by Don Wilcox
“You—you did this to me?”
“With no intention of having you ruin it by adding a girl’s face. Very inappropriate. But I’m quick to overlook an insult. Here, have another card.”
His yellow hand rubbed against his robed chest and came up with a handful of cards which he threw at my face. I dodged. I needn’t have. The cards disappeared in the air. The skeleton got a whale of a wallop out of this shoddy joke. He laughed grotesquely for several minutes; then he settled down contentedly on the suitcase, crossed his knees, and tossed his resounding skull back in a comfortable position.
With much embarrassment I proceeded to pack the card back in my billfold. I stole a glance at Sally’s photograph—habit did this for me. I had carried her picture for three years. But for the Depression she would have been Mrs. Flinders long before this.
Returning my billfold to my pocket I was reminded that I had come away carrying an unopened envelope—the monthly telephone bill. A devil of a time the company would have trying to collect that one.
CHAPTER IV
Breakfast on the Roof
“What do you see outside the ship?” the skeleton asked presently.
I stared into the velvety void. By starlight I could make out the form of a chariot drawn by four white horses, racing along beside us.
Many miles below was the surface of the earth, steeped in the blackness of night. We were flying over it like a meteor, and the electrically lighted cities and highways formed fanciful patterns like tiny jewels.
“We’re slowing down,” said the Lord of Temporary Death. “We’ll crash within a few minutes if we don’t get out of here.”
“Get out—how?”
“Isn’t my chariot out there?”
“Don’t depend on it,” I warned. “What I’m seeing is probably a retained image of that playing card . . . Sally—her jeweled comb—the white horses—you—”
“Me? Sally? You are seeing things,” the skeleton croaked with decided disappointment. “I’ll have to watch you till you steady down. You’ve slipped farther than you thought. Those troubles that bent you toward suicide are still weighing.”
“I tell you it wasn’t suicide.”
“All right, all right, I won’t argue with you. All I say is, my arrangement was the ideal way out for you. Temporary death.”
I must have given him a blank look, for he added that I needn’t mind—in due time I would understand.
J. Collier Gleidermann had sealed me in the space contraption, assuring me that I’d never need to get out; the only thing of any importance would be the record of my flight sensations, which someone might discover on some scorched mountainside sometime in the distant future.
Now that the metal records were gone I saw no harm in deserting the ship, and I didn’t doubt that it was slowing down, soon to crash.
Sparks from the fingertips of the skeleton cut through the metal wall of the ship like a blow-torch through paper. A whoosh of wind burst through the opening, followed by roars and whistling and shriekings, as the whole interior of the ship was blasted by the stream of air.
Against this bombardment of wind I crossed through the opening into the chariot, depending heavily upon the skeleton’s hand. And you may be sure I had reminded him to turn off the sparks before I touched him.
At once we were clinging to the chariot, sailing high above the clouds, riding into a pink dawn.
It was good that we had transferred when we did. The space ship had spent its last rocket and was nosing toward the earth.
We saw it strike. One moment it was a giant wingless silver bird with a wounded left side, skimming down toward a pale blue lake. A moment later it was a dark streak within two parallel sprays of gray water. Then it was gone, leaving no sign but the little circles of waves spreading toward the watery horizon in the distance.
“Comfortable?” the skeleton asked.
“This hack will do till a better one comes along,” I mumbled. Frankly I was too scared to make conversation—but I was thrilled, too. One might dream of a ride like this in the arms of an angel. But the company of a yellow skeleton in a red robe swinging a whip over four lightning-swift horses—well, this was really something, believe you me.
We climbed down over steamy clouds that caught the first pink of dawn. When we found our way down to a cloudless level we raced on through the thin air, only a couple miles above the gray misty land.
“Nice morning,” said the Lord of Temporary Death. “This is much better, you’ll admit, than permanent death.”
Beautiful skyscraper towers of streamlined cities peeked up at us through the mist. This lakeside metropolitan region was strange to me. I couldn’t get my bearings.
“Nice looking age we’ve dropped into,” the skeleton continued.
I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me or those galloping horses. The slightest sound of his voice would spur them on to another burst of speed.
We descended to the shiny steel roof of one of these structures. The four white horses came to a stop with a tapering off of hoofbeats like a crew of boilermakers finishing up a job. I supposed that this stop meant that the horses needed rest. But as soon as we alighted the skeleton snapped his fingers and those tireless beasts leaped into action.
Off they went, hoofs clattering over the steel like boilermakers on a production race. Then with a whir-r-r-r of spinning wheels and a swish of white tails flying in the air, they galloped off into the sky, empty chariot and all.
“They’ll be back,” said the Lord of Temporary Death. “No need to confine them while we sit here and take in the view. They thrive on exercise. Well, Flinders, how do you think we’ll like living in this streamlined world?”
“Do they serve food on these rooftops?” I asked hopefully.
There was something disturbing to me within the scene of towers and canyons and neon lights, but as yet I hadn’t discovered what it was.
As rooftops go this was indeed a bright spot in the heart of the city. It would have been an ideal spot for a penthouse for Sally and me, though I’m sure the space would have been inadequate for a playground for the children as the years went on—
Ah me! Why should I be thinking about that? Obviously this world was of a different century from mine. The architecture was too smooth, the parks and streets too vast, the lines of traffic too swift and silent. Four levels of traffic-ways I could distinguish in the canyon below me, and for several minutes I gazed, speechless.
Numerous signs in neons of various colors shone through the morning mist. Far down the avenue where the building tops were lost in the opaque gray I could see the words, “Sixth Avenue Traffic Way,” and still farther on, “Municipal Airport.”
The traffic was light at this hour of morning. Nevertheless, a few curious shaped planes—perhaps modified auto-giros—were skipping around from one roof-top to another. Like as not they were taxiing people to breakfast dates.
Lord Temp had disappeared, and an uneasiness came over me.
“This’ll never do,” I said to myself. “I can’t start leaning on a heap of bones. I’m free and independent. I’m in a land where English is spoken. I’d better get busy and make my own way. The first thing is breakfast.”
“Did I hear you say breakfast,” came the familiar rattling voice from the opposite edge of the roof.
I looked across to see Lord Temp approaching with a steaming tray. How he had rated this, or where, at these dizzy levels, was a mystery to me. But I didn’t quibble. I ate. Ate as I hadn’t eaten for many thousand miles.
“Shall I take the tray back?” I asked finally.
“Never return what you borrow,” said the skeleton grinning. “It only complicates things.”
He picked up the tray of empty dishes, tossed it into the air, flung a spark at it from his fingertips. Crack! The explosion engulfed it and it was gone.
“So you think you’d like to live in this streamlined world for awhile, Flinders?”
“I wouldn’t choose
this particular castle top,” I said, glancing at the huge neon street signs which bordered the neighboring roofs. “Eleventh Street—Twelfth Street—and Main! Ugh! Let’s face the other way. My past is rising up to haunt me—along with you and your ghostly horses.”
“Your past—ah, Flinders! Suppose we resume. Her name was Sally Hart. His name was Hobbledehoy. But you were the one she loved—”
“Until you slipped me your deadly calling card. That was one straw too many. When she returned the fateful card I blamed Hobb.”
“Did you tell her?”
“By telephone, telegram, special delivery and short wave. I begged her to meet me that night at Twelfth and Main—where I had first met her three years before. I thought that would get her sure.”
“She didn’t meet you?”
“She sent a messenger back with a letter—a carbon of her message to Hobbledehoy. He had asked her to marry him at once. You see his angle—taking advantage of me while I was down. If she was willing, she should meet him that night at Eleventh and Main.”
“And her message?”
“She’d decide between us before that night. We could be waiting at our respective corners at eight o’clock if we felt lucky.”
“You felt lucky?”
“No. But I took my chances. Eight—nine—ten—eleven. Minute by minute I became the unluckiest man in the world. At eleven I dashed down to the corner of Eleventh, just to be sure. No Hobbledehoy. So then I knew.”
Lord Temp rubbed his bony hands together in delight, and his eyes exhibited an eagerness in their hollow twinkle. Any reference to troubles which might lead to suicide gave him great satisfaction.
“Just to be sure Hobbledehoy hadn’t been left in the lurch, too,” I continued, “I ambled up to the Better Business Club where the boys were showing some home-made movies they had taken along Main Street.
“ ‘Have I been featured yet?’ I whispered to the sergeant-at-arms, and he said, ‘Not tonight, Flinders, owing to the fact that Hobbledehoy hasn’t shown up.’ Which was just what I wanted to know—”
“I don’t get you,” said the skeleton.
“You see, Hobb would always make them show the movie of me because it was ludicrous. He was trying to make me the laughing stock of the club. He took the picture one morning when I chased after a newspaper that had blown out of a woman’s hands. I bumped into three persons and lost my hat and knocked over a trash-can, and before I got through I had torn my clothes and a truck had run over my hat. Undaunted. I bought another newspaper and caught up with the lady and offered it to her—but she shook her head. She had just had one, thanks.”
“My friend,” said the skeleton, glowing, “I would give a lot to see that film. It’s another proof that you were contemplating death.”
“I beg your pardon!” I felt that he was trying to penetrate some depths within my mind that did not exist.
“Your exhibition was very costly, and it might have been fatal. Subconsciously you were responding to an inner drive to throw yourself in front of onrushing traffic. So you chose as your excuse the rescue of a two-cent newspaper.”
“It was a five-cent paper,” I retorted angrily. “And it had my editorial on the front page—”
“My apologies! I quite forgot. Was it your plan for ending the depression? And was the lady one of the unfortunates to whom your message was directed? Never mind, I’m seeing through you much better than you see through yourself, and I’m sure you’ll prove a worthy assistant. How would you like to visit a few of these great cities and pass out some cards for me?”
Lord Temp slid his rattly digits against his robed side for a handful of cards and tossed them at me. This time they didn’t vanish in the air. Most of them I caught in my cupped hands. A few spilled over the edge of the building and fluttered down in the breeze.
“Oh-oh,” said the skeleton. “I’d better run down and see who pockets those. If our chariot returns, hold the horses till I get back.”
So saying, he crawled over the roof railing and started down the walls as if he weighed less than a fly. Above the windows of the top floor he paused long enough to remove his red robe and toss it up to me. What happened to him then I couldn’t say, for he became completely invisible.
CHAPTER V
The Custodian Melts Away
A man appeared on the roof with a folded flag under his arm, and I watched him send it to the top of the flagpole. It was an American flag containing only twelve stars. Was this the American republic or wasn’t it?
I folded the skeleton’s robe into a corner out of the wind, stuffed the pack of cards into my pocket, and trotted over to the man at the flagpole. Imagine Yours Truly, vintage of 1950, putting on his merriest mood with intent to tap this bird for some much needed information on this new world.
“Ah! Good morning, sir. A superfine spring morning, this. A little too much air-conditioning up here, but what’s a little fresh air among friends?”
The man finished fastening the flagpole rope and turned a chilly stare on me.
“This reminds me,” I continued, “of one morning in Cincinnati years ago. By the way, what is the exact mileage from here to Cincinnati?”
The fellow was scowling at my clothes. Maybe he thought I was overdressed. He looked to me like a halfdressed chicken, garbed as he was in a glorified undershirt and underpants with pockets.
“Where’d you come from?”
“Just dropped in. Excellent taxi service in these parts.”
“Cincinnati is known for its fine taxi service.”
“Cincinnati? This is Cincinnati?”
“And what did you think it was? Paris? See here, Mister, you’re trespassing on private property. This roof isn’t marked for taxi stops.”
I snapped my fingers and nodded my head vigorously. “I knew it. That taxi-driver was a freak. Look at the bill he slipped me for change.”
I handed an ordinary greenback, 1950 style, to this fellow, and you should have seen his eyes bulge. This was the right attack, no doubt about it.
“H-m-m. Quite a relic. But no value.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“No, not worth a cent. You’d just as well throw it away. Here, I’ll take it and dispose of it. I’m on my way to the incinerator. Keep Cincinnati clean, you know.”
“I think I’ll save it for a relic,” I said, gauging the glow in this fellow’s eye.
“I’ll give you one redback for it.”
“One redback?” I must have scowled dubiously, for he promptly raised the ante.
“Five redbacks,” he said. “My son collects old coins and stuff . . . No. I won’t raise it. The last of this American money was called in over a century ago. I remember that from my History of International Currency . . . No, I’m not claiming to be an educated man. I have only three degrees, but that qualifies me to be custodian of this building . . . History? Yes, I’ve had six courses—”
He kept his eye on the greenback as I quizzed him. I was striking a harder bargain than he knew.
“See here, I’m giving you this for five redbacks,” I said. “But you’ll have to show me the way down and tell me how to find the historical library—or any library—”
“This is irregular.” Suspicion returned to the custodian’s eyes. “I oughn’t to overlook any trespassing. Especially when there’s so much labor spying going on. Which library—”
“Any place where I can find some information on that man Flinders,” I said. “You know, the James S. Flinders who wrote the radical editorial in 1950?”
“Never heard of him,” said the custodian.
“You studied American history and you never heard of James S. Flinders and the Depression of 1950?”
“I remember reading of the Depression. But it was nothing compared with this one. And I never heard of anyone named Flinders. You’ll probably have to go to the Bureau of Biographical Records in the Glass Capitol.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
“H
ere’s your five redbacks. Do I get that green bill?”
“Right.” We made the exchange. “And now if you’ll show me the way down—”
The custodian was staring at the corner of the roof. A red robe was unfolding itself and filling out into the shape of a man. The shape but not the substance. The Lord of Temporary Death resumed visibility and approached with weird clattering footsteps.
“What’s that?” the custodian gasped, turning deathly pale. “What kind of trick is this?”
“You’ve got me, brother,” I whispered. “How’s about leading me down? What’s the matter? You paralyzed?” In that instant I seemed to hover between two destinies. Would I escape Lord Temp and take my chances in this bright new world—a world that had forgiven and forgotten the bumptious and impulsive Jim Flinders of 1950?
Or would I stick with Lord Temp, to assist him with some strange game of spiritual manipulation upon these unsuspecting people?
In that split second of indecision, while the custodian stood open-mouthed and bug-eyed, and I weighed my destinies, it was the thundering of hoofs that tipped the scales.
I turned to see the four ghostly white horses racing onto the roof, with the jeweled chariot swinging after them.
Lord Temp leaped into the vehicle, jerking on the reins, and swung toward us.
He picked me up, and off we went, flying into the air. We spiralled over the building and I threw a downward glance to see the custodian clinging to the flagpole for dear life. He screamed with terror.
“Great guns, invaders! . . . It’s invaders from another planet! . . . Help! Help! . . .”
“Oh-oh,” said Lord Temp. “We can’t let any ugly rumors like that get started.”
We turned back and spun past the shouting flag-raiser, and caught him just as he was making a bee-line for the stairs shrieking bloody murder.
Lord Temp gave a fling with his hand like throwing a gob of invisible mud, and that did it. The man’s hair vanished, his eyebrows and his eyes and nose disappeared, his whole head melted away.
