“No, Daddy. Mewhu’ll be good. Mewhu,” she said, turning to the silver man. She held his eyes with hers. His mustache swelled, rippled. “You’ll be good, won’t you, and stay out of sight?”
“Jeek,” said Mewhu. “Jeek mereedy.”
“He says you’re the boss.”
Jack laughed, climbing out. “He does, eh?” Did the child really know or was it mostly a game? “Be good, then. See you soon.” Carrying the jet rod, he walked into the building.
Zinsser, as usual, was busy. The field was not large, but did a great deal of private-plane business, and as traffic manager, Zinsser had his hands full. He wrapped one of his pudgy, flexible hands around the phone he was using. “Hi, Garry! What’s new out of this world?” he grated cheerfully. “Sid-down. With you in a minute.” He bumbled cheerfully into the telephone, grinning at Jack as he talked. Jack made himself as comfortable as patience permitted and waited until Zinsser hung up.
“Well now,” said Zinsser, and the phone rang again.
Jack closed his open mouth in annoyance. Zinsser hung up and another bell rang. He picked up a field telephone from its hook on the side of his desk. “Zinsser. Yes—”
“Now that’s enough,” said Jack to himself. He rose, went to the door, closed it softly so that he was alone with the manager. He took the jet rod, and to Zinsser’s vast astonishment, stood up on his desk, raised the rod high over his head, and stepped off. A hurricane screamed out of the jets. Jack, hanging by his hands from the rod as it lowered him gently through the air, looked over his shoulder. Zinsser’s face looked like a red moon in a snow flurry, surrounded as it was by every interoffice memo for the past two weeks.
Anyway, the first thing he did when he could draw a breath was to hang up the phone.
“Thought that would do it,” said Jack, grinning.
“You . . . you . . . what is that thing?”
“It’s a dialectical polarizer,” said Jack, alighting. “That is, it makes conversations possible with airport managers who won’t get off the phone.”
Zinsser was out of his chair and around the desk, remarkably light on his feet for a man his size. “Let me see that.”
Jack handed it over.
~ * ~
“Look, Mewhu! Here comes a plane!”
Together they watched the Cub slide in for a landing, and squeaked at the little puffs of dust that were thrown up by the tires and flicked away by the slipstream.
“And there goes another one. It’s gonna take off!” The little blue low-wing coupe taxied across the field, braked one wheel, swung in its own length and roared down toward them, lifting to howl away into the sky far over their heads.
“Eeeeeyow,” droned Molly, imitating the sound of the motor as it passed everhead.
“S-s-s-s-sweeeeee!” hissed Mewhu, exactly duplicating the whine of control surfaces in the prop blast.
Molly clapped her hands and shrieked with delight. Another plane began to circle the field. They watched it avidly.
~ * ~
“Come on out and have a look at him,” said Jack.
Zinsser looked at his watch. “I can’t. All kidding aside, I got to stick by the phone for another half hour at the very least. Will he be all right out there? There’s hardly anyone around.”
“I think so. Molly’s with him, and as I told you, they get along beautifully together. That’s one of the things I want to have investigated—that telepathy angle.” He laughed suddenly. “That Molly . . . know what she did this afternoon?” He told Zinsser about Molly’s driving the car through the wrong end of the garage.
“The little hellion,” chuckled Zinsser. “They’ll all do it, bless ‘em. At some time or other in his life, I think every kid climbs aboard something he doesn’t know anything about and runs it wrong. My brother’s kid went to work on the front lawn with his mother’s vacuum cleaner the other day.” He laughed. “To get back to what’s-his-name—Mewhu, and this gadget of his. Jack, we’ve got to hang on to it. Do you realize that he and his clothes and this thing are the only clues we have as to what he is and where he came from?”
“I sure do. But listen—he’s very intelligent. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us plenty.”
“You can bet he’s intelligent,” said Zinsser. “He’s probably above average on his planet. They wouldn’t send just anyone on a trip like that. Jack, what a pity we don’t have his ship!”
“Maybe it’ll be back. What’s your guess as to where he comes from?”
“Mars, maybe.”
“Now, you know better than that. We know Mars has an atmosphere, but it’s mighty tenuous. An organism the size of Mewhu would have to have enormous lungs to keep him going. No; Mewhu’s used to an atmosphere pretty much like ours.”
“That would rule Venus out.”
“He wears clothes quite comfortably here. His planet must have not only pretty much the same atmosphere, but the same climate. He seems to be able to take most of our foods, though he is revolted by some of them—and aspirin sends him high as a kite. He gets what looks like a laughing drunk on when he takes it.”
“You don’t say. Let’s see; it wouldn’t be Jupiter, because he isn’t built to take a gravity like that. And the outer planets are too cold, and_ Mercury is too hot.” Zinsser leaned back in his chair and absently mopped his bald head. “Jack, this guy doesn’t even come from this solar system!”
“Gosh. I guess you’re right. Harry, what do you make of this jet gadget?”
“From the way you say it cuts wood . . . can I see that, by the way?” Zinsser asked.
“Sure.” Garry went to work on the jet. He found the right studs to press simultaneously. The casing opened smoothly. He lifted out the active core of the device, and, handling it gingerly, sliced a small corner off Zinsser’s desk top.
“That is the strangest thing I have ever seen,” said Zinsser. “May I see it?”
He took it and turned it over in his hands. “There doesn’t seem to be any fuel for it,” he said, musingly.
“I think it uses air,” said Jack.
“But what pushes the air?”
“Air,” said Jack. “No—I’m not kidding. I think that in some way it disintegrates part of the air, and uses the energy released to activate a small jet. If you had a shell around this jet, with an intake at one end and a blast tube at the other, it would operate like a high-vacuum pump, dragging more air through.”
“Or like an athodyd,” said Zinsser. Garry’s blood went cold as the manager sighted down into the jet orifice. “For heaven’s sake don’t push that button.”
“I won’t. Say—you’re right. The tube’s concentric. Now, how on earth could a disruption unit be as small and light as that?”
Jack Garry said, “I’ve been chewing on that all day. I have one answer. Can you take something that sounds really fantastic, so long as it’s logical?”
“You know me,” grinned Zinsser, waving at a long shelf of back number science-fiction magazines. “Go ahead.”
“Well,” said Jack carefully. “You know what binding energy is. The stuff that holds the nucleus of an atom together. If I understand my smattering of nuclear theory properly, it seems possible to me that a sphere of binding energy could be produced that would be stable.”
“A sphere? With what inside it?”
“Binding energy—or maybe just nothing ... space. Anyhow, if you surround that sphere with another, this one a forcefield which is capable of penetrating the inner one, or of allowing matter to penetrate it, it seems to me than anything entering that balance of forces would be disrupted. An explosive pressure would be bottled up inside the inner sphere. Now if you bring your penetrating field in contact with the binding-energy sphere, the pressures inside will come blasting out. Incase the whole rig in a device which controls the amount of matter going in one side of the sphere and the amount of orifice allowed for the escape of energy, and incase that further in an outside shell which will give you a stream of air induced violentl
y through it—like the vacuum pump you mentioned— and you have this.” And he rapped on the little jet motor.
“Most ingenious,” said Zinsser, wagging his head. “Even if you’re wrong, it’s an ingenious theory. What you’re saying, you know, is that all we have to do to duplicate this device is to discover the nature of binding energy and then find a way to make it stay stably in spherical form. After which we figure out the nature of a field which can penetrate binding energy and allow any matter to do likewise—one way.” He spread his hands. “That’s all. Just learn to actually use the stuff that the long-hair boys haven’t thought of theorizing about yet, and we’re all set.”
“Shucks,” said Garry, “Mewhu will give us all the dope.”
“I hope so. Jack, this can revolutionize the entire industrial world!”
“You’re understating,” grinned Jack.
The phone rang. Zinsser looked at his watch again. “There’s my call.” He sat down, answered the phone, and while he went on at great length to some high-powered character at the other end of the line, about bills of lading and charter service and interstate commerce restrictions, Jack lounged against the cutoff corner of the desk and dreamed. Mewhu—a superior member of a superior race, come to earth to lead struggling humanity out of its struggling, wasteful ways. He wondered what Mewhu was like at home among his strange people. Young, but very mature, he decided, and gifted in many ways —the pick of the crop, fit to be ambassador to a new and dynamic civilization like Earth’s. And what about the ship? Having dropped Mewhu, had it and its pilot returned to the mysterious corner of the universe from which they had come? Or was it circling about somewhere in space, anxiously awaiting word from the adventurous ambassador?
Zinsser cradled his instrument and stood up with a sigh. “A credit to my will power,” he said. “The greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and I stuck by the day’s work in spite of it. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. Let’s go have a look at him.”
~ * ~
“Wheeeeyouwow!” screamed Mewhu as another rising plane passed over their heads. Molly bounced joyfully up and down on the cushions, for Mewhu was an excellent mimic.
The silver man slipped over the back of the driver’s seat in a lithe movement, to see a little better around the corner of a nearby hanger. One of the Cubs had been wheeled into it, and was standing not far away, its prop ticking over.
Molly leaned her elbows on the edge of the seat and stretched her little neck so she could see, too. Mewhu brushed against her head and her hat fell off. He bent to pick it up and bumped his own head on the dashboard, and the glove compartment flew open. His strange pupils narrowed, and the nictitating membranes flicked over his eyes as he reached inside. The next thing Molly knew, he was out of the car and running over the parking area, leaping high in the air, mouthing strange noises, and stopping every few jumps to roll and beat with his good hand on the ground.
Horrified, Molly Garry left the cat and ran after him. “Mewhu!” she cried. “Mewhu, come back!”
He cavorted toward her, his arms outspread. “W-r-r-row-w!” he shouted, rushing past her. Lowering one arm a little and raising the other like an airplane banking, he ran in a wide arc, leaped the little tarmac retaining wall and bounded out onto the hangar area.
Molly, panting and sobbing, stopped and stamped her foot. “Mewhu!” she croaked helplessly. “Daddy said—”
Two mechanics standing near the idling Cub looked around at a sound like a civet-cat imitating an Onondaga war whoop. What they saw was a long-legged, silver-gray apparition with a silver-white mustache, and slotted eyes, dressed in a scarlet robe that turned to indigo. Without a sound, moving as one man, they cut and ran. And Mewhu with one last terrible shriek of joy, leaped to the plane and disappeared inside.
Molly put her hands to her mouth and her eyes bugged. “Oh, Mewhu,” she breathed. “Now you’ve done it.” She heard pounding feet, turned. Her father was racing toward her, with Mr. Zinsser waddling behind. “Molly! Where’s Mewhu?”
Wordlessly, she pointed at the Cub; and as if it were a signal, the little ship throttled up and began to crawl away from the hangars.
“Hey! Wait! Wait!” screamed Jack Garry uselessly, sprinting after the plane. He leaped the wall but misjudged it because of his speed. His toe hooked it and he sprawled slitheringly, jarringly on the tarmac. Zinsser and Molly ran to him, helped him up. Jack’s nose was bleeding. He whipped out a handkerchief, looked out at the dwindling plane. “Mewhu!”
The little plane waddled across the field, bellowed suddenly with power. The tail came up, and it scooted away from them —cross wind, cross the runway. Jack turned to speak to Zinsser and saw the fat man’s face absolutely stricken. He followed Zinsser’s eyes and saw the other plane, the big six-place cabin job, coming in.
He had never felt so helpless in all his life. Those planes were going to collide. There was nothing anyone could do about it. He watched them, unblinking, almost detachedly. They were hurtling but they seemed to creep; the moment lasted forever. Then, with twenty feet altitude, Mewhu cut his gun and dropped a wing. The Cub slowed, leaned into the wind, and side-slipped so close under the cabin ship that another coat of paint on either craft would have meant disaster.
Jack didn’t know how long he had been holding that breath, but it was agony when he let it out.
“Anyway, he can fly,” breathed Zinsser.
“Of course he can fly,” snapped Jack. “A prehistoric thing like an airplane would be child’s play for him. Child’s play.”
“Oh, Daddy, I’m scared.”
“I’m not,” said Jack hollowly.
“Me, too,” said Zinsser with an unconvincing laugh. “The plane’s insured.”
The Cub arrowed upward. At a hundred feet it went into a skidding turn, harrowing to watch, suddenly winged over and came shouting down at them. Mewhu buzzed them so close that Zinsser went flat on his face. Jack and Molly simply stood there, wall-eyed. An enormous cloud of dust obscured every thing for ninety interminable seconds. When they next saw the plane it was wobbling crazily at a hundred and fifty.
Suddenly Molly screamed piercingly and put her hands over her face.,
“Molly! Kiddo, what is it?”
She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed so violently that he knew it was hurting her throat. “Stop it!” he yelled; and then, very gently, he asked, “What’s the matter, darling?”
“He’s scared. Mewhu’s terrible, terrible scared,” she said brokenly.
Jack looked up at the plane. It yawed, fell away on one wing.
Zinsser shouted, his voice cracking, “Gun her! Gun her! Throttle up, you idiot!”
Mewhu cut the gun.
Dead stick, the plane winged over and plunged to the ground. The impact was crushing.
Molly said, quite calmly, “All Mewhu’s pictures have gone out now,” and slumped unconscious to the ground.
~ * ~
They got him to the hospital. It was messy—all of it; picking him up, carrying him to the ambulance—
Jack wished fervently that Molly had not seen; but she had sat up and cried as they carried him past. He thought worriedly as he and Zinsser crossed and recrossed in their pacing of the waiting room, that he would have his hands full with the child when this thing was all over.
The resident physician came in, wiping his hands. He was a small man with a nose like a walnut meat. “Who brought that plane-crash case in here—you?”
“Both of us,” said Zinsser.
“What... who is he?”
“A friend of mine. Is he…will he live?”
“How should I know?” snapped the doctor impatiently. “I have never in my experience—” He exhaled through his nostrils. “The man has two circulatory systems. Two closed circulatory systems, and a heart for each. All his arterial blood looks veinous—it’s purple. How’d he happen to get hurt?”
“He ate half a box of aspirin out of my car,” said Jack. “Aspirin makes him dru
nk. He swiped a plane and piled it up.”
“Aspirin makes him—” The doctor looked at each of them in turn. “I won’t ask if you’re kidding me. Just to see that . .. that thing in there is enough to kid any doctor. How long has that splint been on his arm?”
Zinsser looked at Jack and Jack said “About eighteen hours.”
“Eighteen hours?” The doctor shook his head. “It’s so well knitted that I’d say eighteen days.” Before Jack could say anything he added, “He needs a transfusion.”
Big Book of Science Fiction Page 6
