Confidence Game
By JIM HARMON
Illustrated by EPSTEIN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or
going—but I know that if I stuck to the old
man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!
Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.
"Tonight," Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, "tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen."
"Sure," the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. "No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!"
I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.
It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.
"I hope you'll forgive him, sir," I said, not meeting the man's eyes."He's my father and very old, as you can see." I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. "Old events seem recent to him."
The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight."'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?"
I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.
Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens. They weren't men like Doc and me.
Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.
I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.
The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he said mechanically.
"We'll use one bed," I told him. "I'll give you twenty cents." I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he played it back for me.
Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.
"We can always make it over to the mission," I lied.
The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. "Awright,since