Clifford Simak - The Big Front Yard and Other Stories

“Not one of the tours,” interrupted Meek. “Not for me. I have a ship of my own.”

Belmont thumped forward in his chair, looking almost startled.

“A ship of your own!”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver admitted, squirming uncomfortably. “Over thirty years I’ve saved for it … for it and the other things I’ll need. It sort of got to be … well, an obsession, you might say.”

“I see,” said Belmont. “You planned it.”

“Yes, sir, I planned it.”

Which was a masterpiece of understatement.

For Belmont could not know and Oliver Meek, stoop-shouldered, white-haired bookkeeper, could not tell of those thirty years of thrift and dreams. Thirty years of watching ships of the void taking off from the space port, just outside the window where he sat hunched over ledgers and calculators. Thirty years of catching scraps of talk from the men who ran those ships. Men and ships with the alien dust of far off planets still clinging to their skins. Ships with strange marks and scars upon them, and men with strange words upon their tongues.

Thirty years of reducing high adventure to cold figures. Thirty years of recording strange cargoes and stranger tales into accounts. Thirty years of watching through a window while rockets, outbound, dug molten pits into the field. Thirty years of being on the edge, the very fringe of life … but never in it.

Nor could Belmont have guessed or Meek formed in words the romanticism that glowed within the middle-aged bookkeeper’s heart … a thing that sometimes hurt … something earthbound that forever cried for space.

Nor the night classes Oliver Meek had attended to learn the theory of space navigation and after that more classes to gain an understanding of the motors and controls that drove the ships between the planets.

Nor how he had stood before the mirror in his room hour after hour, practicing, perfecting the art of pistol handling. Nor of the afternoons he had spent at the shooting gallery.

Nor of the nights he had read avidly, soaking up the lore and information and color of those other worlds that seemed to beckon him.

“How old are you, Oliver?” asked Belmont.

“Fifty next month, sir,” Meek answered.

“I wish you were taking one of the passenger ships,” said Belmont. “Now, those tours aren’t so bad. They’re comfortable and …”

Meek shook his head and there was a stubborn glint in the weak blue eyes behind the thick lensed glasses.

“No tour for me, sir. I’m going to some of those places the tours never take you. I’ve missed a lot in these thirty years. I’ve waited a long time and now I’m going out and see the things I’ve dreamed about.”

Oliver Meek pushed open the swinging doors of the Silver Moon and stepped timidly inside. Just through the door he stopped and stared, for the place hit him squarely in the face … the acrid smoke of Venusian leaf, the high-pitched laughter of the Martian dancing girls, the soft whirr of wheels, the click of balls as they bounced around the spinning wheels, the clatter of poker chips, the odor of strange liquors, the chirping and growling of a dozen tongues, the strange, exotic music of Ganymede.

Meek blinked through his heavy lenses, moved forward cautiously.

In the far corner of the place stood a table occupied by one man … an old, grizzled veteran of the Asteroids with his muzzle in a flagon of cheap beer.

Meek sidled toward the table, drew out a chair.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, and Old Stiffy Grant choked on a mouthful of beer in his amazement.

“Go ahead, stranger,” he finally croaked. “I don’t give a dang. I don’t own the joint.”

Meek sat down on the edge of the chair. His eyes swept the room. He smelled the smoke, the raw liquor, the sweat-stained clothing of the men, the cheap perfumery of the dancing girls.

He shifted his gun belt so the two energy pistols hung more easily, and cautiously slid farther back upon the chair.

So this was Asteroid City on Juno. The place he’d read about. The place the pulp paper writers used as background for their more lurid tales. This was the place where guns flamed and men were found dead in the streets and a girl or a game of chance or just one spoken word could start a fight.

The tours didn’t include places such as this. They took one to the nice, civilized places … towns like Gusta Pahn on Mars and Radium City on Venus and out to Satellite City on Ganymede. Civilized, polished places … places hardly different than New York or Chicago or Denver back home. But this was different … here one could sense something that made the blood run faster, made a thrill scamper up one’s spine.

“You’re new here, ain’t you?” asked Stiffy.

Meek jumped, then recovered his composure.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am. I always wanted to see this place. I read about it.”

“Ever read about an Asteroid Prowler?” asked Stiffy.

“I believe I have somewhere. In a magazine section. A crazy story. …”

“It ain’t crazy,” protested Stiffy. “I saw one of them … this afternoon. Right here on Juno. None of these dad-blamed fools will believe me.”

Furtively, Meek studied the man opposite him. He didn’t seem to be such a bad fellow. Almost like any other human being. A little rough, maybe, but a good fellow just the same.

“Say,” he suggested impulsively, “maybe you’d have a drink with me.”

“You’re dang tootin’,” agreed Stiffy. “I never turn down no drinks.”

“You order it,” said Meek.

Stiffy bawled across the room. “Hey, Joe, bring us a couple snorts.”

“What kind of an animal was this you were speaking of?” asked Meek.

“Asteroid Prowler,” said Stiffy. “Most of these hoodlums don’t think there is one, but I know different. I saw him this afternoon and he was the dad-blamest thing I ever laid my eyes on. He boiled right out from behind a big rock and started coming after me. I let him have one in the face but that didn’t even nick him. Full-power, too. When that happened I didn’t waste no more time. I took it on the lam. Got to my ship and got out of there.”

“What did he look like?”

Stiffy leaned across the table and wagged a forefinger solemnly. “Mister, you won’t believe me when I tell you. But it’s the truth, so help me. He had a beak. And eyes. Danged if them eyes weren’t something. Like they were reaching out and trying to grab you. Not really reaching out, you know. But there was something in them that tried to talk to you. Big as plates and they shimmered like there was fire inside of them.

“These dod-rotted rock-blasters here laughed at me when I told them about it. Insinuated I held the truth lightly, they did. Laughed their fool heads off.

“It’s pretty near as big as a house … that animal, and it’s got a body like a barrel. It’s got a long neck and a little head with big teeth. It’s got a tail, too, and it’s kind of set close to the ground. You see, I was out looking for the Lost Mine.”

“Lost Mine?”

“Sure, ain’t you ever heard of the Lost Mine?”

Stiffy blew beer in amazement.

Oliver Meek shook his head, feeling that probably he was the victim of tales reserved for the greenest of the tenderfeet, not knowing what he could do about it if he were.

Stiffy settled more solidly in his chair.

“The Lost Mine story,” he declared, “has been going around for years. Seems a couple of fellows found it a few years after the first dome was built. They came in and told about it, stocked up with grub and went out. They never did come back.”

He leaned across the table.

“You know what I think?” he demanded gustily.

“No,” said Meek. “What do you think?”