The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  The stranger was clean-shaven. He possessed a strong face, a high forehead, clear dark eyes. Light streaks bordered his thin black eyebrows. He sat in a relaxed manner on the worn bench in his cell, brushing bits of lint from the bandaged arm.

  “You’re Glen Blair?” Ronnie said “The doctor told me about you. He said that Ballinger sent you, and you had a difficult time getting through My name is Ronnie Conwell.”

  The tall man seemed glad to rise and shake hands through the bars; Then he returned to his seat glumly. “Tell me, Conwell, did—did our employer—Mr. Ballinger—give you any warning about this river of mud?”

  “No.”

  “Bad deal.”

  “I figure he didn’t know about it himself.”

  “H-m-m.” The tall man murmured to himself uneasily. Then, “Is he paying you enough to offset all this hell?”

  “I’m not complaining,” Ronnie said. “A bargain is a bargain.”

  The tall man muttered, “I suppose so. He never told me I’d get myself shot up by unfriendly natives. Still—”

  “On a job like this a guy takes his own chances,” Ronnie said casually.

  After a silence Glen Blair said, “I guess you and Mr. Ballinger must be good buddies, the way you stick up for him.”

  Ronnie mused, “I just work for him. Hope to meet him some day. Have you ever met him?”

  “I’ve seen him,” Glen Blair said. “Can’t say that I was ever formally introduced.”

  “I remember his picture,” Ronnie said. “He wears a thick dark mustache. Thick dark eyebrows. Impressive face.”

  The tall man passed a finger over his pencil-thin brow. Ronnie flashed a glance at him, wondering if he had been here long enough to recognize the approaching footsteps. Ponjon’s

  Ponjon moved in, swinging his limp arms more briskly than usual.

  Something flashed in Ponjon’s right hand. Obviously he intended them to see it—the needle-pointed instrument.

  It was a part of his threatening entrance,

  “My prize prisoners,” he said. For an impressive minute or two he glared from one to the other, his narrowed eyes casting a weird yellow light. His thin lips were spread to reveal the hard set of his teeth; perhaps he intended a friendly grin; it could only come out as a look of evil. Sadistic satisfactions were in the making within that brutal head that thrust forward from his great hunched shoulders.

  His manner showed he knew that talk had been going on between his two “prize prisoners”. He disdained to pry. He was all set to reveal a plan of his own, that would put them both on the defensive.

  “I have a question for the two of you. Think well before you answer. A false answer would give me the pleasure of killing you. Pleasure!”

  “Go ahead,” Ronnie said, “the cards are all in your hands.”

  But Ronnie, sitting carelessly on the stone floor with, one hand slightly back of him, was highly aware of a joker in his own hand. The “something” Dr. Douglas had left him was a ray pistol.

  “I plan to develop my own serums.” Ponjon paced back and forth in front of the two cells. “My authority here is well established. I have no further need for the name of Ballinger.”

  The tall man, Ronnie noticed, was staring with frank curiosity.

  “From this moment,” Ponjon said, “the industry belongs to me. I claim it by right of having earned it, keeping order. Otherwise the Zattzones would have left for higher ground. Here they’re forced to adjust—more and more they’re compelled to adjust. Their adjustment is the key to my fortune. And now, my proposition.”

  He drew himself up, and the yellow of his eyes was like fire as he looked from Glen to Ronnie.

  “Which of you will come into my industry as my assistants? The offer is open to one or both.”

  Neither Ronnie nor Glen Blair spoke.

  “What’s the matter? Scared? You needn’t be. Your esteemed ex-boss is a whole planet away. You are free. I can assure you a good deal.”

  Ponjon opened the doors of each cell and stood waiting for his prisoners to advance. “What do you say?”

  “What’s the point of giving us a choice?” Ronnie said skeptically. “We’re your prisoners. You can tell us to submit or die.”

  “Very true,” Ponjon said with a twisted smile. “But I would prefer that my new staff come to me willingly.”

  “Willingly, hell!” Ronnie snapped. “This medical laboratory is the property of Ballinger. You can’t just take over—”

  “You’re turning down my proposition?”

  “You’re damned right.” Ronnie’s concealed hand tightened upon the ray pistol. He came to his feet, returning Ponjon’s glare defiantly through the open cell door.

  Ponjon, white with anger, looked to the tall stranger. He weighed the bright needle-pointed instrument in his hand. “And what about you, Blair?”

  “Interested,” Blair said, seeming to look at the floor of the cell, his eyes half closed. “If you think you can use me—”

  “I’ll know in about thirty seconds.”

  Ponjon said, beckoning him out of his cell. “Take this needle and administer sleep to the sucker who just refused me.”

  Glen Blair hesitated. “I have a bad arm—”

  “You’re yellow!”

  “I’m not yellow!”

  “If you’re working for me, the first lesson is to obey orders—and no excuses. Zattzones!”

  The bark of Ponjon’s voice brought four of his trusted armed natives in through the door. They stood two at either side of Ponjon, ready for any emergency. Ponjon nodded, “Now! Take the needle, Blair, and put that prisoner to sleep.” He started to hand the instrument to Blair when Ronnie’s hard voice commanded, “Drop it!”

  Ronnie’s concealed hand came up fast with the flash of a weapon.

  CHAPTER VI

  “Water slitters! Water slitters! Water slitters!”

  The cry rang through the cavernous city. Racing natives pounded through the half lighted streets and dashed in at the entrance o? the prison.

  “Water slitters! The west entrance! The Oojaggs have let them in! They’re coming this way!”

  The wild chase was joined from all directions. Ponjon’s armed men, ignoring Ronnie’s threatening ray pistol, suddenly broke and ran.

  “Everybody north!” In the Zattzone tongue, the equivalent of a northward direction was indicated. Exits to dry land lay in that course, and women and children were bounding at full speed as fast as the warning cries reached their ears.

  Ronnie’s threat had dissolved. Something in the strange look Glen Blair had given him had cost him a split second that might have brought Ponjon to his knees. Ponjon was off. The doctor rushed in, shouting a warning to anyone within earshot and darted out again.

  Ronnie started to follow Ponjon, then paused in the doorway long enough to hurl a savage remark at Glen Blair. “You better get back on my side while there’s time. I mean to get these browbeaten natives out of Ponjon’s clutches. If it takes water slitters to chase them out of these damn caverns, then I say bring on the water slitters!”

  Blair snapped back with a quick tongue. “Whose side are you on, Ballinger’s or the Zattzones’ ?”

  “Both. Ballinger can’t do business with these people imprisoned under a river. There’s no good left in them for him down here. They’re dry.”

  Ronnie started to run on. Blair came after him. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. Their blood’s no good any more.”

  “And what could you do about it?”

  “Experiment. I’ve got a hunch—a theory—and it ought to be tried.”

  “What’s your theory? Hold up a minute. Tell me—”

  “Do you think I’d tell you? I don’t give my theories away to traitors!” Ronnie ran. “Come oh, get your damn fool self out of here!”

  He knew that his blast had hit Glen Blair like a blow between the eyes, but the fellow took it, muttering an unintelligible answer, and came along as fast as he could,
hugging his bad arm to his side.

  “Where’s the doctor? Douglas, where are you?” Ronnie shouted as he ran. Not knowing his directions, the only thing to do was to run with the crowd. Why didn’t Ponjon or the doctor or some of the Zattzone officers direct the mob? Everything was helter-skelter. Ronnie’s course led down what must have been a side street. Brighter lights were ahead.

  “How do you get out of here?” came Glen Blair’s voice from back of Ronnie.

  “You don’t come in in the first place,” Ronnie shot back. “Ballinger should have thought twice before he sent you.”

  “Take it easy, Conwell,” Blair said. “We’re all in this together.”

  “Together, he says! A couple minutes ago you were ready to stab me with a needle. And the next thing one of those water slitters would have made salad out of me.”

  The way was blocked. A group of terrorized, howling Zattzones backed up on Ronnie. A water slitter’s head showed up over the crowd. It was crawling through the lighted street beyond. Ronnie heard the curious whistling swish of its fifty-foot body as it slithered along the lighted street. Its eyes glistened wildly as it turned toward the entrance of the darker passage. Gunfire from the crowd turned it away. It plunged ahead, its tail slapping the walls as it passed.

  Ronnie had tried to shoot at it, too, and the gun he held gave out with a dead click. A dud! Ponjon had known all the time, of course. He must have planted the trick gun with the doctor to try him out, and the doctor, lacking the nerve to use it, had slipped it hopefully to Ronnie. Ronnie threw it to the floor.

  Now the crowd surged forward again, streaming toward the northern exits that would bring them up on dry land. Ronnie would have followed if he hadn’t been halted.

  Four of Ponjon’s officers backed him up against a pillar.

  “Tie him up,” Ponjon commanded, coming out of the shadows. He had set the trap and waited, and now he ordered the Zattzone stooges into action. His glittering eye was lighted with sadistic pleasure. He called to Glen Blair and ordered him to stand by. Then he turned his full attention to Ronnie, whose arms were bound tight to a pillar of stone. “The water slitter will find its way back through this alley in a few minutes. We’ll just have time to finish a bit of unfinished business.”

  “What do you gain by torturing me?” Ronnie demanded.

  “I want your secret!”

  “What do you mean? I’ve got no secret.”

  “Don’t weasel,” Ponjon snarled. “I’ve got ears all over this city. You’ve called it a hunch—a theory. You said it might bring back the lost properties in the. Zattzone blood. All right, talk.”

  “You forget I’m working for Ballinger.”

  “In another minute you’re working for nobody. In another minute—”

  A cry from down the dark way announced that one of the water slitters was coming back.

  “Stop it!” Ponjon ordered. “Get a net over it.”

  The mad scramble came closer.

  Ronnie strained at his ropes. He wished for the strength of a Samson, to bring the ceiling and walls down on all of them—yes, and the river of mud above. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Dr. Douglas and several of the Zattzone police struggling with ropes that held back a huge net. Inside the net, fighting and thrashing about like a trapped tiger, was the big water slitter! The beast was held prisoner. But it kept working its way up through the narrow street, gaining a few feet each time it lunged at the web of ropes. It struck one of the Zattzones. He fell with a cry. Tangled in the web, he was dragged along. The thick serpent-like body of the monster rolled across him and crushed the cries out of him.

  “Hold back, damn it!” Ponjon shouted. “One more minute. All right, smart boy. Give us your theory.”

  Ronnie kicked out and knocked Ponjon’s legs out from under him. Ponjon sprawled. The needle-pointed instrument rolled to the floor. Glen Blair, rushed forward, reaching for it. Ponjon was quicker. He snatched it, then rolled to his feet and sprang back defensively.

  Glen Blair went after him, one armed! Blair’s right fist swung. Ponjon tried to lash down with the needle, but Blair’s blow caught him on the jaw. He staggered. Blair must have put dynamite in that single punch. Ponjon’s eyes rolled. The needle-pointed instrument slipped from his hand and Blair caught it in mid-air and instantly plunged it into Ponjon’s side.

  “You damn traitor!” Ponjon gasped as he sank to the floor. His eyelids drooped. Blair left him and turned to Ronnie.

  “Give me a hand, here, Doc!” Blair shouted. “A knife—anything. Get this man untied, quick. My bad arm—”

  Bad arm or not, Blair was using the fingers of both hands at the knots. The doctor was presently busy, shouting orders at the Zattzones who were helping hold the beast back.

  The Zattzones tied the rope ends to anything that would hold. For a moment the water slitter was held, but only for a moment. The blazing-eyed creature began to lunge like a fast-action battering ram. The ropes strained. Walls cracked. Ceilings broke. Water and mud gushed down and chunks of masonry ripped loose.

  Then everyone was running again. The bonds, slipped from Ronnie’s body. Glen Blair pulled him free. “Get on! Get on!”

  “Come on, yourself!” Dr. Douglas shouted, joining Blair and Ronnie in the hard chase toward the northern exits. No one bothered to look back at Ponjon, who had relaxed into a deep sleep on the floor. It was all his city now—his and the water slitters.

  Up in the sunshine, safe on high land, Ronnie watched the Zattzones gather into a quiet assembly to talk over plans for a new city. Their gift of readjusting themselves was remarkable, no doubt about it. The bold ones among them would go back and salvage some of their undamaged properties from the ruins—as soon as the path was clear. Meanwhile, the air of freedom was good to breathe, and no one mourned the loss of Ponjon, not even his most trusted ex-officers.

  “I’ve changed my_ opinion of you, Glen Blair,” Ronnie said as he, Blair and Dr. Douglas talked things over.

  If I haven’t thanked you for saving my life—thank you.”

  Glen Blair smiled. “It’s a valuable life. After all, you still have that secret theory.”

  “If it’s any good,” Ronnie said, “Ballinger may hear of it in time. On the other hand, everything may go so well from now on that he’ll never hear of it.”

  “Would you care to tell us?” Blair asked.

  “I shouldn’t be popping off without consulting Ballinger.”

  “I have a little secret of my own,” Blair said. “I think we all might confide in each other.”

  “Whatever the doc says. Douglas, now that you’re again in command what do you say?”

  “I say we trust each other. I’m sure Ballinger would approve, after what we’ve gone through together.”

  “Okay,” Ronnie said. “My guess is that these natives lost the blood characteristics we wanted when they lost their freedom. Their power to adapt was linked up with their right to talk and laugh and take their troubles in their stride. When Ponjon bore down on them and put their lives in strait-jackets, the smoldering resentment fed poisons into their, blood stream. It’s well-known that anger and hatred can do just that. So—”

  “So the poisons may have destroyed the hormones we were after!” Dr. Douglas, said. “I see it. Their blood values were linked to their freedom!”

  “That was my theory,” Ronnie said. “The way they’re getting organized to start life over, without Ponjon, is all to the good. In a short time they may restore themselves to normal, and our contract with them can be resumed—”

  “On a friendly basis, as Ballinger, originally conceived it,” the doctor interpolated.

  “Exactly.” Ronnie turned to Glen Blair. “And now—your secret?”

  The tall man smiled, a trifle shy over what he had decided to reveal. “My real name isn’t Glen Blair. If you’ll scramble the letters in Glen Blair you’ll know what my last name is. I came because I like to know exactly what loyal workers go through—and I wouldn’t ha
ve missed this for the world.”

  “Do you mean to tell us—” Ronnie gulped. For a moment the world spun, both backward and forward, and he came out of it a bit dizzy. “You mean that you’re—”

  “I’ll have to let my mustache and eyebrows grow back before I know for sure.”

  The tall man was smiling broadly, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment over the irony of his situation. “But this I can tell you for certain. There are going to be high honors and generous bonuses for both of you when you make a personal visit, soon, to the offices of Ballinger.”

  “Honors for three, you mean!” Dr. Douglas was suddenly a very positive man. “If there are any honors to be passed around, you’ve got to be included. Man, you were magnificent!”

  “Magnificent!” Ronnie echoed, clasping Glen Blair’s hand with the deepest feeling of respect he had ever known.

  Douglas frowned, plainly still puzzled over something. “Just what did you say your name was? Scramble Glen Blair? I don’t get it.”

  “You will,” Glen Blair smiled. “Think it over.”

  MARS INVITES YOU

  First published in Fantastic Adventures, August 1952

  The wedge-headed Zims had four feet and four nostrils. But the Earth girl had two beautiful legs. That made it a nice day.

  You’d better know the Martian word for “kill” if you mean to go tramping around the red planet on a black night.

  “Kapash!”

  That’s what the Big Zim warriors of Mars shout just before they knife you.

  There are other words for “kill”. The Big Zims’ enemies, the Wedge-head Zims—they’re the four-footers with ugly stubby faces and four nostrils—have their own war-cries. But don’t depend upon them to give you a warning. They kill you first and do their shouting afterward.

  It was “Kapash!” that I heard whispered in the darkness the night I crept down over the mountain toward the Zim river.

  “Kapash! Kapash! Cooley vank ga voo!” (Kill! Kill! An enemy approaches in the black!)

  Actually, I wasn’t an enemy. I was an Earthman on an errand, and I considered the Big Zims my friends. But it was plain from the whispers that I had bumped into a party of. Big Zim guards, and that was bad. You don’t stop to make explanations to big, brawny Martian’s in the black of night.