The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “As to you men in the service of the government, I have tried to observe which of your are sincere, and which are only seeking pleasures or vain glories.”

  The uncomfortable breathing deepened, and a few groans were audible.

  “During the last few days,” Lanky Louis went on, now turning his gaze toward Milton Molander, “I have had the interesting experience of undergoing a trial for murder—and very nearly an I execution. You, Mr. Molander, are not as resourceful a Counsellor as the national manager hoped you would be. He will be disappointed to hear you are so rash.”

  Molander’s face went white, like something chilled to stone. But he was able to blurt hot words in a fury of temper.

  “I don’t care who you are. I’ve got a verdict on you. You can’t change that! It was your dagger!”

  “It was I!” Janette cried. “My wish! I’m the one!”

  Lanky’s calm voice commanded silence. “If your wish is so powerful, why don’t you wish that the guilty party confess.”

  “I do wish it, with all my heart.” Janette held up her bracelet wrist.

  “But don’t waste your wish on those imitation sapphires,” Lanky said, smiling. “The real bracelet is in Molander’s pocket.”

  “A lie!” Molander bluffed.

  “Yes, in your pocket. That’s your own little scheme, Molander, for keeping sapphires and justice apart.”

  “I’m a Counsellor. No one has any right to search—

  As Molander spoke, his hand moved toward his coat pocket. His fingertips barely touched, and instantly the sapphire bracelet flashed blue light. It slid up over his hand and caught on his wrist, and there it tightened. Everyone saw it happen.

  And they saw the look of pain come into Molander’s face.

  “It’s burning!” he cried. “Stop it. It’s burning my arm:”

  “The charm of that bracelet is centuries old,” said Lanky, “and wonderfully unpredictable. A few words of truth might stop the burning.”

  “What truth?”

  “Confess.”

  “All right. I killed the trampish guard on the steps.

  “How?”

  “With your dagger. I’d been waiting there in the shadows in my car, waiting for a chance. I knew the guard was there. I saw how easy it would be to murder him and hang the deed on some passing tramp.”

  “Why did you want to do such a thing?”

  “Because I hate these tramps. I’ve wanted to wipe them out. And I knew the public would be back of me if they could be made to hate the tramps. There’s nothing like a nasty murder in high places. I would have a cause, then. I’d be all the more a hero for exterminating them. And no one would know—”

  “All right, what did you do?”

  “I saw a tramp coming down the walk. It was you.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “You told me you were coming up to ask this guard on the steps if he wouldn’t like to take a walk.”

  “That’s right,” said Lanky. “I meant to talk him into finding a less conspicuous place to sleep.”

  “So here was my chance. I knew you. I thought you were an easy mark. I knew you carried a dagger. I struck you on the back of the head with my fist. For a moment you were dazed. In that moment I did it. You were still looking dizzy when I put the dagger back in your hand. I sped away, telling myself you wouldn’t dare talk. I’d scare you out.”

  “Because I was a tramp and you were a Counsellor.”

  “Yes’. And it might have worked if—Can’t you stop this thing from burning my arm? . . .”

  The reception turned out to be the first affair of its kind on record, for two hundred tramps were invited to stay and share a dinner with government officials.

  One Counsellor was, as the saying goes, conspicuous by his absence. He had found retirement behind nice, quiet, round steel bars. Several other Counsellors were low on appetites, uncertain what the national manager might hear about them.

  William Lusk sat proudly with the guest of honor and devoted most of the conversation to complimenting his own food.

  Janette had found a place at the table of Louis Van Voorhees also.

  “Tell me, Uncle William, did you forget you were going to make me give the bracelet back. Don’t you remember, you were so sure that my favorite tramp stole it.”

  She and Lanky exchanged winks as they watched Uncle, William squirm. But he surprised them.

  “Child, as soon as I dusted off my memory, I knew. I knew that your favorite tramp must be the same youngster whose meals I used to prepare, only now he was grown up. And the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t believe that a boy reared on my fine foods could ever become a tramp . . . Yes, Louis, I remember that bracelet. Your family used to handle it like dynamite.”

  “We’ll put it away for our future generations,” said Lanky Louis. “As far as I’m concerned, Janette’s an enchantress without it.”

  THE LAND OF BIG BLUE APPLES

  First published in Fantastic Adventures, May 1946

  The horns were handy to catch falling apples—but they could be put to other uses. . .

  CHAPTER I

  “To the most attractive drum majorette that ever twirled a baton—”

  Joe Banker reached for the silver loving cup.

  “—in behalf of the Chamber of Commerce of the City of Bellrap—”

  His short arms swung in a full gesture toward the main street crowd.

  “—I do present this token of our highest esteem. Take a bow, Miss Londeen!”

  She didn’t take a bow. But she smiled as only Donna Londeen, could smile, and little Joe Banker thought, “What a dame, whata dame! Wait tell she finds my note in the cup.”

  Her shapely pink hands (six-fingered hands, Joe noted for the first time) embraced the loving cup. This was the climax of the Bellrap City Festival, and the main street crowd gave with a mighty cheer. Bellrap City—where everyone knew everyone—and yet here was a stranger walking off with the honors.

  Who was Donna Londeen?

  The newspapers had referred to her as the niece of Uncle Jim Keller who owned a small chicken farm at the edge of town. She had been staying with Mr. and Mrs. Keller for several weeks, the papers said. But this was the first time she had been seen in public. She had been taking “twirling” lessons in private, to compete in today’s drum majorette contest.

  “Whata dame!” Joe Banker wasn’t the only young bachelor who sighed for a date with her. But be considered that his chances were better than anyone else’s. He was the master of ceremonies today. He was the city clerk everyday. He was handsome. He was a dynamo of energy and good nature.

  Furthermore, he was, now and then, original—and that goes a long way with any girl. Who but Joe Banker would think of putting a note in the loving cup? He could hardly wait till she read it. It contained a very important question.

  “She’s not so tall, after all,” Joe thought. He was consoling himself. He happened to be the shortest man in the male quartet that sang at Sunday night concerts and Friday night box suppers. The shortest, the handsomest, and unquestionably the most aggressive.

  Donna Londeen wasn’t so tall. It was the two-foot blue fur shako she wore on her head that made her look tall. Also the high blue fur epaulets.

  Whoever saw such a striking uniform, with proud epaulets built up to a height of ten or twelve inches over each shoulder?

  Whoever saw such an interesting face, with such bright purple eyes and such dangerous curves of eyebrows? Dangerous curves of lips, too. And if one’s eyes strayed beyond the beauty of her face, as Joe’s did, there were still other dangerous curves.

  “One moment, Miss Londeen, don’t go ‘way,” Joe sang into the mike in his rich tenor. “Would you be so kind as to remove your shako? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to make you blush, but if you would please remove your hat—”

  “I’d rather not, Mr. Banker.”

  What an accent! Joe had listened to the soft coo of Southern girls
of many and varied accents that time he had gone down to New Orleans to the Mardi Gras. But never had he heard any weird twisting of sounds to match this. He persisted:

  “The judges are curious to know, Miss Londeen, whether the winner is a blonde, a brunette, or a red-head. If you’ll kindly remove your shako and take a deep bow—”

  She shook her head, now blushing violently.

  So she wanted to play coy, thought Joe. He began to mock her. She shook her head, no. He shook his head, yes. And the crowd loved it, and cheered and shouted. “Stay with her, Joe!”

  “Knock it off!”

  Playfully Joe gave her high blue hat a push. Her blushing, smiling face went white with anger. As the shako toppled, it revealed her oddly colored hair. But that wasn’t what amazed Joe and several hundred spectators.

  She had horns!

  Extending up through her thick lush hair was a pinkish white horn rooted right above her left ear. Another grew from the top of her head. And a third from the right side of her head, just above her right ear.

  The unbalanced shako clung to the points of the horns. She grabbed for it, jerked it down over her forehead. She thrust the loving cup back into Joe’s hands. She whirled and ran to the edge of the stage.

  “Wait! Come back!” Joe started after her. “I’m sorry, Miss Londeen. Come back . . . help me, someone.”

  She bounded off the stage, to run through the thinnest ranks of the crowd. A policeman made a pass at her.

  “Carry on, Mayor,” Joe shouted back at Mayor Smith. “I’ll—”

  He gestured with the loving cup. He had goods to deliver. He sprang from the stage to the street and ran into the crowd.

  For a moment it looked as if the policeman had stopped her. (Though he later remarked, “If she wanted to run away, I guess she had a right to, and I figure it wasn’t too dignified of Joe Banker to run after her that way, the darned wolf.”)

  The policeman seized her by the shoulder, gently but firmly. He gripped the high shoulders of the uniform, where the epaulets were built up to a height of ten or twelve inches. She tore out of his hands. The epaulets tore loose, and horns poked through—two sharp-pointed pinkish white horns growing out of each shoulder.

  She ran like the wind. She covered a shoulder with one hand, held her high hat on with the other. She never looked back at the gaping crowd. She missed seeing the shame-faced policeman, who glared at his scratched and bleeding hands, muttering, “Darn, she’s got sharp shoulders!”

  She ran out of the crowd and into a drug store.

  She ran back to a side door that led into a hotel lobby.

  Joe whirled through the drug store entrance and called to her as she disappeared beyond. He dashed the length of the room, collided with a waiter and turned a tray of refreshments into an ice cream geyser, with the waiter underneath.

  He bounded into the hotel lobby. His high-hatted quarry ducked into the adjoining telegraph office. He followed. He was gaining on her. Two more bounds and he would overtake her.

  But he dropped the folded paper from the loving cup. He dodged back to recover it. The employees in the telegraph office stared at him. One of them said sarcastically, “Mr. Banker, what is the matter with you? Lose something?”

  “Not yet,” Joe snapped back. He strode out the front door, looked both ways, saw Donna Londeen jumping into a taxi half a block down the street.

  There was no other taxi. At once a number of excited persons gathered around him, hounding him with questions.

  “Did she get away?”

  “Who on earth is she?”

  “Was she a blonde or a brunette, Joe?”

  “By George, I didn’t notice that,” said Joe. “Or did I?”

  “It was purple!”

  “Purple!” Joe echoed. “By George, it was, I remember.”

  “What are ya gonna do with the cup, Joe?”

  “By George and by Joe, I’m gonna deliver it.”

  CHAPTER II

  At the edge of town the old barn stood black against the moonlit sky. Joe could hear the voices again, old Uncle Keller’s and his wife’s, and then that sweet weird voice of Donna Londeen. They were helping her carry her baggage out to the barn—of all places.

  “She must have a car in there,” Joe thought, “or a plane.”

  But when they opened the doors and switched on a dim ceiling light, he saw that it was some sort of rocket ship. It was a slender, cigar-shaped craft, almost as long as the 75-foot barn. It was bright yellow, decorated with a straight row of blue apples painted along the side from nose to tail. Joe slipped along the fence for a better view. What a craft!

  “The blue apple rocket boat,” he said to himself. “Now where could that have come from? Where on earth do they grow blue apples?”

  Where on earth? He reflected that he should perhaps take in more territory. A space ship—a beautiful girl with six-fingered hands, purple hair, and seven pinkish-white horns growing out of her head and shoulders—what did it all add up to?

  “By George and by Joe,” he said breathlessly. “She’s about to take off. Wherever she came from, she’s heading for home, bag and baggage.”

  He looked up into the vast moonlit sky and wondered how it felt to leap through it in a rocket ship. What a thrill that must be.

  Old Jim Keller was loading the luggage in the ship. Mrs. Keller was kissing Donna Londeen good-bye and making a sob scene out of it. Donna, magnificent in a glittering space suit and a fan-shaped head-dress that adorned her horns and flowed down over her shoulders, was talking sweetly, telling the Kellers how grateful she was for all the hospitality.

  “I wish I could come back some day,” she said. “But I mustn’t promise. One never knows.”

  “You forgot something, Donna,” Mrs. Keller said. “You were going to call the lady who gave you the twirling lessons and tell her good-bye.”

  “Do you think I dare?” said Donna. “I’ve heard that the parade officials have been looking for me. I wouldn’t want them to find out—”

  She and Mrs. Keller hurried back to the house to make the call.

  Joe looked at the sky, at the ship, at the silver loving cup in his hand. He muttered darkly to himself, “I told the boys I’d deliver this prize . . . Hmm.”

  He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled a message:

  “Mr. and Mrs. Keller. Please tell the boys at the city hall I’ll be back as soon as I deliver a loving cup. I’ll keep an account of my expenses and present a bill to the city when I return. I can’t state in advance whether this errand will take me to Africa, the North Pole, or the Moon, but I promise to deliver. In the meantime, tell the boys to carry on.—Joe Banker.”

  He sprinted across the potato patch to the mailbox at the corner.

  He wrapped the note around a rock, fastened it with a rubber band, and dropped it in the box. He sprinted back to the barn.

  He heard the screen door of the house close. They would be coming back. He had no time to lose. If only Jim Keller didn’t block his way . . . Ah, the passage seemed to be clear.

  Under the dim light in the ceiling of what had once been a dairy barn, he slipped along the walk back of the stanchions. For a moment he had to set the loving cup down while he climbed over a gate. The yellow gleam of the brightly colored ship excited him. The oval-shaped door was open. He darted through the row of stanchions, over the feed rack, and into the ship.

  He hesitated for a moment at the long aisle offering a narrow passage either to the right or the left. The floor was pleasantly soft to his dusty shoes, the sleek lines of red light along the ceiling a few inches above his head were a delight to his eyes.

  “Who’d have thought it?” he mumbled in awe. “And all this hunk of wonderland hidden away in Jim Keller’s barn—oh-oh!”

  “Who’s there?” Jim Keller barked.

  Joe had taken five steps to the right, away from the ship’s control cabin, and there stood Keller, straightening up from packing the last box, tall and skinny in his ove
ralls and brown woolen shirt. He looked both fierce and scared, his bright little eyes blazing under brownish-red beetle brows. He dropped the rope he had been using on the boxes and gave an angry puff at his corncob pipe.

  He came at Joe, snarling. His duty was plain. He must bounce this intruder before the ship took off.

  “Out! Git out! Git!”

  “Not so fast, Uncle.” Joe didn’t want a clash of fists, but he saw to it that his hands were free for any emergency. He had laid the silver loving cup somewhere. “I’m here on city business. I’ve come to deliver—”

  “I know all about it. I was in the crowd when you made your speech, grinnin’ like an ape every time you looked at the winner. Well, you had your chance then. But you had to git smart and knock her hat off and let everyone see she had horns.”

  “But I didn’t know!”

  “All right, git off. This boat don’t need a city clerk—nulp!”

  Uncle Keller choked off as Joe caught him over the mouth. “Pardon me, Uncle, I don’t want to hurt you. But you’ve got to quiet down and listen to me.”

  For a moment Uncle Keller tried to twist out of Joe’s grip. But the struggle endangered his precious corncob pipe, so he relaxed. “All right, I won’t holler,” he whispered. “What’s your game?”

  Joe, releasing him, decided to risk a confidence.

  “I’m going with this ship. I don’t know where it’s going, but I’m going.”

  “That’s a rash thing to do, young man. Have you thought it over? . . . S-s-sh. Here they come back. She’s all set to take off. In about twenty seconds. You’d better—”

  “I’m hiding right here. And don’t you say a word.” Joe dived into the mass of soft packing among the light luggage. “See that you keep a straight face on the way out.”

  The voices were just outside the airlocks now. Donna repeated her goodbye to Mrs. Keller. She called goodbye to Mr. Keller, and was a bit puzzled that she received no answer.

  “He must have gone on about his chores,” said Mrs. Keller. “He hates goodbyes.”