Iron Head: Science Fiction Mystery Tales Read online

  IRON HEAD

  E.C. Tubb

  Edited by Philip Harbottle

  © E.C. Tubb 1955, 1956, 1960

  © 2018 Lisa John

  E.C. Tubb has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This edition published in 2020 by Endeavour Venture, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted by permission of the author’s estate and his agent, Cosmos Literary Agency:

  Iron Head was first published in Science Fiction Adventures # 16, September 1960

  Copyright © 1960 by E.C. Tubb; Copyright © 2018 by Lisa John

  Memories Are Important was first published in New Worlds # 99, October 1960

  Copyright © 1960 by E.C. Tubb; Copyright © 2018 by Lisa John

  The Man in Between was first published in Authentic Science Fiction # 67 March 1956

  Space Hobo was first serialised in Authentic Science Fiction # 61-66, Sep.1955—Feb.1956

  Copyright © 1955, 1956 by E.C. Tubb; Copyright © 2018 by Lisa John

  Man of War was first published in New Worlds # 93, April 1960

  Copyright © 1960 by E.C. Tubb; Copyright © 2018 by Lisa John

  Table of Contents

  IRON HEAD

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  MEMORIES ARE IMPORTANT

  THE MAN IN BETWEEN

  SPACE HOBO

  CHAPTER 1

  ONE EVERY MINUTE

  CHAPTER 2

  THAT ZAMBONI

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SHELL GAME

  CHAPTER 4

  MISTAKE ON MARS

  CHAPTER 5

  VENUS FOR NEVER

  CHAPTER 6

  ASTEROIDS

  MAN OF WAR

  IRON HEAD

  CHAPTER 1

  Jake was in the lower forty checking fences when the overseer arrived. He caught a glimpse of the red scooter gliding over the hill and hastily turned his own mount from the grazing herd below. He was fast but not quite fast enough, Kennedy’s head framed itself in the window and his thumb jerked downward. Jake sighed, pressed a button on his own mount, the whine of the rotor dying as it settled towards the prairie.

  He dismounted, hiked back his stetson and reached for his makings. The smoke was almost complete by the time Kennedy dropped beside him.

  “I’ve been calling you,” said the overseer.

  “I didn’t hear you.” Jake finished rolling his cigarette, trying to ignore the knot of foreboding in his stomach.

  “I called loud enough,’ grumbled Kennedy. “I’ve been calling since I left the ranch house. You sure you didn’t hear me?’

  “I had other things to do.” He glanced towards the herd, they were still too near. “You want something?

  Kennedy nodded, his eyes on the animals. “A fine bunch of beef,” he said, then frowned. “One of them’s got a sore foot.”

  “I’d noticed. Nothing serious.”

  “Another’s got a touch of stomach ache.” The overseer’s eyes grew distant. “Two of them. You notice that too?”

  Jake grunted, lit his cigarette and let smoke plume through his nostrils. Casually he leaned against his mount, deliberately trying to appear relaxed and casual, the idealistic picture of the tall, rangy cowboy of legend. He had been ten years building that picture with a surprising degree of success. Kennedy wasn’t impressed. To him Jake was just another worker for the Apex Delicacy Co.

  “I’ve had a memo from Head Office about you,” he said. “Seems that Personnel riffled through their cards the other day and discovered something.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re to take a trip east. I’ve brought a replacement for you, he’s at the ranch house now. Nice young fellow, bright as a pin, keen too.” He saw Jake’s expression. “Take it easy now, I had nothing to do with it.”

  Jake dropped his cigarette, trod on it, stared at the overseer.

  “Have you any complaints about the way I tend the herd?”

  “No.

  “Any complaints of any kind?

  “None at all.”

  “Then why am I being replaced?”

  Kennedy didn’t say anything but his eyes took on a sharp, direct focus. He stared at Jake for a long time. Over towards the hill the grazing animals moved, suddenly restless and some small animal bolted wildly from cover and raced towards the horizon. Jake didn’t move. Kennedy sighed and shook his head.

  “Look, son,” he said gently, “I’ve nothing against you personally, and you get on well with the others. How about if I delayed things a day? There’s a clinic over in Bent Forks, you could slip over there and—” He broke off as Jake shook his head. “Not interested?”

  “Not possible.” Jake sounded as miserable as he felt. “I’ve tried three times already.”

  “I see.” Kennedy was a philosopher, he shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s all there is to it. They expect you at Head Office noon tomorrow.”

  *

  Noon found Jake five hundred miles from where he had spent the past ten years of his life. He entered the soaring building of the Apex Delicacy Co., ignoring the flashing murals which told him that he was in the precincts of the world’s second largest purveyor of rare and exotic foods. A receptionist took his name, handed him over to a guide who, in turn passed him through a small door into a small office. A fussy little man took over and, for the next hour, hummed and clucked over Jake as he put him through his paces. He then vanished into another room leaving Jake alone.

  An hour passed and he grew bored. A second hour passed before someone finally remembered him and sent up a sealed container of coffee and a packet of sandwiches. The coffee tasted like mud and the sandwiches were food and that was about all. The Apex Delicacy Co., obviously, didn’t believe in wasting their rare and exotic viands on the staff. Yet another hour and the little examiner returned.

  He sat down, looked at Jake, and regretfully shook his head.

  “Mr. Merton,” he said. “I’m afraid that I have some very bad news. I wish I didn’t have to say this but—”

  “I’m fired.” Jake had sensed it coming all along.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that,” demurred the examiner. “Let us just say that, owing to circumstances beyond our control, the company is reluctantly forced to terminate your employment.”

  “But it means the same thing?”

  The examiner coughed.

  “Then I’m fired,” said Jake bitterly. “No matter how you dress it up in fancy words it comes to the same thing.”

  *

  He should have been angry. Anger would have been a relief, but all he could feel was a hollow sense of desolation as if he had just lost his entire world. Which, in a sense, he had. He’d liked it out on the range, tending the herd, the snug ranch house with the television and taped music, the open skies and the changing seasons. It didn’t seem right that after ten years of honest work it should all end like this. Fired, and through no fault of his own.

  Patiently the examiner explained it to him.

  “We want the best man for the job, Mr. Merton, that’s logical, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing wrong with the way I did the job.” Jake was stubborn.

  “Perhaps not, but times change and we have to change with them. You were in charge of a lot of rare and delicate animals, Mr. Merton. A cow represents a sizeable investment. She could be sick or frightened or threatened in some way and you would never know. It’s a
responsible position and, frankly, you aren’t the best man to hold it.”

  “No complaints so far,” said Jake doggedly. The examiner sighed.

  “True, but try and look at it this way. At one time an illiterate could have done your job but, when literacy became general, such a man was no longer good enough.” He hesitated. “You, Mr. Merton, and I mean no offence, are in the position of an illiterate.”

  “Because I can’t read minds?”

  “Exactly. Ten years ago it wasn’t so important. The Hammadran Technique was fairly new on Earth then and the company wanted to be fair. It was decided that, within ten years, every adult would have had the chance to become a telepath. The forecast was correct. You, Mr. Merton, are rather unique.”

  “It’s not my fault,” protested Jake. The examiner didn’t appear to have heard.

  “I’ve tried to be fair,” he continued. “I’ve given you every test in the book and a few extras to make certain. You can neither receive or transmit. Your head, telepathically speaking, is like a steel ball. I’m sorry for you, Mr. Merton.”

  “You’re sorry!”

  “Truly I am. It must be a dreadful thing to be so handicapped. Dreadful!”

  He was talking, thought Jake, as if he had a loathsome affliction, much as people of old might have talked about a leper. He stirred restlessly in his chair.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said defensively. “I get along.”

  “I’m sure you do,” beamed the examiner. “You are an intelligent man despite your—ah—affliction. You appreciate the rarity and value of your late charges and realise that nothing but the best can be good enough for them.” He rose, held out his hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Merton. Your termination pay is waiting for you at the main desk.”

  *

  The pay, after deductions, wasn’t as much as it could have been but Jake wasn’t worried. He was fit, willing and unhampered, it could only be a question of time before he found other employment. In the meantime he had ten years of semi-isolation to catch up on. He decided to take it easy for a few days and look over the city.

  Ten years had changed it but not all that much. Some new buildings, wider streets and unfamiliar arcades, the expected structural alterations. The space port was something else. It wasn’t just its size though that was terrific, it was the volume of traffic which surprised him. Ten years ago the port had been a small appendage to the city, hardly larger than the regular airfield, now it was a sprawling expanse of sheds, warehouses, administration buildings and the rest of it. Even as he watched a liner fell from the sky, steadying itself with a shimmer of blue, then settling to the ground. Transport vehicles, looking like ants beside the colossus, streamed towards the opening hatches.

  Jake was thoughtful as the bus droned back to the city.

  Ten years was a long time, a third of his life, but even so progress had been out of all proportion. Space travel wasn’t new and the Banner drive had been discovered before he was born but from the appearance of the space port, commerce with the stars had literally exploded into being. The Hammadran Technique? It was more than a possibility. Telepathy had removed the natural barriers between races, the difficulty of communication; the mutual distrusts. Trade, providing there was both trust and communication, was inevitable between races who traversed the stars.

  Jake felt more out of things than before. It was a feeling which grew.

  Little things did it. The uneasy silence whenever he tried to buy anything or order anything. It wasn’t, a real silence, he knew that, it was just the normal procedure but, to him with his total inability to receive the transmitted thought, it was a silence. Then would come the clearing of the throat, the verbal questions; the thinly disguised impatience. And there were other things.

  Like the time he’d gone to a concert. Jake liked music and had bought a ticket. He’d taken his seat in the auditorium and settled down for a pleasant evening. The first shock came when the curtains parted and he’d seen the orchestra. None of the musicians had instruments. Not only that, none of the singers had sang. He had sat in miserable silence, surrounded by rapt faces as the rest of the audience had listened to, and enjoyed, the telepathised music and vocals from the stage.

  *

  The real trouble came when he tried to get a job. With labour organised the way it was and employers on the Free Market taking their pick of a dozen applicants for every vacancy a non-telepath didn’t stand a chance.

  “Who wants a dummy?” The agent at the Market was a big, fat, shining man who didn’t believe in calling a spade anything but that.

  “I came here for a job,” said Jake. “I’m big and strong and can work.”

  “But you’re still a dummy.” The agent waved a chubby paw. “Now don’t get all hot under the collar. Maybe it’s your fault, maybe not, but you don’t radiate worth a damn. Who the hell is going to employ you?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t be here.” Jake was getting annoyed. “Or maybe you think I like giving you a registration fee?”

  “Take it easy,” said the agent. He looked over the Market, at the men lounging on benches, the women busy sewing, a few couples sitting close together. There were perhaps fifty people waiting for prospective employers or notified vacancies. Ten years ago the place would have been filled with the low murmur of conversation. Now there was only silence.

  “Look at it from the employer’s viewpoint,” urged the fat man. “He wants someone to work for him, right?”

  Jake nodded.

  “So he gets someone. But he wants to know he can trust the guy. Now, tell me, how is he going to know he can trust you?”

  “I’m honest,” said Jake. The agent waved his paw again.

  “Am I arguing? Sure you’re honest—but how can you persuade an employer that? He wants to be able to read you. He wants to be sure.” The agent slapped his paw down on a book. “See this? Fifty vacancies a week if we’re lucky. Over a thousand names booked, fees paid, people waiting. And not a dummy among them. Putting you down would be a waste of time.”

  “I see.” Jake stood, not knowing quite what to do. His money was almost out, two more days would see him kicked out of his hotel. Maybe he’d made a mistake in staying in the city but it was too late to think of that now. If anyone could help him the agent could. The fat man pursed his lips then shook his head.

  “You’ve got a problem, son,” he said not unkindly. “You should have stayed in the sticks, farmers, some of them at least, ain’t so particular.”

  “How about another planet?” Jake was grasping at straws. “I can handle cattle and would be useful on a frontier world.”

  “Sure you would,” agreed the agent. “If you could get there. Know what the fare is to, say, Beta Sirius?”

  Jake didn’t. The agent told him and killed even that faint hope.

  “Tell you what,” said the agent. “Now don’t blow your top at me, it’s only a suggestion.” He hesitated, looking at Jake’s size and obvious muscular power, then decided to take a chance. “If I was in your shoes I’d join the Guards.”

  “The Guards!” Jake had heard the suggestion before. It was equivalent to telling a man to go to hell.

  Earth wasn’t at war but had neatly solved the problem of surplus production and manpower by equipping mercenaries. These mercenaries were sold to any ambitious ruler who could foot the bill. Theoretically they had a charter to safeguard their welfare but in practice they were used for the dirtiest jobs, the most suicidal missions and, generally, treated like the expendable units they were.

  Naturally, no one wanted to join the Guards. No one in their right mind, that is. Some had no choice, certain crimes carried forced enlistment as an automatic penalty, other law-breakers were offered an alternative, contract-breakers knew what to expect. And, of course, there were always the homeless, the desperate and the starving.

  CHAPTER 2

  Commander Zeten, officer of the Imperial forces of Gliken the Olgarch of Kund, smiled as he stared into the vision screen o
f his cruiser. He was a tall man, impeccably clad in yellow and vermilion, his sharp, hatchet-like face matched by the keenness of his eyes beneath sweeping brows. He stood, hands locked behind his back, rocking a little on the balls of his feet as he smiled at the screen. He had reason for satisfaction. His ship had just struck a decisive blow in the War of Liberation.

  Framed in the screen the wrecked hull of a vessel of the enemy forces rested in the firm grip of magnalines.

  True, it was a small vessel, a twenty-man scout from the look of it, but no vessel was so small as to be harmless and no victory too insignificant for congratulation. It was from such small victories the War of Liberation would be won.

  He turned as an aide entered the compartment. The aide saluted, radiated the appropriate deference, and made his report.

  “The vessel is of Terran manufacture, sir. A twenty-man scout probably on a raiding expedition.”

  “Armament?”

  “Excessive for its class.”

  “The crew?”

  “Terrans.”

  Zeten nodded, he was not surprised. These Terran mercenaries were usually to be found on small ships and usually on suicide missions. It spoke highly of them that they had managed to penetrate the Gliken zone of influence so deeply.

  “Have the salvage crew complete the task of dismantling,” ordered Zeten. “All fissionable material to be salvaged, all items of saleable value to be stored, the usual thing.” He glanced to where the wreck tugged futilely against the magnetic cables. “Better burn the dead with the hull. No need to trouble ourselves about mercenaries.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide hesitated. “Sir. Not all of the crew are dead. There was a survivor.”

  “So?” This time Zeten was surprised. Survivors were rare indeed in the loser of a space action.

  “A man, sir. The salvage crew found him sealed within a small compartment. He is injured, unconscious, a Terran like the others.”