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FAREWELL TO THE LOTOS
BY A. BERTRAM CHANDLER
ILLUSTRATED BY ORBAN
Hooper’s Snoopers were the most hated men in the Federation. But they knew they had the highest mission of all — saving the race from the contagious poison of alien paradises and one-way Edens.
* * * *
Altair VI was a rotten world to be stranded on. It was damp and dismal, and the park that surrounded the bench was filled with shrubs that looked more animal than vegetable, with warty stems, fleshy black leaves, and blood red flowers. There was even a faint smell like that of carrion in the murky atmosphere that made the cigarette in Peter Quinn’s mouth seem tainted.
He shifted his lanky six-foot body on the bench, and tried to close his pale blue eyes to the sights, while he sucked in on the smoke. He might as well enjoy it, he realized bitterly; there were only two other cigarettes in the case he’d just returned to the pocket of his wrinkled uniform. When they were gone. . .
Well, the Service would have nothing to do with him. From now on, all his past record would be blotted out, and he’d be listed as just another Second Pilot turned drunkard, who’d overstayed his shore leave and missed his ship. He hadn’t been drunk, though he’d picked up a bit of a glow. And he’d kept his eye on the clock in the girl’s apartment. But either it had been tinkered with or it stopped, as he found when he happened to look at his wristwatch. Then there’d been a wild ride to the spaceport, only to find that the Lady May had already blasted off, taking everything he owned with her. The girl, Annalyn, who’d thought so much of an officer of an interstellar cruiser, had indicated what she thought of him as a potential beachcomber, and had denied knowing a thing about the money he didn’t have. And here he was, stranded on Altair VI, good for nothing except perhaps enlisting in the local garrison forces!
“Peter Quinn?” It was a woman’s voice, low and husky, that brought him to his feet out of habit, even before he saw her.
Venus sea-silk stockings covered fine ankles and shapely knees. Beneath the weatherproof, transparent cloak was a costume that must have come from London or New York, and it was filled in all the right places. Under the hood, the hair was black and lustrous, worn shoulder length. Her cheekbones were a little too high, her mouth more than a little too wide. Her eyes were ice-blue, and the line of her jaw was graceful—and strong. She was almost as tall as he was: He was not sure that he liked the hint of ironic humor under her seemingly grave expression —or that he would ever like her.
“Sit down,” she suggested, before he could fumble for words. She dropped onto the bench beside him, holding out one of the rare, delicately carved boxes found among the crumbling ruins of the once mighty Martian civilization; its use as a cigarette box argued money with a capital M. So did the cigarettes.
He took one of the expensive Nine Planets brand, lighted one for her, and then inhaled gratefully. He started to question her again, but again she beat him to it.
“I knew you’d missed the Lady May, Peter Quinn. I came looking for you. You can pilot a Spurling, of course?”
He nodded. “I should hope so.”
“Good. I need a skilled pilot. . .”
Disgust flamed up in him. It was obvious enough now—the money, the hardness in her, the ostentation, and her suggestion all told their own story. Someone who’d won one of the Federation Lotteries, throwing money away, travelling around in a haze of false glory, going from monocars to Spurlings, and now willing to play Lady Bountiful to a down-and-out, spaceman—for a price, that is ; for someone to push around, play servant, and gigolo while the glamor of the Bountiful act went on.. .
Quinn rubbed out the Nine Planets, and took one of his own remaining cigarettes; he slammed it viciously into his mouth, and swung on his heel toward the distant, mist-shrouded towers of Port Van Campen.
“Stop!” There was a whiplash quality in her voice that surprised him. “Come back, Quinn!”
“Why?” he asked curtly.
“Because I’ve already spent too much work getting my hands on you to let you go now. I needed someone who was trained to obey orders, and from outside this beastly world. But it isn’t personal occupation. Here!”
She did something quick and complicated to a compact, then suddenly glanced around sharply, before completing the deft motions of her hands. Suddenly, the back of the case flew open, and she handed it to him. As a space officer, he couldn’t mistake the badge inside. “Federal Agent Jane Haldane, Number ZX7355- 668,” he read. “Not too good a photograph.”
“Skip it.” She snatched the compact back, snapped it shut, and thrust it into her large bag. “And the name for my job is Jane Haley—about what you thought, too. From Centaurus VI, winner of the Far Centaurus Sweepstakes, blowing my winnings seeing all the Galaxy I can. I’ve bought a Spurling—looks like a crock, but she goes. And I know you; we used to be good friends when you were on the Centaurus run—remember ? Now I’m lucky, you’ve had bad luck, and I’m giving you a hand. But you insist on doing something to earn your keep. . .”
“Quinn, of Hooper’s Snoopers?” he asked, and laughed with an ugly sound. “No thanks! I’d better enlist here—honestly.”
She grimaced. “All right, nobody likes us. But it’s time you learned the facts. We don’t care about morals. We don’t even care if some man-colonized world wants to kick over the traces and tell the Federation to go chase itself, though the Federation might take a dim view of that. Our job is simply to keep the human race ideologically pure—keep it human! And on some of these worlds already inhabited, with their own cultures, things could get out of hand. Some of those cultures are poisonous to human minds—poisonous but attractive, like a drug—and contagious. We’re trying to keep such deadly diseases from spreading!”
“Then why here?” Quinn pointed out. “This world was never inhabited by intelligent life.”
“Maybe not. But there’s—something! We never found artifacts, of course, but there was a biped here once, with a large brain case. . .” She stopped, then swung to him. “But that’s enough, until I know whether you’re with me. Are you?”
He took a cigarette from her, trying to think. He knew she could get his blacklisting ended, return him to the Service and the ships with a simple recommendation. The Federation Secret Service under Hooper had power enough. But spying, even for a good cause, was a dirty business. Sometimes the end justified the means, but he’d read enough history to have his doubts. . .
“You’ll see the ships blasting off for the stars. . .” the girl murmured. “Bound for. Polaris, Alioth, Centaurus, Sol . . . But you won’t be on them, unless I say so. Think of the hills of Earth, Quinn—sunlight instead of this dank drabness, people around you, ships waiting. Think, Quinn, think of Earth. . .”
She stopped suddenly, her face deadly pale except for the crimson mark on her left cheek left by his open hand. Her eyes were hard and cold, the eyes of a killer. Her handbag was open, and her hand was inside it. Then she laughed briefly, her eyes still cold and hostile, but with the tension broken. “All right, I hit below the belt. But it’s true. You’d be doing your race a good deed and you could win reinstatement. Otherwise, there’s no way back to the ships!”
“The price on the ticket!” He shrugged, and rubbed his hand against his trousers. “All right, you win. Spill the beans.”
She looked relieved, but got up and walked around in a circle beyond the bench, tense and listening. Finally she sat down again. “They don’t seem to be on to me, yet.” She threw her cigarette away, and took out another. “It’s a long story. But I need help, and it’ll be too long before it can arrive. That’s why you’re it. And don’t think it isn’t important, Quinn. All I can give you now is a quick background.”
The agents had stumbled on something first on Kalabon on Alioth III. The Kalabonians had been intelligent, but not humanoid; and they hadn’t been behind it. They resented the alien ideas intruding on their antheap philosophy, and wanted to help. But while the investigation was going on, the local fort commandant set off a couple of rockets with atomic heads, and the focus of the trouble came to an end. The island where the cult, or whatever it was, had been was just a radioactive cinder.
But there’d been a survivor, bound for the island, but not close enough. Somehow, afterwards, she’d managed to fly her Spurling back, and the agents had snatched her when she landed. Before she died, she’d talked a little, though she was stubborn. Some kind of esoteric cult, with hints of paradise of some kind. Only humans were involved, and the natives had nothing to do with it—and then just top executives and their friends. The mayor, the commandant, and a lot of others committed suicide before they could be questioned. That seemed to end all chances of finding anything more there, but routine investigation turned up a few bits.
There was the boss of Kalabon Ceramics, reported missing after the blow-up, who’d been on Kalabon only three years. The secret cult meetings had started about six months after his arrival—the secret comings and goings, the falling off of efficiency in all the Kalabonian human undertakings, and such. He’d been sent to Kalabon from Altair VI. And here, there were signs of the same slow corrosion, when they traced back.
Quinn helped himself to another smoke. “I’ve run across at least one alien cult,” he said slowly. “I don’t like them! After something like that—well, soap doesn’t seem to clean very well for a while. Ugh. All right, I’m your man, I guess. But I stilt don’t like Hooper’s Snoopers!”
“Fair enough!” She grinned. “Then call a taxi to take us to the Aiglon—air taxi. We’ll book you there, where I’m staying. Call me Jane—but don’t forget the surname is Haley. And you might act a little embarrassed at accepting a woman’s charity. Make it plain you’re positively earning your keep.” She looked at him quizzically. “As chauffeur, secretary, travelling-companion, that is.”
“The other might not be too hard,” he suggested.
“Neither hard nor easy—it won’t happen. But it won’t. hurt if people put two and two together to get six!” She pressed a thick wad of notes into his hand. “And you’d better take this. Call it salary.
Quinn took it, realizing he’d sold himself definitely to the Special Service of the Federation.
But somehow, being a well-fed, well-dressed spy in civilian evening wear, sitting beside Jane Haldane in the Aiglon lounge wasn’t too bad, when he could forget he was a spy. She was dressed in something black and simple from Paris that made every other woman there look like a frump. He could almost forget the whispers and the amused suggestions that were going around. And even though he knew they were untrue, he could dream a little ...
Jane stood up suddenly, looking at her watch. “Bring my car around to the main entrance, Peter—there’s a lamb. . .” she said, and began moving off.
He finished his drink and got up, walking with deliberate slowness to the door. The envy in the looks was mixed with scorn —and there was now something else that puzzled and worried him as he studied those about him—some undercurrent of hostility, just strong enough to ring little warning bells in his brain. Even the garage attendant was surly, though he did what was required.
Quinn waited until the gyroscope was spinning at the right rpm, withdrew the parking props, and eased the car along the covered driveway to the entrance porch. After a few seconds, Jane came down the steps, wearing a white cloak and carrying what he saw was a man’s raincoat. She got in, and he started as he felt something digging into his side—something hard.
Jane grinned. “A shoulder-holster—and not empty. You can put it on when we find some place to park. Now, Peter, LotosLand!”
Quinn whistled. The most exclusive and expensive of the city’s night spots—hardly the place where lethal ironmongery was considered de rigeur. But he threw the drive into low until the big glass doors slid open at the car’s approach. Then he gunned the motor. He knew the way to the nightery—beyond city limits along the main road, about five miles beyond the park where she had picked him up.
There was little traffic on the road. It was raining heavily now, an almost vertical downpour, shining like polished steel rods in the glaring beam of the headlight. Even inside the car the air was unpleasantly damp and chill.
Something droned slowly overhead. Quinn looked up, through the transparent roof of the car, and saw a blurred triangle of red, green and white lights that denoted a police ‘copter. The mournful beat of its vanes blended with the shrill whine of the car’s gyroscope, the steady drumming of the rain, into a dismal, monotonous melody that held all the damp misery of the night. The trees bordering the road shone wanly luminous—an unsteady, flickering light that hinted at decay and corruption. Something small and sinuous, with too many legs, scuttled across the road in front of them, turned to glare at them with red-glowing eyes.
“Turn right,” ordered the girl. “Here’s the park. We’ll be able to get our pocket artillery sorted without any risk of observation. . .”
Not taking his eyes from the glistening road Quinn said—”Observation? I’ve been wondering why you didn’t give me my gun back there in the hotel...”
“I don’t trust that place. I haven’t found anything—but there’s far too much ornamentation in which microphones and scanners could be concealed. You should have seen the contortions I went into so as to cover your holster from every possible angle when I got it out of my trunk...”
The park was deserted. The dim, pale glimmering of grass and trees and shrubs conveyed the impression of a photographic negative—and of a scene that would still be unpleasant even with the normal tone values of the print.
Acting on Jane’s instructions Quinn left the road. He drove slowly over the short, soggy grass, pulled up under the overhanging foliage of a huge, dim-glowing, isolated tree. He stopped—but left the engine and the gyroscope running, did not put down the parking props. It was something of a relief to have lost, even if only for a short while, the steady, heavy drumming of the rain on the car roof. ...
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