The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “She and her baby are no longer with us,” Vauna said quietly. “It happened one night when the stars seemed very close. They say she had studied the sky each night, wondering which of the worlds beyond was the world of Campbell.”

  “And then?”

  “Two of her caretakers saw it happen, but they could not stop it. With the babe in her arms, she walked over the side of Kao-Wagwattl. And went down. Under.”

  Vauna went on to tell me that Tomboldo had urged silence about it. He would always believe that the girl had lost faith too soon—that Campbell might have come back when his work was done. Moreover, Tomboldo felt that it was important to the morale of the tribe that both Campbell and I be held in high esteem.

  When Vauna finished telling me these things, she said she would ask me the questions she had been saving for many days. “Did you believe, Jim, that you would find some other person among us from your world?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “If you had found such a person, what would you have believed then?”

  “That he, and not Campbell, was the father of Omosla’s child.”

  “And what,” Vauna asked, “are you going to believe about us when our child is born?”

  13.

  We were around on the other side of the planet by now. I estimated that we had traveled more than seven thousand hours.

  By this time many things had happened. So much that I doubted my ability to convey all the news to Campbell so that he would get a clear understanding. I had lain awake nights trying to formulate my message. If my words failed, I only hoped that my tone of voice would convey my appreciation. My appreciation of him. Of what he had gone through. Of what he must yet go through.

  He talked with me quietly through the radio, and I could visualize him as if I were sitting beside him again in the space ship.

  “Yes, Linden. Go on. I’m listening.”

  I told him of the death of Omosla and the child. He was deeply grieved. It was a long time before he found voice to speak.

  “Go ahead, Linden. I’m listening.”

  “I have more news,” I said. “But tell me of yourself, Campbell. Have you gone ahead, playing your lone hand?”

  “I’ve found my way into the customs of the savages, Linden. They have their own legends of Kao-Wagwattl. I can predict that in time the gap can be bridged between them and the Benzendellas, if we work carefully—men like you, Linden, working from within, and other agents from EGG WE that are sure to follow. I believe this planet can be spared the torments of. great wars.”

  “Yes, Campbell . . . and you, personally . . . are you well? Are you still bristling with your usual self-discipline?”

  “In case you have any doubts about the matter,” his voice was slightly caustic, “I haven’t broken the Code.”

  “In Omosla’s case I wish you had,”

  I said.

  “I wish it too,” Campbell’s voice came back, now in a lowered tone. “I loved Omosla. I would have been her mate, gladly.”

  “But you were, Campbell.”

  “Now, don’t start that again, Linden, or I’ll—”

  “Wait, Campbell, don’t cut me off. You must hear all of my news, first. Most important of all, old Tomboldo has chosen my own son to be his successor. He’ll be groomed for the job all through his childhood, and I’ve decided to stay right here, Code or no Code, and see him through.”

  “Your son?” Campbell’s voice was mostly breath. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Our baby—Vauna’s and mine. It’s several days old. Doing fine. Has eyebrows just like mine. Chalk-dust skin like hers.”

  Campbell blurted. “Do you mean to tell me that as soon as you and Vauna boarded the Kao—”

  “The ways of life on this planet are something you and I ought to know about, Campbell. Listen closely—”

  “Shoot!”

  In words of one syllable I explained, then, what I had at last learned: that the human beings of this planet were not precisely like those of the Earth. They were unquestionably related, somewhere back down through the ages. But Nature had worked a significant change in the process by which new life could be started. Fertilization in the female was accomplished by her own action and her own preference. Nature had equipped her arms—

  “Arms, did you say?” Campbell fairly shouted through the radio. “Go on.”

  I continued. Nature had equipped her arms, I explained, with tiny thorn-like projections which could penetrate the arms or sides of the male like needles. By this means she drew blood from his bloodstream. A very slight transfusion of male blood into the female bloodstream was the act that accomplished fertilization.

  “You see, Campbell, woman does not bear a child except by her own premeditated choice,” I explained. “You and I were puzzled by the elbow furs all these women wear. Now you see. It’s a natural bit of extra clothing. The dictates of modesty.”

  “Well!” Campbell said. “Then you and I allowed ourselves—”

  “We were simply chosen. Not knowing the score, we were innocent bystanders—well, more or less innocent—and pitifully ignorant. Unfortunately for us, these were matters the Benzendellas don’t talk about freely.”

  Campbell paused for a moment of confused thinking. “Just a minute, Captain. I’ve been observing these savages—home life and all. There’s no lack of normal affections among them, in our own sense of the word. They’re equipped physically, just as we are—plus the arm thorns. They have the same organs, the same functions—”

  “For purposes of affection, yes. But the arms—that’s separate—for conception.”

  “Well I’ll be blasted!” Campbell was speechless for a long moment. Then, “I think I’ll go back to Earth.”

  I was not surprised at his decision. It was what I expected, what I would have advised. He had had more than one man’s share of this planet, for one who didn’t expect to take root here. But my own life here was just beginning.

  I had thought it out. My guess was that my long record of service for the EGG WE could withstand some variation. An application for release would very likely win an approval, especially in view of my change to serve the EGGWE purposes even better by becoming a Benzendella.

  When I announced this plan, by radio, to the new Captain Campbell, formerly known as Split, but now commonly referred to on this planet as the hero of the Benzendella migration, he said he was not surprised. “Congratulations. Linden, for knowing what you wanted. Stay aboard that Kao-Wagwattl. There’s a beautiful land waiting for you up ahead.”

  VISIT THE YO-YO FALLS (at S-T-S 19)

  First published in Fantastic Story, Fall 1952

  I caught the words of the newly arrived guest through my earphones as she began talking with Director Emerson, my boss. I was pacing along the guard rail of the promenade above the waterfalls, patrolling, when Emerson signalled me to listen. I glanced back toward the window of the office and saw that both Mr. and Mrs. Emerson were listening to the voice—quite a strident voice—protesting about something. Not many people have any reason to be angry with the Emersons, but this newly arrived Mrs. Hovendyke was something savage.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t asked you to murder my husband. I didn’t say it.”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Hovendyke. We’ll never quote you.”

  “There’s nothing to quote. Turn off your damn tape. I don’t like the way you jump at conclusions. Let’s get this straight. First, he’s not to know I’m here. Do you get it, Mr. Emerson? And you, Mrs. Emerson?”

  Mrs. Emerson bowed slightly and asked to be excused. From the distance she gave me a quick glance, an unspoken warning to look out for trouble. She gave a little signal to her husband that seemed to say, “I’ll be in the business office, call me if you need me.”

  The Emersons rarely made enemies. She was gracious and sensitive to the needs of all guests; he was quiet and considerate. Now that this space-tour stopover. Space Transfer Station M, was becoming known by affluent
tourists from the Earth, especially from the United States and Europe, Emerson foresaw the time when he would have to attach a NO VACANCY sign to the billboard at the taxi landing area.

  The message on the billboard was VISIT THE YO-YO FALLS AT S-T-S 19.

  Yes, the popularity of the waterfalls was beginning to reach but like an interplanetary magnet. Such a startling spectacle, combined with the convenience of natural conditions with some similarities to those of the Earth, such as a rotation period of approximately 30 hours, clouds that softened the sun’s intensity, and surface air that facilitated human hearing, gave the Earth visitors assurance that this asteroid was the place to stop over for some hours of rest while on luxury space tours.

  Our guest Mrs. Hovendyke’s mission, however, was something more than rest. Mrs. Emerson was saying, “Please go ahead, Mrs. Hovendyke. This conference room is private. You’ve arrived early, you’ve breakfasted in your room, and now I think you may wish to rest from the space lag as soon as you’ve given us your program for the day. Yes?”

  “No. You told me I could see the grounds at once—the waterfalls and that deadly drop-off.”

  “Whatever you wish, Mrs. Hovendyke. Our man Charley is coming up the path to meet you. You’re seeing him through the window—the athletic young man in the bright red jacket. I’ve signalled him.”

  She was moving restlessly past the window. I knew she was an actress from the United States who had first crossed to France over a business frustration, then taken Co space out of her disturbed mood. She was dressed in enough brightness to walk on stage, right shoulder and arm bare, bracelets and rings flashing. The mass of hair, upswept from the right side of her head, cascaded down over the left shoulder. Her garments were spangled purple and dark green; the lower part of her costume was not a dress but closely fitted pantaloons, ankled with green ribbons. Her air of importance was revealed by the arrogant toss of her head and the haughty actions of her shoulders.

  Would Emerson, with his quiet manner, be able to keep her under control? He looked serene in his light gray summer suit; the phones he wore over his head blended with the light brown of his hair and were hardly noticeable.

  I stood in the open doorway waiting. Now she had discovered a monitoring screen in Emerson’s office and wanted to know whether he could bring in a view of her husband in his cabin. “I want to see him. Don’t let him know, but give me a look.”

  Emerson touched a button and the screen revealed the famous playwright, Guy Hovendyke. As they might have expected, this creator of famous plays was dressed in his underwear, pounding away at the typewriter. A lock of gray, uncombed hair flopped down over his wide forehead. He was tall and angular, yet broad of face, strong features, with a jutting chin ornamented with a sharp bit of gray beard. He swung away from the typewriter for a sip of.coffee.

  “I hate him,” Floss Hovendyke said. “Working, working. Why couldn’t I have caught him on the bed with a woman?”

  Emerson snapped off the view. They turned to invite me in. “This is Charley, Mrs. Hovendyke. He knows that you are the playwright’s ex-wife.”

  “Cut that ex-wife line. I hate that expression. Besides, no one has ever proved that our divorce was final. All right, Charley.” She turned to give me an appraising look. “Is that the way you always dress? Uniform over your swim trunks? Anyway you’ve got a pair of good muscular legs. I’ll give you the honor of being my bodyguard. Come on, take me for a walk.”

  Emerson equipped her with a head phone and she and I walked out. She put a grip on my arm as if we were adventuring through dangers. She made some comments about my bright red jacket which had a sort of official look with its horizontal bar of white across my chest and some white braid on my shoulders. We walked at once to the brink of the cliff.

  The heavy roar would have made talking impossible without our instruments. “My gory-godamighty!”

  She stared at the stream of white water plunging over the edge and her eyes were wide with pleasure and amazement. We moved along the promenade to the right of the actual fall, and here we could look down, down and down, into the vertical drop-off straight below our view, which fell nearly four-fifths of a mile.

  “Four thousand feet down to those clouds of mist,” I told her. “You’re never able to see the bottom from here because it’s always clouded over.”

  I tried to relate to her the explanations which the geologists had supplied to the Earth’s newspapers soon after this phenomenon had been discovered. And to describe the startling scenes that became visible from the lower levels. Near the bottom you could see hundreds of vastly larger “Old Faithfuls” bouncing upward a few hundred feet high. “All the fountains on Earth wouldn’t equal the uprush that the cataclysm has formed down there. You’ve probably read what the scientists have been writing.”

  Floss Hovendyke’s comment wasn’t highly scientific but was just right to give me her line of thought.

  “This must be the jump-off when they come to commit suicide.”

  “So you’ve read some of the reports.”

  “How often do you have suicides here?”

  “The statistics aren’t very reliable. You can’t be sure. Some people slip accidentally. Gusts of wind sometimes come suddenly. Children sometimes stumble.”

  She studied the possibilities. I added, “You’ve probably noticed the guard rail. It needs to be replaced. It has a few breaks.”

  Her mind was stuck on the theme of suicide. “In case someone decides to go to heaven or hell in a hurry, do they ever find the bodies?”

  “Sometimes, far down the river.”

  “Speaking of my husband—” her thoughts were away ahead of me—“Speaking of Guy, that workaholic worm we saw back there in his messy underwear, where does he keep his money?”

  “Ask him. It isn’t my business to know.”

  “When does he take his walks along this dog run?”

  “Odd times. When he needs a break.”

  “Never at night, I suppose, because of his eyes. I could probably stand out here all night waiting. Just forget my questions.” She switched to the mysteries over the so-called soap bubbles. “I’ve done some reading about this weird waterhole, true or false. Is it a fact about those super-tough bubbles? Do they really exist? When do they rise?”

  I shied away from any scientific explanations. “There’s plenty of controversy, but you’ll probably see some of them.”

  “What do I look for?”

  “Amber-colored globes. They form down there under that mist. If you go down and look, you’ll see an orange-colored ooze being pressed out from the strata of rock. There’s a corkscrew roadway that you could follow down the side of the mountain. The bubbles form down there. They seem to breathe air, yet they’re lighter than air, and often float up. Listen, Mrs. Hovendyke, why not ask your husband? He cap probably describe the things better than anyone else.”

  She recoiled. “My husband and I aren’t speaking. Ail I have tor him is hate. Hate with a capital H, as in Hell.”

  I didn’t comment. I must stand clear of this tormented woman. Was she pure venom for everyone? Or was she a quick-change artist? She was looking at me strangely and I didn’t understand her emotions. The tone of her voice changed.

  “Don’t get the idea that all love has gone out of me, Charley. I could fall in love with a person like you, honest-to-god. But with him, that mess of dead fish, never.”

  I asked cautiously, “Do you think he doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “He’s not supposed to know. I told Emerson—”

  “Yes, but my guess is that that talented man Guy Hovendyke, with all his concentration, also lives through his instincts. He probably knows you’re here.”

  “I suppose you chink he can smell me, like a dog.”

  She turned away; suddenly, something had attracted her curiosity. The people along the rail to our left were looking down into the mist below the rushing falls, watching for something. Had someone fallen?

  “Wha
t happened, Charley? They’re looking down through their binoculars. Did someone dive in?”

  “I think they’ve caught sight of one of the orange-colored bubbles rising. Yes—see—away down, to the left, rising out of the gray. There, a tiny globe catching the sunlight.”

  This was going to take a bit of explaining, because I was sure it was a continuation of an experiment that had begun early this morning.

  “They’re excited, Charley. This must be the first time they’ve seen the bubbles coming up.”

  No, it was more than that. This bubble might contain something they were waiting for. “I think there’s going to be a book inside the bubble.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Early this morning they threw a couple of objects in, wanting to test the good and evil superstition that some people want to believe in. Have you heard about it?”

  Flossy Hovendyke’s answer was vague. Yes, she had read something in one of the sensational magazines on her space flight. The Yo-Yo waters were sometimes believed to have drowned the bad—such as a well-known criminal who had slipped and fallen in—but to have returned a saintly person, a certain celebrated philanthropist, to the shore unharmed. She knew the story had the sound of a hoax, yet there was something in It that she was ready to swallow.

  “If that damned dog of a husband of mine ever falls in, he’ll go down like a lump of lead, and good riddance.” It gave her satisfaction to say it while we watched the globe of amber rise steadily up and up, just out of reach of the rushing falls, and finally float over the railing toward the excited crowd. There is struck the ground, rolled a few feet and broke like a soap bubble. And there lay a book, one of the two books they had packed waterproof and tossed over at dawn. Someone opened the package and the crowd cheered.

  “I don’t get it,” Flossy said. “What’s so exciting about a book?”

  I gave her the background of the morning’s action. Maybe it was just a gag, maybe it proved nothing. But the fact was, the experimenters had chosen a good book—a book of sermons, symbolically good—and a bad book, that is, one that was obviously evil in intent, because it contained a certain criminal’s bag of tricks. Now the Yo-Yo waterfall had come through with miraculously quick service, to the delight of the experimenters.