Fantastic Vignettes

by Jerry

It is said that the little town of Dione, at the southern tip of Patagonia, has among its sleepy inhabitants, a new person, a man of unquestionable talents. This man, who has married one of the local belles, seems to have an extraordinary aversion to video in any form. He spends much time just relaxing or reading. And his appearance is not particularly mousy—though possibly, an interested observer might note that there seems to be an uncanny resemblance to the mad Mr. Merriman . . .

  And the Rains Came . . .

  Dan Corliss

  IT WAS a beautiful night in New York.

  The day had been hot and now the cool of evening seemed all the more pleasant by contrast. Keenan had only about eighteen guests for dinner, and it had been an altogether convivial session. The food was perfect, the wines extraordinary, and now coffee and cigars in the garden of Keenan’s luxurious penthouse made living seem really worth while.

  I remember Stoner saying casually as he toyed with the stem of his brandy balloon: “Wonder how many are leaving town for good.” He gestured with a finger at the line of lights we could see moving over the George Washington bridge.

  “The war scare isn’t that bad, is it?” Frenton, a colleague of Keenan’s at the University asked.

  I replied: “I’m afraid it is. The newspapers have been having a field day such as we haven’t seen since the last crisis back in the sixties. A lot of people think war is coming.”

  A chorus of voices agreed with me. But then another broke in. It was that of a little known physicist, Brandon, who challenged the common belief.

  He was a tall, middle-aged man, with an air of tolerance as if he’d been listening to children talk. He smiled.

  “I think I can speak now,” he said with strange finality. “There isn’t going to be any war—ever.”

  No one laughed, but several smiled. “What makes you so sure?” I asked.

  “It’s simple,” he replied urbanely, “it’s very simple. You see, it rains in the world; it rains often and there are strong winds.”

  The answer seemed stupid and assinine. Several people tittered.

  Unperturbed, Brandon elaborated. “I’m with the State Department,” he said, “in addition to being a physicist. There is no security violation coming, rest assured. It’s merely a matter which the International Council has made clear. If there was to be an atomic war, very little would survive on this Earth—and no man at all. You see, war means the atmosphere would be contaminated with radioactive products, materials of dust which float and hover about the air, borne everywhere. No place is secure or immune. In the quantities which a war would introduce into the air, the radio actives would destroy the world. It’s just that easy. Fortunately, everyone knows that now. No one dares to attempt an atomic war. You see—” here he smiled—” even the war-makers don’t want to die.”

  No one said anything. We were quiet for a moment.

  “It’s true,” Brandon insisted, “the pollution by rain and wind would wipe out all life—we just can’t have a war—and we won’t. I don’t know how things will be settled, but no man dares use atomics.”

  I remember sitting there. I took a sip of my brandy. The peculiar feeling of comfort which his words brought, didn’t completely allay the other feeling that the description conveyed. I thought, and the rains came . . .

  [untitled]

  Lee Owen

  “DAMN!” BILL Raymond, the co-officer of the New Delhi-Chicago rocket shuffled through the sheaf of weather reports. “We’re putting down in a rotten soup of the Chiport,” he said to Pilot-officer Jack Nelson.

  Nelson lifted his head from the instrument he was studying and touched a stud ever so slightly. The tone of the roaring rockets rose a bit higher.

  He shrugged his handsome shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, Bill,” he said. “I can land this thing in anything—and you know it.”

  “Not if you don’t have a good talker on the radar,” Bill answered. “Remember the bad time we had at Chungport?”

  Soon the Delhi rocket was over the Chiport at ninety thousand feet and Jack cut in the radar and communication system. His own infra-red and radar were still too coarse to land a fully loaded rocket on such a small area. He waited for the contact.

  Over the buzz of background noise and static, a voice crackled out of the loudspeaker.

  “Rocket Z-112! Attention.”

  “Right,” Jack answered. “In contact!”

  “We’ve picked you up on a one centimeter beam. Follow instructions implicitly and we’ll talk you in.”

  “I’ve landed blind before,” Jack countered acidly. “This is Pilot-Officer Nelson. Just bring us in and save your commentary!”

  Coolly the voice came back: “Confine your comments to acknowledgement of instructions or I will have to discipline you.”

  “How do you like that?” Jack exploded to Bill. “There must be some smart aleck down there who’s looking for trouble. Wait till we land.”

  Crisply and authoritatively came operating instructions. The radar landing guide was good. Jack obeyed every order perfectly and slowly through the dense fog and smog, the huge Delhi rocket began settling earthward, guided toward the ground like some blind, monstrous worm. Jack’s fingers played with his console like those of a skilled organist, and the rocket, despite her slow speed obeyed with alacrity.

  Beads of sweat stood out on Jack’s forehead as the orders crisped from the loudspeaker . . . “. . . even jet three—touch acceleration—lock left gyro—hold it!—cut your auto-pilot for four seconds—now!—disconnect—feed number two jet—that’s it—hold it . . .” The technical jargon changed from words to acts as Jack’s skilled hands translated them into motions.

  The strain was terrific and both Jack and Bill sat in tense concentration till the sweet welcome thump of metal against dock told them they had brought her in. Jack cut the switches and the roar of motors died. He leaned back and fumbled for a cigarette, a long sigh of relief escaping him.

  “Fair landing,” the communicator announced suddenly. “You used too much power. Suggest you take another instrument course as soon as possible. That is all.” The communicator went silent.

  Jack straightened up angrily. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He demanded of the dead loudspeaker. “I’ve had more ex per—” he broke off angrily and turned to Bill. “Check through customs. I’m going to see this character in Instruments.”

  The pilot-officer strode angrily through the crowds of passengers, the agents and mechanics, toward the operations offices. He paused before a door and read the name. “Instruments Section—No Admittance Except To Authorized Personnel,” it said.

  He flung open the door.

  The room he entered was a fantastic maze of radio, radar and TV gear. Several people were seated at desks before screens. He stepped up to an attractive red-head who was just lighting a cigarette.

  “Where’s Blind Instruments?” he asked peremptorily, “the one who just talked me in—I’m Delhi rocket Z-112.”

  “Well, well,” the girl smiled, “so you’re the one.” She shook her head, “that was poor, Pilot-Officer. You really didn’t do such a bad job—but it could stand a good deal of improvement.”

  “You’re Blind Instruments?” Jack asked, startled.

  “I am,” the girl answered. “Joanne Claim. Listen,” she said abruptly, “I haven’t the time to talk now. You may ask me to dinner. Eight tonight. Is it a date? Right.” She rattled off her address.

  Jack through back his head and laughed. “I came in here to raise hell with you—and now I’m taking you out. It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at eight—and tonight I’ll do the talking!”

  “Well,” Bill asked, “how did you make out. Give him a chewing out?”

  “He’s a girl,” Jack answered with a grin, “and I’m going out with her tonight. I’ll show her who’s master in the dark!”

  The Dopesters

  Lee Owen

  BERRY CARLING eased his bulk down on the soft air-form of th
e couch, and breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up his drink from the low service table and looked across at the lovely girl seated in the opposite chair.

  “This is the life, honey,” he said, smiling. “From now on we’ll be flying high. I talked Kith Reactions, Inc. and they’re giving me a hundred thousand credits. You know what that means? It means we’re going to get that place in the Rockies—and no more rocket races for us.” He sighed again, contentedly.

  “Berry,” Lorraine said, sipping her own drink, “if you only knew how I waited for this time.” Tears came to her eyes.

  The husky rocketeer got up and put his arm around his wife.

  “It’s been an eight year grind, baby, but we’ve got enough credits now to last us. We can live like we want to. Believe me, Lorraine, the only rocketing we’ll ever do is on Interplanetary’s liners—no more races.”

  The video interrupted them. “Two gentlemen to see you, Captain Carling.”

  “Send them up,” Berry said curtly. “Damn,” he turned to his wife, “what the devil do they want now. The races have two days yet. We’re supposed to relax. Do they think a Lunar race is a joke? I’ll really be fagged when it’s done.”

  “Maybe another advertiser, Berry. Tell them we don’t want any. We’ve got enough credits now to choke a spaceman.”

  There was a knock and Berry opened the door. Two well dressed men stepped in. The tall one said: “Captain Carling?”

  “Yes,” Berry nodded cordially.

  Lorraine had gone into the other room.

  “We’ll come to the point,” the tall man said. His hands were in his pockets. “Would you like to make a million credits, Captain? We know this is your last race according to the ’casters. We’re prepared to give you a draft on National One or cash, whichever you prefer.”

  Berry looked at the man in amazement. His face turned red. His voice was soft when he spoke, but the anger strained through.

  “You want to dope the fuel, eh?”

  “If you like to call it that, Captain. We prefer to say we’d like to assist you. Our chemists have done an excellent job.” The man was all suavity, all coolness, as if he was discussing a straight business proposition rather than a rocket race fix.

  “Get out,” Berry said in a low controlled voice, “get out!”

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” the tall man said thoughtfully, “but I’m afraid this is one race you won’t win!” He turned on his heel and he and his companion were gone.

  Lorraine dashed from the next room. “Darling,” she said excitedly, “get the police!” But Berry was already on the video . . .

  * * *

  Berry crouched in his speedster, hardly able to wriggle, his body a mass of tapped and padded flesh, insulated against the extravagant accelerations he was undergoing. The first lap was done and on his plotter he could see that number eight was still holding his substantial lead, trailed by himself. That was the poor sucker who had fallen for the syndicate’s offer. Berry was playing his usual race, but all his little strategems weren’t working. This youngster—Berry looked at the chart and saw it was some newcomer named “Eltone”—was holding a flat fifty thousand kilometer lead. No matter what Berry did, the boy kept ahead easily. It was strictly a two-man race now. Every now and then Berry flipped on his radio and heard the excited voices of the telecasters describing the event.

  Skillfully adjusting his meters, Berry tried to squeeze out more speed. But it was no use. Berry reflected on the nastiness of modern living. The authorities couldn’t get anywhere with the syndicate. It was too powerful. The police had tried it seemed but without success. Evidently this youngster ahead of him, hadn’t any qualms about accepting the “dope.” Rocket racing was becoming strictly a racket and Berry was glad this was the last one for him.

  “. . . something’s up,” the caster’s voice boomed, “number eight looks funny. Here at station four we can see his exhaust clearly. It’s bright yellow. It looks like . . . oh my God!—no!—folks, He’s going to . . .”

  Berry threw on his own video for a close-up—just in time to see the number eight speedster tremble, hang peculiarly in the video’s eye, and then erupt into a searing, tearing flame, a blossom of reddish glare which vaporized the unfortunate one, like a match-head . . .

  Berry knew he’d win this race now that the fake competition was gone, but his face was white as he thought of the foolish kid, thinking to make a fast credit by riding a fuel-enricher, instead turning into a vaporized puff of carbonized flesh. Thank God, he thought grimly, thank God, I’m getting out of it . . .

  The Witch of Adonai

  Lee Owen

  CAPTAIN John Fleming, Terra Space, ’93, pulled himself closer to the bar. He shoved his glass out.

  “Give me another—no, make it flan instead. This stuff is poison.”

  “Catchin’ on, eh?” the bartender grinned. “Drink enough of them sanors an you’ll get battier than a witch.” He poured Fleming a slug of flan.

  The bar was crowded, mostly with rugged miners and survey men who were doing the layout work for the new port This part of the city of Adonai was really an excrescence on the greater bulk of old Adonai. Since the discovery of uranium on Tethys, the Saturnian moon was being swamped in big projects.

  Fleming’s brows knitted. He tapped the bartender on the arm as he started to move away.

  “Say, what the devil do they mean by ‘witch’ around here? Everybody keeps dropping remarks. I’m new. I don’t get the pitch.”

  The bartender laughed.

  “It’s just a sayin’ ” he said agreeably. “Of course there’s lots a talk about telepaths and teleports, but nobody ever sees one. They always say ‘my brother’ or ‘my uncle’—somebody else always sees ‘em. I heard talk, but I ain’t seen none myself.”

  Fleming turned away musing about the idiosyncrasies of humans, who always looked for the mysterious in the commonplace.

  His eyes fell on a strange tableau. A gnome-like man, little, wizened and old, was sitting at a crowded table. Suddenly by his side, a burly miner stood up, swung his arm around and brought a burly haymaker against the man’s cheek.

  The little man fell like a pole-axed ox. He lay still for about three seconds, it seemed. Fleming half-arose in his seat to challenge the bruiser, but just then the little man arose a bit unsteadily to his feet. The room was quiet.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said shakily, his face white with anger.

  “I don’t like your remarks,” the other said viciously.

  Calmly the little man reached in his pocket and brought out a little—Fleming couldn’t quite make it out. There was a flare of brilliant light, a cloud of smoke, and a thunderous roar. In a crazy distorted way, the room shivered briefly, and Fleming thought he caught a glimpse of the little man in the doorway.

  The burly miner lay on the floor. One glance and Fleming knew he was dead.

  The room became an uproar then and Fleming decided to leave before the Agents came. As he walked out the door unmolested by the milling crowd trying to get a look at the dead miner, his foot kicked something. He bent down and picked up the object. It was a simple wooden box about four inches cube. It was open on one end. Fleming looked in. There was absolutely nothing there—yet it was the box that the man had withdrawn from his pocket. Faintly, fading rapidly and barely visible to the eye was Adonai . . .” it said . . .

  Waterproof!

  Lee Owen

  “I TELL YOU gentlemen, this is the millenium!”

  Flare-haired Granger Z. Lane, artiste and “creator” gestured toward the model standing in the center of the studio—“Granger Designs, Inc.”—oh the two hundredth floor of the Farnsworth Building.

  Clarice pivoted and pirouetted before the reporters, her lovely blue suit short and tailored after the style of the “New Century Look”.

  Granger struck a pose. He nodded to an assistant.

  “Watch this, gentlemen,” he said imperiously, “the girl’s clothes are absolutel
y waterproof!” Half-bored the reporters watched this demonstration of the new fabric test-tube stuff—that was to revolutionize all fabrics. But they were used to Granger’s extravagances. He was always announcing something revolutionary—which usually turned out to be quite different, and that’s all.

  The assistant picked up a hose and calmly began to spray the model with the stream of water which he released. Lila Grayson, blase society reporter for the WSSK Video, even looked surprised.

  “Zee-Zee,” she admitted, “You’ve actually done it!” For in spite of the stream of water playing against her clothes, Clarice remained perfectly dry except for her legs, down which the dripping water ran.

  The soiree broke up shortly afterwards, with everyone commenting on the beauty of the clothes which withstood the water so well. “No one will ever wear anything but “Syn-lon” from now on,” Granger said pompously.

  Clarice wandered delicately through the studio doors to the sun-porch. It was raining heavily. This would provide the final test.

  As Clarice stepped outside, nothing happended for a moment. As models do everywhere, Clarice struck a statuesque pose, allowing the rain to play against her face and neck. She was the Goddess of the storm and Zee-Zee was her high priest.

  And then before the astonished eyes of all—but particularly Zee-Zee—Clarice abruptly appeared as naked as the day she was born. It didn’t happen at once. Her suit and flimsy underthings melted from her, so to speak, running down and mingling with the water.

  For a moment she didn’t realize what was happening. She glanced down then and saw! Simultaneously the crowd of reporters burst into laughter and Clarice saw Zee-Zee tearing at his hair. With a gasp at the realization of her nudity, she fled from the porch through the studio into the dressing room, her face, and other fascinating portions of her anatomy, a bright red.

  Belton, of the Boston Video clapped Granger on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry Zee-Zee,” he shouted over the tumultuous laughter, “just remember rainwater always has a little acid in it! Some chemist, you!”