The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Blotchup tossed his head toward General Blegoff. “The boss can answer that one.”

  A slap took the speaker across the mouth. Blegoff stood defiantly as the group of hard faces accused him; he drew back the hand that wielded a pistol as easily as it slapped. “All right,” he snarled. “Lippen went soft and I let him have it. Got anything to say about it?”

  “You’re damned right!” Duboval shouted, starting toward him. “You’ve got no right to—”

  Blegoff’s pistol came up in a flash. Blotchup crashed into him. The bullet ripped through a framed canvas on the wall. Angry men piled into the fracas, shouted down the hot tempers. This was no time for a shake-up; although every member of the inner circle realized that under the surface the dog fight for Lasher’s place was already on.

  Blegoff recovered himself with a touch of the mustache, and recaptured his advantage as spokesman. He abandoned the topic of purges. “Tomorrow noon the powers march on us. There’s only one course for us worth considering. Beat them to the jump. With this proof—” he motioned to the mess of film—“that Lasher is out of the picture, we have every right to take action. I propose we advance at once—turn our planes loose this very hour—start our tanks across Timovia.”

  A wrangle followed. At length the group came around to Duboval’s view, who reasoned: “The powers can’t attack before tomorrow noon, but they can waste a lot of energy getting ready. We’ve got a first class revolution on our hands, due to break tomorrow noon. We’ve got to quell it. All right. Before the hour of twelve we’ll radio the United Front that we’re preparing to come to terms. That will hold them off and waste their momentum. We’ll extinguish this rebellion of White Crusaders first. Then we’ll be in a position to strike the powers without warning.”

  “Suppose our message does not reach them in time?” Blegoff objected.

  “I’ll see that it does,” Duboval asserted.

  “Never mind. I’ll take that responsibility myself. However,” the number one general struggled to regain the leadership that threatened to slip out of his hands, “the crusaders who march on the palace must not know the war has been postponed. Their fear that the United Front is marching will blast their peace talk to hell.”

  There was general agreement on this point. Further wrangle on details followed. Duboval insisted that violence upon the crusaders would be unwise. It would only fan the flames. The right of Troxians to assemble before the palace had never been violated, even in this harsh regime of Gade Lasher. But General Blegoff had a plan that would quench the spirit of the peace rebels without violating the custom. The inner circle listened and accepted his plan. He gloated inwardly, sure that this clever non-violent strategy would win him the dictatorship. Then for one more purge: Doraine, Duboval, and the New Lasher.

  As Saturday dawned over the troubled continent, all Troxia trembled with roaring trains and trucks and planes, marching feet, shouting voices. Thousands of citizens sped toward the capitol, their white banners flying.

  Doraine sat in her office from an early hour. She waited in vain for a word from her master. None came; neither did any communication come from her ambassador at large, Dr. Retterlic. Despair engulfed her. She had played her nerve-wracking game day after day. Until now she had miraculously held off the official who demanded a face-to-face interview with Lasher. But now the illusion must burst. The deadline for answering the ultimatum was at hand. She could not answer it. Today Gade Lasher must crash.

  There was still one thing she could do—send the Purple Guards forth to find the New Lasher, whose identify they did not suspect, to escort him safely to the portals of the palace. If the rumors were true—if the White Crusade marched upon the palace today—this safeguard for the New Lasher would be the last official act of the already mythical lord of war.

  The girl spoke her orders to the

  Purple Guards and they departed. That was all. She was now in the hands of the fates, and, should Blegoff seize the reins, she knew well enough what her fate would be. She reread for the hundredth time a few treasured notes in Gade Lasher’s handwriting, buried her face in them, tried to cry, couldn’t. He would go down in glory, championing the highest human cause; she would go down in ignominy, bearing the brunt of a cause she hated. All sentiment had gone out of her. She stared, glassy eyed, at the throngs of people moving over the scene beyond her window.

  Far over the parade grounds that stretched before the palace portico they spread, a multicolored restless sea of humans. White banners waved, bands played, people sang and shouted for their champion.

  The right to assemble peaceably before the palace! That was one right, thought Doraine, that even Gade Lasher in all his past brutality had forgotten to revoke. And now, transformed into a prophet of peace, he would have the benefit of his oversight.

  Dust rose from below Doraine’s window. The crowds began to move back. A clamor of agitation sounded, grew to an uproar of alarm. Soldiers marched down the palace steps in tight ranks, advanced slowly but steadily into the parade ground. The disorganized throngs moved backward and outward before the rhythmic tread of feet.

  A stunt! Doraine saw through it at once. On they came, rank after rank. Blegoff’s strategy, she knew. It was he who marched these troops through the palace to crowd the White Crusaders back. Technically Blegoff was not violating the tradition, for the soldiers used no bayonets, aimed no guns. They simply marched in tight formation, as if to add their numbers to the peaceable assembly. There were a few shouts of “Stand your ground!” but no civilians stood.

  When the last regiment found its place, the mass of green uniforms filled a vast circle before the portico. To the amazement of the tightly packed thousands of White Crusaders outside this symmetrical forest of green, every soldier stood at attention, and every line of heads faced outward!

  In the face of this trick, the New Lasher appeared on the portico, escorted by the Purple Guards, and began to speak. His audience was the irregular fringe of variegated color that extended beyond the circle of solid green. The uniformed men were to all intents not a part of the audience; they were simply an obstruction over which he must talk.

  Fortunately, the loud speakers carried out to the corona of White Crusaders. They waved their white handkerchiefs as a salute, and called their applause over the heads of the soldiers who faced them. Thus the speech went forward.

  “Today Troxia lives in the insanity of war. Who of you would not trade this madness for a rich, wholesome, normal life?”

  Penetrating, vibrant notes went out over the amplifiers. The people listened, enthralled, as the marvellous peace program unfolded before them.

  “I bring you hope of peace and prosperity which you have not known in years—”

  Employees in the palace edged out onto portico to listen. Spaces around the columns filled with all manner of persons, from humble attendants to plotting members of the inner circle. Doraine found an obscure corner.

  Every word entranced her. She could hardly believe this was the same

  Gade Lasher. His closely cropped hair, clean-shaven face, crisp white suit altered his appearance radically. Even his voice was different. Powerful as it was before, it now carried a new depth and a penetrating ring beyond any voice she had ever heard. Words sang out like bells on a still night.

  “You want a great Troxia! You cannot get it out of death and destruction! You must create wealth, not destroy it! You must build—”

  The trenchant message searched to the core of every heart, awakened old forgotten longings with new hope. Here and there men in uniform strained to catch a glimpse of this fountain of power. They remembered they were human beings as well as soldiers.

  The picture of Troxia, her needs, her potentialities, grew vivid before every listener. Officers, fascinated by this new perspective, forgot their charges and turned to face the speaker. Gradually the ranks were electrified by the speaker’s irresistible dramatic power. They shifted positions to gape at the speaker in unconscious admiration
.

  “Now that I have described to you the program of industry and building and trade which will bring you security and the comforts of—”

  Clunk! The amplifiers chopped off. To most of the listening thousands the white little figure of the New Lasher became only a silent pantomime, waving his arms in the air. An airplane bearing Troxian colors roared overhead.

  A new voice sounded. “General Blegoff speaking.” He had intended to order the troops to do an about-face. It was unnecessary. “You see me standing on the second level of the palace porch, directly above the speaker to whom you have been listening. I now give you the salute.”

  Thousands of habit-conditioned arms went up in response.

  “I have an emergency message. It is twelve o’clock. At this very hour the United Front of enemy powers, jealous of the glories we have won, march upon us. To talk of peace now—”

  The Troxian plane roared closer. Blegoff lifted his voice. “To talk of peace now is to invite death!”

  Somewhere within the palace technicians of the Purple Guards worked frantically to splice freshly cut wires.

  Blegoff roared, “I demand, in the name of Troxia—”

  Unseen technicians succeeded. The New Lasher’s voice rang out over the strident cry of the general. An incoherent jumble. Then a third voice boomed into the pandemonium, as it descended from an amplifier in the airplane overhead. The crowd roared its distress; the discord was complete.

  But as the plane swooped lower, both Blegoff and Lasher stopped in surprise as they recognized the voice of the long lost Dr. Retterlic. All ears strained to the message out of the skies.

  “Your ambassador-at-large—” the words came slow and clear—brings you the official report from the United Front. The world powers, impressed by the Troxian peace movement, have agreed to withdraw their ultimatum. Heads of nations will confirm this report by radio today.”

  General Blegoff went white with anger, backed away from his microphone as the mighty cheers rose from the multitude. The ground was cut from under his feet.

  As the plane roared off, the New Lasher loosed his volcanic powers to demand that the Troxian government accept the peace program.

  “But who is the Troxian government? You are! The empire must be ruled as you dictate. Do I hear you ask, what of the iron hand of Gade Lasher? My people, let me answer the question you have been asking these many months. Gade Lasher, the lord of war, is no more!” A deathly silence held the multitude. “But before he departed this earth, he chose me, his namesake, who deplored his every act, to undo the mistakes he made. I have pledged myself to that responsibility!” A tremendous cheer. “With your support I shall take over the reins of Troxia this hour, and be your ruler until you choose to elect another. Do I have your support?”

  The vast audience instantly became a sea of flashing white waves as the thousands gave the salute of peace. Soldiers and civilians alike waved handkerchiefs and gave their voice to the victorious tumult.

  General Blegoff, now forgotten, looked down upon the scene. He had but one weapon left. He clutched it, aimed it at the little white figure below him. Then sharp pains cut through his chest—twice—and again. His handsome body crumpled. No one in the vast audience seemed to notice. Duboval’s pistol was almost silent.

  “The new regime can do without you,” said Duboval.

  Late that night after the tumult and shouting had died, three guests still remained with the New Lasher in the dictator’s historic study.

  Dr. Retterlic and the transformed Lasher held their hand-clasp for some minutes.

  “What a handicap I gave you!” the doctor said. “I never supposed you’d rise from under it. If you want it removed—”

  “No,” said Lasher. “Instead of breaking me, it made me—in more ways than one.”

  “But doesn’t it ever pain you?”

  “Like fire. But I’ve learned to endure it. And do you realize how valuable it is to my vocal equipment? It gives me a resonance I’ll never part with.”

  The great weight over the doctor’s heart lifted and vanished into thin air.

  “But tell me, Retterlic,” said the transformed dictator, “How’d you manage that miracle with the powers?”

  “Mostly through good fortune,” said Retterlic. “I found the heads of five nations meeting together, and my scientific connections lent support to my story. I pointed out the growth of the White Crusade as Troxia’s new hope. Then I assured them that Gade Lasher’s reign of hate was at an end. I proved my point with Exhibit A.”

  “Exhibit A?”

  The doctor brought a polished slab of bone from his pocket. “There lies the hatred of the world in the palm of my hand. I think I’ll go find a trophy case for this specimen. Good night.”

  “I must go, too,” said the girl, following Retterlic to the door.

  “I’ll walk down the corridor with you,” said the New Lasher. As they strolled he declared, “I’ll never find words for the gratitude I owe you, Doraine.”

  “And you a master of oratory!” she chided. She was suddenly lighthearted, carefree.

  Lasher smiled. “An orator must support his words with appropriate gestures—the use of his arms—”

  They paused in the alcove before Doraine’s door. Lasher’s arms lent themselves to the use most appropriate to the devotion that welled from his heart, the words that poured from his lips. In eager embrace the New Lasher discovered a new and very lovely Doraine—and a human emotion the old Lasher never knew.

  BEN GLEED, KING OF SPEED

  First published in Amazing Stories, December 1939

  “No man can stand such a pace,” said the council. “You’ll ruin Super City!” Stung by their words, Ben Gleed went into feverish action.

  CHAPTER I

  The Boss Gets Fired

  “This is a disagreeable task, gentlemen, but we’ve got to do something about this young race horse we call our city manager! His everlasting speed—speed—speed has gone too far!” The tight lipped man at the head of the table brought his fist down. Several of the directors nodded. Their president spoke on.

  “We founded this Super City as a gigantic advertising project for Efficio, Incorporated, and we’ve got to see it through! But we want good advertising, not bad!”

  “Yes!” some of the directors applauded.

  “We’re the last word in scientific efficiency! The world has its eyes on us. But if the facts about our population turnover ever leak out—heaven help us!” His voice took an ominous tone. “Do you realize, gentlemen, that most of our workers stay less than six months! They can’t take it. The pace is inhuman! And still, Ben Gleed isn’t satisfied!”

  President Birch lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t for a minute belittle the fine work Gleed has done. He has worked wonders. No other city manager could have rushed our ten year program through in five years. But gentlemen, you can’t slow that man up! We’ve tried—everyone of us. He’s all speed and no mercy! The heat he puts on our supervisors—actually it scares me! Where’s it going to end?”

  The board of directors sat frozen, but the answer was obvious. “Gentlemen, we’ve got to fire that man!”

  A moment’s silence, then the members voiced their agreement. No one dissented.

  “When do we fire him?” someone asked.

  “Today!” said President Birch.

  “I hate to fire a man on such short notice,” someone protested.

  “Man? He’s no man!” said another. “He’s a machine!”

  Echoes of their talk carried to the next office. Lucille, a pretty stenographer, grew weak as the shocking news struck home. Her fingers stiffened over the silent keys. Though no one knew it, Ben Gleed was her hero of heroes.

  The instant her typing stopped, a brittle automatic voice spoke. “Don’t Waste time! . . . Don’t waste time! . . . Don’t—” That was one of Ben Gleed’s efficiency devices. Angry, dazed, she groped for the keys. So they were going to fire him!

  President Birch’s v
oice came through a speaker. “Ask Mr. deed to step in before he leaves for the day.”

  Fire him because he’d done his work too well! Of all the ungrateful—“Don’t waste time! . . . Don’t waste time! . . .” The automatic voice failed to bring her out of her dizziness.

  A door flew open and Ben Gleed strode in. Impulsively she sprang up, caught him by the arm.

  “Mr. Gleed! Mr. Glee—”

  He whirled about and pulverized her with his glare. His piercing eyes turned from her frightened face to her hands that clutched his coat sleeve. She apologized and backed away.

  “Back to your typing!” he ordered with a toss of his handsome head. “You’re losing time!”

  “But Ben, they’re going to—” She caught herself too late. Ben! No one called him that. A fatal tongue-slip that proved her hidden devotion to this dynamic young executive.

  His eyes widened. “Have you gone crazy?” He seized her by the arm and pushed her back into her chair. “You’ve a good job—one of the best in Super City. Hold it. Don’t go off on any romantic tangents. They’re foolish and fatal.”

  The girl faced him ablaze with resentment—and pity! He’d coast into his crash unwarned. “President Birch wishes to see you before you leave,” she said weakly.

  He made a cognizant gesture. “I want to speak to the duds first. How many-do we deport today?”

  “Thirteen.”

  In another room he faced thirteen fatigued, dejected looking creatures—“duds”—who stared sullenly.

  “It’s the King of Speed himself!” someone whispered.

  Gleed spoke briefly, coldly. “You understand the circumstances. Super City sets the pace for the world. We demand efficient man-power. We’re forced to deport you because you’re too slow.”

  One man’s flushed face showed angry tears. A big framed, hard looking fellow spoke up in a fighting voice. “Slow! I’d like to see you run that machine that I—”

  “Save your whimpering,” the King of Speed cut in. “We’ve no sympathy for weakness here. Keep your sentiments till you get out of Super City. Then be careful how you talk. Don’t blame the machines. Blame yourselves. You’ve never worked to capacity. Go back and plow yourselves under. You’ve shot your wad and missed the mark. Super City is through with you. That’s all.”