MIKE RESNICK
Mike Resnick is one of the bestselling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include Kirinyaga, Santiago, The Dark Lady, Stalking the Unicorn, Birthright: The Book of Man, Paradise, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, The Widowmaker, The Soul Eater, A Hunger in the Soul, The Return of Santiago, Starship: Mercenary, Starship: Rebel, and Stalking the Vampire. His collections include Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Shut Off the Sun?, An Alien Land, A Safari of the Mind, Hunting the Snark and Other Short Novels, and The Other Teddy Roosevelts. As editor, he’s produced Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF Stories About SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, Shaggy B.E.M. Stories, New Voices in Science Fiction, This Is My Funniest, a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg—Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws, and Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, among others—as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois, and Stars: Original Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian, edited with Janis Ian. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for “Kirinyaga.” He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, “The Manamouki,” and another Hugo and Nebula in 1995 for his novella “Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge.” His most recent books are a number of new collections, The Incarceration of Captain Nebula and Other Lost Futures, Win Some, Lose Some: The Hugo-Award Winning (and Nominated) Short Science Fiction and Fantasy of Mike Resnick, and Masters of the Galaxy, and two new novels, The Doctor and the Rough Rider and The Doctor and the Dinosaurs. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Here a soldier of fortune sets off into the hostile Venusian jungle in company with a very unusual partner, in search of the most fabulous treasure on the planet—and finds much more than he bargained for.
The Godstone of Venus
MIKE RESNICK
“DOES IT EVER STOP RAINING?” ASKED SCORPIO, LOOKING OUT the window as the rain splashed into the ocean.
“They say it did once, for almost a whole week, about thirty years ago,” replied the bartender, carrying a pair of purple concoctions over to Scorpio, handing one to him and drinking the other himself as he walked back to the bar.
Marcus Aurelius Scorpio was seated at a wooden table next to a large window. The tavern sat atop a huge rocky promontory, with a vast ocean surrounding three sides of it, and a crushed-rock path leading down to a dense jungle behind it.
“That was a rhetorical question,” replied Scorpio.
“Yeah, you don’t look drunk enough for it to be a serious one—yet,” replied the bartender. “Where’s your partner?”
Scorpio shrugged. “Beats me. He’ll be by later.”
“How’d you ever hook up with something like him?” asked the bartender. “Or is he an it?”
“Not unless one of his ladyfriends got mad at him since this morning,” replied Scorpio.
“You know, Venus has got a lot of races, some of ’em bright, some of ’em barely able to scratch without instructions, but your partner is the strangest of ’em all, or my name ain’t Lucius Aloisius McAnany.”
“When you get right down to it, your name isn’t Lucius anymore. Most of the locals can’t pronounce it, so it’s Luke.”
“But when I pay my taxes it’s Lucius.”
Scorpio looked amused. “When did you ever pay taxes?”
“Well, if I did,” said McAnany, “it’d be as Lucius.”
“I think I’ll go back to listening to the rain hit the windows,” said Scorpio. “It makes more sense.”
McAnany was about to reply when he was drowned out by the hooting of a huge golden fish that stuck its head out of the tank that rested on a shelf behind the bar.
“All right, all right!” he muttered, pouring the remainder of his drink into the tank. The fish swam right through the spreading purple liquid, hooted happily, and turned a trio of back somersaults.
“Look at that,” said McAnany disgustedly. “A goddamned alcoholic fish.” He pointed to a bright orange creature that hung upside down on the ceiling. “And what passes for a bat on this idiot world, and eats nothing but cigar butts. Damned lucky for him none of the Venusian races ever get lung cancer. Probably just their bartenders.” He paused, then slammed a fist down on the bar. “What the hell are a couple of Earthmen like us doing on this godforsaken world anyway?”
“Drinking purple stuff.”
“Damn it, you know what I mean!” growled McAnany. “I could have been a bartender back in Klamath Falls. I mean, hell, we had enough goddamned water there. No, I had to come to the Planet of Opportunity to make my millions.” He spat on the bare wooden floor. “Opportunity, my ass!”
“So go home,” said Scorpio.
“And do what? I’m sixty-three years old, and I’ve been bartending here for more than thirty years. I’m too old to retrain.”
“So go home and tend bar there.”
“To tell the truth, I’m afraid to,” admitted McAnany. “Thirty years is a long time. Who the hell knows what it’s like there now?”
Scorpio made no reply, and McAnany glared at him. “Anyone ever tell you that sympathy’s not your long and strong suit?”
“From time to time.”
“Didn’t have any effect on you then, either, I’ll bet.”
Scorpio looked over McAnany’s shoulder at the door, which was just opening. A couple walked in, drenched despite all their protections against the weather.
“Hell of a day!” muttered the burly man, removing his outer garments and tossing them carelessly on the end of the bar, revealing a pockmarked, mustached face with a thick head of wavy gray hair. He then helped the woman out of her protective gear, and Scorpio saw that she was a curvaceous, expensively clad woman—or at least female—with light blue skin and matching hair.
“Pretty much the same as all the other days around here,” replied McAnany.
“That’s a depressing thought,” said the woman. “What have you got to drink?”
“You name it, and I’ve either got it or I’ll fake it.”
The woman looked at Scorpio. “I’ll have what that man is drinking.”
“Me, too,” said the man. He turned to the bartender. “I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
“Must be him,” said McAnany, gesturing to Scorpio. “Ain’t no one else been here all day.”
The man approached Scorpio. “Are you the one they call The Scorpion?”
“At your service,” replied Scorpio. “You must be Rand Quintaro.”
Quintaro nodded and extended his hand, then sat down and gestured the woman to sit next to him, which she did. “You could have chosen a more convenient place,” he said.
“This is my office when I’m on Venus,” replied Scorpio.
“I understand you have a partner,” continued Quintaro. “Where is he?”
“He’ll be along.”
“We’ll wait.”
“That’s up to you,” said Scorpio. “Could be a couple of days.”
“He’s on a job?” asked Quintaro.
“It’s confidential. I can’t discuss it.”
The man nodded his head knowingly. McAnany emitted a sarcastic snort, then brought the blue-skinned woman her drink.
“It’s strong!” she breathed after taking a sip.
“I can dilute it,” offered McAnany.
“No,” she said, never taking her eyes off Scorpio. “I like strong.”