The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Ronnie crowded back into a dark corner.

  Eight Zattzones ascended to his level and trudged along, some, of them carrying lanterns.

  “Never an end!” they were muttering in their Zattzone tongue. “Always another patch job!”

  Such patient-looking souls! Ronnie watched wide-eyed. They were just like their pictures. They talked just like the recorded voices he had studied on his space trip to Venus. He felt that he knew them already. Those smooth voices, those guileless faces.

  They possessed catlike features, with wide gray eyes beneath thick capsule-shaped black, brows. Their bodies, smooth and salmon red, were much like the human body in general contour, tapering at the extremities of arms and legs into fragile six-fingered hands and six-toed feet.

  Naked except for loin cloths, they carried their light tools or weapons in bright red shoulder-hung belts. They went to work the instant their lights showed the break in the arched ceiling. With practiced motions they went after the pyramids of stiffening mud. They built coverings of masonry that wedged up like a valve into the ceiling.

  Ronnie hoped to remain hidden, until they moved off; then he would follow their light. He was fascinated, meanwhile. These were Ballinger’s handpicked Venusians—his guinea pigs—from whom the world’s most sensational adjustment hormones could be extracted.

  These were the source of Ballinger’s precious serums—and in what peril they lived! Ronnie winced at the thought.

  The repair job was near completion when four more Zattzones arrived and then the talk broke out afresh.

  “Why do we go on living down here? It’s more dangerous every hour!”

  So they were uneasy? Yes, they were existing in the shadow of peril, and were aware of it—and angry, under the surface.

  “Why?” they kept asking in their own tongue. “Why? Why?”

  They looked back, as if to make certain some higher authority were not ~ listening in. Ronnie hugged the shadows, straining to interpret what he was overhearing.

  “Why do we remain here?”

  “I say we are cowards. There are enough of us to defy him. We could march out onto the land above and be free.”

  “He says he could bring a whole army from the earth. He says we must stay. He says we have been bought by his master, the Magnificent Ballinger.”

  We cannot be bought. We have our own governor and our own laws. No Earth man owns us.”

  “Unfortunately, our own governor has been sleeping for a very long time.”

  “He was forced to sleep!” one of the Zattzones said bitterly, slicing, the air with a sharp pointed bar. “He was struck by a needle. Ponjon wanted him to sleep so we would not have a governor.”

  “And we obey Ponjon like blind fish” because we are afraid he will put us to sleep.”

  “And so he would, let none of us doubt it. This very hour Ponjon is administering some executions.”

  Ponjon! Ronnie knew that name. It was among the list of names of Earth men whom he would encounter along his way. Ponjon? Why, that was the hunchbacked assistant who was supposed to be working in this Zattzone city, an assistant to Dr. Douglas who had charge of the experimental base here.

  “Someone is listening,” one of the Zattzones suddenly spoke out. He turned the lantern and the light caught Ronnie squarely.

  “Yeee-eeek!”

  The wild moment of shouting made Ronnie feel foolish and unnecessary. Quickly the leaders of the group recovered themselves. They came at him, jabbering, brandishing weapons. Who was he? Where had he come from? What did he want?

  “You are a spy for Ponjon!”

  “No, no!” Ronnie protested. “I come in peace. I come as your friend. Take me to see Dr. Douglas and your kindness will be rewarded.”

  “We shall take you to Ponjon.”

  “Not Ponjon. Dr. Douglas. Isn’t he here?”

  “He is here, indeed. You may see him also. We shall take you to see_ Ponjon.”

  Like stuck records they held to that theme, and Ronnie decided there was nothing to do but subunit.

  They were gentle, he thought, but quite cautious. There were twelve of them,” and they took the gentle precaution to bind him hand and foot.

  They lifted him down to another level, and carried him through what was obviously a street.

  Once it had been a sunlit street, Ronnie thought. In spite of his discomfort he kept his eyes wide open to make the most of the tour. The darkness, broken by slices of light from the passing shops and houses, made the place seem a tragedy of eternal night. Only a village, a one street town. Spectators were awe struck along the way. Red bodies of naked children and half naked women, appeared in doorways, staring at him as he was carried along.

  They did not shout or laugh or mock. They were, he thought; a surprisingly quiet and orderly people—or were they so oppressed by a hunchback named Ponjon that, they were afraid to behave naturally?

  Ponjon! The pictures of that character which Ronnie had once seen now came back from some dusty corner, of his mind—a man stunted of stature, whose huge head was thrust forward on his massive round shoulders, whose arms hung close to his body as if withered. A wide, dark mustache above an evil-looking mouth.

  Ponjon! With what mingled respect and hatred these natives spoke his name! Had he been promoted to leadership at this Zattzone medical center? Surely not. Ballinger would have mentioned it. Yet—

  They entered a wide double-winged door, and Ronnie was borne into an inner room where lavender lights along the walls made everything look weirdly white.

  They laid him down on a stone bench and told him he could wait there until Ponjon returned. Ponjon would not be long, they said. He had gone to attend a routine execution of Zattzone criminals, and such affairs usually went through like clockwork.

  They were gone. They had closed the door after them. Ronnie began to struggle at his ropes.

  Then the door opened, just a crack. Eyes, were looking in. It was a long moment before the door opened wider and a man entered. To Ronnie’s deep relief it was the one person he wanted to see more than anyone else in the world—Dr. Douglas.

  CHAPTER IV

  Dr. Douglas was a cautious man, to say the least. Ronnie talked like a whirlwind, and the doctor blinked at him. Untie his ropes? The doctor wasn’t sure whether he should.

  “I am no longer in charge here, you see,” Dr. Douglas said lamely.

  “I was instructed by Ballinger to see you, not Ponjon.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. You see Mr. Ballinger is too far away to know.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s happened? Have you quit? You were high mogul of this medical department, with a chance to become famous—”

  “Please.” The doctor raised his hand in a gesture of helplessness”.

  Ronnie snapped impatiently, “You can at least cut these ropes and get me some clothing. I’ll take the responsibility, if your action has to be squared with Ponjon. But I’m darned if I can understand why you’d turn your position over to an assistant. In the first place he’s not half qualified—”

  “Please,” Dr. Douglas said again, and it was plain that he was deeply wounded by something that Ronnie couldn’t hope to fathom instantly. He untied Ronnie’s ropes, talking gently. Ronnie washed and dressed while he listened to the doctor’s strange story. “I have been the victim of a mysterious illness. For many, days I slept.”

  “You were doped?” Ronnie asked. “I must have been. Ponjon wouldn’t admit it, but that must have been it. When I began to recover I saw that Ponjon had taken full charge. He had these natives marching to his orders. He was a clever one. A disciplinarian. A hard master. They danced to his music.”

  The doctor sighed. “It would have been dangerous to change leaders again. He held the power. I stood by.”

  “So you became an assistant? Is, that it?” Ronnie drew a deep indignant breath. This was getting at it. The whole setup that Ballinger had so carefully organized had broken down with Douglas’ illness. Ponjon had us
urped the power for his own self-gratification. “But what about the serums? Why didn’t Ponjon keep on sending out the regular supply, if he meant to take charge properly?”

  “You haven’t received any for months, have you?”

  “No. That’s why I’m here. Ballinger sent me to find out who was asleep at the switch.”

  “I knew that would come.”

  “So I’m here to put a stick of dynamite under someone. Either you take back your responsibility or I’ll see that Ponjon—”

  “Careful!” Dr. Douglas used a fearful tone. “We don’t give orders to Ponjon. We take them. You’d better be cautious.”

  “In my vocabulary it’s Ballinger who gives the orders,” Ronnie said, glaring. He hated to be rough with the doctor but it seemed to be necessary. “I mean, to see that the serums start moving again. Well, what are you shaking your head about?”

  “There’s something else I haven’t told you,” the tall, languid doctor said sadly. “The serums have gone bad.”

  “Bad? How? What do you mean?”

  “I discovered it several months ago. That’s why we’ve quit shipping them out.”

  “But your methods were working fine—”

  “It’s strange but I found that every thing began to change. The blood characteristics of these people aren’t what they. were. They don’t test out. Our guinea pigs here have made it plain that the serums just don’t test out.”

  “Good Lord! After all those wonderful effects—”

  “They’re gone. Ballinger’s boon to mankind has melted, away.”

  “And your chance to share his fame—”

  “Gone! Now you understand my discouragement.” The doctor appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Sometimes I wish I had never come out of that long sleep.”

  Ronnie couldn’t help being sympathetic, yet there was little time to indulge the doctor’s sorrows. If Ponjon was due to return at any minute, the most must be made of this chance to talk with Douglas alone.

  Ronnie went back to ask of the coming of the mud.

  The tipping of the continent, he learned, had caused the Oojaggs to move down into this territory. Their fertile lands up the valley were being washed away. Erosion on a spectacular scale turned these one-time upland valleys into channels of creamy purple mud.

  “The very physiological virtue of these Zattzones—t heir adjustable quality—was in a way their downfall.” The doctor’s affection for the Zattzones was unmistakable. “If they had been less adaptable, they wouldn’t have stayed in the path of rising geological dangers. They’d have got out. Instead, they stuck tight. They threw all their energies into building a patchwork river bed over the top of their city. So here we are, existing under it all.”

  “There’s certainly no reason for staying,” Ronnie muttered. “It’s dangerous. And they’re unhappy about it, I overheard enough to know that.”

  “Ponjon won’t let them leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Here he can control them. He loves his power. He had them regimented-like clockwork. They might as well be slaves in a concentration camp.”

  “You can’t stand for that.”

  “His excuse is that moving out would be an admission of defeat—a proof that they’re no longer able to adjust—”

  “To hell with their adjusting!” Ronnie snorted. “If he can’t get good serums anyway, their lives at least ought to be considered. They’re in a death trap here. I think I see an angle.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why not demand that Ponjon set up a control group on the outside—say fifty or a hundred Zattzones to Start with. Get them out of this underworld. See if the desired hormones don’t come back into the blood. What do you think?”

  “You believe the mud has influenced them, don’t you? Well, your theory has already been tried. It didn’t work. He fixed it up for thirty-seven of them up there on the uplands to the west. His loyal military force kept bringing them back for tests—”

  “So?”

  “A very evil strain showed up right away. Fair from getting any desired serums he got the seeds of a revolt on his hands. Now he’s bringing them back three or four at a time—”

  “For further testing?”

  “For execution.”

  “No!”

  The doctor spoke in a hushed voice. “That’s where he’s spending his time these days. At the execution chamber.” Ronnie’s voice grew harsh with outrage. “My heavens, man! You mean these Zattzones are letting him get away with that? You can’t adjust people by murdering them!”

  “What did you say?”

  The voice came from the darkness beyond the door, a sharp-edged voice like a freshly sharpened steel blade.

  “Ponjon!” Dr. Douglas whispered. His face was ashen.

  “You can’t adjust people by murdering them, you say? Very interesting. Who are you?”

  The owner of the voice was coming in.

  Ronnie hurled back his answer without waiting to take his measure of the man.

  “I’m an agent from Ballinger. Who are you? Come in and show your face.”

  Ponjon stalked in out of the shadows. Ronnie tried to take in the sight of him all at once, a curious blend of sinister keenness and animal stealth. Large and hunched, he held his arms close to his body as if they were withered and helpless. Nevertheless, the right arm came upward slowly as Ponjon approached. He was offering a handshake.

  “An agent from Ballinger!” The manner and voice were at once extremely cordial. Ponjon was smiling through narrowed eyes. “Who could be more welcome!”

  Hatred, had stiffened through Ronnie’s spine at the sight of the man. But the handshake was his for the taking and he responded, clasping Ponjon’s hand. At the same instant Ponjon’s left hand came up with a quick strike like a rattlesnake and plunged a needle into Ronnie’s outstretched arm.

  “No—no—please!” Douglas cried feebly. “Not yet!”

  But Ponjon had done it, and the sudden jab of the needle gave Ronnie an immediate feeling of paralysis. Sleep came in upon him. The world around him spun for a moment and then everything was gone.

  CHAPTER V

  How much time had passed?

  Hours and hours, perhaps weeks or even months. Ronnie had no way to guess. He had lost all touch with the familiar world. The fact that he was here on an urgent errand bore down upon him in his hazy wakeful hours. He knew lie was being drugged again and again. His stupor was too deep for clear thought.

  Sometimes, awakening, he would feel that he was slowly starving. Then again he would awaken to find that Douglas was beside him in his cell, feeding him. Douglas would leave, locking the barred door, and again he would sleep.

  Even in sleep, impressions filtered through to register in his mind.

  He knew that the feverish life of the Zattzones was going on around him. Bursting ceilings. Bursting sidewalls. Swift working brigades patching the breaks. An unending effort of frantic patchwork to keep the city intact.

  Equally frantic efforts to recover the lost, qualities of the serums. Fanatical efforts to keep military order. Marching brigades of militarized Zattzones, moving in step obediently.

  Unhappy people!

  The more Ronnie came back to wakefulness, the more he brooded over Ponjon’s cruelties.

  “He’s haunting my dreams,” Ronnie confessed to the doctor.

  “You’re coming out of it,” Douglas said. “If he thinks you’re getting well enough to make trouble, he’ll drug you down again. That’s how he tamed me.”

  Okay, Ronnie would take fair warning. His best chance was to feign illness whenever Ponjon came near. But one day he confided to the doctor, “All I want is one good clean chance to call his bluff—with strength enough to follow through. The way I feel today, I could break out of this cell and rip his fake power to shreds.”

  Dr. Douglas hushed him.

  “You have a neighbor. Next cell. Sleeping.”

  A slight groan sounded from the adjoining cel
l. Ronnie saw that the form lying there on an improvised bed of swamp reeds was an Earth man. Like Ronnie, he was clad in flimsy prisoner garments. His left arm was in a cast.

  “The Oojaggs tried to kill him as he crossed the swamps.” The doctor added with an air of pride, “I take credit for saving his life. He would have bled to death.”

  “Well!” Ronnie saw a glow of achievement in the doctor’s eye that looked hopeful for one so badly beaten. Was there a chance the doctor might outgrow his defeated spirit in time?

  “So far,” the doctor said, “the needle has not been given to this one. The wound, Ponjon believes, will keep him incapacitated.”

  “Is he in serious condition?”

  “No longer. But, confidentially, I have been advising him all along to take his time.”

  “Who is he?

  “He has given his name as Glen Blair.”

  “Do you know him well enough to trust him?”

  “Not exactly. He talked in such a confused manner. His hike through the swamps fairly unnerved him. He barely escaped the Oojaggs.”

  Glen Blair. Ronnie couldn’t remember having heard of him.

  “He was sent, as you were, by Ballinger,” the doctor said. “He asked the same questions you asked al.at the serums. If you talk, with him, I suggest you be careful how you bestow your confidence. He may be closer to Ponjon than we think.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Ronnie promised. “And, Doc—”

  “Yes?”

  “You get yourself over being scared and I’m going to see that you win back your rightful authority.”

  Dr. Douglas gave Ronnie a mysterious look. He said timidly, in a low whisper, “I left something for you.”

  A few minutes after Dr. Douglas went out, Ronnie rose and moved about, feeling the old strength surge through his body.

  Later, he stood facing the tall stranger who occupied the cell next to his.