Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “And don’t forget,” Wilhimena thrust herself into his pleasant dreams, “I still have another wish.” She glared at him scornfully and Wilbur would have sworn that her eyes actually glittered like they’re reported doing in fiction.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” she said deliberately, “but before I make my wish there are a few things I want to tell you. First I want to tell you how much I despise you. How much your beaten, insignificant, frightened little mind disgusts me. Then I want to tell you that I’ve laughed at you for years and I’ve enjoyed brow-beating you because I knew you never had the courage to talk back. You’re a despicable, revolting little worm, Wilbur Wunch, and I had to tell you that before I left you for good.”

  “Leave me?” Wilbur gasped.

  “Do you think I’m fool enough to stay now that I have money?” Wilhimena demanded ruthlessly. “I’ve got the money I need and here’s my last wish.” She stood before him a picture of incarnate rage and triumph—thin, bitter, mean, cruel and scornful.

  “I wish,” she said spitefully, “that I’d never met you, Wilbur Wunch.” Wilbur opened his mouth, but before he could speak a blinding flash shot through the room and then all hell seemed to explode in his face.

  Before everything went black he had a kaleidoscopic image of the room whirling dizzily, Wilhimena’s lean features a mask of fright and amazement, and then the entire flashing picture merged into reeling fathomless blackness . . .

  WILBUR WUNCH had braced himself against the incredible, blinding shock that had assailed him. Braced himself, while bunching his hands into tight knots. But then, miraculously, the roaring had faded, the room seemed to be regaining balance. And Wilbur opened his eyes.

  Everything was quiet, everything was beautiful, but—the realization struck him with the suddenness and force of blackjack in a dark alley—everything was totally changed!

  Wilbur Wunch was no longer in the modest living room of his home! He was in a strange, luxurious apartment.

  Dazedly, semi-hysterically, he looked wildly about. A thousand fears battled for admission to his mind. There was no Wilhimena in this apartment, and even the clothes he was wearing were not the drab garments that usually concealed his slight frame.

  Then, looking down, Wilbur realized for the first time that he clutched a cocktail glass in his hand and that he stood—clad in a red velvet dressing gown—before a duplex, super-tone radio.

  Understanding broke on Wilbur like the sun beaming suddenly through gray clouds. He smiled and squared his shoulders and tasted the drink in the glass he held in his hand.

  It was delightful. He took another sip and his smile widened until he was chuckling merrily. He laughed out loud. It was a good, ringing laugh and it echoed cheerily through the sumptuous apartment.

  Wilbur laughed until his sides ached, until he collapsed on the soft sofa, doubled up with the gleeful mirth that coursed through him. He didn’t stop until the tears streamed down his cheeks and he sat up too weak to laugh any more.

  It was glorious. And the most glorious part of it was the fact that Wilhimena had caused this wonderful change.

  For her last spiteful wish had been that she had never met him. And what was more important she had gotten her wish!

  For here he was—Wilbur Wunch, Bachelor. Wilbur Wunch, who had never met Wilhimena Wunch. A free, different Wilbur Wunch, who enjoyed the same delights and advantages that one Joe Bloddget enjoyed.

  But that was not why he laughed until he was weak. It was Wilhimena and her loss of the million dollars that made him laugh. For if she had never met him she could never have wished and never received the money. Oh, it was glorious.

  He sank back into the sofa and picked up his glass. Through the high windows of his glorious new apartment he could see a myriad stars winking down at him, friendly and cheerful.

  He winked back. “You said I was going to be lucky,” he chortled, “and buddies you sure gave me the jackpot.”

  Then he started laughing all over again.

  That astrology stuff was okay!

  [*] Astrology is not regarded generally as a true science, but as a pseudo science. Many people believe the stars do have an influence on events, and science itself does not deny that this may be the case. Certainly powerful radiations are emanated by all super-heated bodies, such as the stars are, and conceivably, they may effect our bodies and minds, and in that manner, events. However, cold bodies, like the planets, on which astrology is largely based, cannot affect us that way, and the powers attributed to them are largely mythical, and not to be confused with the science of astronomy.

  KILLER’S TURNABOUT

  First published in the April 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Rick Terrence had a perfect plot to murder Kurt Van Dorf, but what he didn’t know is that Kurt had a perfect plan too . . .

  RICK TERRENCE climbed into his heavy lead metal fibre spacesuit and pulled long flexible metallic gloves over his already covered hands. He lifted a heavy lead helmet from an open locker built into the wall of the tiny space ship; but before clamping it over his head he turned to the other occupant of the ship a curious smile playing over his heavy, dark features.

  “It isn’t necessary for me to remind you, my dear Kurt,” he said smoothly, “that we’re in this together. We both have blood on our hands and if we don’t hang together we’ll certainly hang separately.” His faint smile widened displaying chalk white teeth and outlining his jutted jaw more clearly. “Which is my little way,” he went on, “of informing you that I won’t stand for any funny business. Not that I don’t trust you and all that but I think we should understand each other.” Kurt Van Dorf’s lean face remained impassive but his eyes were watchful and wary. “I understand you,” he said slowly, “you’re not the most subtle person in the world, y’know.”

  “Fine,” Rick smiled, “I just wanted to be sure you did.” He waved his heavily gloved hand in mock salute. “Toodle oo, old chap; back in ten minutes.” Clamping the space-oxygen helmet over his head he opened the door of the ship and stepped into the air chamber. A minute or so later Kurt heard the outer air chamber door close with a muffled bang.

  Moving swiftly, Kurt crossed to a heavily lead-glass glazed window and peered after his partner’s heavy figure until he saw it disappear into one of the shallow craters that dimpled the ragged surface of the tiny asteroid.

  Then he looked at his watch. Ten minutes to work. A cruel gloating smile touched his lips. More than enough time for the job he had in mind. What was it Rick had said? They both had blood on their hands; that was it. In a few more minutes, Kurt thought with grim amusement, he’d have more blood on his hands. The blood of his partner and associate in crime, Rick Terrence, to be exact.

  Turning from the window he crossed to a work bench, reached under it and drew forth a small slender cylinder. It looked harmless enough, he thought cynically, but it was filled with a deadly poison gas, odorless and colorless. It was part of the careful, deliberate scheme he had worked out weeks ago. It paid to be careful when there were millions of dollars in the balance.

  He and Rick had been laboratory assistants to the old, internationally renowned chemist and physicist, Percy Berkshire. They discovered one day in clearing out some of his files that he had figured out the exact location of an asteroid abounding in free radium. For a moment they had stared silently at the papers and then Rick had looked up and smiled. His curious, mirthless smile.

  “Good deal of money—and power—here,” he’d said casually.

  Kurt had nodded, his brain working swiftly. There was money and power in this knowledge. Money and power he intended to be his alone.

  “The old man.” Rick’s voice had been almost lazy, “would never stand for exploitation. He probably intends to give these figures and data to the Government.”

  “Be a pity,” he’d observed casually, “if anything happened to dear Professor Berkshire, wouldn’t it?”

  From that moment on they had plotted the old scientist�
�s death. In the end it had been ridiculously easy. They both knew of his weak heart and one day in the laboratory Kurt had lured him close to an open conduit on a generator and Rick had “accidentally” stumbled into him, knocking his frail old figure across the live wire.

  The coroner’s report had read: “Heart attack resulting from accidental electrocution.”

  FOR a week or so Rick and he had separated until the slight furor caused by the scientist’s death had subsided and then they got together and made their plans for the trip to the isolated asteroid of radium.

  When they reached it they discovered that the old scientist had been right. If anything, he had been too conservative in his estimate of the amount of free radium existing there.

  Radium—by the ton. Its value was beyond computation. They had loaded their lead storage compartments with pound after pound of pure radium and this was just the start. More trips would follow but, Kurt thought exultantly, Rick would not be along. Rick was going to die, swiftly, painlessly, silently, never knowing what had happened to him. And the money and power represented by the radium asteroid would belong solely to Kurt Van Dorf.

  He was close now to the realization of his dream. So close that his heart hammered painfully with anticipation and his tongue was raw and dry in his mouth.

  He crossed to a divan built against the wall and tucked the cylinder of poison gas beneath one of the leather pillows. He sat down next to it, his breath coming fast. Only one more step and his plan would be complete. He waited for several minutes, calming his jumpy nerves, and then he heard the outer door of the air lock open.

  In a few more seconds the ship door swung inward and Rick’s awkward, helmeted figure moved into the ship.

  Kurt watched him closely as he stripped off his gloves, removed his helmet and space suit. If he suspected anything—

  “Well,” he asked casually, “did you find anything changed?”

  Rick hung up his space suit before replying, “I don’t know.” He was frowning. “I came across some bare stretches about fifty yards from the ship that I don’t think we noticed before. It may be that the radium is only an outer crust surrounding an ordinary silica core. I think you’d better take a look-see at them.”

  It was the opportunity for which Kurt had been waiting.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said, “right away.” His hand slipped under the pillow, twisted the valve on the cylinder, until he could feel the gas escaping against his finger. He stood up then, crossed to the locker and brought forth his space suit. It would take several minutes for the gas to fill the ship but he wasn’t taking any chances. He was getting out as soon as he could. He knew how swift and deadly the gas was. One or two deep breaths was about all a man could stand.

  He climbed hurriedly into his space suit, pulled on his metal gloves and moved to the door. He saw that Rick was in the observation room bending over a chart, his finger’s tracing one of the dotted space routes. Kurt smiled cynically. The poor fool was planning a trip he’d never make. In just about two more minutes the gas would be biting into his lungs, destroying Rick Terrence forever.

  “So long,” he called, careful to hold his breath. To himself he laughed: “Forever, you chump.”

  Rick turned from the charts and waved a hand. “Good bye,” he smiled. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  He continued to smile as Kurt stepped through the door but when the outer air lock door slammed, his expression faded to one of cynical contempt. “I’ll be seeing you,” he repeated savagely, “but it’ll be in hell.”

  HE wheeled then to the chart, made a calculation, set two gauges, and then shoved a throttle bar forward.

  “So long,” he shouted exultantly over the hum of the rocket exhausts. “I’ll be back for you Kurt Van Dorf—in six months.” He reached for the contact lever then, and for the first time noticed that his hand was trembling. He clenched his fist tightly and then he became aware of the peculiar lightness in his head and the sudden weakness in his knees.

  He sagged against the control board and laughed as he thought of Kurt.

  “Damn you,” he screamed, “You’re all alone, d’you understand? All alone because I’m leaving you all alone to die. All alone with a million tons of radium. My radium d’you hear? All mine, all mine.”

  He pulled himself erect, a giddy, sickening laugh bubbling in his throat. Everything was so funny—and black.

  He fumbled blindly for the contact lever. He had to get away. Had to get away right now. His fingers closed on the lever and with his last remaining strength he shoved it into position.

  The ship shuddered violently as energy contact was made and Rick stumbled against the chart board. He teetered blindly for an instant and then he crashed to the floor, a rushing wave of blackness enveloping him.

  The next instant the space ship took off with a hissing roar and seconds later it disappeared into the void, an arcing shower of sparks trailing its wake.

  THE FATE OF ASTEROID 13[*]

  First published in the May 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.

  When Philip Trent, Federation agent, went to Asteroid 13 to investigate a rumor, he nosed into plenty trouble!

  PHILIP TRENT, Federation agent, peered closely at the large photographic visi-screen erected before the controls of his trimly efficient space patrol ship.

  Asteroid 13 was coming into mooring range.

  Trent, alone in the small space craft, threw a lever and the repulsion rockets set up their rhythmic racket, decelerating the light-like velocity of the ship to mooring speed.

  Asteroid 13, member of a tiny group off Venus, was due for its annual Federation check-up.

  Trent picked up a televised report marked, ASTEROID 13 and glanced at it. Nothing very unusual. Abounded in Pelysium, the metal essential to all space craft construction; owned outright by a Venusian combine; and—last notation—mining foreman killed last week. Details vague. Something to check on.

  Trent tossed the report to one side and set the automatic mooring apparatus. He looked more like a scientist or a chart keeper than a member of the toughest and most efficient law enforcement body the universe had ever known—the Federation Police. He was of average height, with pleasant features and thick brown hair. He never seemed to be in much of a hurry and because of this some people had made the unfortunate mistake of assuming he couldn’t move fast. Because he was slow moving and slow speaking he attracted little attention. However men usually gave a second glance to his heavy, sloping shoulders and women usually noticed his deep, imperturbable brown eyes.

  13 was visible now, an oblong asteroid, a hundred miles or so in diameter. Trent sighted the tiny mooring tower and set his controls . . .

  Minutes later he was standing on the flaky soil of Asteroid 13. At the base of the mooring tower a half dozen chrome-alloy buildings had been erected. Trent noticed, with slight surprise, another space ship, a tiny single seater, set in a ground catapult. He noticed one other thing. A heavy wire fence had been erected around the mooring tower, the ground catapult and the small cluster of chromealloy buildings. It isolated a tiny section of the asteroid, making an exclusive island of it.

  He heard a sound then from the space ship on the ground. He turned as a man climbed from the small air lock door and advanced toward him.

  “My name is Hawkett,” the man said, “Fred Hawkett. In charge of 13. We ain’t partial to trespassers I might tell you. So whatever you got on your mind get it off quick.”

  Trent’s jaw tightened slightly.

  “You’re talking to the Federation now, friend,” he said softly, “so talk a little less loudly. I’m here for a check-up. So make up your mind to be accommodating.” Hawkett smiled insolently.

  “Sure I’ll fix you up. Why didn’t you just say who you were?”

  “Okay, forget it,” Trent said. “First, what about the mining foreman who was killed here? I want the facts on that and a few other things.”

  His eyes roved about the tiny fenced-in enclosure speculatively
. The set-up puzzled him. Through the fence he could see some of the open surface of the asteroid. As far as the eye could reach, mining equipment was visible, the presence of the worked-out shafts marked by the huge metal lids that clamped over them.

  Trent rubbed his jaw and looked at Hawkett more closely. The man was a huge, barrel-chested specimen with dark, heavy features. His eyes were peculiar. Arrogant and yet—at the same time—there was wariness and uneasiness in his expression.

  “What about the foreman?” Trent asked. Hawkett shrugged.

  “Cave in. He was going buggy anyway so it’s just as well. Maybe he wandered into a dangerous tunnel on purpose. Who knows?”

  “That’s a lie, Fred Hawkett,” a voice said behind them.

  HAWKETT wheeled at the sound, his face going white with rage. Trent turned and saw a tall dark-haired girl standing close to the outside of the fence, a scornful expression curling her red lips. She wore rough, frayed breeches, knee high boots and white shirt open at the neck; but even these simple clothes could not completely conceal the lovely femininity of her slender form.

  “I told you to keep away from here,” Hawkett said harshly, “now clear out.” He advanced toward her, his heavy shoulders hunched angrily. “You hear me? Get out!”

  The girl’s chin rose slightly.

  “Not as long as you intend to lie about my father. His death was no accident. He was deliberately killed because he was trying to save the workers and the women and children who had come here to work because they trusted him.”

  Hawkett’s fist closed over an electric gun jammed in his belt.

  “Do you get back to the mines,” he grated, “or do I bum a hole through your arm?”

  The girl’s mouth went white at the corners but her eyes swung scornfully to Philip Trent.