Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I don’t like doing this,” Ryan said, breathing hard. He was ready to blow wide apart from the tangled pressures inside him. He didn’t want to hurt her. He had liked her looks, liked the toughness and spunkiness about her, but she was standing between him and that nameless little man who had started all the trouble.

  SHE RAISED herself to the tips of her sandals, straining against the pain in her shoulder.

  Ryan removed his hand from her mouth. “He’s upstairs, isn’t he?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Okay, let’s go up!”

  “You’re the one who beat him up yesterday, aren’t you?” she said softly. “You’re a big hero, a real tough guy.” She was crying now, bitterly and silently. The tears fell on Ryan’s hand, which was close to her face, ready to clamp across her mouth if she tried to scream. He jerked his hand away as if the tears were drops of molten lead, and rubbed it savagely against the fabric of his overcoat. It reminded him of something evil and repulsive, of his ritual of washing his hands after he’d struck a man . . .

  “Stop it, damn you,” he said, releasing her arm. “I—I didn’t mean it. But I’ve got to get this guy.”

  “All right, you can get him,” she said, in a weary lifeless voice. “That’s the trouble with this whole dirty mess. Guys like you are always right, and guys like him never have a chance. I’ll take you up, big man. I hope they give you back your gun and badge, and have a mile-long parade in your honor.”

  “I’m doing my job,” Ryan said desperately. “Now let’s go . . .”

  She opened the door of a third-floor apartment and snapped on a light. The small, neatly furnished room was empty. “It’s me, Mr. Smith—Linda,” she called out, and an instant later a door opened and a little man appeared, blinking slightly in the light, and looking as bewildered and lost as he had the night before. He smiled at Linda, tentatively, and then he looked at Ryan and began to nod his head slowly.

  “I thought you would find me,” he said, spacing the words out slowly and carefully. “I hoped so, at least.”

  The scene wasn’t as Ryan had imagined it would be, and he felt the stirrings of an immense and defeating confusion. “I’m taking you in,” he said. “Your little game is over, friend. This time we’ll find out all about you, don’t worry.”

  The girl sat down slowly, lifelessly, on the edge of the sofa and put her hands over her face. “He made me bring him here,” she said in a muffled voice. Ryan saw her thin shoulders begin to shake, and that sight hurt him in a place he had never suspected existed.

  “Yes, I know he did, Linda,” the little man said, looking down on her with compassion. “Please don’t worry about it.”

  “You ready to go?” Ryan snapped. He had to break this mood of indecision, of paralyzing, unexplainable weakness.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, come on.”

  The little man smiled. “But I’m not going with you. I’m going home.”

  “Very funny,” Ryan said. “You got a great sense of humor. Now, do you come on your two feet, or do I clout you one and carry you in like a sack of potatoes.”

  “I am going home,” the little man said.

  RYAN MOVED toward him slowly, his big hands swinging heavily at his sides, and then, as he was ready to leap, he heard a sound behind him, the sound of a closing door, and he turned quickly, frowning, and stared at a big man with a broken nose and deep-set glittering eyes. The man held a gun in his right hand and his broad back was blocking the closed door.

  “Hiya, Ryan?” the big man said. Ryan knew the man. His name was Myers and he worked for Donello in West Philly.

  “Don’t make a mistake, Myers,” Ryan said. “This is police business. Clear your tail out of here.”

  “I been following you,” Myers said. “Donello thought you might lead us to this character. Donello’s smart, ain’t he?” Myers glanced at the little man with the silvery hair. “Come on, chum. Step over this way. The boss wants a talk with you.”

  The little man didn’t move. He regarded Myers with puzzled eyes. A muscle worked along Myers’ jaw. “Do as I’m telling you,” he said softly.

  “What do you want him for?” Ryan said.

  “I don’t want him, Donello does,” Myers said in the same soft voice. “Lots of big people are after him, the talk says. Donello wants to know the score, that’s all. Maybe he can strike a trade with the big people, he figures. Maybe. I just take orders. And you’ll be smart if you do too.”

  The little man sighed. His eyes were brighter now, sharper. He waved his hand casually, and the gun dropped from Myers’ hand and struck the carpet with a metallic thud.

  Myers stared at his empty hand with narrowed eyes, and then, cursing, he leaped toward the little man. The little man brought his hand up once more, but quickly this time, and Myers stopped in mid-air, as finally and suddenly as if he had crashed head-long into a brick wall. With a grunt of mingled surprise and pain he slid to the floor and lay still.

  “What’d you do to him?” Ryan cried.

  “He’s not harmed. He’ll be perfectly all right in a few moments.” The little man glanced at Linda. “Now I must be going.”

  “Please don’t, please!” Linda said.

  “It’s no use here, I’m afraid.”

  Ryan wet his lips. “You’re coming with me,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He frowned at the little man, knowing that he faced something he didn’t understand, something outside his experience, beyond his control.

  The little man smiled as if he were reading Ryan’s troubled thoughts. “You know you are powerless,” he said. “I am going home.”

  “Where’s your home?” Ryan said.

  “It’s a place you’ve never heard of, I’m afraid,” the little man said. “Not by the name we call it, at least. We who live there know it as Esiderion.”

  “Esiderion?” Ryan stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  “You know it as the planet Mars,” the little man said.

  “Mars? This is great. This is better than the Berle show.” Ryan laughed at the little man, derisively, mockingly, but the sound was oddly shallow in the small room. The little man regarded him thoughtfully, and under the curious impact of his expression Ryan’s laugh faded and died. He was suddenly furious with himself, with everything. “You’re lying,” he yelled.

  “DON’T TELL him anything, please,” Linda said. “He wouldn’t understand. All he knows is kicking and beating people who are helpless and miserable and can’t fight back.”

  “Why should I lie to you?” the little man asked Ryan, who was staring resentfully at the girl.

  “I don’t know,” Ryan muttered, without taking his eyes from the girl. “You know a hell of a lot that isn’t true,” he said to her, in a puzzled, angry voice. “I don’t—”

  “Oh, shut up, please shut up,” she said wearily. “I don’t want to listen to you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Ryan shouted. “What proof have you got that you’re from Mars?” he said to the little man. The idea, articulated, suddenly seemed wildly preposterous. “I know you’re not, but what kind of a story have you got cooked up, that’s what I want to know.”

  “You want a miracle, eh?” the little man said. “That’s your trouble, I think. Unless the truth is buttressed by something mystical, something incomprehensible, you prefer to believe the truth is a lie. It’s literally too good to be true.”

  “Don’t talk to him,” Linda said. “What’s wrong with him talking to me?” Ryan said.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Linda said. “You’re too dumb, too brutal.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ryan said to the little man in a sullen voice. He would talk, by God, he swore.

  “I came here with the hope that I might be of some use to you,” the little man said. “Your government was most eager to make contact with those of us on Esiderion. Communications were long and difficult. But finally we agreed to send one of us here to help you solve your problems. You do
have problems, of course. Your world is going to blow itself up, of course, unless you change your ways.” The little man sighed. “I was chosen to come here. However, something went wrong, there was some tiny miscalculation, and I missed the spot at which I was to meet the representative of your country. Instead, I arrived where I was found by you and your men.”

  “How are you going to help us?” Ryan said. “You got weapons, bombs, things like that?”

  “No, I have nothing like that for you,” the little man said. “But we have learned to live together in peace. We could show you how to do the same.”

  “This is just a lot of double-talk,” Ryan said.

  Linda stood up and Ryan winced at the anger in her face. “That’s what I knew you’d say, you big babboon,” she said. “ ‘Doubletalk’. Anything you don’t understand is doubletalk. You’re too dumb to be helped.” Tears started at the corners of her eyes. “Here’s a guy who could have helped us,” she said, in a weary, drained voice. “But he’s not going to. He’s leaving us cold. And all because he had to meet a sadistic bum like you. He thinks we’re hopeless. He thinks we’re all like you.”

  Ryan stared at the little man. “You’re clearing out because I knocked you around a little?”

  The little man shrugged. “That’s part of it, I suppose. But the important thing is that I don’t think you can be saved. And I’m not sure you’re worth it anyway.”

  BUT I WAS just doing my job,” Ryan said angrily.

  “You like doing it in the cruellest fashion possible, don’t you?” the little man said gently. “You’re a savage who enjoys and thrills to savagery.” He began to shake his head. “No, I see nothing there to save. I’ll return to Esiderion and report the experiment a failure. We will break off communications with your people and take steps to make sure that it can never again be established. It’s a pity, but—”

  “Look, you’ve got it wrong,” Ryan said stubbornly. “You’re making a bum out of me in this deal because I knocked you around a little.”

  “Do you want him to give you a medal?” Linda said.

  “Shut up,” Ryan snapped, fighting down his anger.

  “Go ahead, get mad,” Linda said: “Knock me around. Twist my arm like you did downstairs.”

  “You hurt her too, of course,” the little man said.

  “She don’t understand, you don’t understand,” Ryan yelled. He had to make them see what he felt, but he couldn’t find the words. He stared at them, hating them, baffled and furious.

  “It’s hopeless,” the little man said. “I must go now.”

  Linda suddenly screamed. Ryan wheeled about and saw the broken-nosed man was sitting up, a gun in his big fist. Myers snarled something and pulled the trigger, but by then Ryan had moved, desperately, instinctively, but aware of a savage delight in the prospect of destruction and violence. He hurled himself to one side, in front of Linda because Myers was firing at her, and his big body spun sideways as a slug smashed into his chest. He struck the floor and rolled toward Myers, fighting the pain under his heart, and the immense weakness flowing through his arms and legs. Nothing sustained him but his rage. The dull red anger was like a powerful stimulant that forced him forward against the tides of pain and blackness that threatened to smother him. Ryan threw himself on Myers as another shot sounded. Powder scalded his cheek but he felt no pain, only the brightness before his eyes. The gun in Myers’ hand twisted, bent backward under Ryan’s weight, and the third shot, squeezed off with the last of Myers’ strength, was the only one which did not strike Ryan. That last shot went downward, into Myers’ heart.

  Ryan heard them talking.

  “He’s dying, isn’t he?” It was the girl’s voice.

  “Yes, he is,” the little man said. The girl began to cry.

  Ryan forced his eyes open, saw the ceiling above him, immensely high, shimmering crazily. He was on his back, his head in the girl’s lap. Her tears fell on his cheek.

  “Cut it out,” he said.

  “You saved her,” the little man said. He was kneeling beside Ryan, staring at him with puzzled eyes. “Why did you do that?”

  “You’re smart, figure it out,” Ryan said.

  “Please. Why did you do it?”

  “Don’t bother me,” Ryan said.

  “Tell him, please tell him,” the girl said.

  It was so damn simple, Ryan thought. What were they excited about? “I had to,” he said, in a slow, patient voice. “He was going to shoot her, so I had to stop him. That’s my job.”

  THEY BOTH leaned closer to him as he spoke, and he knew that was a bad sign. He was barely whispering now; soon he’d begin to choke. Ryan had observed this fatal sequence so often that he had some difficulty realizing that this time he wasn’t a spectator.

  “I don’t understand,” the little man said. “I don’t understand.”

  Ryan tried to laugh. It struck him as funny. “Jeez, you’re real smart,” he said.

  “Why did you strike me? I felt you didn’t want to.”

  “I had to.”

  “But why?”

  They wouldn’t leave him alone. “I got to take care of the good people,” Ryan said. He knew it was about all over, but suddenly he wanted to talk. He experienced a vast sense of release now, and he knew he could make them understand. They were wrong about him, and he would set them straight. “I never wanted to hit anybody,” he said. “But I had to. I had to take care of the good people. I didn’t know any of them, but it was my job to take care of them, you see.” This wasn’t it, he realized sadly. He didn’t know the words that would explain everything simply, inevitably.

  “I’m a bad guy,” he said, trying another tack. “But it was because I was fighting something bad.” That was closer to it, but still not exactly right. Suddenly he was tired of talking. “What the hell,” he said. “It don’t make no difference.”

  “Is he dying?” the girl said again, in a tight, anxious voice.

  “Yes. I was wrong about him, I think. When he struck me I hated him, and that destroyed my judgment. I’d never known hatred, you see, and it’s the one disease that kills all that’s worth while in us. He was a moralist of sorts. But without judgment. He chose the right thing to protect, but he protected it with primitive techniques.”

  “He saved me,” Linda said. “He took those bullets that were meant for me.”

  “That’s true,” the little man. “He had to, you see. You were good, and it was his job to protect you.”

  “You could save him, couldn’t you? You’re smart, you know a lot of things.”

  “Is he worth saving?” the little man said.

  “Go to hell,” Ryan said. He wasn’t taking favors from anyone; but they didn’t hear him.

  “Yes, yes, he is,” Linda said in a low, pleading voice. “I know he’s worth saving. And you’ve got to stay here now. Find those government big-shots and tell them how to make things better here, like you were telling me yesterday.”

  “Yes, I think I’ll stay,” the little man said.

  “And you’ll save him?”

  “Yes, I’ll save him,” the little man from Esiderion said. He glanced at Linda, smiling now. “Don’t worry. I think I’ll save you all.”

  JINN AND TONIC

  First published in the May-June 1953 issue of Fantastic.

  REGGIE VAN ALEXANDER was in an expansive mood as he swung homeward through the cool, starlit darkness of an April’s evening. There was a bounce to his long, lissome frame, a musing smile on his pleasant but undeniably vacant features. He felt so good, in fact, that he started to worry about it; he wasn’t given to introspection, or thought of any kind, as a rule, but tonight he attempted to isolate the factors contributing to his well-being.

  First there had been a topping dinner at the club, and then a fruity conversation with J. Phillpott Forbes, the club crank, who believed that the only solution of the country’s ills lay in the immediate importation of the Indian caste system to America. That had been a h
eady session, since no one at the club normally bothered to talk to Reggie, but it wasn’t enough to explain this state of top-holeness.

  No, there was something else.

  Reggie frowned. He didn’t like mysteries, particularly when their solution was locked away in the vaults of his own mind. Frankly, Reggie didn’t trust his mind. He didn’t even like it very much. Minds were supposed to be alert and helpful. Other chaps discussed theirs in terms of pride and affection. “It just popped into my mind,” they’d say, as if their minds were vigilant outfielders in some cerebral baseball game. But Reggie’s mind was all butterfingers; things slipped away from it, or through it, or else were lost forever in one of its countless drafty pigeon-holes. Reggie suspected that his mind didn’t care about these errors. It was a sloppy mind, without pride or backbone. Frankly, it was a rotter.

  BUT THEN, as Reggie was crossing a particularly nasty intersection, full of charging cars and snorting taxis, his mind rather marvelously decided to play the game. It tossed up an idea for him to see, and instantly Reggie’s frown faded and he began to smile.

  Ah, of course! Sari, the girl he loved, was returning to the city tomorrow morning, and they had planned a breakfast reunion at his apartment.

  “Good old mind,” Reggie said, forgetting his previous unkind thoughts, and he strolled on at an even bouncier pace. His spirits floated in contentment. Tonight there’d been J. Phillpott Forbes talking to him man-to-man about Brahmins and Untouchables, whatever in Heaven they were, and tomorrow he’d see Sari, the girl he loved. This coincidence of rum things was enough to make a chap believe in Providence.

  IT WAS at this precise moment that the ragged little man charged out from a side-street and collided with Reggie’s limber, elegantly clad form.

  “Blimey, it’s Providence,” the ragged little man gasped, as his eyes took in Reggie’s lean foolish face, and the pearl studs glowing in his dress shirt.