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Ron Goulart - A Whiff of Madness v1.0
Copyright ©, 1976, by Ron Goulart.
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Josh Kirby.
FIRST PRINTING, AUGUST 1976
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
O K
PRINTED IN U.S.A.
DAW BOOKS, INC.
DONALDSON A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER
1301 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS
NEW YORK, N.Y. 10019
Ron Goulart
A WHIFF OF MADNESS
In the Barnum System
CHAPTER 1
The lizardman, lycra cloak fluttering and allseason turban jiggling, came charging across the vast
chill lobby of the publishing center. He planted himself directly in the path of Jack Summer. "A fine hour
to be arriving for work!" he boomed. "Where is she?"
"Who?" Summer was a middle-sized, wiry, sandy-haired man of thirty-one, and right now his
skin was tanned that particular shade you get after a few weeks on Neptune. He glanced up at one of the
several ballclocks that floated here and there in the Coultdrome lobby. "Eleven A.m. Barnum Standard
Time isn't—
"
"My wife, that's who!" The large greenish lizardman gave his turban an angry adjusting pat "My
wife! She ran off with you! Which is—"
"Wait now," Summer told him. I admit I've run off with a girl on occasion, but never with a
lizard."
The lizardman gave an openmouthed snort, causing his forked tongue to unfurl and snap, "Not
one of my lizard wives, you pink-cheeked gigolo!" After another snort he tugged a fat wallet out of one of
his cloak pockets. A flick of his green scaly wrist snapped the wallet open, allowing a string of glossy
tri-op photos to unfold. "One of my humanoid wives!"
"... Sixteen, seventeen," counted Summer. "Quite a collection."
"This is the one to which, as if you didn't know, I allude!" A green finger jabbed the thirteenth
photo from the top. "This one! Her name is Lorna!"
"Lorna." Summer leaned down to study the picture of the ravishing, sparsely clothed blond.
"Name doesn't ring a bell, and I can't say I've ever—"
"Doesn't ring a bell!" bellowed the lizardman, tugging at something else under his cloak. "My
second most favorite humanoid wife departs from my happy home, leaving nothing behind save a
scribbled note indicating she's fled with you, and you babble about bells ringing!" He yanked a horsewhip
free. "I vowed I'd horsewhip any man who dared—
"
"Is that what that is you're clutching, a horsewhip?"
"Yes, and you little realize the trouble I had procuring this one! Since there are no horses here on
Barnum, I had to have this one teleported all the way from—"
"Lorna, did you say?" Summer reached into a pocket of his tunic. "It's possible I do remember
her after all. Let me consult my addresswheel and perhaps ..." A stungun appeared in Summer's tan hand.
He fired directly at the outraged husband.
The lizardman froze, horsewhip half raised.
Summer put his gun away, gestured at two guards across the publishing building lobby. "Dump
this guy someplace," he suggested.
The catman guard said, "Golly, Summer, you roving reporters surely lead a roguish life."
The other, a chubby human, asked, "Did you really run off with this gent's wife?"
"No, but I think maybe she's the blond who grabbed my private parts during the masked ball on
the spaceliner trip back from Neptune," answered the reporter. "Lord knows who she really ran off
with."
"Ah, the muckraking life." The catman sighed while taking hold of the stunned lizard by the
elbow. "Standing guard for Mr. Coult you never get your private parts gr—"
"Should a ravishing blond, with her hair over one eye like this, show up in quest of me tell her I've
been sent to some planet like Murdstone to do a
Muckrake
Magazine story."
"Sure thing, Summer," said the chubby guard. "Would you mind if I made a play for—"
"Nope, that would be an excellent idea." He left them, then hurried across to an ascend tube.
A naked black girl was standing next to the entrance door. "Welcome back, Jack."
"Hi, Nardis" The door whooshed open and he allowed her to enter the chute ahead of him.
"I hope this thing lets me out on the right floor this time," said Nardis. "I'm due up at
Galactic
Knitting
to pose for a cover."
The powerful currents of air wafted them upward. "I didn't know you could knit."
She scratched a buttock. "Oh, yes, I have terrible domestic urges sometimes. Last night I baked
a pie. I suppose I ought to get help."
"Or move to another planet. Now on Neptune, in the Earth System, they still—"
"I read the pieces you did from Neptune, Jack, on that water rights scandal. Very incisive."
A door opened and Summer was tossed out of the chute before he could reply. Joyous
pipe-organ music surrounded him on his way to the
Muckrake
editorial-floor reception desk. "Hello,
Pepper."
The lovely green girl kneeling behind the dark-wood desk said, "Oh, howdy, Jack. Excuse me if
I don't give you a welcome-back hug."
Summer was studying the stained glass windows and the icons, sniffing at the incense smell in the
air. "Coult changed the decor again."
"His wife did."
"I thought she favored Old West Earth."
"Different wife," replied Pepper. "Mr. Flowers is in the conference room down at the end of
Corridor C. Oh, and don't forget to genuflect before you go in."
"I'll try. Bye, Pepper."
"Thought your pieces on the Neptune water business were very incisive, Jack."
"Thanks."
The organ music followed him down the somber corridors and into the large Gothic cathedral
which was apparently the new editorial conference room. "Fred?"
"Up here, Jack." His weary, lanky editor was seated in a pew toward the front of the church,
near a lifesize statue of a four-armed blue saint. "Here under Blessed Mother Malley."
Overcoming an impulse to tiptoe, the reporter strode down to sit next
to
Fred Flowers. "This
wife's taste isn't quite up to the last one."
"She's an even larger bimbo, too," said his tired-looldng editor. "Well, let's see if I can give you
your new assignment before the choirboys get back."
"Choirboys?"
"We get 'em every hour on the hour; supposed to be uplifting. A hundred of the little buggers,
made by a Swiss watchmaker on Murdstone, and every damn one of 'em is towheaded and freckled."
Flowers jabbed at his gaunt cheeks to indicate where some of the freckles appeared. "I want you to go
out to Peregrine, Jack."
"That looks like Coult himself in that stained glass window there," observed Summer, pointing
with a thumb, "sitting at the right hand of God,"
"It is; the bimbo with the halo is the current wife of the enormous Coult publishing empire."
"Don't much like women with their hair down over one eye like that"
"She has a very interesting backside, so I'm told," said Flowers. "Now about this assignment on
the planet Peregrine."
"Yeah, she does have a nice ass, now you mention it. Something you don't often see in stained
glass window figures." Summer returned his attention to his editor. "What do you want me to write about
on Peregrine, the civil war?"
"Everybody knows civil wars are corrupt.
Muckrake's
readers are tired of that sort of expose,"
said the weary Flowers, slumping farther down in his pew, "What I want you to dig into for me is a little
scandal concerning King Waldo the second."
"He's the ruler of Laranja East, isn't he? Laranja East and Laranja West are the territories having
the civil war."
"Yep," replied Flowers. "Our stringer out there sent us word King Waldo is killing people."
"Is that newsworthy? Kings and presidents are always—"
"This guy is putting on a slouch hat, a black cloak, and gray gloves, Jack, to strangle little old
ladies. Our stringer—"
"You mean King Waldo is the Phantom of the Fog?"
"Looks very possible. Seems he—
"
Bong!
The cathedral vibrated as an unseen bell tower struck the half hour.
"Oh, that nitwit bimbo and her interesting backside." Flowers grimaced. "Anyway, Jack, there
appears to be a strong likelihood the good king is the phantom strangler. Lots of rumors to that effect are
floating around the territory."
"Has the palace had anything to say about the charges?"
"The king's press secretary maintains it's a media plot to smear the monarch."
Summer toyed with the prayerwheel dangling from a hook on the back of the pew in front of him.
"Whether or not Waldo's the killer, he's not going to take kindly to my walking into his territory to nose
around."
"Yep, the king's very touchy about the rumors that he's a crazed pattern murderer. At his last
press conference he threatened to horsewhip the newsman who—"
"That's right, they have horses out there," said Summer. "Okay, so I'm going to need a cover
story, a plausible reason for being there."
From a wrinkled pocket in his rumpled tunic the editor withdrew a photo of a plump,
shaggy-feathered birdman. Holding the photo out to Summer, he said, "This lad claims to be Mulligan
Starbuck."
"So?"
"Mulligan was lost at sea at the tender age of nine, twenty-two long years ago," Flowers dropped
the picture on Summer's lap. "Five weeks ago, according to our Peregrine stringer, this fellow in the
photo appeared on the doorstep of the Starbuck estate in the Laranja East countryside. He swears he's
the missing Mulligan, the long-lost heir come home to roost." I've heard of the Starbucks. Lot of money."
"Right, the Starbucks are one of the richest families on the planet. They're in railroads,
oil,
steel,
copper, and weapons. With the war between East and West in full swing, they're raking in fantastic
profits."
"The head of the family is Wattas Starbuck, as I recall. What's he think about this claimant?"
"Denies entirely he's little Mulligan grown to manhood. However, Wattas's old mother, Lady
Thorkin, has accepted the lad. She believes in her heart he's her long missing grandson and has given him
the run of the estate, making for some tension around the Starbuck homestead. The Starbuck claimant
affair is causing quite a frumus, charges of fraud are in the air, and there may well be a trial." Flowers
slumped a bit more. "It's the kind of situation
Muckrake
might well write up."
"I should be able to convince Waldo's people, and anyone else curious, I'm
in Laranja to dig into
the Starbuck affair "
Flowers closed his eyes for a few seconds. The light from one of the stained glass windows made
rainbow patterns across his weary, lined face. "Something else I better tell you, Jack. We're going to
need pictures and I have to assign you, somewhat against my will, a partner. If you can get me a shot of
King Waldo skulking through the foggy back streets of the capital city in his phantom gear, or maybe
actually in the act of grabbing some old bimbo by the throat I'll—"
"Talma!" realized Summer. "You're teaming me up again with Palma, the horniest photographer in
the Barnum System ... if not the entire cosmos."
"Yep, him," admitted the editor. "He claims he's reformed, after getting himself almost killed on
Mala-gra"
"Malagra, the pesthole of the universe. Is Palma still there?"
"No, he's on Peregrine, doing a picturespread on the public executions in Laranja East," said the
weary Flowers. "Therefore, he's got a perfectly respectable excuse for being in the territory."
"I doubt Palma's much reformed," said Summer. "Every time we've worked together in the past
he—"
"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!"
Little automaton choirboys were marching out onto the cathedral altar, singing.
"You're ten minutes ahead of schedule, you little clockwork twerps!" Flowers shouted at them.
"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!"
Standing, Summer said, "I'll pack When do I depart for Peregrine?"
"Ten tomorrow from Barnum Spaceport-two," said his editor. "Try to keep Palma from causing
an incident, will you? Don't go screwing around too much yourself."
"I assure you," said Summer, grinning, Talma's behavior and mine will be nothing less than
saintly." Flowers sighed. "Well, good luck."
"Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!" sang the choirboys.
CHAPTER 2
The parade flowed along the wide cobblestone street. A marching band of scarlet-uniformed
birdmen passed the corner where Summer had been forced to stop because of the thick crowd of
parade watchers. It was forty degrees Celsius on the glaring midday streets of the capital city of Laranja
East. The newly arrived reporter was anxious to get to the Laranja-Sheraton and out of the sun.
"Excuse me," he said to the twin fat ladies immediately in front of him.
They continued licking at their strawberry ice cream cones, ignoring him.
Six
dozen steam-operated military robots went clanking by, followed by several squads of
virginal young blond girls in white lycra tunics. Each girl carried a placard that said: Kill the Dirty Bastard!
Summer managed to nudge a few paces to the left, which brought him up against a broad,
feathered back. "Mind if I try to cross?"
The birdman kept pecking at his suetburger, moving not.
Virginal redheads trooped by. Cut Him in Chunks! Spill His Guts!
"Pardon me." Summer elbowed around the hefty birdman, shoved one of the fat ladies aside, and
made it to the edge of the curbstone.
A dozen gold-braided policemen were galloping by, mounted on white stallions.
"My, look at those horsewhips, so many of them," remarked a fat lady.
"What do you suppose the man without his pants is meant to represent?" asked her twin.
"What man without pants, Alma?"
"Right there, Dolores, that bald man trotting along in the wake of the horsemen with the dozen or
more angry high priests in hot pursuit"
"Palma!" said Summer.
It was indeed the bald photographer, clad in a candy-striped singlet and a pair of sky-blue briefs.
The howling catmen on his trail wore flowing black and gold robes, and were waving double-edged
golden swords. "Sacrilege! Defilement!" they were shouting. "Profanation!"
Dodging white horses, Summer reached his friend's side to begin running with him. "You were
supposed to refrain from trouble."
"I'm trying," panted Palma, "I'm trying. That's why I'm attempting to outrun this particular bunch
of crazed fanatics."
"Sacrilege! Debasement!" cried the nearest robed catmen, who were not more than a dozen feet
behind.
"What did you debase?"
"Oh," said Palma, "I merely patted a nun on the keaster."
Sprinting, Summer got alongside one of the galloping policemen. "You won't mind my borrowing
this?" He tugged the horsewhip out of its saddle holster.
Stopping where he stood, Summer told Palma, "Head for that alley over there." He cracked the
whip, tufts of fur fluttered up in the glaring air, and the lead priest fell down. While the whip was still
wound around the fallen man's furry ankle, Summer jerked it and caused the priest to trip the next two
pursuers.
Palma meanwhile was streaking for the narrow alley between two towering neobrick buildings.
After felling three more priests and avoiding the angered mounted policeman, Summer took off.
In the alley he asked, "Why'd you stroke some nun on the rear end, anyway?"
Palma sprang for the top of the nearwood fence at the alley's end. "Foolish damn thing to do,
since I'm basically a tit man," he admitted. Wheezing, he struggled over the fence and dropped down into
the miniature golf course on the other side. "Of course I didn't even realize she was in holy orders, seeing
as how she was naked at—"
"How'd she happen
to be
naked?" Summer joined him on the turf.
Running down the sloping field of the tiny golf course, the bald photographer replied, "Women
usually are naked in the ladies' wing of a Turkish bath. See, through a perfectly honest mistake I
happened to wander into—"
"Never mind." Summer glanced back over his shoulder. "They've ceased chasing us."
Palma slowed down, wiping his hand across the top of his glistening bald head. He was roughly
the same height as Summer, nearly two years older. "You wouldn't expect Quakers to be so vindictive,"
he said. "Though it may be the Peregrinian splinter—"
"What was the parade about?"
"Nothing much; another public execution this afternoon."
"Fore, for mercy's sake!" cried a dwarf they were approaching. "Fore!" He swung his golf club in
the air several times.
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