n.o.ble Redman.

by Jesse Franklin Bone.

A pair of words I heartily detest are _n.o.ble_ and _redman_, particularly when they occur together. Some of my egghead friends from the Hub tell me that I shouldn't, since they're merely an ancient colloquialism used to describe a race of aborigines on the American land ma.s.s.

The American land ma.s.s? Where? Why--on Earth, of course--where would ancestors come from? Yes--I know it's not nice to mention that word.

It's an obscenity. No one likes to be reminded that his ancestors came from there. It's like calling a man a son of a sloat. But it's the truth. Our ancestors came from Earth and nothing we can do is going to change it. And despite the fact that we're the rulers of a good sized segment of the galaxy, we're nothing but transplanted Earthmen.

I suppose I'm no better than most of the citizens you find along the peripheral strips of Martian dome cities. But I might have been if it hadn't been for n.o.ble Redman. No--not _the_ n.o.ble redman--just n.o.ble Redman. It's a name, not a description, although as a description his surname could apply, since he _was_ red. His skin was red, his hair was red, his eyes had reddish flecks in their irises, and their whites were red like they were inflamed. Even his teeth had a reddish tinge.

d.a.m.ndest guy I ever saw. Redman was descriptive enough--but n.o.ble! Ha!

that character had all the n.o.bility of a Sand Nan--.

I met him in Marsport. I was fairly well-heeled, having just finished guiding a couple of Centaurian tourists through the ruins of K'nar.

They didn't believe me when I told them to watch out for Sand Nans.

Claimed that there were no such things. They were kinda violent about it. Superst.i.tion--they said. So when the Nan heaved itself up out of the sand, they weren't ready at all. They froze long enough for it to get in two shots with its stingers. They were paralyzed of course, but I wasn't, and a Nan isn't quick enough to hit a running target. So I was out of range when the Nan turned its attention to the Centaurians and started to feed. I took a few pictures of the Nan finishing off the second tourist--the female one. It wasn't very pretty, but you learn to keep a camera handy when you're a guide. It gets you out of all sorts of legal complications later. The real bad thing about it was that the woman must have gotten stuck with an unripe stinger because she didn't go quietly like her mate. She kept screaming right up to the end. I felt bad about it, but there wasn't anything I could do. You don't argue with a Nan without a blaster, and the Park Service doesn't allow weapons in Galactic Parks.

Despite the fact that I had our conversation on tape and pictures to prove what happened, the Park cops took a dim view of the whole affair. They cancelled my license, but what the h.e.l.l--I wasn't cut out for a guide. So when I got back to Marsport, I put in a claim for my fee, and since their money had gone into the Nan with them, the Claims Court allowed that I had the right to garnishee the deceaseds'

personal property, which I did. So I was richer by one Starflite cla.s.s yacht, a couple of hundred ounces of industrial gold, and a lot of personal effects which I sold to Abe Feldstein for a hundred and fifty munits.

Abe wasn't very generous, but what's a Martian to do with Centaurian gear? Nothing those midgets use is adaptable to us. Even their yacht, a six pa.s.senger job, would barely hold three normal-sized people and they'd be cramped as kampas in a can. But the hull and drives were in good shape and I figured that if I sunk a couple of thousand munits into remodelling, the ship'd sell for at least twenty thousand--if I could find someone who wanted a three pa.s.senger job. That was the problem.

Abe offered me five thousand for her as she stood--but I wasn't having any--at least not until I'd gotten rid of the gold in her fuel reels.

That stuff's worth money to the s.p.a.celines--about fifty munits per ounce. It's better even than lead as fuel--doesn't clog the tubes and gives better acceleration.

Well--like I said--I was flusher than I had been since Triworld Freight Lines ran afoul of the cops on Callisto for smuggling tekla nuts. So I went down to Otto's place on the strip to wash some of that Dryland dust off my tonsils. And that's where I met Redman.

He came up the street from the South airlock--a big fellow--walking kinda unsteady, his respirator hanging from his thick neck. He was burned a dark reddish black from the Dryland sun and looked like he was on his last legs when he turned into Otto's. He staggered up to the bar.

"Water," he said.

Otto pa.s.sed him a pitcher and d.a.m.ned if the guy didn't drink it straight down!

"That'll be ten munits," Otto said.

"For water?" the man asked.

"You're on Mars," Otto reminded him.

"Oh," the big fellow said, and jerked a few lumps of yellow metal out of a pocket and dropped it on the bar. "Will this do?" he asked.

Otto's eyes d.a.m.n near bulged out of their sockets. "Where'd you get that stuff?" he demanded. "That's gold!"

"I know."

"It'll do fine." Otto picked out a piece that musta weighed an ounce.

"Have another pitcher."

"That's enough," the big fellow said. "Keep the change."

"Yes, sir!" You'da thought from Otto's voice that he was talking to the Prince Regent. "Just _where_ did you say you found it."

"I didn't say. But I found it out there." He waved a thick arm in the direction of the Drylands.

By this time a couple of sharpies sitting at one of the tables p.r.i.c.ked up their ears, removed their pants from their chairs and began closing in. But I beat them to it.

"My name's Wallingford," I said. "Cyril Wallingford."

"So what?" he snaps.

"So if you don't watch out you'll be laying in an alley with all that nice yellow stuff in someone else's pocket."

"I can take care of myself," he said.

"I don't doubt it," I said, looking at the ma.s.s of him. He was sure king-sized. "But even a guy as big as you is cold meat for a little guy with a Kelly."

He looked at me a bit more friendly. "Maybe I'm wrong about you, friend. But you look shifty."

"I'll admit my face isn't my fortune," I said sticking out what little chin I had and looking indignant. "But I'm honest. Ask anyone here." I looked around. There were three men in the place I didn't have something on, and I was faster than they. I was a fair hand with a Kelly in those days and I had a reputation. There was a chorus of nods and the big fellow looked satisfied. He stuck out a hamsized hand.

"Me name's Redman," he said. "n.o.ble Redman. My father had a sense of humor." He grinned at me, giving me a good view of his pink teeth.

I grinned back. "Glad to know you," I replied. I gave the sharpies a hard look and they moved off and left us alone. The big fellow interested me. Fact is--anyone with money interested me--but I'm not stupid greedy. It took me about three minutes to spot him for a phony.

Anyone who's lived out in the Drylands knows that there just _isn't_ any gold there. Iron, sure, the whole desert's filthy with it, but if there is anything higher on the periodic table than the rare earths, n.o.body had found it yet--and this guy with his light clothes, street boots and low capacity respirator--h.e.l.l! he couldn't stay out there more than two days if he wanted to--and besides, the gold was refined.

The lumps looked like they were cut off something bigger--a bar, for instance.

A bar!--a bar of gold! My brain started working. K'nar was about two days out, and there had always been rumors about Martian gold even though no one ever found any. Maybe this tourist had come through. If so, he was worth cultivating. For he was a tourist. He certainly wasn't a citizen. There wasn't a Martian alive with a skin like his.

Redman--the name fitted all right. But what was his game? I couldn't figure it. And the more I tried the less I succeeded. It was a certainty he was no prospector despite his burned skin. His hands gave him away. They were big and dirty, but the pink nails were smooth and the red palms soft and uncalloused. There wasn't even a blister on them. He could have been fresh from the Mercury Penal Colony--but those guys were burned black--not red, and he didn't have the hangdog look of an ex-con.

He talked about prospecting on Callisto--looking for heavy metals. Ha!

There were fewer heavy metals on Callisto than there were on Mars. But he had listeners. His gold and the way he spent it drew them like honey draws flies. But finally I got the idea. Somehow, subtly, he turned the conversation around to gambling which was a subject everyone knew. That brought up tales of the old games, poker, faro, three card monte, blackjack, roulette--and c.r.a.pshooting.

"I'll bet there isn't a dice game in town." Redman said.

"You'd lose," I answered. I had about all this maneuvering I could take. Bring it out in the open--see what this guy was after. Maybe I could get something out of it in the process. From the looks of his hands he was a pro. He could probably make dice and cards sing sweet music, and if he could I wanted to be with him when he did. The more I listened, the more I was sure he was setting something up.

"Where is this game?" he asked incuriously.

"Over Abie Feldstein's hock-shop," I said. "But it's private. You have to know someone to get in."

"You steering for it?" He asked.

I shook my head, half puzzled. I wasn't quite certain what he meant.