# Trouble On Sun-Side

## By S. M. Tenneshaw

Jansen came to Mercury to find one man,
and that seemed an easy enough task; the hitch
was that as a hunter he was also being hunted!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1956
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Jansen began to sweat as soon as he left the spaceship. The bloated, swollen sun hovering near the horizon here in twilight zone was dazzling even through his protective goggles. Jansen knew he would have to get used to it: Mercury's twilight zone, like it or not, would be his home for the indefinite future.

Stowing his gear in the barracks while sweat streamed from his body, Jansen realized for the first time that his luggage had been examined aboard the spaceship. That was bad; it could mean anything; it certainly meant trouble.

I have to hurry, Jansen thought. In a day or so, they're liable to haul me in for questioning.

"Still time for me to go out and join the work force?" Jansen asked the barracks orderly as the old man came shuffling by.

"Eager, ain't you, mister. They'll get along without you till tomorrow, you can bet."

"Well, can I go take a look, then?"

The old man studied him with surprise. Apparently gold-bricking and not eager-beavering was the order of the day here. "What's your rating?" the orderly asked.

"Twelve."

"Well, nobody would push you around, I guess," admitted the barracks orderly with grudging respect. "Why don't you see the town, though? Town's all right. Don't go out to the bogs unless you have to."

Bogs, thought Jansen. Bogs on Mercury's sun-side. He still couldn't get over it.

Jansen changed into a skin-tight white insulsuit and went outside. The insulsuit covered him almost like an additional layer of skin: he wore trousers and a shirt over it. Without the insulsuit, exposure this close to Mercury's sun-side would be impossible for more than a few moments.

It took Jansen twenty minutes to realize he was being followed. His tail wore an insulsuit and a pair of colorful shorts. This seemed to be the universal garb in Sun-side City, so that the hundreds of loungers and shoppers all looked alike, with the skull-cap cowls of their insulsuits even hiding the distinctiveness of their hair. Jansen's tail was a man bigger than most, though, and it was only because he was wandering aimlessly in the sun-dazzled streets that Jansen became aware of pursuit at all.

He ducked into an alley between two cafes. Two women in skin-tight insulsuits came by, then a man and a boy, then the big man who had been following Jansen. Abruptly Jansen stepped from the alley.

"Just a minute," he said.

The man whirled, a blank expression on his face.

"What do you want?" Jansen asked.

"I don't get you, mister. You stopped me, I didn't stop you. What do you want?"

"You were following me," Jansen said.

"I never saw you before in my life."

Before Jansen could answer, the sun went down. It did not set, as the sun sets on Earth. It disappeared, due to the sudden unpredictable wobbles of Mercury's twilight zone. It was an astronomical phenomena. And, despite the sun's great apparent size, Jansen suddenly found himself in pitch darkness. It alarmed him at first, until he realized that Mercury had no atmosphere, except for the artificial pockets under the man-made domes. There was no layer of air to retain the sun's glow. One moment, dazzling light; the next, almost total darkness.

"Where are you?" Jansen called. He groped his way toward where the man had been standing. He heard a girl's laughter on the street nearby, heard an old woman's shout.

Something struck the side of his head, summoning blinding pain. Jansen staggered and fell to the sidewalk on hands and knees. He felt himself being frisked expertly in his half-conscious state. Something was removed from his trouser-pocket: his wallet probably. He tried to get up but fell forward, scraping his jaw. He heard retreating footsteps.

Number one botch-job, he thought, and lost consciousness.

When he came to, he was not alone. He was no longer on the sidewalk, either. He had been taken into a house.

He found himself looking at a girl in insulsuit and shorts. The forehead-piece of the girl's skin-tight cowl came down in a sharp widow's peak, in the current feminine fashion. It made her entire face, with its high cheek bones and long narrow eyes and small, stubborn, pointed chin, look somewhat aquatic. She was a very pretty girl and her figure under the revealing insulsuit was breath-taking.

"You're all right, Mr. Jansen?" she asked.

Jansen. She'd called him by his name. He was on his guard at once. He'd gotten work at the Sun-station employment office on Earth as Wilson. His name was unknown here on Mercury—except to the person who'd gone through his bags aboard ship and the big man who'd taken his wallet on the street.

He nodded his head slowly. His head ached and he felt weak and washed out, but he could feel the strength flowing back into him.

The woman smiled. Then the smile left her face so quickly, it startled Jansen. "We don't want you here," she said. "We don't want you on Mercury, Jansen."

He stood up. "Thanks for dragging me in off the street. I'll get out of here now."

"Leave Mercury, Mr. Jansen. While you still can."

He headed for the door, his temple throbbing with pain. She helped him across the room coolly, efficiently, supporting his shoulder but barely seeming to touch him. He wished his head was clearer. He wanted to question this girl. She knew him; she'd had him tailed.

"Get out while you can," she was saying. "Remember what happened to your brother."

He whirled on the threshold and pushed her back into the room ahead of him. "Go ahead," he said coldly. "Tell me about my brother."

Her face told him she knew she'd blundered. "Just get out of here, you fool!" she cried.

"Tell me about my brother."

"He's dead. What does it matter except he's dead?"

"How did he die, Miss Hilliard?"

She gave him a startled look. "You know me?"

"A guess. You're Wendy Hilliard, aren't you?"

"Y-yes."

"He used to write me about you," Jansen said bitterly. "Girl Friday or something. But when he started to go down you took off like the well-known rats. Didn't you, Wendy?"

Her hand struck his cheek stingingly. "Now clear out," she said, her voice catching on a sob.

He laughed harshly. "Well, what did you expect? It's why you had my things searched on the ship, isn't it? It's why you had that big guy follow me."

Wendy Hilliard's face was white. "I didn't have your things searched on the ship," she said.

He looked at her searchingly: she meant that, he knew.

"Oh, don't you see?" she said, clutching his arm. "Don't you see? It was Bareen, Mr. Jansen. I know you're here and Bareen knows it. It was Bareen who had your brother killed and—"

"Why?" Jansen asked.

"Because he knew too much. Because Bareen is going to become the richest man in the solar system and—and Ted got an inkling of what was happening."

"You seem to know," Jansen said dryly. "But you're still here. So what happened to Ted?"

"Look, Mr. Jansen. Let me give you about a five minute course in Mercurian economics. Here at Sun-side station, we produce food for Earth's teeming billions. Since directly or indirectly, all food is stored solar energy and since we're much closer to the sun here, food-energy is produced abundantly and not expensively."

"I know all that," Jansen said irritably.

"Let me finish. You'll see why. What we grow in the sun-side bogs is chlorella, millions of tons of chlorella, which is converted into synth-steak and other pseudo-meats on Earth. Now, there are two keys to the production. The first, of course, is water. Chlorella must grow in bogs, which means artificial irrigation. The second is the sub-space tunnel. You know about that, Jansen. Call it a hole in space which shortcuts the distance between Mercury and Earth. The chlorella is shipped Earthward through this sub-space tunnel, not only instantly, but cheaply.

"Bareen works the tunnel, Mr. Jansen. Bareen's men control the irrigation station. Bareen is now in a position to demand any price he wishes from Earth for the chlorella. If Earth doesn't agree, Earth starves. That's why your brother was killed. He learned about this before Bareen was ready to strike. He's almost ready now, Mr. Jansen."

"Where do you fit in? If Ted was killed—"

Wendy's face colored. "I wanted to go on living, Mr. Jansen. I didn't want to die. I can't be an idealist if my own life—"

"What did you do?" His hand gripped her wrist. "Did you turn Ted over to Bareen?"

She struck his face a second time. "I loved your brother. I wouldn't have done a thing like that."

"Then what?"

"I told you what you wanted to know. I don't have to tell you more. Now get out of here." She followed him to the door. "But you have to leave Mercury at once, you see," she said. "Bareen can't afford to let you live. Bareen will have you killed."

"The way they tell it on Earth, Bareen's a loner. If he goes, the whole outfit folds and will play ball with Earth the way it ought to. Is that the way you see it?"

"Yes, but—"

"You thought I was here for revenge? I am, baby. Don't get any wrong ideas. But I've also got a job to do. Earth needs that chlorella." He opened the door.

"Jansen—"

"Well?"

"Nothing. Just be careful."

He laughed harshly and walked out into the darkness.

The man's name was Dinnison. He had the bunk next to Jansen's in the barracks and he, like Jansen, was a newcomer. He'd shipped to Mercury from the Venusian dust-desert in search of greener pastures. Jansen felt sorry for him, then ruthlessly beat down the feeling. He had no time for pity.

While it was still dark he followed Dinnison outside the barracks and thrust a mugging arm around his neck. Dinnison struggled, his arms flailing, his legs drumming. Once he almost broke loose, but Jansen held him until he had lost consciousness. A day, Jansen thought. Bareen knows I'm here, so all I can expect is a day now.

He dragged Dinnison into a storage shed. The slight effort left him drenched with sweat, despite the insulsuit. He found rope and bound Dinnison, then took tape from his pocket and gagged him.

Ten minutes later he returned to the barracks with Dinnison's identification papers. Andrew Dinnison, he thought. I'm Dinnison now. Bareen's men would be looking for Frank Jansen, he knew. But unless Wendy Hilliard told them, they wouldn't know what Jansen looked like.

I'm Dinnison....

He slept poorly. He dreamed but in the morning did not remember his dreams. When he awoke, Mercury had wobbled sufficiently for the twilight zone to be in sunlight again.

"Rise and shine, men!" a supervisor's voice blared over the loudspeaker. "Got some gunk to harvest!"

Jansen watched the men get up, groaning and complaining, in the barracks. Gunk was the supervisor's word for chlorella, Jansen thought. Looking at the men he decided they had other words for it, none of them printable. For, although the pay was good, it was sheer hell working on Mercury and the average employee at the chlorella bogs didn't stay more than three months.

With the others Jansen went outside and piled onto one of the half dozen swamp-buggies which came for them. The buggies were surplus Army amphibian vehicles and rattled noisily over dry ground. They formed a line, single file, and headed through the domed corridor that connected Sun-side city, which was actually in the twilight zone, with the bogs themselves, which were on the sun-side of Mercury.

If it had been hot in the city, despite man's best air-conditioning efforts, it was murderously hot in the bogs. The sun burned down on the dome and through it; the irrigation water evaporated rapidly, so rapidly that the dehumidifiers could not carry it away quickly enough. As a result, the bogs were not only terribly hot, but humid as the inside of a Turkish bath. Jansen felt washed out before he'd even begun his work.

The swamp-buggies took them to a field of chlorella, the valuable plant growing like a thick coating of slime on the bogs. The men, moving slowly to conserve energy in the heat, climbed down from the buggies and attacked the chlorella by sweeping the surface of the bogs with their muscle-powered harvesters.

Jansen smiled in spite of himself. Agricultural methods five thousand and more years old! It couldn't be helped on Mercury, of course. Most available machinery was needed on Earth, for Earth's billions. The metal for machinery was at a premium; the great iron mines of two centuries before were almost exhausted and no new supply had been found on any of the planets—at least none which could be mined productively at slight enough cost. Result: the outworlds got along with primitive methods or didn't get along at all.

Dinnison, Jansen discovered, had a rating of Six. It was not as bad as it could have been, but a good deal worse than Jansen's own twelve. At least Dinnison wasn't a harvester. Instead, Dinnison had been assigned to the packing platforms, and that was where Jansen found himself working. Here the chlorella was dried in the fierce sun and baled. The baling, of course, was done by hand and the chlorella, dry enough for baling but still sodden, was heavy. Afterwards, Jansen knew, it would be taken to the sub-space tunnel and shipped to Earth without even the necessity of dehydration.

All morning Jansen worked in hot, stifling silence. Whenever a supervisor came in his direction he half-expected a heavy hand to fall on his shoulder and an accusing voice to call out his real name.

At lunch hour he wandered off, all but exhausted, into the scant shade of one of the compound shacks. He sat there, popping energy tablets into his mouth. He was too weak to eat food although he saw it being served from big trays perhaps fifty yards away.

"Jansen," a voice called softly.

He looked up quickly, his eyes taking seconds to focus in the almost blinding glare. It was Wendy Hilliard, looking amazingly cool in her insulsuit and shorts.

He reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her down alongside him. "How did you find me?" he demanded.

"It was an accident, although—" her voice trailed off.

"Although what?"

"You're hurting me!"

"Although what, Miss Hilliard?"

"I—well, I was looking for you, Jansen. I want to help you."

"Sure," he said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

She smiled. "I'd say you need some help. You look all washed out."

"Your sympathy is touching. Did you say the same thing to Ted, before he was killed?"

"You fool. I liked your brother."

"He used a different word."

"All right. I loved him. He's dead now. We can't bring him back to life."

"So what do you want?"

"Bareen's here. In the bogs today."

Instantly, Jansen was alert. He could feel fresh strength surge through his muscles, his blood. Bareen! At last, he thought, Bareen! For Ted....

And for Earth.

Ted had been an Earth agent on Mercury. Jansen was not: Jansen had been prospecting in the asteroids when he heard of Ted's death. But he'd gone to Ted's agency at once and offered his services. Now he was here, where Ted had been. Now he was in Ted's place. What would Ted have done? He didn't know. But he had his orders. They were explicit—and ruthless.

"You will report to Sun-side City," they had told him. "You will seek Bareen out. Without Bareen, the organization he has built up will crumble. With Bareen, it will gain control, complete control instead of managerial control, of the irrigation system and the sub-space tunnel. Bareen will become a fabulously wealthy and powerful man, at the expense of Earth's starving billions. You will find Bareen and kill him."

Assassination, Jansen thought now. Legally, it would be a crime. The civilized worlds would forever be closed to Jansen. But morally it would be anything but a crime. Morally, Jansen would be helping billions of people he would never see—and, if he helped them, he would be from that day forth an outcast who must live out the rest of his life on the far outworlds.

For Ted, he thought. And Earth....

"Why'd Bareen come here?" Jansen asked the girl suspiciously. "I thought he runs this show from the sub-space tunnel."

"Sure he does. But periodically he comes here to check on his men. You must have known it: why did you come here?"

"I couldn't get assigned to the sub-space tunnel. I'm no technician. I was going to figure a way in, later."

"There's no later for you. How much time do you think you have, Jansen?"

He shrugged, and asked a question of his own. "Why are you pretending to help me?"

"Ted and I—"

"He's dead now, remember?"

Wendy stood up angrily. "All right, have it your way. Bareen is here. You're here. I thought that was what you wanted. I told you. I—"

Just then the one streamlined swamp-buggy Jansen had seen came chugging up through the brackish water. A hatch opened and as it did so Wendy moved quickly away from Jansen. She waded toward the buggy, smiling. A man appeared in the hatch, a big man, big as Jansen and wider. He was younger than Jansen thought he would be. He was handsome and somehow cold-looking.

"Wendy, my dear," Jansen heard him say. "This is a pleasant surprise."

Wendy reached the swamp-buggy. Bareen—for it was Bareen—leaned over and offered her a hand. He drew her up to him and she turned her cheek for his kiss. Then they disappeared inside the buggy and it chugged away.

Jansen sat there for a moment. Bareen, he thought. Bareen and Wendy Hilliard. Well, why not? Hadn't Ted been killed?

But why did she come to me?

Jansen stood up. His limbs trembled with heat-fatigue and he popped two salt tablets into his mouth. He began to walk.

"Hey, you!" a supervisor called. "Lunch hour's almost over. Where you going?"

Jansen didn't answer. The swamp-buggy, moving slowly through the brown water, was almost out of sight. A dome corridor led from the chlorella bogs to the irrigation station, Jansen knew. The buggy was headed in that direction.

"I said, where you going?"

Jansen didn't answer the shouted question. There wasn't time. He ran, splashing through the thigh-deep water, moving clumsily and slowly. Instead of following Bareen's buggy, he headed for where the other vehicles were parked. He climbed on one and began to unbolt the hatch when he heard boots on metal behind him.

It was the supervisor. "For the last time, buddy—"

Jansen turned and hit him. The supervisor, an astonished look on his face, stumbled back off the amphibious vehicle and into the swamp. Jansen waited to see that he got up, then slid in through the hatch and started the buggy.

There would be an alarm, he knew. But Bareen's buggy hadn't been hurrying. If he could overtake it....

He chugged along, expecting pursuit momentarily. He rode with the hatch open and his body half out, for best visibility. He saw the other swamp vehicle, perhaps three hundred yards ahead. It reached the narrow neck of the domed corridor and paused at the check-point there, then went through.

Soon Jansen reached the check-point. Two men with blasting rifles stood in his path, looking suspicious.

"Get out of the way!" Jansen called boldly. "I'm Bareen's bodyguard."

"Behind him?"

"Where would you stay, friend?"

The guards exchanged glances. One of them grinned. But the other one said, "We got a report of a guy who—"

"I wouldn't be interested in any reports," Jansen said curtly. "Now, do you let me through or do I report you to Bareen?"

Glances were exchanged again. One of the guards shrugged. They didn't want trouble. Jansen's very boldness was his best weapon. Finally, exchanging glances once more, they waved him on.

The second swamp-buggy was by then out of sight down the domed corridor. But half an hour later Jansen reached the big, white, squat structure which housed the irrigation machinery. And Bareen's streamlined swamp-buggy was parked outside on the dry ground.

He went inside and an armed man stood in his path. "Well?"

"Bareen," Jansen said.

"Come and gone, with Miss Hilliard."

"But his buggy—"

"Who're you?"

"Bodyguard," Jansen said promptly. It had worked once.

"Hell, then you ought to know. Why ask me?"

"You know Mr. Bareen," Jansen said, smiling. "Impulsive."

"Is he? I guess I wouldn't know."

"Look. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind passing the time of day with you, but I'm not supposed to let Bareen out of my sight. So if you'll just tell me where he is...."

"Show me."

"What did you say?" Jansen asked with a sickening realization of what the guard wanted.

"You say you're his bodyguard. Show me."

Jansen swung his fist in a quick, blurring arc and hit the man. He felt the pain of good contact and the man went over on his back, striking the ground hard. Jansen knelt quickly by his side: he was breathing normally. Quickly Jansen searched him and found a small hand-blaster. He pocketed it and got up, dragging the unconscious man into an alcove which housed an inter-office communications system. On impulse, Jansen picked up the microphone and said:

"Mr. Bareen, please. This is important."

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Bareen has taken the sub-spacer back to the interplanetary sub-space tunnel."

"Thank you," Jansen said automatically. There was a small sub-space tunnel connecting the irrigation station with the big interplanetary space-warp, Jansen knew. Even now Bareen and Wendy Hilliard, having inspected the plant, were a hundred thousand miles away, in deep space, at the tunnel station.

While Jansen was thinking, the communications system board flashed and a voice said:

"Emergency! Emergency! Someone has stolen a buggy and is believed heading for the irrigation station. He may be armed and is probably dangerous."

Jansen acknowledged the information, then said: "The buggy just passed this way, but it kept going."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Thanks. We'll relay the information."

That ruse would give him a few minutes, Jansen knew. But for what purpose?

Bareen and Wendy Hilliard! If they used the sub-space tunnel, why couldn't he?

He left the alcove and charged down a brightly-lit hallway, passing a cavern-sized room a-throb with banks of machinery. A technician looked up at him and Jansen said:

"The sub-spacer. Hurry, man. This is urgent."

The technician pointed, spoke. Jansen followed his directions on the dead run.

When he reached it, he saw what looked like a vidiphone booth in a large, otherwise empty room. But vidiphone booths don't usually have armed guards....

"This is for Mr. Bareen's private use," the guard said, brandishing a blasting rifle. "Better beat it."

No ruses here. This guard would know. This was one of Bareen's private thugs, probably. Jansen took a breath and dove at him.

The blaster roared, searing air over Jansen's head. He hit the guard's middle and they went down together, the rifle falling from the guard's grasp. They rolled over and over, then the guard got to his knees and clubbed an elbow at Jansen's jaw. Jansen rolled on his back, his face suddenly numb. The guard dove for him, pinned him and called for help.

Jansen struggled frantically. He heard footsteps pounding toward them, then brought his legs up and scissored the guard's throat, pulling him down and away. Jansen released the scissors abruptly and scrambled to his feet. He made it to the sub-space booth and pulled the door open. There was a single lever inside and he yanked at it as he slammed the transparent door. He felt nothing at first. He saw the guard retrieve his rifle, pointing it at the booth and firing.

But the blast of raw energy never reached Jansen. For he was already being transported through sub-space....

He had no time to marshall his thoughts. The first thing he saw through the transparent door of the twin booth a hundred thousand miles away on the sub-space station, was Bareen. Bareen was standing just outside the booth, holding a blaster.

He was pointing the blaster at Wendy Hilliard, whose face was white. Jansen opened the door and Bareen's deep voice ended with: "... to kill you now."

Jansen turned quickly and fired his blaster not at Bareen but at the controls of the sub-space booth. This way, he hoped, they wouldn't be interrupted. This way—

"Jansen!" Wendy screamed.

Bareen whirled, facing Jansen. His eyes widened and as he fired the blaster Jansen felt a numbing pain in his right leg. The blaster had merely seared him, he knew. But if Bareen had time for another try....

Jansen leaped at him and they went crashing across the room toward another, and larger, sub-space booth. Jansen was exhausted. The quick pursuit, the fight at the irrigation center, the unfamiliar activity at the chlorella bogs, had drained most of the energy from his body. And Bareen was strong.

He slowly forced Jansen back, choking him. Jansen's hands waved weakly in front of his face, fluttering uselessly. Bareen was going to kill him, as he had killed his brother....

Jansen's vision swam. Balls of flame seared before his eyes. He was dimly aware of Wendy clawing at Bareen's back, but the big man pushed her away, then hurled her across the room with one out-flung arm.

Jansen butted with his head. He brought his knee up. He swung his fists and felt contact with Bareen's face. But Bareen held onto his throat with one large hand, getting the other one free to use the blaster. He brought it up slowly, and Jansen forgot about the hand about his throat. He reached for the blaster, struggling for possession of it with Bareen. He butted again and saw a bloody smear where Bareen's mouth had been. The blaster was between them....

And roared....

Bareen slumped against him and the pressure was suddenly gone from his throat. When he looked down at Bareen he saw that the man's entire face had been shot away—

"I was working for your brother," Wendy sobbed. "I never gave up. I was gathering evidence about what Bareen planned. You—you came just in time. He was going to give his ultimatum to Earth today. Triple the price, or no chlorella. They'd have had to say yes."

Feet pounded in a corridor, came closer.

"We won," Jansen said. "But now—we're finished."

"Quick!" Wendy cried, pulling him toward the larger sub-space booth. "It connects with Earth."

"I can't return to Earth. I've just killed a man. I—"

"Self-defense. I saw you. Besides, we have the proof that Bareen was going to bleed Earth dry for chlorella."

"... the outworlds...." he said.

"You don't have to hide on the outworlds now."

"Hide, nothing," Jansen said, smiling weakly but happily the split-second before they were whisked seventy million miles through sub-space. "If you're not a fugitive, the outworlds are wonderful. Maybe you'd like...."

He was going to say, like to join me. It was an impulse he couldn't explain, as if the depths of sub-space drew a man's secret desires from his unconscious mind.

And as they began to materialize on Earth he heard Wendy's voice, as if from far away:

"Maybe I'd like to try that."