The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Voileen said. She tumbled out of the hammock and sat down beside him. “What’s this you were saying about a return to our world? I’m perfectly happy here, Haj. Tomorrow I’ll learn another note.”

  Hajjah laughed at her. “You’re very beautiful, Leenie . . . Remember that first day I saw you at school? You were beautiful then, and I told myself that some day I would marry you . . . You’re more beautiful than ever, now.”

  “They say the starlight helps,” Voileen said. “But I think maybe it’s these new clothes. The music boy’s mother took me to the city today.”

  “I’m going to marry you some day soon,” Hajjah said quietly. “The people here say that they can see things in the stars—and that’s what I see.” Voileen looked up at the deepening blue. “Where do you see anything like that?”

  “Up there—don’t you see it?”

  “I see a rain cloud coming over,” said Voileen.

  “I’ve been wondering—must we go back to our own world before we get married . . . Would it be right for us to be married in this outside world?”

  A hint of worry came into Voileen’s starlit eyes. For several minutes she made no answer.

  “What do you mean—right?” she said finally. “If you mean according to the laws of King Witfessal—no, I suppose it wouldn’t. Rightfully, we must return to our Witfessal Agent before we can be married.”

  Hajjah nodded. “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

  L

  The hospitality of young Ted Green and his parents was a constant source of amazement to Hajjah. Every day there were new sports—riding, shooting, swimming, lessons in speaking. The latter, perhaps, was the most fun of all. But shooting ranked as a close second.

  The flame gun, he learned, was a novel sports weapon. It required skillful handling, much more so than more common types of guns. Therefore it was preferred for sports competitions.

  The sensitive trigger of the flame gun made it highly responsive for speedy shooting at short range; but skill at longer range shooting was more difficult to attain, since the rate of travel of the flame became an increasingly important fact with increased distance.

  Hajjah’s sense of distance had never given him any trouble down in the hollow planet. But in this world most landscapes seemed to be jumping-off places where his distance sense was forever failing him.

  Voileen teased him for his poor record in the long distance competitions. But she realized that he was engrossed in the game, much as she was absorbed by her music. And perhaps he was doing as well as she, although she had now mastered eight notes and two simple tunes.

  At any rate she clipped a precious stone from her sleeve and bought Hajjah a gleaming flame gun.

  And every morning she and the music boy’s mother would ride out to the range to see whether the scores were improving.

  The music boy would always greet her. He was a happy youngster, her prize friend in this new world. Whenever he saw her coming, he would toot his trumpet five long notes—the next to last one a high one. And she would return the call.

  Between the music boy’s family and Hajjah and Voileen a remarkable friendship had grown. And all the while, Hajjah realized, these hospitable people had withheld their questions. They knew, of course, that he and Voileen were from some land other than their own. But the secret of their coming had never been revealed.

  As mutual confidences grew, Hajjah began to feel ashamed for having held back the story of their coming.

  Then one evening, after the group of them had returned from one of those marvelous picture entertainments that brought actual scenes of space travel among various planets, the music boy’s father turned his curiosity loose with a few straight-forward questions.

  “We have never heard any language like yours. Would you like to tell us which planet you came from? And how you happened to land so near us? And how it is that no one in this vicinity has seen any space ship?”

  “Voileen and I,” Hajjah smiled, “will be glad to tell you anything you wish to know.”

  Little Ted Green jumped at the chance. From the first his parents had silenced his questioning. In those days the language barrier had made talk almost impossible. But by now that barrier had been largely dissolved.

  “I want to know where you got all those precious stones. Did you buy them at some space port, or do you have them at home?”

  “We have them at home,” Voileen laughed. “They are so common that no one thinks anything about them. They can be picked up anywhere.”

  “I have never heard of a planet with such riches,” the father said. “What planet could it be?”

  “This planet,” said Voileen. “The inside of it. That’s our Wanzuura—our world. A million of us live there.”

  LI

  The music boy and Hajjah led the way up the mountainside. Every few minutes the little fellow would blow the five-blast call to make sure the rest of the party was coming, and Voileen would answer.

  Soon the group of them were gathered at what seemed to be the warmest spot on the mountainside, for they were all perspiring from the hot climb in the noonday sun.

  “That was our entrance,” Hajjah said. “The machine you see was made by Voileen’s great-grandfather. He started the tunnel. She was trying to finish it by herself—”

  “When Haj came to the rescue,” Voileen interpolated.

  The grownups of the party were speechless with amazement. They had heard the whole story the night before. They had listened spellbound. How strange, to realize that all these years there had existed another civilization—completely out of their sight—and yet only twenty “dunes” away.

  And to think that these million people were living a simple existence on such scanty animal and plant life as could be made to thrive upon the rock walls of a planet’s interior was almost beyond comprehension.

  The music boy’s father was a forward-looking business man and the questions he had asked about the products of the inner world, its simple industries, and its growing need for food, had been extremely penetrating. Hajjah had been surprised at his quick grasp of the situation.

  But as to whether or not it would be feasible to transport food to this inside world, Ted Green’s father did not commit himself.

  It was only now, as the party gazed at the narrow opening among the stones, that the matter of food came in for another mention.

  The music boy, crawling up out of the mouth of the tunnel, began jumping around gleefully.

  “I’ll take them some food myself, Leenie,” the little fellow said. “That tunnel is plenty big for my toy wagon. And I have dozens of friends with wagons. If you ever go back, you tell them we’re coming with some food.”

  Voileen smiled. “If we ever go back.”

  Mombal stood inside the palace watching the blue and red robes assemble.

  On the palace grounds the Agents were gathering for the feast. It might have been termed a convention by Randolph Hill if he had lived to witness it.

  Or he might have called it a riot. Even among the dignified Witfessal Agents well-laid plans could go astray.

  The undercurrent of enmity between Mombal and Ecker was now a matter of common knowledge among these professional men who tilled the intellectual fields of Wanzuura. Mombal had noted their reactions carefully.

  His hint that this feast would do honors to the late assistant, Nome, had met with full approval.

  His suggestion that further honors were to be bestowed upon Ecker was likewise favored. It was agreed that Ecker deserved honors for refusing to follow Voileen into the cave, and for his willingness to give her up when her escape had been cut off.

  But no one except Mombal had observed the satisfied light in Ecker’s eyes when people would say, “Poor Nome—how sad that he, too, should have been locked in the cave. But such cruel fate must be expected when one trifles with right and wrong.”

  The banquet was well attended. Other than the several hundred Agents who found
their places at the rows of tables, there were a few thousand spectators who crowded against the outside of the fences.

  It was a rare sight to see so much fish being served. The thousands of onlookers watched with hungry eyes. Here and there a desperate beggar dared to climb the fence, hoping to seize a fish for himself before the guards would see him and club him back.

  After a few such trouble makers had been driven away with bashed and bleeding heads, the mob spirit held itself in check.

  Mombal arose, at the proper time, and spoke to the assemblage. His reference to Ecker’s latest honor was put slyly. It evoked slight smiles from a few of the Agents. As a general rule Agents were not given to smiling, owing to the serious nature of their work.

  If any of them suspected that Ecker’s new honors were questionable, Ecker himself set their suspicions aside. When he had marched up to the speaker’s station on the palace porch, he unleashed such an emotional oration that even the beggars fell silent and thoughtful.

  If the program had ended there all might have been well.

  But the waiters brought on more fish. And that was too much for the hungry people outside the fence.

  They began yelling and stamping.

  “Fish—fish—give us fish!”

  In a few moments their cries turned into a rhythmic chant and the Agents could no longer ignore them. Along with the rhythm of their chant they began to march.

  They marched in circles, they seesawed close against the fence, and at last they straightened their ranks and moved straight for the gate.

  The Agents shouted at each other in alarm. Something must be done. This was highly irregular.

  “Stop serving fish,” some of the Agents cried.

  But by this time many of the waiters were giving way to their own impulses, tossing fish to the flood of waving hands.

  Some Agents followed the example of the waiters. Others gobbled the last of their tasty dishes, thinking to thwart the mob by removing the prize.

  LII

  It was Ecker who came nearest to getting the angry multitude under control. His magnetic manners, practiced on the stage, were calculated to play upon people’s emotional weaknesses.

  Two friends boosted him to the porch roof where everyone could see him. With one hand he held a fish aloft, with the other he managed to command silence.

  “You are right,” he cried, “to want food. King Witfessal knows your needs.”

  His words argued that he understood their plight. Perhaps the King would provide. They listened.

  “But your methods are wrong. Let me tell you what to do if you want fish.”

  An eager clamor was their response, slightly less violent than before. A promise of food seemed to be on its way.

  “These Agents of yours have fish because they stand in favor with King Witfessal,” Ecker shouted. “Why? Because they study the Laws. Very well, my worthy people. That is what you must do. Study your Laws. Then you will deserve fish. And not one of you can doubt that King Witfessal will provide.”

  For an instant there was an impressive silence. How could there be any answer to what Ecker had said? His argument clung to them—almost.

  But one voice hooted, and the psychological scales tipped.

  It was the voice of Mooburkle. Lean and hungry, rankling with the memory of Bolt’s fate, he burst out with a mocking yell.

  “Where does the King keep his fish? I’m hungry.”

  Immediately three or four others joined the shouting. In a moment the whole mob broke loose, stamping, waving, crying all sorts of vulgar taunts.

  Never had Wanzuura witnessed such an explosion of blasphemies. The Agents were horrified and deathly afraid. This angry mob was on the verge of rushing in and committing wholesale violence.

  For once Ecker demonstrated that he was helpless. He stood on the roof of the palace porch waving in protest, shouting at his friends to do something.

  “Find Mombal!” he wailed. “Let Mombal turn them back if he can.”

  A moment later Mombal was boosted up to the roof perch beside Ecker.

  “Can’t you charm them?” the little old mystic asked. “Where’s your eloquence? Why don’t you recite the Laws?”

  Ecker snorted. “Let’s see you tame them.”

  LIII

  Mombal did it. He began with a few swift mysterious antics that looked for all the world as if he meant to call down a blast of lightning.

  On the instant the surging mob jerked backward. The raucous voices changed to subdued, frightened whispers. “The High Servant himself!”

  “What is he going to do?”

  “Keep back till we see.”

  With his blue and red robe flashing in the light, the weird little old High Servant paced from one end of the porch roof to the other. His voice burst forth with spine-tingling vocal explosions.

  Now, that his mad multitude was silent and attentive, he eased into an impromptu address.

  His words were like a spray of fire. In comparison, Ecker’s effort had been cold.

  Ecker, who had by this time bounced down off the porch roof, stood amazed to see what a genius could do. It was plain that this old mystic had them eating out of his hand.

  And yet, in truth, Mombal was as uncertain as anyone how long he could hold the flood of fury in check. The mob’s violence had only been postponed. Mombal’s powers had been proved, but now he was forced into an endurance test. With supreme poise he carried oh.

  If only something would happen away from the banquet, he thought, to turn their thoughts from fish!

  If only an unseasonal rain would dash down or a sudden windstorm would sweep over the mountains—or if even a group of traveling players would hail in sight on a distant road.

  But Mombal knew none of these things was likely to come to his rescue. He must keep on speaking, packing his admonitions with simple, honest emotions, in the hope of softening these hungry, degraded people.

  He did not mention food.

  Neither did he make any appeals to King Witfessal.

  A strange oversight, perhaps, considering that he was dealing with the problem of hunger.

  But within himself, Mombal was arguing his secret thoughts:

  “If they were able to listen to reason,” he told himself, “I would put the proposition to them directly. I would tell them Crassie was right—and so was his father before him. The problem of a coming famine must be faced.

  “But they’d be in no mood to hear such blasphemies from me—in spite of their own outbursts. I must tell them nothing.

  “And yet I must soon devise a plan to give them food. Even if some of us overfed ones must deny ourselves, their cry must be answered.

  “But how can I offer a plan, the Law being what it is? There is only one way. I must receive a vision from the King—and soon.”

  These thoughts were only within Mombal’s mind. All the while he was orating with all his strength, keeping his great audience spellbound.

  The shoulders and chest of his highly colored robe became soaked with perspiration. His streaming face grew whiter. His waving arms began to tremble.

  “How much longer can he go on?” the Agents whispered to each other. “He’ll kill himself with such a speech. He’s too old for such exertion.”

  “But if he stops, we may be killed underfoot, with beggars stampeding over us.”

  Mombal began to weave dizzily. Several times he almost fell.

  Then the something that he had hoped for came to his rescue.

  From half a dune down the road there sounded a clear sharp musical note unlike anything ever heard before in the hollow planet.

  It was the blast of a trumpet.

  LIV

  The trumpet notes rang out. The sharp singing tones were full of shivers for the massed multitude. Such weird blasts of music had never been heard in this realm before.

  Mooburkle, perched on the palace gate, was the first to recognize where the noise was coming from. He pointed down to the figures coming
up the hill road.

  “It looks like Voileen!” he cried. “Yes—Voileen and Hajjah!”

  The people were already turning, and gawking this way and that. Many who heard Moo were not convinced. But others were already shouting. “Voileen and Hajjah! They’re alive!”

  The restless crowd strained to get a glimpse. The pressure against the palace gates was quickly relieved. The mob dissolved into a scattering of small, nervous, talkative groups spread across the hillside.

  Everyone wanted to see. Were the newcomers really Voileen and Hajjah? No one who got close enough could doubt it.

  But everyone was cautious. Those strange contraptions were alarming to the eyes as well as the ears.

  In addition to the trumpet blasts there was the rumbling of a bright metallic contraption which crawled along beside Voileen and Hajjah. It looked like a monstrous animal made of bright metal, and its roar was a cross between a low musical hum and the sullen echoes of thunder.

  Hajjah and Voileen came marching right up the hillside toward the crowd. A few women began to scream with fright, and brave men were seen to run for the nearest fields of tall dravoth.

  But the majority of the onlookers were sure, from the broad smiles on the faces of Voileen and Hajjah, that there was no danger. And so, out of the mob of hungry people, there arose a wild cheering.

  Here was excitement that made them forget themselves. The lost had returned!

  LV

  The official welcome came from Mombal. His lusty voice rang from the porch roof.

  “Voileen! Hajjah! Come up. Let us see you!”

  Voileen flashed a smile at Hajjah, and together they climbed the path, through the forest of dizzily joyful spectators.

  Most of the cheerers, Hajjah noticed, lapsed into breathless silence when he and Voileen passed close to them. They were fascinated by the flashing beauty of the golden trumpet she carried. They were obviously afraid of the digging machine. And they took no notice of the metal instrument he wore at his side.