I was suddenly dizzy. My knees almost buckled as the kid’s words crashed into my brain. Having heard the conversation between Bull Harker and myself, he had believed this entire business was a fake staged for his benefit. Naturally he hadn’t been scared. No wonder that he had behaved like a hero. My mind flashed to his cool amusement, his dauntless daring, his mocking disregard of the Angel’s threat. Those things had been his natural reaction to a situation that he believed phony.
He had just been playing a game, secure in his knowledge that nothing serious was going to happen to him.
I STARED at him incredulously. “So,” I managed to gasp weakly, “you think this is a frame-up?”
“Of course,” he grinned. “I had a hard job to keep from laughing in your face. You tried so hard to convince me that you were really worried that it was pathetic. From start to finish the whole thing was obvious. Even if I hadn’t been tipped off I would have caught on. For one thing this phony electron grenade was a dead giveaway. No one in his right mind would leave one of these lying around. So I knew it was just another one of the props you had planted to frighten the little boy.”
He tossed it carelessly from one hand to the other as he spoke.
“You fool!” I stormed. “Watch what you’re doing. Do you want to be blasted into bits?”
He smiled at my wrath.
“Still carrying on the act, eh?” he said cynically. “Well maybe this will convince you that I’m not worried about a phony grenade.”
He turned and tossed the grenade high in the air.
The Angel and his men broke, screaming madly, and I jerked the kid into the ship with a brutal heave and slammed the door shut.
I was leaping for the control lever when a mighty roar broke like thunder in my ears, and the ship shuddered under a sledge hammer blast. For a second I was too stunned to crawl to my feet.
But I was able to stick one hand up and shove the rocket lever forward. A sputtering crackle sounded behind and, with a giddying rush, the ship rocketed upward into the void.
When I had righted its zooming course and set the controls I turned back to the kid.
He was still lying on the floor, but his eyes were open and there was an expression on his face unlike anything I have ever seen.
“It—it was a real grenade,” he said weakly.
I nodded grimly. If dead men could testify, the Angel and his men would corroborate that.
“Then,” the words trembled on his lips, “the whole thing—kidnaping and all—was on the level. Not a fake?”
I nodded again.
I thought surely he would pass out. His face turned an absolute green as his thoughts flashed backward. It must have been a bad moment for him. But at the core there was good stuff in the kid.
“I’ve been a hopeless fool,” he said shuddering.
“When you get around to admitting it,” I said, “there’s hope for improvement.”
The kid was doing a lot of silent thinking as I set the course for Earth. As we arced through the limitless black expanses of space he said wistfully:
“If I hadn’t thought it was all a fake, if I really had been a hero, Dad would be pretty proud of me, wouldn’t he?”
“You bet,” I said. I was silent for an instant. Then: “We might forget that you overheard a certain conversation. We’ll just both forget that you thought it was all a fake.”
The kid was silent for a long moment. Then he said:
“No I can’t do it. I’m no hero and it would be cheap to try and pretend I was. We’ll tell the truth when we get back.”
I drew a relieved breath. I had been afraid he might have fallen for my bait. He was right. He wasn’t a hero. But I’ll fight any man who says he hasn’t got the makings of one.
[*] This means simply that a set speed of 460 miles per minute was indicated for direct intership contact in space; each ship cutting down to exactly that speed while traveling in a parallel direction, and then cutting in toward each other until contact was established. The signal “460/460” was used to indicate a wish to board a vessel in space.
KIDNAPED INTO THE FUTURE
First published in the February 1942 issue of Amazing Stories.
Sid Hunt hadn’t counted on this act in his Follies of the Future. Not a real machine out of time!
I WAS stretched flat on the stage of the Empire theater trying to get a good candid shot of the big cellophane space ship, when Sid Hunt, the small, volatile producer of Follies of the Future, came storming out of the wings.
He shot one rapid glance about the stage and then clapped both hands to his head despairingly.
“Where is she?” he moaned. “Where is she? She should be on stage now. The curtain goes up in three minutes.” I took the camera away from my face and sat up.
“So will my blood pressure,” I said. “Let me remind you that I was hired as a press agent, not as a combination nurse, stage hand, stooge and crystal ball gazer. How do I know where she is? Did you try her dressing room?”
“No,” Sid Hunt said rather sulkily. “I was going to try the obvious places last.”
“Fine,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Now while you’re looking in back of all the pictures and in all the ashtrays, I’ll try her dressing room and then her apartment. At that you’ll probably have better results.”
But I was wrong. Ruby was in her dressing room for a change, and ready to go on.
“Darling,” I said sweetly. “I don’t want to change any plans you might have made, but the curtain is going up in a few seconds and we’d all appreciate it if you’d put in an appearance for old times’ sake.”
Blissfully ignoring me, she pirouetted before the full length mirror, smiling charmingly at herself.
“Mr. Hunt,” I said patiently, “has just collapsed from nervous prostration. If there’s a streak of Florence Nightingale in you, you won’t keep him on the rack a second longer than necessary.”
“Don’t I look pretty?” she asked, noticing me for the first time.
“Yes,” I said. I couldn’t lie about it. She was supposed to be wearing the Costume Of Tomorrow. If our conception of the next century’s attire is correct, I certainly envy my great-great-grandson. That is if there are girls like Ruby around to wear them.
With her lovely auburn hair and slender, beautifully molded chassis, she would have made the male inhabitants of any century sit up and stare.
I reluctantly transferred my gaze from her more obvious charms to her wide innocent brown eyes.
“Your mascara is running,” I said, “but I doubt if anyone will look up to notice it. That, however, is beside the point. You have, my beautiful bird-brain, exactly twenty-three seconds to take your place before the last curtain call. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Her eyes flew to the small clock on her vanity.
“Oh,” she wailed, “why didn’t somebody tell me?”
Without even a last glance in the mirror she skipped past me and down the corridor.
I SHOOK my head and walked after her, thinking gloomily of the fall on the head I had suffered as a baby. I always felt that it was this misfortune which had led indirectly to my becoming a press agent. For if I hadn’t been dropped on my head I might have grown up with enough common sense to keep out of this bug-house racket.
Muttering to myself like Hamlet I turned a corner and bumped squarely into the nattily attired figure of Dapper Dan Lopez.
“You’re just the man I want to see,” Dapper Dan smiled.
“The feeling is not mutual,” I growled and started off, but he caught my arm. His black eyes were gittering, but the thin smile was still on his lips.
“No sense being hard headed,” he said gently.
I turned and faced him. Dapper Dan was a front man for one of the town’s unwholesome mobsters, Tony Scarlotti, Scarlotti, whose finger was in every lucrative pie in the city, wanted a cut in on the show.
“I told you before,” I said quietly, “that Sid Hunt wants no
part of you or Scarlotti.”
“Hunt has a lot of confidence in you,” Dapper Dan suggested casually. “You might put in a kind word for the boss.” I smiled sweetly.
“Will you crawl back under your damp rock,” I said, “and tell Scarlotti that I wouldn’t recommend him for a job stoking the furnaces of Hades. As for you,” I went on, “if you aren’t out of this theater in four and two-tenths seconds flat I will personally throw you out.”
“Listen sucker,” Dapper Dan barked, “I—”
I grabbed him by the arm, jerked him around and with a hand at his collar and seat, propelled him forcibly toward the door. The watchman scrambled to his feet and jerked open the door as he saw us coming.
With a hearty heave I pitched the twisting, swearing mug into the alley. He hit the cobblestones off balance and sprawled forward onto his face.
“That,” I said to the watchman, “is one of the lower members of the rodent family. If you ever see it scurrying around the premises again, step on it.”
Dapper Dan Lopez crawled to his feet, shouted something quite unprintable in my general direction and then hurried angrily off.
I brushed my hands off, but I still felt as if I needed a good bath with plenty of strong soap to remove the feeling the niftily dressed mobster had left with me.
When I got to the wings and took my usual position alongside Sid Hunt, Ruby was just starting her first song.
I took a quick gander at the audience and saw that they were settling back comfortably to be entertained and thrilled.
IF I do say it myself it was a pretty clever revue, as those things go. The theme was supposedly completely futuristic. The stage backdrop was a mammoth black drape against which blazing discs of light were in relief These discs were tagged Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, etc. In the middle was the brightest and biggest blazer, Old Sol, himself. Against this background cellophane space ships floated idly. It was very pretty.
As props we had huge globular contraptions labeled Time Machines. More atmosphere was provided by papier-mâché atomic cannons, disintegrator guns and such. From there on the show was in no way different than any time-honored Broadway musical.
The chorines were very scantily clad in abbreviated outfits we called Space Suits and they moved through their paces with the good old wiggle that nineteen-forty developed. Maybe it was goofy, but the public ate it up, which may or may not prove anything.
By this time Ruby had finished her first number, a torchy thing called Jupiter Taught Me A Thing Or Two, and was getting an enthusiastic hand.
She curtsied prettily, blowing kisses to the bald-headed cheering section in the first row.
Congratulating myself on the way things were starting out, I turned away for an instant to light a cigarette, and that was when it happened.
“Look!” Sid Hunt hissed, grabbing my arm.
There was such a mixture of shock and amazement in his voice that I wheeled to him quickly.
“What is it?” I snapped.
He was staring onto the stage at Ruby and pointing a trembling excited finger in her direction, too flabbergasted to speak.
I had my eyes off the stage possibly for the space of a few seconds, but when I turned them back I almost swallowed my cigarette.
For in that split second a thick globular machine had materialized on the stage beside Ruby.
“What kind of a gag is this?” Sid Hunt was yelling in my ear. “This isn’t supposed to be in the act. Is this some of your doings, Flannigan?”
I was too shocked to answer. You’d think as long as I’ve been in show business that nothing could surprise me. But I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach by Man O’ War.
The machine was reddish in color and looked somewhat like the props we had scattered about the stage, labeled Time Machines. On top of the strange machine was a mechanism that reminded me of the late model automobile headlights, wired for sound.
Sid Hunt was jerking my arm again.
“Look!” he shrieked. “There’s a man inside!”
He wheeled on me, shaking his fist under my nose.
“This is your work,” he yelled excitedly. “Trying to slip in some act without telling me about it. If it’s a stinker I’ll have you blacklisted from one coast to the other. You won’t be able to get a job in New York, California, Chi—”
“Never mind the travelogue,” I cut in. “I get the general idea. But I don’t know a bit more about this damn thing than you do.”
I turned back to the stage.
THE BOSS had not been kidding when he said a man was inside the machine. I could see him myself, hazily outlined through the glass shell, twisting knobs and gadgets frantically. He had on something that looked like a little boy’s suit.
My eyes flicked to Ruby. She was standing within a few feet of the machine, her gorgeous eyes widening incredulously. I couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was going to laugh or scream.
The audience had stopped applauding and now there was an irritable murmur of impatience running through it. They evidently thought the materialized machine part of the show, and they were a little tired of waiting for something to happen.
Suddenly from the disc on the top of the machine a brilliantly bright flash of orange light streamed, bathing Ruby in its glare. Only the edges of the beam were visible. The rest was like black light.
For an instant she stood stock still, her beautiful body outlined in the dazzling beam. Then she screamed loudly, the way a woman will do seeing a mouse. Not in pain or shock, but merely a cry of outraged surprise.
“Curtain!” yelled Sid Hunt.
Men sprang to obey him. In three seconds the heavy drapes had touched the floor hiding the scene from the audience.
The stage became a confused nightmare as prop men, chorines and stage hands rushed out of the wings to gape at the strange machine. Sid Hunt dashed to the center of the stage shouting directions.
“Get this thing off the stage,” he yelled, to the stagehands. Wheeling to the chorines, he waved his arms wildly, like a farmer shooing chicks.
“Line up,” he shouted. “Get ready for the first act finale. The curtain’s going back up in thirty seconds.”
The machine which had caused the consternation was shoved off the stage into the wings, and a reasonable facsimile of order was restored.
I was right behind Sid Hunt as he bustled up to where the stagehands had shoved the globular machine. He circled it helplessly, a study in baffled rage.
“If this is a gag,” he declared wrathfully, “someone is going to have his sense of humor kicked right in the pants.”
Ruby was peering into the interior of the machine like a curious kitten.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “there’s a man inside!”
“Go to the head of the class,” I said. “We thought it was a tame elephant.”
She laughed gaily.
“Whatever made you think that?” she asked.
“I give up,” I said wearily. “I must be getting old.”
Suddenly all of the chatter ceased as a lid on top of the contraption swung open. A second later a small man popped into sight. He had pleasant though rather grotesque features and small blue eyes that blinked uncertainly.
“Hello,” he said shyly. “What year is this?”
“What year is this?” Sid Hunt exploded, almost dancing in his rage. “I’ll show you what it means to pull corny practical jokes on me.” He wheeled to two burly stage hands, “Drag him down here.”
The face of the occupant of the strange contraption clouded apprehensively.
“Maybe,” he said apologetically, “I’ve made a mistake.”
HE STARTED to retreat back into the depths of the machine, but he was too late. For the husky stagehands had grabbed his arms when he started to move, and with a businesslike efficiency hauled him over the side of the machine onto the floor.
He would have fallen had it not been for their support. Between the two heavy-set stagehands he looked woe
fully small and pathetic. His head came barely to their shoulders, and the absurd, boy scout costume he was wearing, gave him the appearance of a boy caught stealing jam.
But his features were pleasant if not distinguished, and his eyes beamed with a trusting innocence. His attitude was that of a person very puzzled and uncertain, but still unafraid.
Sid Hunt planted himself before him, hands on his hips.
“So,” he shouted, “try and ruin my show with a cheap joke, will you? Who put you up to this?”
The little man from the machine looked carefully behind him to make sure that the explosive question was addressed to him. Assured that it was, he turned back to Sid Hunt, smiling shyly.
“My wife did,” he said.
I wondered how much more of this Sid’s blood pressure could stand. His face was flushed, and the cigar in his mouth was being ground to pieces between his teeth.
“Who is your wife?” Sid asked in a strangling voice, that rose suddenly to a shriek. “And who are you?” he hollered. “Where are you from?”
The little man looked concerned. “I’m 33,” he said, “but—”
“I don’t care how old you are,” Sid Hunt screamed frantically. “Are you going to answer my questions, or would you rather talk to the police?”
The little man smiled, but without much enthusiasm.
“I wasn’t referring to my age,” he said anxiously. “33 is my number, my designation.”
I thought I saw a little light. I tapped the little man on the shoulder, smiling reassuringly.
“Don’t worry,” I said soothingly. “Everything’s going to be all right, Number 33.”
I shot a warning glance at Sid Hunt, then tapped my head meaningly.
“It’s all right,” I said gently. “Now just tell where you escap—I mean, where you came from, and we’ll take care of everything else.”
The little man smiled relievedly. “That’s very good of you,” he said, “because—”
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 68
