Asimov's Mysteries

So I called up Flora-Flora of certain rare episodes in the past-and for the purpose I used a video booth. Damn the expense, full speed ahead.

I was giving myself ten to one odds she'd be out, she'd be busy with her videophone disconnected, she'd be dead, even.

But she was in, with her videophone connected and shewas anything but dead. 

She looked better than ever. Age cannot wither nor custom stale, as somebody or other once said, her infinite variety. And the robe she wore-or, rather, almost didn't wear-helped a lot.

Was she glad to see me? She squealed, 'Max! It's been years.'

'I know, Flora, but this is it, if you're available. Because guess what! I'm in Marsport without Hilda.' She squealed again. 'Isn't that nice! Then come on over.'

I goggled a bit. This was too much. 'You mean you are available?' You have to understand that Flora was never available without plenty of notice. Well, she was that kind of knockout.

She said, 'Oh, I've got some quibbling little arrangement Max, but I'll take care of that. You come on over.'

'I'll come,' I said happily.

Flora was the kind of girl-Well, I tell you, she had her rooms under Martian gravity, 0-4 Earth-normal. The gadget to free her of Marsport's pseudo-grav field was expensive, of course, but I'll tell you just in passing that it was worth it, and she had no trouble paying it off. If you've ever held a girl in your arms at 0-4 gees, you need no explanation. If you haven't, explanations will do no good. I'm also sorry for you.

Talk about floating on clouds…

And mind you, the girl has to know how to handle low gravity. Flora did. I won't talk about myself, you understand, but Flora didn't howl for me to come over and start breaking previous engagements just because she was at loose ends. Her ends were never loose.

I closed connections, and only the prospect of seeing it all in the flesh-such flesh!-could have made me wipe out the image with such alacrity. I stepped out of the booth.

And at that point, that precise point, that very split instant of time, the first whiff of catastrophe nudged itself up to me.

That first whiff was the bald head of that lousy Rog Crinton of the Mars offices, gleaming over a headful of pale blue eyes, pale yellow complexion, and pale brown mustache. He was the same Rog Crinton, with some Slavic strain in his ancestry, that half the people out on field work thought had a middle name that went sunnuvabich.

I didn't bother getting on all fours and beating my forehead against the ground because my vacation had started the minute I had gotten off the ship.

I said with only normal politeness, 'What the hell do you want and I'm in a hurry. I've got an appointment.'

He said, 'You've got an appointment with me. I've got a little job for you.'

I laughed and told him in all necessary anatomical detail where he could put the little job, and offered to get him a mallet to help. I said, 'It's my month off, friend.' He said, 'Red emergency alert, friend.'

Which meant, no vacation, just like that. I couldn't believe it. I said, 'Nuts, Rog. Have a heart. I got an emergency alert of my own.' 

'Nothing like this.'

'Rog,' I pleaded, 'can't you get someone else? Anyone else?'

'You're the only Class A agent on Mars.'

'Send to Earth, then. They stack agents like micropile units at Headquarters.'

This has got to be done before 11 p.m. What's the matter? You haven't got three hours?'

I grabbed my head. The boy just didn't know. I said. 'Let me make a call, will you?'

I stepped back in the booth, glared at him, and said, 'Private!'

Flora shone on the screen again, like a mirage on an asteroid. She said, 'Something wrong, Max? Don't say something's wrong. I canceled my other engagement.'

I said, 'Flora, baby, I'll be there. I'll be there. But something's come up.'.

She asked the natural question in a hurt tone of voice and I said, 'No. Not another girl. With you in the same town they don't make any other girls. Females, maybe. Not girls. Baby! Honey! It's business. Just hold on. It won't take long.'

She said, 'All right,' but she said it kind of like it was just enough not all right so that I got the shivers.

I stepped out of the booth and said, 'All right, Rog Sunnuvabich, what kind of mess have you cooked up for me?'

We went into the spaceport bar and got us an insulated booth. He said, 'The An tores Giant is coming in from Sirius in exactly half an hour, at 8 p.m. local time.'

'Okay.'

'Three men will get out, among others, and will wait for the Space Eater coming in from Earth at 11 p.m. and leaving for Capella some time thereafter. The three men will get on the Space Eater and will then be out of our jurisdiction.'

'So.'

'So between eight and eleven, they will be in a special waiting room and you will be with them. I have a trimensional image of each for you so you'll know who they are and which is which. You have between eight and eleven to decide which one is carrying contraband.'

'What kind of contraband?'

The worst kind. Altered Spaceoline.'

'Altered Spaceoline?'

He had thrown me. I knew what Spaceoline was. If you've been on a space hop you know too. And in case you're Earthbound yourself the bare fact is that everyone needs it on the first space trip; almost everybody needs it for the first dozen trips; lots need it every trip. Without it, there is vertigo associated with free fall, screaming terrors, semipermanent psychoses. With it, there is nothing; you don't mind a thing. And it isn't habit-forming; it has no adverse side effects. Spaceoline is ideal, essential, unsubstitutable. When in doubt, take Spaceoline. 

Rog said, That's right, altered Spaceoline. It can be changed chemically, by a simple reaction that can be conducted in anyone's basement, into a drug that will give one giant-size charge and become your baby-blue habit the first time. It is on a par with the most dangerous alkaloids we know.'

'And we just found out about it?'

'No. The Service has known about it for years, and we've kept others from knowing by squashing every discovery flat. Now, however, the discovery has gone too far.'

'In what way?'

'One of the men who will be stopping over at this spaceport is carrying some of the altered Spaceoline on his person. Chemists in the Capellan system, which is outside the Federation, will analyze it and set up ways of synthesizing more. After that, it's either fight the worst drug menace we've ever seen or suppress the matter by suppressing the source.'

'You mean Spaceoline.'

'Right. And if we suppress Spaceoline, we suppress space travel.'

I decided to put my finger on the point. 'Which one of the three has it?'

Rog smiled nastily. 'If we knew, would we need you? You're to find out which of the three.'

'You're calling on me for a lousy frisk job?'

Touch the wrong one at the risk of a haircut down to the larynx. Every one of the three is a big man on his own planet. One is Edward Harponaster; one is Joaquin Lipsky; and one is Andiamo Ferrucci. Well?'

He was right. I'd heard of every one of them. Chances are you have too. Important, very important people, and not one was touchable without proof in advance. I said, 'Would one of them touch a dirty deal like-'

There are trillions involved,' said Rog, 'which means any one of the three would. And one of them has, because Jack Hawk got that far before he was killed-'

'Jack Hawk's dead?'