Read Online Look Out For Space (Seven For Space) by William F Nolan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William F Nolan
Tags: Science-Fiction
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— and finding Joe Hopper wasn't easy.
I tried his pad, then his cabstand, then his garage.
"Gone," mumbled the grizzled slugbelly who worked for him. He was tinkering with one of Joe's pre-Z spacers, an older model Hopper kept for classic display purposes.
"Gone where?"
"Dunno." He waved a lazy tentacle. "Just gone. Answered a call. Took off."
We were at Hopper's Deluxe Spacekab Emporium, which was the name Joe gave to this seedy garage and repair shack on the edge of a gorfswamp outside Gimp City in the Cuthbert Cluster.
"What do you want with him, anyhow?" asked the slugbelly. His snugsuit was grimed with space oil and his upper tentacles were tobacco stained.
"Got a job for him," I said.
"You gonna wait?"
"Depends," I said. "Did he say when he'd be back?"
"It's like I told ya," whined the slugbelly. "He just hot-assed off. Joe never tells me nothin' … and I don't ask him nothin'."
The noise in the sky proved I wouldn't have to wait: a crackling howl of after-jets, damped and power-reversed for a flamedown.
It was Joe — in his Twin-X thrustfin.
I met him on the field and told him I needed his help.
"Sure, Sammy," he grunted, stripping his flyhat. "If you can name it, I can do it."
"You don't lack confidence, Joe," I grinned.
"Modest I ain't; talented I am! What's the pitch?"
"I want to go sand racing," I said. "And I want to win."
We walked inside his Emporium.
* * *
What I needed from Joe was simply and totally illegal by MSA standards. At least years back, the Moon Sports Association had outlawed all atomic powered sandboats for Moonlake events under their "pilot safety" bylaws. The things were just too damned fast.
But I wanted speed, not safety, and I didn't give a damn about the rules.
"Can you rig a detachable atompac for a racing sander?" I asked Joe.
"Sure, but if you try to run it, they'll disqualify you."
"Not the way I've got it planned," I told him. "I want the boat to meet full pre-race specs, meaning a standard jato unit, conventional hull and steering gear. But I also want you to provide space for me to install an atompac once I've passed tech inspection."
Joe looked doubtful. "No good, Sam. They'll still disqualify you. The winning boats are impounded for total teardown after the race."
"I just want to win," I told him. "Let me worry about what happens afterwards."
"Okay," he said. "I can do the job for you if you're sure that's the way you want it."
"I'm sure," I said.
"And, if I dare pose the question, who the hell pays for all this?"
"I do," I said.
Actually, I wouldn't be paying. A down-at-the-dishkas private op with holes in both socks doesn't buy souped-up Moon boats. Before I'd left the Fat Marble, I'd worked out a little under-the-counter arrangement with Sylvester. The costs for all this were coming out of a fund for retired mice set up by the cops at Mouse HQ. Pennington assured me I'd have enough solarcreds to pay off Hopper, plus a spillover for my Moon jaunt. And who was I to argue with a cop?
Syl kept his end of the deal.
On the day the boat was ready I got a package delivered to my crummy office. Plain brown Jupe-wrap. No return address. Inside: 18,000 solarcredits. A tidy bundle. If Pennington's little scheme was ever uncovered, there'd be some pissed off senior mice on Jupiter.
* * *
"How's she look to you?" Joe asked me.
I walked around her. Whistled through my pivot tooth. "She's a zooch!" I said. "A real zooch!"
Long, low-bodied, wind sculptured, with a flared podcock and raked tweeters, she was a dreamboat. On her tucked hull, in gold paint, the name I'd asked for: Irmaline.
In honor of my latest light o' love. Susan Sunbright's middle name.
"This panel snaps off," said Joe, as he popped loose a side section near the jato unit. "You can attach your atompac, line it in, and you'll get an extra thousand thrustpower on the straights."
"Terrif," I said.
"But you won't have a chance to take off the pac once you've crossed the starting
I tried his pad, then his cabstand, then his garage.
"Gone," mumbled the grizzled slugbelly who worked for him. He was tinkering with one of Joe's pre-Z spacers, an older model Hopper kept for classic display purposes.
"Gone where?"
"Dunno." He waved a lazy tentacle. "Just gone. Answered a call. Took off."
We were at Hopper's Deluxe Spacekab Emporium, which was the name Joe gave to this seedy garage and repair shack on the edge of a gorfswamp outside Gimp City in the Cuthbert Cluster.
"What do you want with him, anyhow?" asked the slugbelly. His snugsuit was grimed with space oil and his upper tentacles were tobacco stained.
"Got a job for him," I said.
"You gonna wait?"
"Depends," I said. "Did he say when he'd be back?"
"It's like I told ya," whined the slugbelly. "He just hot-assed off. Joe never tells me nothin' … and I don't ask him nothin'."
The noise in the sky proved I wouldn't have to wait: a crackling howl of after-jets, damped and power-reversed for a flamedown.
It was Joe — in his Twin-X thrustfin.
I met him on the field and told him I needed his help.
"Sure, Sammy," he grunted, stripping his flyhat. "If you can name it, I can do it."
"You don't lack confidence, Joe," I grinned.
"Modest I ain't; talented I am! What's the pitch?"
"I want to go sand racing," I said. "And I want to win."
We walked inside his Emporium.
* * *
What I needed from Joe was simply and totally illegal by MSA standards. At least years back, the Moon Sports Association had outlawed all atomic powered sandboats for Moonlake events under their "pilot safety" bylaws. The things were just too damned fast.
But I wanted speed, not safety, and I didn't give a damn about the rules.
"Can you rig a detachable atompac for a racing sander?" I asked Joe.
"Sure, but if you try to run it, they'll disqualify you."
"Not the way I've got it planned," I told him. "I want the boat to meet full pre-race specs, meaning a standard jato unit, conventional hull and steering gear. But I also want you to provide space for me to install an atompac once I've passed tech inspection."
Joe looked doubtful. "No good, Sam. They'll still disqualify you. The winning boats are impounded for total teardown after the race."
"I just want to win," I told him. "Let me worry about what happens afterwards."
"Okay," he said. "I can do the job for you if you're sure that's the way you want it."
"I'm sure," I said.
"And, if I dare pose the question, who the hell pays for all this?"
"I do," I said.
Actually, I wouldn't be paying. A down-at-the-dishkas private op with holes in both socks doesn't buy souped-up Moon boats. Before I'd left the Fat Marble, I'd worked out a little under-the-counter arrangement with Sylvester. The costs for all this were coming out of a fund for retired mice set up by the cops at Mouse HQ. Pennington assured me I'd have enough solarcreds to pay off Hopper, plus a spillover for my Moon jaunt. And who was I to argue with a cop?
Syl kept his end of the deal.
On the day the boat was ready I got a package delivered to my crummy office. Plain brown Jupe-wrap. No return address. Inside: 18,000 solarcredits. A tidy bundle. If Pennington's little scheme was ever uncovered, there'd be some pissed off senior mice on Jupiter.
* * *
"How's she look to you?" Joe asked me.
I walked around her. Whistled through my pivot tooth. "She's a zooch!" I said. "A real zooch!"
Long, low-bodied, wind sculptured, with a flared podcock and raked tweeters, she was a dreamboat. On her tucked hull, in gold paint, the name I'd asked for: Irmaline.
In honor of my latest light o' love. Susan Sunbright's middle name.
"This panel snaps off," said Joe, as he popped loose a side section near the jato unit. "You can attach your atompac, line it in, and you'll get an extra thousand thrustpower on the straights."
"Terrif," I said.
"But you won't have a chance to take off the pac once you've crossed the starting
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