Amazing Vignettes

by Jerry

  Jan nodded.

  “A photo-cell is sensitive to light, a thermostat to heat, and a detector to electromagnetic radiation. That is, you can get physical movement or electrical currents from these things.”

  “You mean . . .” Jan sat bolt upright. “Yes,” Renton said flatly, “I mean just that. I’ve made a thought cell. Essentially it’s a simple detector of thought. Come into the lab and I’ll make your eyes pop.” They went into the sanctum sanctorum, and amidst the equipment-littered benches stood one whose surface was free save for a small gadget which looked like a radio chassis or a TV chassis, and a lone twenty-five watt electric light bulb connected to it by a pair of wires. A cord led to an electric outlet.

  “Look it over.” Renton commanded.

  Jan examined the equipment carefully.

  The Terrible Decade

  Stanley Abbott

  HISTORIANS, in looking back on the history of Man, cannot too strongly emphasize that period in which he seemed about to destroy himself. The fearful decade, 2002—2012, now is just a scar on Man’s memory, though the physical results of that period have not fully been reckoned. “Decade of Death” it has been called, nor is that an extraordinary or deceptive title.

  As we all know the “Decade of Death” began with Man’s noblest exploit—his escape into space. The famous Rocketeer III with its seven-man crew arose from that barren Arizona field, landed on the Moon and returned. With what pride and power it filled men and within three years the first of the “satellite ships” was located in its orbit around the Earth.

  The newscasters and videomen of the time were fond of referring to these floating satellites as “astronomical observatories” when in reality they were agents for war and nothing else. All this was a preliminary however. In these years, the satellites, a dozen of them, each belonging to an intensely nationalistic nation, including that of the Americas, became a gigantic fortress laden with but one cargo—atomic bombs.

  The beryllium reaction, its fission, made atomic bombs the property of anyone. There was no lack of them.

  It has never been determined just what triggered off the dreadful holocaust. Some researchers tend to believe that it was purely accidental. It is said that a rocket torpedo whose warhead was an atomic bomb, was launched purely by the mistaken signals of a radar technician. Regardless of the cause, when it destroyed Paris in one unbelievable blast, that was the signal for retaliation and within thirty minutes after the first rocket had landed on that fair city the surface of the Earth was being pocked gigantically and regularly by the greatest agents of Man’s fiendish powers. Even now we see evidence of the intensity of the Armageddon. Gaping craters that once were cities, still have not been restored to use.

  The hundreds of millions who perished in that war, the hundreds of cities which ceased to exist, still haunt our dreams. We know that it can never happen again. The Council will see to that.

  But we can’t erase the memory and the mute remains. In a way they are the best monument. When we ’coptor by the hulk that once was Chicago, when we see the Geiger needle climbing and hear the counter clicking, we know that we are the inheritors of a trust that must never be violated.

  Yes, when the decade ended in ’12 for lack of industry and combatants, and the Joiners formed the Council, we were witnesses of a new Era in the Age of Man. So long as we avoid the forces which led to that ghastly slaughter, we may hope that the Earth will not be left as a vast tomb of Mankind.

  Children Should Be Seen . . .

  Don Elwood

  IT COULDN’T happen. It was impossible. Such things simply do not occur.

  But it did. And on Metropolis Field too. That’s what made it double-unlikely. Metropolis Field was the biggest spaceport in North America. But little Roger Crane didn’t know that. In fact, little Roger Crane knew very little. You couldn’t expect him to know much. He was only six years old.

  The Callisto II, one of the biggest of the Planetary Fleet Company’s craft, lay in the loading dock, its six hundred feet of length pointed skyward. It would be another day before it was loaded and headed for Mars on its weekly trip. Yet, it had, as always, a skeleton crew aboard. There were supposed to be at least four men aboard the vessel at all times.

  The purser had, just at that moment, to visit his friend at a neighboring dock. Two watchmen had taken their usual sneak for a quick drink, the engineer’s mate had left to pick up a book at a near-by store (he’d have been back in a minute!) and at the gate the guard turned his back for just ten seconds.

  Little Roger Crane, who was visiting the offices of his Dad in the Administration Building, was accustomed to wandering around freely. Inevitably he hung around the big rockets, but he wasn’t surprised when he walked aboard the Callisto II. Oh, maybe he was a little elated because a guard didn’t say the usual “go on, sonny, you can’t come in here,” but he certainly didn’t think about it.

  Anyhow, he wandered through the unguarded gate and aboard the gigantic space ship. It was very fascinating and no one stopped him. He climbed endless ladders and flights of steps and it was lots of fun! Gee, maybe he’d be a space pilot some day. Boy, wouldn’t it be fun!

  Roger was very interested when he came to the big room with all the lights and dials and gauges. There were funny chairs and instruments everywhere. And then the trouble came.

  To launch a space ship is a simple operation for a single man. All he needs is plenty of training and the knowledge of how to punch buttons in the right sequence. That’s where chance came in. Little Roger stood on the pilot’s cushioned chair, fascinated by the rows of buttons. And at random he began punching them, his method the same as that of the child who bangs away at a typewriter.

  But the impossible sequence—for chance—occurred. Roger hit all the right buttons.

  The rocket shot skyward and the heavy hand of acceleration flipped Roger end over end. Fright paralyzed him as he fell headlong from the seat. The slight blow knocked him unconscious.

  There’s nothing else to tell. The blistering that the yardmaster got was worse than that of the purser and the engineer. The Patrol boarded the errant craft a million miles into space and all they found was a frightened little six year old boy, instead of the gang of crooks that they expected, plus a huge space ship with damaged airlocks and automatic bulkheads shut.

  That little incident can’t possibly happen again—not after this—but if you see a little boy in a space dock . . .

  . . . And Not Heard!

  Frank Pillar

  THE HELI-TAXI larded smoothly on the terrace of the three-hundredth floor of the Kerry-Flakeland Hotel in the heart of that American jewel, Manhatta’. James Allerdyce (the Third) of Allerdyce Enterprises, Inc. escorted the beautifully clad girl into the foyer. “Darling,” he enthused to his starry-eyed companion, “this is it. You’ve never imagined what delicious food can be. This will be an evening you’ll never forget.” He sighed gustily and raised his eyes to the heavens.

  Three minutes later under the escort of the headwaiter and a dozen flunkies, Allerdyce and Gloria were seated in sybaritic splendor in the Interstellar Room. To one side, near the dance floor, an orchestra played soft engaging music. Gentle ever-changing lights played over the crowd. All was dignity and majestic charm. Here was North America’s most exclusive hostelry.

  But there was a difference.

  No waiters pussy-footed around the gorgeous dining-room. To the right hand of each diner was an inconspicuous series of buttons with a roller-list.

  “What do I do?” Gloria asked puzzled. Thinking is not encouraged even now among beautiful debutantes (Gloria Van Clayton—Atomic Power, Ltd. nine-hundred million credits).

  “Wine list, hors d’oeuvres, entrees, desserts—everything right here.” Allerdyce tapped the roller list with a bejeweled forefinger.

  After ten minutes of elaborate discussion in which Allerdyce’s gastronomic skill was made clear, the two started pressing buttons. Five minutes later the center table top slid aside
, a plunger arose and, robotlike, they were presented with their drinks.

  Gloria looked puzzled: “I didn’t order an Atom,” she said, piqued, “I wanted a Clare.”

  “Funny,” Allerdyce agreed, “I wanted a Lunar Sour. Something’s wrong.” Then they noticed others looking angry.

  The headwaiter was fluttering around like a madman. Everything was mixed-up. People ordered sirloin of beef and got mashed potatoes. A tipsy boozer ordered four ounces of whiskey and got a glass of milk. Foods, drinks, salads, desserts and what have you became mixed indiscriminately.

  Pierre was paralyzed and his assistants stood around tearing at their hair. Many people started to leave.

  “I didn’t expect anything like this,” Gloria said as she rose to leave. “What’s the matter with you, Allerdyce—this plate is a—a—a—” she fumbled and then decided to use the word—“dump!”

  Allerdyce nodded in despair, “Yes, my dear, it is.”

  Twenty stories below, the two adolescent boys crouched in the little room watching through the open door, watching for parental interference.

  “Gee, Jimmy,” the dark-haired one said, “this is fun.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the other, “I’m glad Dad got me the tool kit.” He fumbled with the box of cutters, splicers, insulators and meters. “Well, let’s do some more.” The two turned their attention back to the open panel of the fuse box with its myriad of fine wires, now looking like a mass of writhing snakes. The younger boy’s foot brushed against a book on the floor. “The Young Electronic Experimentor,” it said in bright red on its cover . . .

  Skin Deep

  Joseph Hill

  I KNOW YOU may not believe this, but I tell you it is true. And if you doubt me, you can find the detailed story in any one of the encyclopedias. Just go to the Mini-plate section, get a projector and see it on the screen for yourself. It happened so many hundreds of years ago, that it is hard to believe that it could have been at all.

  People once hated each other because the color of their skins was different! Now, don’t laugh; it’s true. There were naturally white and black and yellow and red-skinned people, and they feared and hated each other because of that—and for no other reason! There were some of course who didn’t, who realized that was silly. But they were a minority. Sometimes those mass executions which were called “wars” happened because of this strange attitude.

  All right I If this class doesn’t stop laughing I’ll have it disciplined—and you know what that means! Now give me your attention.

  This weird condition existed until Dr. Harriman of the Dermatological Institute discovered the nature and cause of pigmentation. And when his discovery was announced, everyone, all over the Earth wanted his skin changed to white. Can you imagine that!

  Twenty years after the pigmentation process was found, all the world consisted of people with white skins! These things sound strange to you because you can’t imagine how desperately people felt about the matter of color.

  Fortunately times have changed. The fashion experts realized they had a wonderful instrument at hand. And now we are all slaves to it. As I look at you, and see you with your vari-colored skins, ranging through the entire spectrum, I can’t imagine anything different. It seems natural to me.

  You, Lady Senn, look beautiful with that rich Tyrrhenian purple skin. And you also, Lady Fane, with that rich golden-yellow hide. Personally I prefer my own black covering. There seems to be less glare to it, although my wife makes me change my color to blue for evening wear. She herself favors a brilliant green skin that Pm very fond of.

  I’d like a couple of you to prepare a report on this subject. Xaxen, and Cronet!—both of you will prepare to talk during the next lecture period on the subject of “Color and People” and I want you to catch the atmosphere of hatred and distrust that was once felt. Do you understand? Very well—class dismissed!

  Ultimate Evolution

  Joseph Hill

  A GROUP of us, writers, the editor, a couple of artists and a science-fiction fan or two, were lounging in the comfortable office, talking. Inevitably the gab-fest drifted away from the jokes, ran through the general subject of women and then warmed more to the favorite subject of memorable stories. A host of stories popped up as favorites of one or another, ranging from the well-remembered “Adam Link” series to some of the Phillips superepics.

  For a while the babel was confusing, each reader asserting that his selection was the best.

  Even as we talked, you could almost see each man visualizing the tremendous impression each story he fondly recalled had made. The talk quieted down somewhat and the room became filled with the ghosts of science-fiction past, as well as cigarette smoke.

  In a momentary lull in the conversation, we were astonished to hear Brady talking rather loudly:

  “You haven’t—not a one of you—mentioned the best one of all.” He said the words with an edge of bitterness. Brady was a rather quiet mouse of a man, a likeable fellow who followed s-f closely but usually had very little to say.

  Somebody laughed.

  “I suppose you know the best one,” one of us mildly taunted.

  For once Brady met the issue.

  “Yes,” he said positively,” I can name the best and most impressionable science-fiction story. It was Alas, All Thinking, by Harry Bates.”

  No one said a word. We were recalling the story—or trying to. Encouraged by our silence, Brady went on:

  “The story was simple. A time-Traveler from the present journeys into the remote future. He lands his machine, steps out and finds the Earth sort of a barren prairie. The Earth has receded from the Sun and now is a little glowing coal in the sky. The T-T looks around for people—and finally he finds some. They live in simple mud huts, they aren’t many, and they do nothing. They are the ultimate evolutionary adaptation of human beings. Some are in the advanced state, being nothing but huge heads supported by a bracket on a wall, their vestigial bodies of no use whatsoever.

  “The T-T discovers that these people have one objective and that is to sit and think, to do nothing but cogitate and meditate on the Nature of the Universe. In the advanced stages their metabolism is so low that they’re fed capsules by a machine which pops the pellets into their mouths!”

  Brady paused and noted our interest. There was a pleased little smile on his face. He was the narrator now.

  Jimson said; “I remember that story too. It was good at that. But it wasn’t the greatest. Not by any means. Why, I re—”

  “Wait a minute,” Brady cut him off. “I haven’t finished.”

  We nodded and he continued:

  “Anyhow the T-T took a less repulsive specimen back to his own time, the Twentieth Century and tried to teach her something about life. But her mentality was dominant and all she could do was to speculate about the nature of love.”

  He stopped. We waited.

  “Go on,” I urged.

  He shook his head. “That’s about all there is to it. The rest of the story is unimportant and anti-climactic.” There was a peculiar ironic smile on Brady’s face and I had a funny feeling that something was different about him.

  He got up, his eyes unrevealing behind their thick lenses. He walked toward the door. All of us felt the oddness. It was in the air.

  When he reached the door, his appearance became even different. He took off his hat. I had never noticed it before but his head was remarkably large. His heavy overcoat fell open and his body seemed amazingly slim.

  “So long,” he said and there was irony in his tone. He waved a pipestem arm and vanished through the doorway. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that gripped me. For a bare moment I’d have sworn he looked like one of the creatures in the story he had just described.

  “Aw, he’s a nut,” Felton said mockingly and the matter was closed. I still shudder a little when I think of Brady’s face though. Could it be? . . .

  Boomerang!

  Joseph Hill

  I CAN’T WAIT to see
her face, he thought. Tonight’ll really be fun. I wonder if she’s learned to use the thing yet? Oh well, he assured himself, it can’t be that complicated. His mind tripped on, imagining the wonderful dinner he was going to get.

  Bill Newton had just spent three hundred dollars for the new induction heating range. It looked much like the conventional kitchen type, but as the blurbs had it, “no flame, no warmth, no heat—but it COOKS!” It was really quite simple when you got down to it. It contained a four kilowatt radio transmitter with suitable switches and heating coils. All you did was to locate the food to be cooked within the circle of a coil, press the timer button and in fractions of a minute, your food was cooked! Induction heating wasn’t new, but these ‘55 kitchen model ranges, using it, were.

  Newton entered the apartment gleefully. He swung open the rear door. He wanted to enter the kitchen first so as to surprise Louise.

  As he swung the door open, he stood stock still. The peaceful happy scene he expected to see never materialized. Louise was at the opposite end of the kitchen, her back to the wall, her eyes wide in mingled astonishment and dismay, touched perhaps by terror.

  Bill dropped his brief case. His gaze shifted from Louise to the range. He heard Louise’s rapid intake of breath.

  “Oh Bill,” she sobbed, and ran into his arms. “It just happened.”

  “I know, darling, I know,” Bill soothed her, “it’ll be all right. Just wait until you get the hang of it.” Then he burst into laughter in spite of his efforts to suppress it.

  For the kitchen was a culinary shambles, Particles of meat, gobs of potatoes, were splattered all over the walls and ceilings. The room looked as if a little boy had been flinging eggs and meat and vegetables at random, enjoying their splat against the walls.

  When Louise stopped sobbing long enough to explain, Bill discovered what had happened.

  “I just put the foods on, honey,” Louise said, “and turned on the switches. Then everything happened at once. I thought the stove would explode.” She wiped a generous gob of potato from behind her ear.