Marley's Chain - Alan E. Nourse, ebook, Temp
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Tam's problem was simple. He lived in a world that belonged to someone else.
MARLEY'S CHAIN
By Alan E. Nourse
THEY saw Tam's shabby clothing and the small, weather-beaten bag he carried, and they ordered
him aside from the flow of passengers, and checked his packet of passports and visas with extreme care.
Then they ordered him to wait. Tam waited, a chilly apprehension rising in his throat. For fifteen minutes
he watched them, helplessly.
Finally, the Spaceport was empty, and the huge liner from the outer Asteroid Rings was being lifted
and rolled by the giant hooks and cranes back into its berth for drydock and repair, her curved,
meteor-dented hull gleaming dully in the harsh arc lights. Tam watched the creaking cranes, and shivered
in the cold night air, feeling hunger and dread gnawing at his stomach. There was none of the elation left,
none of the great, expansive, soothing joy at returning to Earth after eight long years of hard work and
bitterness. Only the cold, corroding uncertainty, the growing apprehension. Times had changed since that
night back in '87—just how much he hardly dared to guess. All he knew was the rumors he had heard,
the whispered tales, the frightened eyes and the scarred backs and faces. Tam hadn't believed them then,
so remote from Earth. He had just laughed and told himself that the stories weren't true. And now they all
welled back into his mind, tightening his throat and making him tremble
"Hey, Sharkie. Come here."
Tam turned and walked slowly over to the customs official who held his papers. "Everything's in
order," he said, half defiantly, looking up at the officer's impassive face. "There isn't any mistake."
"What were you doing in the Rings, Sharkie?" The officer's voice was sharp.
"Indenture. Working off my fare back home."
The officer peered into Tam's face, incredulously. "And you come back here?" He shook his head
and turned to the other officer. "I knew these Sharkies were dumb, but I didn't think they were that
dumb." He turned back to Tam, his eyes suspicious. "What do you think you're going to do now?"
Tam shrugged, uneasily. "Get a job," he said. "A man's got to eat."
The officers exchanged glances. "How long you been on the Rings?"
"Eight years." Tam looked up at him, anxiously. "Can I have my papers now?"
A cruel grin played over the officer's lips. "Sure," he said, handing back the packet of papers.
"Happy job-hunting," he added sardonically. "But remember—the ship's going back to the Rings in a
week. You can always sign yourself over for fare—"
"I know," said Tam, turning away
,
sharply. "I know all about how that works." He tucked the papers
carefully into a tattered breast pocket, hefted the bag wearily, and began trudging slowly across the cold
concrete of the Port toward the street and the Underground. A wave of loneliness, almost overpowering
in intensity, swept over him, a feeling of emptiness, bleak and hopeless. A chilly night wind swept through
his unkempt blond hair as the automatics let him out into the street, and he saw the large dirty "New
Denver Underground" sign with the arrow at the far side of the road. Off to the right, several miles across
the high mountain plateau, the great capitol city loomed up, shining like a thousand twinkling stars in the
clear cold air. Tam jingled his last few coins listlessly, and started for the downward ramp. Somewhere,
down there, he could find a darkened corner, maybe even a bench, where the police wouldn't bother him
for a couple of hours: Maybe after a little sleep, he'd find some courage, hidden away somewhere. Just
enough to walk into an office and ask for a job.
That, he reflected wearily as he shuffled into the tunnel, would take a lot of courage—
THE
girl at the desk glanced up I at him, indifferent, and turned her eyes back to the letter she was
typing. Tam Peters continued to stand, awkwardly, his blond hair rumpled, little crow's-feet of weariness
creeping from the corners of his eyes. Slowly he looked around the neat office, feeling a pang of shame at
his shabby clothes. He should at least have found some way to shave, he thought, some way to take
some of the rumple from his trouser legs. He looked back at the receptionist, and coughed, lightly. She
finished her letter at a leisurely pace, and finally looked up at him, her eyes cold. "Well?"
"I read your ad. I'm looking for a job. I'd like to speak to Mr. Randall."
The girl's eyes narrowed, and she took him in in a rapid, sweeping glance, his high, pale forehead, the
shock of mud-blond hair, the thin, sensitive face with the exaggerated lines of approaching middle age,
the slightly misty blue eyes. It seemed to Tam that she stared for a full minute, and he shifted uneasily,
trying to meet the cold inspection, and failing, finally settling his eyes on her prim, neatly manicured
fingers. Her lip curled very slightly. "Mr. Randall can't see you today. He's busy. Try again tomorrow."
She turned back to typing.
A flat wave of defeat sprang up in his chest. "The ad said to apply today. The earlier the better."
She sniffed indifferently, and pulled a long white sheet from the desk. "Have you filled out an
application?"
"No."
"You can't see Mr. Randall without filling out an application." She pointed to a small table across the
room, and he felt her eyes on his back as he shuffled over and sat down.
He began filling out the application with great care, making the printing as neat as he could with the
old-style vacuum pen provided. Name, age, sex, race, nationality, planet where born, pre-Revolt
experience, post-Revolt experience, preference—try as he would, Tarn couldn't keep the ancient pen
from leaking, making an unsightly blot near the center of the form. Finally he finished, and handed the
paper back to the girl at the desk. Then he sat back and waited.
Another man came in, filled out a form, and waited, too, shooting Tam a black look across the room.
In a few moments the girl turned to the man. "Robert Stover?"
"Yuh," said the man, lumbering to his feet. "That's me."
"Mr. Randall will see you now."
The man walked heavily across the room, disappeared into the back office. Tam eyed the clock
uneasily, still waiting.
A garish picture on the wall caught his eyes, a large, very poor oil portrait of a very stout, graying
man dressed in a ridiculous green suit with a little white turban-like affair on the top of his head.
Underneath was a little brass plaque with words Tam could barely make out:
Abraham L. Ferrel (1947-1986)
Founder and First President Marsport Mines, Incorporated
"Unto such men as these, we look to leadership."
Tam stared at the picture, his lip curling slightly. He glanced anxiously at the clock as another man
was admitted to the small back office.
Then another man. Anger began creeping into Tam's face, and he fought to keep the scowl away, to
keep from showing his concern. The hands of the clock crept around, then around again. It was almost
noon. Not a very new dodge, Tam thought coldly. Not very new at all. Finally the small cold flame of
anger got the better of him, and he rose and walked over to the desk. "I'm still here," he said patiently.
"I'd like to see Mr. Randall."
The girl stared at him indignantly, and flipped an intercom switch. "That Peters application is still out
here," she said brittlely. "Do you want to see him, or not?"
There was a moment of silence. Then the voice on the intercom grated, "Yes, I guess so. Send him
in."
The office was smaller, immaculately neat. Two visiphone units hung on a switchboard at the man's
elbow. Tam's eyes caught the familiar equipment, recognized the interplanetary power coils on one. Then
he turned his eyes to the man behind the desk.
"Now, then, what are you after?" asked the man, settling his bulk down behind the desk, his eyes
guarded, revealing a trace of boredom.
TAMTAM
was suddenly bitterly of his shabby appearance, the two-day stubble on his chin. He felt
a dampness on his forehead, and tried to muster some of the old power and determination into his voice.
"I need a job," he said. "I've had plenty of experience with radio-electronics and remote control power
operations. I'd make a good mine-operator—"
"I can read," the man cut in sharply, gesturing toward the application form with the ink blot in the
middle. "I read all about your experience. But I can't use you. There aren't any more openings."
Tam's ears went red. "But you're always advertising," he countered. "You don't have to worry about
me working on Mars, either—I've worked on Mars before, and I can work six, seven hours, even,
without a mask or equipment—"
The man's eyebrows raised slightly. "How very interesting," he said flatly. "The fact remains that there
aren't any jobs open for you." The cold, angry flame flared up in Tam's throat suddenly, forcing out the
sense of futility and defeat. "Those other men," he said sharply. "I was here before them. That girl
wouldn't let me in—"
Randall's eyes narrowed amusedly. "What a pity," he said sadly. "And just think, I hired every one of
them— His face suddenly hardened, and he sat forward, his eyes glinting coldly. "Get smart, Peters. I
think Marsport Mines can somehow manage without you. You or any other Sharkie. The men just don't
like to work with Sharkies." Rage swelled up in Tam's chest, bitter futile rage, beating at his temples and
driving away all thought of caution. "Look," he grated, bending over the desk threateningly. "I know the
law of this system. There's a fair-employment act on the books. It says that men are to be hired by any
company in order of application when they qualify equally in experience. I can, prove my experience—"
Randall stood up, his face twisted contemptuously. "Get out of here," he snarled. "You've got nerve,
you have, come crawling in here with your law! Where do you think you are?" His voice grated in the still
air of the office. "We don't hire Sharkies, law or no law, get that? Now get out of here!"
Tam turned, his ears burning, and strode through the office, blindly, kicking open the door and almost
running to the quiet air of the street outside. The girl at the desk yawned, and snickered, and went back
to her typing with an unpleasant grin.
Tam walked the street, block after block, seething, futile rage swelling up and bubbling over, curses
rising to his lips, clipped off with some last vestige of self-control. At last he turned into a small downtown
bar and sank wearily onto a stool near the door. The anger was wearing down now to a sort of empty,
hopeless weariness, dulling his senses, exaggerating the hunger in his stomach. He had expected it, he
told himself, he had known what the answer would be —but he knew that he had hoped, against hope,
against what he had known to be the facts hoped desperately that maybe someone would listen. Oh, he
knew the laws, all right, but he'd had plenty of time to see the courts in action. Unfair employment was
almost impossible to make stick under any circumstances, but with the courts rigged the way they were
these days—he sighed, and drew out one of his last credit-coins. "Beer," he muttered as the barkeep
looked up.
The bartender scowled, his heavy-set face a picture of fashionable distaste. Carefully he filled every
other order at the bar. Then he grudgingly set up a small beer, mostly foam, and flung some small-coin
change down on the bar before Tam. Tam stared at the' glass, the little proud flame of anger flaring
slowly.
A fat man, sitting nearby, stared at him for a long moment, then took a long swill of beer from his
glass. "'Smatter, Sharkie? Whyncha drink y'r beer 'n get t' hell out o' here?"
Tam stared fixedly at his glass, giving no indication of having heard a word.
The fat man stiffened a trifle, swung around to face him. "God-dam Sharkie's too good to talk to a
guy," he snarled loudly. "Whassamatter, Sharkie, ya deaf?"
Tam's hand trembled as he reached for the beer, took a short swallow. Shrugging, he set the glass on
the bar and got up from his stool. He walked out, feeling many eyes on his back.
He walked. Time became a blur to a mind beaten down by constant rebuff. He became conscious of
great weariness of both mind and body. Instinct screamed for rest.. .
TAM
sat up, shaking his head to clear it. He shivered from the chill of the park—the cruel pressure
of the bench. He pulled up his collar and moved out into the street again.
There was one last chance. Cautiously his mind skirted the idea, picked it up, regarded it warily, then
threw it down again. He had promised himself never to consider it, years before, in the hot, angry days of
the Revolt. Even then he had had some inkling of the shape of things, and he had promised himself,
bitterly, never to consider that last possibility. Still—
Another night in the cold out-of-doors could kill him. Suddenly he didn't care any more, didn't care
about promises, or pride, or anything else. He turned into a public telephone booth, checked an address
in the thick New Denver book.
He knew he looked frightful as he stepped onto the elevator, felt the cold eyes turn away from him in
distaste. Once he might have been mortified, felt the deep shame creeping up his face, but he didn't care
any longer. He just stared ahead at the moving panel, avoiding the cold eyes, until the fifth floor was
called.
The office was halfway down the dark hallway. He saw the sign on the door, dimly: "United
Continents Bureau of Employment", and down in small letters below, "Planetary Division, David G.
Hawke."
Tam felt the sinking feeling in his stomach, and opened the door apprehensively. It had been years
since he had seen Dave, long years filled with violence and change. Those years could change men, too.
Tam thought, fearfully; they could make even the greatest men change. He remembered, briefly, his
promise to himself, made just after the Revolt, never to trade on past friendships, never to ask favors of
those men he had known before, and befriended. With a wave of warmth, the memory of those old days
broke through, those days when he had roomed with Dave Hawke, the long, probing talks, the
confidences, the deep, rich knowledge that they had shared each others dreams and ideals, that they had
stood side by side for a common cause, though they were such different men, from such very different
worlds. Ideals had been cheap in those days, talk easy, but still, Tam knew that Dave had been sincere, a
firm, stout friend. He had known, then, the sincerity in the big lad's quiet voice, felt the rebellious fire in his
eyes. They had understood each other, then, deeply, sympathetically, in spite of the powerful barrier they
sought to tear down.
The girl at the desk caught his eye, looked up from her work without smiling. "Yes?"
"My name is Tam Peters. I'd like to see Mr. Hawke." His voice was thin, reluctant, reflecting
overtones of the icy chill in his chest. So much had happened since those long-dead days, so many things
to make men change—
The girl was grinning, her face like a harsh mask. "You're wasting your time," she said, her voice
brittle.
Anger flooded Tam's face. "Listen," he hissed. "I didn't ask for your advice. I asked to see Dave
Hawke. If you choose to announce me now, that's fine. If you don't see fit, then I'll go in without it. And
you won't stop me—"
The girl stiffened, her eyes angry. "You'd better not get smart," she snapped, watching him warily.
"There are police in the building. You'd better not try anything, or I'll call them!"
"That's enough
.
Miss Jackson." The girl turned to the man in the office door, her eyes disdainful. The
man stood in the doorway, a giant, with curly black hair above a high, intelligent forehead, dark brooding
eyes gleaming like live coals in the sensitive face. Tam looked at him, and suddenly his knees would
hardly support him, and his voice was a tight whisper—"Dave!"
And then the huge man was gripping his hand, a strong arm around his thin shoulders, the dark,
brooding eyes soft and smiling. "Tam, Tam—It's been so damned long, man—oh, it's good to see you,
Tam. Why, the last I heard, you'd taken passage to the Rings—years ago—"
Weakly, Tam stumbled into the inner office, sank into a chair, his eyes overflowing, his mind a turmoil
of joy and relief. The huge man slammed the door to the outer office and settled down behind the desk,
sticking his feet over the edge, beaming. "Where have you
been,
Tam? You promised you'd look me up
any time you came to New Denver, and I haven't seen you in a dozen
,
years—" He fished in a lower
drawer. "Drink?"
"No, no—thanks. I don't think I could handle a drink—" Tam sat back, gazing at the huge man, his
throat tight. "You look bigger and better than ever, Dave."
D
AVE Hawke laughed, a deep bass laugh that seemed to start at the soles of his feet. "Couldn't very
well look thin and wan," he said. He pushed a cigar box across the desk. "Here, light up. I'm on these
exclusively these days—remember how you tried to get me to smoke them, back at the University? How
you couldn't stand cigarettes? Said they were for women, a man should smoke a good cigar. You finally
converted me."
Tam grinned, suddenly feeling the warmth of the old friendship swelling back. "Yes, I remember. You
were smoking that rotten corncob, then, because old Prof Tenley smoked one that you could smell in the
back of the room, and in those days the Prof could do no wrong—"
Dave Hawke grinned broadly, settled back in his chair as he lit the cigar. "Yes, I remember. Still got
that corncob around somewhere—" he shook his head, his eyes dreamy. "Good old Prof Tenley! One in
a million—there was an honest man, Tam. They don't have them like that in the colleges these days.
Wonder what happened to the old goat?"
"He was killed," said Tam, softly. "Just after the war. Got caught in a Revolt riot, and he was shot
down."
Dave looked at him, his eyes suddenly sad. "A lot of honest men went down in those riots, didn't
they? That was the worst part of the Revolt. There wasn't any provision made for the honest men, the
really good men." He stopped, and regarded Tam closely. "What's the trouble, Tam? If you'd been going
to make a friendly call, you'd have done it years ago. You know this office has always been open to
you."
Tam stared at his shoe, carefully choosing his words, lining them up in his mind; a frown creasing his
forehead. "I'll lay it on the line," he said in a low voice. "I'm in a spot. That passage to the Rings wasn't
voluntary. I was shanghaied onto a freighter, and had to work for eight years without pay to get passage
back. I'm broke, and I'm hungry, and I need to see a doctor—"
"Well, hell!" the big man exploded. "Why didn't you holler sooner? Look, Tam—we've been friends
for a long time. You know better than to hesitate." He fished for his wallet. "Here, I can let you have as
much as you need—couple hundred?"
"No, no—That's not what I'm getting at." Tam felt his face flush with embarrassment. "I need a job,
Dave. I need one bad."
Dave sat back, and his feet came off the desk abruptly. He didn't look at Tam. "I see," he said softly.
"A job—" He stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Tell you what," he said. "The government's opening a
new uranium mine in a month or so—going to be a big project, they'll need lots of men—on Mercury—"
Tam's eyes fell, a lump growing in his throat. "Mercury," he repeated dully.
"Why, sure, Tam—good pay, chance for promotion."
"I'd be dead in six months on Mercury." Tam's eyes met Dave's, trying to conceal the pain. "You
know that as well as I do, Dave—"
Dave looked away. "Oh, the dots don't know what they're talking about—"
"You know perfectly well that they do. I couldn't even stand Venus very long. I need a job on Mars,
Dave—or on Earth."
"Yes," said Dave Hawke sadly, "I guess you're right." He looked straight at Tam, his eyes sorrowful.
"The truth is, I can't help you. I'd like to, but I can't. There's nothing I can do."
Tam stared, the pain of disillusionment sweeping through him. "Nothing you can do!" he exploded.
"But you're the
director
of this bureau! You know every job, open on every one of the planets—"
"I know. And I have to help get them filled. But I can't make anyone hire, Tam. I can send
applicants, and recommendations, until I'm blue in the face, but I can't make a company hire—" He
paused, staring at Tam. "Oh, hell," he snarled, suddenly, his face darkening. "Let's face it, Tam. They
won't hire you. Nobody will hire you. You're a Sharkie, and that's all there is
to it, they aren't hiring
Sharkies. And there's nothing I can do to make them."
Tam sat as if he had been struck, the color draining from his face. "But the law—Dave, you know
there's a law. They
have
to hire us, if we apply first, and have the necessary qualifications."
The big man shrugged, uneasily. "Sure, there's a law, but who's going to enforce it?"
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