The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “He left nothing,” said Beau, “except a check to cover training expenses.

  That and a fund for a new house for some slum kids. That rounded out his thirty percent.”

  “Have you told Velma?”

  Beau shook his head. I sensed that he was holding back something. I quizzed him and he admitted it. The plunger, he’d bet the last of our radio prize money that Destiny would win by the fifth. No wonder he didn’t want to face Velma.

  “We’d better tell her, the sooner the better,” I said, so we made tracks for the Daily Beacon.

  “Is she in?” Beau asked.

  “Does her desk look it?” retorted Split-Infinitive. It didn’t. It was heaped high with mail. “Fan letters,” said Split, “on that special society broadcast she put over with your John Doe Destiny night before last.”

  Broadcast? We hadn’t heard of any broadcast. Beau turned a little purple.

  “She said Destiny needed some intellectual diversion or he’d go back home,” said Split. “She had him do a lecture on the future of culture and refinement.”

  I fought for a deep breath.

  “Do they get paid for that stuff?” Split smiled.

  “And how. Velma’s got an advance for a whole series. You men should listen in. There’ll be talks on the decay of vaudeville and the death of pugilism—”

  Beau gave a deep growl.

  “Tell me, how can he give any more lectures? He’s gone.”

  “He’ll be back from Atlantic City in a couple weeks,” said Split. “He told me to tell you.”

  [*] It has actually been proven that it is possible to increase the speed of speech until it is almost impossible to follow the words. And yet, when it is recorded, and played back slowly, it does not reveal a slurring or omission of words. Some types of nervous disorders result in this quickening of the speech. The man from the future is probably taught from birth to speak with great rapidity, and thus, his hearing is also trained to distinguish between the syllables. But, if you have this ability today, it might be a good idea to go on the vaudeville stage!

  MR. EEE CONDUCTS A TOUR

  First published in Fantastic Adventures, December 1941

  Mr. Eee didn’t know much about being a guide, but he certainly showed his party some fantastic things on this odd world!

  Introducing myself, I’m Mr. Eee. Pleased to meet you. Shake hands?—sure. But don’t go slapping me on the back. I’m suspicious of back-slappers.

  My story?

  Well, we were on our way to Jupiter. You see, I had this job for the STS—the Solar Travel Service. This was my first assignment. I was to conduct these six Big Shots, members of the Space-wide Booster Club, on a good-will jaunt to the big, far-away planet.

  What a darb of a set-up! Six of the loudest, self-inflatedest, back-slappingest big guns from the interplanetary headlines were mine to guide. Mine to conduct to the Capital City of the planet they had never visited. Mine to—ah, this would be pie!

  “When in doubt,” the motto of the STS guides ran, “bluff.”

  Six Boosters, the pilot and yours truly made up the party of eight—and I was the boss. With green uniform and gold braid. Not bad, considering that a few weeks earlier I had been a jobless man-about-planets, a space-ship stowaway riding the baggage compartments. And before that—but why drag out the skeletons of an unsavory past?’

  Shooting through the sky toward Jupiter, I spent a fair share of the time at the controls. The pilot was a decent cuss and he gave me free lessons in navigating just to break the monotony. I learned fast.

  In fact, by the time we had made our last stop-off—Mars—to pick up the sixth and last of the Boosters, the pilot had let me set ’er down by myself.

  From then on it was non-stop to our destination.

  The Six Boosters kept up a hearty uproar all the way. They would sing songs, shout, and tell funny stories, and drink Venus liquor. They’d slap each other on the back and bluster about how they would take Jupiter by storm.

  Their pandemonium would rattle against the control-room door, with me trying to snooze on the quiet side of it.

  The pilot would say to me, “You’ll have a job on your hands, Mr. Eee, leading a bunch like that around a strange city. Ever been to Jupiter before?”

  “As an STS guide, I’m supposed to have been everywhere—everywhere that the interplanetary language is spoken.”

  “But have you?”

  “I’m not saying.” Then I showed the pilot my little book with the confidential information for STS guides, and pointed to the motto, When in doubt, bluff.

  The pilot gave me an understanding wink. He said that the planet of Jupiter was so far out it wasn’t well known. He’d been there himself. But he’d heard it had a good space port at the Capital City, and that it fairly reeked with civilization.

  And he’d heard that the Jupiterians had put some of their moons to special uses. One moon was a prison, another was a colony for the insane, and so on.

  “The Boosters aren’t interested in moons,” I said. “They’re interested in Jupiter.”

  Well, twenty or thirty interplanetary hours before we were due to arrive, the six Space-Wide Boosters raised so much merry old Hell over a case of Venus liquor that they passed out, all six of them. No—seven, for the pilot was in on it too, thanks to me. I mean to say that I had insisted on staying at the controls.

  “Too much back-slapping for me,” I had complained. “You go ahead, Pilot. Lend your lusty voice to their good-will anthems. Lend your throat to their Venus fire-water. And your back—well, I’ll rub arnica on it when the party’s over.”

  And so the pilot had joined the party in the salon and had been the first man to pass out. And before he or any of the six Boosters came to, I landed the ship.

  “Jupiter, Mr. Eee,” I said to myself and gave myself a mysterious wink in the dim reflection of the porthole. It was a wink that nobody but me would understand. I glanced with satisfaction at the reflection of the gold STS on my uniform collar. This guide for the Solar Travel Service was about to go into action. Bluff was the watchword.

  The landscape outside the portholes was spiked with towering heaps of stone, blue and green and purple, a weird mixture of Jupiterian buildings and bad lands. I had landed in a narrow clearing beside this unique city.

  “Behold, the Capital City of Jupiter!” I yelled at the Pilot. He answered with a deep snore.

  I passed through the control-room door into the salon. “Gentlemen, the Capital City of Jupiter!”

  I kicked or prodded each of the six Boosters in turn. And what did I get for my trouble?

  Boss Venoko, the leather-lunged political boss of Venus Subcity, growled without opening his eyes, “Come back later-r. Gotta big deal on. Gotta see a gangster about a bump-off.”

  The second man from Venus, Professor Kolo, the famous Have-and-Go Philosopher, remained dead to the world.

  The two Earth men, Publicity Smith and Sam, the Jamband King, yelped or grunted but refused to stir.

  The renowned Field Marshal of Mercury raised his battle-scarred head, opened one eye, and roared a valiant “Carree-e-e on!” then dropped his head between his knees and fell back to sleep.

  The sixth and final Booster, the celebrated Martian Trillionaire, batted his bleary eyes and gasped, “Whazzat? Whazzat?”

  “The Capital City of Jupiter,” I repeated. “We’re here.”

  “ ’Sno money outa my pocket,” his metallic voice clinked, and he waved me away.

  While the six Boosters and the pilot slept it off, I went out alone and climbed a high rock that looked down on the circular city street. From there I had no trouble finding my way around.

  When I returned to the ship, the six Big Shots were raring to march forth and give the Capital City of Jupiter the glad hand.

  “This way, gentlemen,” I said. The six Boosters followed me through the ship’s locks. The pilot, still hazy as to where we were, remained in the control room to mumble over his instrumen
ts. He would hold down the ship till the party returned.

  “Before you rises the skyline of the Capital City of Jupiter,” I began as we walked into the kaleidoscope of rock spires and morning shadows. “Note the similarity between the architecture and the natural scenery—”

  “When do we meet one of the Big Shots?” the Martian Trillionaire broke in.

  “Patience,” I retorted. But my party began to complain. Weren’t there any taxis or buses in this capital city? Or pedestrians? Where were the shoppers, the traffic cops, the newsboys? Why did all the people—and there were pitifully few of them—shrink back into hiding at the sight of us?

  “Because common people aren’t to be seen on this street,” I answered boldly. “This is the famous Circle Street. Fame and Fortune reside on this thoroughfare. I warn you, the men we meet will be men of great achievement.” Boss Venoko bristled. “But not as important as us.”

  “In their own way—more so,” I said, and all six Boosters stopped in their tracks and glared at me. I added, “Don’t forget, Jupiter’s a big planet compared to the Earth, Mercury, Venus and Mars.”

  “They could at least give us a ticker-tape reception,” the Field Marshal of Mercury grumbled. “Why, when I wound up that last campaign in Mercury—”

  “Silence, gentlemen,” I said. “We’re about to make our first call. This is the throne of the city greeter.”

  I pointed to the top of an eighty, foot spire of rock.

  The carved steps were almost ladder steep. The seven of us ascended. A platform surrounded the rocky throne. There sat a ragged little brown old man. He looked at me and twisted his leathery face into a frown.

  “These men have come to greet you,” I said. One after another we shook hands. Professor Kolo mentioned that it was a fine day.

  “Not day,” the little old man said in crisp interplanetary. “The word is dayee. Ah, how many times I have had to correct the Jupiterian monarch on that word. The monarch always relied on me. He gave me this token—” Here the little brown man lifted a chunk of marble and looked at it admiringly.

  “It’s not an ordinary stone.” His fingers elevated the stone with a flourish. Then his voice fell to a weird whisper. “The monarch used it to win an election. Two of the judges were in doubt, but the monarch took this stone—” The whisper became an evil hiss, the stone hovered menacingly. “We must hurry on,” I said. We climbed down to the street.

  Soon we turned off the thoroughfare and into one of the stone houses. As our eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness I heard the Field Marshal of Mercury gasp, “Medals!”

  The walls of the room were covered with them. For a few minutes we marvelled at them. Publicity Smith copied some of their inscriptions.

  Brisk footsteps sounded from the next room and came to a halt with a snappy heel-click. White lights flashed on. We crowded to the door and looked in upon the most dazzling one-man army you ever saw. That uniformed soldier could have been a parade all by himself, he wore so much glitter.

  The soldier’s back was toward us. He was pointing to various dots on the wall map with a long sharp-pointed sword.

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  “Advance,” the soldier snapped without turning around.

  We circulated uneasily. The walls of this room were cluttered with odd weapons—some of them silvered wooden models, as Publicity Smith noted with a befuddled snort.

  But it was the soldier himself, not his accoutrements, that magnetized my party of sightseers. Our Field Marshal from Mercury studied him with a hot, jealous eye. Sam, the Jamband King, edged up to the Field Marshal, nudged him, whispered, “When’ll you rate a uniform like that, Marshal?”

  Our Field Marshal was too scorched in the face to answer. He strode up to the wall map. “Ahem.”

  The uniformed soldier whirled. He jammed the sword in his scabbard and gave seven swift salutes, one to each of us.

  The Boosters answered him with gulps and timid silence—all except our Field Marshal. He stepped up boldly.

  “I happen to be the Field Marshal of Mercury.” He opened the flap of his Booster Club coat to reveal a service bar in six shades of gold.

  The soldier opened his medal-weighted military coat. His shirt was solid with service bars all the way around. “They call me the General of Jupiter.”

  “So you’re a general,” said Mercury, slipping a scornful wink to the rest of us. “Seen any action?”

  “Is there any action I haven’t seen?” Jupiter retorted. “I’ve won battles in every planet.”

  Mercury snorted. “You’re taking in lots of territory.”

  “I have ways of getting around,” said Jupiter.

  The Marshal of Mercury laughed. The other’s cold eye made him swallow in the middle of his laugh, but he went on with a stout swagger. “Now me, I’m the hero that won the war for Mercury. The biggest and bloodiest war in history. That’s a sizeable job for one man.”

  “It depends upon the man,” said the Jupiter General.

  Mercury went white with anger. “No doubt you’ve seen a skirmish or two on Jupiter—”

  “Eye that map, my haughty friend,” said Jupiter. “Wherever you see a colored pin is where I’ve won a battle. The red pins mean I won practically single-handed.”

  The map was practically solid pins.

  The Jupiter General insisted on telling us about it. He gestured with his sword to make the spellbinder realistic.

  The Boosters listened, wide-eyed, and Publicity Smith jotted notes on the gory details.

  But our perspiring Field Marshal from Mercury couldn’t take it. He spoke up to dispute dates. And when Jupiter demanded to know if he was being called a liar, Mercury fairly turned purple.

  “If all you said was true twice over,” the Marshal of Mercury spat, “you’re still nothing to me because you never fought in the bloody Mercury war.”

  “I won that war,” said Jupiter calmly.

  “You won it! Why you damned liar. I ran that war myself—”

  “Oh.” Jupiter gave a sullen smirk. “So you’re trying to seal my glory. I can show you, blow by blow, how I—” Jupiter broke off with a sly smile. “Would you like to see my special map in the next room?”

  Jupiter clanked through a curtained door and Mercury stalked after him. I glanced in—in time to see the Field Marshal of Mercury bend down close over a table. The light was dim.

  At the same instant, the General’s long sword flashed up. It struck down with a heavy clack. The Mercury Marshal’s head fell in a wastebasket.

  I ducked out and called the rest of the party.

  “Come gentlemen. We’ll leave our warriors to chatter over their maps and battles. We’ll pass on to the next point of interest.”

  I herded them out to the street.

  Now my party of five looked curiously from house to stone pillar to street monument, wondering where we would stop next. Occasionally they glanced toward the sky, which was gradually growing heavier with the vast red rim which I had called Jupiter’s largest moon.

  Occasionally they looked back to see if the Field Marshal was coming, but he didn’t come. And he wouldn’t. And though it may sound mysterious, somehow the tightness in the muscles of my back grew easier.

  “This way, please.” I lead them into a cavernous blue rock that was honeycombed with passages. Soft light filtered through. The place was inhabited by some simple soul, judging by the rustic furniture. Not until we emerged on the top level did we find the dweller.

  “Is he a Big Shot?” the Trillionaire whispered skeptically.

  “He’s a sage,” I replied.

  The subject of our observations was lying on his stomach in the shade of a yellow umbrella, too comfortable to look up. He was apparently studying the grains of rice in his hand.

  “I don’t think he’s in the mood for conversation,” I suggested.

  To which the sage muttered, turning his eyes on us in the most casual manner. “Why should I be? There’s nothing new to say
. Everything’s been said.”

  His dry manner gave the impression of vast wisdom. But his eyes were not the slow lazy eyes that one would expect from his manner. They were cold and hard and the sight of them made Smith start.

  However, Professor Kolo, always aggressive when he thought conversation was needed, stepped closer to the robed figure and tried to break the ice.

  “It’s fine weather you have here, my friend.”

  The sage made no answer. He drew the old frayed woolen robe he was wearing closer around his ears, as if to shut out our talk.

  Professor Kolo went on heartily. “We’re the Booster Club on a good-will tour. We came to get acquainted. I’m from Venus. It’s another planet—like Jupiter—only smaller—and much nearer the sun—”

  The robed figure turned, and now the glittering eyes combed us. “I am a sage,” he said. “You can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. I’ve got all of the world’s knowledge written on these little grains of rice. Why should I let you bore me, telling me Venus is another planet?”

  At the mention of the rice, Smith came closer with his pencil and notebook. Then he bent down and looked into the sage’s hand. The rest of us bent over his shoulders.

  “You have something written—on the rice?” Smith blinked bewilderedly.

  “All knowledge,” said the sage, turning the rice grains about in the palm of his hand.

  “But how is that possible?” Smith asked.

  “I write very small,” said the sage.

  “No instrument in the world could write that small,” Smith protested, straining his eyes to study the grains.

  “Look,” said the sage. He brought a small bottle of colorless liquid from his pocket. When he lifted the cork, we could see a tiny hair-like needle attached to it.

  Smith squinted. “But that’s too fine to make any impression.”

  “You think so?” The sage gave a quick jab at the publicity man’s forearm. Smith jerked his arm back, wincing, all of which disturbed Professor Kolo. The professor complained that he didn’t get the point. “Come closer and you’ll get it,” said the sage. But by this time our party preferred to move the other way. We left the sage recounting his grains of rice.