The Eye of Wilbur Mook

by H. B. Hickey

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Karina Aleksandrova and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  [Transcriber's Notes

  1. This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  3. Variations in spelling ("gray" vs. "grey") have been retained as they appear in the original publication.

  2. Obvious misprints were corrected. Full list of corrections made is available at the end.]

  There was a cloud of smoke, a horrid visage, and Mook'slegs grew weak beneath him.]

  The EYE of WILBUR MOOK

  by H. B. HICKEY

  "Wilbur!" his mother called. "Better get up or you'll be late for work!"

  Slowly but surely Wilbur Mook came out of his beautiful dream. And whata dream it was! He had Peter Bellows down and was busily punching hishead. What a dream!

  Then his mother's voice pulled him away from Pete Bellows and draggedhim back to reality. Wilbur opened one eye and looked at the clock onhis bedside table. Its hand said eight o'clock.

  Wilbur flung off the covers and slid his bare feet into lamb's woolbedroom slippers. If he didn't hurry, Wilbur thought, he'd be late towork. At the thought of facing Pete Bellows' angry stare Wilburshuddered. It was all right to dream, but real life was quite anotherthing.

  Quickly, he ran water into the washbowl and washed his hands and face.No time to shower or shave. Running his hand over his chin Wilbur foundhe didn't need a shave anyway. By skipping that operation he could getto the office early.

  When the world's most cowardly man met the world'sbravest--history was changed]

  He took a moment to survey himself in the long mirror on the back ofthe bathroom door. "Every day in every way I am getting better andbetter," Wilbur muttered. Then he heard his mother's footsteps outsidein the hall and he hurried to put on his robe. Just in time he got hishead out of the way as the door swung inward.

  "You look nice this morning," Mrs. Mook said. "Now hurry before yourbreakfast gets cold."

  He did look pretty good, Wilbur admitted to himself as he looked againinto the mirror. At twenty-five his skin was firm and healthy looking,his body straight and neither too thin nor too fat. His reddish-brownhair was free of dandruff, his blue eyes clear.

  Only one thing wrong with the picture. He had the soul of a rabbit. Hewas a coward. There was a tinge of desperation in his voice as he spokeagain to his image in the mirror:

  "Every day in every way I am getting braver and braver."

  Unfortunately it was not true and Wilbur Mook knew it. And the onlyreason he was not growing more timid, Wilbur reflected miserably, wasthat such a thing lay outside the realm of possibility.

  What was even worse was the fact that everyone else knew it too. Itcould not have been more evident had Wilbur carried a sign. The onlything he could say was that his mother loved him anyway. Smallconsolation.

  "Read the paper on the streetcar," she said as she helped him into hiscoat. "And don't run. You know it upsets your stomach when you've justeaten breakfast."

  His breakfast had consisted, as always, of orange juice, one poached eggon toast and warm milk. Anything stronger than warm milk, Mrs. Mook haddiscovered, disturbed Wilbur no end.

  * * * * *

  As he walked to the car Wilbur's mind went back over the dream. That wasthe stuff! And one of these days he was going to make that dream cometrue. Pete Bellows was going to find out a thing or two.

  "Whyncha look where you're goin'?" a shrill voice demanded.

  Wilbur stopped abruptly. In his trance-like state he had stepped on theheel of a twelve-year-old boy bound for school. The boy was glaring athim fiercely and Wilbur cringed.

  "I'm dreadfully sorry," he said, knowing that his face was losing color.

  "Yah!" the boy snarled. "Look where you're goin' and you won't have tobe sorry."

  For a moment Wilbur feared the boy was going to hit him. Then a callcame from down the street as another school-bound lad hove into sight,and the first one promptly forgot about Wilbur.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Wilbur crossed gingerly to the safety islandand waited for his car. When it came he found that all the seats wereoccupied but he discovered a vacant corner at the front and huddledthere.

  Unfolding his paper carefully he scanned the world news and found itdepressing. It always was, Wilbur thought. He turned to the sport pagesfor solace. That too was depressing, for it featured the doings of thosepublic heroes who battered each other to a pulp for profit and applause.

  Not that Wilbur would have been unwilling to attend a prize fight. Noindeed. He would have enjoyed it immensely, except that he could notstand the sight of men beating each other. And the blood! Even thethought of blood made him slightly ill.

  He turned quickly to the want ads. Those were always safe, sometimeseven exciting. Today there was a man who needed a bodyguard. Wilburreflected wistfully that he would have made a fine bodyguard, if onlythings were different.

  Actually he was a writer of greeting-card poetry, and as he swung offthe car his mind was already busy on a poem for Mother's Day. All heneeded was a good last line. So far it went:

  "To the Mother so loving and tender, On this day that is yours alone, Homage I willingly render, Ta ta-ta tum ta ta."

  The last line would come to him, Wilbur knew. It always did. In themeantime he nodded shyly to the elevator starter and found himself aplace at the back of the car. It rose swiftly and his heart pounded.

  What if it should stop suddenly between floors? There was a beautifulgirl standing next to Wilbur and he thought how fear would flood herface. That was the time when a cool and confident voice could avertpanic. But Wilbur was aware that there was more chance that the voicewould be the girl's rather than his.

  His mind went back to the last line of the ditty he had been composing.He almost had it, then it was gone. He bit down on his tongue inconcentration, unaware that he was staring at the girl next to him.

  "My devotion you'll always own," Wilbur murmured.

  "On such short acquaintance?" the girl smiled.

  * * * * *

  Wilbur turned pink, then red. He wanted to tell her he hadn't meant itthat way, and he found himself wishing he had. She was the kind of girlhe sometimes dreamed about, tall and not too thin, with golden hair andgray eyes in which flecks of color danced.

  "I meant my mother," Wilbur managed at last.

  "How sweet. Now would you mind getting out of my way?"

  Wilbur looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk fromthe elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on thedoorknob.

  "I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what hehoped was a gallant gesture.

  There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped.The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment laterPete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door.He was rubbing his head.

  "Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose forthis!"

  "He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said.

  "Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the angerdrained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie andslicked back his oily black hair.

  "You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending,"Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this ismy new secretary."

  "But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled.

  "Oh, you'll do. I just know you will," Bellows told her. "You and I aregoing to
get along just dandy."

  "My shorthand is a little rusty," the girl said.

  "What's a little thing like that?" Bellows laughed, ignoring the factthat he had fired his last secretary because she had misspelled aneight-syllable word.

  But the last secretary had worn thick glasses, Wilbur recalled. Thatwould make a difference to Pete Bellows. He was suddenly aware thatBellows was frowning at him.

  "Get to work, Mook," Bellows said cheerfully. "Mother's Day is coming,you know."

  With what he pretended was a gentle pat on the back Bellows flung Wilburtoward the tiny cubicle he occupied at the rear of the large office.Once Bellows had played tackle on a football team and although he wasbeefier now he was still very strong. Wilbur almost went through thethin partition.

  He bounced off