The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Madam Zukor patted him on the shoulder. “For my nice little errand boys the best is none too good.”

  “Is he your nice little errand boy too?” Millrock asked, pointing his thumb at Poppendorf, who ignored the question. Following Madam Zukor’s lead, Poppendorf gave Millrock a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “Good old Millrock. How was it, a pretty rugged voyage? Lots of stuffy regulations and saluting and all that? These damned captains all have to be saluted.”

  “Is that why you didn’t want to go?” Millrock asked.

  “Now, boys,” Madam Zukor said.

  “Wish I could have gone along,” Poppendorf lied. “But the boss, here, said my face would give me away. Those New Earth people haven’t forgotten me.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Millrock said. On the trip to Mogo and back he had heard an abundance of echoes of the earlier fights waged by Madam Zukor and her brother Glasgow.

  “So they still talk about us!” Madam Zukor gloated. “We almost had them—if my brother hadn’t got too confident.”

  “Yep, the lil’ ole Earth was almost ours,” Poppendorf echoed. “Hell, the smoking, stinking ole ball, I don’t know what we’d do with it.”

  “Easy, Poppendorf,” Zukor said. “You never know who might be listening.”

  “Anyhow, once we get it in the palm of our hands—”

  “You’ll kindly refrain from such liberal use of the pronoun we,” Madam Zukor said.

  “We? Did I say we?”

  “You’re always saying we. The facts will show who almost swung the deal. If that damned giant Gret-O-Gret hadn’t tipped the scales for Paul Keller, we’d have had it, my brother and I. You, Poppendorf, I brought you along for an escort. Don’t make yourself out a general.”

  Poppendorf conceded, with forced politeness, “You’re so right, Madam. At your service.”

  “Now, Millrock, tell me everything. Did you hold your tongue throughout the voyage? Of course you did? The forged papers—you had no trouble getting aboard as a member of the crew? Good. You saw Gret-O-Gret, of course?”

  Millrock nodded. “He seems to be a great man on Mogo.”

  “Great, is he? Big shot, I suppose.”

  “They think very highly of him.”

  “Impressed, were you?”

  “If you hadn’t told me in advance that he was your worst enemy—he and Paul Keller—”

  Millrock broke off. His two listeners had exchanged glances that warned him he was on thin ice.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Millrock said. “I don’t lean to Gret-O-Gret. I’m simply mentioning that I’d have been deceived by him if you hadn’t told me about him in advance.”

  “‘All right. We’ll say you’re too clever to be taken in by a giant’s charming manners around a Mogo conference table. What about the invitation?”

  “It was a fancy piece of canvas. It looked like a big college diploma—”

  “Never mind that. What’s Gret-O-Gret going to do about it? Will he take them up, and come to the Earth for a visit?”

  “Apparently not. He’s busy with his Mogo affairs.”

  “Do they have affairs on Mogo too?” Poppendorf asked, but Madam Zukor talked past him. Her questions were sharp and direct; she meant to get the facts. She asked whether Gret-O-Gret had convinced his Mogos that Mox-O-Mox was the guilty party who bombed the Earth.

  “Oh, yes. No question about that.

  The records showed it. And the films and the recordings.”

  “Films?”

  “Gret-O-Gret put on a documentary movie. It showed the destruction plain enough for anyone. The Mogos are pretty sick over what happened. I think they’ll want to make up for it with friendship to the Earth for a long time to come.”

  “That sounds bad,” Madam Zukor said.

  “Unless,” put in Poppendorf, “we can make them shift that friendship to us—I mean to you!”

  “Stop splitting hairs, Poppendorf. About this movie, Millrock, did you see it?”

  “Parts of it. I was pretty busy.”

  “Doing what? Don’t, tell me they had you polishing the decks while they went to the show.”

  “I volunteered to stand guard.”

  “Of all the stupid—you volunteered? Trying to get in good with the captain, I suppose. Whose side are you on, Millrock?”

  Millrock met the penetrating look of Madam Zukor’s dark eyes. “I was busy on a little strategy of my own.”

  “What was it? Speak up! What am I paying you for?”

  Millrock flipped a half dollar into the air, caught it, and slapped it on the back of his hand. “Madam Zukor, you haven’t paid me—”

  “The hell I haven’t. I’ve advanced your expenses—”

  “You called me your errand boy didn’t you. Ha!”

  “Oh, now you want to be a general. Is that it? All generals and no army!”

  “You’ve paid me errand-boy wages,” Millrock said coldly. “But I’ve pulled a smooth maneuver that not one soul knows about. Nobody—the captain or Gret-O-Gret, or anyone else. If we play the right cards at this Interplanetary Conclave—we, I said—

  “Damn the pronouns. Go on with your if!”

  “If we play the right cards at the Interplanetary Conclave these next few days, wc can wrap up that little ole ball you refer to as the Earth, Mr. Poppendorf, and mail it to our Aunt Jenny for a Christmas present.” Madam Zukor lighted a cigaret and blew a puff of smoke across at Millrock. “You talk big, General. What’s your price?”

  “What do you offer?”

  Madam Zukor named a sum in Venus currency.

  Millrock nodded. “That—and this.” He held up the New Earth half dollar. “Not the coin but the gal.”

  “You mean George Hurley’s wife?” Madam Zukor stared. She glanced at Poppendorf, who nodded with his eyes. “All right, General, it’s a deal.”

  At that moment a voice broke in from the area of the bank of Venus ferns a few feet beyond the table.

  “A deal, is it! Like hell it’s a deal!” A very angry two-hundred-and-forty-pound man broke through the bank of Venus ferns and came plunging toward Millrock. Anyone dining on that part of the balcony would have recognized the light of murder in his eye. He moved toward Millrock with fists swinging.

  “My bad arm!” was all that Millrock had time to wait. He made a motion as if to put it back in a sling that wasn’t there. He ducked back. “Help! Hhh—”

  The blow from the big man’s fist sent him spinning back against the rail.

  Madam Zukor shrieked at Poppendorf. “It’s George Hurley. Get him! Shoot him.!”

  Hurley went after Millrock at the rail, heedless of the others. Shouts and screams sounded from around the balcony. Millrock started to climb over the rail, and might have plunged for the water fifty feet below. Hurley seized him by the shoulder and flung him back. At the same moment Poppendorf hurled his weight at the big man and toppled him over.

  George Hurley fell, hearing the screams of “Police! Police!” Just as he struck the water, a bullet plunged through his side. He went down.

  CHAPTER XI

  Anna listened to radio reports all that week, hoping that she might hear some news of her husband. Xo word had come to her since duty had suddenly whisked him away. Her concern mounted into worry, her worry into a mild frenzy. She began to think in terms of direct action, “if I could only go to Venus!” she thought. “I wish the government would send me.”

  There was the Interplanetary Conclave—but no, she wouldn’t think of that. That government had been nice to her. It had put an engraving of her in the New Earth half dollar. It had hung a portrait of her in the corridor of the Council Hall. It had written up her part in the great Earth bombing and placed copies in the public libraries. But she must not overplay her importance.

  “After all,” she told herself sternly, facing herself in the mirror, “you’re just a school girl who happened to grow up and marry George Hurley. Don’t get to thinking you’re qualified to b
e an ambassador.”

  She resolved to wait patiently for news of her husband. She pledged that she would not bother President Waterfield or Captain Keller about her worries. She would not call up their offices and ask—she would not!

  She called up President Waterfield’s executive suite first. The secretary was sorry.

  “As you know. President Waterfield is n Venus, preparing for the Interplanetary Conclave. Mrs. Hurley . . . no, I’m afraid we can’t help you. In fact we haven’t any record of your husband’s appointment.”

  She called Captain Keller. A snappish receptionist told her that Captain Keller wasn’t in.

  “If you’d let me speak to him for just a moment . . .”

  “I’m sorry, he’s meeting with a committee.”

  “Hut—but—” It seemed futile to tell the truth; on impulse, she plunged dangerously. “About my appointment as assistant ambassador I don’t know whether I should accept. However, if Captain Keller insists—” She heard the receptionist gasp. “Assistant ambassador! Oh, I’m sorry. Mrs. Hurley. I didn’t realize—I’ll ring Captain Keller at once.”

  Then she was speaking with Captain Keller, and it was some comfort just to hear his voice.

  “Anna, I meant to call you. I’m worried. I’ve had no word whatsoever from George. You haven’t heard?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Ah—what about this matter of your becoming an assistant to the ambassador at the conclave?” Keller asked.

  “You don’t mind a little joke, do you, Captain?”

  “I don’t know how you got wind of it, but Katherine and I have been talking it over.” Captain Keller was speaking earnestly. “In fact, we’ve sent our recommendation to President Waterfield. I believe he’ll approve, and that means you should be ready to go to Venus on a moment’s notice . . . Are you there, Anna?”

  “I just fainted,” Anna said.

  Two hours later she gave little George, Junior, a goodbye hug, left him in the care of Captain Keller’s wife, Katherine, and boarded the Capital Liner for Venus.

  CHAPTER XII

  On the morning after Anna’s departure a radio message from the outer world made big news for the New Earth. A Mogo ship was on the way!

  The message was an automatic call in Mogo language, which Paul Keller interpreted as “On course.”

  It sounded with clocklike regularity every six hours, gradually growing clearer.

  “It’s definitely a Mogo ship en route,” Captain Keller announced to the press. The news started a wave of exciting headlines.

  “GRET-O-GRET COMING! TOP MOGO GIANT ACCEPTS NEW EARTH’S INVITATION!”

  It was welcome news for all who remembered Gret-O-Gret. But it was not quite accurate. A second wave of headlines altered the story: “GIANT GRET MAY SEND PROXY”. “Mystery Mogo En Route to New Earth May be Substitute. Communication Net Clear.”

  The radio communication was not entirely clear, but it conveyed the unmistakable message that the New Earth would soon receive a visitor. The governmental circles got busy and named Captain Keller as Chairman of Preparations. No one would know better than Keller what needed to be done to make Gret-O-Gret (or his substitute) feel welcome.

  Keller called a special meeting of the Council, in the absence of President Waterfield, and reviewed the anticipated guest’s needs.

  “The important thing is to treat Gret-O-Gret—or his substitute—as a big friendly brother,” Paul Keller declared. “He’ll want to be one of us.”

  “I don’t see how we’re going to invite a man of his size in on our card parties and political rallies,” the skeptic of the Council said.

  “What we’ll have to do is get a huge speaker system ready. That way he can listen in on all our business luncheons and court sessions and Council meetings.”

  The very thought caused the Council to straighten with visible self-consciousness. Manners at once became more formal, and speeches that should have been made in two minutes were spread out to an eloquent five or six. Dignity and civic pride suddenly bloomed.

  “He’ll want to hear our movies and plays, naturally. But we know he could never bend down to our theaters without knocking over a grocery store or two. And that’s only the beginning. We’ll need to plant microphones all around and let him take his choice. Concerts. Board of Trade. Auctions. Religious Services. Schools. Lectures. Literary clubs.”

  Even the skeptics were impressed by Paul Keller’s confidence. A Mogo giant must be a man of strong intellectual appetite.

  “Don’t underestimate the Mogo’s interest in our way of life.” Keller said. “I’ve hardly scratched the surface. He’ll want to see how our factories operate, how our money is coined, how our plastics are made, how radios are manufactured, how banks are run, how newspapers are printed, how crops are harvested—everything!”

  These abundant predictions of Paul Keller were to fill many columns in the newspapers for the next several days. Every phase of New Earth life would doubtless pass under the spotlight of Mogo scrutiny.

  “I urge all citizens of the New Earth to be unstinting in their hospitality,” Captain Keller proclaimed as the time for the Mogo’s arrival approached. Remember the song ‘We Have A Great Big Brother.’ ”

  This would be the New Earth’s chance to clinch the ideal of universal brotherhood throughout the universe, he argued.

  The reporters asked, “Is it known yet “who the visiting Mogo will be?”

  “I’m certain it is not Gret-O-Gret,” Captain Keller said. “The communications have been sketchy. The guest has not given his name.”

  “You must be disappointed that it isn’t Gret-O-Gret,” a reporter said, “seeing that you and he are such firm friends.”

  Keller did his best to conceal his private disappointment. “I’m always glad to make new Mogo friends. Any friend of Gret-O-Gret—”

  “But you don’t know the guest’s name?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will it be one of those who sat with you around the conference table?”

  “I can’t even answer that. The radio messages haven’t been altogether clear. The Mogo is evidently not too familiar with sky travel. His navigation is far from perfect. But his references to our instructions on the certificate of invitation assure us he’ll be here soon.”

  “Within forty-eight hours?”

  “That’s the latest,” Captain Keller said, checking the radio bulletins. He wanted to add, “If he doesn’t shear off a slice of the moon on the way in.” But he didn’t say it, not even in jest. He was afraid they might quote him. “Please don’t mention that he’s an amateur in the arts of sky navigation, boys. I’d rather say nothing that might arouse disrespect.”

  “We understand, Captain.”

  “Build him up any way you can. The fact is, he must have a heart of “old or Gret-O-Gret wouldn’t have sent him. After all, a Mogo isn’t to be judged by the way he operates a space ship, but rather by his—shall we say—human qualities.”

  The news writers and television commentators did such a good job of building up the expected visitor that, during the last forty-eight hours of anticipation, the public came through with thousands of dollars of volunteer funds.

  They decked out the streets with gaudy decorations.

  They decorated the park, and set up a new speakers’ platform on the edge of the cliff, from which presidents of clubs could read addresses of welcome into the microphones.

  Brass bands created special musical salutes. The New Earth Guard rehearsed for a dress parade. A civic committee planned a night show of fireworks.

  All in all, it was to be the biggest reception the New Earth had ever given—for the biggest invited guest the planet had ever seen.

  The big ship hove into sight at high noon, two days later, cruising over at a five-mile elevation. The whole countryside had turned out in gay colors for the reception.

  The ship passed over the city, apparently on automatic air speed, moving at a good two thousand miles an hour. In
stead of circling, retarding, and coming down onto the open flat across the river, as expected, it shot on.

  Radio signals failed to bring it back.

  “He never did see us,” Captain Keller declared. “Hold up the celebration but keep the signals going. He’ll be back.”

  “He doesn’t return our signals,” radio reported.

  “Too busy Earth-gazing,” Paul Keller said. “We’ll just have to wait.”

  After that, the big Mogo ship circled the earth once or twice every day. The radios kept signalling but got no answer.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The news bulletins from the Earth sent their thrill of excitement out to the neighboring planets. The Mogo visitor had come, as expected, and he was stirring up a whole world of curiosity while his hosts, the Earth people, waited for him to settle down.

  “MOGO MAN STILL UNSETTLED,” the headlines read in the Venus newspapers. And later, “MOGO MYSTERY MAN KEEPS MOVING.”

  Many of the interplanetary leaders at the Venus Capital were too busy to notice. The Interplanetary Conclave was on, full tilt, and problems were being threshed out for the peace and welfare of the Solar System for many years to come, they hoped.

  But President Waterfield and his New Earth staff, occupying one of the choice diplomatic suites in the White Star Hotel, were continually watchful of the news from their home planet.

  “It’s a bad break for our government,” President Waterfield said, off the record, to his inner staff. “If the visitor had been Gret-O-Gret, the publicity would have been wonderful. Gret would have come in on schedule, landed where he was supposed to land, and stepped out of his ship to receive his official welcome—and the New Earth prestige would have risen enormously. It would have given us added leverage in dealing with other planets, to have a great big brother from Mogo land. But this—this guest—”

  The President tried to temper his comment with reason, but his anger seeped through,

  “This guest is doing us damage. Riding around the Earth and refusing to land, he’s making us unpopular. My administration is going to suffer. People won’t like it, getting a big reception party ready for a Mogo that doesn’t land. I may have to make a trip back to the Earth to take charge.”