The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Red thought of Ruth Lee—or did she call herself Mrs. Red Stephens, even though he had left her with the promise of an annulment.

  She had made no answer to that offer. She had only whispered, “Courage, Red. You’ll come through.” That had been her good-bye, with no spectacles to complicate its simplicity.

  With these thoughts Red broke out of his moment of indecision. He crept ahead.

  The traitorous scout glanced back to see him coming. Only thirty yards lay between them—thirty yards of perilous grade. Roortog made three swift strides ahead. But the rocks rolled under his feet, and he grunted and gasped with desperation as he flung himself at a bit of shrubbery.

  He glared back at Red with savage defiance.

  “Why don’t you shoot me, Red Stephens? You’ve got a gun.”

  “You know why I don’t shoot you, you damned traitor,” Red shouted back at him. “You’ll get it, all right. But first you’re gonna tell me what I want to know—just like you’ve been telling me!”

  Red grabbed for his spectacles.

  The evil-eyed scout took it to be a pass at the gun. In a swift rush he fought his way up the devil’s slide of rocks.

  “Which lower trail?” Red yelled at him.

  But Roortog never turned his head. His swift footed bound took him within a few feet of a ridge that be could have anchored to in safety. But at the last second of his climb the rock jumped from under his feet and he went rolling down—down—everlastingly down, carrying a deluge of loose stones with him.

  That was when the landslide began. All at once the narrow section of mountainside was slipping away like marbles on a tilted plate.

  Red jammed the spectacles into his pocket and ran like a fleet-footed deer. He not only ran, he vaulted, rolled, and tumbled. Anything to cut back over the trail to the trees. But every split second he was slipping down, and the rocks were chasing past him until he couldn’t leap over them fast enough.

  An upward glance told him that a whole wall of death was storming down past him. Trees were snapping and crashing back of him. In another instant he would surely be rolled under the flood of roaring death.

  Then something struck him across the head and he dived headlong.

  His eyes were closed. He was lying close against the jagged earth. The echoes of the roaring landslide were fading away. The silence was strangely pleasant.

  Then there were sounds of voices only a short distance from him. The colonel and some of the natives were calling.

  His eyes opened. He gazed gratefully at the outcropping of table-sized rock that had stood like a Gibraltar to ward off the sudden death he had been promised.

  He arose, rubbing his head, drinking in a deep restoring breath of the familiar jungle air. In a flash everything came back to him. Not only his lost battle with Roortog—but everything.

  The colonel was first to reach him.

  “Thank God you’re alive,” the colonel breathed. “Those native fools still believe in you. And as long as they think you know what you’re doing, there’s a chance—”

  “I know what I’m doing!” Red Stephens snapped.

  “You know which of the three trails is least dangerous?”

  “Three trails!” Red snorted. “From this point I can pick three dozen trails, and we won’t bump into an enemy nest on any of them. Get your army into motion and follow me.”

  CHAPTER XI

  He was put aboard the first plane returning to Australia. He had big news to take with him. Since the successful occupation of the northern coast of G was, for the present, a military secret, the news couldn’t be radioed. But Red carried the report signed by Colonel Moberly.

  As matters worked out, the official document reached Sydney well ahead of the plane. That miracle might mean a headache for the historians in years to come. It would seem impossible. But to Red Stephens, who knew the special talents of his invisible friend Longworth, it was no trick at all.

  The only difficulty in the process was that of keeping Longworth’s appearance a secret. Once he materialized before Red’s eyes he willingly accepted the message.

  “Don’t worry about my delivering it into the right hands, buddy,” Longworth said. “And stop your ribbing me about neglecting you on your island jaunt. Maybe I had good reason to be absent. My magic entails certain other responsibilities besides you. Have you ever stopped to think of that?”

  Red nodded. “I’m a trusting soul. But I ought to put on my specs and see if your other responsibilities have to do with Ruth Lee Stephens.”

  “You needn’t. I’ve been on the trail of one Hester Wembridge and her crew.” The big Englishman’s thoughtful face betrayed a keen relish of his own mischief. “In fact I’ve already delivered an official message for her—one she didn’t intend to issue to the public until you and the native army had lost your game.”

  “What did she report about us?”

  “Nothing good. She and Jalbeau had worked out a whole communique of how the sniping parties had knocked you out. They would have turned it over to the press, tomorrow or the next day, as if from one of their island news sources. But I gave them quicker service.”

  “You mean you stole it?” Red asked. “Before their signatures were dry. They turned their backs, I became visible, snatched the papers, and vanished. A few minutes later I deposited them where they would do the most good. It’s a sensational news story. The angel’s in hot water trying to explain how it came through so quick.”

  “It’s going to be more sensational when Moberly’s report comes in.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Longworth, suddenly vanishing. “I’ll see you in Sydney.”

  “Wait, Longworth. I’ve a personal message—”

  “Tell Mrs. Red Stephens you want to see her? Okay, buddy.”

  A few hours later when Red landed at Sydney he was disturbed by the uncomfortable feeling that he would soon be engulfed by blaring bands and cheering crowds.

  He was immensely relieved to hear Longworth’s reassuring whisper as he was taxiing out of the airport.

  “Whither away so fast, buddy?”

  “To find Ruth Lee. She’ll be having a nervous breakdown, with all these conflicting news reports. I’ve got to see her, whether she wants to see me or not. And I don’t want any parades stopping me.”

  Longworth became visible in the seat beside him. “No bands yet, buddy.” The big cool Englishman waved a negative gesture. “The headlines are still screaming your defeat. Any report to the contrary would give undue aid and comfort to the enemy; until the colonel and the native army get established and an air base is set up, there’ll be no public report.”

  “Okay—just so the military staff knows the truth. You delivered the colonel’s dispatch?”

  “Yes, but the officials said they’d believe it was genuine when they heard it direct from the lips of the colonel—or you.”

  Red grunted with displeasure. “That damned angel’s got an awful grip on them. It’s a question whether you and I can break it, fellow.”

  “Have your cab driver take us straight to headquarters,” Longworth advised. “You’ll have no trouble getting in.”

  Arriving a few minutes later, Red thoughtlessly paid the driver for two passengers—one visible, the other present in spirit only—and hastily made his way to the high officials.

  It took less than ten minutes for him to spill a story as convincing as dynamite, and fully as explosive. Before he knew it he was on his way to the offices of Hester Wembridge, accompanied by high ranking officials and a motorcycle squad of guards.

  The lobby of the Wembridge offices was deserted except for the presence of one girl—Ruth Lee Stephens. To the first guard who entered she explained that she had been waiting for more than half an hour to see Hester Wembridge, but that, strange to say, the office had been cleared shortly after she arrived.

  “The secretary, Mr. Jalbeau, went back to tell her I was—” the girl saw Red Stephens and she broke off with a surprised gu
rgle. “Oh, Red! You’re alive—you’re—”

  Red started toward her. Impulsively she had advanced toward him; but on the next instant she began backing away. Her quick change of mind was so puzzling that Red reached for his spectacles. However, his stronger impulse was to take her in his arms, for he could see that she had been crying.

  “I’ve got to talk with you, Ruth,” he murmured. “I’ve things to tell you—”

  “Later, Stephens,” one of the officers cracked. “Don’t tell anybody anything till we get this Wembridge business cleared up. It’s time we know who can be trusted and who can’t.”

  The officer in charge proceeded to bark a few questions at Ruth, who knew nothing as to where Miss Wembridge had gone, or when.

  “I heard her voice when I first came,” Ruth said.

  “And why did you come?”

  “To have a personal talk with her.”

  “What about?”

  “About—about Red—and where she found him—and why she was sure he’d been killed on this new expedition. And then there were other things I wanted to ask her—though maybe I’m mistaken—”

  “Go on.”

  “I just wanted to ask her whether she’s on the level. Somehow I’ve had a hunch in these recent months I’ve been working for her—”

  “You’re all right,” the officer cracked. “It’s time we all had a hunch. From the looks of things, our good angel is the highpowerdest fifth columnist that ever hit Australia . . . What’s back in the offices, men?”

  The guards who had searched the further rooms came up with a farewell note signed by Jalbeau, conveying Hester Wembridge’s last minute instructions to her office employees. It announced that she was leaving for a short vacation, destination not to be disclosed. Her finances, the note stated, would be found in good order; and perhaps she would make another donation to some worthy cause if the public appreciation justified it. This she would decide upon her return.

  Meantime, the note stated, she wished no communications whatever; hence she was leaving no forwarding address.

  “It’s a walkout to save her neck!” The officer in charge led the way back to the street. “Load in, men. We’ll phone headquarters on the way.”

  The official car burned up the streets, and Red doubted whether Longworth was along, from the way the back seat bounced. The two-way radio crackled with messages back and forth, to headquarters, to the airports, to the coast defenses.

  Halfway to the field where Hester Wembridge was known to keep her plane, they learned that the plane was there in its usual place. Yes, the party had been there—two men, two women—Hester Wembridge’s usual party.

  Had they attempted to take off?

  Indeed they had. But a few minutes earlier, someone had observed, a prowler had walked up to the plane and smashed its propeller and motor with a scrap of steel.

  Who was this saboteur?

  No one knew. The big fellow had mysteriously disappeared before the airport guards could close in on him . . . But that didn’t help answer the real question—what had happened to Wembridge and her assistants?

  The answer that mattered came from one of the coast defense stations. A party of four? Yes, such a party was at this very moment in the act of speeding to their death in a stolen mosquito boat. They had killed the boat’s guard. Now they were hellbent.

  “What do you mean, to their death?” the officer snapped.

  Red strained to catch the answer. Every man in the speeding car was leaning forward tensely, alert for the words that would clarify this impending fate.

  The answer didn’t come in words. It came from the boom of a French 75, concealed somewhere on the cliff above the shore.

  The speeding ear drew to a stop on the shore drive. The echoes of the big gun pounded Red’s ears in a series of rocky clatterings.

  Then he and the officers saw it happen. Far out on the blue there was a little splash of water and steel. Where there had been a moving speck there was suddenly only the big rolling sea.

  “That’s our angel,” the officer muttered. It was a square hit. There wouldn’t even be a handful of wreckage . . .

  Red sauntered down the coast drive to a stone seat in a bit of grassy parkway.

  “Longworth?”

  No answer. Red sat moodily, thinking how ironical that he was still alive. Because of Hester Wembridge. Because her murderers had failed her. Because she had happened upon the Jap bayonet drill to rescue him—to double for himself. Because she had been confident that this double would lead thousands to their death.

  And now her game of playing angel had slipped and crashed.

  Red’s back was toward the shore drive; he seemed isolated from the world, sitting here looking out upon the waves where, a moment ago, life had so suddenly been transformed into nothingness.

  “Longworth?”

  “At your service, buddy.”

  “Our angel has fallen.”

  “Did you wish her dead?”

  “It’s the only answer,” Red muttered. “She flew over to the wrong side of the fence too often.”

  “I’ve clipped her wings,” Longworth said. “The others are dead. But she’s floating—” The Englishman appeared sitting alongside Red, looking as wise as ever, though perhaps a little tired. “You mean she’s out there in the water, struggling—”

  “She’s floating in thin air, buddy. I fixed it for her. Just a crazy impulse to try the old fakir’s magic on my own. So the instant the bullet struck, I did it. Don’t ask me how.”

  “The devil take your how,” Red snapped. “What’ll she be up to, floating around invisible, with all her fifth column ambitions?”

  Longworth’s eyes glinted with interest. “I’ve got the upper hand, buddy. And I can promise you she’ll get a good taste of hell on earth before she passes on. You see, the people are going to know about her. The people can’t be fooled by any fifth columnist for long. And when the news breaks—”

  “She’ll hear the people talk.”

  “Exactly. They’ll give her hell . . . Hell for a fallen angel . . . By the way, buddy, you’ve never told me about losing your memory. Was she back of that, too?”

  Longworth’s questions started Red on a chain of reminiscences, and as he talked he closed his eyes . . . Yes, everything was clear now. Yes, Wembridge, who had known him only by reputation, had paid a couple of natives to kill him . . . They had chased him off a cliff and thought him dead . . . After that fall had come the hours and days of dizziness . . . He had fought his way to a coast and stolen a Jap plane, and evidently had flown to Singapore, not knowing where he was going . . . He had awakened to find himself about to be executed—and then the spectacles—

  “So you talk to yourself,” said a pretty feminine voice close at his ear. His eyes snapped open. Ruth was sitting beside him. He stared. Longworth had disappeared. At the nearest drive was a cab that had brought the girl.

  “Do go on with your monologue,” she smiled. “I was enjoying every word of it—even if you didn’t mention thinking about me.”

  “I’ve done plenty of thinking about you, Ruth.” He gazed at her shining eyes. There were still signs of her recent crying, but the laughter had come back again. A face he could love always! A face—

  He started to reach for his glasses. But it seemed he needed both his arms to hold her tightly, so he laid the specs on the arm of the stone bench, out of her sight.

  And while they kissed, only Red could see that someone appeared for a moment and then disappeared—and the spectacles were gone.

  THE HOLLOW PLANET

  First published in Amazing Stories, October 1942

  All the universe was solid rock, and it was a crime to tunnel; but these two defied the Law.

  I

  It was Randolph Hill’s first earthquake, and it unleashed its terrors upon him without warning.

  Hill’s two traveling companions slipped and tumbled into the fissure that opened under their feet. The ripping earth roared li
ke a thousand wild beasts and vomited rocks at them as they tried to leap to safety.

  Randolph Hill saw their faces, white and twisted. That was the shock and the pain of death. Rocks heaved as if blown from guns. Luggage and clothing flew to pieces, arms and legs were torn from bodies—and those glimpses were the last Randolph Hill had of his two companions.

  The fissure opened again, a gaping, mile-long ditch, and Hill rolled into ft.

  He was falling—falling—falling into the bottomless gash. The thunder of crushing stones was on all sides of him. Vacuums crackled with the concussion of winds. And Randolph Hill, the noted explorer and man-about-planets was still falling.

  Clouds of brown powdery rockdust boiled up like steam-filled smoke to engulf him. From then on he fell through solid blackness.

  Hundreds of feet—thousands—miles of falling! Randolph Hill began to count. It was incredible that the walls did not come crashing together.

  Stones fell with him, floating past him so gently that they spared the hide on his bare arms. He was falling almost as fast as they, being built only a little more like a feather.

  Suddenly he knew that his speed of fall was retarding. The thickness of air was cushioning his drop. It was such dense air that he had to fight to keep his lungs pumping against the pressure.

  Randolph Hill fell until he reached a point where everything was coming to rest—rocks, air, falling bodies. He drifted to a stop without landing. The rocks, floating like balloons around him, crowded him down, and farther down, until he was below the gravitational center that had drawn him.

  Gravity now pulled him upward, but the rocks were packing tight above his shoulders.

  Randolph Hill groped through the blackness. The strangest sensations were gripping his body. Arms as sluggish as slabs of lead. Legs that responded like masses of concrete.

  He was heavy. The steel grip of gravity held him.

  All sense of direction had left him.

  He blew the dust from his face and endeavored to breathe. The air pressed him like a rubber suit tightening over his body. The smell of hot stone was stifling.