“And?”
Dorn Horsten took over again. “These Dawnworld inhabitants don’t take kindly to being intruded upon. They have no need for trade, no desire for intercourse with other-worldlings. So when somebody comes along and stirs up their… anthill, if you will, they take measures.”
“Such as what?”
“They evidently have a little trick of tracing the’ intruders back to the world, or worlds, of their origin and making a slight switch in the atmosphere. Phrygia, which once had a human population of a couple of billion, now has a methane-hydrogen-ammonia atmosphere which proves difficult to breathe. In short, there are no more Phrygians.”
Zorro shifted in his chair unhappily. “Still, there should be some way. Evidently, these burros from Phrygia antagonized the, uh, Dawnworlders, or showed their hand in some manner or other.”
“Evidently,” Helen said, complete with sarcasm, “but I wouldn’t want to be the next to try. I wouldn’t even want to be a citizen of the planet from which the next who tries hails. And according to Ronny Bronston and Phil Birdman, the two Section G agents who handled the case, it was nip and tuck whether or not the Dawn-men finished off the whole three thousand planets we humans have colonized so far. Happily, for some reason, they seemed to think Phrygia would be enough. But next time?”
“It’d have to
“It sure as hell would,” Helen said. “So forget about it.” She shivered. “Just thinking about messing around with those zombies gives me the willies.”
Zorro said, “Where are the so-called Dawnworlds located, anyway?”
“They aren’t on the starcharts,” Horsten told him. “That’s certain. The big wigs at the Octagon are scared silly that some scatterbrains will hear about such items as the matter converters and get all steamed up with man’s oldest dream.”
“Oldest dream?” Jerry said.
“The philosopher’s stone. The old alchemy bit. Changing base metals to gold. Evidently, the Dawnmen go them one further, they can change anything to gold, or anything else. I suppose you could put a Rembrandt in one end of it and bring out a perfect twin from the other, or any number of them.”
“What’s a Rembrandt?” Zorro Juarez scowled.
“An old, old Earth painter. I believe some works still to be found in museums are attributed to him. At any rate, Ross Metaxa and the other powers that be are afraid that with a trillion or so people in our confederation of planets, there’ll be some avaricious enough to pull down the roof on all of us, in their greed to sneak a matter converter from under the noses of the Dawn-men.”
“Well… if they’re not intelligent…” Zorro muttered.
Helen snarled at him, “Don’t be dense, lover. They don’t have to be intelligent to push a button or throw a switch. They’ve got defenses we’ve never even dreamed of.” Her voice took on a childish treble.” I don’t want to marry anybody else, Uncle Zorro. I wanta marry you.”
Zorro Juarez did a double take.
From the doorway, Helmut Brinker said, “Citizen Rhodes, you wanted to be shown around the hydroponics compartments. I didn’t have time, yesterday.”
“Oh, sure.” Jerry Rhodes came to his feet.
With a skip and a jump, Helen had bounced onto Zorro’s lap and threw her arms around his neck. He rolled his eyes up in resignation.
Dorn Horsten said, “Now, Helen, you’re pestering Citizen Juarez.”
“No I’m not, Daddy. Am I, Uncle Zorro? Uncle Zorro is going to marry me. Everybody has to marry somebody, don’t they, Uncle Zorro?” Without waiting for an answer to that, she added definitely, “Uncle Zorro is gonna marry me. He likes girls. Don’t you, Uncle Zorro?”
“Stop squirming, you little witch,” he growled under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Sometimes.”
She said, her eyes wide, “You like boys better than girls, Uncle Zorro? I like boys better than girls, but I thought maybe you liked girls.”
Not even his darkish complexion completely hid the red creeping up the unfortunate’s neck.
Jerry Rhodes was chuckling as he joined the second officer of the
The ship’s officer didn’t answer that but rather turned abruptly and led the way from the ship’s lounge.
When the door closed behind them, Helen vaulted down from Zorro’s lap and, hands on hips, looked after the two.
Zorro snapped, “Look, fun is fun, but I’m getting tired of this running gag. And just for the record, damn it, sooner or later that double innuendo of yours is going to get through to even somebody as dense as Helmut Brinker, and people are going to start wondering how a knee-high eight-year-old gets off cracks you usually hear in a burlesque revival.”
Helen ignored him. “I don’t like that.”
“You don’t like what?” Zorro growled.”
Dorn looked at her too.
“I don’t like that sorehead Brinker going off with Jerry. Jerry’s too easy-going. He doesn’t know a wrong guy when he sees one.”
Jerry Rhodes, hands in pockets, strolled easily after the ship’s officer, down the companionway. Keeping in mind his role as playboy and the need for practicing it, he kept going a running patter.
“Fascinatin’, you know,” he said. “Demmed fascinatin’. Never traveled on a passenger freighter before. Roughing it, eh? If Mother could see me now. Horrified, eh? Associating with characters such as this Zorro Juarez, eh? In trade, mind you. Peddles cattle, or some such. Beef cattle, he says. Always wondered, vaguely, where beef steaks came from. Evidently, they cut them off of animals. Fascinatin’.”
The second officer growled something coldly, not turning his head. He was in a fury but Jerry Rhodes chose to ignore it. There was a something in the heavy-set Brinker that egged you on, that made you want to needle him. Jerry Rhodes felt an edge of shame at himself, but there was a boring element in travel on the
He pattered, “And associating with the crew, mind you. Ha, Mother! You can’t imagine, Mother!”
“That’s what you think,” Helmut Brinker muttered beneath his breath. “Here. Here’s the key hydroponics compartment. Nothing much to see, really.” He activated a metal door, and stepped forward.
Jerry Rhodes entered, too, and stepped past the other to stare at the level upon level of plants which filled the extensive room from bulkhead to bulkhead and from deck to overhead. “Fascinatin’,” he said.
“You know what they eat?” Brinker demanded. And then, without waiting for an answer, “Anything; Garbage, human excreta, wastepaper—anything. You know what’d happen if you fell into one of those tanks?”
“Holy Ultimate!” Jerry Rhodes grunted in amused protest.
Brinker grabbed him roughly by an arm and hauled him about.
“Listen,” he growled, “I’m short of credits, understand? I figure you owe me for those two games. I had them won.”
Jerry pulled away and took half a dozen steps to the rear. “Now look here!”
“I am looking at you. Right at you, you fancy molly. And I want those credits!”
Jerry Rhodes was not above indignation, even when confronted by these odds. He took another couple of steps backward, but put up his hands in an ineffectual display of defense.
“Not with these tactics,” he got out.
“All right,” the other said, rage growing. “You asked for this, smart pockets. That wrist chronometer you’re wearing alone…” He let the sentence dribble off as he shuffled forward.
Jerry Rhodes’ eyes widened.
Behind them, the compartment door swung open and Helen peered in, unseen by the enraged ship’s officer. She made a face at Jerry and turned her head, then disappeared.
“Now…” Brinker began, his hands reaching.
But Zorro Juarez was at the door, his expression amused. In his hand was his bullwhip. He flicked it, almost lazily. The leather snaked out in a blur, wound about the heel of the second officer’s right shoe. There was a quick upward tug, an unbalancing, a cry of utter surprise, a forward collapse, an unhappy crunch of chin hitting metal
