The Big Front Yard: And Other Stories

  “What’s the matter with you, Spencer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re afraid of something. Something’s got you scared.”

  Spencer bent over and grasped the desk edge with his hands, hanging on.

  “Warren, it’s not only knowledge in that thing. We’re monitoring it and we know. There’s also –”

  “I’ll take a guess,” said Warren. “There’s personality.”

  He saw the stricken look on Spencer’s face.

  “Quit monitoring it,” ordered Warren sharply. “Turn the whole thing off. Let’s get out of here.”

  “We can’t. Don’t you understand? We can’t! There are certain points. We are –”

  “Yes, I know,” said Warren. “You are men of science. Also downright fools.”

  “But there are things coming out of that tower that –”

  “Shut it off!”

  “No,” said Spencer obstinately. “I can’t. I won’t.”

  “I warn you,” Warrant said grimly, “if any of you turn alien, I’ll shoot you without hesitation.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Spencer turned sharply about and went out the door.

  Warren sat, sober now, listening to Spencer’s feet go down the steps.

  It was all very clear to Warren now.

  Now he knew why there had been evidence of haste in that other ship’s departure, why supplies had been left behind and tools still lying where they had been dropped as the crew had fled.

  After a while Bat Ears came up the stairs, lugging a huge pot of coffee and a couple of cups.

  He set the cups down on the desk and filled them, then banged down the pot.

  “Ira,” he said, “it was a black day when you gave up your drinking.”

  “How is that?” asked Warren.

  “Because there ain’t no one, nowhere, who can hang one on like you.”

  They sat silently, gulping the hot, black coffee.

  Then Bat Ears said, “I still don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” admitted Warren.

  “The cruise is only half over,” said Bat Ears.

  “The cruise is completely over,” Warren told him bluntly. “When we lift out of here, we’re heading straight for Earth.”

  They drank more coffee.

  Warren asked: “How many on our side, Bat Ears?”

  “There’s you and me,” said Bat Ears, “and Mac and the four engineers. That’s seven.”

  “Eight,” corrected Warren. “Don’t forget Doc. He hasn’t been doing any monitoring.”

  “Doc don’t count for nothing one way or the other.”

  “In a pinch, he still can handle a gun.”

  After Bat Ears had gone, Warren sat and listened to the sound of Mac’s crew ripping out the engines and he thought of the long way home. Then he got up and strapped on a gun and went out to see how things were shaping up.

  Mr. Meek – Musketeer

  Cliff referred to this story, before he ever sent it to a publisher, by the name of “Space Calls Mr. Meek,” and he was paid one hundred dollars for it by Planet Stories. It will remind you irresistibly of the stereotypical pulp Westerns of the sort he’d been writing during the preceding couple of years, the sort that had been a staple of American literature for several decades – complete with a saloon on an asteroid and gunfights – but it has so much humor that one has to call it satire. And something about it must have tickled Cliff, because he wrote a sequel before this one was even published and, perhaps, a third one – and with the exception of the City stories, he wasn’t a writer who did sequels.

  And another familiar feature of many Simak stories from the thirties reappears: good old Martian bocca.

  —dww

  Now that he’d done it, Oliver Meek found the thing he’d done hard to explain.

  Under the calm, inquiring eyes of Mr. Richard Belmont, president of Lunar Exports, Inc., he stammered a little before he could get started.

  “For years,” he finally said, “I’ve been planning a trip …”

  “But, Oliver,” said Belmont, “we would give you a leave of absence. You’ll be back. There’s no reason to resign.”

  Oliver Meek shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable, a little guilty.

  “Maybe I won’t be back,” he declared. “You see, it isn’t just an ordinary trip. It may take a long, long time. Something might happen. I’m going out to see the Solar System.”

  Belmont laughed lightly, reared back in his chair, matching fingertips. “Oh, yes. One of the tours. Nothing dangerous about them. Nothing at all. You needn’t worry about that. I went on one a couple of years ago. Mighty interesting. …”

  “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?”

  “The Prowler got ’em,” Stiffy said, triumphantly.

  “But how could there be a lost mine?” asked Meek. “Asteroid City was one of the first mining domes built out here. There was no prospecting done until about that time.”

  Stiffy shook his head, waggling his beard.

  “How should I know,” he defended himself. “Maybe some early space traveler set down here, dug a mine, never got back to Earth to tell about it.”

  “But Juno is only one hundred and eighteen miles in diameter,” Meek argued. “If there had been a mine someone would have found it.”

  Stiffy snorted. “That’s all you know about it, stranger. Only one hundred and eighteen miles, sure … but one hundred and eighteen miles of the worst danged country man ever set a boot on. Mostly up and down.”

  The drinks came, the bartender slapping them down on the table before them. Meek gasped first at their price, then choked on the drink itself. But he smothered the choke manfully and asked:

  “What kind of stuff is this?”

  “Bocca,” replied Stiffy. Good old Martian bocca. Puts hair on your chest.”

  He gulped his drink with gusto, blew noisily through his whiskers, eyed Meek disapprovingly.

  “Don’t you like it?” he demanded.

  “Sure,” liked Meek. “Sure I like it.”

  He shut his eyes and poured the liquor into his mouth, gulped fiercely, desperately, almost strangling.

  Said Stiffy: “Tell you what let’s do. Let’s get into a game.”

  Meek opened his mouth to accept the invitation, then closed it, caution stealing over him. After all, he didn’t know much about this place. Maybe he’d better go a little easy, at least at first.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not very good at cards. Just a few games of penny-ante now and then.”

  Stiffy looked his disbelief. “Penny-ante,” he said, then guffawed as if he sensed humor in what Meek had said. “Say, you’re good,” he roared. “Don’t s’pose you can use them lightnin’ throwers of yours either.”

  “Some,” admitted Meek. “Practiced in front of a looking glass a little.”

  He wondered why Stiffy rolled in his chair with mirth until tears ran down into his whiskers.

  Stiffy held a full house … aces with kings … and his eyes had the look of a cat talking a saucer full of cream.

  There were only two in the game, Stiffy and an oily gentleman called Luke. As the stakes mounted and the game grew hotter the others at the table dropped out.

  Standing behind Stiffy, Oliver Meek watched in awe, scarcely breathing.

  Here was life … the kind of life one would never dream of back in the little cubby hole with its calculators and dusty books at Lunar Exports, Inc.

  In the space of an hour, he had seen more money pass across the table than he had ever owned in all his life. Pots that climbed and pyramided, fortunes gambled on the flip of a single card.

  But there was something else too … something wrong about the dealing. He couldn’t figure quite what it was, but he had read an article about how gamblers dealt the cards when they didn’t aim to give the other fellow quite an even break. And there had been something about Luke’s dealing … something that he had read about in
that article.

  Across the table Luke grimaced.

  “I’ll have to call you,” he announced. “I’m afraid you’re too strong for me.”

  Stiffy slapped down his hand triumphantly.

  “Match that, dang you!” he exulted. “The kind of cards I been waiting for all night.”

  He reached out a gnarled hand to rake in the coin but Luke stopped him with a gesture.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  He flipped the cards down slowly, one at a time. First a trey, then a four and then three more fours.

  Stiffy gulped, reached for the bottle.

  But even as he did, Oliver Meek reached out and placed his hand upon the money on the table, fingers wide spread. He’d remembered what he had read in that article. …

  “Just a minute, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve remembered something. …”

  Silence thudded in the room.

  Meek looked across the table straight into the eyes of Luke.

  Luke said: “You better explain yourself, mister.”

  Meek suddenly was flustered. “Why, maybe I acted too hastily. It really was nothing. I just noticed something about the deal. …”

  Luke jerked erect, kicking his chair away with the single motion of rising. The crowd suddenly surged away, out of the line of fire. The bartender ducked behind the bar. Stiffy flung himself with a howl out of his chair, skidded along the floor. Meek, suddenly straightening from the table, saw Luke’s hand streaking for the gun at his belt and in a split second he realized that here he faced a situation that demanded action.

  He didn’t think about those days of practice in front of the mirror. He didn’t call upon a single iota of the gun-lore he had read in hundreds of books. His mind, for a bare instant, was almost a blank, but he acted as if by instinct.

  His hands moved like driving pistons, snapped the twin guns from their holsters, heaved them clear of leather, grabbed them in mid-air.

  He saw Luke’s gun muzzle swinging up, tilted down the muzzle of his own left gun, pressed the activator. There was a screeching hiss, a streak of blue that crackled in the air and the gun that Luke held in his hand was suddenly red hot.