Skid Row Pilot

By Randall Garrett

Flunking a physical was the greatest worry
a space pilot had. It was the one worry Kendall
never bothered about—until he landed on Mars....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Ted Kendall waited with thinly-concealed impatience in the unheated outer office of Mars' branch of Space Service, cursing the red tape that kept him anchored on this cold, miserable pebble of a planet.

"We'll have that analysis in just a moment, Pilot Kendall," came the voice from the inner office. "Please be patient."

Actually, he thought, it was his own fault. A spacepilot had to have a reflex checkup every six months, to determine whether or not he was still capable of the myriad split-second decisions that had to be made during the course of the Earth-Mars run.

Kendall's six-month exam had been scheduled to fall due about four days after he left Earth for his present run. A midflight due-date of this sort gave him an option: he could take the test four days early, on Earth, or he could wait till the journey was completed and be tested at the Mars end of the run.

He had chosen Mars, since otherwise he would have had to give up his assignment on the Queen Alexandra and wait to draw another. He was in good health, his reflexes were fine, and he didn't expect to hit any snags on the Mars end.

"We're still computing your curve, Pilot Kendall. It'll take just another moment or two."

Frowning, he took his seat again. He hadn't looked for this sort of trouble on Mars.

The Martian branch of Space Service didn't work with the same smooth efficiency as the Earth office. There, you walked in, let the computer run you over, and in ten minutes your license was stamped for another six-month extension. Here things worked differently.

It had taken him two days just to get an appointment—two days in which he wandered through Mars City, lonely and bitter, shuddering in the biting cold and feeling homesick for Earth and Kathy and good warm air with some oxygen in it. Then he had his exam—and, unaccountably, they requested him to return the next day for a re-test.

A re-test? What the devil for? When Kendall had returned, he had been shivering not only with the cold of Mars but with apprehension. He looked at his hands. They seemed to be steady. Were his reflexes wearing out? Was he washed-up as a spacepilot? He didn't know. The machine was going to tell him that soon enough.

The door opened. A white-smocked computer technician wearing the comet-insignia of Space Service came out, frowning uneasily and riffling a sheaf of papers. Kendall stood up.

The technician stared at him strangely for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kendall. I can't give you your license. The computer shows that you're no longer fit to pilot a spacegoing vessel."

For an instant Kendall didn't react. Then it hit him. The technician had called him Mr. Kendall instead of Pilot Kendall. That meant only one thing.

He blinked and shook his head. "You're kidding. This is some kind of joke. I never felt better in my life."

"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Kendall. The computer says no—and I can't argue. I'll have to refuse you an extension of your certificate."

"But that means—hell, man, the Alexandra's due to blast off for Earth tonight! How—"

"There's room on the passenger list of the Queen Alexandra, Mr. Kendall. The fee is—let me see—eight thousand dollars."

"Eight thous—" He stopped. As a cashiered-out spaceman he was entitled to a fat pension: five thousand a year for the rest of his life. But eight thousand right now would wipe out his savings, would—

"Dammit, let me see those papers! This is a fake! Somebody wants me out of the Service, that's all! Six months ago I had a perfect test!"

The clerk smoothly put the papers behind his back. "I'm sorry, regulations forbid—"

"To hell with regulations! I'm going to be thrown out, do you understand? I want to see those test results!"

The clerk went wide-eyed in astonishment as the burly spaceman sprang for him. He jumped back, and Kendall landed just before him. Kendall ripped a fist up from his knees and smashed it into the man's jaw, taking out all his fury and resentment on the harmless clerk. The pale man crumpled and sagged backward, mouthing stunned syllables.

"I want those papers!" He jumped forward atop the man, tried to turn him over, get the computer reports still clutched in the technician's hand. Blind rage swept over him. The clerk, dazed and near unconsciousness, hung on to them grimly.

A knee thudded against his back, sending showers of sparks before his eyes. "Get up!"

He was dragged to his feet. Three powerful-looking Martian policemen stood over him, fingering heavy wooden truncheons ominously.

"What's the trouble here?" one of them asked. He was a blueskin nearly seven feet tall. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, and it was all muscle.

"This man," the clerk said, "is a former employee of Space Service. He was just notified of his discharge, and for some reason decided to take it out personally on me."

"No," Kendall snapped. He bolted past the big blueskin and started wildly for the door—but a hand caught him. He was dragged back. An open palm, calloused and horny, crashed into his face. Then another. Then a fist knocked the air out of his stomach. He doubled up.

"Get away from me," he muttered, lashing out with fists and feet. The three blueskins laughed harshly and closed in. Their blows descended one after another. Kendall spun dizzily, bellowing in anger and pain, and started to topple.

It isn't fair, he thought in the last dim moment of consciousness. It just isn't fair.

Stiffly he rolled over. The chilling winds of Mars came roaring down to bite at him. He was lying in the gutter outside the Space Service office, sprawled out with one hand lying casually along the sidewalk like any drunk's. He was numb all over. Numb and cold.

Slowly he began to remember why he was down here in the gutter, and anger began to warm him. He was washed-up. Through. At twenty-seven his career as a spacepilot was over, and he had been booted out of the Space Service office without ceremony.

Worse than that—he was stuck here on Mars with about ten dollars in his pocket. It would cost eight thousand to get back home. Eight thousand—and Kathy with a baby coming, and him with no job now. It was enough to make a man kill himself.

He started to pull himself wearily to his feet, but his aching muscles wouldn't support him and he sagged into a limp heap on the side of the curb. His head dropped into his hands. A couple of tearless sobs shook him.

A man ought to be better prepared for things like this, he told himself. One minute a top-flight spaceman; then a machine gives you a few tests and you're nothing but a bum sobbing in the gutter.

A hand touched his shoulder. Instinctively he shrank away. He was in no shape for further fighting.

"Leave me alone," he said hollowly. "You want my wallet, take it. There's ten bucks in it."

Slowly Kendall turned his aching neck and looked up. The speaker was a blueskin, tall and broad like all his race. He was looking down, smiling warmly.

"That's only temporary," the blueskin said. "Come with me to Das Shamra, and perhaps something can be arranged."

Kendall came awake instantly. He rose to his feet—and his six-three was dwarfed by the blueskin's towering height. "What the hell is this? Who's this Das Shamra, and what can he arrange for me?"

"Das Shamra is a wealthy merchant, Pilot Kendall. Wealth has many advantages. Will you come with me?"

"The Hotel Cosmos. Das Shamra is very anxious to see you. He is a very generous man."

Kendall had been long taught never to trust a blueskin. But in his present state of mind, he didn't give much of a damn. He was numb with cold, and whoever this Das Shamra was, he was indoors. At the moment that was all that mattered.

"Buy me a drink," Kendall told the Martian. "I need a little pick-me-up. Then you can take me to Das Shamra."

The blueskin and Kendall stopped off at a bar at the corner. The Martian ordered a mug of the insipid Mars beer; Kendall smirked at the brownish-green liquid and said to the barkeep, "Give me a double valdoz."

"You're really going in for the strong stuff, aren't you?" the Martian asked, as the drink arrived.

"The way I feel, I need it. Besides, why settle for that sludge you call beer when the drinks are on the house?"

"A good point," the Martian admitted. "Das Shamra can afford it." He drained his beer, and, as Kendall poured the fiery valdoz down his throat, the blueskin said, "Have another. I'll pay."

"No thanks," Kendall said. "Valdoz isn't something you swill like beer. And I'd just as soon face Das Shamra sober, thank you. Let's go."

The Martian spun a coin and left it on the counter. They went out into the street again—but with the potent brew within him, Kendall felt much happier about having to face the Martian winds.

He was just a little unsteady. The beating had helped, of course, and so had the drink. Normally he wasn't a drinking man; alcohol played hell with the reflexes, and his reflexes were his most valued property. But not any more, he thought dully. Not now, when he'd been kicked out of the Service.

The blueskin led him down the twisting byways of Mars City, through heaps of filth and dark alleys. Mars was an old planet, cold and arid; its cities were thousands of years old, its people well skilled in the arts of evil. It wasn't the sort of planet an Earthman liked to stay on for long.

Kendall scowled. The way it looked, he'd be here longer than he was counting on. Hell, it would cost fifty dollars just to radio Earth and tell Kathy what had happened.

But he couldn't tell her. Not now, when she was about to have the baby. Not when she was so proud of the spaceman she saw only a few weeks out of each year. How could he tell her that he'd flunked the six-month exam?

The Hotel Cosmos looked to Kendall like one of the better establishments on Mars. But even so, it wasn't very appetizing. Its hallways were dark and narrow: occasionally a groan or a harsh whisper could be heard coming from behind a thick wooden door. He didn't like the place.

He opened the door and stepped inside. Moving cautiously, ready to turn tail and get out if something looked wrong, Kendall followed him.

"Pleased to meet you, Pilot Kendall," said an immensely fat Martian humped in an encircling webwork cradle. His small eyes were burned in rings of fat; his slit-like mouth was spread in a broad, unsavory grin. "I am Das Shamra," he said, in a deep, harsh voice.

Kendall poised himself on the balls of his toes, waiting uncertainly. "Why did you bring me here?"

He indicated a dark bottle of valdoz by his side. Kendall shook his head immediately.

"Ah, I see. A spacepilot must beware lest he damage the all-important reflexes. Very well, then; I shall drink alone unless you object."

"Go right ahead," Kendall said tightly. "And I'm not worried about my reflexes. I just want to keep a clear head while you tell me whatever you want to tell me."

"You sound as if you don't trust me," Das Shamra wheezed. His fat body quivered as the liquor went down. "A most unfortunate attitude."

Kendall drummed on the edge of his chair impatiently. "You sent your boy out to bring me here. What for?"

The Martian smiled bleakly at him. "How badly would you like to get back to your native world, Mr. Kendall?"

"I mean that I'm aware of your unfortunate run-in with several of the local police this morning. They happened to be in my employ, and they told me your motive for causing a disturbance. I offer my sympathies, Mr. Kendall."

Kendall stiffened. "Eight thousand dollars is exactly the passage-fee back to Earth," he said. "It happens to be exactly the sum I need." His voice was cold and flat.

Das Shamra grinned affably. "Indeed? Then we can talk business—for eight thousand dollars happens to be exactly the sum I'm prepared to offer you if you do a certain job for me."

"But that's impossible—" Kendall started to say, and stopped. By law, all space commerce was to be handled through Space Service and its authorized pilots. There was a reason for that; a spaceship out of control could destroy half a continent in a crash landing, and so only authorized personnel could be permitted to handle spacecraft. No private piloting was allowed.

But it might be worthwhile to hear him out. "Go on," Kendall said. "Give some details."

The Martian's chubby face was darkened momentarily by a frown. "Very well," he said. "Here's the job: a cargo of dionate extract is going to be unloaded at Phobos Depot tomorrow night. Some—friends of mine—are actively interested in securing this cargo. They've gone to the extent of securing a small spacecraft for the purpose of intercepting the incoming ship. Unfortunately, we Martians are completely unable to operate the ship, inasmuch as Earth's Space Service has reserved interplanetery commerce as a monopoly for itself. However, you are both a skilled pilot and a free agent without loyalty to the organization that so rudely ejected you. Therefore—"

Dionate extract was the newest of the wonder drugs. A cargo of it was probably worth millions. "You want me to pilot a hijack ship, is that it?"

"It won't work, Das Shamra. I'm not a qualified spaceman any more. The computer said I don't have the reflexes—and computers don't lie. There's no telling what might happen if I got behind the control panel of a spaceship."

Das Shamra squinted one eye contemplatively. "And what if your lack of reflexes were a temporary condition—one that perhaps could by remedied by some Martian medical genius? Would you take the job, then—eight thousand dollars, and a chance to re-enter the Space Service?"

Kendall stood up. His nostrils quivered; he hung on the brink of decision. It was tempting—but part of him argued that it was a filthy crime, that he'd never be able to live with himself afterward. So what if he got the eight g's and was able to return to Earth? Could he ever face Kathy and the kid, knowing that he had returned home because of—of—

He turned and headed for the door. Das Shamra uttered a quick, curt syllable and the Martian who had found him suddenly stepped out of the shadows.

Kendall didn't bother to reply. He kicked out viciously with his heavy booted foot, then leaped into the air to drive a fist into the Martian's mouth. Teeth crunched. The blueskin yelled in pain, and Kendall heard the thunder of Das Shamra pounding across the floor toward him.

He threw open the door and dashed out into the filthy corridor. He found the stairs, and raced down them without looking back, out into the cold, chill late-afternoon air.

He ran. He didn't know how far he ran, nor how long. All he knew was that he paced through the narrow streets of Mars City for block after squalid block, feeling his heart pounding as if trying to break through the cage of his ribs. Finally, exhausted, he paused on a street-corner, gasping for breath, and looked around.

He wasn't being followed. Not now. But he knew his life wasn't going to be worth much unless he got off Mars in a hurry. And he had no way of doing that. He couldn't even radio Earth for money. There was no such thing as a collect call between planets—the cost of transmission was too great to risk a refusal—and in his present battered condition he knew he would never find anyone who'd lend him enough to call Kathy.

His shoulders slumped despondently. A neon sign said, "BAR" and he decided to go in. For six years in the Space Service he had kept away from liquor. He had plenty of lost time to make up for now.

He took a seat at a table in the rear. When the bartender approached, he said "Double valdoz. Straight."

Kendall slouched and nursed the drink, then ordered another. And another. Drinks were cheap, on Mars.

After a while another Earthman came over and hovered by Kendall's ear. "Mind if I sit with you a while, friend?"

The newcomer was a man in his late thirties, seedy and weary looking. A week's growth of beard sprouted on his face. He was, Kendall knew, an ex-spacer living from day to day on Mars, probably looking for a handout. Kendall shuddered. He saw his own future staring him in the face.

"Didn't ask for one. I'll pay for my own. Just want company. Someone to talk to."

It developed, after a while, that the newcomer was—as Kendall had guessed—a former spaceman. He, like Kendall, had flunked his six-month test between legs of an Earth-Mars run. That had been four years ago. He was still here, doing menial jobs to stay alive.

"That's okay," Kendall said, slurring his words. He had already had much too many valdoz doubles. "I won't live long. Some bigwig here is out for my neck."

Kendall explained what Das Shamra had wanted, and what the outcome had been. The old spacer grinned.

"Funny. Same thing happened to me. I said no, and they let me go. It's an old trick, planting a distorter in a man."

"Lemme alone. I'll tell you. It's a dodge they use to get men to flunk out. Least they tried it on me; I didn't find out what they did till later. They're damned clever surgeons. They slip up on a spacer when he's asleep and bury a neural distorter on his body. It louses up his reflexes so he flunks the six-monther. They spring the job offer on him. If he takes it, they remove the distorter and he's as good as new. If he turns it down—well, then he finishes like me."

"What's the use? Who'd believe me? Hey, wait a minute! You didn't finish your drink!"

But Kendall had dashed the full length of the bar, dropped a crumpled bill on the counter, and raced outside. He snagged a taxi.

Kendall cursed and dug into his pocket. He had five dollars and change. He handed the blueskin the bill, pocketed the few coins again, and got in.

Minutes later he was outside the Hotel Cosmos. He threaded his way to Das Shamra's suite, listened outside the door for an instant. Voices were talking, murmuring low in Martian.

Slowly the door opened. Kendall peered in and found himself facing enough artillery to blow a hole in Jupiter. There were five Martians in the room, none he had seen before, and each had a blaster trained on him. Das Shamra was sitting in his web-chair. There was no sign of the Martian Kendall had clobbered.

"The prodigal returns," Das Shamra remarked. "To what do we owe this visit, Mr. Kendall?"

Hesitantly, Kendall said, "I've—changed my mind. I'll do your damned job for you."

"I can't help it. I just spent some time with some other guy who turned you down. I don't want to end up like him. I want to get home to my wife, and I don't care how I get there. What do you want me to do?"

"A simple matter—inasmuch as we happen to be the ones who saw to it that they deteriorated."

Kendall felt a jaw-muscle throb. The Martian's cool words confirmed what the old drunk had told him; they had deliberately cooked up this frame.

Das Shamra said, "This is Murro Lignus. He's our surgeon. He's the man who—ah—surreptitiously placed the distorter in your body while you slept at the spaceport last night. He comes and goes with great stealth."

"You cold-blooded swine," Kendall said. "Okay. We'll be honest with each other. I hate you, and you hate me—but I need you to ungimmick me so I can go home, and you need me to help you hijack that dionate. Okay."

"Take your gadget out of me and let me see the ship. I want to check it over before I go up in it."

Kendall shook his head. "No anesthetic. I want to watch this. I can't trust you not to plant some other kind of gadget in me while I'm out."

The fat Martian shrugged. "As you wish. It will be a painful operation, though."

The operation was hell. The Martian surgeon had slipped a submicroscopic pellet near the base of Kendall's spine, making use of one of the Martian super-anesthetics. Now there was no anesthetic in use, as Murro Lignus probed for the distorter.

It was fifteen minutes of sheer agony. Finally the Martian murmured, "It's over. You can get up."

Kendall felt bolts of pain shoot through him. Looking around at the watching Martians, he thought, You'll pay for this. All of you.

His brain felt clear. He knew the computer would now accept him and restore his certificate. He toyed briefly with the idea of somehow ducking out and getting back to the Space Service office, but he turned that notion down. He wanted to do this up in style.

"We'll take you to the ship," Das Shamra said. "The plan is to lie in wait off Phobos until the dionate ship shows up. Then you can follow our instructions."

"You're the boss," Kendall said. "Until this caper is over, anyway. Then I'm heading back to Earth and you can all rot so far as I care."

They took him far out of town, circled around the outlying districts until he was pretty thoroughly confused, then brought him back. By now it was night, and the twin moons were in the sky—tiny Phobos, only ten miles in diameter, and Deimos, half her size.

The ship was a small, sleek job, some twenty years old. Where they got it didn't seem evident; possibly they had blackmailed some other pilot into surrendering it, possibly they had hijacked it in some fashion or other.

"You'll have to weigh yourselves," he announced. "With all six of you on board I'll have some tricky mass-calculations to do."

It took him a few hours to calculate the orbit, another hour to run a routine check on the ship. It was in beautiful shape, ready to go.

The Martians frowned in bewilderment. "We've never been in space," one of them said. "We don't know how to get into the acceleration cradles."

Kendall showed them. Das Shamra lay closest to him, a blaster cradled in his arms. "You're the only one who can move around now, Kendall. One move out of place and I'll drill you."

"Sure you will," Kendall said. "And which one of you is going to pilot the ship back down again? If you want to live, Das Shamra, keep that blaster from going off."

He nestled down in the control webbing, and readied the ship for blasting. A sharp thrill ran through him, as it always did as he readied a ship for a leap into the great blackness. But there was a special thrill this time. Only hours ago he had resigned himself to a short, dreary few years of life remaining to him on barren Mars; now he was behind the controls of a powerful ship again.

"We're about to blast off," he said. "Just relax, and it won't bother you much. I'm going to put the ship in orbit around Phobos and then we can wait for the dionate ship at leisure. Okay?"

"Good enough," Das Shamra grunted. The fat blueskin's face was beaded with sweat. Obviously the Martians weren't looking forward to their trip through space—but they were willing to put up with it for the sake of the millions in dionate to be grabbed off Phobos.

He had his back to a man with a gun. That didn't make him feel happier. But the little ship bit a chunk out of the sky, climbed higher and higher.

He heard a groan from behind him, but didn't turn around. He kept himself bent over the controls, forced himself to remain conscious as the acceleration mounted.

Three g's. Four. He yelled over his shoulder, "How you doin' back there? Comfortable?"

There was no reply. He grinned and stepped up the acceleration. Seven g's. Eight. The gravity was tearing at him like a demon's claws, but he clung to consciousness.

Mars—gravity, O.38. He could stand two-and-a-half times as much acceleration as the blueskins behind him. His Earth-trained muscles, used to responding to a much heavier grav, could handle eight g's without too much strain. The Martians must be having fits.

Reddish-brown blood trickled from Das Shamra's fleshy lips. The blaster had long since fallen from his limp hand and lay on the spaceship's deck. They were all unconscious—all of them, battered and beaten by the sort of acceleration an Earthman was able to take with relative ease.

Grinning savagely, Kendall boosted the thrust until he nearly blacked out himself. Then he seized the controls and started to reverse the ship.

Some time later, he landed it neatly outside the Space Service headquarters. Taking a loving look at the Martians, with their wrenched, distorted faces, he scooped up Das Shamra's blaster and opened the hatch.

The computer technician he had fought with before came running out on the landing field.

"What is the meaning of this? An unauthorized flight? Who are you? Oh—Kendall!"

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he said, "Get the Port Police out here on the double. There are six very sick would-be smugglers inside this ship. When you've got our green-faced blueskins packed away, I want another date with that computer. I think I can get an okay now—and I can't get back to Earth soon enough!"