A Whiff Of Madness Part 1

Ron Goulart.

A Whiff of Madness.

CHAPTER 1.

The lizardman, lycra cloak fluttering and allseason turban jiggling, came charging across the vast chill lobby of the publis.h.i.+ng center. He planted himself directly in the path of Jack Summer. "A fine hour to be arriving for work!" he boomed. "Where is she?"

"Who?" Summer was a middle-sized, wiry, sandy-haired man of thirty-one, and right now his skin was tanned that particular shade you get after a few weeks on Neptune. He glanced up at one of the several ballclocks that floated here and there in the Coultdrome lobby. "Eleven A.m. Barnum Standard Time isn't-"

"My wife, that's who!" The large greenish lizardman gave his turban an angry adjusting pat "My wife! She ran off with you! Which is-"

"Wait now," Summer told him. I admit I've run off with a girl on occasion, but never with a lizard."

The lizardman gave an openmouthed snort, causing his forked tongue to unfurl and snap, "Not one of my lizard wives, you pink-cheeked gigolo!" After another snort he tugged a fat wallet out of one of his cloak pockets. A flick of his green scaly wrist snapped the wallet open, allowing a string of glossy tri-op photos to unfold. "One of my humanoid wives!""... Sixteen, seventeen," counted Summer. "Quite a collection."

"This is the one to which, as if you didn't know, I allude!" A green finger jabbed the thirteenth photo from the top. "This one! Her name is Lorna!"

"Lorna." Summer leaned down to study the picture of the ravis.h.i.+ng, spa.r.s.ely clothed blond.

"Name doesn't ring a bell, and I can't say I've ever-"

"Doesn't ring a bell!" bellowed the lizardman, tugging at something else under his cloak. "My second most favorite humanoid wife departs from my happy home, leaving nothing behind save a scribbled note indicating she's fled with you, and you babble about bells ringing!" He yanked a horsewhip free. "I vowed I'd horsewhip any man who dared-"

"Is that what that is you're clutching, a horsewhip?"

"Yes, and you little realize the trouble I had procuring this one! Since there are no horses here on Barnum, I had to have this one teleported all the way from-"

"Lorna, did you say?" Summer reached into a pocket of his tunic. "It's possible I do remember her after all. Let me consult my addresswheel and perhaps ..." A stungun appeared in Summer's tan hand.

He fired directly at the outraged husband.

The lizardman froze, horsewhip half raised.

Summer put his gun away, gestured at two guards across the publis.h.i.+ng building lobby. "Dump this guy someplace," he suggested.

The catman guard said, "Golly, Summer, you roving reporters surely lead a roguish life."

The other, a chubby human, asked, "Did you really run off with this gent's wife?"

"No, but I think maybe she's the blond who grabbed my private parts during the masked ball on the s.p.a.celiner trip back from Neptune," answered the reporter. "Lord knows who she really ran off with."

"Ah, the muckraking life." The catman sighed while taking hold of the stunned lizard by the elbow. "Standing guard for Mr. Coult you never get your private parts gr-"

"Should a ravis.h.i.+ng blond, with her hair over one eye like this, show up in quest of me tell her I've been sent to some planet like Murdstone to do a Muckrake Magazine story."

"Sure thing, Summer," said the chubby guard. "Would you mind if I made a play for-"

"Nope, that would be an excellent idea." He left them, then hurried across to an ascend tube.

A naked black girl was standing next to the entrance door. "Welcome back, Jack."

"Hi, Nardis" The door whooshed open and he allowed her to enter the chute ahead of him.

"I hope this thing lets me out on the right floor this time," said Nardis. "I'm due up at Galactic Knitting to pose for a cover."

The powerful currents of air wafted them upward. "I didn't know you could knit."

She scratched a b.u.t.tock. "Oh, yes, I have terrible domestic urges sometimes. Last night I baked a pie. I suppose I ought to get help."

"Or move to another planet. Now on Neptune, in the Earth System, they still-"

"I read the pieces you did from Neptune, Jack, on that water rights scandal. Very incisive."

A door opened and Summer was tossed out of the chute before he could reply. Joyous pipe-organ music surrounded him on his way to the Muckrake editorial-floor reception desk. "h.e.l.lo, Pepper."

The lovely green girl kneeling behind the dark-wood desk said, "Oh, howdy, Jack. Excuse me if I don't give you a welcome-back hug."

Summer was studying the stained gla.s.s windows and the icons, sniffing at the incense smell in the air. "Coult changed the decor again."

"His wife did."

"I thought she favored Old West Earth."

"Different wife," replied Pepper. "Mr. Flowers is in the conference room down at the end of Corridor C. Oh, and don't forget to genuflect before you go in."

"I'll try. Bye, Pepper."

"Thought your pieces on the Neptune water business were very incisive, Jack." "Thanks."

The organ music followed him down the somber corridors and into the large Gothic cathedral which was apparently the new editorial conference room. "Fred?"

"Up here, Jack." His weary, lanky editor was seated in a pew toward the front of the church, near a lifesize statue of a four-armed blue saint. "Here under Blessed Mother Malley."

Overcoming an impulse to tiptoe, the reporter strode down to sit next to Fred Flowers. "This wife's taste isn't quite up to the last one."

"She's an even larger bimbo, too," said his tired-looldng editor. "Well, let's see if I can give you your new a.s.signment before the choirboys get back."

"Choirboys?"

"We get 'em every hour on the hour; supposed to be uplifting. A hundred of the little b.u.g.g.e.rs, made by a Swiss watchmaker on Murdstone, and every d.a.m.n one of 'em is towheaded and freckled."

Flowers jabbed at his gaunt cheeks to indicate where some of the freckles appeared. "I want you to go out to Peregrine, Jack."

"That looks like Coult himself in that stained gla.s.s window there," observed Summer, pointing with a thumb, "sitting at the right hand of G.o.d,"

"It is; the bimbo with the halo is the current wife of the enormous Coult publis.h.i.+ng empire."

"Don't much like women with their hair down over one eye like that"

"She has a very interesting backside, so I'm told," said Flowers. "Now about this a.s.signment on the planet Peregrine."

"Yeah, she does have a nice a.s.s, now you mention it. Something you don't often see in stained gla.s.s window figures." Summer returned his attention to his editor. "What do you want me to write about on Peregrine, the civil war?"

"Everybody knows civil wars are corrupt. Muckrake's readers are tired of that sort of expose,"

said the weary Flowers, slumping farther down in his pew, "What I want you to dig into for me is a little scandal concerning King Waldo the second."

"He's the ruler of Laranja East, isn't he? Laranja East and Laranja West are the territories having the civil war."

"Yep," replied Flowers. "Our stringer out there sent us word King Waldo is killing people."

"Is that newsworthy? Kings and presidents are always-"

"This guy is putting on a slouch hat, a black cloak, and gray gloves, Jack, to strangle little old ladies. Our stringer-"

"You mean King Waldo is the Phantom of the Fog?"

"Looks very possible. Seems he-"

Bong!

The cathedral vibrated as an unseen bell tower struck the half hour.

"Oh, that nitwit bimbo and her interesting backside." Flowers grimaced. "Anyway, Jack, there appears to be a strong likelihood the good king is the phantom strangler. Lots of rumors to that effect are floating around the territory."

"Has the palace had anything to say about the charges?"

"The king's press secretary maintains it's a media plot to smear the monarch."

Summer toyed with the prayerwheel dangling from a hook on the back of the pew in front of him.

"Whether or not Waldo's the killer, he's not going to take kindly to my walking into his territory to nose around."

"Yep, the king's very touchy about the rumors that he's a crazed pattern murderer. At his last press conference he threatened to horsewhip the newsman who-"

"That's right, they have horses out there," said Summer. "Okay, so I'm going to need a cover story, a plausible reason for being there."

From a wrinkled pocket in his rumpled tunic the editor withdrew a photo of a plump, s.h.a.ggy-feathered birdman. Holding the photo out to Summer, he said, "This lad claims to be Mulligan Starbuck.""So?"

"Mulligan was lost at sea at the tender age of nine, twenty-two long years ago," Flowers dropped the picture on Summer's lap. "Five weeks ago, according to our Peregrine stringer, this fellow in the photo appeared on the doorstep of the Starbuck estate in the Laranja East countryside. He swears he's the missing Mulligan, the long-lost heir come home to roost." I've heard of the Starbucks. Lot of money."

"Right, the Starbucks are one of the richest families on the planet. They're in railroads, oil, steel, copper, and weapons. With the war between East and West in full swing, they're raking in fantastic profits."

"The head of the family is Wattas Starbuck, as I recall. What's he think about this claimant?"

"Denies entirely he's little Mulligan grown to manhood. However, Wattas's old mother, Lady Thorkin, has accepted the lad. She believes in her heart he's her long missing grandson and has given him the run of the estate, making for some tension around the Starbuck homestead. The Starbuck claimant affair is causing quite a frumus, charges of fraud are in the air, and there may well be a trial." Flowers slumped a bit more. "It's the kind of situation Muckrake might well write up."

"I should be able to convince Waldo's people, and anyone else curious, I'm in Laranja to dig into the Starbuck affair "

Flowers closed his eyes for a few seconds. The light from one of the stained gla.s.s windows made rainbow patterns across his weary, lined face. "Something else I better tell you, Jack. We're going to need pictures and I have to a.s.sign you, somewhat against my will, a partner. If you can get me a shot of King Waldo skulking through the foggy back streets of the capital city in his phantom gear, or maybe actually in the act of grabbing some old bimbo by the throat I'll-"

"Talma!" realized Summer. "You're teaming me up again with Palma, the h.o.r.n.i.e.s.t photographer in the Barnum System ... if not the entire cosmos."

"Yep, him," admitted the editor. "He claims he's reformed, after getting himself almost killed on Mala-gra"

"Malagra, the pesthole of the universe. Is Palma still there?"

"No, he's on Peregrine, doing a picturespread on the public executions in Laranja East," said the weary Flowers. "Therefore, he's got a perfectly respectable excuse for being in the territory."

"I doubt Palma's much reformed," said Summer. "Every time we've worked together in the past he-"

"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!"

Little automaton choirboys were marching out onto the cathedral altar, singing.

"You're ten minutes ahead of schedule, you little clockwork twerps!" Flowers shouted at them.

"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!"

Standing, Summer said, "I'll pack When do I depart for Peregrine?"

"Ten tomorrow from Barnum s.p.a.ceport-two," said his editor. "Try to keep Palma from causing an incident, will you? Don't go s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around too much yourself."

"I a.s.sure you," said Summer, grinning, Talma's behavior and mine will be nothing less than saintly." Flowers sighed. "Well, good luck."

"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!" sang the choirboys.

CHAPTER 2.

The parade flowed along the wide cobblestone street. A marching band of scarlet-uniformed birdmen pa.s.sed the corner where Summer had been forced to stop because of the thick crowd of parade watchers. It was forty degrees Celsius on the glaring midday streets of the capital city of Laranja East. The newly arrived reporter was anxious to get to the Laranja-Sheraton and out of the sun.

"Excuse me," he said to the twin fat ladies immediately in front of him.

They continued licking at their strawberry ice cream cones, ignoring him.Six dozen steam-operated military robots went clanking by, followed by several squads of virginal young blond girls in white lycra tunics. Each girl carried a placard that said: Kill the Dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

Summer managed to nudge a few paces to the left, which brought him up against a broad, feathered back. "Mind if I try to cross?"