Asimov's SF, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Kurt called for a car and cast one last look around his office to make sure nothing was amiss. The “you've got a call” message was flashing on his monitor. Should he answer? It might be Tsishh again.

  Joanna appeared. She must have heard about The Scream. She would be thinking that he was in for a promotion. If she only knew!

  "Congratulations, Kurt,” she said softly.

  "Thanks,” he said. Joanna would be calculating how she could gain the most from the new situation, of course.

  "I'm sorry for everything that's happened,” she said. “I hope there are no ill feelings. Can we still be friends?"

  "I'm sorry too, Joanna.” Kurt forced a smile. Better not let on what he really felt. Next, she would probably say that business was just business.

  "It was only business,” she went on, and tried to smile.

  "Let's just drop it, Joanna. We're friends again, okay? Business friends.” She looked perplexed as he signed off.

  Kurt gathered up the case and his mallette.

  * * * *

  Garth was in the lobby, mumbling into his transceiver.

  "Any message for me, Garth?” Kurt asked. “I expect to hear from Mr. Tsishh."

  "No, Mr. Soman,” Garth said, faintly bitter. He warily eyed the carrying case. “By the way, Mr. Soman,” he added, his voice softer, “congratulations.” He smiled.

  Kurt hurried on.

  They saw him first. Greg and Joanna, arm in arm, were also about to leave the building.

  "Hello, Kurt,” Joanna said.

  Kurt said nothing. First a phone call, and now this “chance” meeting. Yes, that was like Joanna. But she and Greg couldn't know what he was planning. Only Dan knew.

  "Oh, Kurt, have you got a car coming?” she asked. “Could you drop us off?"

  Drop them off? How would he get out of this without arousing suspicion? And Joanna, she really knew no bounds. But they were “friends” again, weren't they?

  "Kurt, is anything wrong?” Joanna asked.

  "No problem,” Kurt said slowly.

  "Working late?” Greg said, finally acknowledging him.

  "Yes,” Kurt said, leading the way out. In the building turnabout, the black limousine waited, its engine idling. The driver stood by, holding the door open. “You too, Greg?"

  "As you can see."

  Kurt stood aside to let Greg and Joanna into the car first.

  "What have you got in that case, Kurt?” Greg asked, eyeing it.

  The case. The damned carrying case. He should have gone out a side entrance and walked out of the Concession. It wasn't too late. He could say he had forgotten something, that they should take the car and then send it back for him.

  Movement at the building entrance caught Kurt's eye. Garth appeared, one hand raised in his direction. A message from Tsishh no doubt. He should go, use Garth as an excuse to get away.

  "Taking up painting?” Greg added, smirking.

  Kurt looked at Greg sharply. This was no time to spar, but Greg had just pushed a button.

  Joanna intervened. “Listen, you two—"

  Kurt turned on Joanna. You two, she had said. Two little words that bit like fangs. You two. No blame on her part.

  Joanna looked suddenly confused and afraid. “Kurt?"

  "Mr. Soman,” Garth said, close now, one hand on his transceiver. “An urgent message for you, Mr. Soman, from—uh, may I see you alone."

  Kurt looked at Greg. The boy was no longer smirking, but that was not a look of confusion on his face.

  "What do you have in that case, Kurt?” Greg demanded.

  Kurt set down both case and mallette. He took aim. His blow, swift and hard—with all the fury of pent-up hurt and anger—went deep into Greg's stomach. The kid was young, but his abdominal muscles were soft.

  Greg doubled over, mouth open. He held his midriff and looked as if he might vomit.

  "Kurt!” Joanna screamed. “Don't—"

  Kurt turned on Joanna again. “Don't get sentimental,” he yelled. “You should be worried about his future in the company."

  Joanna stepped back, frightened. The driver moved closer to her, looked on nervously.

  "Mr. Soman,” Garth said. “May I be of assistance?"

  "One moment,” Kurt said. “As soon as I've seen to Mr. Ryder.” A glance at Garth, an instant's inattention—

  Greg's fist caught him in one eye. The knuckles went deep into the socket.

  Kurt staggered, but didn't fall. He put one hand to his eye. Blood began to run down his cheek.

  "Gentlemen, please!” said Garth.

  "Stop it!” Joanna screamed.

  Kurt pushed both Garth and the driver aside. “Get in the car!” he screamed at Joanna. He grabbed Greg by the arm, shoved him violently against her. Their heads collided with a crack, momentarily stunning them. Kurt shoved again. And again. Their arms and legs tangled, Greg and Joanna fell, sprawling, into the back seat.

  "Sorry for everything that's happened,” he cried. “No ill feelings, I hope.” He slammed the door. “Get them out of here!” he yelled to the driver.

  The driver ran. He jumped behind the steering wheel, as if afraid Kurt would attack him next. The car sped away, tires screeching.

  "Mr. Soman?” Garth said.

  "Let me get cleaned up first."

  "I'll make sure they understand."

  * * * *

  Alone before the building, Kurt felt his heart pounding. He held a handkerchief to his wounded eye, felt the blood escaping. The carrying case and mallette were at his feet unharmed. He picked them up and, still holding the handkerchief to his eye, clumsily crossed the boulevard to the embankment promenade.

  He sat on the parapet and turned to face the river. A cool breeze blew in off the blue-black water. It felt good on his throbbing face. His heart slowed, his vision cleared. He remembered Self-Portrait with a Black Eye, that Munch had painted after a fistfight with fellow painter Karsten, over some woman. Even wounded, pride showed in Munch's pose. Not like Kurt now. A sorry sight he must be. Like some sick child. But this sick child had no comfort to give.

  All was not yet lost. Garth would buy time for him. Tsishh would be livid, but might wait before calling the police. The underground station wasn't far. Once on a train, he would be reasonably safe.

  Kurt set off quickly along the promenade, the setting sun to his back. Before him, the clouds turned gold in the sudden rays of light. He looked behind him. The sky was stained red and orange. Two dark figures were walking along, but, at this distance, Kurt couldn't tell if they were men or women. They stopped as he looked at them.

  He hurried on. Some distance before him two new figures appeared, their silhouettes blurry in the evening light. Terrans or Hydrians? Kurt couldn't tell. One of them was leaning on the parapet. The other looked in his direction, arms crossed.

  He stopped again, feeling tired enough to die. If he were arrested now, he would be a laughable figure. Some sentimental Terran futilely trying to protect an artistic treasure, caught in a pathetic attempt to escape. He could throw the case into the river. It would be carried away by the current in no time, and soon sink. The end of a great work by a great artist. Would that be better than giving it to the aliens?

  Kurt looked about. The two people behind him, a man and a woman, he now realized, had stopped again. The woman turned to face the river. The man stood behind her and put his arms around her. Did he love her? Kurt wondered. What was love? A heaven and hell that no camera could capture. One day, that man might see his love leaving, walking out to a yellow boat, or out the door of a bar, hand in hand with her new love.

  A voice seemed to speak to him then. You don't have time to sit here thinking dark thoughts, it said. Stop wallowing in melancholy! Go now, or they'll catch you. They'll take the painting, they'll capture your soul. Our soul.

  Kurt picked up the case and his mallette and ran. The promenade was nearly deserted now. New rays of light shone down in screaming colors.

  And he was ou
t of the Concession.

  The underground was only steps away. The crowd jostled him, brushing against the case he gripped so tightly. No smell of snakes in this tired, shuffling crowd.

  The station entrance was before him now, a stairway and a door. Down into the dark he went, into the distant sound of underground trains and the scent of humanity in drafty corridors.

  And the crowd of workers returning home closed around him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Copyright © 2005 by John Phillip Olsen.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Rocket for the Republic by Lou Antonelli

  A Short Story

  Lou Antonelli is a native of Massachusetts who moved to Texas twenty years ago. He has been a newspaperman ever since. Lou took up writing science fiction as a middle-aged whim in 2002 and has since been published in Andromeda Spaceways In-Flight Magazine, RevolutionSF, Bewildering Stories, Surprising Stories, and other magazines. His first story for us is either a tall tale or a wry account of...

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  "Well, I cain't believe you found me, way out here! I was only joshing when I told the old boys at the feed store you could come out and see me. Damn, you're determined, ain't you?

  "I know I ain't got no telephone. At my age, I don't need no one bothering me, anyhows. Still, I gotta give you credit for coming way on out here. You just doubled the population of Science Hill, or what's left of it. Which is me.

  "Yep, I'm the birthday boy. Done reached a hundred. I guess that's why you drove all the way out here. Well, I'd be inhospitable if I sent you home without at least visiting with you. We can sit right out here on the porch on this swing seat, just set your dispatch case over there on top the railing.

  "What's that picture in there? Oh, that's a magazine. Right pretty picture. Is that a rocket ship? You read science fiction, eh? Kinda like Jules Verne and Mr. Wells? Interesting.

  "Ah know you came out to talk to some old fool who just happened to reach a hundred years old. Well, Mr. Editor, how about I give you a real story? I've never done told anyone about this before, but maybe it's about damn time.

  "Would you believe I rode in a rocket once? Yep, and it wasn't on TV. No, it was a lot longer ago than that. A lot longer.

  "If'n you promise not to interrupt me, I'll tell you the whole story. I don't want no questions, because a lot of what I'll say won't make any sense until I finish. Agreed? Good."

  * * * *

  "I was already an old man when this happened. I was a widower then. I had married late, when I was twenty. That was in ‘23. We married in Tennessee and came out here with the impresario Hayden Edwards in ‘28. We had a little one, but she weren't but a year old when we all came down with Yellow Fever in ‘30. I pulled through but my wife and the baby didn't.

  "We lived in Nacogdoches, but after that I didn't feel like keeping the farm up. So I sold it and went to hire myself out. There was talk that ferry men were needed on the Trinity River. Settlers were beginning to make their way up to Dallas. I went to live at the ferry landing on the road between Nacogdoches and Waco.

  "One day I went out hunting. When I came back, the other men said Jim Bowie had come through. He was heading toward San Antonio de Bexar, where a gang of Texians were fixin’ to mix it up with the Napoleon of the West. Some of them went with Bowie.

  "After he cleaned them all out, Santa Anna began a march, like he was going to clean us all the hell out of the province, too. People got the word and scooted out without their hats and bonnets. It was called the Runaway Scrape. I had holed up at the crossing. I figured someone needed to run the ferry, whether it was for Texians or Mexicans.

  "Thing was, I guess that great ol’ Second Napoleon got cocky and Gen. Houston caught him napping with his arm around his yellow rose. That was at San Jacinto Bayou. That's when Texas became a republic.

  "None of the other ferrymen ever came back from the War for Independence. I guess they must have got themselves kilt. I pretty much kept up things with the help of a few hangers-on, and worked my hams raw for a good four years. Then one day a regular damn procession came down the coach road from Nacogdoches.

  "There was a fine coach and seven wagons, some of the biggest wagons I had ever seen. This fellow who sounded like a limey said they weighed five to ten tons each. I just burst out laughing and told them there weren't no way that sorry little ferryboat could haul any of them, and I asked him where the hell he was going. He said he didn't quite know.

  "He was a nice fellow, talked to me right respectful. He said he was a ‘scientist'—first time I had ever heard that word—and he needed to find a place away from any cities where he could work with his engines and apparatuses.

  "I knew a farmstead that had been abandoned since the Runaway Scrape. I told him he didn't need to go no further, I knew a place he could probably have for naught if he bothered to go back to Nacogdoches and register the deed.

  "He looked at my pissant ferry and across the Trinity bottoms and said it sounded like a good idea. I took them to where the farm was.

  "The teamsters left all the wagons, and rode back to Louisiana. The gentleman asked me to get up a work crew for a barn raising and I did. I got men from the ferry landing, as well from Corsicana and Tyler, and we went to sawing and pegging the largest barn we could put together. It only took a week.

  "He paid everyone in new U.S. silver, and afterward asked me if I would stay and help him at his labber-ra-tory. He'd always been civil to me, and I couldn't see hows working for him could be worse than pulling a ferry.

  "His name was Mr. Seaton. I think his Christian name was Robert, but I always called him Mr. Seaton. He was a real British gentlemen, always talked to me polite and never cussed at me.

  "Mr. Seaton told me he knew the men in England who were working on the steam railroad. There were no railroads in the Republic then.

  "He said he thought the railroads would be dirty and hateful, with steel rails running across the land and the steam engines putting out soot and cinders. He had a better idea, he said.

  "The first time he said he thought people could travel between cities by air, I thought for sure he meant balloons. But he said he wanted to make a rocket, just like the ones they used in the Army at night, but large enough to hold people, and shoot them between cities.

  "Of course, I thought that sounded like the biggest fool idea I ever heard, but when he explained it and made some drawings on paper, I actually began to believe him. He said the Congreve Rockets like they used in the British artillery could travel for miles, and if a rocket was bigger, it could go farther. If it was big enough to carry people, it could go hundreds of miles.

  "Instead of locomotives running past you putting out soot and cinders, these rockets would just fly over your head. Nobody would notice them. And they could go from city to city in minutes instead of hours.

  "The biggest problem would be a soft landing, but he had designed a set of silk canopies—I guess you call them parachutes today—that would loose and let the rocket drift down like a leaf. He sounded mighty reasonable.

  "He got together his engines and equipment in the East Coast, but he figgered setting off rockets would spook the neighbors.

  "He thought he'd find the empty space he needed and set up his workshop here in Texas, and as large as the Republic was, it could use his service more than anyone.

  "Those wagons he brought all the way from New Orleans, they had all the steel plate and boilers and engines he needed to make his rocket. And I helped him put it all together.

  "Mostly, I did a lot of riveting. The winter of ‘40 I kept the doors of the barn open because of the heat as I stoked the coal and pounded those rivets. Mr. Seaton was real good with drawing and explaining his drawings and so I was able to rivet and screw everything together, although I didn't the hell understand half of it. He had a steam engine that squeezed air and could make it liquid. I saw him make liquid air and put it in a silvered glass bottle. He said good
old gunpowder wouldn't cut the mustard to shoot such a large rocket. But he said when you mixed the liquid air and alcohol and lit ‘em, it would burn like hell. Did, too, the time he showed me.

  "Mr. Seaton never left the place and worked all hours of the day. I would go to Athens every so often and get supplies. He pretty much had brought everything he needed for the rocket ship. There was plenty of wood for his steam engine, and of course I knew how to use a still to make alcohol.

  "It took nearly two whole years, but by the spring of ‘42 the rocket's nose was out a hole in the barn's roof. It had vanes on the bottom propping it up on the ground.

  "When he thought we were ready to try the rocket, we moved the equipment to the farmhouse and put it up safe.

  "He had a setup in the rocket where he would sit on a seat and turn a wheel that moved the vanes on the bottom, so he could steer as it shot up. He had a second seat in front of a big mica window, maybe six inches around, where I could sit and tell him what I saw. We had belts and buckles and straps all around that we could use to tie ourselves down so we wouldn't go bouncing around like inside a biscuit tin.

  "When we were ready for the big test, I have to say, I was scared, but after being with him all that time, I couldn't let him down. So I just gritted my teeth and prayed Jesus to come down safe.

  "Mr. Seaton pumped gallons of alcohol in one side of the rocket and gallons of that freezing liquid air in the other side. Then we climbed a few bales of hay and lashed ourselves inside.

  "He had some kind of battery set-up to make the spark to set off the stuff, and when he threw the lever, my heart just about stopped. But we didn't explode!

  "The rocket rumbled and shook. When I looked out the window I didn't see the barn, but I did see the trees getting smaller. It felt like lead in my chest, and I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I could see the trees like the birds see them, and I knew we were rising up. I looked over to Mr. Seaton and he had a big smile on his face.

  "After a few minutes the pain in my chest let up a little, but I saw Mr. Seaton beginning to frown. I saw he couldn't turn the wheel, and he was cussing himself—that was the only time I ever heard him cuss. I think the problem was the rocket was moving so fast the wind was pushing too hard on those vanes at the end and he couldn't turn them.