by Don Wilcox
I slithered out of two planes in order to stay with the third. I rode it doggedly for an hour, far across the land, before I at last succeeded in achieving a crash into a mountainside.
Most of the night was gone before I found my way back. There was more tragic smoke over Chungking, but the tragedy was not unmixed. Around the wreckage of Japanese planes an assorted lot of Chinese had gathered, frankly mystified over why the planes had fallen, but nevertheless jubilant. It was good to see those grizzled old Chinese coolies, fire fighters with sinews of steel, standing around smiling through their sweat and grime.
Where was Chestnut Eyes?
On every clear day for the next two weeks I rose high above the city to gaze over the countryside. I wanted to go searching, but I couldn’t possibly search in all directions at once. My mood grew heavy.
And yet, I told myself, if it was her preference to spend her days idly chasing straws over the field, forgetting the turmoil of her past, that was surely her privilege.
And then one day I ventured into a so-called hospital—the hall of a once-wealthy home that was now lined with beds for the wounded.
I drifted in stealthily, for smoke is no welcome guest in such a place.
The doors at both ends of the hall were open. The attendants were trying to ventilate the place. Strangely, there was a thin little layer of smoke clinging to the floor and walls like the haze of a mirage.
Blue smoke—coiling, twisting, swirling in curious little eddies. A little yellow straw drifted along the floor, spun upward, and alighted on the bed of a patient. The injured man was no one I had ever seen before, apparently a patrolman who had weathered many raids, and taken a wound on the recent one.
The straw that lighted on his bedside caught his attention. The smoke-laden breezes seemed to be playing curious tricks for his amusement.
By this time I knew. And I too, had spread myself thin along the floors and walls. Chestnut Eyes whispered to me to listen. And so I heard the little song that vibrated through that bit of straw.
“Whoo-OOO-ooo! We’re still fighting!”
The whistled bit of melody was not as distinct as one might have sung it, but it was tmmistakable, for the straw was a flexible whistle capable of cunning effects when skilfully blown.
Again the little melodic message sounded.
The face of the Chinese fire-fighter lighted with hope. Perhaps he thought he was dreaming. But the bit of song—the melody that Chestnut Eyes had begun—was the music of courage in his ears.
The straw spun to the floor, swept along in what appeared to be an aimless course, and suddenly whirled upward again to alight beside the ear of another patient.
“Whoo-OOO-ooo! We’re still fighting!”
EBBTIDE JONES ON THE WARPATH
First published in Fantastic Adventures, June 1942
Hitler was producing so much scrap in Europe, Ebbtide Jones, junkman, figured it was the place for him to go!
Ebbtide jones looked down from the cab window at the two Nazi policemen. His sleepy eyes widened. He removed his long bony fingers from the steering wheel of the gigantic atom-constrictor and scratched his head solemnly.
“It vas about time you halted,” the Nazi with the beet-red face yelled up at him. “Vat iss der idea? An American invasion?”
Ebbtide scowled. He believed in giving respect where respect was due. The only thing about either of these bellowing policemen that called for respect was their pistols. Ebbtide grabbed the wheel, stepped on the gas, and turned the monster atom-constrictor down the road.
The two policemen jumped on their motorcycles and sped after him. One of them leaped to catch the steel ladder that led up to the driver’s cab. He scrambled up and poked his head through the open window.
“Stop or ve’ll shoot!”
Ebbtide jerked a lever. Tons of caterpillar links clanked to a standstill.
“Now. Vot you come here for? Speak up.”
“Great jumpin’ oysters,” said Ebbtide. “You’re the fussiest cops I ever run into. I never come here lookin’ for trouble.”
“Vat you doing here? Tell us first and ve’ll shoot you aftervards.”
“I’m lookin’ for junk,” said Ebbtide. “Looking for junk? Dot’s a junky excuse.” The red-faced Nazi turned to the second policeman, an owl-eyed, sharp-beaked little man who now thrust his head into the cab window. “He said he was looking for junk.”
“He’s lying. Vat he’s running iss a tank,” Owl-eyes put the charge squarely at Ebbtide. “Aindt it a tank?”
“It ain’t,” said Ebbtide.
“Vat iss it?”
“It’s an atom-constrictor. It knocks the third dimension out of things. It collapses them so their atoms lie down an’ sleep together—”
“You’ll lie down und sleep if you giff us any more lies. Come. Let’s haff a look.”
The Nazis followed Ebbtide down the steel ladder. Together they took a walk around the huge steel caterpillar. Ebbtide hooked his thumbs through his red suspenders proudly.
“She’s bigger’n a locomotive, boys. It was some job shippin’ her over here to Europe, but it’ll be worth it, I reckon. You see, I’m in the junk business. I buy and sell, collect, transport and store. Back in America they know me as the junk king.”
The two Nazi police exchanged suspicious whispers.
“Ve don’t vant no kings around here,” Red-face barked. He flourished his pistol.
“No kings!” Owl-eyes shouted. “Heil, Hitler!”
Ebbtide knitted his brows. “Great spoutin’ whales, you guys have got me all wrong. I’m no empire king or nothjn’ like that. I’m all business. I heard about all the junk that was bein’ made over here by a feller named Hitler—”
“Heil, Hitler!” both the Nazis shouted.
“Oh, you birds know him, do you? Well, I ain’t never met the lad, but seein’ as how he’s in the junk business, the same as me—”
“Shut up!” Owl-eyes shrieked. “You can’t talk dot vay.”
“Vun more vord,” Red-face snapped, “und ve’ll smash you. Ve know vat you’re plotting. You tink you’ll blow up Hitler. You’ve got der bombs hid in dis tank—”
“What do I want with bombs?” said Ebbtide. He narrowed his eyes. These two goofs didn’t know the first thing about business. “I come here for junk. I used to be a beachcomber. I reckon I’ll always be one at heart. I’ve had a fling at space-combin’ too, an’ I married a gal from a secondhand store family, and we’ve set up the world’s biggest junk business right in the heart of New York City. I can smell junk halfway around the world. I’ve come here lookin’ for it. Now what you got to say?” The two Nazi policemen made wry faces. But neither spoke—not until they had led Ebbtide around the big machine again for another puzzled inspection.
Then one of them growled. “You von’t vin der var. Dis tank iss too clumsy.”
“Listen, shark bait,” said Ebbtide, “I’m not interested in no war. War’s somethin’ I don’t know nothin’ about. It’s outa my line, see?”
“You lie,” said Red-face. “You haf come here to pick quarrels against Hitler.”
“Well, maybe so, maybe not. That’s somethin’ else again,” said Ebbtide. “Now that you’ve brought it up, I’ll tell you somethin’ about this lad Hitler. He’s breakin’ the junkman’s code of ethics. It’s only fair to collect junk. It ain’t fair to create junk.”
“Iss dot so?”
“It’s so. Somebody oughta warn him. He’s bustin’ the rules. The international junkmen’s executive committee is apt to call him on the carpet—”
“So you threaten to haf him executed!” Owl-eyes roared.
“I didn’t threaten nothin’. I just said—”
“Shut up! Vun more vord about Hitler and I’ll—”
“Look here vunce,” Red-face interrupted, pointing up to the rows of transparent pipes which comprised the rear half of the atom-constrictor. “See it?”
“Vot? . . . You mean dot disc?”
/> Ebbtide looked where the police were pointing. There was a disc. He tried to think what it was. He had meant to bring the atom-constrictor over empty, and take it back to America full.
In the dozens of transparent pipes, built into the atom-constrictor like a huge truckload of gas pipes, there was room for hundreds of thousands of “discs,” that is, articles of junk. This machine was capable of picking up articles of any shape or material and knocking the third dimension out of them, thereby reducing them to small uniform discs convenient for storing and carrying. A temperature near absolute aero in the pipes made this possible.
“Iss it a bomb?” Owl-eyes asked, climbing up the catwalk to examine the single disc visible through the transparent pipe. “Or iss it a silver phonograph record?”
“If it’s a secret message, bring it oudt so ve can play it.”
“It’s no message,” said Ebbtide. “It’s not silver—”
“Ve’ll see about dot. Bring it oudt.”
“I can’t think what it is,” said Ebbtide thoughtfully. “I never meant to bring anything—”
“More lies. You know vat it iss.”
“Honest, I don’t.” said Ebbtide. “I reckon the only way to find out is to change it back.”
“Back to vot?”
“To whatever it was—that’s what I don’t know.” Ebbtide drew a deep breath. “Maybe you lads have heard tell of atoms before. If you ever get in the junk business you’ll need to know about things like that. You see, all solid matter is mostly just energy whirling in space. And if you wanta take the third dimension outa somethin’—”
“Stop dot crazy jaw vorking and show us!” Owl-eyes shrieked.
Ebbtide pressed a lever. The silver disc emerged from the cylinder, slid down a chute along the side of the mammoth machine, and stopped with a clang.
Next he attached an electrical connection to the handle that was clamped on it. The disc began to expand. The two Nazi policemen shrank back and held their ears.
But no explosion came. Not unless the swelling of a silver disc into a pretty girl with yellow hair and snappy eyes and saucy lips could be called an explosion.
The electric handle jumped off as soon as the disc had completed its change. There she stood, complete to the last stitch of her green housecoat and yellow anklets. Her eyelids fluttered, she looked up and said, “Hi, Ebb. Glad to see Trixie again?”
“Well, nibble my bait,” Ebbtide gasped. “If it ain’t my wife!”
“I don’t believe it,” said one of the Nazis.
“You want to see our marriage license?” Trixie snapped angrily.
“Ssssh,” said Ebbtide. “They mean they don’t believe you coulda come outa that disc.”
“They saw me, didn’t they?”
“Yes, I reckon they did. But they’re suspicious of everything. They’re Nazi police.”
“Ye gods!” Trixie did an ungraceful jump and came down running. There was an open park at the left side of the road and she cut straight across it full speed. A village lay beyond. Ebbtide’s long legs went into action. He took five long bounds after her, then decided to change his strategy. He leaped back into the atom-constrictor and stepped on the gas.
The big caterpillar clanked around the corner of the village street just in time to head off the runaway wife. “Come back, you!” Ebbtide called. Trixie saw the two Nazi police were on the trail with motorcycles, so she stopped and looked up to Ebbtide to be saved.
“What’s happened, Ebb?” she cried. “An invasion?”
“Climb up in the cab,” Ebbtide retorted. “What are you talkin’ about—invasion?”
“Well, I’ve been cooped up in the atom-constrictor for the last two weeks,” Trixie said. “A lot can happen in two weeks.”
“A lot has,” said Ebbtide. “I heard there was a mess of junk bein’ made over here in Europe so I made up my mind to come over—”
“Are we in Europe?” Trixie cried, halfway up the ladder to the cab.
“Sure. I heard there’s a junk king named Hitler, and I—”
“Put me back into the atom-constrictor, Ebb.” Trixie fainted and fell to the ground.
Ebbtide looked down at her and scowled. There was something disturbingly discolored about her face. But for the present the thing that bothered him was having his business interfered with by his wife. He didn’t believe in letting family matters interfere with the junk business.
But she had fainted, and any woman who has the presence of mind to faint deserves a little attention. He crawled down from the cab and dipped a bucket of cold water out of a nearby horse trough and dashed it in her face.
Again the color of her face disturbed him: those red dots . . . But now the two Nazi cops had parked their motorcycles and were glowering like two ugly storm clouds.
Ebbtide helped Trixie to her seat in the atom-constrictor cab and returned for a showdown with Red-face and Owl-eyes.
“Which way, gents, will I find some of Hitler’s junk? . . . Huh? . . . This is Holland, ain’t it? . . . If it’s all been cleaned up around here, maybe you lads can tell me which way to Russia. Seems to me I’ve heard—”
The two Nazis weren’t hearing a word. They were both staring at the atom-constrictor in blank puzzlement. Finally Red-face spoke up.
“Ve’ve got orders to smash anyting dot ve don’t understand.”
“Vait,” said Owl-eyes. “Dot’s a leedle too beeg to smash. Ve could better capture it und take it back to Hitler and we show heem how it vorks.”
“Dot’s it. Ve’ll be heroes.” Then
Red-face continued to gaze. “But how does it vork?”
“It’s a secret,” said Ebbtide. “Secrets—dot’s vot ve want to know.” The Nazis toyed with their guns. “Show us.”
“Okay, okay. Only I oughta have someone to work it on.” Ebbtide lifted an eyebrow. There was a skinny little Frenchman painting a sign on a store window across the street. “Could we borrow that fellow?”
“Dot’s perfect,” said one of the Nazis. “Ve’ll turn him into der silver disc.”
A bellowed order brought the Frenchman over, paint, brush and all, on the double quick.
“Park your paints up there in the cab, Frenchy,” said Ebbtide. “We need a little bait for this atom-constrictor. You see, I’m givin’ a free demonstration. Ever heard of the third dimension, Frenchy?”
Before the skinny little sign painter had a chance to answer, the two Nazis growled impatiently. They didn’t want a lecture, they wanted action.
“You needn’t be so hard-boiled about it,” said Trixie, showing her saucy red-blotched face at the cab window.
“Keep your voman oudt of this,” Owl-eyes snarled.
“Shut your trap,” said Ebbtide. “My wife’s got a right to talk whenever she wants to, an’ I’ll be soaked in salt water if any stooge of a Nazi junk-maker is gonna stop her.”
“That’s tellin’ ’em, Ebb!” Trixie cheered. “You guys had better take warnin’—Ebb’s a good guy till someone starts gettin’ mean with him. Then—well, you’d better lookout. If he ever goes on the warpath—”
“Stop dot talk!” Owl-eyes shrieked. “I’fe shot vimmen for less—”
“Hsssh!” said Red-face. “You’re stopping der vorks. I vant to see dis
Frenchman get demonstrated.”
Ebbtide proceeded with the preparations. “Don’t be scared, Frenchy. It’ll all be over in a minute. Just climb that ladder and walk to the front end of the catwalk.”
“Yah, all ofer in a minute.” The Nazis nudged each other. “Lucky dot Frenchy got no kids.”
“Hass he got a vife?”
“Nein,” said Red-face.
. “Nine?” said Ebbtide, blinking his sleepy eyes with curiosity. “If he’s got that many wives we’ll never coax him outa the atom-constrictor.”
“Of ze wives,” Frenchy spoke up sharply, “I have exactlee none.” Ebbtide turned to the two Nazis. “Now, gents, if you wanta see just how this machine turns a man in
to a metal disc—”
“Heil, Hitler, dot’s vot ve want.”
“Okay. You two lads walk right in through this big open door here in front, an’ turn to your right, an’ snap on the light.”
The two Nazi police pranced into the giant scoop that formed the front of the machine.
Ebbtide shot a wink at Trixie and she pressed a lever.
Clink. Clink.
Two silvery discs appeared instantly in one of the big transparent pipes.
“Come down, feller,” Ebbtide called to the Frenchman waiting on the catwalk, “and stop chattering your teeth. Those two guys have seen everything.”
Nazi officers and Dutch civilians stood by open-mouthed along the streets of Rotterdam as Ebbtide gunned the enormous atom-constrictor through the city. There was a bright light in his normally sleepy eyes. He was on the lookout for junk.
In the cab beside him sat Trixie and the Frenchman. Trixie chewed gum in time with the clank of caterpillar treads. She was on the lookout for stoplights, but before she saw any the atom-constrictor dodged out of the busy streets and sought the city’s outskirts.
The Frenchman had become absorbed with interest in Trixie’s face, partly because it was pretty and partly because it was covered with red dots that were neither lipstick nor candy stains.
“You have ze measles!” Frenchy suddenly exploded.
“S-s-sh,” said Trixie. “I’ve just come out of two weeks’ quarantine.”
Ebbtide scowled at her. “So that’s it. Remind me to put you back.”
Then the junk king resumed his observations about business prospects.
“These Rotterdam people have got plenty of order and system. All their junk is stacked in neat piles. It reminds me of how I classified my haul when I was combin’ the spaceways . . . Frenchy?”
“Oui, Monsieur Jones?”
“Is it true that this gink Hitler has got a claim on all the junk in Europe?”
“Directless or indirectless, monsieur, he eez reesponsible for all.”
“He’s a hog,” said Ebbtide. “There oughta be a law against these monopolies. I’d like to see that guy Hitler.”
“Eempossible, Monsieur Jones.”
