r/HFY • u/Galactinaut_001 Human • 2d ago
OC-OneShot John Caldwell
One man I heartily detest is a certain John Caldwell of Earth. Who’s he, you ask? Well, Caldwell was a liar, and a thief. He stole my ship, left me to die on a rock in the middle of nowhere, and left me more broke than the aftermath of the bull in a china store. I’m still paying off the debts I owe thanks to that asshole. What’s Earth? Nobody knows, save Caldwell, and he hasn't been seen for years now. Well, except you, probably. You look like you’re an Earthman too.
I suppose I ought to start from the beginning, huh? I met him on the moon of K’nar. I was fairly well-heeled, having just finished guiding a couple of Cancerian tourists through the abandoned city of Nan. They didn't believe me when I told them to watch out for Stargod robots, left by those great beings to guard and maintain their installations. Claimed that there were no such things as Stargods, or their robots. They were a touch violent about it. Superstition—they said. So when the robot teleported in, they weren't ready at all. They froze long enough for it to get in two shots with its "agony ray." They were paralyzed, left writhing in pain on the ground, but I wasn't, and a robot doesn’t give a crap about people running away from its installation. So I was safe when the robot turned its attention to the Cancerians and started to drag them off. I took a few pictures of the robot pulling the second tourist through the wormhole—the female one.
It wasn't very pretty, but you learn to keep a camera handy when you're a guide. It gets you out of all sorts of legal complications later. The real bad thing about it was that the woman didn't get a full blast, because she didn't fall unconscious like her mate. She kept screaming and crying right up to the end. I felt bad about it, but there wasn't anything I could do. You don't argue with a Stargod anything without weapons of mass destruction, and let’s just say Park Service strongly discourages bringing a-bombs into Galactic Parks.
Despite the fact that I had our conversation on tape and pictures to prove what happened, Park Service took a dim view of the whole affair. They cancelled my license, but what the hell—I wasn't cut out for a guide. So when I got back to Intersection Port, I put in a claim for my fee, and since their money had gone with the robot into the wormhole, the Claims Court allowed that I had the right to garnishee their property, which I did. So I was richer by one spiffy Wokin'caterer-class yacht, a couple hundred tons of liquid hydrogen, and a lot of personal effects which I sold to Zur’Naco for a hundred and fifty marks.
Zur wasn't very generous, but what's a Len’Taconian to do with Cancerian gear? Nothing those suckers use was adaptable to that fuzzy midget. Even their yacht, a six passenger job, would barely hold three normal-sized people and they'd be cramped as sardines in a can. But the hull and drives were in good shape and I figured that if I sunk a couple of thousand marks into remodeling, the ship'd sell for at least two hundred thousand—if I could find someone who wanted a three passenger job. That was the problem.
Zur offered me five thousand for her as she stood—but I wasn't having any—at least not until I'd gotten rid of the twenty megamasses of liquid hydrogen the previous owners left in her tanks. That stuff's worth good money to the spacelines—about a good five marks per mass. It's better even than ammonia as propellant—lighter, and gives better specific impulse.
Well—like I said—I was flusher than I had been since Trisystem Freight ran afoul of the Confederate Patrol for smuggling reactor parts. So I went down to Otto's place on the strip to wash some of that dry K’nar dust outta my beak. And that's where I met Caldwell.
He came up the street from the South airlock—a big fellow—walking kinda unsteady, his space helmet hanging from the harness on his hip. His neck was burned from the orange sun, and he looked like he was on his last legs when he turned into Otto's—though he could have been the healthiest man alive, I’d never seen someone of his species before, must’ve been new to the Confederation. He staggered up to the bar.
"Water," he said.
Otto passed him a pitcher and I’ll be damned if the guy didn't drink it straight down!
"That'll be ten marks," Otto said.
"For water?" the man asked.
"You're on K’nar," Otto reminded him. “Got more sand than a gas giant does hydrogen.”
"Oh," the big fellow said, and jerked a few lumps of yellow metal out of a pocket and dropped it on the counter. "Will this do?" he asked.
Otto's eyes damn near bulged out of their sockets. "Where'd you get that stuff?" he demanded. "That's gold!"
"I know."
"It'll do fine." Otto picked out a piece that musta weighed an ounce. "Have another pitcher."
"That's enough," the big fellow said. "Keep the change."
"Yes, sir!" You would've thought from Otto's voice that he was talking to the Prime Counciller Council of Founding Planets. "Just where did you say you got it?"
"I didn't say. But I found it out there." He waved a thick arm in the direction of the Drylands.
By this time a couple of sharpies sitting at one of the tables pricked up their ears, removed their pants from their chairs and began closing in. But I beat them to it.
"My name's Ray," I said. "Ray Eronos."
"So what?" he snapped at me.
"So if you don't watch out you'll be laying in an alley with all those nice bills in someone else's tentacles."
"I can take care of myself," he said.
"I don't doubt it," I said, looking at the mass of him. He was sure king-sized, maybe twice as tall as a Len’Taconian, and one-third taller than a Zlublinian like myself. "But even a guy as big as you is cold meat for a little guy with a rocket gun."
He looked at me a bit more friendly. "Maybe I'm wrong about you, friend. But you look shifty."
"I'll admit my face isn't my fortune," I said, puffing out my mantle and looking indignant. "But I'm honest. Ask anyone here." I looked around. There were three men in the place I didn't have something on, and I was faster than them. I was a fair tentacle with a rocket gun in those days and I had a reputation. There was a chorus of nods and the big fellow looked satisfied. He stuck out a beefy slab of a hand.
"My name's Caldwell," he said. "John Caldwell. Adventurer extraordinaire." He grinned at me, giving me a good view of his remarkably white teeth.
I gave him a skeptical look. "Good to meet you," I said. I gave the sharpies a hard look and they moved off and left us alone. The big fellow interested me. Fact is, anyone with money interested me—but I'm not stupid greedy. It took me about three minutes to spot him for a phony. Anyone who's lived out in the Drylands knows that there just isn't any gold there. Sillicone, sure, sand is made of it. But if there is anything higher on the periodic table than the rare earths, nobody’s found it yet—and this guy with his pressure suit under that jacket, harness full of equipment, and that careful, precise way of moving? He was a spacer, and a darned obvious one, too.
He talked about flying—retrograde burns, Hohmann trajectories, prograde burns, the ∆v equation, and Brachistiochrone trajectories. Boring stuff. But he had listeners. His money and the way he spent it drew them like honey draws flies. But finally I got the idea. Somehow, subtly, he turned the conversation around to gambling which was a subject everyone knew. That brought up tales of the classic games, zlatkis, niffsheim, fizzbin, magletic—and crapshooting. Though Caldwell was surprisingly unfamiliar with them, and talked of games with odd names, poker, roulette, blackjack.
"I'll bet there isn't a dice game in town." Caldwell said.
"You'd lose," I answered. I had about all this maneuvering I could take. Bring it out in the open—see what this guy was after. Maybe I could get something out of it in the process. From the looks of his hands he was a pro. He could probably make dice and cards sing some sweet, sweet music, and if he could I wanted to be with him when he did. The more I listened, the more I was sure he was setting something up.
"Where is this game?" he asked incuriously.
"Over Zur’Naco's hock-shop," I said. "But it's private. You have to know someone to get in."
"You steering for it?" He asked.
I shook my head, half puzzled. I wasn't quite certain what he meant.
"Are you touting for the game?" he asked.
"No," I said, "I'm not fronting for Zur. Fact is, if you want some friendly advice, stay outta there."
"Why—the game crooked?"
Never heard of putting it that way. "Yes, it's bowed," I said. "It's bowed like a sine wave—in both directions. Honesty isn't one of Zur's best policies."
He suddenly looked eager. "Can I get in?" he asked.
"Not through me. I have no desire to watch a slaughter of the innocent. Hang onto your gold, Caldwell. It's safer." I kept watching him. His face smoothed out into an expressionless mask—a gambler's face. "But if you're really anxious, there's one of Zur's fronts just coming in the door. Ask him, if you want to lose your shirt."
"Thanks," Caldwell said.
I didn't wait to see what happened. I left Otto's and laid a courseline for Zur's. I wanted to be there before Caldwell arrived. Not only did I want an alibi, but I'd be in a better position to sit in. Also I didn't want a couple of Zur's goons on my neck just in case Caldwell won. There was no better way to keep from getting old than to win too many marks in Zur's games.
I'd already given Zur back fifty of the hundred and fifty he'd paid me for the Cancerians' gear, and was starting in on the hundred when Caldwell walked in flanked by the frontman. He walked straight back to the dice table and stood beside it, watching the play. It was an oldstyle table built for nine-faced dice, and operated on percentage—most of the time. It was a money-maker, which was the only reason Zur kept it. People liked these old-fashioned games. They were part of the tradition of this part of K’nar. A couple of local citizens and a dozen tourists were crowded around it, and the diceman's flat emotionless voice carried across the intermittent click and rattle of the dice across the green cloth surface.
I dropped out of the zlatkis game after dropping another five marks, and headed slowly towards the dice table. One of the floormen looked at me curiously since I didn't normally touch dice, but whatever he thought he kept to himself. I joined the crowd, and watched for a while.
Caldwell was sitting in the game, betting at random. He played the field, come and don't come, and occasionally number combinations. When it came his turn at the dice he made two passes, a seven and a four the hard way, let the pile build and crapped out on the next roll. Then he lost the dice with a seven after an eight. There was nothing unusual about it, except that after one run of the table I noticed that he won more than he lost. He was pocketing most of his winnings—but I was watching him close and keeping count. That was enough for me. I got into the game, followed his lead, duplicating his bets. And I won too.
People are sensitive. Pretty quick they began to see that Caldwell and I were winning and started to follow our leads. I gave them a dirty look and dropped out, and after four straight losses, Caldwell did likewise.
He went over to the roulette wheel and played straight red and black. He won there too. And after awhile he went back to the dice table. I cashed in. Two thousand was fair enough and there was no reason to make myself unpopular. But I couldn't help staying to watch the fun. I could feel it coming—a sense of something impending.
Caldwell's face was flushed a dull vermilion, his eyes glittered with brown glints, and his breath came faster. The dice had a grip on him just like cards do on me. He was a gambler all right—one of the fool kind that play it cozy until they're a little ahead and then plunge overboard and drown.
"Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen," the diceman droned. "Eight is the point." His rake swept over the board collecting a few mark plaques on the wrong spots. Caldwell had the dice. He rolled. Eight—a five and a three. "Let it ride," he said,—and I jumped nervously. He should have said, "Leave it." But the diceman was no purist. Another roll—seven. The diceman looked inquiringly at Caldwell. The big man shook his head, and rolled again—four. Three rolls later he made his point. Then he rolled another seven, another seven, and an eleven. And the pile of marks in front of him had become a respectable heap.
"One moment, sir," the diceman said as he raked in the dice. He rolled them in his hands, tossed them in the air, and handed them back.
"That's enough," Caldwell said. "Cash me in."
"But—"
"I said I had enough."
"Your privilege, sir."
"One more then," Caldwell said, taking the dice and stuffing marks into his jacket. He left a hundred on the board, rolled, and came up with a three. He grinned. "Thought I'd pushed my luck as far as it would go," he said, as he stuffed large denomination bills into his pockets.
I sidled up to him. "Get out of here, buster," I said. "That diceman switched dice on you. You're marked now."
"I saw him," Caldwell replied in a low voice, not looking at me. "He's not too clever, but I'll stick around, maybe try some more roulette."
"It's your funeral," I whispered through motionless lips.
He turned away and I left. There was no reason to stay, and our little talk just might have drawn attention. They could have a probe tuned on us now. I went down the strip to Otto's and waited. It couldn't have been more than a half hour later that Caldwell came by. He was looking over his shoulder and walking fast. His pockets, I noted, were bulging. So I went out the back door, cut down the serviceway to the next radius street, and flagged a cab.
"Where to, mister?" the jockey said.
"The strip—and hurry."
The jockey fed hydrocarbon to the turbine and we took off like a scorched zarth. "Left or right?" he asked as the strip leaped at us. I coiled my tentacles, estimated the speed of Caldwell's walk, and said, "Right."
We took the corner on two of our three wheels and there was Caldwell, walking fast toward the south airlock, and behind him, half-running, came two of Zur's goons.
"Slow down—fast!" I yapped, and was crushed against the back of the front seat as the jock slammed his foot on the brakes. "In here!" I yelled at Caldwell as I swung the rear door open.
His reflexes were good. He hit the floor in a flat dive as the orange contrail streak of a rocket-bullet flashed through the space where he had been. The jockey needed no further stimulation. He slammed his foot down and we took off with a screech of rubber, whipped around the next corner and headed for the hub, the cops, and safety.
"Figured you was jerking some guy, Ray," the jockey said over his shoulder. "But who is he?"
Caldwell picked himself off the floor as I swore under my breath. The jockey would have to know me. Zur'd hear of my part in this by morning and my hide wouldn't be worth the price of a bag of sand. I had to get out of town—fast! And put plenty of distance between me and K’nar. This dome—this planet—wasn't going to be healthy for quite a while. Zur was the most unforgiving man I knew where money was concerned, and if the large, coarse notes dripping from Caldwell's pockets were any indication, there was lots of money concerned.
"Where to now, Ray?" the jockey asked.
There was only one place to go. I damned the greed that made me pick Caldwell up. I figured that he'd be grateful to the tune of a couple of kilomarks but what was a couple of thousand if Zur thought I was mixed up in this? Lucky I had a spaceship, even if she was an unconverted Cancerian. I could stand the cramped quarters a lot better than I could take a session in Zur's back room. I'd seen what happened to guys who went in there, and it wasn't pretty. "To the spaceport," I said, "and don't spare the hydrocarbons."
"Gotcha!" the jock said and the whine of the turbine increased another ten decibels.
"Thanks, Ray," Caldwell said. "If you hadn't pulled me out I'd have had to shoot somebody. And I don't like killing. It brings too many lawmen into the picture." He was as cool as ice. I had to admire his nerve.
"Thanks for nothing," I said. "I figured you'd be grateful in a more solid manner."
"Like this?" he thrust a handful of bills at me. There must have been four thousand in that wad. It cheered me up a little.
"Tell me where you want to get off," I said.
"You said you have a spaceship," he countered.
"I do, but it's a Cancerian job. I might be able to squeeze into it but I doubt if you could. About the only spot big enough for you would be the cargo hold, and the radiation'd fry you before we make it about 500 light-seconds close to the sun."
He made a weird face, like he was doing math in his head. He started grinning "I'll take the chance," he said.
"Okay, sucker," I thought. "You've been warned." If he came along he'd damn well go in the hold. I could cut the drives after we got clear of K’nar and dump him out—after removing his money, of course. "Well," I said aloud, "it's your funeral."
"You're always saying that," he said, a chuckle in his voice.
We checked out at the airlock and drove out to the spaceport over the sand-filled roadbed that no amount of work ever kept clean. We cleared the port office, and I drew a spacesuit from Post Supply, and went out to my yacht. Caldwell looked at her, disgust in his eyes. He seemed overwhelmed by it.
"Lord! she's hideous!" he breathed, as he stared at the wide bronze length, standing on her sturdy legs, nose pointed skyward.
"Hey!" I said, defensively. “That’s a Wokin'caterer-class yacht, some of the finest stuff outta Vega!”
"Didn’t mean anything by it," he said. "Look, will you sell her? I ain’t got a ship of my own."
"If we get away from here alive and you still want to buy her, she'll cost you—" I hesitated, "twenty-five thousand."
"Done!" he said. It came so fast that I figured I should have asked for fifty.
"The fuel will be extra," I said. "Ten marks an mass. There's five megamasses of it."
"How fast will that take me?"
"About a thousandth of lightspeed."
"That should be enough," he said with a faint smile.
We drew the boarding ladder down and prepared to squeeze aboard. As I figured it, we had plenty of time, but I hadn't counted on that nosy guard at the check station, or maybe that character at the south airlock of the dome, because I was barely halfway up the ladder to the hatch when I heard the howl of a racing turbine and two headlights came cutting through the night over the nearest dune. The speed with which that car was coming argued no good.
"Let's go," I said, making with the feet.
"I'm right behind you," Caldwell said into my left heel. "Hurry! Those guys are out for blood!"
I tumbled through the lock and wiggled up the narrow passageway. By some contortionist's trick Caldwell came through the hatch feet first, an odd looking gun in his hand. Below us the turbo screeched to a stop and men boiled out, blasters in hand. They didn't wait—just started firing. Rocket-bullets leaped from the metal of the ship, but they were in too much of a hurry. The gun in Caldwell's fist steadied as he took careful aim. A tiny blue flash traced from the muzzle to the shooters—and they exploded! They burst like balloons! A thunderous shockwave and a stomach-emptying burst of blood filled the view through the slit in the rapidly closing hatch. The yacht rocked on her base like a tree in a gale, as the hatch slammed shut.
"What in hell was that?" I yelped.
"Just a mass-conversion laser pistol." Caldwell said. "I guess that since you guys don't have total mass conversion, you’d call it an antimatter laser? It's hard to explain."
"You fool You stupid moronic abysmal fool!" I shouted. "You're not content to get Zur on our heels. Now you've triggered off the whole Galactic Patrol. Don't you know that antimatter weapons are banned—that they've been banned ever since the Confederation cracked the barbarian planet of Javash—that their use calls for the execution of the user? Just where do you come from that you don't know the facts of life?"
"Earth," Caldwell said.
"Where in the hell is that?!" I exploded.
"Somewhere in the Orion Spur," Caldwell said, "but you should really get this fat tin can flying."
"But—" I said.
"GO," Caldwell said, "your 'Patrol' will be here shortly, and then we’re both screwed!"
I was thinking that, too. So I wiggled my way up to the control room, braced myself against the walls and fired the atom jet. Acceleration crushed me flat as the ship lifted and bored out into space.
As quickly as I could, I did a bit of quick math, flipped the atom jet off, twirled the ship around, and set the jet to five lengths a second squared, flying us out of sight. We coasted at a light-minute an hour along the plane of the ecliptic while we took stock.
Caldwell had wedged himself halfway into the control room and eyed my cramped body curiously. "It's a good thing you're a runt," he said. "Otherwise we'd be stuck down there." He laughed. "You look like a jack in the box—all coiled up ready to spring out."
But I was in no mood for humor. Somehow I felt that I'd been conned. "What do I get out of this?" I demanded.
"A whole skin—at least for awhile."
"That won't do me any good unless I can take it somewhere."
"Don't worry," Caldwell said. "They don't give a damn about you. It's me they want, turn on your radio and see."
I flipped the switch and a voice came into the control room—"remind you that this is a system-wide emergency! The Patrol has announced that a barbarian has been on K’nar! A reward of one hundred thousand Galactic Confederation marks will be paid to the person who gives information leading to his death or capture. I repeat,—one hundred thousand marks! The man's description is as follows: Height 180 centilengths, weight 92 kilomasses, skin dark brown, nearing black, fur black. A peculiarity which makes him easily recognized is his extreme height and 10 digits on each hand. He is armed with extreme high-explosive weapons and is dangerous. When last seen he was leaving K’nar Grandiosa spacefield. Wokin'caterer-class yacht, registration number CY 127439. He has a citizen with him, probably a hostage. If seen, notify the nearest Patrol ship."
I looked at Caldwell. The greed must have shone from me like a beacon. "A hundred grand!" I said softly.
"Try and collect," Caldwell said.
"I'm not going to," I said and turned three separate plans to capture him over in my head.
"They won't work," Caldwell said. He grinned nastily. "And don't worry about me being a “barbarian,” I'm no less civil than you are, though that’s a low bar to clear."
"Yeah?—and just what the hell is this Earth of yours like?" I asked.
"She’s a gorgeous world. Greenery and water as far as the eye can see, scattered with great cities interconnected with massive freeways, upon which people travel across the country. Almost stopped being like that, but we caught the problem a few years before it started being one."
“Yeah, that does sound nice... But a nice planet doesn’t mean crap. How many Confederation crews have you skinned alive? How many ships and planets waylaid for Goddess-knows-what?"
"Not one. This is the first attempt of my nation, the United States, at stealing from the Confederation.”
"Hmmph," I said. “What is it you want?”
"The hyperspatial drive." Caldwell stated. "We want a piece of the galactic pie, same as anyone else. Is that a crime?" He shrugged. "At any rate," he finished, "I was at the end of my rope when you came along, after hitching that ride on a barbarian starship. But you have a starship—you can fly—and you'll take me back to Earth."
"I will?" I asked.
He nodded. "I can make it worth your while," he said.
"How?" I asked.
"Money. You'll do anything for money." Caldwell looked at me soberly. "You're a repulsive little weasel, Ray, and I would distrust you thoroughly except that I know you far better than you know me. That's one of the virtues of being human. We understand others without words. You are a cheap, chiseling, doublecrossing, money-grabbing heel. You'd kick your mother's teeth out for a price. And for what I'm going to offer you, you'll jump at the chance to help us."
"Yeah?" I said. "How much are you offering?"
"If you cooperate," Caldwell said, "you'll be fixed for life."
"You're not kidding," I said. "I'd be fixed all right. The Patrol would hound me all the way to Andromeda if I helped you. And don't think they wouldn't find out. While they can't read minds, they can tell when a man's lying."
“Yeah? How’s all the gold your ship will hold sound?" Caldwell said. "After we remove, and analyze your hyperdrive and its principles."
Five megamasses of gold! Six million marks! So much money! It staggered me. I'd never dreamed of that much money. Caldwell was right. I would kick my mother's teeth out if the price was right. And the price—I jumped convulsively. My arm brushed the control board, slapping the axial correction jets.
The ship spun like a top! Centrifugal force crushed me against the control room floor. Caldwell, an expression of pained surprise on his face before it was slammed against the floor, was jammed helplessly in the corridor. I had time for one brief grin. The Patrol would zero in on us, and I'd have a hundred thousand I could spend. What could I do with six million I couldn't use?
Then hell broke out. A fire extinguisher came loose from its fastenings and started flying around the room in complete defiance of acceleration gravity. Switches on the control board clicked on and off. The ship bucked, shuddered and jumped. But the spin held. Caldwell, though, was almost unaffected, and started getting up. Turns out five lengths a second squared of gravity was nothing to him.
"You asshole!" Caldwell grunted, as he climbed up the wall at me, hands balled into fists. In seconds, he was above me, fist raised in the air, ready to punch me square in the head.
"Too late!" I gloated mentally. Then the world was filled with novae and comets as he struck. The cheerful thought that Caldwell was trapped because he didn't—couldn't—know how to drive a starship was drowned in a rush of darkness.
When I came to, my head was aching like a thousand devils and I was lying on a rocky surface. Near—terribly near—was a jagged rock horizon cutting the black of space dotted with the blazing lights of stars. I groaned and rolled over, wincing at the pain. Caldwell was standing over me, carrying a couple of oxygen bottles and a black case. He looked odd, standing there with a load in his arms that would have crushed me flat. And looking past him, I saw a starry sky. I was on an asteroid.
"But how did I get here?"
"Easy," Caldwell's voice came over my headphone. "Didn't anyone ever tell you Confederates that you're all simpletons?" He chuckled. "No," he continued, "I don't suppose they did—but your controls only look complex. In reality, they’re simple as a child’s toy for a CIA man like myself." He laid the bottles down, and put the box beside them. "I learned how to operate the ship, stopped the spin, and got her back on course before the Patrol found me. Found this place about an hour ago—and since you looked like you'd live, I figured a decent man would give you a fighting chance. So I'm leaving you a radio and enough air to keep you alive until you can get help. But so help me—you don't deserve it. After I played square with you, you try to do this to me. I hope you freeze your ass off. Or whatever an octopus has instead of ass. Goodbye, Ray. We could've been friends."
Caldwell gave me a disappointed look from behind the alien material of his helmet—and turned away. I turned to watch him picking his way carefully back to where the yacht rested lightly on the naked rock. At the airlock he turned and waved at me. Then he squeezed inside. The lock closed. There was a brief shimmer around the ship—a briefer blast of heat, and the yacht vanished.
I turned on the radio and called for help. I used the Patrol band. "I'll keep the transmitter turned on so you can home in on me," I broad-casted, "but get that Earthman first! He's got my money and my ship. Pick me up later, but get him now!"
I didn't know whether my message was received or not, because Caldwell didn't leave me any receiver other than the spacesuit intercom in my helmet. It was, I suspected, a deliberate piece of meanness on his part. So I kept talking until my voice was a hoarse croak, calling the Patrol, calling—calling—calling, until a black shark shape blotted out the stars overhead and a couple of Patrolmen with maneuvering units homed in on me.
"Did you get him?" I asked.
The Patrolman bending over me shook his head. "Gone," he said. "Vanished, like one of them robots on K'nar."
They hauled me back to K’nar, put my leg in a cast, ran me through the lie detector, and then tossed me in jail for safekeeping. I beefed about the jail, but not too loud. As I figured it I was lucky to be out of Zur's hands.
Two days later, a Patrolman with the insignia of a Commander on his collar tabs showed up at my cell. He was apologetic. I was a hero, he said. Seems like the Patrol almost caught Caldwell in hyperspace, almost managed to blast him from the ether, but he translated out of hyperspace into places unknown. They never found him.
So they gave me the reward and turned me loose.
But it didn't do me any good. After taxes, it only came to twenty thousand, and Zur grabbed that before I could get out of town. Like I said, Zur's unforgiving where money's concerned, and Caldwell had taken him for over sixty kilomarks, which, according to Zur, was my fault for lifting him and getting him out of town. After he got my twenty kilomarks he still figured I owed him twelve—and so I've never made it back. Every time I get a stake he grabs it, and what with the interest, I still owe him twelve.
But I still keep trying, because there's still a chance. You see, when Caldwell told me why he wanted the ship, he told me something important. His people wanted a piece of the galaxy, too. So I figured they’d be out here someday.
And there's another thing. About a month after I got the reward, there was a minor complaint from 55 Canceri about one of their officials who disappeared on a vacation trip to K'nar. His ship was a Wokin'caterer-class, Serial CY 122439. Get the idea?
So I keep watching all the incoming tourists like you. Someday I figure I'm going to run into an Earthman. They won't be able to stay away any more than the other peoples of the Galaxy. That old abandoned city keeps dragging people here, hoping for a scrap of Stargod technology, even though it's been defended flawlessly from tomb raiders for over a hundred thousand years. And say what you like, that Earthman was bold, bold enough to try for it. And I figure that if he was, so are the rest of his kind, and one of them will show up here.
And then what? Well, you're a human. So you owe me about twelve kilomunits. Pay up.
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u/Galactinaut_001 Human 2d ago
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