The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Whose business is it?” Ted Tyndall retorted with a jealous smirk.

  “Where is she?” Allison clutched the fellow by the shoulder.

  “Damn it, what’s the difference!” Tyndall snarled. “You’re nothing to her. Lay off—”

  Ted Tyndall sprawled to the ground without ever knowing what hit him. Other members of the party hurried up to Allison.

  “She and some of the others went off with a fellow in a shiny white suit—a sort of big shot—”

  “Which way?” Allison fairly screamed.

  “Up toward that striped door.”

  The men swarmed after Allison as he raced up the red rock path. He bounded against the striped metal panel. It opened inward. Blackness. Blackness and a strangely sweet smell like old flowers pressed in a book.

  “Your flashlight,” Allison barked at one of the men.

  “It’s dead.”

  “Then keep the door open for me—but don’t breathe any of the air.” Allison took a breath, entered, groped along the jagged walls, lost himself in the blackness. In two minutes he was back, bearing a dead body. It was the one-armed man.

  He caught his breath and rushed back in. Another man followed him. Two minutes—three—The other man returned empty-handed. Three and a half minutes—four—Allison stumbled out again, also empty-handed. He started to speak but fainted instead, and for a minute or two he was out.

  “It’s a death trap,” the other man gasped. “We located three more bodies—the old man, the Negro, and fat Tubby. Didn’t find the girl, did you, Allison?” Allison shook his head. He breathed heavily, got up on his knees.

  “I’m going back,” he muttered.

  “Give yourself a rest,” said the man who had accompanied him. “Let someone else go.”

  The man’s eyes turned to the sideshow barker, who quickly excused himself.

  “I’ve got a weak heart,” said the barker. “Let Tyndall go. He’s got a crush on the girl.”

  Ted Tyndall sneered. “The girl ain’t in there.”

  “How do you know?” Allison growled, pulling himself to his feet dizzily.

  “I saw the big shot lead her on down that path,” said Tyndall.

  Allison bit his lips to keep from flying into a white rage. He looked down at the corpse of the one-armed man.

  “Leave the other bodies where they are,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”

  “And where are you going?” asked a slave with single stripes over his shoulders. Allison made no answer.

  The one-striper snapped in an authoritative tone, “I have orders for thirteen new men. Get yourselves into these slave uniforms and memorize this list of rules. You are to be on the floor of the sales cavern in time to catch the funeral crowd. You’ve got less than two hours, and these rules are complicated, so get busy.”

  Allison grabbed the pile of slave uniforms and hurled them across the red rock floor.

  “I’ll take this up with the boss!” he said. “Where do I find him?”

  “At the end of this path,” said the one-striper, “but it’s your neck.”

  CHAPTER IV

  A Female Slave

  “The brains of this set-up,” Allison muttered to himself as he sprinted.

  “A look behind the scenes—”

  He stopped. Not twenty-five yards ahead of him the red rock path abruptly turned into an ornate entrance in the rock wall. Under red lights, the red stone carvings of the doorway glowed like a filigree of burning vines.

  “The boss likes luxury,” thought Allison.

  Hum of motors came from within the place, smooth rhythmic sounds, music to one who appreciates fine machinery. A strangely discordant sound came from somewhere overhead. A ragged tap—tap—tap on stone. Allison looked up.

  His eyes beheld a solitary figure coming down a zigzag path. Where the trail came from Allison had no idea, but obviously it connected some other part of the maze of caverns to this red rock sanctuary of the big boss.

  The solitary figure was a stone’s throw above Allison, with several switchbacks to go before he got down to the red rock level on which Allison stood. Though he tapped along at a lively gait, apparently he was an old, old man—no, a Dazzalox.

  His yellow face was wrinkled. His coppery hair hung long and uneven, his double eyebrows almost concealed his tiny eyes, although his head was bent downward. The tapping came from a bright copper-colored sword which he used as a cane.

  All this Allison caught in a glance. “That can’t be the big boss,” he muttered. He ran on.

  RING BEFORE ENTERING

  Allison was in no mood to heed signs. He had a single purpose: to make certain June O’Neil was alive and safe. He had thrown all caution to the roofs of the caverns. Now he dashed through the doorway and down a long glass-walled corridor. To his amazement this place was electrically lighted and had all the look of a gigantic subterranean power station.

  “June!” he shouted. “June O’Neil!” His voice sang off into the hum of machines. He ran past room after room, and the passing sights fairly took his breath. Everywhere were manifestations of power.

  “June O’Neil!”

  No answer but the grinding of automatic engines came back, rolling out yards of shining metal goods. Ladles pouring molten red metal into ingots. Presses stamping out silvery ornaments. Charts of space routes flashing in neon. Automatic jewel cutters playing with precious stones under violet spotlights. Allison raced on. His voice rang weirdly.

  He stopped to listen. Footsteps sounded dangerously behind him. He whirled to see a one-striper swing a club at his head. He went down.

  His consciousness flashed back almost at once—before his captor got his hands and feet tied, in fact—but he was too helpless to struggle.

  “Awake, eh? Hate to do this, brother,” he heard the human slave mumble, “but orders are orders. Kilhide doesn’t tolerate any rebellion.”

  Allison grunted sourly. “That would be his name.”

  “The big boss’ll have something to say to you. And then, if I was you, I’d get into a slave uniform like I was told.”

  The slave picked up Allison bodily and carried him back through the corridors to a brilliantly lighted room.

  “Here’s your rebel, Mr. Kilhide,” said the one-striper. He eased Allison to the carpeted floor. Then at a flick of the finger from the big boss in the farther end of the room, he went out.

  Allison got his slightly blurred eyes into focus—and gasped. There before him sat the most imperious, the most uncommonly handsome individual he had ever seen. Dark, luxurious hair, swept back rebelliously over a sensitive brow. Chiseled, somewhat disdainful nostrils. A smooth, creamy brown complexion that was yet a little too smooth, a little too bland. And large brown eyes, intelligent, magnetic, which sparkled even in repose—but sparkled with malice.

  If Kilhide heard Allison’s little gasp of astonishment, however, he ignored it completely. It was only too evident that there was someone or something in the other end of the long room with which the big boss was preoccupied. With the man’s first words Allison understood.

  “Now, Miss O’Neil, you realize how lucky you are that I brought you here instead of sending you with the others,” said the smooth oily voice.

  Lester Allison gave a deep sigh. To know that June O’Neil was alive was cooling water to his thirsty soul. He could breathe again. The knots cut his wrists and ankles, his head hummed with pain where the club had struck him, but these things were trifles. June O’Neil was alive!

  By squirming about Allison could see her at the farther end of the sumptuous parlor. She was looking at him; her dark eyes glistened and her firm breasts heaved. Allison could hear her strained breathing.

  “Don’t mind that wretch, my dear,” said Kilhide, jerking a thumb toward Allison. “I get a problem child or two with every boatload. One snap of my fingers and they line up. More coffee? That’s my own brand.”

  Allison had hated this man enough, sight unseen. But to find him a devil
ishly handsome American, gloating in riches gained from selling his fellow Americans into slavery—and now trying to twist this innocent girl around his little finger—well, it was enough to inflame Allison to an orgy of murder. But just now all he could do was listen. The big shot apparently wasn’t aware that his unctuous voice carried through the room.

  “As I was saying, Miss O’Neil—June, if you don’t mind—my fabulous wealth and my unlimited powers have come to me because I’m smart. I know exactly how to play ball with these wealthy old Dazzalox potentates. From the day I cracked up with my trial rocket ship fifty years ago, I’ve played to their whims like nobody’s business. Because I’m smart.”

  “I see,” said June O’Neil, trying not to let her eyes drift toward Allison.

  “I give them everything they want. They give me everything I want. At first they were going to make a slave of me, but I convinced them they could have many more slaves if they would help me build a ship. I lost my first robot ship, but the second brought home the bacon.”

  “Why didn’t you go back yourself?” the girl asked.

  “To the earth? Hell, what’s the earth got that I haven’t got! Nothing but more stupid people.”

  “Oh.” June shuddered to think that any human being could be so saturated with hate and egotism. She wanted to run, but she only sat, frozen, keeping one eye on Lester Allison.

  “I suppose you think I can’t keep up with the earth’s scientific developments, living alone down here among these numbskulls,” Kilhide said.

  June didn’t answer. She was terrified, and obviously there was no way to break out of this situation.

  “Well, you’re wrong,” said Kilhide. “I get new ideas from every boatload of slaves. There are always some newspapers in the men’s pockets, and scientific discoveries are now regularly reported in the press. Whatever the earth is building I eventually find out about—and duplicate. And do a better job of it, because my various red and black metals are superior to any steels or tungstens on the earth. Besides,” the man stroked his little trick mustache, “I’m smart.”

  “Mr. Kilhide,” the girl rose and spoke boldly, “do me a favor.”

  “I’m doing you a favor, child. I’m going to marry you.”

  The girl shrank back to her chair.

  “What more could you ask?” said Kilhide with an arrogant smile. And he was that egotistical that he meant it.

  “Send me back to the earth,” said the girl weakly.

  Kilhide snorted. “Earth! That’s a helluva thing to ask! You told me you ran away from home. Well, you’re away. Stay here. It’s healthy. You can live for hundreds of years. The food gives you what you need to keep young. I’ve got everything you need”—he made an elegant gesture toward the luxurious furnishings of the room—“to keep you happy. And I mean, happy.”

  He came close to June and tried to gather her fingers into his hands. She drew back. He laughed.

  “You’re afraid, child. You needn’t be. Those rock-sleepers, the Dazzalox, won’t know you’re here, for they rarely come back to this end of the caverns. And the human slaves won’t dare bother you.”

  Kilhide broke off his rhapsody to cast a glance at Allison, whom he had considered to be out of hearing.

  He growled, “What are you gawking at?”

  He flung a mesh-covered sofa pillow at Allison’s head, then strode down the room and painstakingly packed it against the other’s face with a disdainful foot.

  “I’m doing you a favor, June,” Kilhide resumed in his confidential voice when he had walked back to her. “Of all the women the robot ship has brought here, not a one has been allowed to live more than a few minutes after arriving. In fact, the Dazzalox have never even seen an Earth woman.” A ragged tap-tap-tap sounded dimly from a corridor.

  “Strange you didn’t sell women for slaves,” June O’Neil said a little sharply-

  “Not at all,” said Kilhide, too conceited to note the sarcasm. “Men have made perfect slaves. No use upsetting an established system. The Dazzalox like their traditions let alone.”

  “Moreover,” the speaker again stroked his trick mustache, “since none of the women who came were both beautiful and intelligent, I’ve saved myself any annoyance by quickly disposing of them—painlessly”

  The girl winced. The tap-tap-tapping grew closer. Kilhide was too intent upon his purpose to notice it.

  “You think me cruel, I suppose, but you’re wrong. I’m just being practical . . . More coffee?”

  “Please. It so strengthens one, you know,” June almost hissed.

  Kilhide started toward an adjoining room for more of his prided beverage.

  “By the time I return, I expect you to say that you are ready to marry me.”

  “The answer will still be ‘no’,” said June O’Neil. “But definitely.” Kilhide flushed. “May I politely remind you of the striped door we passed a short time ago?”

  June fought the surge of anger within her.

  “You may,” she said shortly. “But first—the coffee, please?”

  By this time Allison had shaken out from under the metallic pillow sufficiently to see the red flush that leaped to Kilhide’s face. That haughty individual hesitated uncertainly in the doorway, then stomped into the adjoining room.

  On the instant June was at Allison’s side, tugging at the tough cords that bit into his wrists. She wrenched her fingers, but the cords were stubborn and time was too short.

  “Don’t cross him,” Allison whispered tensely. “He murders as easy as he lies—Get away!”

  June sprang away and appeared to be innocently examining a picture when the white-suited figure came back into the room. At the same moment a grizzled old Dazzalox with ragged, copper-colored hair hobbled in from the corridor.

  “Jo-jo-kak!” Kilhide exclaimed in a disturbed voice.

  Allison held his breath. Though he knew that the human slaves feared the savage Dazzalox as one might fear a cruel or stupid employer, it took that startled tone of the big shot himself to convey the full value of the Dazzalox prestige.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure!” Kilhide’s enthusiasm rang falsely. He quickly changed his mood to one of gentle reprimand.

  “You shouldn’t be here. Today is your funeral—your farewell. Did you forget?”

  “Ak-ak-ak!” the old Dazzalox chuckled hoarsely. Then in broken English he announced that he had come to tell Kilhide farewell personally. He hadn’t learned the language for nothing, he said.

  Kilhide met him with a handshake and started to lead him back toward the corridor, but the wizened old Jo-jo-kak stood in his tracks and continued to shake hands—continued unconsciously until Kilhide pulled away. For Jo-jo-kak’s beady little yellow eyes were now upon June O’Neil.

  His eyes glittered and his double eyebrows blinked.

  The rest of the world could roll into the boiling seas, but Jo-jo-kak’s eyes would not unfasten from what they were seeing.

  “Who be this?” he grunted.

  “You’ll have to hurry to get back for your farewell,” said Kilhide nervously.

  “Who be this?” Jo-jo-kak growled, shaking his copper locks.

  “I—I’ll have some slaves take you back to the Grand March,” Kilhide evaded. “You’re due now, and it’s a long walk for you.”

  “WHO BE THIS?” The quaking old voice attained a genuine roar. The wrinkled old creature swaggered closer to the girl. He patted her black hair and her full graceful arms with his unsteady sword.

  “Female slave?” he yelped.

  Kilhide reached for a bell and rang for assistance.

  “So! Female slave,” Jo-jo-kak crackled. “Ak-ak-ak!”

  He dragged the sword down along the side of her dress, down to her shapely ankle. June walked back a step. He followed, and with his crude hand he caught her hair. She cried out. He jumped back with a ridiculous laugh. “Ak-ak-ak! I want her!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Kilhide snarled. “Go on back.”

  “I
buy her. How much?”

  The sweat broke out on Kilhide. “Buy” was a magic word between him and the Dazzalox. It was the magic that fixed things for him, and saved him from the Dazzalox’ savage moods.

  “You can’t buy her, Jo-jo-kak.

  You’re leaving. This is your day to die.”

  “No! I want her!”

  With that the old Dazzalox potentate broke into a violent jabber that neither June O’Neil nor Lester Allison could understand, but from Kilhide’s growing perspiration they knew that Jo-jo-kak held the high cards.

  Some one-striped slaves arrived. The old Dazzalox turned to them and restated his case with renewed vigor, waving his copper-colored sword. Then he hobbled back to Kilhide and shouted in an accusing tone:

  “Maybe you want her, so? Yes? She yours?”

  “Yes,” Kilhide hissed desperately. “No!” cried June desperately. “Not in a million years!”

  “Ak-ak-ak!” the old Dazzalox exulted. “She say she not yours! Ak-ak-ak! I want her!”

  The sting of the girl’s open rejection blasted Kilhide’s composure. He bit his words hatefully.

  “Jo-jo-kak, she is your slave. No, I’m not selling her. I’m making you a gift. She’s yours. See?”

  Jo-jo-kak went into a weird spasm of laughing and dancing and shouting. Then suddenly he stopped and turned to a slave.

  “Go,” he shouted. “Tell them there is no farewell. I do not die today.”

  CHAPTER V

  Underground Penthouse

  The slaves chased away with the strange command Jo-jo-kak had uttered, and the wizened old Dazzalox strutted out to the corridor, the proudest creature in the chasms of Mercury.

  He accosted another slave and ordered him to go find his wife and bring her here at once. For June O’Neil had forcibly stated that Jo-jo-kak’s wife[*] would have to accompany them, or she would refuse to go—a bit of swift thinking and stout bluffing on her part.