The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  The three days were tightly packed.

  He was shown the parks, the avenues, the skyscrapers, the art galleries, the brightly lighted theatrical district, a huge movie palace, a Broadway play.

  They drove him through the botanical gardens; they were guided through a great printing plant where the giant presses were running; they took in a museum of massive rooms where hundreds of thousands of objects were on display.

  They walked with the throngs of people and watched humanity stream into the subways at the close of the working day.

  And all the while Joe’s eyes were wide with curiosity, drinking in the millions of images photomontaged upon his retina, his eardrums beating with the cacophony of civilization at its maddest pace. He felt the surging vibrations of power unlimited, he breathed in the amazing tumult of smells that delighted or sickened or bewildered. And through it all his three guardians took joy and pride in the game of serving him their world.

  “It’s more concentrated than any food pills I ever swallowed,” Joe confessed.

  “Only the time is passing so fast,” Patricia wailed, “and we’ve scarcely begun!”

  It was the final evening at dinner in their suburban home, and Aunt Kate asked, “Must you go back? Your ship doesn’t leave for two days yet.”

  “I’ll have two full days’ work getting ready.”

  “But you do like this world of ours?” Patricia had asked the question many times in the past three days, and with each answer she felt a vague uneasiness, There was something in Joe Malette’s mind beyond her reach; something hidden, When she sensed its presence, the alarm bells rang a warning through her heart.

  “This world of yours is tremendous,” Joe replied, and there it was, that wistfulness, that reserve, that something that went deeper than all this pageant on the surface.

  .“He’ll stay until morning, won’t you, Joe,” Aunt Kate said. “You can get a sky taxi early in the morning.”

  Joe said, “You’ve all been very wonderful—”

  “Sure he’ll stay till morning,” Uncle Douglas said confidently. “Maybe longer. I’ve been thinking—excuse me, I’ll make that call right now.” And in the middle of dinner he got up and went to the phone. He called the skyport and in a moment he was talking with an official whose name Joe knew as he knew his own.

  “I’ll tell you, Mr. Grayson, I’m thinking of kidnaping this young man of yours. . . . Yes, a job along the lines we discussed . . . I think I can make the offer attractive enough . . . Yes, I understand, but you know a year of life here on the surface would be a fine thing for him, and his background would be very useful . . . His preference? Oh, he likes it down here, no doubt of that . . . You think so? . . . Well, anyway, I’m going to talk it over with him tomorrow.”

  Uncle Douglas came back to the table smiling.

  Joe swallowed hard. “I don’t wish to seem ungrateful, but I only planned to stay three days—”

  Uncle Douglas waved the thought away. “We’ll not talk about it tonight. Tomorrow you’ll come down to the office with me first thing in the morning and look the situation over.”

  Joe rose suddenly, and his voice was tight. “I’d better go, now. Excuse me.”

  “Joe!” Patricia cried. “We haven’t finished dinner yet!”

  “I’m sorry.” Joe sat down, embarrassed. The silence was strained for a moment; then everyone began talking of other things, trying to restore the merriment.

  After dinner Joe wandered out onto the porch alone. Patricia followed at a little distance, and saw him standing there, looking up into the twilight.

  “You’re going back, aren’t you,” she said, coming to him, barely touching his hand.

  “It’s my world, out there,” Joe said quietly. “Do you mind if I go now?”

  But guests were already coming up the walk. A little evening had been planned. If he would only stay till morning—

  Late that night Joe retired to his guest room. For several minutes he sat at the open window looking up into the star studded sky. Then he turned to his suitcase.

  He packed quickly. He sketched a brief note and left it on the dresser. He was sorry to walk out like this. He couldn’t explain it. He wouldn’t try. He had to go. He hoped they would forgive him.

  He tiptoed down the stairs and closed ” the door quietly behind him. He reached the street before he heard the voice of Patricia calling to him from the porch. He pretended not to hear and hurried on. There would be an hour or more of walking, but he knew the way. He had watched the street numbers and caught the system of directions. He hurried along, down the long lighted thoroughfare.

  A car caught up with him.

  It was Patricia, calling to him. She would give him a lift back to the sky taxi terminal,

  He got in. He tried to find words for an apology.

  “We’re the ones who should apologize,” Patricia said. “We only thought of how much we were enjoying your company. But we were selfish. We didn’t try to understand. You’ve felt all caged up, haven’t you?”

  Joe’s answer was evasive. “Is that the way I acted? Caged?”

  “I noticed little things,” Patricia said. “The way your shoulders would tighten when we’d go down through the canyons of skyscrapers. As if you felt pressure from all sides.”

  Joe smiled but made no comment.

  “And the way you’ve breathed when you thought no one was noticing—trying to breathe deeper—not from any lack of air but from a craving for space. I saw it and I should have known. And I’ve noticed how you’ve missed the stars. You’re used to having them for neighbors, aren’t you? Is that it, Joe? Do I understand you—or is there more?”

  They drove along in silence for minutes while Joe groped for his own answers.

  “Have we failed you somehow, Joe?” Patricia asked, when his thoughts found no words.

  No, it wasn’t that, not by any means. They had all been the friendliest people in the world, and he would never forget them.

  “Then what is it, Joe?”

  “I don’t exactly know. It’s nothing you could guess. It’s—well, as much as anything, it’s a terrible feeling of loss—of waste.”

  She didn’t understand. As they came to the terminal, which might have been the parting of the ways, he asked a favor.

  “Day after tomorrow,” he said to Patricia, “before my ship leaves, would you come to the skyport? We’ll have a cup of coffee before I go.”

  He returned to the skyport, slept briefly, and flew into his work. After a day and a half of chores, he was ready for the flight. The ship, too, was ready and waiting for the hour of take-off.

  There was the usual bustle of excitement as the sky taxis brought up passengers and sightseers, and the officials busied themselves with the final checking of details.

  Joe watched the taxis arrive with a curious feeling of eagerness. Perhaps Patricia had undergone a change of heart. Or something had happened to prevent her coming.

  But presently another taxi arrived to unload its gaily dressed passengers. Then the bright-eyed, laughing girl was beside him again, they were promenading the enclosed deck of the floating port, they were slipping into a booth, ordering quick coffee, they were joking over little things.

  Patricia grew more serious as she said suddenly, “Joe, I’m making you a promise. I’ll never ask you again whether you like this world—the world down there that we live in.” A hint of tears came to her eyes just for an instant.

  “Now, now, now!” Joe smiled. “It is a fair question. I was too confused the other night. The answers wouldn’t come. I couldn’t get a solid grip on my own feelings, somehow. But now I think I know.”

  “I’m not asking you, Joe.”

  “Well. I’m telling you, because it’s something I want to say. And you’ve been willing to understand.” He studied his coffee a moment before looking up. She was waiting, not urging him, but waiting.

  “Once,” he said, “a butterfly hatched out on the ship and stayed alive on th
e whole voyage. Through thousands of miles of space the passengers were fascinated by it Just one butterfly. It was a precious thing. I like things like that. And those plants I grow—less than two dozen of them—I know them in the same way that I know people. Every new stem and leaf and root hair is something to watch. And my records and films and books—just a few carefully chosen books—you remember how much the passengers got out of them.”

  “Of course—on a trip.”

  “Those books take a bad beating from overuse, and I have to replace them. But the fact is, they stand the test of space and time. Why?”

  “Why?” Patricia echoed.

  “Because people put their real attention into them. That’s my world of space. There’s time to explore things for all their meaning. Now do you see why I found life on the earth such a—a—”

  “Waste is the word you used before. Waste and loss.”

  “That’s what it seemed to me. Right and left I was shocked—I was terrified, until it was all I could do to hold back and not blurt out the awful remarks that would have hurt everyone’s feelings. Those botannical gardens, for instance. We drove through acres and acres. How can any flower in that wilderness ever be singled out and appreciated?”

  “But there are thousands of people to see them.”

  “Do they really see them? Possibly, in the same sense that they see the stars in the sky . . . Then there was the museum. Do you remember all those mounted butterflies? Hundreds and hundreds. So many that they couldn’t be valued. The school children walked past, remember? They said, ‘Gee, look!’ and then they raced on.”

  Patricia smiled. “As I remember, we didn’t stay long either, did we?”

  “Your uncle waved at them and said, ‘Nice, aren’t they—let’s go this way.’ Later we passed a record shop. The music came out into the street, and it was one of the finest voices I ever heard. Great music! Thrilling! Yet the throngs of people moved past without even noticing. I didn’t think I was a fragile person, but that hurt me. Yes—and it angered me.”

  “They probably caught a little of the music, you know, even if they didn’t stop. At least a snatch.”

  “A snatch.” Joe nodded. “I guess that’s the difference between your world and mine. There’s so much of everything in yours that you’re compelled to waste most of it. It showers off people like sunbeams.”

  “And like sunbeams it helps to sustain them. In time, Joe, you may come to like my world. Like sunshine, it’s generous with all the things you value, But I do believe this, Joe: it takes someone like you to make us really appreciate—”

  A signal suddenly sounded through the port.

  Joe paid the bill and caught Patricia’s hand, and together they streaked down the promenade toward the connecting air locks, talking animatedly as they went.

  Joe was glad to be going, Patricia knew this. But she knew, too, that their little talk had done them both good. His spirits had come up. He had said the words he needed to say to drop off the depression that her world had left over him. The squeeze of his hand upon hers was reassuring. And he spoke with feeling as he thanked her,

  “Thanks for a view of your world, Pat—even if I prefer my own.”

  “And thanks for giving new meaning to mine. But Joe!”

  “Yes?”

  “You wouldn’t want to dwell on little thoughts too deeply, would you? I mean—” she was a bit breathless, keeping up with him. “I mean—suppose some girl should give you a good-by kiss as you were boarding. You wouldn’t carry it through thousands and thousands of miles, would you?”

  Joe halted abruptly, gazing into Patricia’s radiant face.

  “If the girl was you, all the way to Venus.”

  He drew her into his arms lightly, and kissed her, once for her world and once for his own.

  Moments later Patricia stood alone at a window within the skyport and watched the Red Comet space ship roar off, its flash of fire narrowing into a pinpoint and curving away in the vast sea of stars.

  THE SLAVE MAKER

  First published in Fantastic Adventures, September 1952

  Melvin wanted to find out what made Kozmack, the rabble-rouser, tick. But Kozmack wanted to find out the same about Melvin, and his method was to take Melvin completely apart and investigate form the inside.

  Melvin Bolt never guessed he was walking into a trap when the pretty brunette passed him on the street. He never suspected that he was on his way to y a private laboratory to become a human guinea, pig.

  In a black mood, Melvin had walked into the park. He had been turned down by his agent. “Come back when you’ve got something good,” the agent had said, and the door had closed with a bang.

  The closed door. That was for Melvin Bolt the actor, the one-man show, the tragedian, the comedian, the vaudeville star. Only he wasn’t a star, he was a failure. Twenty-five years old and he didn’t even have a job.

  He sauntered gloomily toward a park crowd listening to a speaker. The speaker’s voice repelled him, but Melvin went closer. He was curious to know what all the noise was about.

  A stranger nudged him. “You know who that is? That’s the guy you see in all the papers. That’s Kozmack!”

  “Kozmack!”

  “You gonna join up?”

  Melvin might not have heard. Ha moved deeper into the crowd to get a good look at Emerson Kozmack.

  “You gonna join up?” the stranger at his elbow “whispered.

  “It’s the last thing I’d do,” Melvin muttered. Join the Kozmack cause! That’s what gullible people were saying all over the country. Million-dollar ballyhoo! Political poison! Lies arid false promises decorated in gaudy red and yellow banners.

  The late afternoon light fell across the stage. In front of the red and yellow flag, the speaker moved like a shadow boxer, beating the air as he shouted. His shoulders were broad, his face wolf-like, his eyes glittering with fire. He was an inspired maniac, Melvin thought.

  “So that’s Kozmack!” Melvin said to himself. And suddenly the glimmer of an idea came to him. He watched the man, fascinated.

  He was still watching when the speech ended, the applause died away, and the seven noisy ballyhoo artists leaped to the stage to give the crowd a final pep-up. Four fellows and three girls. In red and yellow costumes, they carried on like college, cheerleaders. Drums and cymbals joined the rhythm as they shouted into the mike:

  Hi, Mack! Hi, Jack!

  Join the cause! Go Koz-mack!

  Kozmack, Kozmack, Ya-ay!

  “Damn silly fools,” Melvin said under his breath. If the Kozmack cause ever got a start, these suckers would find out what trouble was.

  He started to walk away. Buttons were being passed out to the retreating crowd:

  “Excuse me, gents,” he said, trying to get by. Someone reached out and tried to pin a button onto his lapel. A circle of red with a yellow dot in the center and black letters—JOIN THE KOZMACK CAUSE! running around. “No, thanks.”

  “What’s the matter, buddy? Aren’t you going to join up?”

  His new idea had taken possession of his mind, and at first he hardly noticed how the uniformed Kozmacks were pressing around him. He was thinking of his agent who had advised him to bring in a better act. He was imagining what he might do with an impersonation of Kozmack on the stage. What a character! What a chance for satire! He’d burlesque that devil to a cinder—yes, and put his whole heart and soul into the act!

  “Excuse me, gents.” His way was blocked. Young men wearing brilliant red shirts, each with a big yellow dot on, the back and front; crowded around him threateningly. “Excuse me—”

  “So you’re not wearing a pin?”

  “Good chance to join up, buddy.”

  “Only takes half a minute to sign your name.”

  “Oh, tryin’ to give us the go by, is that it?”

  “He’s a highbrow!”

  “Let me by, please.”

  “The last highbrow that wouldn’t join us got pretty mussed up. Lost s
ome teeth. Never did find ’em. Hey, who you think you’re bumpin’ into?”

  They tried to maneuver him toward the booth where recruits for: Kozmack were signing up. They locked arms to block him. He suddenly marched into them and lashed down with his hand like a hatchet. Four or five of them piled in oh Melvin. He knocked two flat: The third one bucked into his knees, others swarmed over him as he went down. He rolled fast. They struck at him, but he came out of the dogpile and scrambled to his feet. He swung out of his coat and stood with fists ready.

  “Come on if you want to muss me up—you in your fancy shirts!”

  “The devil with him,” the ringleader of the gang said. “There’s easier ways to skin, a cat.”

  The other Kozmacks brushed themselves off, threw a few dirty remarks at Melvin, and followed their leader toward a booth. Melvin stared after them for a moment. He was aware that several spectators had gathered to watch. A pretty dark-haired girl had turned interested eyes in his direction. He wasn’t sure whether she had been a part, of the crowd, or had just happened to come along the park path.

  “That fellow handled himself pretty well,” someone commented. Melvin put on his coat and walked, away.

  The low-down buzzards, he’d like to rub their noses, in the dust. He’d take on the whole damned outfit, singly or all at one time. Just wait till he worked up his act. He’d, ridicule the whole damned Kozmack movement right into the ash can.

  Five blocks down the street he saw the same girl again.

  He noticed her trim ankles, the way her red skirt and yellow blouse neatly filled out with eye-catching curves, her bright eyes and the ringlets of dark hair massed about her well-shaped head. And then he saw her drop the red handkerchief a few feet in front of him.

  What a gag! The oldest trick in the world. He’d be darned if he’d fall for it. But still she was an awfully cute little trick, and she looked lonesome. And maybe she’d really dropped it on the level. He picked up the small square of cloth, and in a few measured strides had caught up with her just as she turned into the lobby of a large building.