Kenneth Bulmer: No Man's World

John Carter

His past was a child’s myth; his future an impossible fantasy.

Harriet Lafonde

Her greatest deception was to show she was a little deceiving.

Carson Napier

He almost died of surprise when his galactic search ended.

Allura Koanga

Her world’s intrigues were child’s play in a tangled universe.

Hsien KoangaA little man who played with the life of a planet.

The Moguls

They gobbled up star clusters until their world caved in.

Directly he dumped his single case on the customs bench, Dave Caradine began telling the old familiar lies. This far into the Galactic Hub, with stars and planets thicker than pips in a pomegranate, they took their customs inspections seriously. He wasn’t telling his elaborately calculated lies to cover up smuggling—that was strictly for the small time.

He opened his case helpfully. The planet’s name was Camma-Horakah and Caradine hadn’t wanted to make planetfall here at all. Out on the field a tractor with an off-key motor was hauling the starship off the pad. Other passengers were lining up, brightly dressed men and women from a hundred planets. Each individual person, Caradine knew with a sour little smile of amusement, figured that his or her own planet was the Golden Peak of civilization and culture-after Ragnar and the good ol’ PLW, of course.

Those two groupings really were worth a visit

The questions and the lies began.

“Name?”

“John Carter,” Dave Caradine said. Using that name always did give him a kick.

“Occupation?”

He was too polite, and far too cautious, to point out that all this was in the green plastic passport lying with his case on the bench. The customs man was short and running to fat, a little sweaty in the heat of Gamma-Horakah’s high summer. He’d be reasonably polite, too, until Caradine told him where he was from.

“Oh,” he said casually. “I’m a businessman. Hoping to prospect new markets here. Nice world you have...”

“Where you from?”

“Federation of Shanstar.”

“Shanstar?” The customs man made a production out of his frown. He was a citizen of the powerful Horakah Cluster; he could afford to be patronizing to lesser breeds. He could afford to be, and he was.

Caradine had to take it. That was always the problem, knowing just how high to pitch the planetary cluster you claimed as home. He’d made the mistake, early on, of claiming a really grade A 1 Plus cluster. They’d unmasked him, tried him, fined him, tossed him in jail. The next time he’d swung too low—he snickered at the thought of the idiocy of claiming to be from a single planet of a single system— and he’d spent a frustratingly miserable three months cleaning out toilets. A man without the protection of a strong home was a man to be pushed around unhesitatingly.

But to get the balance just right, and to pitch it just so that no one would bother to check up…

“Shanstar?” The customs man shook his head wonderingly. It was a good act.

Caradine said, “Fifty planets, and growing every year, friend.” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “There’s talk that PLW will be sending a fact-finding mission preparatory to setting up a consulate.”

“The PLW Embassy on Alpha Horakah,” the customs man said off-handedly, “is one of the oldest establishments in this area of the galaxy.”

It was a rebuke.

Caradine smiled.

“I’ve heard such a lot of Alpha-Horakah, that I’m figuring on paying the planet a call.”

“You’ll be lucky.”

Caradine widened his smile.

The customs man activated his gazeteer and the screen lit up. The robot had no trouble remembering Shanstar.

“Fifty-two planets,” the customs man said, slightly. impressed despite the habitual might and glory of Horakah.

“Well, what do you know!” Caradine thumped the bench with his fist. “Another couple already!”

The rest of the data were read out.

“Quite a nice little grouping, Federation of Shanstar. I see you don’t yet have much of a navy.”

That had been one snag. Caradine had had to risk it.

“Well, you know how it goes. So far we’ve not bumped into any really hostile entities. But the yards are all there; the navy could grow overnight.”

“Yeah, and babies grow under oleander trees. Save it. You skimp on defense and one day, powie! You’ll wake up to find Shanstar a province of some other tougher grouping.”

“You could be right, friend. Horakah ought to know about these things.”

At the customs man’s quick, undecided glance, Caradine thanked his luck that he’d tacked the extra words on that clumsy sentence, He flicked his open case.

“Want to look?”

“Sure. Anything to declare?”

“Only this.”

He slid the blued metal weapon from his shoulder holster and skidded it neady across the bench so that it halted, shining and slick and oiled, direcdy before the customs man. The man of Horakah flinched back. The speed of draw had been entirely reflex and Caradine cursed himself. Idiot! Take it easy. Relax. The old flannel is getting you into this dump, boy. Don’t foul it up.

“You kinda flash that thing, mister.”

“It’s nice of you to say. Just personal protection. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a lousy shot.” He laughed.

The customs man laughed, too, as he picked the gun up. It made him stop laughing. He stared at Caradine.

“A Beatty one millimeter needle-beam, duration one-hundreth of a second.” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “About a ’56, I’d say.”

“Fifty-eight.”

“Yeah. And made on Ragnar.”

“That’s right,” said Caradine brighdy.

The gun was always a chance. “How’d you get it?”

“No mystery. Bought it on Shanstar.” He opened his wallet, “Look, here’s the receipt.” He pushed it across.

“Humph. Well, looks okay. Shouldn’t be any trouble about a license for the Horakah Cluster.”

“Thanks.” Caradine felt an elation; mild, but nonetheless positive. Here on Gamma-Horakah he was going to pick up a license for the gun which would be effective in all the other worlds of Horakah. He wanted to get to Alpha…

And then his mental alertness sagged. After the big smash, going anywhere with any purpose had become meaningless. He wanted to go to Alpha merely because that world was the capital of the cluster. And… Dammit all! He had to keep reminding himself, he was just a peaceful businessman. He was. That was all—now. And he had to do business in order to live. Going to Alpha was important; but not important enough to warrant the itchy expectation that, unaccountably, rode him now.

The customs man punched the necessary keys for the license, the robot burped the card out, and Caradine paid. The money was in Galaxos, which simplified things.

Now came the crucial moment. The passport in its green plastic cover was picked up, flipped open, photograph compared. There were fingerprints, retinal images, ear dimensions, sole prints, too. All those were quite in order. The high-class and fantastically expensive forgery lay in the name of the bearer, John Carter. If Caradine got through with that, he knew one little old half-blind man on Shanstar V who was in business. If he didn’t…

Well, one prison was much like another in the human section of the galaxy.

The line waiting was growing restive. One or two children were playing with increasing violence. And it seemed as though the customs man had flexed his status-flaunting mental muscles enough. He flicked through the passport, cocked an eye at Caradine and the photograph, and then pushed the hook into the franker. The robot selected the right page and firmly imprinted the official seal of the Horakah Cluster, sub-department of Camma-Horakah.