The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  [2] The mystery of the disappearance of the Cro-Magnons is one of the most baffling that faces science today. According to skulls and bones unearthed, they were a fine, intelligent race, and far superior to any type of human developed on Earth up to then, from simian stock. Apparently, to judge from their artifacts, they were possessed of a knowledge of fire, of weapon manufacture, of tools, and even of clothing, made from skins, and skillfully sewn. And yet, today, there remains no trace of the Cro-Magnon race. Almost overnight, it seems, they vanished from the face of the earth. What great catastrophe overtook them, science is baffled to understand. It is only certain that something did happen to them; something mysterious and terrible.

  [3] The trapdoor spider is the strangest of the spider family. As a general rule, they live alone, except for mating time. They build underground homes, with an entrance on the ground, sealed by a hinged trapdoor. They lie in wait behind the door, and when an unwary insect comes near, pop out and drag the victim down to a certain and horrible death.

  THE IRON MEN OF SUPER CITY

  First published in Amazing Stories, May 1941

  Ben Gleed was proud of the B-Hive—until the Iron Men ran amok and spread death in the great freight depot.

  CHAPTER I

  Their only moon was the illumined clock which hung over the street intersection. It shone starkly into the open front porch where they were sitting.

  “It’s midnight,” the girl in Daniel Holland’s arms whispered. “You’d better go.” Daniel Holland gave a muffled laugh. “Don’t say it in such a weird tone. It sounds like, ‘Run! The cops are coming!’ ”

  “But you’ve got to be at work in an hour, Dan. You don’t dare be late again—”

  “I know—”

  “I dreamed last night that you were fired, Dan. I dreamed—”

  For a long moment Doris White’s words were lost. Kisses always took precedence over conversation when she and Daniel Holland were alone. The purplish-white lights from the Super City skyscrapers touched the girl’s yellow hair with a platinum gleam, made her upturned eyes shine like blue starlight.

  “I dreamed that they fired you and deported you from Super City.”

  Dan Holland chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m not that negligent.”

  “Do you believe in dreams, Dan?”

  “Just in our dream.” There was another good-night kiss before Dan picked up his cap.

  “Wait!” Doris protested. “Your hair. It’s a sight.”

  She reached into his shirt pocket for his pocket comb, gave his scalp a playful drubbing. Before returning the comb to his uniform pocket she stopped to scold.

  “You’ve broken three or four teeth out of this new comb.”

  Dan Holland grinned.

  “On purpose. That’s my way of cutting notches in my guru”

  “Everytime you kill off an Indian, I suppose.”

  “Everytime I tell off a white man.”

  “You’d better be careful, Dan. Your job—”

  Dan interrupted her by catching her wrist and calmly removing the comb from her hand.

  “While we’re on the subject I may as well tell you off. You think I was responsible for that accident at the Freight B-Hive. I wasn’t. Just because I happened to be a few minutes late for work—”

  “Dan, I never said you were to blame.”

  “No one has said so. Not to me. But the Iron Man that went haywire and threw. Kerstubber into the freight capsule and shot him into the tube and broke both his legs happened to go haywire on my time. And I didn’t happen to be there. If I had been, the accident would have happened to me instead of Kerstubber. It was in the cards to happen when it did.”

  “But I heard—” Doris hesitated, noting the dangerous light in her boy friend’s eyes. “What did you hear?”

  “Some of the men in our restaurant were saying that it was a case of fatigue, and if Kerstubber had been relieved on time—”

  “Nuts! I wasn’t but twenty minutes late. You know that. That was the night we danced at the Frolic and it rained and we had to wait for a taxi. I was supposed to take over Iron Man number eleven at one a. am. I got there at one-twenty and found the whole B-Hive in a jam and Kerstubber in an ambulance. Nobody’s going to tell me that those extra few minutes on top of six hours did it; and that goes for you, Doris!”

  Doris White’s lips parted in mute appreciation of the fact that she had been “told off.” Dan snapped off another tooth of his comb, slipped the comb in his pocket, put his cap on.

  Mrs. White appeared at the door. “Telephone for you, Dan.”

  Inside the living room Dan faced one of his companions in the telescreen. It was Pudgy, the operator of Iron Man number ten, a close friend of Dan’s. He was calling from the B-Hive.

  “Lissen, fella,” said Pudgy in a low voice, “the boss has been tryin’ to reach you. Wants you here in a hurry. Your Iron Man—”

  “Pm not due till one.”

  “He wants you early. He’s been tryin’ since before midnight. I told him I thought I could locate you. So make it snappy, fella—”

  “Wait a minute! What’s the rip?”

  “Yeur Iron Man’s actin’ up. This new guy that followed Kerstubber is nervous. Damn thing’s taken a couple swipes at him, and he’s so jittery with his blue flashlight that he’ll probably queer the works. The boss figures it’s just the dish for you—”

  “Yeah?” Dan Holland was slowly gathering rage.

  “Owin’ to the fact that you let Iron Man number eleven go blim-blam in the first place—”

  “. . . I did!” Dan Holland roared into the television transmitter. “What do you mean, I did? Listen, Pudgy—” And with a challenging snarl he reached for his pocket comb. But before he could flip a tooth out of it, another voice cut into the speaker and another face into the screen. It was Jacobs, the night boss.

  “You got Dan Hollands? Lemme have him.” This to Pudgy. Then, “Hollands! Git the hell over here. Grab a taxi! Hurry! We’re about to jam up!”

  Even as the boss shouted his orders, Dan heard the shrill echo of the B-Hive alarm from the background. Ramming his comb in his pocket, he dashed for the door.

  “See you later!”

  Slam!

  What it was all about Doris was left to puzzle out for herself.

  CHAPTER II

  The Swarming B-Hive

  The sights and sounds that Dan passed through on his swift taxi ride to the center of the city were so much water off a duck’s back. He was lost in his own hard-boiled thoughts. Streamlined skyscrapers, swift-moving electric signs, lines of people slipping along on power-driven roller skates—all were familiar scenery to Dan.

  Even the televised news, which he snapped on absently the instant he stepped into the taxi, made no impression on him.

  Any stranger undergoing these numerous stimulations for the first time would have been amazed. Here it was, a half an hour past midnight, and many of the streets were lighted like day. Crowds were thronging into factories and office buildings as well as theaters and taverns. Obviously day and night had lost their original meanings in this high-speed city.

  Half the population might be snoring peacefully. The other half would keep the wheels of production whirling—silently! The noise and bustle of the old-pre-powerage metropolis was gone. Super City had set a new pace for the world.

  As the flashing signs indicated, production of goods was on the up-and-up. So were profits and wages and working conditions. Emblazoned spot-maps on the sides of buildings showed that the products of Efficio, Inc., reached around the world.

  Efficio! The word had become magic. The trade mark, a design of the famous Super City skyline, was a guarantee of high quality goods produced by the most efficient methods that modern science could devise.

  That was why Dan Holland and every other citizen of Super City were proud of their jobs. That was why any of them would have given five years of their life rather than fail. Every man and woman in the city knew
that the working pace was as swift as belt lines and as relentless as electric generators. The price of failure was a cruel disgrace—deportation. Every month a few employees were deported. But for those who could measure up to the requirements, Super City offered the ideal life-work to their liking six hours a day, sandwiched into a flexible year’s schedule of vacations and celebrations and all manner of recreational activities.

  Life as you would choose it, in short; and under the finest of living conditions! That was what six hours of efficient work per day made possible.

  The newscaster facing Dan Holland from the television screen in the rear seat of the taxi made little impression upon the troubled young freight worker. Still, the mention of Ben Gleed, Super City’s renowned city manager, brought Dan to attention. Ben Gleed was always news with a capital N. Gleed was every worker’s friend.

  “Ben Gleed will be host to a group of official visitors from the metropolis of Oil Center this afternoon, according to a midnight bulletin just received. Evidently Oil Center has consented to bury the hatchet. Mr. Gleed’s comment upon the visit reads as follows. We quote:

  “ ‘I take pleasure in announcing that technicians and city officials from Oil Center, our nearest neighbor among the large cities of America, have at last accepted my personal invitation to come and look us over. This visit signalizes the completion of the first milestone in Super City’s good will program. New York, Chicago,

  Detroit, San Francsco . . . all have sent their official representatives; not to mention several important foreign cities. But until now, Oil Center has held back.

  “ ‘Again let us emphasize that it is not the aim of Super City to reach out for more than her share of the world’s business. It is rather our purpose to demonstrate that a city planned for efficiency is a paying proposition. We do not withhold our secrets of efficiency. We offer them to our neighbors. We urge that every city follow our lead.

  “ ‘Unfortunately there has been a widespread rumor to the effect that Oil Center and Super City have been glaring at each other enviously. Stories have gone so far as to hint that Oil Center would like to throw monkey wrenches into Super City’s smoothly humming machinery.

  “ ‘Let us put an end to this idle talk at once and for all. Oil Center is our neighbor and friend. We appreciate this visit as a symbol of that friendship.’ End of quotation.

  “It is believed,” the announcer continued, “that Ben Gleed will personally conduct the Oil Center delegation on a sight-seeing tour to points of interest . . .”

  The newscast hopped hither and thither over the globe: estimates of crops from China; new transportation lines in South America; the ever-present troubles from European capitals. Suddenly it leaped back to Super City with a vengeance.

  “Flash! Super City: An unconfirmed report from the Super City Clearing House for Class B Freight, popularly known as the B-Hive, indicates that trouble is brewing again. Ten minutes ago one of the machines got out of control. An alarm was sounded, and for three minutes the freight capsules gathered up, forming a dangerous log-jam.

  “Flash! The Super City B-Hive. An official telephone confirmation of the freight capsule log-jam has just been received. However, the jam is rapidly being cleared. A swift examination of one of the sorting machines, Iron Man number eleven, failed to reveal any mechanical flaws. Whether faulty operation will be declared responsible is not known at present. At least the Iron Men have gone back into action and the flow of freight capsules continues. The interruption lasted only three minutes. All of which recalls a similar instance of last week, when a workman was badly injured.

  “Our next bulletin comes from Oil Center. A delegation of ten men will leave for Super City at six o’clock this morning . . .”

  Dan Holland’s taxi stopped. Dan leaped out, boarded the moving sidewalk, ran. He dodged the scattered lines of persons moving with him, bounded through the open door to the visitor’s balcony. The guard tried to stop him.

  “Let me through!” Holland snarled. “I’m Holland. Night shift. Number eleven—”

  The guard glanced at the numerals on Dan’s green work uniform, stepped aside. From the turmoil that buzzed within the vast room, together with the recent jangle of alarms, the guard could understand a worker’s wanting to take a short cut to his station. Particularly when that station was the trouble-making Iron Man number eleven.

  Dan ploughed through the throngs of visitors swarming on the vast circular balcony. Two more guards tried to stop him when he started to climb over the rail. In his flurry he lost his cap, he ripped his shirt; and as if ignoring the guards and slipping down over the rail weren’t trouble enough, he picked up a wad of chewing gum oh his shoe on the next lower balcony.

  With a couple of kicks and a muttered “Damn!” he raced around the narrow rail-enclosed walk. This was the engineer’s domain. No one but the engineers and that fussy old clean-up man were ever seen on this narrow second balcony. This was the walk from which the engineers serviced the bright steel cogs and the sensitive electric eyes of the Iron Men.

  But Dan Holland was in demand at his station. Under the conditions he couldn’t get there too soon. So he didn’t mind taking a chance with regulations. By dropping down over two balconies he would save all the valuable seconds of checking in, punching the time clock, and center-rushing through a crowded dressing room; not to mention negotiating two flights of stairs.

  Thud I Thud! Dan Holland crashed squarely into Snickson, the fussy, bushy-browed clean-up man, who suddenly emerged from a balcony door. There was a spill. Both men spilled. So did half of their pocket things, including Dan’s pocket comb and Snickson’s cigarets and coins and a package of little transparent sheets that might have been bits of cellophane or candy wrappers.

  “Git off this balcony, you damned—”

  “Get out of my way!” Holland retorted, grabbing his comb.

  “Nobody trespasses on this walk. I’ll report you!”

  “Go to hell!” Holland blasted, flipping a tooth out of the comb. “This is an emergency!”

  While Snickson grumbled and picked himself up, Holland climbed down over the railing, dropped nimbly to his work platform beside Iron Man number eleven.

  “Well, thank the Lord you’ve got here at last!” barked a voice at Holland’s side. It was Jacobs, the night boss, his red face streaming with perspiration. “Take over for that guy. He’s so jittery he forgets to turn off his flashlight. I was just coming to take over myself. What the—”

  “Where is he?” Dan shouted.

  A shriek from overhead answered the question. And instantly the screams of a score of visitors on the upper balcony foretold the calamitous event that hung in mid-air.

  The huge metallic claw of Iron Man number eleven swung the green-uniformed worker through space, deposited him in the tank-like freight capsule. An automatic clink! and the capsule went shut.

  Dan Holland sprang for the check lever. He was too late. The Iron Man’s shoe pushed the tank-like capsule into the aperture. Swooosh! The capsule was gone—gone at lightning speed on a Super City pneumatic tube route!

  “Take over, Holland!”

  Dan Holland obeyed. This was no time for questioning what had happened to the other workman. Freight was rolling in, thick and fast. It had to be handled—now!

  Jacobs dashed away. He made for the first telephone booth. A guard swung the door open for him. In a moment he was connected with one of Super City’s railway freight terminals.

  “This is Jacobs at the B-Hive. We’ve made a blunder on Iron Men number eleven. A workman—what’s that? . . . He’s come through already? The capsule dumped him in the freight car? . . . Under a ton of porcelain—yes . . . Killed instantly, you think? . . . Certainly, give the facts to the reporters.”

  Jacobs hung up. As he stepped out of the booth he turned to the guard who had stood nearby, all ears.

  “If you heard,” said Jacobs, “don’t be spilling it around where it’ll get back to Dan Holland. Lord knows we’ve g
ot to keep somebody on Iron Man number eleven.”

  CHAPTER III

  Iron Men at Work

  Doris White couldn’t sleep. She snapped on the radio beside her bed, tuned in an orchestra, switched off the television light. The darkness together with soft music should have lulled her to sleep. But it didn’t. Her uneasiness for Dan’s job kept haunting her. She turned on the television light, idly pressed the tuning keys.

  “More news from the Super B-Hive,” came the voice of the newscaster. Doris sat bolt upright, thoroughly awake. “A workman had met with a fatal accident. One of the freight sorting machines, Iron Man number eleven, reported to be giving trouble a few minutes ago, has just now dealt death to Emil Hayden, substitute operator on the last shift of the day.”

  “Hayden!” Doris gasped. She did not know who Hayden was, but the sudden tragic announcement shot her through with a paralyzing fear. She fell back on the bed, limp, weak from fright. Hayden! And to think—it might have been Holland!

  The newscaster rambled on. “Witnesses to the accident insist that carelessness on the part of the worker himself was to blame. However, no official statement of responsibility has been made. Iron Man number eleven, let us note, has performed somewhat erratically since an earlier accident last week, at which time unofficial observers declared that neglect of duty on the part of a workman was probably to blame.”