The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales From Fantasy Adventures

by Philip Harbottle (ed. )

  The other nodded expressionlessly. “Yes—yes, I’d rather like that. I pay his wages.”

  Bulmer opened his mouth to retort but no sound carne. He was not too insensitive to realize that this man had authority

  Wenstone turned to Selby. “I gather from some of the conversation that the mare is nervous.”

  “Yes, sir, Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, the drums and that.”

  “Poor old lady. Here, give her to me.”

  He took the bridle and began to talk to her. They could not hear what he said and the soft words he used were beyond them anyway His hands stroked her head and neck, pulled gently at her ears. “Come on, girl, come on.”

  They saw him lead the animal down the ramp and onto the ground.

  They saw him put his foot into the stirrup and swing himself easily into the saddle.

  Up on the balcony Argyle had a fixed leer of utter disbelief. “He can’t ride.” It no longer comforted him that Wenstone had changed.

  Despite the change the man appeared, even at this distance, to have gained additional control.

  Webster, a junior executive, joined them on the balcony He carried one of the new, digital binoculars. “What do you mean, the Boss can’t ride? I do a bit of riding myself and look at the way he sits the saddle. He’s good, let me tell you; been riding since a kid, no doubt.”

  He leaned forward, pointing. “The Old West is one of my personal hobbies and that fancy dress of his is spot on, take it from me. The guns too are exactly placed for a quick draw. Obviously someone who knows his business has advised him on detail.”

  Argyle said nothing he had a sick feeling inside that somehow the whole business had gone sour.

  Martin, for his part, was near to tears and the bottle now failed to assure him.

  Turning away from the parade below, he almost collided with yet another who had joined the group. “Get out of my damned way!”

  “Sorry, I can’t do that. I want you and Mr. Argyle together. Mr. Wenstone wants you in his office in half an hour.”

  Wenstone had not bothered to change back to civilian clothes but sat on the edge of his desk, smiling inwardly with relief. God that had been close. He raised his hand, fingered his ear then studied his fingers briefly. No, he was not bleeding but he kept feeling he might be. That blasted dago had taken off the top of his ear and burned a short furrow in his scalp as well. It was an experience he had somehow brought back which was more vivid than memory.

  Someone pressed the announcer plate on the outside of the door, and Wenstone said: “Come in.”

  Martin came first, red faced and looking close to tears. Argyle, also deflated but with a shaky smile of defiance. “I don’t know what this is all about,” he said. “This man here/’ he jerked his head at the third member of the party who entered behind them, “maybe, as he says, he’s a police official but—”

  “Save it.” Wenstone cut him short. “We knew all about it from the beginning. Obviously we do not advertise the fact but all our financial computers are fitted with micro-surveillance units as well as our main offices. If necessary we can trace a single ancient coin round the world. We were well aware, therefore, of your incursion into high finance with our money which, needless to say, was never confirmed. Similarly we know of the odd million you paid to a professional assassin to dispose of me in case your first trick went wrong.”

  Wenstone withdrew one of his six-guns from its holster, inspected it and replaced it. “I would like to have disposed of you both cleanly, in fair fight with one of these but unfortunately present law does not permit it. However, I have not brought here to gloat but to tell you, before you do ‘life’ exactly what your formula mystery drug did.”

  He paused and smiled at the third member of the party. “Oh, do sit down First Class Officer Bradley—liquor—coffee—tea—? Just press the button in the arm of your chair. However to return to the drug which, since analysis, is known as Genetic Stimulant. In short the drug awakens a racial memory so vividly that the recipient seems to revert back many generations to some outstanding event in his past. Very often it is not a good incident, perhaps a mass execution, the wholesale slaughter of the innocent and like incidents. I cannot report on all but I have the outlines of two and these two, being honorable men felt that they must redeem themselves in this life for the evils they had committed in the past. Therefore it was concluded, incorrectly, that everyone given the drug would change their life-style completely.”

  Wenstone paused and smiled faintly. “I was lucky, my grandfather, many times removed, was a gunman named Limpy. Not from choice, it was forced upon him and, anyway, he got out from under long before his life was over.”

  He paused and looked long and hard at the two accused men in turn.

  “I’m well aware, needless to say, that you paid a top flight hit-man over a million of the firm’s money to have me removed should the drug fail. But for this there might have been mitigating circumstances; I might have spoken on your behalf. Unwittingly you did me a favor, you, gave another life, other knowledge and other senses which I had never known about before.”

  He shook his head, sighed and looked at Bradley, the police officer.

  “Can you get rid of these two?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve a couple of men waiting in the corridor, outside.”

  When they had gone, Wenstone said: “Have any trouble with the hit-man?”

  “Oh, no, sir. We picked him up in the Long Corridor where he intended to wait for you.”

  “Oh, yes, that reminds me.…” Wenstone crossed his office to his secretary’s desk in the corner. “The photos from our surveillance cameras.” He handed the other a large envelope.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wenstone—er—excuse me asking sir, but have you had an accident recently?”

  “No—why?”

  “You were walking with a distinct limp, sir.”

  Wenstone said easily: “Oh, my foot went to sleep when I was leaning on the desk.”

  Inwardly he cursed himself. He really must force himself to place his foot flat on the floor in a normal way.

  He said: “Please tell me more about this hit-man.”

  “Well he offered no resistance, sir. With seven guns pointed at him, he had little choice. Needless to say, he was in fancy dress like everyone else. The odd part being he was dressed as a cowboy, just like you, although his was a darker costume than yours. He had some nasty weapons dotted around inside it, too.”

  “Tell me, was he tall, thin and kind of sneery?”

  “Yes, sir, now that you come to mention it, he was. Do you think you might have met him at some time, sir?”

  “Not really, just a mental picture in my mind.”

  “He was not a Nordic type, sir, more dark skinned if you understand me but by God, he was thorough. A large part of that fancy dress costume was not fancy. The six-guns in the holster were real and fully loaded.”

  “Well, it is strange that.” Wenstone drew his own guns and spun them deftly round his index fingers. “So are mine.”

  THE WISHING STONE, by Philip E High

  A drunk gave it to me in Vallas’s place on Twenty-fifth Street. When I say drunk, he was not too drunk to know what he was doing—he knew that all right. He was getting rid of an object that was becoming too hot for him to handle. An object that might have handed him the Earth but he was too nervous to use.

  “Well, to be absolutely honest, it’s a kind of magic, I call it a wishing stone.”

  He held it out for my inspection and I saw that it was a perfectly round sphere the size of a snooker ball. It fitted comfortably into my palm, which I placed around it.

  It looked like any other round stone save that it was a funny color. An undecided color, actually. First glance said bright green and the next, a kind of pale shimmering blue. One was never quite certain quite what color it was.

  “And it does magic?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, you can take my own word on that.”

&
nbsp; “What kind of magic?”

  “I thought I explained that, it’s a Wishing Stone. You wish for something and you get it.”

  “Oh come on! It can’t be that easy.”

  “Easier, old chum, but it’s only fair to tell you the dangers. You wish for a small fortune in bank notes, any currency, and it will appear. Then you start asking yourself those very awkward questions. Suppose this money comes from a robbery and the numbers are known? Suppose the whole damn lot is counterfeit? The idea of swaggering into the bank you mentally blow out of the water before you’ve started on your journey.”

  He paused and waved his finger at me, warningly. “Mind you, old son, when you start trying things out for yourself, you have to be specific. It’s no good saying you want a pint of beer, it will just splash on the floor in front of you. You have to state that you want a glass of—or a bottle of—. You do understand me?”

  “Oh, yes, fully.” Needless to say, I didn’t believe a single word he said but it was an interesting con and I wanted to see how it would work out. On the other hand, the alleged stone was interesting in appearance and could join my other collection of curios—a hobby of mine.

  I said pointedly: “How much?”

  He appeared taken aback. “Well, I hadn’t actually thought about selling—but, of course, given away, you would have considered it worthless and would never have taken it. Tell you what, I’m no con man, you’re obviously a man of means, so a compromise, eh? The big bottle of Vodka, on the shelf, just left of the barman’s head there.”

  I must confess I was surprised, this was no obvious con trick. I am a financial advisor to a major industry; I could have bought the whole damn bar if necessary.

  I bought him the drink and he placed the stone in my hand. “Good luck, friend,” he said.

  I smiled at him, feeling I had got the best out of the deal. “Tell me, please, if you can remember it, what was your last wish before deciding to give this stone up?”

  “Oh, no problem there, sir, none at all. I wished I could find the sucker stupid enough to take the damn thing off my hands.”

  It was at that moment that the door to the bar burst open and there was a virtual invasion of people. They were twined with colored ribbons, they carried balloons, they wore silly cardboard hats and they blew on idiotic tin trumpets. Obviously they were an overspill from a nearby party but they flooded the place and, in the crowd, I lost him.

  He left me with the odd feeling that I had been cheated but I failed to see how. The cost of the bottle meant nothing to me and I had an interesting curio for my collection. There is no need to stress that I believed not a single word of this alleged magic. I must confess, however, that the stone was unique. It was not cold to the touch and it was not exactly warm, somehow it retained a curious neutrality between the two.

  I will be honest; although dismissing these magic stories as rubbish, I fully intended to put them to the test. Maybe an old witch doctor, or whoever had made the damn thing, had pressed some hypnotic thoughts into it before letting it go. It was a theory which might account for my drunken friend’s belief in its powers.

  I did see his moral argument; suddenly acquired wealth, it had to come from somewhere even if was from a madman’s imagination.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later my chauffer was driving me home and my thoughts turned to some sort of test. Something simple, wholly personal but which did not impinge on other people. Hang on, you’re thinking as if there really was some truth in this rubbish.

  Something simple, how about that thought which came to you earlier. You wondered where the damn thing came from, you ask the question and wish for an answer.

  It had to be in private, I called my manservant, Palmer, and told him I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Then I settled down in my favorite chair and made my wish.

  It might have been imagination but it seemed to me that the stone moved slightly in my hand. For a few seconds I was disoriented and then became conscious of a beating noise, close and around. Some of the beating was very heavy, almost thunderous, others faint and almost shrill.

  I had the impression I was in a huge cavern, lit by a shimmering, green light. Somewhere there were people dancing. I could not see them but their distorted black shadows rose and fell on the cavern walls. Then, abruptly, the drumming and the dancing stopped and a heavy silence fell on everything, even the green light that became thick and murky.

  There was a flash and a small sphere of dull green light appeared, in the center of which was the stone. Neither the flash or the sphere were spectacular but what came with them, was a rush of warm heated air which by itself would have been revolting. It stank. It stank of corruption and decay, of something festering and held close to the face.

  Worse than this, however, but beyond description, was the feeling of absolute malevolence that made one want to run in terror.

  Then, suddenly, I was back in my own room, sitting in my favorite chair. I cannot deny for one minute that I was frightened, terrified even.

  I had to fight down something close to sheer panic by logic and rational thinking alone. My earlier assumptions had been right, of course, some old witch doctor or ancient adept had hypno-impressed the stone.

  It was a wholly reasonable and logical explanation save, at the time, it failed to convince me. I was still terrified and the smell of decay seemed to cling to me and my very clothing.

  I wanted to call up my private plane and get the pilot to fly far out over the ocean. There, from a great height, I would drop this diabolical ball into the deepest part of the ocean.

  It was a logical save that I knew I couldn’t do it. In some odd and inexplicable way, I was bound to the bloody thing. The only way I could ever rid myself of it was on its own terms. I had to wish it away. I began to understand now why the drunk had called me a sucker.

  It was not easy giving away or even trying to sell a round stone. Most people, lest caught off guard and in the right mood, as I had been, would steer well clear of the offer.

  I was slowly regaining my nerve and logic was taking over from past terror. My first assumption had been correct, the experience had been impressed by some old witch doctor into the stone. Those people were still capable of arousing the primitive parts of the mind.

  Within an hour I had almost fully convinced myself that the experience had been wholly subjective.

  I called Palmer for a drink and, as usual, he was very quick. He poured my favorite concoction right beside me on the small vine tables. As he did so, he sniffed. “My God, Mr. Ventris, has something gone wrong with the air conditioning?”

  His words made me go cold inside but I kept a grip on myself.

  “No, not as far as I know, Palmer.”

  “Sir, the smell! I have a very sensitive nose and I am not mistaken. It’s a veritable reek, sir.”

  “Then, perhaps, it’s lucky that I have a slight head cold, Palmer.”

  “I would agree there in full, sir. I will get on to the suppliers right away.”

  When he had gone, it took a long time for my stomach to stop shivering and to warm up. I had imagined the whole experience to be subjective but this, clearly, was not the case.

  In no way could anyone explain how Palmer could register my subjective experience.

  Once again, I thought of dropping the damn thing into the depths of the ocean and knew, yet again, that I was hooked. I had to wish it away onto another unfortunate before I could rid myself of it. Worse, deep down, I was half fascinated by its possibilities—where would it lead?

  There was another unpleasant factor also which I found out in the first few days—it would not let one alone. It prodded and pulled at the mind continually and demanded to be used.

  There was no question of shutting it away some dark place and forgetting it.

  I found myself beginning to search desperately for something to wish. It was not easy, a horrible experience like that last one must be avoided at all costs. Even a
pparently simple and innocuous wishes often adversely affected other people.

  It was by pure chance that two news items almost handed me something on a platter. One of my business friends had been badly injured in an air crash. A second, while waiting for his car outside his club, had been mugged and badly beaten up.

  The answer seemed obvious and safe. I wished to be protected.

  I had thought about it for some hours and had gone into the idea thoroughly. I had remembered to be specific and I think I covered everything. I asked for protection against any conceivable type of accident, man-made or natural, murderers and maniacs, miscarriages of justice and the like. The most important of all to me, which I stressed, was protection against psychic attack.

  I did not think I was making myself immune. I fully realized, in purely basic terms, I was the fumbling amateur competing against the professional but, at least, I was able to sleep more soundly.

  The repercussions came five days later in the form of a uniformed detective and a constable.

  “Mr. Ventris—Mr. Adrian Ventris?”

  “Yes, yes—what can I do for you?”

  They introduced themselves, then: “You have a thief-proof electronic fence surrounding your estate, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, but the voltage is not lethal, deterrent only.”

  “Yes, sir, that we already know. These men, however, had broken the circuit and had already cut through part of the steel barrier beyond. These were dangerous and ruthless men, sir, and both were heavily armed. It is unlikely, therefore, that any rival villains would have risked trying to take over.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Inwardly I had already half guessed and dreaded what followed.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you came and saw for yourself, sir.”

  * * * *

  The two men lay sprawled under an oak tree, about two metres from the breech in the fence.

  For reasons unknown their faces were unmarked but their distorted expressions were frightening enough.