by Russell, Ray
On the gangplank of his flagship, Feng pauses and turns to Torak. ‘Upon my return, you shall be decorated for your services to Sarg. And you, Vola—’ he smiles at the unresponsive girl—‘be prepared for a night of revelry on my return. Missions of conquest never fail to excite my blood, and although the water-dwelling females of Klor may turn out to be lovely,’ he winks knowingly at his generals, ‘I fear that, as proper entertainers to an emperor, mermaids may have certain... disadvantages. Eh?’ He laughs at his joke (too coarse for your readership?) and enters the flagship, followed by his generals and key statesmen.
Soon there is a terrific roar and a searing blast of rocket-fire, as the fleet shoots upwards and dwindles to a swarm of tiny specks in the clear blue sky of Orim.
During the months of the voyage, the black wine of Sarg flows freely in the imperial flagship. Feng toasts his empire, his generals and himself. He toasts each planet, each star, each comet they pass. He toasts Torak, he toasts Vola, and he toasts the nearly-forgotten women of his youth. He sings ribald Sargian ballads and he swears fantastic oaths. All this can easily be expanded into several pages.
At length, the armada approaches Klor. As his flagship hovers above the flooded planet, Feng draws his jewelled ceremonial sword and points dramatically to the objective. His voice roars through the intercoms of every ship.
‘Attack!’
Down they plunge, the flagship leading. Cleanly, Feng’s ship cuts the surface of the water and his fleet follows, creating a series of immense splashes and vast, ever-widening rings.
Through the transparent dome of his ship, Feng marvels at the exotic weeds and pouting giant fishes of Klor. Triumph sings in his veins.
Then, suddenly, the cries of startled men reach his ears. He turns, and his eagle’s eyes bulge with shock...
If we do this as a serial, what better place for a break? But that is up to you, of course. And now let me quickly limn the final scene which takes place back on Orim:
Torak drops a four-pointed metal star into a glass. It floats slowly to the bottom. He turns to his daughter who is gazing pensively out of the laboratory window. Tenderly, he asks, ‘Is anything troubling you, my dear?”
There are tears in her eyes. ‘I was thinking of the people of Klor, that’s all.’
Torak smiles slightly—for the first time in many, many months. ‘I wouldn’t spend my tears on them, if I were you. In fact, I see no reason for weeping at all.’
‘You don’t? Father, how can you say that?’
‘Feng,’ says Torak, grimly, ‘will never molest you again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘And never again will he subjugate an entire galaxy. By this time, the armada should have reached Klor.’ Torak verifies this by a glance at his calendar. Teng is dead.’
Vola fears for her father’s sanity. She is silent as he continues: ‘Dead. Floating in the waters of Klor, with all his officers, his ministers and his navy.’
He looks up and sees the fear in her face. ‘No, my dear. I’m not mad. You see, I created a very wonderful metal. A metal both light and strong, resistant to heat ard cold and pressure and radiation. A miraculous metal. And Feng was smart. He tested it thoroughly. Yes, he put my metal through every possible test—except one. One so simple, so basic, that it never occurred to him. And so he built his fleet and plunged it into the seas of Klor, without knowing...’
Torak turns to regard the glass from which the metal star of Orim has vanished. ‘Without knowing,’ he says, ‘that this rather remarkable metal dissolves—in water.’
Now there, sir, even you must admit, is a natural! And true—every word. But that is not all—in fact, the greatest revelation is yet to come.
For suppose we say—or, at least, hint—that shrewd Feng, the galaxy-killer, the scourge of 75/890, the man who never trusted anybody in his life, took the characteristic, routine precaution of wearing, under his ceremonial armour of Torak-metal, a conventional depth suit (not because he suspected anything specific, but simply because suspicion was his natural state of mind); that Feng, in other words, survived the disaster?
Perhaps we may even use a title like Feng Is Still Alive! or Feng Is Still Alive?—a time-tested attention-getter. We can imply that the indestructible Zoonbarolarrio Feng, after the demolition of his navy, made his relentless and lonely way to one of Klor’s few shreds of dry land—say, the south polar region of Fozkep—where even now he plots new conquests, like your own Napoleon of yore at Elba. You will say, perhaps, that nobody will believe such an assertion, and I would be inclined to agree with you, but what does that matter so long as they buy your magazine? And speaking of buying brings me to the touchy but unavoidable question of payment. I am in most desperate need of large sums and would expect your highest rates, on acceptance, should this article be commissioned for your pages. So please let me hear from you by return warpmail, since I urgently require every bit of ready cash I can muster.
Yours sincerely,
Z. Gnef
P.O. Box 9,000,053
75/890
Ghost of a Chance
‘Ghosts!’ said Melville Stone, and snorted scornfully. ‘If that is why you invited yourself to my home, then you can invite yourself right out again.’
‘Please listen to me,’ said Austin Wade. ‘For years, you have mocked and belittled me, ridiculed my work—’
‘Work—is that what you call it? Superstitious humbug! Of course I’ve ridiculed it.’
‘But it’s not superstition, Stone. Nor is it necessarily what is known as “supernatural”. Call it preternatural, para-natural—’
‘Semantics.’
‘But ghosts exist! Determined personal energy, persisting after physical death. Measurable, visible, audible. Not occult—scientific.’
‘I’ve heard all this nonsense before.’
‘But if I show you proof?’
‘I know your kind of proof—doctored photographs, affidavits from charlatans and psychotics—’
‘No.’ Wade leaned forward, eyes feverish and ablaze. ‘Proof. I will produce a ghost, here in your house, tonight!’
‘Poppycock. I won’t allow any kind of séance or other tomfoolery—’
‘Nothing like that. I didn’t say I’d invoke a ghost, call up one from beyond the veil. I said I’d produce one—make one.’
‘Ah. Then you admit these “phenomena” of yours are manufactured!’
‘I admit nothing of the sort, you blind fool. I will make a ghost in the only way a ghost can be made—by the sudden termination of a life, the violent death of a man in his prime, cut off with things left unfinished—’
And he pulled from his pocket a glistening, very black re-revolver.
Stone went pale. ‘Wade! You hate me, I know that—but murder?...’
‘I don’t hate you, Stone. I hate your narrowness, your rigidity, your smug faith in the stupidity you call science, your refusal to open your eyes, open your mind—your stuffy, airless, pitiful excuse for a mind!’
‘Don’t, Wade! Don’t kill me!’
‘Kill you? What good would that do? I am going to kill myself—and when my ghost returns to haunt you, then you will have your proof!’ Wade lifted the revolver to his own temple.
‘You’re insane!’
‘Semantics.’
‘You’re bluffing!’
‘Am I?’
The blast of the revolver was deafening. Wade fell to the floor, dead.
There was no trouble with the police. Stone phoned them immediately, there were a few questions, a few formalities, but Stone was a sober pillar of the community, Wade had been a notorious crackpot, and there was little reason to doubt suicide.
Somewhat later, Stone retired to his bedroom, undressed, and got into bed. As he turned off the light, he saw, in a corner near the closet, a glowing presence, silvery white, in the definite shape of a man. The face was Wade’s.
The apparition spoke, in an eerie voice that came as if from vast distances:
‘Stone... ’the voice keened. ‘Melville Stone... it is I... Austin Wade... now even you must believe!’
Stone smiled sourly. ‘Clever,’ he muttered to himself, and leaped out of bed. ‘Some kind of film projection and recording, set off by a timing device Wonder how he managed to get it in here? The ingenuity of a madman.’ He threw open the closet, searched it, ransacked the bedroom, but found no film equipment.
And still the Wade-like figure flickered and moaned. ‘Not... trick... true ghost... must believe!...’
Stone looked squarely at the thing and scratched his head. ‘Remarkable,’ he said.
‘Then you... believe... at last!...’
‘Truly remarkable—it even “answers” me, so to speak. What a curious mechanism the human brain is!’
‘Yes...’ said the presence, triumphantly. ‘Power of brain... to persist... after death...’
Stone chuckled. ‘Beautiful. A full-scale hallucination—audio-visual—concocted by my own brain. Out of shock, and a bit of guilt over poor Wade, I suppose.’ He shook his head and smiled.
As he climbed back into bed and sank into untroubled sleep, the shade of Wade departed in despair, knowing that he had thrown away his life for nothing, realising too late that against the barricaded citadel of a closed mind, he had never had a ghost of a chance.
The Hell You Say
John Stanley’s modest little car swerved sharply to avoid the oncoming truck, spun off the narrow canyon road, plunged two hundred feet straight down and burst into gaudy flame. John, that good grey man, was killed instantly.
Opening his eyes, he found himself in a vast cavern lit by red fire. Sulphur fumes made his eyes smart. On the other side of an abyss, he saw naked men and women writhing on hot rocks, their skin glistening in the red light. They groaned and screamed piteously. Looking down, he realised that he, too, was naked, and he felt embarrassed, humiliated.
‘Then I’m dead,’ he muttered, ‘and all the old stories are true. Fire and brimstone... burning pitch... all true...’
‘All true!’ echoed a hideous voice, and John squinted up at a leering, demented creature with horns and a tail, holding a pitchfork. ‘All true!’ this personage repeated, laughing, and poked John playfully on the rump with the giant fork.
‘Ouch!’ yelped John.
‘Glad to meet you. My name is Prong. Get the point? Ya-ha-ha-ha-ha!’
‘But—’
‘Come along, you!’ snarled the awful creature. ‘Just because we have an eternity before us doesn’t mean we can waste time. On your feet! Step this way...’
‘But these hot coals!’
‘Child’s play, compared to what’s in store for you!’
They walked, John yipping wretchedly with every step. They passed niches where he saw whipping posts, racks, iron maidens... all most dreadfully engaged.
‘Oh, we’ve been waiting for you, John Stanley!’ gloated Prong. ‘We’ve prepared a... warm welcome, my fellow demons and I. You’re dying to meet them, aren’t you? My brother Thumbscrew, my charming sister Flagelletta, and many more—a cast of thousands, dear boy!’
‘I don’t understand,’ sobbed John, hopping painfully over the coals. ‘I was a good man... kind... generous...’
‘True enough. Get a move on!’
‘I never harmed anyone...’
‘Not a soul.’
‘Even when others harmed me...’
‘I won’t deny it.’
‘I was mild-mannered...’
‘You were.’
‘Patient...’
‘Yes.’
‘Long-suffering...’
‘Well put.’
‘Unassuming...’
‘I know.’
‘Meek...’
‘Correct.’
‘Obedient...’
‘Right again.’
‘Self-effacing...’
‘That’s a fact.’
‘Even subservient...’
‘Uh huh.’
‘A door-mat... a victim... a loser... put upon... taken advantage of...’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then why? wailed John.
‘Why what?’
‘Why am I here, in Hell?’
The demon Prong stopped and turned. ‘Ah. I see. You think there’s been a mistake. There has been no mistake, I assure you.’
‘But I don’t belong here! This terrible place—’
Prong sighed. ‘Dear boy. You’re not exactly stupid. Think. Haven’t you described yourself as meek, long-suffering, self-effacing, a door-mat, and all the rest?’
‘Yes...’
‘Then surely you don’t need me to tell you, surely you already know you are a thorough masochist?’
‘Are you saying that this—’
‘Of course! Cheer up!’ Prong winked wickedly. ‘You’re not in Hell, you’re in Heaven.’
And John Stanley meekly went to his reward.
Time Bomb
Corydon Kelley’s Chronomobile was quite frankly modelled after the Time Machine of H. G. Wells in that it, too, was made in the form of a vehicular conveyance—in this case, a i960 Studebaker Lark convertible, revised and edited, standing on blocks in his garage, its wheels and many other parts removed, its yellow paint rather badly scratched by several years of unscheduled contact with Corydon’s garage and other immovable objects during its earlier career as a medium of conventional travel (Corydon could not parallel park to save his soul, usually reversed when he wished to go forward and vice versa, invariably signalled left when turning right, and was generally a lousy driver).
He was one hell of an inventor, though, and his Chronomobile worked. After a couple of short trial runs into last Tuesday and next Friday, he decided to take the big plunge and visit the era that had always fascinated him most: the prehistoric. Packing the trunk of the Chronomobile with a week’s supply of canned fruit cocktail, Cambell’s Chili Beef Soup, saltines, and Diet-Rite Cola, he closed and locked the garage door from the inside, climbed into the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt, adjusted the tempus lever, slid the key into the converted ignition, and was on his way.
A blur, a swirl, a ringing in the ears, a kaleidoscope of colour; the garage vanished; the gyring images settled and focussed, and the Chronomobile came to rest in the midst of a dense jungle.
Insects buzzed and dived. Far-off animals screamed and roared. Pungent floral aromas flared Corydon’s delicate nostrils. He fearlessly threw open the Chronomobile door and turned to step forth, like stout Cortez, a stranger in a strange land, an adventurer more intrepid than any the world had ever known. But he couldn’t move!
This was due to the seat belt, which he now unbuckled. Then he stepped into the steaming wild world that surrounded him.
A barely human snarl froze him in his tracks and a naked bearded man leaped from a patch of foliage, wielding a murderous wedge of jagged rock.
Corydon nimbly sidestepped just in time, and his crude attacker went sprawling, struck his shaggy head on a tree trunk, and fell unconscious to the weed-choked ground.
Corydon bent over him, studying the man with scholarly interest. ‘Not Neanderthal,’ he mused aloud, ‘some species more advanced, possibly Cro-Magnon...’ He pried the piece of rock from the man’s hand—and, in a moment, began weeping hot tears, for he knew now that his long-awaited journey to the prehistoric world was what is known in theatrical jargon as a bomb. Oh, the Chronomobile worked all right, he could return and start out again but still...
‘How like me,’ he moaned. ‘How typical of me.’ He could have sworn the tempus lever had been in Reverse—but, obviously, it had been in Drive. The weapon in the man’s hand was no rock, but a piece of cornerstone, with A D 1995 clearly stamped on it. He had travelled not into the past, but the future, and he blubbered bitterly, not for the sad destiny of Mankind, but for his own bumbling ineptitude. ‘I always was a lousy driver,’ he sobbed.
The Great Earth Centauri Galactic Postal System
At some
indeterminate point in the vast and unknown future of Mankind (like next Thursday), the United States Postal Service got much worse than it is now, if you can believe that.
It took five weeks for a letter to get to Staten Island from the Bronx.
Special Delivery took longer.
Registered Mail was lost completely.
By the time this happened, other methods of communication had long since become disaster areas.
Western Union was charging ten dollars extra for hand delivery of telegrams.
And their spelling had not improved. A college boy, wiring home for A HUNDRED BUCKS, threw his dear old dad into a fatal fit of apoplexy when the old man read his son’s request for A HUNDRED BUICKS.
The same message, sent by the same college boy, but to a favourite maiden aunt, distorted BUCKS in an entirely different but no less disastrous way. She dropped dead, too.
So did thousands of other people who developed gangrene while sitting motionless for hours, waiting for a dial tone.
Enter our hero, Rodney Sloat by name.
