The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  A word to Marsch and his officers from me convinced them that the flights into space which they had planned would have to be postponed until the Mashas had had more chance to work out some plans of their own. I was inclined to agree with Flora that they had a good world of their own right here, where their lives might go in forever, pleasantly and harmlessly; but if some of them wished to venture forth to other planets and start a new colony after due consideration, I would see to it that Marsch and his men would make their promises good.

  My attendants at the fortress found comfortable rooms with bars on the doors and windows for Marsch and his officers, pending the Mashas’ decisions.

  The bars on the door made it possible for persons who felt sociable to stop and say Hello to Earnest Marsch now and then, and to bring him a cigar, if they wished. And some of his visitors learned in time to ask if he wouldn’t like a female companion, and couldn’t they bring him a little terrier dog for company?

  It took me several hours of most earnest talking to convince my one confidante, Flora, that I was not the White Head, but was still, at heart, a very friendly serpent; and that I could even remember the time when I had been Bob Garrison.

  “You do seem to be Bob Garrison,” she finally said, as we lunched together on one of the fortress porches. “And you certainly aren’t acting like the White Head.”

  I tried to smile through my enormous teeth, and I felt that the light of my great hollow eyes made a slightly terrifying effort to glow warmly.

  “Believe me, Flora, I am Bob Garrison, and I remember every moment of our space-ship journey together. Believe me, I fell in love with you on that trip, and one of these times—”

  “One of these times, what?”

  “After I’ve solved a few of the problems that only White Head’s power can solve, I’m going to dissolve myself in the green waters and come back to normal. So don’t go ’way.”

  “Problems to solve? You’re the master mind, now, aren’t you?”

  “I’m taking my time,” I said. “You see, there was a rather serious split between Dr. Hunt and Dr. Winston, and now that I’ve come into this curious power, I can understand it. The White Head forced his will over both men, and he set up a distrust there which was positively vicious. I can’t just go to these men and say, ‘Dr. Hunt, Dr. Winston is really your loyal friend.’ ”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I did, they would both think that I was again forcing my will upon them, trying to create an untrue friendship. No, it will take time, but they’ll work it out. I know they will, because I’ve withdrawn that wedge that White Head planted . . .

  We looked down over the edge of the porch to a plaza below, and there we saw the two doctors starting off on a stroll together.

  Dr. Hunt was speaking, and we caught a fragment of his conversation. “I think I understand what you have on your mind, Dr. Winston, but it will do us good to talk it over. I’ve been thinking I’d go back to the earth sometime soon, now that everything seems to be smoothing out. But first I hope that you and I can reorganize our program here . . . I mean, reorganize it from the ground up.”

  “Or from the river up?” said Dr. Winston with a toss of his head, looking very much like a king.

  I turned to Flora and nodded my huge skull. They were back on a solid footing, all right. There would soon be a constructive scientific program rising out of the discarded skeletons of the old.

  “It’s going to be an interesting world around here as time goes on,” I said. “A little less weird, perhaps. And a little less human, with poor Kipper gone.”

  “Much less human without Kipper,” Flora said quietly.

  “And it will be pretty terrible after you go back to the earth. Will you be leaving here and going back one of these days?”

  Flora smiled. “I’ve been in love with Bob Garrison for a long time . . . I think I’ll stick around and see what happens.”

  THE RIKITS OF MARS

  First published in Amazing Stories, January 1948

  Even if I am a Senator, I can enjoy a jaunt on a rikit—a Martian rikit, that is—it’s the magnetic beam that I hate . . .

  CHAPTER I

  The door swung open and all seven of us around the conference table found ourselves facing a wild-eyed man with a gun.

  “I oughta kill the whole damn lot of you,” he yelled. “But I’ll give five of you the benefit of the doubt.”

  McCune, the chairman, leaped to his feet and started for the intruder. “Drop that weapon. You don’t dare—”

  “Didn’t I? You’re number one, McCune!”

  The bark of the pistol sounded, hardly as loud as the wild-eyed man’s angry words. It spoke four times like a triphammer. McCune fell forward, clutching his heart. Just beyond him Romanoff slumped down in his chair with quick little coughing cries.

  “Stand back, you, Pollard. I don’t want to have to kill you,” the madman warned me. He swung the door and it banged shut after him.

  At eight o’clock that night Mrs. Pollard and I saw the chase in the movies. Some alert cameraman had followed the Capitol guards down Pennsylvania Avenue, and once, according to the running comment, we had a glimpse of the criminal’s car swinging off the avenue making an escape.

  My own statement to the press had also been picked up by the cameraman.

  “Here is Senator Roland Pollard, who recognized the murderer of his two colleagues to be a spaceship mechanic known as Patchy Black,” the commentator said. “Black’s son was a recent victim of a ship that crashed over Mars. Because of many such crashes, the senate committee has been investigating . . .”

  Then came my own statement: “Senators McCune and Romanoff lie dead. Their assassin was Patches Black. I saw it happen.”

  “What’s back of it, Senator Pollard?” the interviewer asked.

  “He was crazed by the death of his son in a space-ship accident over Mars.”

  “Would you say he was insane?”

  “Insane is a meaningless word,” I replied. “He was shocked out of his reason. He had written threatening letters to the investigating committee. He accused us of criminal negligence. I have been trying to get action . . .”

  “How do you think this will affect the committee, Senator?”

  My answer came forth with far more conviction than I use in my campaign speeches. “The committee will get to the bottom of this trouble, you can tell the people that. If spaceships are crashing on Mars because they’re not being built right, some builders are going to find some cozy cells. It it’s something else—but wait, we’ll see—”

  “Thank you, Senator Pollard.”

  That part of the movie gave my wife such a thrill that we stayed to see it the second time. In fact, we tried to start a little applause, as any free citizen has a right to do in the movies. But that was a mistake. A dozen boos came back at us, and someone in the row ahead craned around and, raising his eyebrows, whispered, “Look, it’s the senator himself.”

  So there was the public temper. What the death-trap manufacturer was getting away with had become major trouble for us slow-moving senators.

  From that moment I pledged I’d give the country some action.

  On the following Monday I boarded the Blue Palace for Mars.

  CHAPTER II

  The Mad Valet

  The Blue Palace, cruising through space, was living up to its reputation for fine service. Guards, stewards, bartenders, waitresses, musicians and crew members presented such a variety of dazzling uniforms that my eyes were swimming with color when I left the observation deck to retire.

  Another uniform followed me into my private suite.

  “I am to be your valet, sir.”

  “I didn’t order a valet,” I said. “If I’d wanted one I’d have brought my own. I’ve come alone—”

  “Shall I take your coat, sir? There, the door is locked. I’ll bring you a drink, sir. Are you enjoying the voyage?”

  I studied this man skeptically. I didn’t min
d the severe black suit with the blue trimmings, or the stiff white shirt front over his athletic chest. What I didn’t like were his thick, drooping mustaches, his false nose, and his glittering black eyes.

  “Patchy Black!” I said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “You may call me Fred,” he replied, never batting an eyelash. “Here is the evening paper, sir.”

  “You can’t stay here, Black. You’re wanted for murder. Why, you fool, you’ve walked right into the chair.”

  I reached for the telephone. Patchy Black laid a heavy hand on my wrist. His other hand slipped down the side of his coat to the blue-trimmed pocket. I noted the slight twitch of his thick brown fingers.

  “There’s no hurry about it, Senator Pollard. I’ll be right here on the ship for the next two weeks. I’m your prisoner incognito, shall we say?”

  I stared at him, and what my lips didn’t say my eyes must have said.

  He replied to my unspoken words. “You’re wrong, Senator. I’m not going to kill anybody. You don’t have to be afraid of me. I got the two I was after.”

  I didn’t answer for fear of antagonizing him. His hand rested at the bulging pocket. Frankly, I was so scared I could have taken a parachute jump right out into the black void.

  “I want to talk with you, Senator Pollard.” A hint of pleading softened his threatening tone.

  I withdrew my hand from the telephone. “Sit down, Patchy . . . All right, pour yourself a drink . . . Now, come to the point.”

  “You and I see a lot of things alike, Senator,” he began, settling down in an overstuffed chair where he could eye me across the table. “We came up through the same public school and the same school of hard knocks. You know, I wouldn’t be a senator for all the money in the world. I know that you wouldn’t be a space-ship mechanic. But we both know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  I wondered if he had thought of that when he committed his murders.

  “Now I’ll probably go to the chair,” he went on. “And you—well, you’ll probably get to be grand ambassador to Mars after this excursion. But you won’t forget me. And sometimes in your honest moments you’ll secretly thank me for putting Romanoff and McCune out of the way.”

  “Why, that’s nonsense. They were among my closest associates in Washington. We were on committees together. We lunched and banqueted—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know all that. But in your heart, Senator Pollard, you stand for what is fair and square,” Patchy said calmly, removing his false nose and mustaches and fixing his mad eyes on mine. “I know because I grew up with you. You know that our country is better off with your two beloved colleagues out of the way.”

  “I know no such thing!”

  Patchy Black came to his feet. “Who blocked the action of your investigating committee?”

  “All of us were too busy—”

  “Do you spell that with a ‘b’ or a ‘d’ ? What was back of that delay, Pollard? What were the investment tie-ups between Romanoff and McCune and the mystery on Mars that turns spaceships into death-traps?”

  “I’ve heard there were some deals, but no scandal has been proved.”

  “I’ve tested materials and when I’ve found them faulty I’ve reported the facts.” Patchy planted his fists on the study table. “Still we have crashes galore. Do you know what you’re going to find when you get to Mars? Do you, Pollard?”

  “I’m going with my eyes open.”

  “What do you think it means when our government funds go to pay for space freighters that crack up on the Martian mountainsides? Three months ago—”

  A knock at the door interrupted my valet’s fiery oratory. He hastily donned his false nose and whiskers, at the same time talking on in a low voice.

  “Three months ago we were losing one ship out of nine. Now it’s one out of seven—and every pilot is somebody’s son. Here we are, nominally at peace with Mars—”

  The knock came again. Patchy finished with a whisper. “Someone in the U.S.A. was damned sorry when I shot Romanoff and McCune. I don’t know the inside of this game, but this someone wants the U.S.A. to lose every cent she’s spent on Mars. You’ll admit that much, Senator?”

  “Someone’s knocking,” I said tersely-

  “You don’t deny it, then”

  “Will you answer the door?”

  “You can call me Fred.”

  “Answer it, Fred.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  CHAPTER III

  The Mystery of 77

  MY “valet” and I returned with a note for me signed by my very good friend Vorumuff, a noted Martian interpreter.

  “Read it to me, Fred.” I handed it back to him.

  “But it might be personal.”

  “Read it,” I repeated. “I wouldn’t keep a prisoner on the premises that I couldn’t trust.”

  The look that Patchy Black gave me was a half-frightened smile, full of the understanding of his new responsibility. We knew from that moment where we stood.

  “It says, ‘The Honorable Senator Roland Pollard. Dear Friend: I have just learned that you are among the passengers of this voyage to my planet. May we—Vedo and I—have the pleasure of your company for lunch tomorrow in the privacy of our suite? I am sure we shall have much to talk about. Most respectfully, Vorumuff.’ ”

  I fixed Fred up with a notebook to keep a list of my appointments and assured him that tomorrow noon was reserved for Vorumuff and his wife. Then we called it a day and slept through several thousand miles of space.

  The noon engagement with Vorumuff and Vedo didn’t pan out. As a senator I’ve learned that one appointment in twenty falls through, so I wasn’t inclined to think of this incident as a symptom of any deep troubles.

  I went to suite number 77 at high noon—as chimed by the Blue Palace’s bells, not as indicated by the sun, for that very remote and sick-looking yellow ball made no visible changes after we left the earth’s atmosphere.

  I knocked at 77.

  Vedo answered. And I caught my breath, as I always do when I see one of these rare Martian beauties. They are so unearthly beautiful, yet so utterly feminine that one cannot quite believe his eyes at first.

  (Even the most dignified of us senators will occasionally make observations that are not entirely political.)

  Vedo was tall—she stooped slightly to keep from brushing her hair against the top of the doorway. Her bare arms were full-muscled but graceful of movement. Her blue eyelashes like butterfly wings rose and fell slowly and continuously, as is the way with Martians when they are conversing.

  In her broken English she tried to explain that something had occurred which had set aside the luncheon date. There’s no one so hard to understand as a Martian who hasn’t learned our gestures and facial expressions. From the puppet-like movements of her thin orange lips and peachskin cheeks I wasn’t sure whether she intended a smile or a frown.

  But she groped for words until I finally got it.

  “Vorumuff, men have took away . . . no dinner bring . . . Why he not come back . . . I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry, Vedo. He’ll be back,” I said, smiling. “Which man was it that took him?”

  “Why he not come back I don’t know,” she repeated.

  “You know he’s here on the ship. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No dinner bring,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  She had searched hard enough for those words that she meant to make the most of them, and might have kept it up for minutes. I gazed at her, thinking how well that silky tan dress went with her orange lips and blue eyelashes. Looking at her, it wasn’t easy to remember how fierce and barbaric and superstitious some of the Martian tribes were supposed to be. The first few expeditions of Earth men sent under the guidance of the United States Department of Space had declared we’d never be able to transplant our civilization on Mars. But now the job was begun, and such promising products as Vorumuff gave the government hope.

&
nbsp; “No dinner bring no dinner,” said Vedo, enlarging upon her original theme.

  I gave her a farewell wave and started on my way.

  The strange thing happened just as she closed the door.

  Something knocked me back against the wall. I struck my left knee-cap an awful blow. And my pride took a first-rate bump, too. Things like this didn’t happen to Senator Pollard. I whirled around, ready to give someone a good cussing.

  But no one was there, I hadn’t been pushed by a person, but by an invisible force.

  “I must be going nuts,” I growled to myself. “I can’t even get up. Must have busted a mainspring.”

  Then I did get up, feeling like the proverbial rusty hinge.

  Smack! Off I went again!

  As before, I crashed against the wall of what was undoubtedly the Martian suite, and for a moment it seemed as if I couldn’t push myself away. If that wall had been an electro-magnet and I had been a chunk of steel, I could have understood.

  A steward marched down the corridor. I hailed him.

  “Help me up, you. What the devil is making this ship lurch this way?”

  “You must be mistaken, sir. She’s on a steady course.” The steward walked around me. “You must have tripped, sir.”

  “Help me up, I say.”

  The steward looked down at me helplessly as if nothing short of a hoist would do in such an emergency. “I was looking for you, sir,” he said, exerting a negligible lift at my arm. “The Bells are anxious to meet you—Bob and Betty—”

  Slip! Crash! Another Earth man hit the Martian wall! I mean the steward took a header and struck face first. My two hundred pounds followed.

  The steward squirmed and gave me a frightened rabbit look.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said.

  The steward stared up and down the corridor. He whispered, “Let’s get out of here. This place ain’t healthy.”

  He started, but he looked back when the door of 77 opened. He froze in his tracks and gaped. Vedo was looking out at us.