Kenneth Bulmer: No Man's World

The book hadn’t been shot into the forgery detector. Caradine tried not to breathe a gusty sigh of relief. Even had it been subjected to that test, he had a certain faith in that little old half-blind man and his wizardry with chemicals, nucleonics and downright forging artistry.

The formalities were amicably concluded.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”

Caradine began to repack his bag. “Good hotel?”

“We—ell. Shanstar, hmm? I’d recommend the Outworld Arms. Comfortable.”

“Thanks.” He’d give it a whirl, anyway. Have to, now, having asked.

As he walked off, the customs man called after him: “Hope you have a pleasant stay on Gamma-Horakah, Mr. Carter.” He turned, smiling. “Thanks.”

The customs man watched the tall, lean, wide-shouldered figure silhouetted for an instant against the sunlight. That great mass of black hair gave a… a leonine look. Yes, that was it, leonine.

Dave Caradine walked out to the cab rank. Even he was beginning to believe that Earth didn’t exist.

Dave Cahadine finished his meal. Feeling comfortable and at ease, he walked through into the hotel’s smoking room, where he cut himself a yellow Krono and lit up. He’d have to ration the Kronos. They were not an item the worlds of Hora-kah imported. Well, there was an interesting lead there, already.

The man sitting in the low-slung spring chair watching the local station’s evening TV program was smoking a short, scarlet, pudgy cigar that smelled, when Caradine deliberately caught a whiff, like boiled and shredded radiation-burn pads. The TV was running some information program on the latest increase in rates of pay in the armed forces, and tying it in with a recruiting campaign. There were dramatic color shots of battleships passing in various fighting formations before a suitably artistic planetary background. Caradine had always preferred to review the fleets right out in interstellar space, where the grim gray battlewagons belonged.

Hell! All that was dead and gone; dust, along with the Second CST.

He puffed a contemplative yellow cloud towards the scarlet cigar owner.

The perfume got through.

The man took the cigar from his lips and half-turned his head from the TV. He was medium-height, with a humorous twirl to his nostrils, and brown hair, thinning fractionally, neatly brushed into a cowlick over the forehead. He smiled.

“Nice cigar you have there, friend.”

Caradine puffed again. “Yes, I like ’em. Kronos. Ever tried ’em?”

“No. Never heard of them.”

Well, it could be looked at in the line of an investment.

Caradine extended the transparent pack. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” There was no gawky shyness. The man reached out and took one of the slim yellow cigars. “Mind if I just finish this one? I’m a trifle addicted.”

“Go right ahead.”

“I’m Greg Rawson. You just get in today?”

“John Carter. That’s right. In from Shanstar.”

“Really? Nice little setup you people have there. I hear you’re expanding fast.”

Caradine put on the fatuous home-boy pride. “Sure are. Just heard another two planets elected to join up.”

“Elected?”

“Yep. We’re expanding through trade and economics.” Rawson chuckled. He lifted the Krono. “Like this?”

“Sort of.”

“I’m from Ahansic. When I left on this trip we’d better than sixty planets in the Confederation. And—” the same lowered confidential tone Caradine had used on the customs man “—two smaller combines were dickering to join us.”

“Sounds an interesting setup. Maybe we could get together. You on business, too?”

“Sure.”

Was that a shade too fast, too pat?”

The difference in the social scale between a planetary grouping of fifty-plus worlds and better than sixty worlds was small but definite. Rawson could have been loftily condescending, had he wished. But he was acting like a human being, and Caradine wondered why.

The possible answer to that lay in the common bond between two outworlders on a planet. Then Caradine remembered that Ahansic was a stellar cluster not so very far away from the powerful Horakah group. Maybe the two smaller groupings wishing to join up were also being chased by Horakah? Could be friction there.

That could be why Greg Rawson was studying the Horakah Space Navy buildup on the TV with such interest.

Spy?

Well, and if so, so what? Dave Caradine was a businessman now, and as he’d never been a spy he didn’t think he’d worry about the problem now. As a problem, it wasn’t his.

That was the wonderful thing about the freedom after the great smashup. There were no real problems any more.

Only minor trivia like trying to sell goods, and trying to wangle visas to visit difficult planets. He’d never wind up on an alienist’s couch now, thank God.

It might be an idea to see what Rawson knew about Alpha.

“Horakah seems a pretty big-time outfit,” he said pleasantly. “Thought I might try my luck on Alpha.”

Rawson laughed moderately. “You’ll be lucky.”

“That’s what the customs man said.”

“I’ve been applying for a travel permit for a year, now. No go.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Closed shop. Preferential treatment. They use their outlying planets, like this one, Gamma, to dicker with other stellar peoples. Then they ship the goods themselves. A mere matter of economics. Keeps the colonial worlds happy.”

“Inefficient.”

“Not necessarily. A starship line can trade in and out of the Horakah Cluster on a shoestring. We take the long haul shipping the goods in here.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He was getting no change out of Rawson. And bed called. “Well, I’ll be shoving off. See you in the morning?”

“Sure thing. Good night.”

“Good night.”

As he left the smoking room a strikingly attractive girl entered. She had a tumbled pile of silver-blonde hair that emphasized the slant of her cheekbones and the glint of mischief in her eyes. She was wearing a white slit-blouse, red toreador pants and black, gilt-finished slippers. She wore no jewelry. Caradine stood aside to let her pass. She flashed him a smile and went on.

She began to talk to Greg Rawson, but Caradine had had enough for one day and he crossed slowly to the elevator. After all, he didn’t have to worry about a single thing or person on this planet.

Worry, he’d often surmised, grew into a habit.

And when he’d broken the habit the release had opened up a new world—new worlds, in fact. Worrying about finagling a trip to Alpha-Horakah and puzzling over upping his selling index were mere minor elements that had no power whatsoever to bother him.

But, still and all, he missed the great days, the thump and excitement and stirring wonder of it all...

The following morning at breakfast Rawson introduced the girl as Sharon Ogilvie. She smiled warmly and shook hands. “From Ahansic, too, Mr. Carter.”

“Our meeting was quite by chance,” Rawson said quickly. “We’re not in business together or anything.”

“I’m sure,” said Caradine politely.

He wondered what the other two thought he thought was covered by the “or anything.” Well, it seemed pretty open and shut and it certainly wasn’t his business.

That refreshing feeling of power swept over him. Nothing that he didn’t wish to be was his business, now. The days of sweating out the destinies of… Well, they were all over.

He finished his second cup of surprisingly good coffee, wiped his lips, tossed the napkin into the robotic disposal, and smiled at Rawson and Sharon.

“I think I’ll take a stroll down to the travel office. Check up on a visa.”