Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

The face in the visi-plate was purple with rage, but Interplanetary Chief Justice Elmer Phillips knew when he was beaten.

“Mr. Hart,” he said, “I don’t like your attitude. I deny every insinuation you have made. But I do see some merit in what you propose. I will do it.”

“You’re damn right you’ll do it,” snarled Hart, “and what’s more, you’ll do it right away. If you don’t give me a story saying that you have issued an injunction stopping Venus Land or anyone else from monkeying around with the polka-dot weed farms by the time we put our last edition to bed, I’ll have another story in its place that will blast you and your Interplanetary Justice commission right out of the water.”

“You can rest assured I will do it,” Justice Phillips told him. “I’m a man of my word.”

“And so am I,” said Hart.

The editor thrust the visa-phone receiver back in its cradle and swung around in his chair.

Hap Folsworth chased his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.

“I’ll say this for you,” he remarked, “when you get your tail up you don’t let a little thing like blackmail stop you.”

“That wasn’t blackmail,” Hart snapped. “The Justice and I understand one another. He knows well enough I could rip him wide open for some of the stunts the justice commission has pulled and he’s ready to play ball. That’s all.”

Hart’s collar was open, his necktie was twisted under one ear, his hair was rumpled.

“You look like you been in a street fight,” Hap observed.

“Listen, Hap,” said Hart, “I am in a fight. I’m fighting red tape and governmental stupidity and bureaucratic inefficiency. Fighting for the rights of some poor, simple-minded farmers who let a racketeering land company sell them worthless land on Venus. And now that the land has something on it that is valuable the land company wants to take it away from them again. I’m going to have the government declare the polka-dot weed a public utility and take control of it. That will keep out the rats and the slickers and will insure a fair price.”

Hap changed his cigar to the other corner of his mouth.

“You’ve still got ideals, Hart,” he mocked. “Ideals after 18 years in a newspaper office. That’s something.”

“Look here,” snarled Hart, “you get back to your silly prize fights and your asinine baseball games and leave me alone. I got a man’s job to do.”

Johnny Mason, a sheet of yellow paper gripped in his hand, stuck his head in the door.

“Got a load of bad news,” he said. “Funny news.”

“What is it?” asked Hart.

Johnny laid the paper in front of him.

“Three ships took off from Radium City for New Chicago,” Johnny said, “to get a shipment of polka-dot weed. They’ve disappeared. No radio contact. No reports. Nothing.”

Hart hummed under his breath. “Something funny here,” he said.

“And that’s not all,” Johnny told him. “The freighter that was sent out from New York to Venus for the weed is coming back. Got out just beyond the orbit of the moon and blew three tubes. Improper fuel mixture.”

Bob found Doc at a table in the Venus Flower saloon. “How’s Susan?” Bob asked.

“Getting along all right,” said Doc dolefully. “She’ll be up and around in a few days.”

Doc fondled his bottle, gazed mournfully at it and shoved it across the table to the reporter. Bob tilted it and the living fire of Martian bocca slashed down his throat. He set the bottle back on the table and coughed.

“Bob,” said Doc, “I feel lower than a snake’s belly. I have been sitting off to one side talking to myself and I am downright astounded at what I found out.”

“That’s a fine way for the man who discovered a cure for the Hunger Disease to be talking,” Bob remarked.

“That’s just it,” explained Doc. “You see, I didn’t discover that cure. I would never have guessed it in a hundred years. But you told the people I was the one who did it. And now the International Medical Society wants me to come to New York and be the guest of honor at a big banquet. They are going to decorate me. Just talked to the Society president over the radio.”

“That’s fine,” said Bob.

Doc shook his head.

“It isn’t fine,” he protested. “Long as I am out here, buried in this mud-hole, I’m a world hero because you’ve made me one. But it won’t take those doctors in New York five minutes to find I am a phony. I am just an old booze-hound. I haven’t got too much brain left any more. Liked liquor too well. About all I’m fit to be is a doctor out here. I can patch up a busted leg and I can pull an aching tooth and I can doctor colds, but that’s about all I’m good for any more.”

“You’re drunk,” Bob accused. “You’ll feel differently when you sober up. I made you a hero and I’m going to keep you a hero if I kill you doing it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Doc mumbled. “Anyhow, I’m not looking forward to that trip to New York.”

In silence they sat and watched the rain pour down, making a river of the street.

“How’s everything out at the farms?” Doc asked.

“Still peaceful,” Bob said. “I hope I can keep it that way until Hart gets the court to issue that injunction. There were about a dozen Venus Land men came over from Radium City in the ship. When Zeke showed some fight and Angus refused to serve any more papers, the ones who went out with Angus went back to the ship for reinforcements. Then the whole mob went back to Zeke’s place and found it deserted. Zeke and his wife had skinned out to warn their friends. So the Venus Land bunch moved in, figuring, I suppose, that they should establish some sort of possession rights. Zeke roused up his boys and that place is an armed camp. They have every path guarded and a ring thrown around Zeke’s cabin. They’re hoping the Venus Land boys make just one false move, so they can have an excuse to start shooting. But I got Zeke to promise he’d keep peaceable as long as possible.”

“If something don’t happen pretty soon,” said Doc, “we’ll have a posse from town going out there. Nobody around here has much love for Venus Land.”

“All we can do is wait,” Bob said. “Hart will move heaven and hell to get that injunction through. Those ships that were sent out to get the weed should be here pretty soon. Should have been here before now, in fact.”

“What’s that?” Hart yelled into the phone. “I know what you have to say is important, but wait just a second. Get your breath. Talk slowly, so I can understand you.”

In the visi-plate Hart saw the reporter gulp and draw in a deep breath.

“It’s like this,” the reporter said, talking slowly, with clipped precise speech, as if he had applied an actual physical brake to his tongue. “The boys down here at Interplanetary Police headquarters have been working for the past several months on a tip some big plot was underway, aimed against the system government.

“That plot broke today when the police captured one of the men in the ring. They did some persuading and he talked. He said that the gang he was working with was responsible for the Hunger Disease. They had spread the bacteria that caused it all over both Venus and Earth. They had planned to spread it on Mars, too.”

“Edwards,” snarled Hart, “are you sure you got the right dope?”

“You bet I am,” said the reporter. “The chief down here just released the story.”

“Herb,” Hart roared to his assistant, “get on the extension and listen to this.”

“Now,” he said to the reporter, “go ahead.”

“It’s a screwy story, but it’s the straight dope,” the reporter cautioned.