The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “You knock,” she said, evidently meaning it as a question.

  “We fell,” I said, feeling most ridiculous.

  “Something make you fell? . . . Aw!” Her exclamation I took to be Martian and highly spontaneous. She ran out of sight, squealing like a cannibal that forgot to turn off the roaster.

  Back she came, jabbering, and there we stood before the open door rubbing our bruises like a couple of acrobats stymied by a mat full of tricks.

  We walked away, the steward and I.

  “Now you all right,” he mimicked, after the door was closed, and you should have seen his flabbergasted face. “You don’t catch me in that corridor again. These doggoned Martians carry their own ghosts. I’m not kidding.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Captain Looks Sharp

  The Bells and I made a tour of the ship that afternoon—a personal treat from the captain for what he called his most celebrated passengers. He might have included Vorumuff and wife. But his heart was a trifle stony toward Martians, according to the gossip of the ship.

  Bobby and Betty Bell were a lively and attractive pair of youngsters.

  As a vibraharp team they were reputed to be the world’s best.

  The “Musical Bells”—as they were billed—were on their way to Mars to spend six months playing in the new American theatres there. The newspapers had worked up a lot of exciting publicity over their trip. Was Betty Bell no longer merely her stage name? Had she and Bobby Bell been married? Wedding bells for the Musical Bells and a honeymoon to Mars?

  No one knew the answers. The gossip columns continued to hint of a feud between Bobby and his stepmother-inlaw-to-be, the well-known socialite, Mrs. Sarah Windblow Weeks. As Betty’s legal guardian, Mrs. Weeks had twice thrown a monkey-wrench into the wedding bells. She always traveled with them.

  This afternoon Betty and Bobby had escaped from all such impedimenta as a stepmother, vibraharps and reporters. They took me in hand, as only gay youth can take us oldsters in hand, and I’ll declare twenty-five years fell off my age as we toured the ship together. They had a line of gags to keep the captain and me laughing, and I forgot all about the recent wave of troubles and mysteries.

  We passed through the control room, met the white-uniformed pilots—all young men with steely eyes and sure hands—viewed a chart illustrating the ship’s ten synchronized rocket motors, followed the winding stairs down to the cargo rooms just above the ship’s gravity floor.

  Chiefly a passenger ship, the Blue Palace carried only small items of cargo—a variety of tools, precision instruments, midget radios, telephones, electric motors, dyes and chemicals. The heavier freight to Mars was being handled by the government-subsidized ships, and it was among these that the crack-ups were occurring.

  The captain made a passing reference to these freight catastrophes. I started to question him for his opinions. But just then a gravel-voiced steward limped down the steps and asked the captain’s permission for a private word.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain MacMurray—”

  “Well”

  “There’s a rumor circulating that we have a stowaway aboard.”

  “Nonsense! Our lists have been checked. I’ve accounted for everyone.

  How could a stowaway get in?”

  The limping steward glanced at us and edged away.

  “I don’t know, sir. But if he is in, and he might be dangerous—”

  That was all I heard, for their voices suddenly lowered to whispers. The captain’s eyes swept the cargo room and turned an alarmed look in my direction.

  I knew what he was thinking. A few days ago I had been one of five Senate investigators to escape murder. Today I was in his care. And here we stood in the cargo room that would afford a criminal an excellent hiding place.

  “I very much regret this interruption,” the captain said, striding back to us. “A little matter has come up—a trifle—nevertheless I must attend, to it at once. . . Oh, George, will you conduct my guests to the art room? . . . And now, if you will excuse me—”

  This particular George turned out to be so damned conscientious about showing us the art room that I thought I’d never get away. Patches Black ought to be warned. The hounds had picked up his scent, and if they found him in my suite, they would jump to one of two conclusions: Either that he was waiting to murder me, or, if he showed them proof that I’d accepted him as a valet, that I had been in league with him all along and was therefore the real perpetrator of the senatorial murders. What a sweet scandal that would make! Ye gods!

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” I said.

  So the Bells and I ditched the accommodating George.

  A few minutes later, after I had arranged to meet them again, I ditched the Bells.

  I strode down the corridor—clear sailing at last, I thought. But as I passed suite 77, the thin, singing voice of a female Martian intercepted me. “Senator man—”

  “Well?”

  “You see Vorumuff?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Not come. No dinner bring—”

  “All right, all right. I’ll get someone to help you right away.”

  One more turn and I reached my own door.

  It stood open. I could hear voices. The captain! He had entered my suite and found my valet. He was doing the talking and Patches Black listening most respectfully.

  CHAPTER V

  Martian Stew

  One thin ray of hope shone through this spine-chilling scene: Patchy Fred Black was still wearing his nose and mustaches, and I’ll swear the way they fit him not even a captain’s sharp eye would suspect them to be false.

  “There,” said the captain, “you follow those orders and you’ll have no troubles. Is everything clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The captain, turning, spied me standing at the door. I don’t know whether he could tell that my knees were rubber and my spine was ice. He passed me with a cordial smile.

  “You’ll pardon me for entering your room during your absence, Senator. This unusual circumstance—the possibility of a stowaway—prompted me to take a few precautions. Your valet, I’m pleased to say, is well qualified to serve as your bodyguard when you are here alone. He has come to us with excellent recommendations. Good day, Senator.”

  The door closed. I dropped into the first chair and closed my eyes.

  “A damp towel for your feverish brow, sir?” said Patches.

  “Thanks, Fred; have one yourself.”

  “I’m quite cool, thank you,” he said. “I’ve just been instructed how to take care of you in case there’s someone aboard our ship who might make so bold as to—”

  “Yes, I know. They’re on your trail, Patchy. There’s not much we can do about it.”

  “I’ve been advised to stay in your suite as much as possible to be sure no one enters. The captain found I was willing to cooperate.”

  “That’s a break. The first time you parade that false nose around the observation deck someone’s going to recognize you and start shooting.”

  The phone rang. It was Vedo. Her good man had come back at last, but he hadn’t brought any dinner, and he wasn’t himself.

  I went right over to see what had happened.

  I found the big Martian lying on the floor, his long legs hooked over a chair and his big, muscular arms waving rhythmically at the ceiling lamp, his throat pouring forth some rollicking sing-song notes from a Martian folksong.

  “He lead army,” said Vedo helplessly. “His song lead army.”

  “He’s drunk,” I said.

  “Why he so heavy? I can’t lift.”

  “He’s two hundred pounds of soused Martian, sister.”

  “Why?”

  “Was he ever this way before?”

  “No.”

  “I’d bet my socks someone’s played a trick on him. Where’s he been?” She didn’t know. From his song she would say he had been leading an army. But she hadn’t seen any army. S
he hadn’t seen anyone but me and that steward who fell into the wall.

  It was several hours later—the next earth day, as the clocks chimed—when I got a half-coherent story out of a sobered Vorumuff.

  “The earth is full of tricks,” said Vorumuff in his precise English, and he fixed a practiced grin on his face. “I still don’t know all of them.”

  “Did they pull a fast one on you, Vorumuff?”

  “What they gave me to drink looked like water.”

  “Plain water, eh?”

  “Lively water. Water with bubbles. Then—” Vorumuff whirled a finger around his head—“such a spinning. I thought the ship was doing spirals around the Juve.”

  “Juve? Is that anything like the jive?”

  “The Juve is the great signal tower in the mountains of Mars. As I was saying, round and round I went.” Vorumuff got up and danced around to show us, bending his handsome head and shoulders to avoid striking the chandelier.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I began to talk,” said Vorumuff. “They asked me questions about Mars, and I gave them great, wonderful answers—so wonderful I don’t know whether they are true or not.”

  This Vedo caught his arm and said something to him in Martian. He turned to me.

  “Vedo asks if I told any of the Martian secrets.”

  “Did tell?” Vedo pursued, tightening her grip on his arm.

  “When I drink the bubbly water there are no secrets!” Vorumuff declared. Then he gave us an amazing outburst of Martian laughter, up and down the musical scales of his clear, fine voice.

  Vedo didn’t like it. “Did tell?”

  Her urgent manner alarmed me. But

  Vorumuff couldn’t take her secrets seriously.

  “Vedo came from the mountain tribe of the Seventh Point,” he said to me, “one of the most superstitious of all the Martian nations. She is unduly concerned with keeping the military ambitions of the Seventh Point a secret. It adds to the prestige of her people.”

  This was true, I realized, for each year the American capitol on Mars respected the march of the Seven Point natives to renew our lease on their lands.

  “I’m curious to know,” I said, “who it was that wanted all your secrets.”

  “Some fat earth man with fat billfolds. I didn’t ask their names. They are men from the tall skyscrapers of New York and Vienna and Rio, who plan to build tall skyscrapers in Mars.”

  “Promoters, no doubt,” I suggested. “Perhaps real estate experts. Did they try to make any deals with you?”

  Again Vorumuff gave way to laughter. “They make the most wonderful promises. They will make the rivers of Mars run with the bubbly water.”

  “By George, I believe you took a fancy to that champagne or whatever it was.”

  “Whatever it was,” said Vorumuff, “it had the kick of a rikit.”

  “Rikit?” I echoed. “Is that anything like a cricket?”

  “Don’t you know what a rikit is?”

  “Here we go again,” I groaned. “All right, I took the cork under, so go ahead. Give me the works.”

  Vorumuff turned to Vedo. “He doesn’t know what a rikit is.”

  “The jail down from rikit,” said Vedo. The Martian looked rather alarmed. He began to question me. What had happened? Had an invisible force drawn me off my feet? Had I suffered any injuries? If so, he was very sorry.

  “But as you will learn when you get to Mars,” he said, “rikits will be rikits.”

  This was all too dizzy for me. But right away I learned. The tip-off came when a steward wheeled a tray of food into our presence. One glance told me that here was food enough for six persons. There were only three of us.

  When we gathered around the table in the adjoining room I could hear, from one of the bedrooms, the slow measured pacing of feet. The door of that room was open, but two bars across it formed a sort of gate—enough to keep a well-trained horse from trying to get out.

  Since the floor was of plastic, it was evident that the soft sounds of pacing were not shoes of hoofs, but some variety of padded feet.

  “Don’t be afraid, Senator Pollard,” the Martian said, observing my apprehension. “Please eat.”

  I ate, but I kept one eye on the open door. Presently the pacing slackened and stopped, and I could hear the animal’s slow, gentle breathing.

  “That must be an awful big dog,” I said, gulping.

  “Big dog!” Vedo repeated. Then she burst forth with laughter patterned after Vorumuff’s, only much more delicate and mysterious. “Big dog!”

  “You never saw a dog that could jump like our Martian rikits.”

  Just then the beast stuck his big yellow head out at us, and you never saw a senator that could jump like I jumped.

  The lunch ended then and there. Vedo Vorumuff caught me before I got out the door, and they both begged me not to be frightened. They led me to the barred door, and before I knew it I was patting this weird-looking domesticated dragon on the nose, saying, “Nice rikit, nice rikit.”

  CHAPTER VI

  A Jolt from the Earth

  “You should feel greatly honored, Senator Pollard,” said the tall Martian with a pleased smile. “The rikit is one of Vedo’s great secrets. We have gone to great pains to keep this pet out of the public eye in our comings and goings. But Vedo is willing that you see him.”

  I accepted the compliment without taking my eye off the dragon, who returned my gaze with evident curiosity.

  “I think he’s contemplating a senator steak, rare,” I said.

  “He does look rather hungry,” said Vorumuff. “But naturally. We forgot to give him his lunch. You’d better stand back until I serve him. He’s a bit peevish before eating . . . There. Watch him go after it. The poor fellow was started—Look out!”

  Darned if the big brute didn’t snap at me. Lucky for me that I was on my guard or I’d have lost my best campaign arm.

  The two Martians gave the little fellow a scolding in the language he understood, and it upset him so much (as they told me afterward) he could not finish his lunch. This may have been because he didn’t get what he wanted—and in a way I felt rather sorry for him.

  When I got back to suite number 25 I told Patchy Black all about it. Patchy needed cheering up. He was brooding over his very black future.

  “If that rikit could only have had a chance at Senators Romanoff and McCune, I’d have spared myself a lot of trouble.”

  It was a mirthless jest, and we both fell silent. Patchy gazed out at the distant sun, almost swallowed up by the thick blackness of space. He mumbled disconsolately that he wished it would shine like it used to.

  “You blacked it out for yourself, Patchy,” I said.

  “The scoundrels that sent my son off in an eggshell ship blacked it out for me,” he snapped savagely. Then he got a grip on himself, rose and came toward me. “You may call me Fred, sir. Would you like a drink, sir? What was it you were saying about the dragon, sir?”

  “A most remarkable beast, Fred,” I said, taking a glass from the tray. “It can understand more Martian words than I can.”

  “A matter of conditioning, I presume, sir.” Fred gave a low chuckle. “Remember when we were kids, Senator, and old man Brichacek on the edge of town would talk to his cows? Those cows could understand more Bohemian than you or I. The more he talked, the more milk they gave.”

  “I remember. Those beasts actually mooed in Bohemian. But you haven’t seen anything until you’ve had an eyeful of this big yellow tiger-dragon.”

  “Do I understand,” said Fred, “that it was somehow responsible for your smacking into the wall yesterday? If so, how?”

  “That,” I said, “is a little Martian secret.”

  Three or four days later we cruised into a zone of radio reception from the American stations on Mars. A few fragments of news filtered in, mostly good.

  The accidents among space freighters had diminished, we learned. A new space-port hotel at Marshington was almo
st finished. Its dedication would take place within twenty-four hours after our arrival.

  Radio reception from the earth was fast fading, but one of the last communications to come through, on our sixth or seventh day, gave the passengers of the Blue Palace a hard jolt.

  I was enjoying the comparative solitude of suite 25 at the time,-but I’m sure that many of the passengers were listening at the big speaker on the observation deck.

  The captain came to me at once with the news.

  “It’s about that stowaway,” he said. “We know who he is.”

  “You know?”

  “We know. The proof has just come in from Washington.” The captain caught me by the elbow and took me into a huddle over my study table.

  “Just a moment,” I said. “Fred, will you bring us drinks? . . . Ah, here you are, captain. Shall we drink to the early capture of your stowaway?”

  “Capture? You mean execution. I’m the law on this ship, you know.”

  “To justice,” I said, and we drank. Fred took our glasses. The captain waited until he had gone out. Then—“It’s a break for the Blue Palace, Senator. .We’ll make sensational headlines on two planets. This stowaway is dynamite. You’d never guess—”

  “It must be the man that murdered McCune and Romanoff?”

  “How’d you guess it?”

  “Well, I—er—he just happened to be on my mind—”

  “I tell you, Senator, it’s the break of a lifetime if we pull the right strings. You, being a Senator, ought to know which strings to pull.”

  “Just a minute,” I said, feeling that an avalanche of schemes was about to roll me under. “Have you found him?”

  “Yes, of course. We know right where he is. A man can’t stay hid on a space ship. Not if I’m the captain.”

  “Well, this is news,” I said. “Is it generally known that you have him behind bars?”

  “Certainly not. Nothing has leaked to the passengers. The fact is, we don’t have him behind bars yet. But that’s a minor detail. We know his hiding place.”