Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Everything was excellent,” the little red-faced man who called himself Ang-Ar said pleasantly. “It has been many thousands of years since our planet has been disturbed by war and disease and famine. If you will pardon my saying so, you here have not been so fortunate. That, incidentally, is the reason for my visit. We have long felt that we should pass along to the people of Earth some of our scientific developments. However, we have been afraid of disturbing your normal growth and culture. We agreed that it might be better to allow you to solve your problems as we have solved ours. But now that you are engaged in a vast and horrible civil war we feel that we must help those factions which are fighting the ruthless enemies who would crush out human rights forever on this planet.”

  I was a little dazed by the simple and powerful sincerity in Ang-Ar’s quiet voice. The man might be as mad as a hatter, but there was something about him that defied ridicule.

  “So you came down with a secret weapon to help us,” I said weakly.

  “Yes,” Ang-Ar said. “I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed but I knew from my observation of your planet that advertising is one of the principal developments of your civilization. All of your commerce and business is expedited with advertising; so I decided to simply advertise the fact that I had a secret weapon. I have been waiting three days now and I was becoming somewhat discouraged. Do you think I have handled this matter in the correct manner?”

  “Why, of course,” I said reassuringly. “After all, if a man has a secret weapon to dispose of, the obvious thing to do is advertise.”

  Ang-Ar beamed. “I am happy to hear you say that. But I can’t understand why the ad hasn’t brought results. I expected some indication of interest from the Navy or War Departments. I thought they would investigate an offer such as mine immediately.”

  I didn’t know just what to say. This little guy who thought he was a Martian had a peculiar way of setting me back on my heels. His conversation sounded like something that might have originated in a padded cell, but his obvious air of conviction and intelligence was baffling. It was unnerving to hear an apparently rational creature calmly discussing the situation on Mars.

  I shook my head and ran a hand over my forehead.

  “You say the secret weapon is in the closet?” I asked.

  “Well, not exactly,” the little man smiled. “The weapon is on Mars.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, that’s a nice safe place for it.”

  “But I will show it to you,” Ang-Ar said. “It will only take me a few seconds to have it sent here.”

  “Free Rural Delivery, I suppose,” I said. This was getting worse all the time. The gentlemen with the strait jackets should know about this case.

  Ang-Ar stood up and walked to the closet and opened the door.

  “Perhaps you’d like to see this,” he said. “You might find it rather interesting.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  I stepped around beside him and received a definite surprise. There was a small gleaming machine in the closet supported on a metal table. The machine was only about a foot square. The front of it was glass covered and I was able to peer into a small empty compartment. A row of dials was built into the base of the machine and there were four intricate coils on top. I don’t know why but the thing looked impressive. I could see at a glance that it wasn’t something built on a tinkerer’s cellar work bench. The shining metal frame work and the row of rheostats were the creation of a highly skilled machinist equipped with the best of tools. That much was obvious.

  I looked at my little friend with increased respect.

  “This is an elementary device which we perfected many centuries ago,” he explained. “With it we are able to break down the atomic structure of matter and then transfer the electronic units to any spot we desire for reassembly.”

  “In other words this gadget can send solid matter through space,” I said. “It must come in handy at times.”

  “This is one of those times,” Ang-Ar said, a touch of dryness in his voice. “The weapon which I intend to place at the disposal of your government is on Mars. Specifically it is in a machine corresponding to the one you see here. When I signal Mars my colleagues will de-atomize the weapon and flash it across space. We should have it in a very few minutes.”

  “How nice,” I said weakly.

  “It is convenient,” Ang-Ar said placidly. He twisted one of the small black dials to the left. “That’s all there is to it,” he said. “We won’t have long to wait.”

  For the men from the booby hatch, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. To be truthful I was becoming more and more puzzled.

  Ang-Ar made another adjustment with one of the rheostats and then pointed to the glass fronted compartment.

  “Watch now,” he murmured.

  I bent over and peered into the empty compartment. But I suddenly realized it wasn’t empty any more. In the exact center of the enclosure there was a misty line of blue bubbles forming. They hung suspended in the air without any apparent support and with each second they thickened and assumed more definite shape and solidity.

  “What is it?” I demanded. I had my face shoved up to the glass like an inquisitive goldfish and I could see that the object materializing in the case was a slender tube, black in color and about the size of a fountain pen.

  “That is the weapon,” Ang-Ar explained. “Do not be disappointed by its innocuous appearance. I assure you it is quite effective.”

  “What does it do?” I asked. I was getting excited.

  “I shall give you a demonstration,” Ang-Ar said.

  He snapped a switch on the side of the machine, opened the glass door of the small compartment and removed the slender black tube.

  “You will notice,” he said, holding the object up for my inspection, “that there is a switch on one end of the tube. When this is turned on a powerful invisible ray emanates from the barrel end of the weapon. The device is simple enough to be operated by a child but that does not alter its effectiveness.”

  “What kind of a ray is it?”

  “A disintegrating ray, powerful enough to de-atomize any known element.” Ang-Ar replied.

  “Just like Buck Rogers,” I murmured. I was returning to sanity again. For a minute I had been really impressed, but—a disintegrating ray!

  Ang-Ar ignored my facetious comment and picked up a heavy bronze ash tray from his desk.

  “This will do for a demonstration,” he said. “You can see that this metal is solid and durable.” He set it back on the desk and pointed the tube at it. “Now watch closely to what happens when it is exposed to the effect of the ray.”

  He flicked on the switch and nothing happened. There was no blue lights or crackling of energy and there was no apparent effect on the bronze ash tray.

  And I felt more than ever like the city’s supreme chump for wasting this much time listening to the babbling of an out-and-out crack-pot.

  “Something the matter?” I inquired politely.

  Ang-Ar was imperturbable. “No, it takes a few seconds for the ray to reach full strength.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, yawning slightly. “But I’ve got plenty of time. I—”

  “There!” Ang-Ar said.

  I swung my eyes back to the bronze ash tray and a sudden flash of excitement swept over me. The bronze tray was glowing a fiery, cherry red and, as I stared bug-eyed at the spectacle, it suddenly crumbled away into flaky ash. In a second nothing was left, even the white residue of ash dissolving and disappearing.

  “You see,” Ang-Ar said quite calmly, “that’s all there is to it.”

  He flicked off the switch on the slender tube and dropped it into his pocket. He smiled at me. “Are you convinced now? Your scepticism has been quite apparent.”

  I took a deep slow breath. My eyes were still riveted unbelievingly on the spot where the bronze ash tray had rested. I couldn’t quite make myself believe that my eyes were telling the truth. />
  “It’s very remarkable,” I said cautiously. I ran my hand over the surface of the desk. It was uncharred and apparently in no way affected by the blast of energy that had disintegrated the ash tray.

  “No,” Ang-Ar said, “the desk has not been damaged in any way. The weapon has a high degree of control and its ray only acts on the object at which it is directly aimed.”

  I felt somewhat dazed. I couldn’t quite analyze my own feelings. If this thing were on the level it was stupendous, but if it were just a gag—

  “What kind of a ray is created by that weapon?” I asked.

  Ang-Ar smiled. “I don’t mean to sound superior but I am quite sure you wouldn’t be able to understand its principle. But I have blue-prints and complete information on it all typed out and ready to give to the War Department. They should be able to have it in production in several weeks. All the materials necessary for its manufacture exist in abundance on Earth.”

  I was stumped. I didn’t know quite what to believe.

  “As you are a newspaperman,” Ang-Ar said, “perhaps you could publicize my intentions and arrange an interview with the War Department for me. I would appreciate it very much if you would do this.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I’ll write a story on it.” But I didn’t know yet what kind of a story I was going to write.

  “Thank you very much,” Ang-Ar said.

  “Not at all.”

  I shook hands with him and left him standing in the center of the office a pleased little smile on his intelligent red face. Outside in the corridor I walked to the elevator, frowning thoughtfully. A man brushed against me and I noticed, abstractedly, that it was the dark, lean-faced fellow with the black slouch hat whom I’d noticed when I had arrived. But I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts to wonder why he was loitering about.

  I went back to the office and told the chief of the details of the interview. He shoved his green eyeshade back on his forehead and grinned.

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said.

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something to what the guy said. I tell you, chief, I’m not sure that this is just a gag.”

  The chief looked at me in pained surprise.

  “Are you serious?” he demanded. “Do you mean to tell me you think this crackpot actually came from Mars?”

  “No, of course not,” I said irritably, “but what about his weapon? I saw that thing in action and it impressed me. Maybe we should report this to the War Department instead of doing a humorous feature on it.”

  “That would be fine,” the chief snorted. “Can’t you imagine the reception we’d get if we went to the War Department with a yarn like that? Now forget this nonsense and do a yarn on this bug for the next edition.”

  So I shrugged and locked myself in my cubicle, put a fresh sheet of paper into my punch press and went to work. I batted out the story in less than an hour and dropped it on the boss’s desk.

  He read it smiling.

  “This is great,” he chuckled. “This is funny as the devil.”

  I put on my hat. “If it isn’t we’re all going to feel like first class chumps.”

  “Are you still worrying about the fact that this might be on the level?” the chief laughed. “You been working too hard, son, or else the heat’s getting you. Forget about this story and go out and get yourself a nice cold glass of beer. You can put it on your expense account.”

  “Thanks,” I said drily. I walked out of the office and the chief’s idea didn’t seem like a bad one when that sun hit me. I found a comparatively cool dark tavern and stood at the bar sipping a brew and worrying about—of all things—my little red-faced friend who claimed he came from Mars.

  My job was done. I’d gotten the interview, written the story and that was all there was to it. I was a reporter, not a detective or psychiatrist, so what was I worrying about? I had another beer and continued to worry. All right, supposing he did have a powerful weapon? That wasn’t any business of mine. Supposing the War Department was too busy to investigate every crackpot claim, was that my affair?

  Definitely not, I decided, waving for another beer.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, sipping beer and muttering to myself, but finally I picked up my change and walked out into the street.

  It was late in the afternoon and the streets were jammed with secretaries hurrying homeward. The sun was still shining hotly. I waved to a cab and climbed in. I gave the driver the address of the building where I had met the little man from Mars.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea why I was going back to see him. My tongue-in-cheek story on him would be on the streets by this time; maybe he’d seen it already. But some inner compulsion was goading me on.

  I wanted to talk to that little man again and, for some reason, I felt that any delay might be—well—dangerous was the word that popped into my mind but that was ridiculous.

  The driver braked the car to a stop, I paid him and got out. The lobby of the building was deserted and there were several scrubwomen scouring the marble floor with stiff, soapy brushes.

  I pressed the elevator button and waited impatiently until a car appeared. For some unaccountable reason I was becoming more and more jittery.

  When I stepped out of the elevator I strode down the quiet deserted hall toward the office I had visited earlier in the day. The thought had occurred to me that my little chum with the disintegrator ray might have gone home.

  And I wanted to talk to him as soon as possible.

  There was no light visible behind the glazed door of his office but I knocked anyway. My hopes revived as I saw the shadow of a human figure moving inside the room. The shadow grew larger as it approached the door and then the knob turned and I was staring at a tall figure, with a lean frowning face, partially obscured by a black slouch hat.

  “What do you want?” The man’s mouth was a thin slit that seemed to open barely wide enough to let the terse words slip through. His deep shadowed eyes were watching me with hungry intensity.

  I started to reply and then something halted the words. I was staring at the man in the doorway and I suddenly recognized him as the person I’d noticed loitering in the corridor earlier in the afternoon. What was he doing here in this office? That was my first suspicious thought.

  Possibly he noticed my frowning stare because he moved closer to me and his eyes were hard and cold.

  “Well?” he snapped. “What do you want?”

  There was no point in stalling. “I want to see Mark Shean,” I said. “Is he here?”

  “No!” The door started to close.

  “Just a minute,” I said. My temper was beginning to boil. I didn’t like being treated like a magazine salesman. “I had an appointment with him here tonight,” I said, lying glibly. “If he’s not here I’d like to know where I can reach him.”

  “So,” the man in the doorway said softly, “you have an appointment with him, do you?”

  I noticed then that he was studying me closely.

  “You were here this afternoon, weren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said drily. “Popular place, isn’t it?”

  That, for some reason, made him smile, but there was no humor in his wolfish grin. His lips merely flattened against strong white teeth.

  “You recall seeing me here, don’t you?” he said, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels.

  “Yes,” I said. “You were wearing a potted palm behind your ear and carrying a rose-colored fan. You were hard to miss.”

  “Won’t you please come in?” he said. He opened the door and stepped aside.

  I hesitated for an instant, then I stepped past him into the room. There was another man in the office, a heavily built, dull-looking young man with cropped blond hair and unwinking blue eyes.

  Slouch Hat closed the door behind me and smiled at the other man.

  “This gentleman has an appointment with our friend,” he said. “He was here this afternoon and he was so intrigued
that he came back. Isn’t that interesting?”

  The big young man stood up slowly and stared at me, his bovine features devoid of expression. He seemed to be measuring me with his cold eyes.

  “Yes,” he said in a thick voice, “that is very interesting.”

  “I knew you would think so,” Slouch Hat murmured. He turned to me. “Now what was it you wanted to discuss with our—friend?”

  I shrugged, stalling for time. There was something phony here but I couldn’t figure out just what it was. “He wanted to tell me something,” I said. “I haven’t any idea what it was and I fail to see how it’s any of your business.”

  “Now you mustn’t adopt that attitude,” Slouch Hat said, still grinning.

  “You are sure you have no idea what our friend wished to discuss with you? It would be so pleasant if you could remember what it was.”

  “Yes, I have a pretty good idea,” I said.

  My eyes had seen something as Slouch Hat was talking that made an electric shiver of danger along my spine. I was stalling desperately now, groping for anything that would get me out of this office. The closet door was slightly ajar and I could see that the materialization set I had seen demonstrated that afternoon was gone. And I could see that it had been literally jerked out by the roots. Also the carpet of the office was scuffed and wrinkled and I noticed the large blond young man’s collar was open and the button had been torn away.

  Slouch Hat was still watching me carefully.

  “What do you think our friend wanted to discuss with you?” he asked.

  I frowned and looked dumb. “I think it was about the ad he’s been running in the paper. You see I’m in the classified department of the Chronicle. I think he wanted the ad changed. My boss sent me over to see him.”

  “Ah,” Slouch Hat said softly, “so you work for the Washington Chronicle?”

  “Yes, in classified.”

  “That is interesting,” Slouch Hat smiled. “But I’m afraid your trip has been of no avail. We are not expecting our friend back.”