Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Maybe they’ll get us,” Scuzzi said, “but they’ll get you, too!”

  “Oh, I think not,” the Joker said.

  Scuzzi tried to take aim at him, but the Joker was invisible in the clouds of yellow smoke. Then Scuzzi saw a sight he wouldn’t have believed possible.

  The great square of canvas, with the Joker in the middle of it, had suddenly drawn together. As he watched, incredulously, he saw the entire mass, the canvas, the treasure, the Joker within, drawn straight up in the air.

  For a moment he thought his eyes were failing him. Then, looking straight up, he saw, almost invisible in the gloom, a small dirigible. It had come down low over the Vatican, a free-swinging hook catching the ropes that bound the treasure, and now it was being drawn straight up into the air.

  “I’ll get you!” Scuzzi screamed. “I’ll get you! Boys! Shoot down that blimp!”

  But the mafiosi were having their own troubles. Shots from the carabinieri had already decimated their ranks. Scuzzi saw that he was going to have a lot of trouble saving himself. He rushed toward the exit, straight into the arms of a waiting group of policemen.

  “What about him?” he asked the lieutenant of police who put the cuffs on him.

  “Him? Who do you mean?”

  “The Joker, you idiot! He’s making off with the treasure!”

  The lieutenant looked up in the direction Scuzzi was pointing, saw the great canvas bag swing into the air. Before he could call his men’s attention to it, it was gone.

  The pilot of the dirigible let the lighter-than-air craft steer itself while he guided the canvas load onto a platform beneath the operator’s cupola. The Joker stepped out and made the load secure, then joined the pilot in his compartment.

  “Thanks, Chang,” the Joker said.

  The pilot removed his goggles, showing his Mongolian features and thin moustache. He grinned at the Joker.

  “Went good, didn’t it?”

  The dirigible continued north to Germany, piloted by Chang, personal pilot to one of the Joker’s friends, Fu Yu, the Mongolian warlord with whom he had made a deal earlier. So careful had the Joker been of this operation that he hadn’t wanted to use a European. Fu Yu had been amenable to a deal, and had had one of his air units stationed in Albania, part of a complex deal he had been putting together.

  Assisted by the dirigible’s powerful pusher engines, they were back over Germany before daylight.

  As the dirigible hovered, the Joker said, “I’ve already put aside the art treasures I promised your master. You can look them over and see that everything is correct.” The Mongolian pilot shrugged. “If you say OK, is OK You’d have to be crazier than I think you are to doublecross my master. He isn’t soft like those mafiosi.”

  “I didn’t double-cross them, Chang,” the Joker said. “They double-crossed me. I just happened to have an ace up my sleeve.”

  “You called the cops on them.”

  “Precisely. Because I knew they were going to doublecross me.”

  “But what would you have done if they hadn’t doublecrossed you?”

  “I would have figured out some way to get them out,” the Joker said. “I’m an honest criminal, at least that’s what everyone says. You can put me down here. My chalet is right down there.”

  “You’ve got it,” Chang said.

  “My regards to General Fu Yu,” the Joker said. “Thank you, Joker,” Chang said. “I will tell him.”

  Before dawn brought curiosity-seekers, the Joker was able to put the treasure away in the spare bedroom of his rented chalet. He stacked the paintings carefully. Some of those Michelangelos and Raphaels were priceless; or so the wealthy South American collectors who had contracted with him had told him. This done, he showered and changed, and looked over the casket of treasures. He selected one particularly nice piece—a genuine Cellini, to judge by the long wavy lines on the side the brooch. It was a magnificent piece, a sculpture of a sea horse done in amber and covered in precious stones. Smiling to himself he slipped it into his pocket. Next he needed a few hours’ sleep. But the excitement was too high in him to permit him to rest for long. Instead he took a drug that had been specially developed for him by a black-market genius. It gave great clarity and intellectual acumen and wiped away the effects of sleeplessness. The only trouble with it was that repeated use tended to rot the brain stem and send a person into delirium tremors. The Joker thought it was a small price to pay for feeling good.

  Now that he had the treasure safely stored away in his chalet, the Joker had but to complete his arrangements to get it out of Europe, to the wealthy and unscrupulous men who had contracted with him for it. He could still remember the oily smile of old Soao Goncales, in his planter’s white drill uniform, with the bullwhip in the pant loops instead of a belt. “These paintings will serve me well,” he had told the Joker. You have seen my house here in the outback. It is very fine, no? With paintings on the wall, my new bride Miriam Da Silva, whom I imported from Portugal, will have something to look at during the day when I am away sweating the rubber planters to keep up their pace.” And the other planters had felt the same way, too. They were a long way from civilization, far even from the dubious thrills of Manaus on the Amazon. With these treasures they could at least play at being European grandees. And since they had the price, the Joker was willing to oblige.

  The Joker was well content with himself. As evening approached he telephoned the hotel and made a reservation for two. He had been unable to get Petra out of his mind. Few women had ever affected him so deeply. Looking at her, he could conjure for himself a life beyond crime, a life lived with a beautiful blonde wife whose tastes seemed so clearly to coincide with his.

  But what did she think of him? That was still unanswered. He would learn that this evening.

  He put the Cellini brooch in his pocket, first wrapping it in a piece of Kleenex to keep from scratching it. He then dressed carefully in his green tuxedo, brushed back his dark green hair, grinned at himself in the mirror, and walked over to the hotel.

  Petra was glorious in an off-the-shoulder, silver lamé evening gown. The waiters did not have to be told to bring the strange American his favorite hamburger steak. And this time, wonder of wonders, Herr Gerstner had managed to find a bottle of genuine American ketchup! And, remembering what he had read of American dietary habits, he had caused to be cooked a quantity of onions with the hamburger steak. Petra looked on fondly as the Joker gorged, murmuring, “Eat, eat, my green-haired wolf.” It was about as domestic a scene as the Joker had known in quite some time.

  Later, the orchestra played Viennese waltzes. Though the Joker was not much of a dancer, he managed to galumph around the floor in credible fashion. When they sat down again, over chilled champagne, he thought the time was right to give her the present.

  “I have something for you, Petra,” he said. He took the brooch out of his pocket and handed it to her. She peeled back the Kleenex and exclaimed when she saw what lay within it.

  “But my dear Joker!” she exclaimed. “It is perfectly splendid. The workmanship is very fine.”

  “It’s a genuine Cellini,” the Joker said. “You can tell by those wavy lines on the side. Do you like it?”

  “Ach, but I adore it! And what shall I give you in return? She leaned toward him, bosom heaving against the silver material of her dress. “Perhaps a kiss, yes?”

  “That’s always good for openers,” the Joker said. She made an expression of mock dismay and tapped him on the arm with a forefinger. “Oh, but you are naughty! We have punishments for naughty boys! Would you like me to punish you?”

  “We’ll get to who does what to whom a little later, the Joker said. “Listen, Petra, all fooling aside, I’m crazy about you. You’ve got class and breeding. You’re sophisticated, beautiful. And I am the master criminal of this age, and perhaps any age. Don’t you think we would make a nice couple?”

  “Herr Joker, what are you suggesting?” There was a hint of amusement in her c
orn-blue eyes, and a hint of intrigue as well.

  “I want you to go away with me,” the Joker said. “Come with me to America. Or maybe South America would be better. I’m rich now.” He gestured at her brooch. “There’s plenty more where that came from. We could start a new life together in Rio.”

  “Rio!” she murmured, and there was the scent of hibiscus in her voice.

  “Sure, Rio, why not?” the Joker said. “A new place for us both. What do you think?”

  She looked at him, then at the brooch. Her eyes fondled the ornament while her fingers stroked his arm. “You tempt me very much! But it is impossible.”

  “Why?” the Joker asked. “It’s my green hair, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all! I love your appearance! I would love to run away with you, and to live with you in a tropical paradise far from the concerns of old Europe. But it cannot be.”

  “So why?”

  “Because there is a war on. Much as I care for you, I care yet more, greater, for the Fatherland.”

  “The Fatherland,” the Joker mused. “I suppose you are referring to Germany?”

  “I am speaking,” she said, “of our glorious Third Reich and its great leader, Adolf Hitler!”

  She raised her voice when she said this, and several diners at nearby tables automatically said, “Seig Heil!” She let the Joker accompany her to the door of her suite. But no further.

  “It is not because I don’t want to, dear Joker,” she said at the door, her voice husky. “But I could not trust myself with a man such as you. And it must not be. It is written in the stars that I am to belong to one who does a great deed for the Fatherland.”

  “You’re sure of that, huh?” the Joker said.

  “Yes, I am. Hitler’s own astrologer, Herr Otto Obermeier, read the cards and told me so.”

  That gave the Joker quite a lot to think about. In the morning, he telephoned Obermeier in his Munich apartment and got an appointment for that afternoon.

  Munich was adazzle with Nazi flags. Armored columns filled the streets. Hitler Youth marched on the broad boulevards. The famous beer halls were filled with soldiers. The Joker went to Obermeier’s address and instructed his chauffeur to pick him up soon after. He rang the bell and climbed the three flights of stairs of Obermeier’s atelier.

  Obermeier answered the door himself. Despite being Hitler’s astrologer, he lived modestly, ploughing back all his earnings into a great project. He was convinced that Frederick Barbarossa and his knights still lived somewhere in a deep ice cavern under a river in Germany. When not prognosticating the future, Obermeier went off on expeditions to find the lost cave of Barbarossa. This used up a lot of his earnings. More went to maintain his daily diet of paté de foie gras and champagne, which his physician, Dr. Faustus, had prescribed for him as the only diet for visionaries. Obermeier was short and round and pink, with albino-white hair and thin reddish eyebrows. He was overjoyed at the Joker’s visit.

  “I am your greatest fan!” he declared, ushering the Joker into his living room. “I follow all of your exploits, Herr Joker, and I have told the Führer more than once that if Germany had a regiment of men such as yourself the war would soon be over.”

  “Even a platoon would help,” the Joker said. “But it’s tough; there’s only me and none like me.”

  They talked idle talk for a while. The Joker expressed his gratitude for the letter Obermeier had sent him. It had opened many doors for him in Germany. Their talk turned inevitably to the war. Obermeier was vehement in his objection to the slow course it was taking.

  “Look at our lightning victories in Norway, Denmark, Poland! We have the mightiest war machine the world has ever known. All Europe stands ready to fall at our feet. Our thousand-year Reich is ready to take over. But what are the generals doing? They sit timidly behind the defenses of the Siegfried Line, waiting. Hitler has the right instinct. He wants to attack through the Ardennes, throw his troops through Belgium. It is the Schiefflin Plan, which almost won the First World War for us. It would be bound to win the Second.”

  “And why is this plan not put into action?” the Joker asked.

  Obermeier shrugged and made a comical-sad face. “It is the conservatism of the generals. Although the Fuhrer has supreme power, yet he still listens to those bemedaled idiots. I try to advise him, but although he listens to me, he still waits and hangs fire.”

  “You’re pretty sure this plan would succeed?” the Joker asked, studying the map which Obermeier had opened in front of him.

  “Certain of it! And the man who convinced Hitler of it would be a hero of the Reich.”

  “Is that a fact?” the Joker said. “Let’s just go over the whole plan once more . . .”

  The Brownshirt rally had been a great success. Adolf Hitler had stood on the little balcony on the third floor of the Chancellery in Berlin and harangued the crowd for the better part of four hours, often repeating himself for greater emphasis. Now, as the applause died down and then rose again, he came in from the balcony, wiping his brow with a large handkerchief. Although it was a cool day, he was perspiring. These speeches took it out of a man.

  He threw himself into an armchair, moodily pushing back the fold of dark hair that had become his trademark. Then he looked up abruptly. He suddenly knew, with a sixth sense that rarely failed him, that he was not alone in the room.

  “Who iss dass?” he asked, his voice harsh.

  There was a movement to one side of him. A tall figure in clown’s costume stepped out from behind a drapery. The man had green hair, red lips, a dead-white face. He was grinning—a horrible rictus of a smile that stretched his face from ear to ear.

  “Hi, there,” the Joker said brightly, stepping out into the middle of the room.

  “It iss dass Joker!” Hitler exclaimed. “Herr Obermeier told me that you were in Germany and wanted to see me. I agreed. But this is not the usual channels . . .”

  “No, it’s not,” the Joker said. “You’ve heard of me. right?”

  “Of course!” Hitler said. “I love the way you constantly confound that beefy Batman and his catamite boyfriend Robin! I follow all your exploits! It is a pleasure to meet you, even if the circumstances are unorthodox.”

  “Unorthodoxy is what is needed to fight a war,” the Joker said.

  “Exactly what I have told my generals,” Hitler said. “But they just snicker and say, “Leave the fighting to us, mein Führer; war is for professional men.’ ”

  “But you know better than that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “And I know it, too,” the Joker said. “Listen, Adolf, I’ve been studying this Shuffling Plan—”

  “You mean the Schiefflin Plan,” Hitler said.

  Hitler seemed almost mesmerized by the tall grinning figure. He followed as the Joker led him to the desk. Taking a large map out from his cape, the Joker unfurled it.

  “Now look here. This shows present positions. Don’t worry about how I got this! Your secrets are safe with me! Now then, look, you’ve got Manfred’s divisions here and here, and Von Rundstedt is sitting on his ass over here near the Swiss border, and Keitel is larking around in front of the Maginot Line. Well, why not pull them all out, except for Keitel near the Swiss border. He can make a diversion, make them think you’re going to hit elsewhere. But you take all these guys, and the motorized panzers, and push them straight through here.” The Joker’s gloved hand came down hard on Belgium and Holland.

  “It is what I want to do,” Hitler said, almost in a whisper. “But if it goes wrong . . .”

  “Adolf,” the Joker said, “I’ve been doing stuff like this for quite a while. I’ve got something to tell you.

  “I’m listening,” Hitler said. “But can I get you a drink?”

  “Later. For now, pay attention.” You have to put your mind into an outrageous scheme and then do it without looking back. You got me?”

  “Yes, yes, it is what I want to do. But the generals—”


  “Who rules Germany? You or the generals?”

  Hitler looked up. His eyes were on fire. His hands trembled as he seized the Joker’s hands in both of his and shook them fervently. “Joker, I’ll do it! This is too big for generals to sit back advising caution. I would probably have done it anyhow. But you have convinced me that now is the time. Joker, how may I reward you?”

  “Just scratch a few words on a piece of paper telling what I’ve done for you and for Germany,” the Joker said. “I want to show it to my girlfriend.”

  On May 9, the Joker visited Hitler again to make sure that the Fuhrer had everything straight. Hitler was glad to see him. He had been haranguing his generals and setting up the new plan. There were a few details he was unsure of, however. The Joker was able to clear these up for him. On the Joker’s advice, Bock’s army group B was combined into two armies rather than its former unwieldy three. The detached army, the 18th under General George van Kuchler, was detailed to attack the Netherlands. Runstedt’s army advanced on May 10. They were on a broad front between the middle Meuse and the Moselle. They drove forward with forty-six divisions, seven of which were armored. On the Joker’s insistence, they were backed by twenty-seven divisions. While they were preparing for the attack, Von Leeb’s army group C, composed of two armies, threatened an attack on the Maginot Line, thus pinning down large numbers of French troops.

  Von Runstedt’s forces rumbled forward in the blitzkrieg. It brushed aside the weak Belgian resistance in the Ardennes and fought through two understrength French armies still equipped with horse cavalry.

  Hitler didn’t like to have the Joker around his headquarters because the man’s crazy smile unnerved his staff, and there was always the fear that the generals would think their leader too much under the influence of an American crazy. The Joker grinned when Hitler told him this, saying, “Hey, I know when I’m not wanted,” and took up residence at the Princeknacht, the best hotel in Berlin at that time. There he had a direct line to Hitler, who also picked up all his bills.