Noble Redman Read online

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  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories July 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  _It was a big joke on all concerned. When you look back, the whole thing really began because his father had a sense of humor. Oh, the name fit all right, but can you imagine naming your son...._

  NOBLE REDMAN

  By J. F. BONE

  ILLUSTRATED by GRAYAM

  * * * * *

  A pair of words I heartily detest are _noble_ and _redman_,particularly when they occur together. Some of my egghead friends fromthe Hub tell me that I shouldn't, since they're merely an ancientcolloquialism used to describe a race of aborigines on the Americanland mass.

  The American land mass? Where? Why--on Earth, of course--where wouldancestors 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 camefrom there. It's like calling a man a son of a sloat. But it's thetruth. Our ancestors came from Earth and nothing we can do is going tochange it. And despite the fact that we're the rulers of a good sizedsegment of the galaxy, we're nothing but transplanted Earthmen.

  I suppose I'm no better than most of the citizens you find along theperipheral strips of Martian dome cities. But I might have been if ithadn't been for Noble Redman. No--not _the_ noble redman--just NobleRedman. It's a name, not a description, although as a description hissurname could apply, since he _was_ red. His skin was red, his hairwas red, his eyes had reddish flecks in their irises, and their whiteswere red like they were inflamed. Even his teeth had a reddish tinge.Damndest guy I ever saw. Redman was descriptive enough--but Noble! Ha!that character had all the nobility of a Sand Nan--.

  I met him in Marsport. I was fairly well-heeled, having just finishedguiding 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 aboutit. Superstition--they said. So when the Nan heaved itself up out ofthe sand, they weren't ready at all. They froze long enough for it toget in two shots with its stingers. They were paralyzed of course, butI wasn't, and a Nan isn't quick enough to hit a running target. So Iwas out of range when the Nan turned its attention to the Centauriansand started to feed. I took a few pictures of the Nan finishing offthe second tourist--the female one. It wasn't very pretty, but youlearn to keep a camera handy when you're a guide. It gets you out ofall sorts of legal complications later. The real bad thing about itwas that the woman must have gotten stuck with an unripe stingerbecause she didn't go quietly like her mate. She kept screaming rightup to the end. I felt bad about it, but there wasn't anything I coulddo. You don't argue with a Nan without a blaster, and the Park Servicedoesn't allow weapons in Galactic Parks.

  * * * * *

  Despite the fact that I had our conversation on tape and pictures toprove what happened, the Park cops took a dim view of the wholeaffair. They cancelled my license, but what the hell--I wasn't cut outfor a guide. So when I got back to Marsport, I put in a claim for myfee, and since their money had gone into the Nan with them, the ClaimsCourt allowed that I had the right to garnishee the deceaseds'personal property, which I did. So I was richer by one Starflite classyacht, a couple of hundred ounces of industrial gold, and a lot ofpersonal effects which I sold to Abe Feldstein for a hundred and fiftymunits.

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

  Abe offered me five thousand for her as she stood--but I wasn't havingany--at least not until I'd gotten rid of the gold in her fuel reels.That stuff's worth money to the spacelines--about fifty munits perounce. It's better even than lead as fuel--doesn't clog the tubes andgives better acceleration.

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

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

  "Water," he said.

  Otto passed him a pitcher and damned if the guy didn't drink itstraight 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 outof a pocket and dropped it on the bar. "Will this do?" he asked.

  * * * * *

  Otto's eyes damn near bulged out of their sockets. "Where'd you getthat 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 tothe 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 thedirection of the Drylands.

  By this time a couple of sharpies sitting at one of the tables prickedup their ears, removed their pants from their chairs and began closingin. 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 thatnice 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 mass of him. He was sureking-sized. "But even a guy as big as you is cold meat for a littleguy 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 littlechin I had and looking indignant. "But I'm honest. Ask anyone here." Ilooked around. There were three men in the place I didn't havesomething on, and I was faster than they. I was a fair hand with aKelly in those days and I had a reputation. There was a chorus of nodsand the big fellow looked satisfied. He stuck out a hamsized hand.

  "Me name's Redman," he said. "Noble Redman. My father had a sense ofhumor." 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 ahard look and they moved off and left us alone. The big fellowinterested me. Fact is--anyone with money interested me--but I'm notstupid 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 ifthere is anything higher on the periodic table than the rare earths,nobody had found it yet--and this guy with his light clothes, streetboots and low capacity respirator--Hell! he couldn't stay out theremore than two days if he wanted to--and besides, the gold was refi
ned.The lumps looked like they were cut off something bigger--a bar, forinstance.

  * * * * *

  A bar!--a bar of gold! My brain started working. K'nar was about twodays out, and there had always been rumors about Martian gold eventhough no one ever found any. Maybe this tourist had come through. Ifso, he was worth cultivating. For he was a tourist. He certainlywasn'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'tfigure it. And the more I tried the less I succeeded. It was acertainty he was no prospector