This is a grim story. It takes place in a raw

  and grim atmosphere—amidst the remnants

  of civilisation waging an unrelenting battle for

  survival in the aftermath of atomic war. Where

  the weak go under and only the strong survive.

  It points a grim moral, too.

  TOMORROW

  By E. C. TUBB

  Illustrated by QUINN

  From: Science Fantasy Magazine May 1954 Issue

  It was one of those days. I felt it when I jerked awake to the thrilling of the videophone, and when I saw Bransome’s face I was certain of it. He glowered at me, his flickering image streaked and marred with the trails of radioactive particles blown from the mainland, and I twitched with unconscious reflex action to the mind-disturbing radiation from the windblown debris.

  “Carter?”

  “What do I look like?” I stared at him, at his flabby cheeks coated with stubble, his red eyes, and the long hair straggling over his dirty neck. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and when he spoke I could almost smell his breath.

  “Hell,” he said, and spat out the butt. “Get down here as quick as you can.”

  ““Why? A job?”

  “Yeah. Tell you more later. Hurry now.”

  The flickering screen died and I leaned against the cool plastic trying to ease the throbbing of my head. I felt irritable, the same as I always did when the wind blew over the deadlands, and I hzfted the very thought of obeying orders. This was a free world, had been since the Blowup, and a man did what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted. That was freedom, and I was free.

  But I still had to eat.

  Someone in the next apartment had a console radio going at full blast and the thudding of the downbeat vibrated through the thin walls. I tried to ignore it, shaving carefully around the edges of a half-healed knife slash down one cheek and watching the percolator at the same time. I failed in both efforts, the coffee bubbled over the stove, and a thin rill of blood ran from where I had caught the wound.

  I cursed, hammered on the wall and refilled the percolator. While it was heating I staunched the flow of blood and finished my dressing, trying to figure out what Branscome had lined up for me.

  I chose my best and cleanest slacks and blouse, black with yellow piping, tucking the tops of the slacks into knee-boots of black leather. A short jacket and a visored cap of stiffened nylon coloured to match, completed my attire. I slipped on heavy signet rings and checked the loading of the gun before slipping it into a concealed holster, and by that time was ready for breakfast.

  The pounding of the radio seemed to be getting louder, making it hard to think straight, and when the coffee boiled over for the second time I’d just about had enough.

  Ringing the doorbell didn’t work, and knocking was a waste of time. It wasn’t until I had almost kicked the door from its hinges that I got results and by that time the corridor was full of curious heads sticking out from opened doorways.

  I ignored them, staring at the man who had opened the door.

  He was a big, sweaty, beefy looking man with truculent eyes and a battered face. I had seen him once or twice around town, a promoter of mixed fights with a share in one or two happy-smoke joints. A man with friends, which made him a man to be careful of—unless, of course, his friends were of the usual kind.

  He stood glaring at me, a cigarette smouldering between his lips and a half-full bottle in one hand. The room behind him was full of smoke and stank of stale liquor and the heady scent of marijuana.

  “Wattya want?”

  “The radio. Turn it down.”

  He didn’t move, just stood staring at me through the smoke of his reefer. The thudding of the radio boomed along the corridor and I could feel the staring eyes belonging to the heads sticking out into the passage.

  “Look,” I said patiently. “I live next door and I can do Without sound effects, so how about turning down your radio?”

  “Go to hell,” he said without emotion. He stepped back ready to slam shut the door, then stopped as he saw where I’d put my foot.

  “Do you turn it down, or do I do it for you?”

  He stared at me, his eyes hot and glittering and the knuckles of his hand whitening as he tightened his grip on the botde.

  I beat him to it.

  The heel of my palm smacked his chin, sending him staggering back from the door. I took three long strides into the room, jerked the cable from the power socket, tore off the plug and threw it into the lap of a blonde sitting vacuously in a deep chair. Three more strides and I was back in the corridor ready to forget the whole thing.

  He had other ideas.

  A yell warned me. One of the staring heads had opened its mouth and called a warning, which one or why I neither knew or cared. I ducked, spinning on one heel, facing back down the passage and ready for action.

  He came at me with his mouth open, his eyes glittering with hopped up rage, and a knife in his hand. I could have disarmed him. I could have jerked aside and smacked him down. I could have done a lot of things, but I was fed up and irritable.

  I shot him three times in the body.

  Branscombe waved me to a chair as I entered the office, and pushed a box of cigarettes towards me. I helped myself, wishing that I dared to fill my pocket, but knowing that if I did he’d cut the rate on whatever job he had to offer, and I needed money.

  “What kept you?” he snapped irritably. “I told you to get here quick.”

  “I had trouble, shot a man and had to clear up the mess. What have you got for me?”

  “Anyone I know?” He narrowed his eyes as he stared at me. I shrugged.

  “Some jerk who used to own a big radio. Forget it. What’s the job?”

  “The usual.” He ran dirty fingers through his lank hair and tossed a paper towards me. “Recovery job. Atomic Power Inc.”

  “Yes?”

  “Someone broke into their laboratories last night, killed three guards and stole a new formula. They blame the Anti’s.”

  “Why should they?” I picked up the paper and ran my eye over the,usual list of suspects. “Couldn’t it be a commercial theft? What would the Anti’s want with a secret process?”

  “How would I know,” he snapped. “It’s on general circuit, all the agencies will be on the lookout for the thief. You’ve got to get to him first.”

  “What terms?”

  “The usual. Five hundred on delivery.”

  I shook my head, dropping the paper back onto the desk. “What are you giving me? Atomic Inc. would pay more than that for what they want. If they’ve called in all agencies it must be important otherwise their own people would handle it.”

  He sighed, staring at me without anger, picking at his grimed fingernails. “If you wasn’t about the best operator in town I wouldn’t argue with you,” he said. “You know how things are with me, I can’t even afford to hire regular personnel.” He threw the paper back at me. “Alright, then, we split two ways. You pay your own expenses. Right?”

  I nodded, it was the best I could hope for.

  “Good. The thieves broke in about two in the morning. There must have been at least three of them, and they stole the guards’ weapons so now they are armed. I think they were freelancing, they may try to contact Fission Products, or one of the other companies, but the big agencies will have them covered so that narrows our field.”

  “That doesn’t help much. It could be a freelance job, but I doubt it. They would need inside help, someone must have given them the guard schedule and a plan of the laboratories. If there is big money in this I’m stuck.”

  He nodded, pulling at his cuticles. “Maybe there is something in this Anti scare,” he said slowly. “Atomic Inc. seem to think so, and they should know.” He glared at me with sudden heat. “Well? Get moving on the job or do I get another operator?”

  I grinned and helped myself to his cigarettes. What he thought didn’t matter now. I was on the job.

  It was cold outside, mid-winder cold, and the wind brought a promise of heavy snow. I shivered a little, turning up the collar of my jacket and tried to think out the next move. First I had to scan the issued report, then get on the trail of whoever it was had stolen whatever it was from some of the best guarded premises in the world.

  Simple.

  I sighed and entered a coffee house, stepping over the sprawled forms of beggars whining outside. A girl came up to take my order, a tall, well-made girl with make-up which did a good job of disguising her mottled skin. I ordered coffee and flapjacks, and while waiting for the food scanned the report.

  I was lucky. Spy cameras had caught the thieves, and one of them had forgotten to shield his face. He wore rags and had a thick growth of stubble, but what caught my eye was the dark streak across his forehead. I knew that brand! Knew it too well! The debtors’ mark, and that immediately narrowed the field of search.

  I chewed the food, trying not to notice the taste of soy, and gulped the tepid coffee, staring at the paper spread before me on the table. The debtors’ mark couldn’t be removed. Couldn’t! He had owed money, had been tracked and caught, forced to work off his debt, and then been branded as a warning to others. Such men weren’t wanted, they were outcasts, pariahs, lower even than the beggars. I smiled as I looked at the tell-tale mark, then looked up with sudden suspicion.

  The waitress stood at my shoulder staring down at the paper.

  It was almost dark by the time I got back home. A thin drift of sleet fell from the lowering clouds, settling on the b uildings and being churned into freezing slush in the streets. Few people were abroad, those that were either couldn’t help it or were out on business and none of them seemed interested in me.

  I stepped into the foyer, flashing my identification at the house-guard. He touched his cap and operated the electric lock permitting me to enter the building, and I crossed the foyer to his booth.

  “Any messages?”

  “No.” He stared at me from beneath the visor of his cap. “Some people were asking after you, your ex-neighbour must have had a lot of friends.”

  “What of it?” I shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Did you take care of him for me?”

  “Yes, the cremation and other fees will be on your bill.” He hesitated and I looked sharply at him.

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like the idea of my killing him?”

  “It’s nothing to me what you do, but we don’t want trouble. Next time do your killing outside the building, it saves a lot of work.”

  I grinned and dropped a bill into his lap. He didn’t move, and I shrugged and turned towards the elevator. Some people were peculiar, and I wondered what it must have been like in the old days. I stepped out at my floor, not bothering about the extra clean spot in the passage, and slipped a key into my lock.

  I had entered the apartment before I knew that something was wrong, and when I did, it was too late.

  A man sat in my easy chair, a gun in his hand and the tiny orifice pointed straight at my stomach. A second man stepped from behind the door, and relieved me of my own pistol, while a third stood just within the bathroom. I stared at them, then shrugged and leaned against the wall.

  “What is all this for?”

  “Don’t you know?” The man in the easy chair twisted his lips in what he must have thought was a smile. I didn’t like the look of his teeth. “The man you shot this morning was a friend of ours, now do you know?”

  “You’ve come to thank me,” I guessed. “I didn’t like him either.”

  “Smart guy,” said the man at my right, and smashed the edge of his hand across the bridge of my nose. “Shall I give it to him, boss?”

  “Wait.” He rose from the chair and stood in front of me. I tried not to look at his rotting teeth. “Listen you, maybe I didn’t like that man much either, but unless we do something about it what’s to stop some other smart operator drilling us?” He shook his head, and I almost felt sorry for him.

  “It’s a hell of a world,” I said. “Now either give it to me or get the hell out of here. Your breath stinks.”

  He turned white, his skin glistening over his cheekbones and the pupils of his eyes dilating with sheer rage. He swallowed, licking his lips and half-raising his gun.

  I kicked him in the groin.

  Before he dropped I had turned and driven the fingers of my right hand into the eyes of the men who had broken my nose. He screamed, doubling forward, his hands flying to his face. I chopped down at the base of his neck, feeling the vertebrae snap beneath the blow, and dived for my gun as the man in the bathroom opened fire.

  He was a lousy shot, or maybe he was worried about hitting his boss, and he had loosed three times before I was ready for action. Something whined past my ear and something burned into my left arm leaving it limp and useless. The groaning figure of the man with the bad teeth jerked and was silent.

  I rolled, ignoring the pain from my arm and concentrating on the man in the bathroom. He must have thought that he’d hit me, or perhaps he was just naturally careless. He stuck his head past the edge of the door for a better view, and I shot him neatly between the eyes.

  For a moment I lay on the ruined carpet, feeling the pain of my broken arm, and wondering if my face was fit to be seen. Footsteps pounded along the passage, and someone hammered on the door.

  “Come in,” I yelled, “it isn’t locked.”

  It swung open and I grinned at the startled face of the house-guard. I must have been a little lightheaded from the pain of my wounds, or perhaps it was just the reaction from a busy day, but suddenly everything seemed extremely funny.

  I was still laughing when the lights went out.

  The surgeon clucked like an old woman as he saw my arm. He washed the blood away with alcohol and tightened his lips as he felt around the wound, his eyes tired and strained looking.

  “What’s the matter, Doc?” I reached for a cigarette with my good arm and shivered a little in the chill of the hospital receiving ward. “Is it bad?”

  “Could be worse.” He frowned at the cigarette. “Pistol?”

  “Yes. It would have blasted my arm off if I hadn’t been wearing a metallic lined jacket, the gunner had a H.V. job.”

  “You were lucky.” The surgeon reached for a pad of blanks. “What treatment can you afford?”

  “The best I hope.” I frowned at the fluorescents in the ceiling. “What would it cost?”

  “Normal setting, splints, plaster cast and three X-rays will come to five hundred. Staders come to two thousand.” He hesitated, his pencil poised over the pad. “If you can’t pay you can have charity, or if you don’t want that you can work it off over a period.”

  “Staders,” I decided. “I’ve got to keep working.”

  He shrugged and put down the pad. “Can you pay?”

  I dug money from my pocket. The three goons had each carried a fair roll, but it still fell short by two hundred. I looked at the surgeon.

  “Will you take a cheque?”

  He nodded, and wheeled a videophone over to the couch. 1 dialed the bank and he spoke to the cashier.

  “Jim Carter, account number…?” He looked at me and I told him.

  “Account number one seven zero five three four. Is he good for two hundred?”

  The cashier riffled some files beneath the range of the scanners, then nodded. “Yes. Do you want a transfer?”

  “One moment,” I said. I scribbled the cheque and stuck my thumb onto the prepared surface. I held the slip over the scanners, and in the vision screen I saw the cashier nod as he compared the print with the one he had on file.

  “Satisfactory. Which account?”

  “Medical. Two five nine seven.” The surgeon waited for the acknowledgment and killed the screen. He nodded towards a nurse, and began to wash his hands.

  “Prepare the patient for Staders, nurse. Local anaesthetic.”

  It was soon over.

  The sleet had given away to snow and the thick white flakes swirled in a bitter wind as I stood on the steps of the hospital and thought out my next move. My arm was still numb from the anaesthetic, and would be sore for several days while the incisions healed, but I could use it and that was the important thing. I flexed my fingers and worked the muscles as I stood shivering in the night wind.

  A kiosk stood at the comer, a barred metal pillbox, with a wire mesh grill and a solitary attendant. I strode up to it, fumbling in my pockets for money.

  “Cigarettes. Five cartons.”

  “Tobacco or marijuana?”

  “Tobacco.” I slid money beneath the plastic front and received my change and five cartons. I tucked them beneath my left arm and bumped into a soft something as I turned away.

  It was a man, boy rather, a loose-limbed, gangling idiot-faced hophead with a shock of wild hair and a deathly white face. He clutched at my arm, the bad one, and I winced beneath his grip.

  “Help me, mister,” he whined. “Gimme a shot, just the price of a single shot. Honest I ain’t had any since I don’t know when. Please mister. Please.”

  Any other time and I would have short-armed him away from me, but this time was different. I had a damaged arm, and a job to do, and perhaps I may have even felt a little sorry for the guy. I nodded, and thrust a bill into his claw-like hand. He whined like a dog with eagerness as he hurried to the booth and received his bindle. He stood in the street, the snow whipping about his rags and settling on his shock of hair—and sniffed his paradise.

  The cocaine took almost instant effect, it always does on an empty stomach, and I watched as he smiled in the grip of drug induced euphoria.

  “Thanks, mister,” he said with simple dignity—and stepped from the sidewalk straight into the path of a passing car.

 

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