Ole Doc Methuselah (14 page)

At
this the old gentleman stopped admiring his capture which was now entirely
subdued. “Malbright, Diggs. Bless me!” And he removed a pocket handkerchief
and blew his nose heavily. “You won't be from any town on Arphon, then.”

“Be
quick, man. Where can I find any member of that firm?”

The
old gentleman blew again. “Well,” he said, “if you've a mind for fantasy, you
might try looking in heaven and then again, as their creditors would have had
it, in hell. One place or the other I dare say you'll find my poor old billiard
companion, Malbright, and his sad little partner, Diggs. But Arphon isn't hell,
sir. Indeed it's two stops beyond.”

“The
firm has failed, then. Where was it located?”

“Oh,
the original Malbright, Diggs has failed, sir. But it's Air, Limited you'd have
to approach to get any trace of their affairs. Malbright was the cause of it,
you see, poor chap. Got to needing more and more air and couldn't pay the bill
out of his share. And he took to . . . well,” and here he blew his nose again,
“from the till, you might say, and one day the firm failed. Poor Malbright. Had
to have the air, you see. Couldn't pay the bill. And as it was a partnership,
Diggs stood ready but unable to settle the accounts. And that was the end of
it. A fine, thriving business it was, too, until Malbright took to needing air.
But it's all gone, all gone.” And he looked around him at the autumn day as
though the dismal winter snows lay heavily over the streets.

Ole
Doc frowned. “Air? What nonsense is this about air? Short time ago I heard
something of it. But I haven't any time. You'll remember a small extraracial
clerk that Malbright had, then. Probably four-handed. Name of Bestin Karjoy—”

“Oh,
dear me, no. Malbright and Diggs must have had a thousand clerks. Business ran
into the billions of tons per annum, you know. Customers all over the system.
Fine, rich company. Poor Malbright.” And he honked again on the handkerchief.

Ole
Doc was impatient. “How could a firm like that fail just because one partner
needed a little air? Why, man, the whole sky around here is full of it. Air!”

“I
beg your pardon, sir,” said the old gentleman, shocked. “I
beg
your
pardon.” And before Ole Doc could think of further questions, the old gentleman
hurried away, clutching his precious rabbit soup in the form of a very mangy
cat, and was gone.

Ole
Doc's boots were angry on the pavement. He was struck now, as he looked for
signs, with an air of decay and unhappiness about the town. There were people
here and there but they were listless and incurious, like beings who have been
hungry too long or who despair of any hope. Store windows were clutters of
dusty junk. The theater marquee was advertising the personal appearance of a
singer ten years dead. Shutters groaned in the faint wind and stairs staggered
in crazy disrepair. The town looked like it had been sacked and repeopled with
ghosts.

There
was a city park ahead, a pitiful little thing of broken fountains and
root-cracked walks and Ole Doc saw two dogs slinking through it, wary like
hunted beasts, sniffing hungrily at refuse.

The
town, he realized with a start, was starving. The children he saw in a doorway
were bloat-bellied and unpleasant. Ole Doc turned toward them and they made a
sorry effort to run away. He peered into the interior of the rickety dwelling
and saw that they were now clustered around the bed of a woman who might, in
other stages of economics, have been comely.

She
saw his shadow and turned. Warily she tried to motion him away. “No. No more .
. . I can't . . . I can't pay.”

This
was definitely his business but he thrust it aside. “Madam, I am not trying to
collect money. Here is a gold coin,” and he dug one from his money pouch and
placed it courteously on the table. “I want to find a man, an extraracial being
of four hands, named Bestin Karjoy. Direct me to someone who will know and you
shall have my deepest thanks.”

She
managed to understand this and then made a motion at her eldest boy. “Go,
Jimmy. Go show him what he wants.” But she looked suspiciously at the coin as
she picked it up.

Ole
Doc winced when he saw how close to the skin her bones were. He pulled a small
hypo gun from his pocket, fumbled in his kit and loaded it with slugs. The jet
it shot penetrated without pain and he triggered it six times before he left
the room. They didn't know they had been force-fed and only stared in awe at
the small gun, afraid it might be a blaster.

Ole
Doc motioned to the eldest and went back into the street. But he might have
found the place himself.

It
was a great gold-fronted building before which lounged Persephon guards. And
over the top of the door was the mighty legend
Air, Limited
and on the
panel,
Big Lem Tolliver, Savior of Arphon.

Ole
Doc gave the boy another gold coin and then breasted the guards. They stopped
him with guttural grunts and were about to argue in earnest at his pressure
when they both came up rigid, staring straight ahead. Ole Doc put the hypo gun
back into his pocket, looked hard at the guards to make sure the rigor had set
good and hard and would stay for a while and walked on in.

A
clerk came up. “This is a private office, sir. The general entrance for the
payment of taxes, rentals and bail is next door. Besides—”

“I
want to see your records,” said Ole Doc. “I am looking for an extraracial man
named Bestin Karjoy and no second-rate town like this is going to stop me.
Where are your records?”

Fatally,
the clerk had new objections. There was a small snick and Ole Doc put the gun
back into his pocket. “You are a trained clerk and obedient to one Lem
Tolliver. It is the will of Tolliver that you find the name Bestin Karjoy in
your files and give me the address.”

The
narco slug had bitten straight through the modish waistcoat and pink silk
undershirt. “Yes, sir. Coming right up, sir. Won't keep you waiting a minute,
sir. What Big Lem wants—”

“Who
says Big Lem wants anything?” came hugely from the door. “I,” he said,
waddling closer, chin outthrust, “do not like gents who go around spieling off
orders I ain't issued. Now, whoever you are, let's hear just why you
impersonate a messenger for me.”

Ole
Doc looked at him rather wearily. He gripped the hypo gun in his pocket, but he
never got a chance to use it. Some sixth sense told one of Tolliver's bodyguard
that an attack was imminent and Ole Doc was seized from behind and held hard
while the contents of his pockets were turned out by Tolliver.

The
small meters and instruments, the minute boxes of pellets, the hypo gun itself,
these meant nothing to Tolliver or anyone around him. But the gorget meant
something—the solid gold ray rods of the UMS which were chained to Ole Doc's
throat in such a position as to protect the most vulnerable point of the
jugular. Tolliver tried to yank it off, failed to break the chain and so had to
stare at it.

“UMS,”
said Tolliver. “Huh.”

A
clerk had come in to aid his fallen brother of the files and inkpots, for the
first one, under the stimulus of the narco slug and crossed orders, had quietly
fainted away. “Universal Medical Society,” said the new clerk. And then he
realized what he had said and jumped back, letting his brother clerk fall. He
stared, mouth agape, at Ole Doc.

“Univ—”
began Tolliver. And then his face went a little white. He bent as he stared at
Ole Doc. Then, dismissing it, “He'd imitate a messenger. He'd pretend anything.
He ain't no Soldier of Light. Where's the crowd with him?”

“They
. . . they operate alone,” said the second clerk. “I . . . I read in the
Universal
Weekly
that they—”

“Bosh!
What would they care about Arphon? UMS,” blustered Tolliver, “is strictly big
time. He'd never land here. Listen, you whatever-you-call-it, don't give me no
stuff about UMS. You're here for graft and I'm on to your game. Now, let's see
how good you are at crawling out of your lie. Go on, crawl!”

Ole
Doc sighed. He had seen such men before. “I suppose I am addressing Lem
Tollander.”

“Tolliver!”

“Lem
Tolliver, then. President or some such thing of Air, Limited.”

“Correct.
And you come here for a shakedown. Listen—” And then he stopped and looked at
a new thing in the contents of the pockets. It was a slave ear tag. “Ah,” he
said, snatching it up from the desk, “you've been tampering with company
property already. Oh, yes. That girl—so you were in that ship we blasted a few
miles east of Minga, huh? Say, buddy, don't you know where to stop? A guy'd
think you were kind of confused. You've already lost an old tub of a space
tramp, and lucky you got out with yourself in one chunk. What kind of nerve is
this—”

“Oh,
do be quiet,” sighed Ole Doc.

The
flood of speech was suddenly dammed. It had been years and years since anyone
had said such a thing to Big Lem Tolliver. Judging from the attitudes struck by
the men in the office at this blasphemy, it was going to be years and years
before anyone tried to say it again, too.

But
Big Lem was a man of many convictions and foremost amongst them was a decided
prejudice in favor of his own vast greatness. He had been honeyed and buttered
and syruped so long by fawning menials that he had forgotten there were other
ways to talk.

Big
Lem looked more closely at Ole Doc. “Who are you anyway?”

“You
seemed convinced of something else a moment ago. I'm a doctor.”

“Ah,”
said Big Lem. He brightened and rubbed his huge paws together. “A doctor. A
crooked doctor impersonating a UMS Soldier. Ah.”

The
whole thing was opened to a page he could read. He scooped up the print. This
fellow had come here for a shakedown, impersonating a Soldier of Light. And
because men are likely to best understand what they themselves actually are,
Big Lem Tolliver was utterly satisfied.

Grinning,
the president of Air, Limited had his men search the visitor for other weapons
and equipment and then, with every cordiality, ushered Ole Doc into an office
big enough for a ballroom and ten times as fancy.

“Sit
down, sit down,” said Big Lem, sprawling into the oversize chair behind his
king-size desk. “Know very much about doctoring?”

Ole
Doc played it patient, stilling the urgency he felt now that his small pack
radio had been taken from him. He sat down in a high-backed leather chair.
“Others no doubt are much better informed,” he sighed.

“Where
and when did you pick it up?”

“Well
. . . a very long time ago. I may not know as much about modern medicine as I
might.”

“Went
to school maybe?”

“Yes.
But it was a long time ago.”

“Sure,
sure. And probably got kicked out of the profession for some . . . well, we all
make mistakes and recovery isn't possible unless one uses his wits.” He winked
ponderously and laughed much beyond the need of it. “I tell you, Doc, you
wouldn't think to look at me that I was just a typical trans-system tramp once.
Look around. Them hangings cost a fortune and them pictures is worth a cold
five million. They're originals and if they ain't and I ever find out about it,
God help my agents.” He laughed again. “Well, Doc, I guess you're wondering
why I'm being so great about this thing, huh?”

“Somewhat.”

“You're
a cool one. I like that. I like it very much. Well, I tell you, I could use a
doctor. I don't need a good one, see. You'll do just fine if you know anything
at all.”

“I
thought there were doctors here.”

“Them
that was here up and went away.” He enjoyed a brief chuckle and then sobered.
“I had a doc as partner. He'd been a good one in his day but drink and women
had got too much for him. He died about five years back and we been kind of
isolated for some time, like. So, I can use a doctor. A doctor that ain't all
knocked around by professional ethics.”

“And
what's in it for him?”

“Thousands
and thousands and thousands. Oh, I can pay all right. And pay very well indeed.
Taxes, fees, sales . . . I can pay. Air, Limited is just about as sound a
concern as you'll ever find, my friend.” He beamed jovially. “You give me
quite a turn with that thingamajig on your throat. The UMS— Well, you knew how
to back up a play. If I thought you was on the level, you wouldn't be sitting
there, but I know you ain't. Not an honest pill in your pockets. No
stethoscope. A blaster. Oh, I can tell a thing or two.”

“Where'd
I slip up?” said Ole Doc innocently.

“Why,
the blaster, of course. The UMS is death on violence. Oh, I've studied up, I
have. And I figure the chances of one of their big patrols coming this way is
about ten million to one at least in this century. We ain't nothing on Arphon,
and Sun
¹²
is gone to pieces as a confederated system. We don't spread no germs around and
we ain't in any kind of quarantine. So they won't come. But if one of them big
gold ships with the hundred-man crews come around, why, I want to be
reasonable. So that's where we talk business. You seem to know the ropes.”