Early Days: More Tales From the Pulp Era
Sure, his aim all along had been to reach a level of authority, but now that he stood on the verge of it he wondered if he could handle the job and do half as well as Lidman had done. For Lidman, despite his one lapse from the law, had done a splendid job of organizing Danneroi.
He decided not to approach Lidman directly on the matter yet. Instead he would notify Earth of his discovery, and bide his time.
Returning to the trading-post, he made his way upstairs without stopping off to greet Lidman, and entered his own room. Closing the door, he rummaged in his locker until he found his small transmitter. The only frequency it could broadcast on was a tight-beam carrier direct to the Buenos Aires offices of Interstellar Merchant Service. All he had to do was tap out the words, one after another.
Seating himself cross-legged with his back to the door so Lidman could not enter unexpectedly, Garth transmitted his message:
REPORT OF DAVE GARTH, DANNEROI. TO MARTIN KINGSLEY, BUENOS AIRES OFFICE.
HAVE FOUND NATIVE IN POSSESSION OF NEOPRIOZONE CAPSULE GIVEN BY LIDMAN. CONFIRMS EARLIER RUMORS. HAVE NOT SPOKEN TO LIDMAN ABOUT MATTER YET. LIDMAN’S HANDLING OF OPERATIONS HERE IS OTHERWISE FIRST RATE. FURTHER REPORTS WILL FOLLOW.
GARTH
The message having been sent, he restored the transmitter to its hiding place. It was nearly time for lunch now. Garth headed downstairs once again.
Lidman was standing in front of the building, giving orders to two of the aliens. The sky was darkening; a torrential rainstorm was sweeping down from the hills thirty miles to the north. Garth glanced through the screen windows at the short, lean figure of the older man. How long, Garth wondered, had Lidman been distributing neopriozone to the aliens? And above all else, why?
Their native cook appeared from within. “Lunch call, Boss Lidman,” she announced.
“Lunch call, Boss Garth.”
Lidman broke off his conversation and came inside. As he caught up with Garth, he stared at the younger man penetratingly and said, “Well? How soon will you be through with the filing?”
“By the middle of the afternoon, I’d guess.”
“Make sure you are. There’s plenty of other work for you here. Plenty. Let’s go get some lunch, now.”
It was an uncomfortable meal. Garth, tense with the knowledge that he had found proof of Lidman’s crime, was not very hungry. He tried to conceal his emotions. Lidman, across the table, shoveled greens and rice into his mouth eagerly. There was nothing wrong with Anton Lidman’s appetite, Garth thought.
The meal was silent. Lidman never spoke unless he had to; thirty years of solitude had taught him no need for small-talk. As for Garth, he was too concerned with his own problems to care to chatter.
In the middle of the meal Lidman looked up and said, “You going to be finished with that filing by half past two?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. A shipment of ore is going to be arriving at around three or three-fifteen from the Mbuambwe tribe, eighteen miles from here. I want you to take care of weighing it in and paying the natives. Think you can handle it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Your best won’t be good enough. Aim for perfection and settle for nothing less.”
Lidman returned his attention to his plate. Shrugging, Garth did the same after a moment. Lidman was simply giving him a little more responsibility, breaking him in on some of the more important duties of the trading-post. It was just as well, Garth thought. Before long I’ll have to run this whole operation myself.
He was finished with the dull task of filing away the pickup vouchers early, about ten after two. He went looking for Lidman, but there was no sign of the older man, and one of the trading-post aides told him that Lidman had gone away for the afternoon to visit a sick child in one of the nearby tribes.
Garth hadn’t realized that the job called for an amateur doctor, as well as a trader, teacher, and architect. But each day he was learning more and more about the responsibilities of running a one-man trading post. And it occurred to him now that perhaps Lidman had deliberately gone off and left him in charge this afternoon so he would have to tackle the job of weighing the ore without hope of assistance.
He read till about three, when Khalimuru appeared to tell him that the Mbuambwe ore-bearers were approaching the outpost.
Garth changed into a clean pair of shorts and waited for their arrival. There were eight of them, six men and two women, carrying over their shoulders fibromesh sacks that glittered in the afternoon sun. They looked strangely at him as they dumped their burdens down near the big scale on the trading post porch.
“I am Boss Garth,” he said. “Boss Lidman is not here today.”
“Will you deal fairly with us?”
“Of course.”
He whistled for a couple of his native aides, and they weighed out the ore. While it was being resacked and carted away to the blockhouses, to be stored against the next visit of the pickup ship, Garth computed a proper payment in mirrors, pocket-knives, radionic cookers, and the other gadgets requested by the aliens. Rather than skimp, he made the payment somewhat on the generous side.
However, the Mbuambwe spokesman gravely shook his head when he saw what Garth offered.
“This is not fair payment.”
“In what way is it unfair? I’ve followed Boss Lidman’s measurements. If anything, I’ve paid you too much.”
“Yes. You have paid us too much. Overpayment is not allowed.”
For an instant Garth thought the alien was teasing him, but then he reflected that these solemn little beings had shown no previous sign of a sense of humor. Evidently overpayment was unacceptable here. Lidman had warned that the aliens would haggle, but he didn’t expect them to haggle in this direction!
Kneeling, Garth removed several mirrors from the pile of goods that had been brought from the storehouse.
“Is this enough now?”
“One more.”
Repressing his amusement, Garth removed another mirror from the pile. Then the alien said, “Now our dealings are fair and can be blessed.”
Eventually the deal was consummated to everyone’s satisfaction, and the aliens withdrew, single file, into the jungle. Garth thought he had handled the transaction reasonably well. Certainly he felt he could manage by himself here on Danneroi, after Lidman was gone.
He sat on the porch, filling out the proper forms to cover the deal—he was determined never to let the paperwork pile up, the way Lidman had—and he was still sitting there half an hour later, when Lidman returned from wherever he had been.
His bare legs were splashed with mud; he had been into the jungle. He looked down at Garth and said, “You take care of everything?”
“The ore is in the bins. You want to look at the voucher forms?”
“I’ll look at them later. Tired.”
“Where were you?”
“Medical call,” Lidman said. “Boy in a village eight miles to the south had a devil inside him. Turned out to be appendicitis.”
Garth stared, popeyed. “You just performed an appendectomy?” he asked.
Lidman nodded. “Pretty good one, too. I figure I’ve yanked three hundred appendixes since I’ve been here. It runs about one a month, or so.” He chuckled. “Funny how that useless organ persists from world to world, isn’t it?”
“Do you have any medical training?”
Lidman shook his head vigorously. “I learned by ear. First dozen appendix cases I had, the patient died. What of it? The witch-doctor couldn’t do any more than I did, and at least I was picking up the skills. Since then I usually win if I get there in time. Can’t do anything about peritonitis, though. One man can handle only so much, specially when he’s an amateur medico.”
“You—you take care of childbirths too?”
Lidman looked scornful. “If there’s one thing a primitive woman knows, it’s how to bear a child. No, I don’t help out when they’re calving. Help’s only needed on surgeries.”
&n
bsp; Lidman turned and started to go inside. Garth stood helplessly watching him for a moment, struck by the enormity of the job facing the operator of a one-man trading station, and decided that this was the time to have matters out with Lidman. Right here, now, before things went any further.
“Lidman. Wait a second.”
Lidman paused in the doorway and turned. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Go ahead, then. Talk.”
“No,” Garth said. “Inside. I’ve got something serious I want to discuss with you.”
Garth followed the older man inside, through the big central room of the trading outpost, and into the smaller office adjoining it. Lidman shut the door, dropped into a wicker chair, and glanced up at Garth.
“Well? What’s worrying you?”
Garth ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Something I found out this morning. I’d like you to explain it to me.”
“Go ahead.”
“Khalimuru—the houseboy. I found him holding a tube of neopriozone this morning.”
“What of it?”
“He said you gave it to him.”
Lidman seemed to stiffen at every joint. “He told you the truth.”
“Khalimuru didn’t seem to be sick. How come he needs a whole capsule of that stuff?”
“He seems to like it,” Lidman said.
“How about the other aliens? Do they like neopriozone too?”
“Most of them do.”
Garth eyed the older man closely, admiring his coolness and wondering what madness lay behind it. “From what I gather, neopriozone acts as a narcotic for these people. You know that, I’m sure. And you hand the stuff out to them. Are you aware that you’re breaking the interstellar code?”
“I know what I’m doing, youngster.”
“I question that. You have no right to distribute drugs to primitive beings!”
“Maybe I have no choice about it,” Lidman said quietly.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Lidman shrugged. “What it means doesn’t concern you. What do you plan to do, now that you’ve uncovered my nefarious activities?”
Garth said levelly, “I’m going to report you to the central office for code violations. You’ll be relieved of your post on Danneroi and returned to Earth for trial. I’m your replacement here.”
“The home office knew, then. They sent you out here to spy on me.”
“They sent me as an observer,” Garth said. “You were suspected of illegal acts.”
Lidman glared at him scornfully. “You—you boy! You think you can replace me here? You think you can handle this?”
“I intend to try,” Garth said.
“I intend to try,” Lidman mimicked acidly. “How nice! And so you’re going to turn me in and send me back to Earth.”
“What would you want me to do? Condone your crime? Lidman I don’t understand you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How could you do it—break one of the strictest rules in the book?”
“I had to,” Lidman said. “And don’t bother to ask me to explain.” He rose abruptly. “I spotted you as a spy the minute you landed here. You think I can’t tell the difference between a one-man world and a two-man? I didn’t need an assistant here. There’s nothing you’re doing that I didn’t handle myself for thirty years. Okay, Mister Spy. You’ve found me out.”
Lidman put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. A moment later the office door opened and three Danneroians entered. They looked questioningly at Lidman and at a gesture from him they glided up behind Garth and took his hands.
“Are you crazy?” Garth asked. “Teaching natives to manhandle an Earthman?”
“It just increases my burden of sin, doesn’t it?” Lidman said. To the aliens he added, “You are to take Boss Garth out into the jungle as far as the Ghiiar tree and leave him there. You will return alone.”
“We understand.”
Garth tested the strength of the aliens’ grip and found that they had him tightly pinioned. He stared in astonishment at Lidman.
“You’re just going to maroon me out there—out in the jungle?”
“Yes.”
“If I ever get back alive—if Earth ever finds out—they’ll put you away for the rest of your life, Lidman!”
The older man smiled wearily. “The rest of my life is not so long a time as you seem to think, for one thing. For another, you won’t get back alive; not unarmed and with no previous experience in the jungle. I’m sorry to do this to you, Garth. I really am. But I can’t abide interference with my plans. Things have to be the way they are here.”
Lidman looked at the aliens. “Take him away.”
Resistance was useless. The natives were small, but they were muscular, and Garth did not stand a chance. They trundled him silently and efficiently out of the trading post, across the clearing, and into the jungle. Garth made no attempt to struggle. He concentrated on memorizing the path, hoping that he would be able to find his way back.
He realized he had been a fool to approach Lidman so openly. The man was insane; had to be, to give drugs to the alien and then to send another Earthman out to death in the jungle. Garth saw now he should have imprisoned Lidman at once, notified Earth to come to pick the old trader up for trial.
Now he could predict what would happen. Earth, in receipt of Garth’s message, would send another investigator. Perhaps Lidman would invent some fantastic story about Garth’s insanity; in any event, he would deny the drug charge. He would be cleared, free to continue his pattern of life here.
The jungle was oppressively dank. Vines clung to the tree-tops, blocking out light. Giant insects droned through the moist air. Lizards, two feet long and brightly colored, scuttled out from under rotting logs to peer curiously at the procession, then hurriedly leaped back into hiding.
Minute followed minute, and as the path wound more and more complexly Garth began to discover he could never find his way back unaided. There was no real road any more, just a yard-wide track through the foliage. Underfoot the ground was marshy, soggy, wet.
Garth had just about abandoned hope when his captors, keen-eared, paused. A moment later he heard the sound that had made them stop. Footsteps, approaching rapidly—someone running after them.
It was Khalimuru. Breathless, he caught up with the others and exchanged a few quick sentences with them in the alien language.
Garth said, “What’s going on?”
Khalimuru looked up. “Boss Lidman sent me, Boss Garth. He says you are to be taken no further into the jungle. He says you are to be brought back to the outpost immediately.”
The trip back took nearly half an hour. Garth wondered what motive had compelled Lidman to make his sudden change of heart. Was it the realization of the inhumanity of his act that had motivated the reprieve? Or was it simply that he had decided to kill Garth himself, instead of trusting to the jungle creatures?
Whatever the reason, the reprieve was granted. On the return journey the natives kept clear of him, as if they were a little shocked at themselves for having dared to lay hands on an Earthman. He walked by himself, with several of the Danneroians leading the way and the rest in back of him.
When they reached the outpost clearing, Garth saw a huddle of natives outside the trading post. He walked toward them. When they looked up at him, there was an expression of fear and horror in their eyes, and they muttered nervously to each other in their own language.
“You are back, Boss Garth,” one of them said to him, in English.
“Yes, I’m back. Where’s Boss Lidman?”
“He—he—he inside!”
“Inside where?”
A pale fishlike face stared up at his. “Boss Lidman, is dead!”
“What?”
The alien went on, “Five-ten minutes ago. He put thunder-stick to head, loud noise sound. Boss Lidman fall dead.”
Garth felt a tingling of alarm. “Where is he?” br />
“He in office. Before he do that, he say we should listen to you now. You only Boss.”
Garth looked around at the others. “Is he telling the truth? Is Boss Lidman dead? And did he make me only Boss before he killed himself?”
Several of the natives nodded. Garth stared at them. He said, “Where is Boss Lidman now?”
“He in his office, Boss Garth!”
It had to be some kind of trick, Garth thought. Lidman was planning something devilish. Garth entered the trading post on tiptoes, going straight to the cabinet where the weapons were kept. He unlocked it, drew out a .45 blaster, checked the charge chamber.
Thus armed, he pushed open the door to Lidman’s inner office and leaped quickly back out of firing range.
Nothing happened.
Garth waited a moment or two. Then, cautiously, he stuck his head round the doorpost and peered into the small office.
Lidman was sitting at his desk, slumped over. He was clutching a pistol in his hand—not an energy blaster, Garth noticed with the peculiar clarity of shock, but an old-fashioned pistol. Lidman’s head was a bloody ruin. The bullet seemed to have entered just below Lidman’s right ear, and had risen diagonally through his skull, blasting off the entire left side of his head. It was an ugly sight. And it was definitely suicide.
As if to confirm that last thought, Garth saw a note lying on Lidman’s desk—a sealed envelope, addressed in the dead man’s own handwriting to Dave Garth. With shaky fingers Garth reached for the envelope, snatched it up, and started to rip it open. He realized that the natives were peering curiously through the half-open door behind him, and, turning, he smiled gently at them and pushed the door closed.
Then, taking a seat with his back to the body, he tore open the envelope. Inside he found a handwritten note covering both sides of a sheet of paper, in Lidman’s cramped little handwriting:
Dear Garth:
By the time you read this I will be dead at long last. For the past decade at least I have waited for death to take me, but I remained in good health and continued to live. Your arrival here at last gives me freedom to destroy myself, for I know my work here will be continued by you and that also you must inherit my suffering.