He tapped the little man on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” he asked with a genial smile. The blonde looked at him appraisingly and smiled back. The little man stared fishily, then peeled off his coat. Etsel blinked in horror at the bulging muscles that were exposed. It was a Jovian!
ETSEL picked himself out of the gutter and looked at the blonde and the little man vanishing in the distance. He winced and worked his jaw. Convincing himself that he could still drink, he dragged himself to a bar nearby.
“Beer,” he mumbled through a split lip. And when his throat had been sufficiently lubricated by the brew, he settled down to serious drinking. Disdaining the tabu against mixing drinks, he ordered in rapid succession peanut brandy, tobacco wine, Venerian-Dutch Teufelnwasser, and, for a chaser, a pint of Bourbon. Then everything went black.
Along about that time Iuppeter Nutente had forged a cloud into a hammer strangely inscribed “Moxon” and was beating him violently about the head with it, explaining carefully the point of a joke dealing with King Caracatus and a lobster, but somebody shook Etsel by the shoulder and woke him up. He looked over the rim of the table. “Stevie,” he said in a voice choked with emotion, “good old Stevie.”
“Yeah!” said the bartender. “But it’s pretty late, Mr. Etsel. You’d better go home and sleep it off.”
Etsel looked at his watch and agreed, indicating as much with a determined nod which nearly wrenched his head from its moorings. “Right,” he said, staggering to his feet.
Somehow he found his way to the parking field where he had left his rocket, presented his token. He shot the rocket high and opened a small port, reveling in the clean air which filled his lungs. Then his ship was slammed from beneath. He looked up, saw an example of that twenty-seventh century unmanageable miracle, the Beam Car.
This device is operated by a ray of uni-directional force. The beam has no recoil, but is directed down against the ground; it bounces back, through some engineering wizardry, always at the right angle, and strikes the bottom of the car, thus sustaining it in its flight.
What Etsel had done was to break the beam which struck his rocket’s bottom, thus bashing said beam up and cutting support from under the car, sending it tumbling down. He swerved the rocket violently, had the satisfaction of seeing the Beam Car turn over and disgorge its occupant. Etsel grinned as the man floundered and fell free through space, then stared in horror. The man didn’t have a parachute!
Etsel looped violently under the falling man, felt his rocket shiver as the victim struck a wing and clung there to the braces. “Hold on!” Etsel yelled through a port. But the man didn’t hold; with suicidal bravery he inched his way along the wing, forced open the outer door to the fuselage. In another second he had tumbled into the rocket, grinning broadly.
HE WAS a small man. Etsel groaned as he noted this; he had had a bellyful of small men. But this one was slender and weedy, with a curiously luminous complexion and a daft air about him that carried a certain charm. In an unfamiliar accent he addressed Etsel, “You will pardon my intrusion?”
“Certainly,” said Etsel, appalled at the callousness with which the man took his near-tragedy. “After all, I was responsible for the accident.”
“All for the best,” replied the little man, lighting a cigarette. “I was afraid to land the thing anyway—it was the first time I’ve ever been in a Beam Car.”
Etsel brought down the rocket in a suburban landing field.
“That was very well done,” commented the little man reflectively. “Very well done, indeed. You are an admirable pilot—I owe my life to that. Is there not something I can do for you in return?”
“You can buy me a drink,” said Etsel grinning.
“No—nothing so trivial. My people are marked for their sense of gratitude. Anything for you within my power I will gladly do—otherwise I should break with tradition, and that would be an evil accomplishment.” Etsel couldn’t place him as a being from any planet he knew, yet didn’t consider it polite to ask. Instead, he began to tell the little man about his troubles; not that he thought it would do either of them any good, but to clarify his own ideas and get them off his chest.
“You may be able to buy me a drink,” he said, “but I don’t think you can do anything else to help me. For my problem is a complicated one. To begin with, I am second assistant manager to the central branch of
Intercontinental Rocketransit Incorporated.”
“Ah—sso!” hissed the little man with a show of interest. “Continue from these very interesting facts. Already I see clear the way.”
Etsel looked at him curiously. “My immediate superior,” he went on, “Mr. Badabar Baily, is a—well, you probably wouldn’t grasp the symbology of the idiom I was about to use. Suffice it to say that he is an objectionable individual. And, which is most important of all, he stands foursquare in the way of my promotion to First Assistant Manager, which is about the culmination of my ambitions.”
The little man whipped out a notebook and pen. “This objectionable individual’s name is Baily, you say?” He jotted something down. “Please continue.”
“That’s about all,” said Etsel. “Except that the reason Mr. Baily presents for keeping me down is that I’m no gentleman.”
“Gentleman—explain, please.”
“By definition,” said Etsel good-humoredly, “a gentleman is an individual who lives off the work of others. This definition is extended to include those who have influential friends, and who will be able to play on those friendships so as to throw business in a desired way. Thus, even though I earn my own living, had I influential contacts which would result in more business coming through to Intercontinental Rocketransit, then I would be accredited as a gentleman, and, as such, entitled to promotion. Mere ability is of secondary importance—were my index of gentlemanness high enough, it would make no difference whether I knew anything about the position at all—in such a case, they would hire efficient secretaries and sub-assistants to do the work required, yet maintain me on a munificent salary.
“I, unfortunately, being a self-made man, am not only entirely capable of holding down such a post without more than nominal secretarial assistance, but have no influential contacts whatsoever. And that is the tragedy of Vernon Etsel.”
The little man grinned broadly. “Could be,” he said amiably, “that tragedy will degenerate into screwball farce. We shall see. Now I go to subway station. Have no fear, my friend; the gratitude of a Plutonian knows no bounds. For you I will lie, cheat, and steal if necessary. I go now; goodnight.” He climbed from the plane and popped into a nearby terminal. Etsel watched the slender man disappear from sight, then locked his rocket and called a taxi.
ETSEL sneaked into the office, and was about to ease himself into his chair when Mr. Baily popped through the purple door.
“So!” snorted the General Manager. “Not only late to work but in a disgraceful condition!”
“You mean the mouse?” asked Etsel, caressing a black eye. “I bumped into a door. And I’m sorry I’m late—went to a doctor for treatment and had to wait for him to get rid of an emergency case—”
“Enough,” said Baily coldly. “What was the doctor’s name?” Etsel was silent. “As I suspected,” remarked Baily. “You’ve been brawling in some low dive. Right?”
“In a way,” replied Etsel dispiritedly.
“And you, a nobody, want to be assistant manager.” The man’s smile was half contemptuous. “I’ll forgive your lateness—I’ll have to credit you with the fact that, despite your low pleasures you rarely come in late or perform your duties the poorer for them—but we’ll have no more talk about promotions, I think. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Etsel wearily.
The man’s tones relaxed, became more friendly. “Be particularly on guard today—I’m expecting an exceedingly important visitor.” He hesitated a moment.
“Perhaps, if you make the effort, you can make a halfway decent impression. I’m always
ready to be convinced, Etsel, if you change your ways.”
Soft soap, thought Etsel. “Who may this important visitor be?” he asked.
Baily pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “A prince,” he said. “The Prince Gapatak Heig Itziz Heig Mamarat Heig Heig Heig Nenlyok Heig Itz-Killikut of Pluto.”
The flasher on Etsel’s desk flared green. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Here comes the prince now. It’s been three years since I got green, and it was a Martian dictator then. Good luck.”
The prince swept into the office. “Etsel, my dear boy,” he cried effusively. Etsel blinked and looked again at the prince. It was the same man—the same weedy little excrescence whom he had first nearly killed, then rescued, last night.
“Hello,” he said faintly, then cast a look from the corner of his eyes to see how Baily was taking it. Bravely, certainly, for he was straightening his pin-striped morning-coat and presenting his hand. “I am the Manager, Mr. Baily,” said Badabar, introducing himself.
The prince looked puzzled. “I thought,” he said, “that my old friend Mr. Etsel was the manager of this company. Otherwise I should never have considered investing my father’s fortune so heavily.”
Baily’s face wrinkled with the unaccustomed agony of quick thinking. “Mr. Etsel is our First Assistant Manager, your Highness,” he mendaciously explained. “Though not for long.”
“No?” asked Mamarat, lighting a cigarette.
“No,” replied Baily. “We are about to promote him to the position which I now—ah—dignify” he chuckled, and the prince was obliging enough to laugh gently in appreciation.
“Then,” replied Mamarat, “let us proceed to the business matters which are the subject of my visit.”
“No,” exclaimed Baily benevolently. “I wouldn’t wish to hurry you into as important and—ah—brilliant a decision as you are contemplating. Despite the short notice which your call this morning has given us, I have arranged for a banquet in your honor. I trust your Highness will be able to attend.”
His Highness looked doubtful. “Vernon and I had planned to make a night of it,” he said thoughtfully. Then, turning to Etsel, “But you don’t mind if we postpone it, do you?”
“Certainly not,” said Etsel dazedly, “not at all.”
“And, of course, Etsel, you’ll sit at the right hand of our honored guest,” broke in Baily, almost playfully.
“Of course,” replied Etsel. “Nothing would afford me greater pleasure.” He felt sick, positively. This thing was getting beyond the confines of a harmless joke prompted by the gratitude of the nondescript Plutonian he had rescued. He felt an impulse to explain it all to Baily as a friendly hoax, avoid the more unpleasant consequences which would follow a full discovery later. But he admired the principle of the little man; the nameless Plutonian had sworn to help Etsel out, and here he was, keeping his promise with a vengeance.
“Then I’ll see you tonight, Vernon?” asked “Prince Mamarat.”
“I’ll be there,” he grinned. He wouldn’t fail the little man—and it would be such a colossal rib. The thought came to him that, unless a public exposure were made, Baily would gladly accept apologies and forget the matter, rather than risk his discomfiture attaining widespread knowledge. Yes, if he played his cards rightly, it was almost a sure win.
As Baily and the Plutonian left the office, Etsel dove hastily into the recess of his mahogany desk and fished out a flask and a cup. He needed reinforcement if he were going to see this gorgeous farce through. And see it through he would, come what may!
THE banquet was as elaborate as any Etsel had ever attended, from the melons that opened the repast to the ices that closed it. The liquors were of the finest; matters were running smoothly, but Etsel, sipping his brandy, was almost trembling with fear. The fine elation of the afternoon had worn off; he was nearly ready to account for the outrage that was being perpetrated on Intercontinental Rocketransit in the name of the Royal Family of Pluto.
Throughout the course of the feast he had spoken hardly a word to the honored guest at his left, rather staring frozenly at the nightmarish expanse of faces that stretched into the far recesses of the dining hall, appropriately decorated with the planetary bunting of Pluto and its Emperor.
Baily had made small talk at the prince’s left, subtly insinuating the extraordinary virtues of Rocketransit’s common and preferred stock; Etsel had confined himself to occasional assents and refusals in the right place. Finally Baily excused himself and bustled off, without finishing his liquors, on some errand or other, and Etsel turned full on his guest.
“This is a pretty spot,” he began mildly.
“Indeed,” agreed the “prince” blandly. “Reminds me quite of an imperial banquet on my dear native planet.”
“Yeah,” said Etsel bitterly. “You can cut out that junk for my benefit. I admire your sense of gratitude—”
“It is one of our Plutonian proverbs,” interrupted the little man sententiously, “that even a slarp is less than a slarp has it not gratitude. A slarp, I might explain, is something like a rye-bread on wheels, and is considered the lowest form of Plutonian animal life.”
“Very true, no doubt,” replied Etsel impatiently. “But I don’t like the idea. What could have prompted you to it?”
“I reasoned thus,” said the little man proudly. “Behold—a Prince of Pluto comes to Earth with a pocketful of that silly stuff—gold, you call it?—to buy stock in a large corporation. Perhaps he decides to buy; perhaps he does not.”
“In this case, not, I assume,” replied Etsel.
“Perhaps,” returned the “prince” enigmatically. “At any rate, during the course of my stay you are, to all intents, First Assistant Manager—the post to which you aspire—and if you comport yourself well Mid truly as First Assistant, I see no reason why the ‘prince’ should not leave without purchasing and without suspicion. Such is the inertia of authority that you will probably remain First Assistant as long as you so desire.”
“Yes,” Etsel whispered, “but aren’t you taking an awful chance impersonating royalty like this?” He paused and shook his head—his last words had sounded strange. With a chill of horror he realized what had happened. In one ghastly moment, the mikes, tying scattered about for the after-dinner speaking, had been connected—Baity’s errand—and his last words had been roared out for all the thousands present to hear!
IF disaster comes, can Baity be far behind? Etsel thought confusedly as the Manager bore down upon them. “Etsel!” he was roaring inarticulately, “I’ll drink your blood for this!” Etsel snatched up a table knife; Baity had already done so. Then the General Manager thought better of it and began to bawl “Police!”
In an incredibly short time, officers had seized Etsel and the “prince.” The officers, Etsel noted bitterly, were originally part of the little man’s guard of honor.
“You see!” he exclaimed to his companion. “That’s where your overwhelming gratitude has gotten both of us.”
“Is not too late,” replied the little man. “Yet may the tide of fortune turn once taken at the flood.” Which was a remarkably optimistic prospect, considering that they were out in the street by then, being hustled toward a dark, utilitarian-looking rocket.
“That,” replied Etsel, “is what we call the Black Maria. It’s going to cart us straight to the local court where we will be tried and convicted of fraud, arson, vagrancy and anything else they think of. Rocketransit, Inc., owns this town, as you will soon find to your sorrow.”
“May be,” said the little man. “Yet, note my eyes.”
Etsel noted nothing in particular. “What’s wrong now?”
“Behold!” exclaimed the “prince”: “I now turn on juice for benefit of captors.”
Etsel scratched his head as well as he could considering the restraining influences of the guard. Then he heard a weird humming sound emanating from nowhere in particular. This, however, wasn’t too true of the sparkling lights which played around the si
x individuals about to enter, or to be forced to enter, according to their capacities, the Black Maria. The lights emanated, very clearly, from the eyes of the little man. His two guards looked into his face, then fell to the pavement very simply and weakly. Etsel’s guards put up a show of protest. “Hey!” they began, looking into the eyes of the Plutonian. And that was all they said, for, an instant later, they slumped beside their companions.
Abruptly the noise came to an end and the lights died out. “Was the juice,” explained the Plutonian complacently. “Like all of my species, I am full of juice which will overflow at the slightest provocation.”
“Interesting,” murmured Etsel, averting his eyes from the other’s face. “But let’s pile into the rocket while we can.” Adroitly he went through the pockets of the collapsed gendarmerie and fished out the operating keys. Together they bolted the door of the rocket from inside and blasted off—heading North.
“WHAT I don’t understand, chum,” said Etsel confusedly, “is how you got that appointment with Baily in the first place.”
“Very simple,” answered the little Plutonian complacently, finishing his tin cup of black coffee. “I just telephoned him and announced that Prince Mamarat was in town incognito.”
They had been travelling by rocket as long as the fuel was above the halfway mark; when it fell below that, Etsel made a hasty landing in what had proved to be the most Northern of the North Woods—an inaccessible country, rich with game and out of fashion as a resort spot. So it was almost without difficulty that Etsel and his companion claimed a deserted hunting lodge, dispossessing several families of squirrels in the process. There had been emergency rations in the rocket and staple stores in the cabin; that, with the game in which the country abounded, seemed to offer as pretty a hideout as two criminals could hope for in a possum’s age.
Collected Short Fiction Page 39
