Master of the Moondog, Page 3

I have anytrouble with either of you, you go in the tank."

  Tod Denver gulped and held his nose. "Not your tank. No thanks. I wanta hotel room with a tub and shower, not a night in your glue factory.Come on, Charley. I guess you sleep in the ship."

  Charley grinned evilly at the sergeant. He gave out chuckling sounds,as if meditating. To escape disaster Tod Denver snatched him up andfled.

  * * * * *

  After depositing Charley in the ship, he bought clean clothes andregistered for a room at the Spaceport Hotel. After a bath, a shaveand a civilized meal he felt more human than he had for many lonelymonths. He transferred his belongings to the new clothes, and openedhis billfold to audit his dwindling resources. After the hotel and thenew clothes and the storage-rent at the spaceport for his ship, therewas barely enough for even a bust of limited dimensions. It would haveto do.

  As he replaced the money a battered photograph fell out. It was thepicture of Laird Martin's child. A girl, not over four. She was plumpand pretty in the vague way children are plump and pretty. An oldpicture, of course; faded and worn from frequent handling. Dirty andnot too clear. How could anyone trace a small orphan girl on Earthwith the picture and the incomplete address? She would be older, ofcourse; maybe six or seven. Schools do keep records and lists of thepupils' names might be available if he had money to investigate. Whichhe hadn't.

  His ship carried three months of supplies. Beside the money in hisbillfold, he had nothing else. Nothing but Charley, and the sales ofhim had always backfired. At best, a moondog was not readilymarketable. Besides, could he part with Charley?

  Maybe if he looked into those old Martian workings, the money would beforthcoming. After all, the dying Laird Martin had only asked that ashare be reserved for his daughter. Put some aside for the kid. Usesome to find her. Keep careful accounting and give her a fair half.More if she needed it and there wasn't too much. It was a nicethought. Denver felt warm and decent inside.

  For the moment some of his thoughts verged upon indecencies.

  He lacked the price but it cost nothing to look. He called itwidow-shopping, which was not a misnomer in Crystal City. There wereplenty of widows, some lonely, some lively. Some free and uninhibited.And he did have the price of the drinks.

  The impulse carried him outside to a point near the X-likeintersection of streets. Here, the possibilities of sin and evilsplendor dazzled the eye.

  Pressured atmosphere within the domed city was richer than Tod Denverwas used to. Oxygen in pressure tanks costs money; and he hadaccustomed himself to do with as little as possible. Charley helpedslightly. Now the stuff went tingling through nostrils, lungs and onto his veins. It swept upward to his brain and blood piled up there,feeling as if full of bursting tiny bubbles like champagne. He feltgay and feckless, light-headed and big-headed. Ego expanded, and heimagined himself a man of destiny at the turning point of his career.

  He was not drunk, except on oxygen. Not drunk yet. But thirsty. Thestreet was garish with display of drinkeries. In neon lights a tiltedglass dripped beads of color. There was a name in luminouspastel-tubing:

  _Pot o' Stars._

  Beneath the showering color stood a girl. Tod Denver's blood pressuresoared nimbly upward and collided painfully with blocked safetyvalves. The look was worth it. Tremendous. Hot stuff.

  Wow!

  When bestially young he had dreamed lecherously of such a gloriouscreature. Older, bitter experience had taught him that they existedoutside his price class. His eyes worked her over in frank admirationand his imagination worked overtime.

  She was Martian, obviously, from her facial structure, if one noticedher face.

  Martian, of course. But certainly not one of the Red desert folk, norone of the spindly yellow-brown Canal-keepers. White. Probably sprangoriginally from the icy marshes near the Pole, where several oddremnants of the old white races still lived, and lingered painfully onthe short rations of dying Mars.

  She was pale and perilous and wonderful. Hair was shimmering brightcascade of spun platinum that fell in muted waves upon shoulders ofnaked beauty. Her eyes swam liquid silver with purple lights dwellingwithin, and her sullen red lips formed a heartshaped mouth, as ifpouting. Heavy lids weighed down the eyes, and heavier barbaricbracelets weighted wrists and ankles. Twin breasts were mounds ofsoft, sun-dappled snow frosted with thin metal plates glowing withgemfire. Her simple garment was metalcloth, but so fine-spun andgauzelike that it seemed woven of moonlight. It seemed as un-needed assilver leafing draped upon some exotic flowering, but somehow enhancedthe general effect.

  Her effect was overpowering. Denver followed her inside and followedher sweet, poisonous witchery as the girl glided gracefully along theaisle between ranked tables. As she entered the glittering room talkdied for a moment of sheer admiration, then began in swift whisperedaccents. Men dreamed inaudibly and the women envied and hated her onsight.

  She seemed well-known to the place. Her name, Denver learned from theawed whispering, was--Darbor....

  _The Pot o' Stars_ combined drinking, dancing and gambling. A fewpeople even ate food. There was muffled gaiety, glitter of glass andchromium, and general bad taste in the decoration. The hostesses weredressed merely to tempt and tease the homesick and lovelornprospectors and lure the better-paid mine-workers into a deadlyproximity to alcohol and gambling devices.

  * * * * *

  The girl went ahead, and Denver followed, regretting his politenesswhen she beat him to the only unoccupied table. It had a big sign,_Reserved_, but she seemed waiting for no one, since she ordered adrink and merely played with it. She seemed wrapped in speculativecontemplation of the other customers, as if estimating the possibleprofits to the house.

  On impulse, Denver edged to her table and stood looking down at her.Cold eyes, like amber ice, looked through him.

  "I know I look like a spacetramp," he observed. "But I'm notinvisible. Mind if I pull up a cactus and squat?"

  Her eyes were chill calculation.

  "Suit yourself ... if you like to live dangerously."

  Denver laughed and sat down. "How important are you? Or is itsomething else? You don't look so deadly. I'll buy you a drink if youlike. Or dance, if you're careless about toes."

  Her cold shrug stopped him. "Skip it," she snapped. "Buy yourself adrink if you can afford it. Then go."

  "What makes you rate a table to yourself? I could go now but I won't.The liquor here's probably poison but who pays for it makes nodifference to me. Maybe you'd like to buy me a short snort. Or justsnort at me again. On you, it looks good."

  The girl gazed at him languorously, puzzled. Then she let go with alaugh which sparkled like audible champagne.

  "Good for you," she said eagerly. "You're just a punk, but you haveguts. Guts, but what else? Got any money?"

  Denver bristled. "Pots of it," he lied, as any other man would. Then,remembering suddenly, "Not with me but I know where to lay hands onplenty of it."

  Her eyes calculated. "You're not the goon who came in from theAppenines today? With a wild tale of murder and claim-jumpers and oldMartian workings?"

  Quick suspicion dulled Denver's appreciation of beauty.

  She laughed sharply. "Don't worry about me, stupid. I heard it allover town. Policemen talk. For me, they jump through hoops. Everybodyknows. You'd be smart to lie low before someone jumps out of asung-bush and says boo! at you. If you expected the cops to doanything, you're naive. Or stupid. About those Martian workings, isthere anything to the yarn?"

  Denver grunted. He knew he was talking too much but the urge to bragis masculine and universal.

  "Maybe, I don't know. Martian miners dabbled in heavy metals. Maybethey found something there and maybe they left some. If they did, I'mthe guy with the treasure map. Willing to take a chance on me?"

  Darbor smiled calculatingly. "Look me up when you find the treasure.You're full of laughs tonight. Trying to pick me up on peanuts. Menlie down and beg me to walk on
their faces. They lay gold or jewels orpots of uranium at my feet. Got any money--now?"

  "I can pay ... up to a point," Denver confessed miserably.

  "We're not in business, kid. But champagne's on me. Don't worry aboutit. I own the joint up to a point. I don't, actually. Big Ed Caltisowns it. But I'm the dummy. I front for him because of taxes and thecops. We'll drink together tonight, and all for free. I haven't had agood laugh since they kicked me out of Venusport. You're it. I hopeyou aren't afraid of Big Ed. Everybody else is. He bosses the town,the cops and all the stinking politicians. He dabbles in every dirtyracket, from girls to the gambling upstairs. He pays my bills, too,but so far he hasn't collected. Not that he hasn't tried."

  Denver was impressed. Big Ed's girl. If she was. And he sat with her,alone, drinking at Big