The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  It was impossible, it was unbelievable, but it was there—inescapable. Storm-tossed waters were all about him. His feet were going down into water. He glimpsed a landless horizon.

  The only thing before his eyes that had the remotest semblance of familiarity was that innocent-looking chain of blue and red lights—

  He swung his hand back at them—barely reached them—flung his palm through the whole series that he had struck before. His stroke had the right effect. Solid earth bounded up against his feet, the blaze of the intense daylight was upon him, the ocean was gone!

  Whatever this magic stage scenery was, it was far too real for comfort. Vincent knew he was as pale as those lights had been before he struck them back to red. He felt like collapsing. But noting the great outdoors that again surrounded him, he realized that he was still far from his original laboratory surroundings.

  In other words, there were more blue lights to be touched back to red before he could walk out of this place through the same comfortable door by which he had entered.

  “It’s all done with mirrors;” he muttered cynically. And casting his eyes at the apparently distant horizon, he added. “Nobody could say that about this scene.”

  A breath-taking scene it was—from the rugged hills in the distance, to the wide sluggish river that flowed along with colored autumn leaves sifting down upon it, to the muddy ground at Vincent’s feet. That mud had come from the bit of ocean he had just picked up in his shoes and trouser legs. He was soaked to the knees.

  “Where am I?” he called out loud, trying to break out of his paralysis of astonishment. “How the hell did I knock out that ocean? . . . Oh, yes! The lights!”

  The lights were still slowly floating upward. His eyes combed them sharply and focused on the one that might restore him to the laboratory. The laboratory where the machine that gave birth to this weird circle of time-changing lights.[1] He leaped and struck at it—and missed.

  A wild terror seized him. He leaped again, and a third time. The things were rising out of range.

  Again he glanced at the vista about him, the water at his feet, the sloping hillsides, the river, the distant sunlit horizon. Fake or real, this scene was something he had to dissolve quickly or not at all. He set down the saxophone case, leaped from it—and missed. The lights were getting away from him.

  He set the case up on end, tried to climb up on it. He made two false starts, then succeeded in mounting. The string of lights was just out of reach. He leaped—and the saxophone case turned. He went down in a heap to the ground.

  That ground was the real thing—a coarse sandy soil, the kind that clings to your socks and shoes when you walk along a riverside with wet feet.

  Vincent sat down on the saxophone case, pulled his books up on his knees, and gazed heavenward. The warm sun boiled down on his face. A whiff of breeze sent a few red autumn leaves whirling past his feet. He did not see them.

  He saw nothing except the circle of luminous marbles high overhead.

  The little ring of light climbed up—up—up. Its faded lights grew fainter. At last it melted away against the background of a pearly cloud.

  CHAPTER II

  Twenty-Five Thousand Years Ago

  “A time chain,” Vincent mumbled to himself. “An infinite, universal, timeless power . . . Hmmm . . . Xandibaum’s been gone for four years, has he? Four years . . .

  Vincent lay in the warm sand and squinted his eyes at the bright sky. Slowly he removed his wet shoes and socks, never taking his eyes off the soft white clouds overhead.

  “Four years . . . Xandibaum must have liked the climate . . . Okay, he can have it. . . Me, I’ll take the next train back. I’ll wait right here till that time chain comes back—whether it’s ten minutes or ten hours.”

  Ten minutes later he added, “or ten days,” although he contented himself that he would surely not have to wait that long.

  If it hadn’t been for that terrifying encounter with the open sea, and the chilling reminder in the form of cold, wet feet, he might have induced himself to believe that this was all a very pleasant dream. It was pleasant. No one who had been in the rush of winding up endless errands at the close of a brief spring vacation—not to mention filling college notebooks, and sandwiching in too many social engagements—could fail to appreciate an hour of this.

  Or maybe two hours. Vincent glanced at the sun. The afternoon was wearing away, and little breezes hinted that a cool autumn evening was coming.

  Strange, this autumn weather. It was as if he had been transplanted into another world—a quiet, peaceful world of nature and beauty. And he had definitely gone into another day.

  Whatever the day or the world, there were no signs of civilization anywhere about. No houses dotting the distant landscapes, nor highways, nor railways. Not even any fences.

  He listened sharply, thinking he might hear a locomotive whistle somewhere in the distance, or an airplane droning across the sky. All he heard was the gentle swish of autumn leaves falling.

  Then from the distant bend of the river he caught the dim echo of men’s voices. He stacked his luggage on the ground and strolled down to the water’s edge. From there he could see the group of fishermen, a mile or more distant, plying along the river in little black boats.

  He trudged back to his original landing place and resumed his watch for the return Of the time chain. Apparently his wait was going to be more than a matter of minutes. He hoped the fishermen wouldn’t come along and question him, for he felt instinctively that the best explanation he could muster would be met with skepticism.

  He glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock! So that was what time it was back home.

  “Dam it, I’ve missed my dinner already. I ought to be on my way to my date. That sun fooled me.” This new day he’d dropped into stood at four or five o’clock at the most. Again he felt a feverish urgency to get back. The first thing he’d do would be to get on a telephone and reel off some excuses.

  What a hell of a mix-up. If he didn’t get into the library yet this evening, Aunt Minnie would have to pay a fine of six or eight cents on her books, and she’d raise Cain about that. And how!

  And that little blonde Pi Phi had been counting on this evening of all evenings—not so much on account of Vincent as because of that new swing band scheduled for the Silver Slipper.

  Vincent paced about uneasily. What sort of story could he hatch up that would hold water? This was one clear case where telling the truth was out of the question. No one could be expected to understand without first knowing about Xandibaum. And no one knew Xandibaum. Even Xandibaum’s own custodian had no conception of the real thing Xandibaum had done.

  When in trouble, turn to a friend. Vincent strolled over to his saxophone case.

  He lifted the instrument out with the greatest of care, and unwrapped it from the wide blue velvet scarf that clothed it. Folding the scarf back into the case, he noticed the sheet of manuscript music in the lid—the Symphony of Time! Maestro Stenovo O. Galancho’s masterpiece!

  Of all times and places, thought Vincent, to get down to serious practice. He set the sheet Of music against the pile of books, fastened it there with a couple of rocks, warmed up the saxophone reed and went to work.

  Except for momentary lapses when he gazed hopefully into the heavens, he practiced faithfully for an hour. By that time he felt much better. That was one thing, at least, that he had accomplished during his spring vacation.

  He became so engrossed in rambling through his memorized repertoire that he fairly forgot about his surroundings. While in the midst of “It Ain’t Gonna Rain No More,” with variations, he was startled by a shadow that passed over him.

  It was the elongated shadow of someone’s head.

  He turned his eyes slowly and saw on the sunward side of him a group of similar shadows that stretched across the ground in the forms of long slithery bodies. He stopped playing, and the long shadows jerked into a restless, nervous huddle. He looked up.

 
; Within fifty feet of him they stood, a group of bare-armed, bare-legged people—thirty-five or forty of them. For the most part they were dressed, if at all, in the skins of animals.

  At his gaze, the group shrank backward. In the absence of saxophone notes he could hear the hoarse whispers of the older persons and the frightened whimpers of the young.

  Vincent snapped the cap on his saxophone mouthpiece and hugged the instrument against his chest as if it had something of the protective powers of a hunter’s gun. Through his dizzy thoughts flashed a series of words: Savages! Or a Hollywood picture cast—or a nudist camp—or cannibals!

  But before he could collect his thoughts, he was blurting a broadside at them in the stoutest voice he could muster.

  “Well, what do you want? Any kick against a man tooting his saxophone? It’s a free country, ain’t it?”

  The leather-clad natives were all eyes and mouths. They were definitely pleased with this speech and they began to mumble excitedly among themselves. They made unintelligible gestures at Vincent and began to edge closer.

  He responded with another toot of the saxophone, and their voices and gestures gathered excitement. Obviously they approved of his brand of music.

  “Any request numbers?” he barked at them. “Tell me how to get out of this place and I’ll play for your grandmother’s funeral.”

  They blinked at him, or jabbered, or puffed out their cheeks and wiggled their fingers as an encouragement to more music. Gradually they edged up to within fifteen or twenty feet of him, though the younger and more timid ones hung back. The whole gang of them were playing cautious, for that matter; for whenever Vincent would blast out with a shrill squawk they would jump back and some of the little fellows would take to their heels.

  Vincent cut loose with “Pop Goes the Weasel,” which proved to be good for unlimited repetitions. Never, he thought, had that selection had a more entranced audience. Each time he did a slap-tongue on the “pop” they caught a new surprise out of it.

  But after two dozen times over, they came to expect the “pop” and instead of jumping back nervously, they would shout with glee. Whoever these people were, they knew how to laugh.

  That was something, thought Vincent, breathing a little easier. He realized by this time that they must have been listening and watching more or less during his past hour of practice. And unlike the savages of the movies, they hadn’t slipped up on him to knife him in the back,

  Vincent had no thought of making friends. His sole motive was to bridge over the time that would elapse before the time chain returned, in the least disagreeable way possible. But all the while he was unconsciously taking down notes on these strange people.

  They were a big race. The men—and now he observed that some of these were the fishermen he had seen earlier, for their boats were lying across the way on the bank—were huge, muscular, tan-skinned fellows who must have averaged six-feet-two. They stood straight. Their eyes were bright and intelligent, their heads were well shaped, their teeth showed strong and white when their thin lips parted.

  The women and children, who had apparently come from some other direction, gradually attached themselves to their respective men-folks as the amazed audience shuffled about. The women, too, were strong and handsome, and some of the younger ones were beautiful.

  “There,” Vincent yelled at them after he had been playing steadily for several minutes. “That’s, all I know. Rim along home. The show’s over.”

  They came closer and motioned for more music. Vincent played on. He was still playing when darkness settled down upon the scene. Then it began to rain.

  Most of the crowd dispersed. At last, thought Vincent, this request program was over. But he was mistaken. One of the men, whom Vincent hadn’t noticed, sat where he was and demanded more music.

  That is to say, he barked at Vincent in sharp, threatening tones whenever the music stopped. He also gestured with a small hand ax. That ax, made of a polished stone, was just white enough so that Vincent could follow its movement as the man slapped it back and forth against the big, crusty palm of his hand.

  At last the white stone ceased to move and the whites of the man’s eyes disappeared, and a flicker of lightning showed Vincent that his faithful listener had fallen asleep in the midst of the concert and the drizzling rain.

  Vincent picked up his things and sought the shelter of a huge tree, where he spent the night watching the skies for a chain of lights that never came.

  Sometime in the night he heard a jumble of native voices, the voices of young children. By the illuminations of the passing storm he saw them awaken the sleeping man and help him up the hillside and away. The man, he realized for the first time, had only one leg.

  “And I was afraid to break away from him!” Vincent muttered to himself. Then he wondered whether he had been a sap or not. “He couldn’t have run me down—but he might have thrown that ax . . . Anyway before morning I’m gonna get out of here or my name’s not Vincent Harrison!”

  By morning his name wasn’t Vincent Harrison. It was Pon-pon-pon.

  By high noon he knew what his name was, and he knew that all of the sun-browned natives of these hillsides had heard of Pon-pon-pon. And when they flocked around him by the scores he wasn’t in the least doubt about what was wanted. It was up to him to take a deep breath and blow some pon-pon-pons out of his saxophone.

  They were wild for it. If he tried to put them off with silence, they took it like an affliction of pain. But if they got too close he scared them back with a nerve-shattering squeal.

  By night they became sufficiently friendly to offer him food, which he gladly accepted. But their urgings to him to accompany them over the hillsides he definitely rejected. This was his camp spot.

  For more than a week he stood by his guns. Every day his spirits sank lower. When, oh when, would that time chain return? The merrier the tunes that he played for his childlike audiences, the bluer and more despondent he became.

  A cold wind swept in on the tenth day and he was miserable. He had tried to show these handsome primitives, by means of gestures, that he must stay on this spot and make his camp here. But the chilling wind, together with his fatigue and bewilderment, broke his will. When the big crippled man and his noisy children came down the hillside to tug at him and coax him with food, he went back with them.

  They led him into a cave where a warm fire burned.

  Beyond the fire an artist was at work, carving a picture on the wall. It was a picture of a buffalo. Vincent took one look, then in a flash he knew. These big brawny people were the Cro-Magnons, the finest, most highly developed race of the late Stone Age. They were, in fact, the first modem men; and Vincent recalled from his studies, with a thrill of pride, that no modern man ever excelled them in physique or brain capacity.

  And here he was among them!

  Then the full impact of his discovery struck down. He, Vincent Harrison, was somewhere on the face of Europe, twenty-five thousand years from home!

  CHAPTER III

  Vincent Goes Cro-Magnon

  As long as Pon-pon-pon played his saxophone he was something of a god to the Cro-Magnons. He was a creature to be reverenced. He was the maker of magic, his own peculiar brand of sound-magic, therefore he deserved the best of food and a place by the fire.

  Fangler, the one-legged man, was a fierce old patriarch who was complete master of his cave and family. His word was law, and he was both feared and respected. His permission was necessary for every action, for every new venture, for every change.

  By his order, and under his control and guidance, new caves were built, food was stored for the winter, weapons were fashioned; and without his dictum no member of the family left the cave to take up new domain, married, or even planned to be married. He selected proper mating partners, blessed their union by his approval. Even babies were named by him. He was complete lord of all he surveyed, and master of his flock.

  Thus it was Fangler who ordered a place made in his
cave for the handsome, strangely dressed, young newcomer.

  But when, after several weeks, Vincent began to put to use wisps of the Cro-Magnon language, he started to lose prestige. His jargon was so jumbled and his pronunciation so faulty that his efforts to talk were shocking to all who heard him.

  Still, as time went on Vincent’s speech was rapidly improving. But what was far more important in the eyes of Fangler’s family, this newcomer possessed new and wonderful ideas—an endless supply of them. He was continually making some improvement in the Fangler’s household equipment. The word spread over the valley that Pon-pon-pon—or Ponpo, as they soon abbreviated it—was a genius at inventions.

  Ponpo made improvements in their carts „ by enlarging the wheels. Instead of using the roughly hewn slices of fallen logs for wheels, he warped tough slabs of wood into circles and fixed them with spokes.

  By using spindles and weights strung up with cords, he managed to keep the roast turning slowly and evenly over the fire.

  But the achievement that contributed most to the already legendary reputation of Ponpo was his invention of a wooden leg for Fangler.

  That wooden leg was a marvel that made conversation far and wide. Ponpo himself showed a smile of pride to the Cro-Magnon visitors who came from miles around to verify the story that Fangler could now walk about on the stump of a tree.

  “My home shall always be your home,” Fangler had declared, heaping down praise upon Ponpo in extravagant Cro-Magnon words.

  “I hope not,” Ponpo had muttered to himself in English.

  He could have gone, if he had cared to take his chances with an unknown world, but here he would have the benefit of the guidance of those experienced in a primitive world—and who knew what dangers there were about which he knew nothing?’

  Besides, he wanted to go back to 1941. By staying here, he could remain close to the spot where the time chain would return—when the weather abated enough to resume his vigil. He’d tried several times, watching, and almost freezing to death. But no sign of the time chain had he seen. No telling when it would return, or if it would ever return. How far up did it go before it reversed its direction and came down again? Would it take months, years? Or had it returned several times already, while he was in Fangler’s cave.