The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Only now that whisper had changed to, “Get off the boat . . . Get off the boat . . . Hear me, Barbara . . . Get off the boat . . .”

  It was maddening; and though it might be only the voice of conscience, Barbara knew her will had been weakened until she hadn’t the strength to listen or to heed.

  “You are riding toward death, Barbara . . . You are riding toward death . . .”

  But her grandfather had ridden through the rainbow and he had suffered no injuries—at least, no physical ones.

  “Barbara, for God’s sakes, does your grandfather possess your very soul? Assert yourself. Get Larry. Take the rowboat. Leave the old man to his own fate!”

  “Barbara!” Judge Londotte barked gruffly. “What are you jerking my hand for? Be still.”

  “But you’re holding my wrist so tight, Granddaddy.”

  “I like to have you with me,” said the old man. “I don’t want you running away.”

  He led her along the rail to the stern, stood for several minutes studying the eastern skies beyond their wake. The dawn was blood red.

  “Take a good look,” the old man said. The girl watched in silence. She was thinking of the dresses she had left packed in her suitcases in the rooming house. She should have put them on hangers; and would have, but her grandfather had been impatient, snapping, “Never mind about your clothes.” Now everyone was crowding to the fore of the ship, for the rainbows were coming into view. The first splash of sun fired the inner rainbow to scintillating brilliance. And, as it had happened forty-eight hours before, the ship moved by the magic of unseen currents straight toward the flaming spectrum.

  “Where’s Larry?” said Barbara. “Let me find him.”

  “Stay with me,” said her grandfather, as they moved along the rail to take their places at the rear of the breathless, expectant crowd . . .

  Larry, as Barbara well knew, was inside, crashing some weird chords on the ballroom piano.

  Several times during the preceding hours of darkness he had come bounding out to confide his new inspirations to Barbara. That “dream” of Judge Londotte’s had gone to his head. There was a song in it—a smash!—nothing less.

  Now, as the flaming rainbow came into view through the ballroom door, its blaze of color added fuel to his musical excitement. His eyes drank in the exotic colors, his hands flew over the keys—

  “Larry LeBrac . . . This is Wayne Early . . . Listen to me.”

  That damned disturbing whisper again! Just when he was hypnotized by his creative mood—

  “Larry . . . I am miles away, but I know what is happening. You are approaching the Rainbow of Death. Barbara and her grandfather are there, and he is clutching her hand. BREAK HIS GRIP!”

  Larry sprang up and paced the shadow-streaked ballroom floor. Barbara and her grandfather were out there at the rail; he could see them just as the whisper had described them.

  But Larry could not see Wayne Early, and he went angry with suspicions. “Damn it, Early, you’re pulling a joke. Where are you?”

  “Larry, I am communing with the Servants of Death. If you don’t break the grip on Barbara’s arm, she will go to death with her grandfather. Time is short! If you won’t fight, SING!”

  “More tricks!” Larry hissed sarcastically, slipping into uncontrolled rage. “You be the cricket awhile, damn you, and let me play king of beasts.”

  “One final warning, Larry. The Servants of Death have spoken in my hearing. If they take Barbara they will also take you.”

  “I’ll take a chance,” said Larry cynically, and back to the piano he went. There he stayed—until he heard Barbara’s scream . . .

  The ship was inching along, now within a few feet of the wall of colored mists.

  “Break away, Barbara! . . . Break away! . . . Break away! . . . It’s Wayne, warning you—”

  The whisper was mockery to Barbara’s ears. She couldn’t break away. The old man’s grip tightened with unaccountable strength. And she couldn’t believe in a whisper that came from nowhere. It was a hallucination, as unreal as her grandfather’s dream, a figment of imagination—

  The prow of the ship edged into the rainbow mists. Barbara’s eyes were on the passengers at the head of the crowd when the screen of color began to envelop them. She saw—and screamed.

  Then her free hand cupped over her mouth, held back her cry of utter horror. These aged decrepit sightseers were not seeing what she saw. They were fascinated by the rainbow—

  One by one they were dissolving into thin air.

  It began the instant the mists touched the first passenger, a stately old lady, standing statue-like, enthralled. Her clothes had at once been consumed, as if by a swift, flameless fire. The next moment her naked flesh was dissolving in the same manner—and by this time the second and third and fourth persons lined along the railing were entering the same process.

  For a brief moment the stately old lady resembled a physiologist’s glass model, transparent to the vital organs. But the swift, painless consuming process continued its magic work. Now there were only the fleshless bones of a graceful female skeleton, its clean lime-white hand still clinging to the rail.

  The succeeding persons were transformed in like manner, one by one as the ship slid deeper into the mists. From living to dead—from nakedness, to fleshlessness, to disintegrating skeletons —all with a swiftness unknown to the Nature of mortal man. The first skeleton fell apart as it dissolved, but the invisible consuming was complete before the dust of any bone dropped to the floor of the ship.

  The ship moved on. The rainbow of Death advanced across the promenades. Judge Londotte may have seen what was happening; he may not have. Barbara couldn’t tell. He only stood fast and waited, gripping her wrist with the grip of death . . .

  A new throb of genius had struck through Larry’s sensitive fingers. What wild, weird, flamboyant chords he was crashing. This was old Londotte’s strange rainbow dream and this eerie voyage all in one. But it was more—it was a new glory for Larry.

  For once he wasn’t depending upon an audience—not even Barbara.

  “Go sing it to the crowd!” That disturbing whisper again!

  “Hell, I don’t need a crowd,” Larry snorted, too absorbed to care whether the whisper was fake or fancy.

  “Go sing it to them. Sing it to Londotte. If your song has the rainbow in it, it will move him.”

  “No music would ever move him!”

  “Try it, you damned cynic. If you don’t care about Barbara, at least save yourself. Climb the flag tower and sing it!

  It was then that Barbara’s stifled scream cut the air. Larry sprang up, sent the piano bench sprawling, raced out to the promenade. His voice broke out in song.

  No one seemed to hear. Everyone was spellbound by the magic of the rainbow.

  But as Larry climbed the tower, singing as he went, he saw the source of Barbara’s terror-stricken cry. The blood-chilling sight went straight to his throat, the melody turned into a new theme—a powerful theme laden with a fantasy of death—and his voice gave!

  “Sing it! . . . Sing it! . . . More of that strange minor! . . . Now—up—up to a climax! . . . Now—hold it—hold it—”

  That whisper might have been a master composer. Larry’s voice obeyed, in rapport with the compelling words.

  And the crowd gave ear. Even as men turned to skeletons and vanished, they inclined their heads toward the flag tower, listening. And of the living, no one listened more intently than Judge Londotte. His “dream” had inspired this song. The notes went through him.

  “Now, stop!”

  Larry stopped. A third of the crowd, still untouched by the mists, beat their hands in applause. Judge Londotte’s hand slipped off Barbara’s wrist to join in—

  “Run Barbara! Climb the flag tower. Quick!”

  Barbara ran. She caught the rungs of the steel ladder, began to climb.

  The judge tottered after her, staggered, fell, drew himself up again. He moved toward her with arms outstre
tched.

  As if in a nightmare, she fought vainly to gain the third step. But one of her hands might have been in a metal vise, it was so numb. Her hold slipped—she was going to fall—

  Larry’s arm swept down and caught her hand, drew her up the ladder two more steps—three—

  “Barbara, come back to me!” Judge Londotte shrieked. “I demand it!”

  His hand caught her ankle, his ponderous weight tugged—

  Even as she glanced down, knowing she must fall, she saw the mists dissolve the sleeve from her grandfather’s arm. Then the flabby flesh was eaten away, the muscles were gone, the grip on her ankle was undone. The arm fell to the massive naked side.

  “Climb higher—higher—so the rays won’t touch you!”

  That was the last whisper Barbara remembered hearing. Larry must have heard it too, for he helped her up the flag tower with all the strength he could muster. Without his help she could have gone no farther, for the full realization of her grandfather’s intent was in itself paralyzing.

  When Larry and Barbara dared to look down, everyone was gone. Later, when the ship had found its way out of the mists back toward Congo Gardens, the couple descended, unharmed.

  Barbara followed Larry into the ballroom. There was something she had to say.

  “I’ve been mistaken about you, Larry. I’ve often thought you were so wrapped up in yourself and your music that down deep in your heart you never cared about anything else—even me. But now—well, you’ve saved my life. And you didn’t have to do it. You were safe.”

  Larry shrugged uncomfortably. He kicked the piano bench into place, sat down, began to crash sombre chords.

  “That was a good song,” he said. “I wonder if it’s got away from me . . . There were lots of whispers all the way through it.” His touch went soft on the keys.

  “I was hearing the whispers, too,” said Barbara . . .

  CHAPTER VIII

  Deep in the lavender mists that fill the caverns within the earth, the nine hundred and ninety-nine Servants of Death are laboring.

  At this hour, this minute, and this second, they are distributing their death strokes.

  Death is their service to mankind.

  Sometimes nine of them find time to talk of names that have already been erased.

  “At last Judge Londotte has passed our forests of life and death, to join the parade of eternity.”

  “And the other two names were spared?”

  “Yes, as we agreed, finally, that they should be. But it was no easy task, after our new agent was granted his special favor for Londotte.”

  “I think Early is ready to serve us, now, without asking any more special favors.”

  “And he will be a worthy agent. Through his ingenious whispers he threw a favorable light upon the talented young LeBrac, binding him and the granddaughter in a closer understanding.”

  “Shall we inform the judge that the couple are destined to a long and happy life, now that he is gone?”

  “We had best withhold the news until it is complete. Our new agent has gone to the surface.” . . .

  Barbara Londotte was waiting at the Congo Gardens pier. Her luggage was already aboard the Sunny Wave. The captain had promised her that he would perform a marriage ceremony as soon as the boat left port. But where was Larry?

  The boat whistled. It was time to get aboard.

  Then a taxi whizzed up, and Larry and Wayne Early jumped out. Barbara became a statue on the gang plank. They hurried up to her.

  “Mind if I ring in a substitute?” Larry jabbered. “I’ve got a helluva lot of music writing to do. You remember that publisher? Anyhow Wayne’s your man, Barb. All three of us have known it ever since—”

  “Thanks, Larry,” Wayne broke in. “I’ll carry on from there. The point is this, Miss Londotte. You’re not safe on that ship—”

  “All ashore that’s going ashore!” the final warning rang out.

  “You’re not safe, crashing into people,” Wayne said. “I’ll go along to rig up that stoplight.”

  Barbara smiled. “I’m quite safe, thank you.”

  “Forget the stoplight,” said Wayne. “I’m a mad, gay fellow. I want you to marry me.”

  A few minutes later the Sunny Wave pushed out of port and Barbara and Wayne waved farewell to Larry, who, as Barbara guessed, caught a wisp of music out of their departure.

  Then Barbara, suddenly aware that real happiness was to be hers for the first time in her life, snuggled into Wayne’s arms. And no one said anything about a stoplight.

  THE FIEND OF NEW LONDON

  First published in Amazing Stories, February 1942

  London was a shambles. It had to be rebuilt. But Ben Gleed wanted to make it a Super City of science.

  “There is a bestial fiend abroad in England, feeding fat upon people who fail to get into motion.”

  —Ben Gleed, 1945

  Three factions fought over the plans for rebuilding London—the Ups, the Outs, and the Downs.

  The Ups, led by Edwin Estep, contended that bigger and better skyscrapers should rise out of the ruins of London, symbolizing the city’s return to sunshine, fresh air, freedom and power.

  The Outs, whose cause was championed by the estimable John Kandenfield, a survivor from the now defunct House of Lords, argued that the modern city should spread wide over God’s green acres (and the devil’s burnt-black ones as well) and that every building worth constructing deserved a spacious landscape.

  The spokesman for the Downs was Bronson Black, famous R.A.F. ace, whose realistic forecasts of future wars were convincing argument for a more deeply rooted, deeply sheltered urban setting—an underground city.

  The three-way battle raged for several weeks over the committee’s conference tables.

  The bombastic little orator, Edwin Estep, paced and fumed round and round his miniature London of the Ups, with its tall graceful white towers and interlaced streets of many levels. But the Outs and the Downs used the model towers to hang their hats and umbrellas on.

  The big hearty Mr. Kandenfield never tired of cajoling the committeemen into joining him in the front yard where they could sit in colored canvas chairs and enjoy gazing upon the widespread model of a London built outward across the green lawn. But when the Ups and Downs accepted Kandenfield’s invitation, they usually fell asleep in their chairs, using the model buildings for footstools.

  Bronson Black crowded the window ledges of the conference room with his glass aquarium models of underground industrial plants, office buildings, and apartment houses, and he bit his pipe savagely and muttered disconcerting predictions about the next crop of bombs. But the Ups and Outs adopted his glass models for ash trays, if not spittoons.

  Came a hot week in August and the conference room almost turned into a shambles.

  Outs and Ups got together to snarl and hurl epithets and teacups at the Downs. Ups and Downs chased the Outs off the lawn. Downs and Outs grabbed the model skyscrapers of the Ups and used them as cudgels.

  Funds ran low, the whole secretarial staff got fired, likewise the doorman and the office boy, all of whom were glad to go, for the conference room had become unbearable. Millions of impatient citizens flooded the committee with angry letters demanding action.

  “Give us a New London!” “Hurry up with that plan!” “Build it out!” “Build it up!” “Build it down!” “Build it any way—but give us ACTION!” Pressures multiplied. The committee funds ran dry. The Downs were down in the mouth, the Ups threatened to walk out, and the Outs blew up.

  Then a boat arrived bearing America’s famous Ben Gleed, the manager of the world-renowned Super City.

  “At last!” the planning committee gasped. “Now maybe we’ll get somewhere.”

  The handsome young Ben Gleed marched down the gang plank and through the battalion of photographers crowding around to catch the best angles on his piercing eyes and square-cut jaw.

  “So this is New London!” he said mirthlessly, looking off towards
the expanse of city that was only partially cleared of its wartime ruins.

  “It’s going to be,” said the brisk little Edwin Estep, shaking Ben’s hand vigorously, “as soon as we start erecting skyscrapers.”

  “Not skyscrapers,” said Kandenfield “There’s no need—

  “Right, Kandy,” Bronson Black snapped. “The need is to build under the ground, not over it.”

  “Not so fast, gentlemen,” Ben Gleed smiled. “You invited me to come as a counsellor, but I didn’t expect to be embroiled in an argument before I got my first breath.”

  “Don’t breathe too deep,” Edwin Estep laughed dryly. “London’s been through a lot besides bloomin’ roses the last few years. Eh, John? Eh, Bronson?”

  But John Kandenfield had turned to greet three pretty girls just returned from America, and Bronson Black had been caught by the cameramen, alert to serving up pictures of R.A.F. heroes to their public. For the moment the brisk little political orator had Ben Gleed to himself,

  “I’m glad you could come, Mr. Gleed,” said Estep. “I’ve been trying to pattern New London along the lines of your famous Super City—streamlined efficiency—architectural beauty—power—grandeur. I had the pleasure of visiting your city once, and I’ll never forget the hospitality shown to visitors who came there in search of new ideas.”

  “Thank you,” said Ben Gleed. “We’ve invited all cities to copy our methods whenever it’s to their advantage to do. And we’ve been well repaid for this policy, with one exception.”

  “Oil Center?” Estep asked. “I’ve read about it.”

  “It’s the only city that has failed to meet our courtesy halfway. Oil Center considers itself a rival for our business. Really, there’s more than enough business for all of us. But it was this threat of an intercity war that merely kept me in America.”

  “Everything ironed out, I hope?”

  “Strangely, Oil Center has thrown out a few feelers toward renewing friendship during the last two weeks. So I told my Super City staff to consider the hatchet buried, I left everything in the hands of the assistant manager, and boarded a ship for England. Naturally I’m proud to be consulted on the London plan.”