Amazing Vignettes

by Jerry

  a patron of the arts.

  Each person’s thoughts turned to the past as the music began, for the rehearsal was to feature a new work, inspired by the great dancer Pavlova, who had been dead only a few months. They watched eagerly to see if Frances Doble, now the leading ballerina of the company, could duplicate the amazing feats of her predecessor.

  At the climax of the ballet, Frances Doble was to dance a routine similar to Pavlova’s famous “The Swan.” The rehearsal proceeded without a flaw until the dancer entered the stage for this dance. Amazed, the spectators found that the figure of the ballerina appeared to be shrinking before their eyes, until she seemed no larger than the diminutive Pavlova. More unusual, her figure appeared to be changed and every movement and gesture was an exact duplication of that of Anna Pavlova. Effortlessly, as only Pavlova could dance, the phantom figure went through an entirely different routine than the one called for in the script. It was Pavlova’s from start to finish. Yet, it was universally acknowledged that no living dancer had the unearthly technique of the dead ballerina. To make the whole episode even more unbelievable, at the end of the dance, the figure on the stage pirouetted three times standing easily on one point—a feat which Miss Doble could not do.

  Lady Smith recorded the incident in her book, “Life’s a Circus.” In profound amazement, the three spectators searched each other’s faces following the performance, and they realized that all three had seen the same thing. Later, they corroborated this by comparing impressions. Then they heard the Voice of Miss Doble dully saying, “I’m sorry—let’s try again. I couldn’t dance. I must be awfully tired. My mind suddenly seemed to go blank.”

  She had no recollection of having danced the scene.

  1950

  Is this Our Future? . . .

  Ralph Kelly

  KLAN WALKED slowly through the rubble heaps. Despair and loneliness and bitterness were inscribed deeply in his face. He held the heavy automatic rifle tightly to him.

  The wind was strong and bit through the heavy leather coat he wore. Besides it was beginning to tear. Klan thought about the coat. He could stall see the Soy’s face as the bullets struck him. He remembered how the devil had tried to put a heat beam on him. Well, he got his.

  Klan thought about the people and wondered when he’d see some. This wandering, endlessly and hopelessly was a futile existence. He knew the warfare that went on between every little hamlet since governments no longer existed. This city, whose ruins he was traversing, was one of the few which were not radioactive or still biologically contaminated.

  No human can ever trust another one, he thought But it couldn’t be, for no human could continue this barren lonesomeness. I think I’d be happy to see a Sov, Klan felt; I wouldn’t even blast him.

  But the bitterness and hatred and distrust were still too deep. When you roamed a war-ravaged country like this, you could always, you had to always assume that anybody else was an enemy and you had to strike first.

  Klan’s thoughts were suddenly Interrupted by a bit of motion. He wasn’t quite rare.

  He dropped to his belly and watched. Waiting was no novelty to him. He lifted the automatic rifle with the explosive radioactive pellets to his check and took careful sight at the pile of rubble behind which something had moved.

  He waited. Five minutes. Then ten. Abruptly there was a stirring. A figure stood up, sure it was safe. It started to walk directly toward Klan’s prone body behind the little hill of rubble, apparently unaware. Klan tensed. Should he fire or wait? Maybe it was a trick. He waited in spite of his training which told him of the danger.

  Then he caught his breath. It was a girl! He waited until she was only five feet away. Then he stood up. She screamed, a frightened agonized cry. She knew what strange men would do. Klan seized her just as she drew a knife and managed to rake him across the cheek.

  She started to cry. Klan released one arm and slapped her across the face. Then he began talking in low tone. Finally he released both hands.

  “We can’t be alone like this,” he reasoned. “Stay with me and I’ll work for you.”

  The girl looked up astonished. No one had ever said such a thing to her. She started to cry again. This time Klan took her in his arms.

  He wouldn’t be alone any longer . . .

  Monorail Monster

  Guy Greene

  N’YAWK. Twenty-five hundred. Terminal Center. Monotrains to Keens—Monotrains to Manns—Monotrains to Brooks—Monotrains to Hudsin Palisades . . .

  The handsome young pilot watched the teeming masses of people roll and split and converge like some gigantic wave. The vast wash of humanity selected its monocars to all points of the huge urban community that was N’Yawk. Manson felt the thrill of it. In spite of his brief training he knew that he would make this furious run perfectly.

  A surge of pride and power lifted him. To him and others like him the responsibility of delivering these hordes to their destination was a signal honor. Others might describe it as routine but then they had never sat behind the power throttle of a hundred-mile-an-hour monotrain and felt its bone-crushing acceleration in response to the touch of a lever.

  Manson’s eyes shone with pride as they traveled down the gleaming magnaloy length of the Monotrain. It was a three hundred foot, articulated length of metal cylinder, suspended from a single rail and driven by surging magnetic fields. Its doors gaped wide and passengers poured into its comfortable interior. Many commuted hundreds of miles each day but in the Monotrains it was like taking a cross-country rocket as fast and as simple. The Monotrain loaded to capacity. The doors slithered shut. Pilot Manson stepped into his cabin in the nose. A red light winked on the dash-panel. A speaker shuddered; “Manson—twelve thirty-two—full speed—no stops—the Palisades.”

  Manson muttered acknowledgment into the phone, checked the safety lights and touched the throttle. Effortlessly, controling the gigantic pressure of acceleration, Manson held the Monotrain in leash. He breathed a sigh of relief. The Monotrain shot like a projectile between monstrous structures, then flashed breathlessly into the countryside.

  Only the hiss of parting air and the whine of the generators disturbed the cathedral-like silence of the pilot cab. Thirty minutes later Manson braked the flexible metal cigar to its first stop.

  “Terminal Eighteen,” the speaker squawked.

  “Got it,” Manson answered, “Monotrain Seventy-two, under Manson, pulling in on time!” Pride ran like fire through his veins. This was the life!

  We Grow Our Air!

  Howard Gorman

  THE FIRST time people see the Air Gardens in Luna City, they’re usually startled. And it has to be admitted they are an impressive sight. In the vast room whose ceiling blazes with artificial light there are acres and acres of brilliant green plants, that grow proliferously in their beds of water. Mechanical harvesters running on guides trim and keep the foliage from strangling itself.

  But it is the purpose of these Air Gardens that strikes one. Luna City is probably the most gigantic modern mechanical and electrical maze in the Solar System. To build a city on an airless Moon is a miracle of modern engineering. Luna City is that miracle.

  Consequently, when people are first told that they’re to visit the “Air Gardens” they assume that some press-agent has dreamed up a name for a mass of pumps and machinery for creating the air of the city. Hence it is always satisfying to see the amazement on their faces when they’re brought into the vast garden.

  Creating artificial air for breathing purposes is no easy task. You can use chemicals like potassium chlorate or carry liquid oxygen as some of the rockets do, but these are makeshift methods, costly and inefficient. Furthermore the resulting air has the flat slightly nauseating quality of any chemical factory. You have to go back to nature for the best.

  The Air Gardens on Luna are the perfect example. Here, plants functioning through their photosynthetic cycle, absorb carbon dioxide and release oxygen. Because nitrogen is not absorbed, and becaus
e the calculations have been carefully balanced, the system of plants and people is in perfect equilibrium.

  We exhale the carbon dioxide after inhaling the oxygen. The plants do the reverse. Simple, neat and effective!

  The visitor’s initial disappointment at not seeing an impressive array of pumps in the Air Gardens, changes to admiration at the sight of the luxuriously blooming plants among which the technicians have planted a wide variety of flowers, which add the note of beauty. It is as if a bit of Earth has been transported to the cold bleakness of space, and has thrived.

  Felton reports that the hydroponic plant system is not being installed in a wide variety of space ships. This will enormously simplify their technology.

  “Coming Events . . .”

  John Cord

  CRANSTONE sat in perfect darkness.

  The only illumination came from the instrument panel and the radar screen—a vague ghostly green. Through the plast-dome of the rocket interceptor, he could see nothing for all the buildings on the field—as well as the runway lights—were blacked out. He knew there were hundreds of other craft on similar fields waiting as he was, for “the word”. He fumbled with cigarette and matches. The light flared briefly outlining Cranstone’s taut features.

  When? When? The word pounded through his mind savagely. The War had already started and everyone knew the enemy rocket bombers were well on their way. And he and men like him were expected to stop them.

  The communications speaker crackled: “Interceptors eight-oh-six to eight-oh-twenty-four—attention. Enemy rockets have just crossed the Arctic Circle. Our guided missiles have knocked down seven. They are type Ilyin piloted rocket bombers capable of evasive and defensive action, and the . . .”

  The words droned on, elaborate technical phrases and military mum bo-jumbo. Cranstone listened with half his mind. He pictured Major Smith crouched over the Communications Desk, soaking up and digesting vast amounts of information, a cool thinking machine conscious of only his vast responsibility. Cranstone’s job was simple. He just had to use his skills. He just had to knock down one enemy rocket bomber to justify his existence. But poor Smith carried the weight of a successful operation on his shoulders.

  Cranstone thought, I’m glad I’m not him! The military voice tapered off in the speaker.

  Now it was the human Major Smith talking: “This isn’t a pep-talk, men,” be said softly, “but you know what the score is. We can’t let the rocket-bombers get through. Our strike is headed for Chicago. You know what that means. Their trajectory shows that anyway. We can’t let them through. Do your best.” There was a deep intense pleading in the man’s voice.

  Suddenly Smith’s voice faltered, went falsetto and shrilled. “Now!” it shouted, “now!” Then simultaneously the starting light on Cranstone’s instrument panel winked. He knew the same thing was happening all around him.

  He jammed home the throttle lever. The gigantic hand of acceleration seized the rocket-interceptor and flung Cranstone tight against the seat. This is it, he thought jubilantly! The roaring hissing noises faded. Cranstone became one huge eye focused on the radar screen in front of him. His experienced eye separated the pupa that distinguished enemy from friend. The winking green dot near the center of the screen by the cross-hairs was his!

  He kept the dot there. His distance indicator showed a rapidly decreasing interval. Here forty thousand feet above the Earth, in utter blackness, his rocket manuevered to destroy the invader. Cranstone felt the slight jerk that indicated his rockets were away. The pip started to vanish—then was gone. Cranstone hammered on the plast-dome and screamed into his phone: “I got him! I got him!”

  Forty thousand feet down and seventy miles away, Major Smith said softly, “Scratch ‘em boys, Scratch ‘em . . .”

  Mutant Menace

  Robert Samson

  CLEARING crouched behind a pillar in the Museum hall. It was a vast room compartmented by supporting posts. It was jet black and Clearing felt that he was out in space. But it was a good place to hide. He heard the scuttling noise once more. His fingers tightened on the heat pistol.

  The bio-labs should never have trusted the tank, he thought. They should have known the gigantic crayfish would eventually stir. Damn Wilson and his foolish experimenting! Why the hell didn’t he listen to me? Why let an irradiated crayfish grow to thirty feet in length? An idiot could see what a danger that could be. Now I’m alone with the monster and I’m supposed to stop him with a heat pistol! What a joke, he thought sardonically, the devil is hunting me!

  There was no chance to get to a communicator. They weren’t in the museum section. And he couldn’t run away. Suppose the beast slipped into the city? God only knows what toll he’d take of the unsuspecting before they blasted him to fragments.

  The sickening briny stench came to Clearing’s nostrils. The slithering, clicking sounds of the gigantic crustacean became loud and clear. He was on Clearing’s trail. If it ever got him in the open, it would be too bad.

  Clearing peered around the pillar. He caught sight of the hideous creature, all eight-foot claws and wavering antennae. He raised the pistol and took careful aim.

  He squeezed the trigger and the white hot beam lashed out. An unearthly cry split the night air and the monster writhed in agony. Clearing saw a severed claw.

  The beast could be beaten! Boldly he advanced on him. The armored crustacean moved toward him rapidly, the scuttling madly. Another ray of moonlight outlined the bulk. Clearing fired once more. Again the screech! Instinctively Clearing recoiled.

  The combat went on for ten minutes more, but Clearing’s weapon, the heat pistol, was more than a match for the mutated crayfish. As bolt after bolt struck it, its motions became feebler until finally it lay still.

  It’s dead, Clearing thought; now for Wilson. He reached the office and flooded the building with light. Still keeping an eye on the huge bulk lying on the museum floor, he got Wilson.

  He stared at the man’s face as it came onto the screen.

  “There’s your baby from the tank. Take a good look at it, Wilson. It almost got me. You and I must have a talk.” Without waiting for an answer, he flipped the switch. Carelessly he walked over to the carcass of the giant.

  He was two feet away from the badly burned claw when the contractual death agony of the nerveless creature occurred. He dropped the pistol and turned to run. But it was too late . . .

  Marbles in the Mud

  Edward Henley

  “. . . and if the Earth ever has an atomic war,” the Astronomer concluded his talk, “its surface would look much like that of the Moon. In the latter case it was a meteoric bombardment, we know, that made craters on the Moon, like a child, dropping marbles in a mud-bath. God forbid that it should ever happen.”

  The interested little audience applauded quietly and then broke into small groups discussing the whole matter.

  “It would take a lot of bombs to do that,” someone commented, speaking to the Astronomer.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “it would take a fair number, but remember that if the bombs were big enough they’d even blow away our atmosphere, which would leave the surface of the planet exposed to real meteoric bombardment just like the Moon is today. Then in a few tens or hundreds of millions of years, outside of size nobody’d be able to tell the difference between the Earth and the Moon.”

  “We won’t be alive to worry about it,” some other speaker laughed. “Remember the gag about the drunk in the lecture hall? The lecturer said, ‘. . . and in twenty billion years the Earth’ll be a burnt cinder.’ A drunk in the rear of the hall hollered out: ‘How many years?’ The prof looked annoyed and answered, “In twenty billion years.’ ‘Oh,’ said the drunk, ’I sought you shaid twenny millyun.’ ” There was a polite laugh and the meeting broke up.

  And then aeons passed . . .

  The Antarian glanced out the port of the exploration ship. “Here,” he commanded, “look, Del-Ion. A set of twin worlds! Both are badly meteor-scored.”<
br />
  Del-Ion nodded, “Wonder what lost them their atmospheres?” he said speculatively. “It does seem odd. Should we take a look?”

  “No, no. We must keep on. The council is only interested in planetary systems with life or which once were capable of supporting life. Those shells?—bah . . .”

  The Link

  Salem Lane

  THE FEVERISH-EYED image in the video viewer gesticulated wildly.

  “Jan! You’ve got to come over! I’ve done it! I’ve got it!”

  “Take it easy Renton,” the other remonstrated. “Tell me, what is it?”

  “I can’t talk over the video,” Renton answered, a little less agitatedly. “But I must see you,” he insisted.

  “All right, all right. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Jan stepped from the autocab and hurried into the low gray building that was Renton’s laboratory. He was met at the door by his excited friend.

  Before Jan could get his coat off, Renton was at him.

  “First of all, not a word! This is the biggest thing ever!”

  Jan extricated himself from the sweeping cloak-coat and settled himself comfortably, lighting a cigarette and leaning back. “O.K. What’s the pitch?”

  With an obvious effort Renton calmed himself. He forced himself to take a low chair opposite Jan. He started to talk and as he went on his voice settled more firmly into a grave and scientific tone.

  “I’ve made a thought-tell, Jan. A real honest-to-God thought-cell I Do you know what that means?”

  “No, I don’t,” Jan answered. “Take it from the beginning.”

  “Well, you know what a photo-cell is. You know what a thermostat is. You know what a detector is.”