Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #1. Рэй БрэдбериЧитать онлайн книгу.
the wall. If he had taken more time to brace himself before his lunge, he might have had more luck. As it was, I’ve lived on the moon for nearly five years and I know how to move my body. Stan has only been here a couple weeks and moves as clumsy as a toddlerbabe.
Of course it don’t pay much to be overconfident. I twist and tumble him to the floor, which at one-sixth gee doesn’t hurt him much. Of course I forget how weirdly desperate these spazniks can be. Stan kicks up his legs and tangles them with mine in a clumsy sort of judo then pulls me down with him.
He rolls atop of me and sneaks in a good clip, hitting my jaw, making my teeth click and thankful that my tongue isn’t between them. Again, this guy forgets just where he is. It doesn’t take Samson to throw a guy off your chest around here. I shove him away and scramble back before he can grabble at me again.
He gets up and tries for another launch, but this time I’m ready for him. Poor spaz. I crouch on the floor and wait for him to move. Stan braces himself against the wall, then launches himself at me. I bounce to the right and rebound behind him where I grab him by the collar and yank him back. His head smacks against the wall. Whammo!
That’s all it takes.
I didn’t even slam him very hard—him being a potential customer and all—but that doesn’t stop old Kimochi Stan from breaking down into bawls. I let him go and he crumples to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and boohooing.
I could give him a good kick right there, and probably should. But I don’t. I remember my first couple of months Up Here. It can get edgy. “Want to tell me what that was all about?” I ask.
Stan just sits there for a minute, then lifts his head and winces. “I thought you might be holding out on me and had a return chit that left today,” he says.
I look at him, not really surprised. “That desperate?”
He nods glumly.
I sigh. Just a dumb spazzing cheesehead who slipped through the psyches. “A smart loonie doesn’t keep his chits all in the same place. Maybe you should stay up here longer to learn how things is done, dig?”
“No...” he moans.
I grab my scanner which got dropped in the scuffle. It looks no worse for wear—at least this isn’t Earth gravity. I toss Stan his chit back. He looks at me all worried-like. He should be. After a stunt like that I should leave him in the deepest, darkest, most remote tunnel in the Belly. I’m sorely tempted, but even an idiot like this might have gotten savik enough to let someone else know where he was going. And if he doesn’t reappear, living and breathing, sometime soon, word would get out that dealing with Digger gets you a stone-cold corpse. Bad hoodoo.
“Look, Stan. No hard feelings, but don’t try that shit again. Listen to older brother instead. Tomorrow, you meet me in the Concourse by Ice Cream Lou’s Rent-a-Room with your chit, your meal tickets, and two fully charged batteries. I’ll give you a chit for O’Hare leaving the next day. If you can’t find the dollie for some batteries, then it’s Mexico City in a week. Until Lou’s, I don’t want to see your face. Got me?”
He nods and curls himself up tighter. If the kid behaved himself maybe I’d have gotten him to O’Hare without the batteries, but I hate getting jumped, fidgeting spaznik or not.
“You’re not going to go lunar on me again.”
He nods again and mumbles something. I can’t hear him but he sounds properly contrite.
“Good. Now get up.”
I grab him by the collar and push and pull him along with me. I take a different route back to the Concourse and exit from a different panel than the one we entered. I make him repeat back the deal we struck, then send him on his way. He’s still choking tears and he looks a mess. I hope anyone who sees him will be able to figure out the story for themselves.
After I send Stan stumbling on his way I recede back into the tunnels and go around the Concourse to another hideyhole some fars aways. This one has the treasure trove hidden inside the pump housing and I check my supply of extra chits and dump my takings from the day. I got a good amount squirreled away Up Here in hideyholes spread across Brahe City. Nest eggs. There be rumors percolating about that Project Burroughs is going civvie Real Soon Now. Visa rules are gonna be tough, tougher, toughest for Mars, but money talks. I still got a ways to go to raise the funds, but without real credentials up here, I’m stuck playing the hallways for change.
Consider, brothers and sisters, there’s no work to be had up here; not unless you wrangle a contract before you blast off—and those are tough to get. The United Nations Space Agreement guarantees anyone the right to travel to the moon, but they don’t encourage immigration. Aside from the visa chits, there are meal tickets to use in the food court and loonie currency for incidentals and souvenirs from the tourie shops. Lodging costs extra too, from cheap comfort rooms to posh suites with private observation ports overlooking the dusty, dry lunar surface.
Other than to work for one of the UN tourie businesses, or in one of the research labs at the other end of the station, there’s not much left to do. You’re given some passes to a few historic sites like the Eagle landing site or the Artemis wreckage, but after that you have to pay. Fine for a tourie on a week’s holiday. Sucks for the rest of us, but we make do.
Most of the units who come up are your average touries. Here for a week to two, then gone back to the bosom of Mama Earth. Then there are the techheads and service folk and such who hang on from six to eighteen months then go home. Finally there are the squatters, like me. Not destitute or slovenly or anything. We’re more like moon groupies who come up for the atmosphere (ha!), but many of whom also come away with disillusions.
But not me.
I love the moon. I love it Up Here and Out There. But I know it’s not for everyone. You see, the trick is to find a niche and hang on tight.
Take Amazing Gracie (please!) who owns a big slice of the black market. Then there’s Ice Cream Lou who provides the playspace for the boys and girls who turn exotic sixth-G tricks for bright-eyed touries. Tattooed Lydia sells one-of-a-kind skin souvenirs—each one unique and guaranteed not to fade away for at least five years. There are others. Lots of others. Opportunity is where you find it.
Those who can’t hack it Up Here trade us their chits for ones that will send them home early. As for yours truly, I do what I can to ease their burden—be it a song, a story, or a good trade—all the while working on my own grand plan.
I stop outside the food court and look to see if I can’t add yet a few more dollies to my stash and maybe some meal tickets to sell later. I play and I sing and I do my thing while staying out of the way of the loonie goons. I’m no beggar. I work for a living thank you very much.
You try singing in a public place. I dare you.
Four years, 8 months, 24 days
“Howdy Gracie,’’ I say. Lordie, but she’s a big woman!
“Digger,” she smiles nice and outer-space cold-like. Gracie and two of her goons—the Beach Boys, big, blond, and musclely—grab me on the Concourse and ‘escort’ me down a service tunnel. Fuck.
“Word’s out you picked up another two months. Food too.”
I give her my best grin. Poor Gracie. She’s never going to outlast me Up Here. “Maybe ... then again ... maybe.”
“He should have been mine. I wouldn’t have ripped him off like some dusty scavengers I know.” Gracie looks pissed.
“How now?” I ask with all the innocence of a newbie. “He’s getting an early trip downside—just like he wants. And I get another couple of months of air and some extra slop.”
“Plus two of my batteries,” Gracie adds. She cracks her knuckles.
Uh oh. “Don’t know nothing about that.”
“Fool