The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Do people ever shrink?”

  “Frequently. Some persons have struggled to acquire a certain size in order to attain a certain goal. This goal is often marriage, for our laws require that we marry persons who are near our own size. A generation or two ago there was the odd case of a woman who undertook an ambitious program of literary studies until she attained a twelve foot stature. This enabled her to attract a certain fifteen-foot man and she won him. But having won her goal she quickly lapsed into shamefully sluggish mental activity. A few years later she was a three-footer being carried around in the pocket of her fifteen-foot husband.”

  Hi Turner said he had one more question, and I’m sure he didn’t know he was going to touch off a powder keg among the members of our party.

  “How,” Hi asked, “would you suggest that we carry a proof of this wonderful phenomena back to our competition judges? Could we borrow some of your citizens—large and small—to use as evidence?”

  The Sleeper replied with a question, “How long will you be here?”

  “Only a short time. Not over a week of satellite days.”

  “That will be long enough. Just take yourselves back to wherever you’re going,” said the Sleeper. “You’ll be taking on new sizes before you know it.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Pituitaries in Storage

  That little bomb shell was the opening salute of a Sky Cat panic.

  The following dawn on our way back to the Sky Cat the nervous jitters were sure-enough on us. The unified spirit that should have gripped us was completely shattered.

  It was a strange panic—a dread of the unknown. Perhaps that fight on the Sleeper’s chest was only a symptom of our taut nerves. There was to follow a period of frequent fighting and bickering.

  Were we doomed to change sizes? Was there no escape?

  Some of the men argued that the Sleeper must have been lying. A few tried to convince themselves that such a mammoth creature couldn’t be: that what we had seen had to be a gigantic mechanical trick. But others simply swore and grumbled for letting themselves in for this misery.

  At the ship the pandemonium ran riot. Dapper little Dwight Blackwell couldn’t find out what it was all about until he dug up his overflowing billfold and paid someone to give him a calm account.

  Meanwhile everyone tried to find Dr. Blyman. Everyone wanted his private and confidential opinion on the possible effects of this radio-active dust upon our pituitaries.

  Dr. Blyman wasn’t to be found. The engineers and the cook supposed he was still in his laboratory burning his eyes out over the microscope. But someone else said that he and the two Thinning brothers had gone out to gather up some more raw material for his experiments.

  “As if two big heads aren’t enough,” the informant added.

  “Two?” I gulped. “Where’d the second one come from?”

  I got my answer later from Hi Turner. A second specimen had been obtained, he said, by a simple process known as murder.

  Hi was terribly upset. He said it just went to prove that when you start something you never know what it may lead to. He had plunged a bayonet into a green man’s heart because it seemed the right thing to do at the time.

  “But now look what happens. Dr. Blyman makes the mistake of thinking that all these swamp dwellers are killers, and therefore deserve to be killed. So being in a mad frenzy to secure more pituitaries for his experiments, he and the Thinning brothers went out and killed a man.”

  “Green or blue?”

  “Neither. He got a Sub-Swamper—of all the boneheads!”

  “Damn! What will our Sub-Swamper friends say when they hear—”

  “A few of the officials already know,” said Hi. “That was what Seventy-five was telling me about. You remember the letter Dorothy brought him—and he decided to have us stay down in the chasms while he sent for some other Sky Catters to join us? That was because there were Sub-Swamp officials out gunning for the killers of their man. The poor fellow was out gathering wood. When they found him he’d been killed by a crushing blow on the back.”

  “And his head?”

  “It had been severed and taken.”

  I shuddered. From the sound of all this it would seem the Sub-Swampers would probably come right over and destroy us. But Hi said no, the officials had not guessed us guilty. They had attributed the crime to the green and blue swamp rovers, and had struck out to the east in search of them.

  “You see it’s very clever of Blyman and the Thinning boys,” Hi said, “to crush their victim with a club. So far as I know, only our seventy-five foot friend has guessed the truth. Fortunately he’s intelligent enough to discriminate between people.”

  “You mean he doesn’t blame us?” I was groping for an escape from the weight of more guilt. We Sky Catters had come together. Could any of us be exempt from the charge of murder?

  And where was Dr. Blyman now? Out in the forest searching more human material for his experiments?

  Why hadn’t this matter been thrown into our common court? Why hadn’t we been brought together to pass judgment on it? Where was our leader?

  I knew the answer to that one. When last seen he was slipping away from the council of the sage to pursue a cute little five-footer that he claimed as his Martian Brunette.

  Darkness was on us before the doctor and his two compatriots, together with Captain Redfife, returned to the ship. They were all four annoyed to find that Hi Turner and I were waiting to question them.

  “We’ve been away on business,” the doctor snapped.

  “Official business.” Captain Redfife’s face reddened. “The doctor and I will put this prize over while the rest of you sit around and worry about it.”

  “I trust you aren’t planning to gather in any more pituitaries,” said Hi, eyeing the doctor steadily.

  “As far as the microscope is concerned, I have all I need. But a few live exhibits would make an impression on the judges.”

  “We’re a bit short on guest rooms here,” said the captain, eager to keep himself at the head of this clandestine maneuver, “so we’ve found it expedient to place our exhibits where they’ll be handy whenever we’re ready to push off.”

  “And may it be soon,” Dr. Blyman snapped.

  “It will be,” said the captain in the manner of a man of destiny. “Tomorrow we’ll pull this ship out of the mire and go.”

  “That easy?” said Hi Turner. “You must have a miracle up your sleeve.”

  “How deep are we by now?” Redfife asked.

  “Twenty-five feet.”

  “That’s fine—er—Captain Redfife stumbled. “What I mean is, we’ll find a way out, don’t worry. See you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think you can pull this ship out tomorrow,” said Hi Turner coolly.

  “I don’t think you’ll get it out in a week!”

  “In a week!” the captain snorted. “A plague on you, Turner.”

  Hi gave a faint smile, and there was irony in his tone. “In a week a plague may be on all of us, Redfife.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  The “Brain-Hop” Plague

  It hit me first.

  I had risen early and gone to work writing my reports before breakfast. Soon I noticed that perspiration was pouring over my forehead and dripping from my wrists.

  My arms began to stiffen and pull. Heat waves swept over me. My joints grew tight and sore. Every bone in my body began to draw. I was contracting.

  In an hour it was over, thank heaven. A welcome restfulness came over my body and I knew that this was normal—my new normal.

  Physically I felt fine. In spite of the shock of this metamorphosis, it had come and gone leaving no echoes of pain or fatigue.

  But look what had happened to me.

  I did look—in the mirror—and was dumbfounded. My clothes were at least two sizes too big for me. My shoes were loose. My cap dropped down on my ears.

  It might have been worse, I suppose. According to the yardstick I had shrun
k from five-eleven to five and a half.

  Ye gods—that was what my brain had done for me! It was silly, at a time like this, for me to regret that unfinished trigonometry course, but that’s what I did. To think, if my brain had worked just a little harder I’d have held on to those last precious five inches of height.

  I’d have saved myself many a stitch in alterations—and a world of humiliation.

  I managed to be sitting at the breakfast. table when the others came in.

  This was unusual for me. Some of them looked at me twice. But while I suffered agonies of suspense, they said nothing. Before breakfast was well started I wished they would say something, to get it over with. Once I was on the verge of blurting the dreadful truth. But at that moment someone else mentioned the “Brain Hop”—and I fell silent.

  “We’ve got to do it,” one of the engineers was saying. “We’ve got to get this ship up and take off before the Brain Hop’ catches us. We’d be a pretty sight coming back to civilization in new sizes.”

  The engineer rose impetuously, and I noticed that he was pale and his forehead was covered with perspiration.

  “Won’t you finish your breakfast?” Hi asked.

  But the engineer smeared his hand over his forehead and tottered out.

  “He’s got it,” I gasped. “That’s the way it starts—er—”

  I broke off.

  “How do you know, Blonder?” someone shot back at me. But no one paid any attention. Several were already at the engineer’s side, convinced that there was something wrong with him.

  He admitted two or three friends to his room. The rest gathered around the door listening or remained at the table just waiting dumbly.

  Within the hour the engineer emerged—seven and a half feet tall.

  It was amazing to see how the group took it. Everyone stood around looking up at the elongated specimen and you could see it was a look of admiration.

  Yes, admiration and envy. In spite of the awkward array of skimpy clothes, the engineer was a towering, dignified, stately figure.

  There was a mingling of envy and distrust and annoyance in the countenance of Captain Redfife. His florid face twisted with confusion. Once he started to mock. Three times he tried to break in on the engineer’s monopoly on our attention to order us to our work.

  But the admiring eyes stuck on the new tall man and there they feasted.

  “That bird has brains,” Hi Turner whispered to me.

  I had just risen from the table with the intention of slipping away. At Hi’s words I gulped and my voice stuck. He gave me a funny look that turned into a scrutinizing gaze.

  I reddened, and he knew.

  “Sorry, old boy. I didn’t realize—” The compassion in Hi’s eyes made me look away. He added quickly, “Come here, Blonder. I want you to help me with some work. It’s urgent. This way.”

  He led me off while the others were still gazing the other way.

  I’ll never forget that favor. I’m convinced it saved me some foul blows; but Hi was quick enough to ward them off.

  By the time I emerged from my work room, several hours later, the Brain Hop had begun to hit all around me like snow flakes. Several others had shrunk more than I.

  Two of the men had shrunk to the miserable height of less than three feet and they were terribly cut up over it.

  Another engineer had emerged as a giant—all of eight and a half feet tall. Otherwise no more highly developed brains had been revealed.

  Everyone was watching everyone else to see who would get it next—and who would expand and who would shrink.

  The day passed and the ship sank to a depth of twenty-eight feet. This put the nose under, and hid all but the top of the word Sky Cat. From now on, according to the engineers, it might be expected to sink a little faster.

  And so—how do you think we spent the night? Building new swamp rafts and derricks and applying our portable atomic motor to the derrick ropes?

  No, indeed. We spent our waking hours reading, studying, working problems in mathematics, and philosophy.

  If that sounds foolish I can assure you it also looked foolish. Especially so when you’d stop to watch several of the unchanged men—the arrogant Captain Redfife, the dapper little Dwight Blackwell, the doctor, and others.

  The captain would mumble over his books for a stretch of two or three minutes, and then steal a glance at Blackwell or the doctor or Hi.

  The captain was scared. He was deathly afraid he wouldn’t turn out to be as tall as some of his men. The men knew it. Some of them were even fearing they would outgrow him, knowing that if they did he just wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  Most of all, he was watching Hi Turner, who now sat at the checkerboard for the first time since our original take-off. It was a rare sight to see Hi not reading at this hour.

  “Aren’t you concerned about your brain, my friend?” I inquired.

  “All my books are in use,” said Hi with a grin. “Is there any way to figure out from checkers how to get the jump on a sinking ship?”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Hi Grabs the Reins

  Hi Turner scooped the checkers into a box and dashed them into the wastebasket. He strode to the office door and rang the alarm bell—three long rings.

  Books and magazines dropped, doors banged, footsteps pounded through the hallways, everybody in the ship came storming pell mell into the dining room to see what the emergency was all about.

  Did I say that everybody came? I must make an exception of Captain Redfife. The captain didn’t make it. He fell on the way in. Something in the shape of my foot tripped him, and something about as heavy as a desk drawer bumped him over the head as he fell.

  So the captain went to sleep at the very moment of the uproar and I heaved him into his bed and closed his door before going into the dining room to join the assembly.

  Why, you may wonder, did I happen to be ready for that alarm? My answer is simple: I knew that Hi Turner never played checkers.

  But there he had sat, long after I had beat him three games, playing a senseless checker solitaire. So I knew there was something boiling in his brain and it was time to get ready for fireworks.

  What’s more, I knew that whatever Hi Turner was cooking up, he’d have a better chance to serve it hot if Captain Redfife was out of the picture.

  So all at once there we all were assembled around the dining room table, with Hi Turner standing at one end and everybody waiting to know what’s up.

  “We’ve reached a critical period,” Hi began. “There are a dozen emergency jobs hanging over us and they’ve got to be done. By heavens, they’re going to be done. Captain Redfife, I call on you, in the name of these men—”

  “Hsst!” I whispered, just as Hi broke off, looking around for the captain.

  I jumped up and said, “The captain has gone to bed, Hi, but he said you knew what needed saying, so he’d leave it all to you.”

  Hi gave me a fierce questioning look and I narrowed an eye at him.

  “Are you sure,” he said dubiously, “that the captain won’t—er—change his mind and join us?”

  “I’m sure,” I said stoutly. “It’s all yours.”

  My words took the brakes off, and Hi Turner plunged into his job, full speed ahead.

  “I’ll go right down the list, gentlemen, and you’ll each take your assignment. It is now an hour before daylight. By sunset tonight we want a report from every man on every job. First, Dr. Blyman, your laboratory—”

  “I’m working there day and night,” said the doctor sharply. “The captain knows what I’m doing.”

  “You’ll make a public report on your progress, Doctor,” Hi stabbed back at him. “Every one of us deserves to know what you’re doing.”

  By George, the gang cheered.

  That was good. It proved that Hi had welded us into a group right on the start.

  “Next, Joe Blonder.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Your friend Skinny
Davis has not returned to us since he walked out on our party at the Sleeper’s. You’ve assumed that he’s still visiting down in the chasms. You’d better check up. Whether he’s lost or just being sociable, we need him here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Next, Dwight Blackwell.” Hi paused to watch the dapper financier draw himself up with pride and dignity. It was a question whether this important mysterious little man would take an order as an affront or a compliment. Hi banked on the latter. “We want you to continue your vigil with your binoculars and the ship’s telescope. If you see any moving figures, large or small, near or far, estimate their positions and register them on a chart.”

  “Very well,” said Blackwell respectfully.

  “Is the rumor true,” Hi continued, “that you sighted some movement recently?”

  “Right. There were a dozen or more dots moving on the north swamp horizon during the late afternoon. I lost sight of them toward sunset. If they’re any nearer when daylight comes, I’ll report at once.”

  “Good,” Hi said, and there was another light round of applause. The old esprit de corps was coming back like magic.

  “Dr. Blyman, here’s another matter to lay at your door.”

  Hi tried to overlook the doctor’s sullen manner and his glare of hatred. The crowd grew silent and tense, as if expecting the doctor to rebel at any further interference in his private professional doings.

  “Dr. Blyman, neither you nor the captain has made public a certain very important fact about the three prisoners which you have captured in the interests of your pituitary studies. Are these three persons green swamp men of the killer type? Or are they tanskinned members of the sub-swamp civilization?”

  “The captain knows the answer,” Dr. Blyman answered mockingly.

  “We deserve to know,” Hi snapped his cool words like an easy snap from a dangerous whip. “This whole party is responsible for your course of action. We need to know what these three people are.”