanted a seller, a character from the upper echelon.
With a sigh, Farradyne went into the Lancaster. Norma rose from the divan along the edge of the salon and whirled like a mannequin, her silken skirt floating. She stopped and let the silk wrap itself around her thighs. "Like it?" she asked.
"It's very neat," he said flatly. "But where did you get the wherewithal?"
"I figured you owed me something so I took it out of the locker in the control room. You left the key dangling in the lock?"
"What's the grand idea?" he asked.
"You're a cold-blooded bird, Farradyne. You don't give a hoot that you and your cowboy spacing killed my brother and that you and your kind made it possible for some wanton to dope me. I'm told that half-decent gangsters send flowers to a rival's funeral, but you wouldn't even part with a love lotus. So if you won't give me one, I'm going to force it out of you."
"But—"
"You get the idea," she said, smoothing down a non-existent wrinkle over one round hip. "But I'm honest. You've some change coming." She put her hand down in the space between her breasts and brought forth a small roll of bills which she handed to Farradyne. Dumbly, he took them.
They were warm and scented with woman and cologne, and would have been hard on Farradyne's blood-pressure if it had not been for the anticipatory glitter in Norma Hannon's eyes.
There was a small commotion at the spacelock. Farradyne looked to see three men coming in with fancy-wrapped boxes.
He groaned, and went aloft to the control room. Norma had run the gamut.
VI
Farradyne sat before his control panel with his head in his hands. There had to be some way out of this. The alternative was to go on hauling Norma back and forth, being the target of her needling and her vicious desire and getting nothing done because of it. The mess had started off badly enough, but now it had deteriorated.
Norma's needling and goading had been hard enough to bear. He was willing to bet his spare money that the boxes she was now receiving contained whatever could be purchased of the most seductive clothing she could find. And included in her basic idea was, most likely, a sharp appreciation of what Farradyne would consider exciting. Acres of exposed skin or rank nudity would pall on him. So she would come out with little items that might cover her from toe to chin in such a way as to make him wonder about what was underneath; probably simple stuff with a lot of fine fit and a lot of semi-transparent quality that compelled the eye. If she coupled this program with a soft voice, as she was most likely to do now that she had shucked the sleazy costume, Norma Hannon would be almost irresistible. Before this happened, Farradyne had to park her somewhere that would be binding.
Had she parents? Friends?
He hit the control panel with his fist. He hated to think of it, but if push came to shove he might be able to drop her in one of the sanatoriums that had been set up for love-lotus addicts. They did little good for the victims but did keep the addicts out of other people's hair.
It seemed that it should be parents, first.
Farradyne's forefinger hit the radio button viciously.
"Tower? Connect me to the city telephone."
"Aye-firm, Lancaster. Wait five."
A few seconds later Farradyne was asking for the Bennington Detective Agency, an outfit that was system wide. He got a receptionist first and then a quiet-voiced man named Lawson.
Farradyne came to the point. "I want any information you can collect about the family of a man named Frank Hannon who was killed in the wreck of the Semiramide in The Bog, on Venus four years ago."
"You're same Charles Farradyne?"
"Maybe—but is it important?"
"It might be, but it will be held confidential. I'm asking because I prefer to know the motives of clients. I'd like reassurance that our investigation will be made for a legal reason."
"I'll put it this way: I know Frank Hannon was killed in the wreck. I have reason to believe that he had a sister that disappeared shortly afterwards. If this is true, I want to know it—but I haven't time to find out through the usual channels. Fact of the matter is that I want no more information than I could get myself if I had time to go pawing through issues of newspapers of four years ago. No more."
"I will look through our list of missing persons and see if such is the case, Mr. Farradyne. I suggest that you either call back in a couple of hours, or better, that you call in person here at my office. There will be no charge for the initial search, but if this evolves into something concrete—well, we can discuss the matter when you call. Is that all right?"
"It's okay and I'll be in your office at four o'clock."
Farradyne hung up and considered. If Norma Hannon had a couple of grieving parents, he could hand her over to them and that would be the end of that. He lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment, then got up from the control console and started for the spacelock.
He met Norma in the salon. She had changed into a heavy satin housecoat that molded her arms to the wrists, clung to her waist and breasts and throat, and outlined her hips and thighs. Painted toenails were provocatively visible below the hem as she sat there with her legs crossed, tossing her foot up and down.
"Thought we were about to take off again," she asked. Her voice was soft and personal and friendly. She was plying the affectionate line as smoothly as an experienced woman could.
Farradyne shook his head. Having a plan of action made him feel better. "Got a call from the tower," he said. "More business. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Norma held up her hand for his cigarette and he gave it to her. She puffed deeply and offered it back. Farradyne refused it. The memory of her needling and her desire for violence had not had time to fade. Another twenty hours of this calmness and he would begin to look upon the sharing of a cigarette as a pleasant gesture of companionship.
Norma shrugged at his wave of the hand in refusal. "I'll be here when you get back," she said comfortably, wriggling down against the cushions and giving him the benefit of an inviting smile.
Farradyne left the salon swearing under his breath. If this parking of her did not work, Farradyne was licked.
He walked. He did not like walking, but he preferred walking to remaining in the Lancaster with Norma for the next couple of hours. He tried to think, but he could not come to any conclusion because he had all his hope tied on the Bennington outfit and what they might turn up.
He was shown into the office of Peter Lawson, who was a bright-eyed elderly man with a body surprisingly lithe for his years.
"Now, before we go any further," said Lawson pleasantly, "I'd like to hear your reasons for becoming interested in this case."
Farradyne nodded. "As I told you, Frank Hannon was killed in an accident on a spacecraft I owned. That was four years ago. Recently I met Norma Hannon in a gin-mill on Ganymede and she fastened onto me like a leech as a person to hate. You know the results of love-lotus addiction?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, it occurred to me that one way of getting rid of Miss Hannon would be to turn her over to some relative or friend who would be deeply interested in her welfare. Does this add up?"
"Quite logical. Miss Hannon is where you can find her?"
Farradyne nodded with a sour look on his face. "She's sitting in my salon waiting for me to come back."
"Why not just turn her over to the police?" asked Lawson with a careful look at Farradyne.
"Look," said Farradyne testily, "I don't enjoy Miss Hannon's company, but I can't see jailing her. She isn't truly vicious, she's just another unfortunate victim of the love-lotus trap. Maybe I feel a bit concerned over her brother. Anyway, take it from here."
"Very well. I shall. The facts are these:
"Frank Hannon was a lawyer with a limited but apparently lucrative practise. Norma acted as a sort of junior partner. The case-history says that Frank Hannon had been on his way to Venus to place some case before one of the higher courts, the nature of which was not a matter for public discussion. I don't know what it was myself.
"Then Frank was killed, and Norma dropped her study of law. Her brother's death seemed to be quite a blow to her. Before, she had dated at random, with nothing serious in mind. But afterwards she seemed to develop a strong determination to marry, perhaps as a substitute for the gap left by the death of her brother. A man named Antony Walton became Number One boy friend after a few months and they were together constantly and seemed devoted. She disappeared after a dinner-date with Walton, and Walton is now serving a term on Titan Colony for possession of love-lotus blossoms."
Farradyne shook his head. "The louse," he said feelingly.
"Everybody agrees."
"I don't know as much as I might about lotus addiction," said Farradyne. "It all seems so sudden to me. One moment we have a well-bred young woman with ideals and ambition and feelings and the next moment—"
"It is a rather quick thing," said Lawson. "The love lotus is vicious and swift. I've studied early cases. They all seem to have the same pattern. And oddly enough, love lotus is not an addictive drug in every case. It is not only an aphrodisiac; it also heightens the physical senses so that a good drink tastes better and a good play becomes superb. The touch of a man's hand becomes a magnificent thrill. And here is the point where addiction begins, Mr. Farradyne. If the woman's senses and emotions are treated only to the mild appreciations of food and drink and music and a gentle caress, her addiction may take years and years to arrive at the point where she cannot feel these stimuli without a sniff of hellflower. But if she should be so unlucky as to have her emotions raised to a real passion during the period of dosage, it is like overloading the engine. You burn her out."
Farradyne nodded. "I see. And there is no cure?"
"Some doctors believe that a long period of peace and quiet under conditions where only the mildest of stimuli are available may bring the addict back. I am of the opinion that such a place does not exist. They fasten onto hate as an emotion that cuts through their burned-out emotions and if you should place them among completely bland surroundings they would find it possible to hate those that incarcerated them. It becomes almost paranoiac; anything you do is wrong."
"So I've discovered. But what do I do with Miss Hannon?"
"At the time of Miss Hannon's disappearance, her family offered a reward of five thousand dollars for her return."
"I'd be happy to deliver her FOB her own front porch," said Farradyne. "Can I hand her over to you and let you take it from there?"
"She would put up quite a ruckus," said Lawson. "I doubt that she will go home willingly. It is my opinion that Miss Hannon's response to Walton's lovemaking was extremely high, so that the result was a quick blunting of her normal capability for feelings. After this, anger and shame would cause her—a proud woman of education and breeding—to hide where she could not be known, where she could possibly get the hellflower she needed for her next desire to enjoy the lift of emotions. This would not be in the home of her parents. So she would not go home willingly—and the alternative is an appeal to the authorities." Lawson smiled. "I heard your offer to deliver her free to her home."
"But—"
"You've depended upon us and you will be helped. We will have an operative collect Miss Hannon at the Denver Spaceport. All you have to do is live with this trouble for about fifty hours more. We have done quite a bit of work on this case already, and we are willing to do more. For delivering your information and for taking Miss Hannon to Denver, we will be happy to divide the reward."
"I'll deliver Miss Hannon to Denver," said Farradyne, thinking that for twenty-five hundred he could stick cotton in his ears and sweat it out at about fifty dollars an hour.
"Good, Mr. Farradyne. I'll make arrangements to have our Mr. Kingman meet you at Denver."
Lawson handed Farradyne a few pages of dossier on the case and then showed him out of the office. Farradyne took a deep breath and decided that what he wanted was a drink to his good fortune. He could look forward to getting rid of Norma Hannon. He made the street, glanced around, and headed for a small bar, to relax and think.
VII
At a small table with a tiny lamp he opened the papers that Lawson had given him, to read them more thoroughly. The waitress was high breasted in a manner that invited him to look, but he merely barked, "White Star Trail" and went back to his reading.
"Spaceman?" she asked.
Farradyne nodded in an irritated manner. She flounced off after a moment of futile effort to beguile the spaceman.
So when, a moment later, someone slid into the bench beside him, Farradyne turned to tell her to please vacate the premises because he wasn't having any, thanks. Instead of looking into a vapidly willing face, Farradyne's eyes were met with an equally cold blue stare from the face of a hard-jawed man dressed in a jacket tailored to half-conceal the shoulder holster he wore. Farradyne blinked.
"Farradyne?"
"So?" said Farradyne. He tried to think, but all he could cover was the idea that someone was now playing games with guns.
"Hear tell you're running blossoms, Farradyne."
"Who says?"
"People."
"People say a lot of things. Which people?"
"Well, are you?"
"Who, me?"
"Can it and label it," snapped the newcomer.
Farradyne shrugged angrily. "What do you want me to do?" he asked in a mild tone. "You've got the jump on me. You slide into my seat and bar my exit and without introducing yourself you start asking questions that could get me twenty years in bad company, poor surroundings, and no pay."
"Pardon me. You may call me Mike. Michael Cahill is the name."
"Maybe I'm glad to meet you, Mike. Have you any identification that doesn't bark for itself?"
"It's usually good enough."
"Probably. But the numbers on its calling cards are someone else's."
Mike laughed. "That's not bad, Farradyne. But so far as I know, your number isn't among those present."
"I'll bet you could change a number fast enough."
"Could be," nodded Cahill. He turned around over his shoulder and called at the waitress: "Hey, Snooky. Make it two instead of one."
"Mine's White Star."
"That's all right with me. It's easier to drive this rod with a clear head."
"No doubt," said Farradyne. "So now that we are about to drink together, let's face it. You had more in mind than to pass the time of day with a nervous spaceman who wanted to be alone."
"Correct. Or as you birds say, Aye-firm. How's the hellblossom business?"
"That's easy to answer. The answer is that I haven't any, and I'm not in the business."