The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack

by Robert Silverberg

  “It’s big, isn’t it?” Alis said. She was looking at the Atlantic, which was virtually the only thing left to see except the bright blue sky, a strip of the New England coast, and the circling bomber.

  “It’s going to get bigger,” Don said. “Shall we go across town and take a last look at the States?” He also wanted to see what, if anything, was going on in town.

  “Not the last, I hope. I’d prefer a round trip.”

  An enterprising cab driver opened his door for them. “Special excursion rate to the west end,” he said. “One buck.”

  “You’re on,” Don said. “How’s business?”

  “Not what you’d call booming. No trains to meet. No buses. Hi, Alis. This isn’t one of your father’s brainstorms come to life, is it?”

  “Hi, Chuck,” she said. “I seriously doubt it, though I’m sure you’d never get him to admit it. How are your wife and the boy?”

  “Fine. That boy, he’s got some imagination. He’s digging a hole in the back yard. Last week he told us he was getting close to China. This week it’s Australia. He said at supper last night that they must have heard about this hole and started digging from the other end. They’ve connected up, according to him, and he had quite a conversation with a kangaroo.”

  “A kangaroo?” Don sat up straight.

  “Yeah. You know how kids are. I guess he’s studying Australia in geography.”

  “What did the kangaroo tell your son?”

  The cab driver laughed defensively. “There’s nothing wrong with the boy. He’s just got an active mind.”

  “Of course. When I was a kid I used to talk to bears. But what did he say the kangaroo talked about?”

  “Oh, just crazy stuff—like the kangaroos didn’t like it Down Under any more and were coming up here because it was safer.”

  * * * *

  Later that morning, at about the time Don Cort estimated that Superior had passed the twelve-mile limit—east from the coast, not up—the Superior State Bank was held up.

  A man clearly recognized as Joe Negus, a small-time gambler, and one other man had driven up to the bank in Negus’ flashy Buick convertible. They walked up to the head teller, threatened him with pistols and demanded all the money in all the tills. They stuffed the bills in a sack, got into their car and drove off. They took nothing from the customers and made no attempt to take anything from the vault.

  The fact that they ignored the vault made Don feel better. He thought when he first heard about the robbery that the men might have been after the brief case he’d stored there, which would have meant that he was under suspicion. But apparently the job was a genuine heist, not a cover-up for something else.

  Police Chief Vincent Grande reached the scene half an hour after the criminals left it. His car had frozen up and wouldn’t start. He arrived by taxi, red-faced, fingering the butt of his holstered service automatic.

  Negus and his confederate, identified as a poolroom lounger named Hank Stacy, had gotten away with a hundred thousand dollars.

  “I didn’t know there was that much money in town,” was Grande’s comment on that. While he was asking other questions the telephone rang and someone told the bank president he’d seen Negus and Stacy go into the poolroom. In fact, the robbers’ convertible was parked blatantly in front of the place.

  Grande, looking as if he’d rather be dog catcher, got back into the taxi.

  Joe Negus and Hank Stacy were sitting on opposite sides of a pool table when the police chief got there, dividing the money in three piles. A third man stood by, watching closely. He was Jerry Lynch, a lawyer. He greeted Grande.

  “Morning, Vince,” he said easily. “Come to shoot a little pool?”

  “I’ll shoot some bank robbers if they don’t hand over that money,” Grande said. He had his gun out and looked almost purposeful.

  Negus and Stacy made no attempt to go for their guns, Stacy seemed nervous but Negus went on counting the money without looking up.

  “Is it your money, Vince?” Jerry Lynch asked.

  “You know damn well whose money it is. Now let’s have it.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that,” the lawyer said. “In the first place I wouldn’t want to, thirty-three and a third per cent of it being mine, and in the second place you have no authority.”

  “I’m the chief of police,” Grande said doggedly. “I don’t want to spill any blood—”

  “Don’t flash your badge at me, Vince,” Lynch said. Negus had finished counting the money and the lawyer took one of the piles and put it in various pockets. “I said you had no authority. Bank robbery is a federal offense. Not that I admit there’s been a robbery. But if you suspect a crime it’s your duty to go to the proper authorities. The FBI would be indicated, if you know where they can be reached.”

  “Yeah,” Joe Negus said. “Go take a flying jump for yourself, Chief.”

  “Listen, you cheap crook—”

  “Hardly cheap, Vince,” Lynch said. “And not even a crook, in my professional opinion. Mr. Negus pleads extra-territoriality.”

  * * * *

  That was the start of Superior’s crime wave.

  Somebody broke the plate-glass window of George Tocher’s dry-goods store and got away with blankets, half a dozen overcoats and several sets of woolen underwear.

  A fuel-oil truck disappeared from the street outside of Dabney Brothers’ and was found abandoned in the morning. About nine hundred gallons had been drained out—as if someone had filled his cellar tank and a couple of his neighbors’.

  The back door of the supermarket was forced and somebody made off with a variety of groceries. The missing goods would have just about filled one car.

  Each of these crimes was understandable—Superior’s growing food and fuel shortage and icy temperatures had led a few people to desperation.

  But there were other incidents. Somebody smashed the window at Kimbrough’s Jewelry Store and snatched a display of medium-priced watches.

  Half a dozen young vandals sneaked into the Catholic Church and began toppling statues of the saints. When they were surprised by Father Brian they fled, bombarding him with prayer books. One of the books shattered a stained-glass window depicting Christ dispensing loaves and fishes.

  Somebody started a fire in the movie-house balcony and nearly caused a panic.

  Vincent Grande rushed from place to place, investigating, but rarely learned enough to make an arrest. The situation was becoming unpleasant. Superior had always been a friendly place to live, where everyone knew everyone else, at least to say hello to, but now there was suspicion and fear, not to mention increasing cold and threatened famine.

  Everyone was cheered up, therefore, when Mayor Hector Civek announced a mass meeting in Town Square. Bonfires were lit and the reviewing stand that was used for the annual Founders’ Day parade was hauled out as a speaker’s platform.

  Civek was late. The crowd, bundled up against the cold, was stamping their feet and beginning to shout a bit when he arrived. There was a medium-sized cheer as the mayor climbed to the platform.

  “Fellow citizens,” he began, then stopped to search through his overcoat pockets.

  “Well,” he went on, “I guess I put the speech in an inside pocket and it’s too cold to look for it. I know what it says, anyway.”

  This brought a few laughs. Don Cort stood near the edge of the crowd and watched the people around him. They mostly had a no-nonsense look about them, as if they were not going to be satisfied with more oratory.

  Civek said, “I’m not going to keep you standing in the cold and tell you what you already know—how our food supplies are dwindling, how we’re using up our stocks of coal and fuel oil with no immediate hope of replacement—you know all that.”

  “We sure do, Hector,” somebody called out.

  “Yes; so, as I say, I’m not going to talk about what the problem is. We don’t need words—we need action.”

  He paused as if he expected a cheer,
or applause, but the crowd merely waited for him to go on.

  “If Superior had been hit by a flood or a tornado,” Civek said, “we could look to the Red Cross and the State or Federal Government for help. But we’ve been the victims of a far greater misfortune, torn from the bosom of Mother Earth and flung—”

  “Oh, come on, Hector,” an old woman said. “We’re getting froze.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Potts,” Civek said. “You should be home where it’s warm.”

  “We ran out of coal for the furnace and now we’re running out of logs. Are you going to do something about that?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Mrs. Potts, for you and all the other wonderful people here tonight. We’re going to put a stop to this lawlessness we never had before. We’re going to make Superior a place to be proud of. Superior has changed—risen, you might say, to a new status. We’re more than a town, now. We’re free and separate, not only from Ohio, but from the United States.

  “We’re a sovereign place, a—a sovereignty, and we need new methods to cope with new conditions, to restore law and order, to see that all our subjects—our citizen-subjects—are provided for.”

  The crowd had become hushed as Civek neared his point.

  “To that noble end,” Civek went on, “I dedicate myself, and I take this momentous step and hereby proclaim the existence of the Kingdom of Superior”—he paused to take a deep breath—“and proclaim myself its first King.”

  He stopped. His oratory had carried him to a climax and he didn’t quite know where to go from there. Maybe he expected cheers to carry him over, but none came. There was complete silence except for the crackling of the bonfires.

  But after a moment there was a shuffling of feet and a whispering that grew to a murmur. Then out of the murmur came derisive shouts and catcalls.

  “King Hector the First!” somebody hooted. “Long live the king!”

  The words could have been gratifying but the tone of voice was all wrong.

  “Where’s Hector’s crown?” somebody else cried. “Hey, Jack, did you forget to bring the crown?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I forgot. But I got a rope over on my truck. We could elevate him that way.”

  Jack was obviously joking, but a group of men in another part of the crowd pushed toward the platform. “Yeah,” one of them said, “let’s string him up.”

  A woman at the back of the crowd screamed. Two hairy figures about five feet tall appeared from the darkness. They were kangaroo-like, with long tails. No one tried to stop them, and the creatures reached the platform and pulled Hector down. They placed him between them and, their way clear now, began to hop away.

  Their hops grew longer as they reached the edge of the square. Their leaps had become prodigious as they disappeared in the direction of North Lake, Civek in his heavy coat looking almost like one of them.

  Don Cort couldn’t tell whether the creatures were kidnaping Civek or rescuing him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Hector Civek hadn’t been found by the time Judge Helms’ court convened at 10:00 A.M.

  Joe Negus was there, wearing a new suit and looking confident. His confederate, Hank Stacy, was obviously trying to achieve the same poise but not succeeding. Jerry Lynch, their lawyer, was talking to Ed Clark.

  Don Cort took a seat the editor had saved for him in the front row. Alis Garet came in and sat next to him. “I cut my sociology class,” she told him. “Anybody find His Majesty yet?”

  “No,” Don said. “Who gave him that crackpot idea?”

  “He’s had big ideas ever since he ran for the State Assembly. He got licked then, but this is the first time he’s been kidnaped. Or should it be kanganaped? Poor Hector. I shouldn’t joke about it.”

  Judge Helms, who was really a justice of the peace, came in through a side door and the clerk banged his gavel. But the business of the court did not get under way immediately. Someone burst in from the street and shouted:

  “He’s back! Civek’s back!”

  The people at the rear of the room rushed out to see. In a moment they were crowding back in behind Hector Civek’s grand entrance.

  “Oh, no,” Alis said. “Don’t tell me he made it this time!”

  Civek was wearing the trappings of royalty. He walked with dignity down the aisle, an ermine robe on his shoulders, a crown on his head and a scepter in his right hand.

  He nodded benignly about him. “Good morning, Judge,” he said. To the clerk he said, “Frank, see to our horses, will you?”

  “Horses?” the clerk said, blinking.

  “Our royal coach is without, and the horses need attending to,” Civek said patiently. “You don’t think a king walks, do you?”

  The clerk went out, puzzled. Judge Helms took off his pince-nez and regarded the spectacle of Hector Civek in ermine.

  “What is all this, Hector?” he asked. “You weren’t serious about that king business, were you? Nice to see you back safe, by the way.”

  “We would prefer to be addressed the first time as Your Majesty, Judge,” Civek said. “After that you can call us sir.”

  “Us?” the judge asked. “Somebody with you?”

  “The royal ‘we,’” Civek said. “I see I’ll have to issue a proclamation on the proper forms of address. I mean, we’ll have to. Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it?”

  “Quite a bit,” the judge agreed. “But right now, if you don’t mind, this court is in session and has a case before it. Suppose you make your royal self comfortable and we’ll get on with it—as soon as my clerk is back from attending to the royal horses.”

  The clerk returned and whispered in the judge’s ear. Helms looked at Civek and shook his head. “Six of them, eh? I’ll have a look later. Right now we’ve got a bank robbery case on the calendar.”

  Vincent Grande talked and Jerry Lynch talked and Judge Helms listened and looked up statutes and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Joe Negus cleaned his nails. Hank Stacy bit his.

  Finally the judge said, “I hate to admit this, but I’m afraid I must agree with you, counselor. The alleged crime contravened no local statute, and in the absence of a representative of the Federal Government I must regretfully dismiss the charges.”

  Joe Negus promptly got up and began to walk out.

  “Just a minute there, varlet!”

  It was Hector Civek doing his king bit.

  Negus, who probably had been called everything else in his life, paused and looked over his shoulder.

  “Approach!” Civek thundered.

  “Nuts, Your Kingship,” Negus said. “Nobody stops me now.” But before he got to the door something stopped him in mid-stride.

  Civek had pointed his scepter at Negus in that instant. Negus, stiff as a stop-action photograph, toppled to the floor.

  “Now,” Civek said, motioning to Judge Helms to vacate the bench, “we’ll dispense some royal justice.”

  He sat down, arranging his robes and shifting his heavy crown. “Mr. Counselor Lynch, we take it you represent the defendants?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the lawyer, an adaptable man. “What happened to Negus, sir? Is he dead?”

  “He could have been, if we’d given him another notch. No, he’s just suspended. Let him be an example to anyone else who might incur our royal wrath. Now, counselor, we are familiar enough with the case to render an impartial verdict. We find the defendants guilty of bank robbery.”

  “But Your Majesty,” Lynch said, “bank robbery is not a crime under the laws of Superior. I submit that there has been no crime—inasmuch as the incident occurred after Superior became detached from Earth, and therefore from its laws.”

  “There is the King’s Law,” Civek said. “We decree bank robbery a crime, together with all other offenses against the county, state and country which are not specifically covered in Superior’s statutes.”

  “Retroactively?” Lynch asked.

  “Of course. We will now pronounce s
entence. First, restitution of the money, except for ten per cent to the King’s Bench. Second, indefinite paralysis for Negus. We’ll straighten out his arms and legs so he’ll take up less room. Third, probation for Hank Stacy here, with a warning to him to stay out of bad company. Court’s adjourned.”

  Civek wouldn’t say where he’d got the costume or the coach-and-six or the paralyzing scepter. He refused to say where the two kangaroo-like creatures had taken him. He allowed his ermine to be fingered, holding the scepter out of reach, talked vaguely about better times to come now that Superior was a monarchy, then ordered his coach.

  By royal decree Hank Stacy, who had been inching toward the door, became royal coachman, commanded to serve out his probation in the king’s custody. Stacy drove Civek home. No one seemed to remember who had been at the reins when the coach first appeared.

  CHAPTER IX

  Ed Clark was setting type for an extra when Don and Alis visited his shop.

  King’s in Business, the headline said.

  “You don’t sound like a loyal subject,” Don said.

  “Can’t say I am,” Clark admitted. “Guess I won’t get to be a royal printer.”

  “What’s the story about?” Alis asked. “The splendid triumph of justice in court this morning?”

  “No. Everybody knows all about that already. I’ve got the inside story—what happens next. Just like The New York Times.”

  “Where’d you get it?” Don asked.

  Clark winked. “Like Scotty Reston, I am not at liberty to divulge my sources. Let’s just say it was learned authoritatively.”

  “Well,” Alis said, “what does happen next?”