The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  And there was still a third side to my conflict—this spark that kept burning at the edge of my conscience. It was something Sally had planted in my protean morality: “Jim Flinders, get away from this trouble. You’ll only make more. You turned misery into a cruel joke once before. If you had listened to me everything would have been different. We could have been so happy, Jim.”

  Between the first two forces I hung helplessly like a calf caught in a tug-of-war rope.

  To the third tug, the still small voice, I tried to give argument: “But Sally, that’s all past now. I’ve lost you. You’ve had your life without me—and I hope it was a happy one. Now everything’s different. I’m a visitor in this new world—”

  “You needn’t be,” my memory of Sally would seem to answer me. “You still have most of your life to live. Find work, join another business club, fall in love with another girl—”

  “Wait a minute. I can’t even find work.”

  “You haven’t used your head. You’re an expert in one particular line—or don’t you realize it?”

  “If you mean newspaper work, that’s out.”

  “You’re a historical expert.”

  “Me? Historical—?”

  “What you know about the events of 1950 would fill many a book. You’re the only historian in existence with a first hand knowledge of 1950.”

  “Ugh! (Gulp) I never thought of that.”

  “All right, think about it. And wipe that frown off your face.”

  “The trouble is, when I get to thinking about that age I’m nettled by those little things I left undone. Look—I’m still carrying a telephone bill I left unpaid.”

  “Go into some telephone office and pay it, by all means, and get it off your mind. It’s time for you to get busy and live in your new century. That’s all. Good luck, Jim.”

  “Betty—!”

  This conversation within the dusty interstices of my brain took place as I was waking out of a long and soothing night’s sleep on an old overcoat in someone’s open storeroom with rats running over my legs.

  I awoke on fire, with ambitions that echoed the old days when Sally and I were building air-castles.

  All right, I’d go to the first telephone office and ask how to pay this old bill. And then I’d make an all-out effort to find a niche for myself as an expert on the national history of the period from 1925 to 1950.

  I unfolded the worn envelope, slit it open, looked for the bad news.

  What’s this? It wasn’t a bill, after all. It was a note—

  A note from Sally!

  “Dearest Jim:

  This is to notify you that I can’t meet you tonight at Twelfth and Main. You know I’ve been threatening to get a new job, with everything so uncertain. Well, I’ve just this minute started working in the telephone office, and I’m feeling happier about everything already. I do love you, Jim, and as soon as we can get a little money ahead, I’m going to marry you. Poor Hobbie! Can’t you just picture him—waiting on the comer of Eleventh and Main tonight while we go out and celebrate?

  With love, and love, and love,

  Ever yours,

  Sally.”

  I read it seventeen times, and sopped the tears off my cheeks and folded it into my pocket next to my heart. You needn’t try to understand why, but for some reason a lovely dreamy mood enveloped me and I lay down on the old tattered overcoat on the storeroom floor, and told the rats to go ahead and chase over—but gently, gently.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Another Sally

  “We’ve been looking for an expert in that particular period of history, Mr. Flinders,” said the employment agent. “I’m sure you can land the job if you’ll send your application to this address, at the Glass Capitol, without delay.”

  “Will I have to go there? I’m a little short on carfare.”

  “Suppose you leave the arrangements to this agency. I’ll get an advance for you. If I’m not mistaken, this family is very wealthy. You know, a good government position, the aristocratic residential section, interest in unearthing long-lost family history: it all has the sound of affluence.”

  “Thank you, sir. While I don’t claim to be an expert in genealogy, I’ll do my best.”

  “Remember what I said, Flinders. Don’t be hesitant about inventing a few facts and figures and colorful details beyond the existing records. You’re on safe ground. No one from the past is ever going to come along to dispute you.”

  “I can depend on that?”

  “Facetious again, Mr. Flinders? But you catch the idea, I’m sure. What did you say the population was in 1950? You mentioned a day in June.”

  “One hundred fifty-five million, two hundred twenty-two, exclusive of infants and the day’s turnover in births and deaths. And a very warm day it was, incidentally. A helluva hot day. Surprising there weren’t more deaths—”

  “You’ll do, Flinders. You’ve got the idea. I’ll have you on your way to the Glass Capitol within twenty-four hours.

  * * *

  That night I flew west, feeling as if I belonged to this new age at last. If everything went well, the job might last all of two months.

  All through that swift night flight I slept not a wink. Now and then I could see bright bonfires on hillsides eight miles below, and I felt the tightening of my bonds with those horny-handed sons of toil, gathering in miserable jungles to share their degradation.

  Nor did I forget to watch the black clouds through which we skimmed. Where was the Lord of Temporary Death? How did I know his white horses might not come galloping up alongside the plane? How powerless I would be if he should blast a patch of wall away and lift me out of my seat!

  Then I would contemplate the tranquil sky and the stars and wonder: Could the spirit of Sally be up there somewhere? That spirit must be smiling with approval, I thought, if it could know that I was not the apostate I had once seemed to be; that I was starting life afresh.

  The Glass Capitol was a magnificent city.

  All the genius of man’s planning had gone into it, and every circular street and triangular block was an indispensable part of the well integrated whole.

  At the sleepy hour of three in the morning we descended upon this vast wheel-shaped city at the foot of the Rockies. From overhead it looked as if some hidden geyser might have gushed forth a million luminous diamonds, and as we spiralled down we had the thrill of watching these million dots of light spread out into a fantastic pattern of concentric tires and evenly spaced spokes—the arterial traffic ways. Even at this hour these avenues were alive with multiple streams of vehicle lights.

  If the whole pattern as seen from the air might be described as an immense electrical pie cut into eight pieces, two of those pieces were missing—a fourth of the pie. In this space a smaller electrical pie fitted very neatly, and the crisscrossing of beacons and floodlights revealed this to be an immense airport.

  As I later discovered, this fourth of the city embraced not only air terminals but all of the major lines of transportation: rail, bus and continent-to-continent rocket. The advantage of the layout was something to consider: All public passenger traffic was handled through a single gigantic terminal, located very near the center of the city.

  That blazing heap of diamonds right in the center of this whole pattern—the electrical hub itself—was the seat of the American Government. Although I didn’t realize it at this first glimpse, that immense circular plateau was one vast building, and all those gleaming little nodules which covered it were the separate glass houses on its roof—penthouse temples, if you please—which were the glass sanctums of the various high government officials.

  As I later learned, these glass domes were popularly called “goldfish bowls”—and no one ever told you the name without adding that the idea back of them was political honesty: it was believed that all government officials would benefit by these daily reminders that the public liked to know what was going on. All around and above them the eyes of the nation were continual
ly passing.

  I’ll never forget the embarrassment I suffered the moment I entered the home of the Honorable Prescott Barnes, my employer.

  Aside from being a bit sleepy I was in complete possession of my faculties, such as they were, and was all set to make a good impression. That is, I had that well dressed and well scrubbed feeling of the small boy who starts off to Sunday-school darned sure that he’s going to make a hit with the teacher.

  I had, in fact, taken myself to one of those all-round service shops immediately after a quick breakfast at the airport. Any person of the year 2100 can appreciate what a thorough going-over those top-to-toe shops offered: bath, shave, hairtrim, manicure, throat spray, tooth examination, press, shine, and so on. Filling station attendants of my time had nothing on these service-shop lads.

  The butler ushered me into the light, streamlined living-room. Bookcases formed pyramids in the corners, and three or four bright musical instruments surrounded the big orchid-tinted grand piano. The wide mantel over the fireplace was adorned with a few well placed photographs and a couple of busts.

  There was the Honorable Prescott Barnes himself waiting to greet me, but all I saw was one picture on the mantel.

  Like some weird mechanical doll with only one word and the single expression of amazed gasping, I stood there saying, “Sally . . . Sally . . . Sally!”

  I was half aware that the Honorable Barnes was alarmed at my conduct, but there was nothing I could do about it. That picture was Sally Hart over and over, and all at once my brain was in a dreadful whirl, and my sense of time spun like a clock crossed with a roulette wheel.

  I heard the butler say to His Honor, “Have I made a mistake, sir? I thought this was the gentleman you expected. But it would seem this must be one of the several boy friends afflicted with the malady we have previously discussed, sir. I refer to love-sickness, sir. These symptoms, I should say, are rather too pronounced. Shall I remove him, sir?”

  The baffled Barnes stood stroking his sharp gray mustache, squinting his cold gray eyes at me, I was sure—though, as you must understand, I was too much enveloped in this discovery of a likeness to Sally Hart to pay any attention to him.

  The Honorable Barnes cleared his throat. To the butler he said, “The agent warned me that I’d find this man a trifle peculiar, but not this peculiar. Call Sally.”

  Sally breezed in—not my Sally, of course, but the gorgeous Sally Barnes, a girl of nineteen or twenty, in an abbreviated green gabardine sports outfit that displayed her tanned arms and legs. She had those same gray-blue eyes, capable of conveying silent accusations. I know my jaw dropped and I stared and my face reddened. Being utterly helpless, I mumbled, “You—you’re not quite Sally!”

  “Certainly I don’t know this man,” Sally Barnes said. “Should I? If there’s nothing else, Father, I have a date with Leon King.” Sally turned sharply and, with a slight twitch of haughtiness in her shoulders, walked out.

  “She has’a date with your office boy, Mr. Barnes,” said the butler skeptically.

  The Honorable Barnes made short work of me. He was sorry to say that his day was packed with conferences until late this afternoon. At five-thirty I might stop at his goldfish bowl over the government house and he would line me up on some work. Would I leave my card and new temporary address?

  Six hours of strolling around the city. I might have been on the razor edge of interest if I had entered this place as a tourist.

  But that picture—the uncanny resemblance had shot me through with indescribable acicula, and I wandered about with sensations of a patient under anaethesia.

  The vast plaza which was the roof-garden over the Government House was the magnetic center toward which all floaters gravitate, be they pedestrians, motorists or fliers.

  I started to count the number of shining round glass temples, when that old familiar “Flin-n-n-n-ders” rattled in my ear like a vibrating suitcase handle.

  “Lord Temp! Where’d you come from? I never expected to see you here in broad daylight.”

  “Glad to see me, aren’t you, friend?” The robed skeleton sat down beside me. He was smiling for all he was worth and he gave me a few hearty slaps on the back—slaps that dripped with little showers of sparks, reminding me that I was in the presence of potential power in unknown quantities.

  If I had answered truthfully, I’d have said, “There’s no one in the world that I’m more eager no: to see than you this particular afternoon.”

  But I was discreet enough to say nothing. He rambled on:

  “You’re in fine fettle. You’ve changed your modus vivendi considerably since I saw you last, Flinders. You could pass for a native. That’s fine. You’ll be useful. Have there been any good clashes between the hungry rabble and their masters since I saw you last? Oh-oh, here come some sightseers. I’d better do away with this robe.”

  He folded the red garment into a small pack and allowed me to sit on it. In his invisible state he continued to talk with me. We had a long conversation over the state of the nation, and from Lord Temp’s point of view there was no doubt about it; things looked very good. The hungry rabble, as he called them, were ripe for picking.

  I could have told him another side if he hadn’t been too talkative to listen. Yes, I was thinking of those pals of mine in dirty crowded streets who were beginning to stir out of their degradation.

  I thought of the families I had shared my dinners with, and the new fire that had come to their hearts as soon as food filled their stomachs.

  I recalled one Bobby Hammock who had been ill from malnutrition until some of the idle men stole some milk and force-fed him. That was a queer case. Those lads never told Bobby Hammock where they got that milk or he’d never have touched it. He’d have died first. A kid with lots of principle—too much for his own good, according to my standards.

  I’d write to Hammock sometime, or try to look him up, I thought. (If Lord Temp had guessed my thoughts he might have snapped me out of existence with his electric fingertips.) But that was a devil of a jam I’d got myself into, tying up with these miserable unemployed at the very time I was supposed to be plotting to dispatch them.

  “This isn’t a good place for me to meet you, friend Flinders,” said the skeleton.

  “Where do you suggest?”

  “Over on the mountain side of town in a five-acre ranch back of an Indiana limestone mansion, there’s an outcropping of red crags about three hundred feet high. They slant up through the mountain-side like three big earth-red dinner plates with a couple of forks between them—sprangling dead trees. It’s the sort of place where my horses like to land. The brats—always trying to bounce me out of the chariot.”

  “I may be able to find it.”

  “I’ll meet you there any Saturday night I’m not too busy eleswhere. But don’t wait for me after one a.m. Okay, Flinders—still have plenty of cards?”

  “All you gave me.”

  “That’s good. Have you made any contacts with government officials?”

  “One. Start to work for him this afternoon.”

  “Ideal. Our rabble are ripe, but we’ve got to be sure the Government won’t make trouble for us.”

  “Wait a minute. Do I understand that we’re going to blot out a few million people with the knowledge and consent of the Government?”

  “A smart lobby can get away with anything. Before we give these fifty million their nightcaps the Government is going to approve, and so are the fifty million. But it won’t be easy. Our angle, is to figure things out so that every faction gets what it wants.” With that the Lord of Temporary Death picked up his robe, leaped for the passing chariot and swished away.

  I didn’t see how in the name of death and magic I could possibly go to the appointed Goldfish Bowl and look the Honorable Barnes in the eye with this death scheme swimming in one half of my brain and my thoughts of Sally in the other half. But it was nearly four o’clock, so I girded my loins and went forth.

  CHAPTER IX

>   Bobbie Hammock’s Blonde

  At the arched glass entrance to Barnes’ Goldfish Bowl I stopped short. A ragged young man was coming out and I knew him. His quick movements, his rather short stature, his muscular shoulders, the very brown plaid on the elbows of his tattered gray shirt were perfectly familiar. And that determined glint in his keen boyish eyes—I could never mistake that.

  “Bobbie Hammock!” I whirled on him and it was obvious that I gave him a shocking surprise.

  “Huh? How did you know—Oh, Flinders! Well! Small world, isn’t it? Say, you’ve dressed up since I saw you.”

  “I struck a vein of work—I think.” I glanced to the wide curved window of the Goldfish Bowl through which the Honorable Prescott Barnes was watching me. I knew I had no time to waste standing here talking. “I’ve got to see you, Bobbie.”

  “Sure, Flinders. Come to the jungle two miles east of City Limits on Victory Street. You’ll probably find me locking horns with Hefty the Ramrod. Ask for him, but don’t confide in him.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you.”

  “By the way, Flinders, if you’re about to chew the rag with the Honorable Prescott Barnes, I’ll give you a tip. He’s straight and level-headed and on our side,” said Bobbie Hammock. “If you’re working to head off a revolution, count on him. He stacks up right along with Marble.”

  “Marble?”

  “Verle Marble, the Executive Secretary, you know, the finest brain in the country.”

  I wondered at once how well Bobbie Hammock knew my employer, but he dodged any further questions about the Honorable Barnes, dropping only one more remark.

  “Barnes is wise and solid, but he likes to hand out personal advice. He just now ordered me to get out of these ragged clothes and get a job. But why should I when my friends can’t? See you later, Flinders.”