The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

“Give me a rest!” Sasho bawled harshly, still looking after the girl.

  “What’s Mercury to me?”

  “But you spoke of making arrangements before launching the big plan—”

  “Hell, the plan don’t launch till September, Earth time. That’s most of four months off. Keep him on tap. I’ll get around to him.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “Peace”—Dictator Style

  Day after day Lester Allison was conducted from his lodging place to the capital. Day after day he boiled with inward resentment. He felt like taking a knockout punch at everyone who came near him.

  Everyone hated the earth. The hatred was almost a religion with these people. It was the very backbone of the gigantic destructive plan everyone was glowing about.

  Lester Allison didn’t hate the earth. He began to realize for the first time what it meant to him. He thought constantly of June and the other eight comrades he had left in Mercury. They had thrilled to the thought of starting a fresh new civilization. But what a sick bunch they would be if they knew the awful fate that was being planned for the earth.

  “Destruction is the Way to Power.” Allison read the words daily on the capital arch. That, indeed, was the core of the Sasho philosophy. Four months of waiting and observing were convincing proof.

  Little by little Allison began to grasp what had happened here. From what he had picked up on the S-20, at the lodging house, and from every contact in the capital as he was passed along from one official to another, he began to piece together the story.

  It was the story of brutal conquest by a few men—criminals who had arrived here from the earth forty years ago and set about to kill everybody they couldn’t convert to their cause. And their cause was the destruction of anything and everyone that stood between them and the wealth and power they coveted. Ultimately they would take their vengeance out on the entire planet.

  Forty years of this had transformed the once-peaceful Venusians into a brutalized, degraded people. Originally this nucleus of American criminals had established themselves as the Cutthroat Colony. But their young leader, who grew up from childhood in their ranks to become the personification of their evil doings, changed the name to the Sasho Empire and gave its seven hundred Cutthroats all the class and swagger of a rich pirate crew.

  Allison was not long in learning to tell who were the native Venusians. They were the ones with the greenish-gray pigment, the stubbiest hands, the flattest noses. But there were many half-castes. Most of the capital crowd were these, as were the warriors he had seen aboard the S-20.

  Allison was not surprised to learn that the seven hundred Cutthroats had had large families from Venusian wives. This had been an important strategy in the expansion of the colony. Now the conquered cities abounded with children and grandchildren traceable to Cutthroat paternity.

  “The rebels against the Sasho Empire have been reduced to a negligible quantity,” the secretary of the diplomatic service explained to Allison as they waited for the interview with Sasho.

  Most of the rebellious Venusians had fled to the Jagged Mountains, and were harmless; but Sasho still enjoyed searching them out and torturing them, which of course was good fun for everybody, the secretary said.

  Allison nodded. He was beginning to understand. Cruelty and brutality and killing were things to be enjoyed, according to the Sasho way of thinking.

  “But what happened to the seven hundred Cutthroats?” Allison asked.

  The secretary explained that many had died in the past forty years, but those who were left were busy enjoying the fruits of their conquests.

  “They’re all right here in the capital building. Want to see them?”

  The secretary led the way to a large hall in the basement floor. The door was marked:

  CUTTHROAT CONGRESS

  ALWAYS IN SESSION

  ENTER AT YOUR RISK

  It was a foul-smelling place and Allison did not stay long. But he caught a glimpse of the dozens of old men, many of them sumptuously dressed, busy at poker games and bars and shooting contests or other less palatable diversions.

  “They’re not the sure shots they used to be,” said the secretary, “but they still have their fun. Sasho sends them all the green-faced rebels that are caught in the Jagged Mountains. They take care of them, gangster-style, and the treasury furnishes them all the ammunition they need.”

  At that moment the loudspeaker boomed a call for the ambassador from Mercury to report at the throne. The secretary ushered Allison up to the oval room in a hurry.

  “Better give the Emperor what he wants,” were the secretary’s parting words of advice.

  Allison marched across the room to the throne. In the excitement of the moment, he forgot to stop and bow. The whip cracked him on the bare arm and blood gathered on his triceps. The mocking laughter died away and he heard Sasho’s grating voice.

  “Come up, my friend. Don’t mind my little joke. I like to whip first and explain afterwards.”

  Allison mounted the steps slowly, meeting Sasho’s hard narrow eyes. He mounted with fists and teeth clenched. A square slap at that ugly face would be an appropriate little joke of his own.

  Allison restrained himself. Those flashes of light from Sasho’s jeweled fingers somehow reminded him that here was power—power built out of the glory of murder and robbery—power that could reach out to the earth or to Mercury—

  “All right, open up!” Sasho growled, and the chains in his voice were tight. “I’m in no mood to ask questions. Sit down there and cut loose. I want to know what you’ve got down in Mercury. And don’t skip nothing!”

  “We’ve got plenty!” Allison retorted.

  He took the seat at the side of the black marble desk and began. Disregarding the growing jealousy in Sasho’s eyes, he unleashed his imagination. He built up a dictator who was a man of steel. He constructed a kingdom in the bowels of Mercury that would have turned any military power in the universe green with envy.

  Sasho’s breathing became heavy. He glanced around the oval room to the desks, from which important staff members were watching this conference with keen interest. Sasho touched a button and the circular walls descended. He fingered an orange cigarette, without lighting it, crumpled it in his hand.

  “Your dictator will be branching out to other planets,” he prodded.

  Allison shook his head. “Positively not. He’s a radical on that point. No outside aggressions. An unbreakable defense against invaders.”

  Sasho grew easier. “Him and I should team up.”

  Allison had no ready reply. His bluff had carried him into deep water and he had a feeling there were shoals ahead.

  “Well, what about it?” Sasho snarled. “Are you big enough to fix it?”

  “What’s the point in teaming up?” said Allison. “The Sasho Empire seems to be doing all right as it is.”

  Sasho got up and walked twice around his desk, picked up a telephone and barked an order. A moment later an attendant entered the throne room, deposited a tray, and went out. On the tray were scraps of red and black metals that had been brought back from Mercury.

  “I hear this stuff is cheap where you come from.”

  Allison didn’t answer.

  “We’ve had our scientists chawing on it since the hour you got here. They say the Sasho Empire ought to have some metal with the stand-up that this has got. We could use it in our business. We could use oodles and gobs and shiploads of it.”

  Sweat was breaking out on Allison’s face. “The raw ore is pretty heavy stuff to cart around in space ships.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Sasho agreed. “All right. We could come down to Mercury and set up a little ore mill or two. Just give us an out-of-the-way corner. Your dictator couldn’t kick on that. Him and I would be pals.”

  Allison was on thin ice. “What does Mercury get out of it?”

  “Protection.”

  “We don’t need it. As I explained, we’re well fixed to take care of ourselv
es,” Allison bluffed.

  “Maybe.” Sasho’s eyes took on a happy murderous gleam. He lit a cigarette. “Did you ever stop to figure out this solar system is getting closer together, with space ships improving right along? The universe is getting closer together, and it’s getting more dangerous. Ain’t it?”

  “Perhaps,” Allison admitted.

  “And it’s gonna get a helluva lot more dangerous.” Sasho sat down to look at Allison squarely. “See here, I want to know something about you and I want it straight. Are you in a position to bind your dictator to an agreement?”

  Allison pressed at the back of his chair to keep from squirming. “As I told you,” he said coolly, “my dictator doesn’t like making outside agreements.”

  “What he likes ain’t the point!” Sasho growled. “You’re his ambassador. What I want to know is whether you’ve got the power to bind him to an alliance. Have you or ain’t you?”

  Allison saw that he was between the devil and the deep sea, with the devil crowding him dangerously. If he should say that he had the authority to make alliances, Sasho would hound him—perhaps torture him—into making one.

  But if Allison should say that he didn’t have the authority, Sasho would send another expedition straight back to Mercury to get someone who could make commitments. And then the whole bluff would burst and Mercury would be lost. And Allison’s comrades and his dream of life and June—

  “I have the authority,” said Allison in measured words, “to make—or refuse to make—alliances.”

  “All right. We’ll draw up an alliance,” Sash snapped.

  “The hell we will!” Allison exploded, coming to his feet.

  Impulsively he seized a chunk of red metal off the tray, swung it in his fist defiantly.

  “I was kidnaped and thrown aboard your space ship, I was brought to Venus in handcuffs, I was whipped as I came up to this throne. Do you think I’m in any mood to grant favors?”

  Allison slammed the metal down on the black marble table savagely and the chips of marble flew.

  Sasho’s hand fell on his black bull whip. He sized Allison up and down. He sneered and gave a low inarticulate growl. He released the whip and touched a button.

  The walls rose, the big oval room again surrounded them. With a toss of his head Sasho signalled to someone among the throng.

  A moment later six brightly uniformed, hard-faced officers bowed over the rug, marched up to the throne, stood at stiff attention.

  “Our ambassador from Mercury is not in the mood to make agreements today,” said Sasho, oiling the rusty chains of his voice with mockery. “Take him with you on your flame-cloud jaunt—and see that he comes back all cheered up.”

  Almost before Allison had time to catch his breath, he found himself aboard the S-37, plunging through the skies straight for the earth.

  CHAPTER V

  Ironic Doom

  The S-37 was well loaded with Sasho’s men—six dashing officers, several venerable old Cutthroats, and a number of bright-eyed young novices at the arts of murder and destruction, being rewarded for their progress by this gala excursion.

  The eyes of young and old alike drilled Allison with a hungry, murderous gleam. To them he was a prize cake that they were forbidden to slice.

  And how they would have loved to slice him! But he had to be returned whole to Sasho.

  At first Allison had only the vaguest conception of what might happen to him before his return. The talk was hazy, ominous. He was in for something juicy, they hinted. He’d be transformed, he’d be purged of his conceit, he’d come back a piece of putty in Sasho’s hands. And he’d go back to his Mercurian dictator and the militant millions with a nice little heartrending story that would win them over to Sasho.

  Look how the Mars ambassadors had softened up—two of them had come through beautifully. The third one had got a chill in his belly and gone suicide on them. But what the devil, two scared emissaries had been enough to pull the Mars rulers into line. Yes, you’re damned right, old Sasho’s got technique!

  Allison got a clear notion of what was coming only when one of the officers produced some newspaper clippings.

  The black headlines were all over the front page. Officers and passengers gathered around while one of their number read the story with ribald glee. The paper had been picked up in America immediately after the first gas-flamer excursion of four months ago.

  Through the bombastic uproar of the listeners, Allison caught the gist of the story:

  METEOROID BLAZES PATH OF DEATH! . . .

  Oct. 10 (Nationwide News).—Horrible death descended almost instantaneously upon hundred of thousands of persons today, when a swift visitor from the skies believed to be a gas-bearing meteoroid shot across three central states, accompanied by an explosion of unparalleled dimensions.

  Cities and rural districts through a one-hundred-mile strip are tonight a vast mass of flames. Upwards of a million people have been made homeless. Aid is being rushed to uncounted numbers of injured, said to be in a state of living death as a result of burns and severe shock.

  The nation’s entire Red Cross and Army emergency resources are on their way to relieve the vast suffering.

  Witnesses to the disaster vary in their accounts of the descent of the meteoroid. Some claim to have glimpsed a dark streak that raced across the sky from horizon to horizon. There is general agreement that a long bluish cloud boiled downward toward the earth’s surface during the fifteen or twenty seconds before the terrific explosion burst.[1]

  Astronomers are digging through records of centuries past, trying in vain to find a parallel for this rare stellar phenomenon.

  The fires raging tonight can be seen from seven different states, glowing high into the heavens. Communication lines are practically nonexisent. A survey made by Nationwide News disclosed an unbelievable toll in human misery and farm and property damage, with bridges, state highways and telephone and telegraph lines literally wiped out.

  The officer who had produced the newspaper clippings pasted them on the wall of the cabin, so that everyone could have the savage satisfaction that the black headlines afforded.

  “ ‘Probable Act of God!’ ” the officer grinned, reading further. “What a wallop Sasho got out of that when I showed it to him.”

  There was more uproarious laughter, and someone wondered what kind of gag the earth newspapers would think up after this visitation. And what would they say when another excursion the S-44—came within six hours after this one? And what would they say a few days later when Sasho turned loose his whole fleet?

  “They’ll think the end of the world has come!” someone roared.

  “Which it sure has, for them!” another agreed.

  There was one female aboard the S-37, a fluffy-haired girl who once might have been attractive. Allison learned that she had angered the Emperor by a trifling remark. Now she was being sent back to the earth.

  The girl went from corner to corner of the cabin in tears of rage, and the officers followed her about, making no end of sport at her expense. They made her believe they’d been ordered to kill her. She fought when anyone came near her, and cried and cursed—

  Plop! An officer pasted a handful of tape over her mouth. Zip! Another officer roped her, and tied her hands and feet, and they tossed her onto a bench. She struggled helplessly.

  There was more talk of how best to murder the girl, and more roughhouse and horseplay. They grabbed her up and tossed her back and forth like a basketball, and bounced her against the wall—and then told her to cool off and take it easy and stop her blubbering.

  Suddenly the pilot’s voice came through the speakers, reminding them that they were well into the earth’s gravitational sphere. The horseplay stopped. The officers unbound the girl, made her get into a space suit and helmet and parachute harness.

  “Sasho’s orders,” said an officer. “Sorry to say, we don’t get to kill you.”

  The officer explained that the girl had plenty of oxy
gen for a long fall—and she’d have a long fall! When she descended deep enough into the earth’s atmosphere, the space parachute would open automatically.

  The girl’s send-off was a final volley of ridicule. They hoped she landed in mid-ocean or in a desert or in the top of a tall tree. She fought to the last, still deceived into thinking that she would fall to her death. The officers knew better. She would land somewhere in mid-North America, as Sasho had commanded.

  She fell through the lock-equipped disposal chute, and that was the last that Allison or any of the others ever saw of her.

  The officers turned their talents now to Allison. They removed his handcuffs, asked him what he was sore about, threatened to beat him to death. He knew it was simply a threat; they knew he knew, and it angered them. They felt an urge toward a fist fight. They cleared the center of the room and forced him into a brawl.

  The first two officers went sprawling. Allison’s arms concealed a surprising wallop. He had grown up on a farm and had developed a lot of hard-hitting energy. But the remaining four officers pounced in on him, and soon he went down under a battery of clubbing.

  “We’re s’posed to cheer him up, boys!” they taunted, laying on with blows. “Cheer him up for Sasho! Come on, you lads!”

  The younger generation of passengers piled in. Now and then one fell back, cooled by a near knockout. But Allison knew the best he could hope to do was to keep his face from being smashed to a pulp. He played defensive. Had he done more, his clubbers would have resorted to their weapons.

  Again the pilot’s amplified voice interrupted the cruel roughhouse.

  “We are approaching the earth. Time to get set for action!”

  Order was restored on the spot. The officers straightened their uniforms, donned fresh orange sashes, manned their posts. The passengers crowded the rear windows. The big moment they had come to watch was drawing near. Everyone was tense. Eyes were alight with the glitter of cruelty.

  Allison, again in handcuffs, smeared his bleeding face against his shoulder and tried to shake out of his grogginess. Things happened fast now. It was all he could do to catch the drift.