Complete Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by James H. Schmitz

  Dasinger turned away towards the wall where he had put down the little steel case with the loot of the Dosey Asteroids robbery.

  Behind him, Duomart screamed.

  He spun back to her, his face white. “What’s the matter?”

  Duomart was staring wide-eyed past him towards the instrument console, the back of one hand to her mouth. “That . . . the thing!”

  “Thing?”

  “Big . . . yellow . . . wet . . . ugh! It’s ducked behind the console, Dasinger! It’s lurking there!”

  “Oh!” Dasinger said, relaxing. He smiled. “That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about . . . are you crazy?”

  “Not in the least. I thought you were for a second, but it’s very simple. You’ve worked off the kwil and now you’re in the hangover period. You get hallucinations then, just as I usually do. For the next eight or nine hours, you’ll be seeing odd things around from time to time. So what? They’re not real.”

  “ALL right, they’re not real, but they seem real enough while they’re around,” Duomart said. “I don’t want to see them.” She caught her breath and her hand flew up to her mouth again. “Dasinger, please, don’t you have something that will put me back to sleep till I’m past the hangover too?”

  Dasinger reflected. “One of Doc Egavine’s hypno sprays will do it. I know enough of the mumbo jumbo to send you to dreamland for another ten hours.” He smiled evilly. “Of course, you realize that means you’re putting yourself completely in my power.”

  Duomart’s eyes narrowed for an instant. She considered him, grinned. “I’ll risk it,” she said.

  THE END

  1962

  AN INCIDENT ON ROUTE 12

  He was already a thief, prepared to steal again. He didn’t know that he himself was only booty!

  PHIL Garfield was thirty miles south of the little town of Redmon on Route Twelve when he was startled by a series of sharp, clanking noises. They came from under the Packard’s hood.

  The car immediately began to lose speed. Garfield jammed down the accelerator, had a sense of sick helplessness at the complete lack of response from the motor. The Packard rolled on, getting rid of its momentum, and came to a stop.

  Phil Garfield swore shakily. He checked his watch, switched off the headlights and climbed out into the dark road. A delay of even half an hour here might be disastrous. It was past midnight, and he had another hundred and ten miles to cover to reach the small private airfield where Madge waited for him and the thirty thousand dollars in the suitcase on the Packard’s front seat.

  If he didn’t make it before daylight . . .

  He thought of the bank guard. The man had made a clumsy play at being a hero, and that had set off the fool woman who’d run screaming into their line of fire. One dead. Perhaps two. Garfield hadn’t stopped to look at an evening paper.

  But he knew they were hunting for him.

  He glanced up and down the road. No other headlights in sight at the moment, no light from a building showing on the forested hills. He reached back into the car and brought out the suitcase, his gun, a big flashlight and the box of shells which had been standing beside the suitcase. He broke the box open, shoved a handful of shells and the .38 into his coat pocket, then took suitcase and flashlight over to the shoulder of the road and set them down.

  There was no point in groping about under the Packard’s hood. When it came to mechanics, Phil Garfield was a moron and well aware of it. The car was useless to him now . . . except as bait.

  But as bait it might be very useful.

  Should he leave it standing where it was? No, Garfield decided. To anybody driving past it would merely suggest a necking party, or a drunk sleeping off his load before continuing home. He might have to wait an hour or more before someone decided to stop. He didn’t have the time. He reached in through the window, hauled the top of the steering wheel towards him and put his weight against the rear window frame.

  The Packard began to move slowly backwards at a slant across the road. In a minute or two he had it in position. Not blocking the road entirely, which would arouse immediate suspicion, but angled across it, lights out, empty, both front doors open and inviting a passerby’s investigation.

  Garfield carried the suitcase and flashlight across the right-hand shoulder of the road and moved up among the trees and undergrowth of the slope above the shoulder. Placing the suitcase between the bushes, he brought out the .38, clicked the safety off and stood waiting.

  Some ten minutes later, a set of headlights appeared speeding up Route Twelve from the direction of Redmon. Phil Garfield went down on one knee before he came within range of the lights. Now he was completely concealed by the vegetation.

  The car slowed as it approached, braking nearly to a stop sixty feet from the stalled Packard. There were several people inside it; Garfield heard voices, then a woman’s loud laugh. The driver tapped his horn inquiringly twice, moved the car slowly forward. As the headlights went past him, Garfield got to his feet among the bushes, took a step down towards the road, raising the gun.

  Then he caught the distant gleam of a second set of headlights approaching from Redmon. He swore under his breath and dropped back out of sight. The car below him reached the Packard, edged cautiously around it, rolled on with a sudden roar of acceleration.

  THE second car stopped when still a hundred yards away, the Packard caught in the motionless glare of its lights. Garfield heard the steady purring of a powerful motor.

  For almost a minute, nothing else happened. Then the car came gliding smoothly on, stopped again no more than thirty feet to Garfield’s left. He could see it now through the screening bushes—a big job, a long, low four-door sedan. The motor continued to purr. After a moment, a door on the far side of the car opened and slammed shut.

  A man walked quickly out into the beam of the headlights and started towards the Packard.

  Phil Garfield rose from his crouching position, the .38 in his right hand, flashlight in his left. If the driver was alone, the thing was now cinched! But if there was somebody else in the car, somebody capable of fast, decisive action, a slip in the next ten seconds might cost him the sedan, and quite probably his freedom and life. Garfield lined up the .38’s sights steadily on the center of the approaching man’s head. He let his breath out slowly as the fellow came level with him in the road and squeezed off one shot.

  Instantly he went bounding down the slope to the road. The bullet had flung the man sideways to the pavement. Garfield darted past him to the left, crossed the beam of the headlights, and was in darkness again on the far side of the road, snapping on his flashlight as he sprinted up to the car.

  The motor hummed quietly on. The flashlight showed the seats empty. Garfield dropped the light, jerked both doors open in turn, gun pointing into the car’s interior. Then he stood still for a moment, weak and almost dizzy with relief.

  There was no one inside. The sedan was his.

  The man he had shot through the head lay face down on the road, his hat flung a dozen feet away from him. Route Twelve still stretched out in dark silence to east and west. There should be time enough to clean up the job before anyone else came along. Garfield brought the suitcase down and put it on the front seat of the sedan, then started back to get his victim off the road and out of sight. He scaled the man’s hat into the bushes, bent down, grasped the ankles and started to haul him towards the left side of the road where the ground dropped off sharply beyond the shoulder.

  The body made a high, squealing sound and began to writhe violently.

  SHOCKED, Garfield dropped the legs and hurriedly took the gun from his pocket, moving back a step. The squealing noise rose in intensity as the wounded man quickly flopped over twice like a struggling fish, arms and legs sawing about with startling energy. Garfield clicked off the safety, pumped three shots into his victim’s back.

  The grisly squeals ended abruptly. The body continued to jerk for another s
econd or two, then lay still.

  Garfield shoved the gun back into his pocket. The unexpected interruption had unnerved him; his hands shook as he reached down again for the stranger’s ankles. Then he jerked his hands back, and straightened up, staring.

  From the side of the man’s chest, a few inches below the right arm, something like a thick black stick, three feet long, protruded now through the material of the coat.

  It shone, gleaming wetly, in the light from the car. Even in that first uncomprehending instant, something in its appearance brought a surge of sick disgust to Garfield’s throat. Then the stick bent slowly halfway down its length, forming a sharp angle, and its tip opened into what could have been three blunt, black claws which scrabbled clumsily against the pavement. Very faintly, the squealing began again, and the body’s back arched up as if another sticklike arm were pushing desperately against the ground beneath it.

  Garfield acted in a blur of horror. He emptied the .38 into the thing at his feet almost without realizing he was doing it. Then, dropping the gun, he seized one of the ankles, ran backwards to the shoulder of the road, dragging the body behind him.

  In the darkness at the edge of the shoulder, he let go of it, stepped around to the other side and with two frantically savage kicks sent the body plunging over the shoulder and down the steep slope beyond. He heard it crash through the bushes for some seconds, then stop. He turned, and ran back to the sedan, scooping up his gun as he went past. He scrambled into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut behind him.

  His hands shook violently on the steering wheel as he pressed down the accelerator. The motor roared into life and the big car surged forward. He edged it past the Packard, cursing aloud in horrified shock, jammed down the accelerator and went flashing up Route Twelve, darkness racing beside and behind him.

  WHAT had it been? Something that wore what seemed to be a man’s body like a suit of clothes, moving the body as a man moves, driving a man’s car . . . roach-armed, roach-legged itself!

  Garfield drew a long, shuddering breath. Then, as he slowed for a curve, there was a spark of reddish light in the rear-view mirror.

  He stared at the spark for an instant, braked the car to a stop, rolled down the window and looked back.

  Far behind him along Route Twelve, a fire burned. Approximately at the point where the Packard had stalled out, where something had gone rolling off the road into the bushes . . .

  Something, Garfield added mentally, that found fiery automatic destruction when death came to it, so that its secrets would remain unrevealed.

  But for him the fire meant the end of a nightmare. He rolled the window up, took out a cigarette, lit it, and pressed the accelerator . . .

  In incredulous fright, he felt the nose of the car tilt upwards, headlights sweeping up from the road into the trees.

  Then the headlights winked out. Beyond the windshield, dark tree branches floated down towards him, the night sky beyond. He reached frantically for the door handle.

  A steel wrench clamped silently about each of his arms, drawing them in against his sides, immobilizing them there. Garfield gasped, looked up at the mirror and saw a pair of faintly gleaming red eyes watching him from the rear of the car. Two of the things . . . the second one stood behind him out of sight, holding him. They’d been in what had seemed to be the trunk compartment. And they had come out.

  The eyes in the mirror vanished. A moist, black roach-arm reached over the back of the seat beside Garfield, picked up the cigarette he had dropped, extinguished it with rather horribly human motions, then took up Garfield’s gun and drew back out of sight.

  He expected a shot, but none came.

  One doesn’t fire a bullet through the suit one intends to wear . . .

  It wasn’t until that thought occurred to him that tough Phil Garfield began to scream. He was still screaming minutes later when, beyond the windshield, the spaceship floated into view among the stars.

  SWIFT COMPLETION

  Beginning with Monday of that week, George Redfern—a healthy, athletic, but thwarted and frustrated young man—had been trying to maneuver his wife into a situation which would leave him an unimplicated widower. There was nothing haphazard about George’s efforts. His preparations had been thorough; he had worked out not one scheme but several, including alternate steps he might take if, through no fault of his own, something should threaten to go wrong.

  Now, around noon on Friday, George stood at the top of the flight of stairs in the Redfern’s suburban residence, moodily watching Martha Redfern adjust a silk scarf about her shapely neck before a mirror in the entry hall below. None of his plans, somehow, appeared to be getting anywhere. Was his wife simply enjoying a remarkable run of good luck, or had she actually gained an inkling of what was in his mind?

  “George?” Martha said abruptly without turning her gaze from the mirror.

  George gave an involuntary start. He hadn’t realized she knew he was watching. “Yes?” he replied. Martha took some envelopes from the mirror stand and held them up.

  “I’m afraid I forgot to stamp these,” she told him. “The stamps are in the top left-hand corner of my desk in the study, George. I’ll need six. Be waiting for you down by the car, dear.”

  She slipped the letters into her purse and went through the French doors to the terrace. Silently obedient, George started along the upstairs hall to the study. Martha was a member of the State Legislature, now running for her second term; the study resembled an elegantly equipped business office, and Martha used it as her office when she was at home. This morning, her secretary, Joanne Brown, had not been in, and she had taken care of her mail herself. A portable typewriter and a wire basket with carbon copies of the letters she had written, stood on her desk. Catching sight of the letters, George glanced back towards the hall, then picked the letters up to look them over.

  The one on top was addressed to a Mr. Donald H. Spurgeon—Martha’s Uncle Don—of Spurgeon & Sanders, Attorneys at Law. It was marked PERSONAL. George read the first two sentences and felt the blood drain suddenly from his face. He gulped, and sat dizzily down at the desk, clutching the letter in his hand. Then, after inhaling deeply several times to compose himself, he smoothed the letter out, and hastily read through it, his feeling of incredulous shock increasing as he approached the end. It read:

  Dear Uncle Don:

  This letter is intended only for your confidential information. I am convinced that George has given up hope of getting his hands on any appreciable part of my money while I am alive, so he is now planning to do away with me. He would then be free to devote his attention to Cynthia Haley, of whom he has, I am sure, become enamored.

  With elections coming up in a few weeks, you will readily see how awkward it would be for me to make an open issue of the matter. In this district, George’s social background and personal good looks represent important assets. I cannot afford to give them up, particularly not during the present difficult campaign.

  I foresee no great difficulty, however, in dealing with the situation on a personal level, and intend to take no other steps at this time. If, on the other hand, George should happen to succeed in his schemes, I want him to be punished. In the event of my death, this letter will open the question of his guilt. No more should be required. His motivations will be easy to establish; and, in any case, as you will agree, George has not the character to face a determined investigator for five minutes without going into a state of panic and convicting himself.

  I intend to drive to the beach this evening—leaving George at home—and shall spend the weekend at the Hamilton Hotel to rest up for the final campaign flurries. If you wish, you can reach me at the hotel by telephone in the morning.

  Your affectionate niece,

  MARTHA

  George sat staring at the damning missive in complete consternation. It was immediately clear that Martha had sent him back after the stamps with the purpose of having him read it. Once that letter was in the mails t
o Uncle Donald Spurgeon—a dry-voiced, cold-eyed individual whom George found frightening even under ordinary circumstances—he wouldn’t dare to lift a finger against her. And that, of course, was exactly what Martha meant when she wrote of ‘handling the situation on a personal level.’

  George’s mind went racing through the few possibilities left open to him. If he could prevent Martha from mailing the letter . . . one of his schemes for her disposal involved that simple but effective instrument, a homemade sap. The sap was in his coat pocket; and the area about the garage was screened by hedges and trees from neighbors and passersby. So, assuming Martha was waiting by the car as she’d said. . . .

  George puckered his lips thoughtfully. It was a possibility—nothing he could count on; but if Martha gave him the chance to rap her on the head in the next two or three minutes, he could proceed from there directly to the Alternate Plan 4 or 5. However, he was certain that she would now be very much on her guard against some desperate move on his part until she knew that the letter actually had been mailed, and that George was also aware of that. The confounded little gun she’d started carrying around during the week was almost certainly inside her purse at the moment. And even discounting the gun, a single feminine scream arising from the Redfern garden would be ruinous. . . . No, if a good opening presented itself, he would be prepared to make instant use of it; but that was all he dared to do.

  Then there was something else he might be able to do. . . .

  George quickly rolled an envelope into the typewriter, put Martha’s return address on it, and addressed it to Donald H. Spurgeon. After a moment’s reflection added PERSONAL in the lower left-hand corner, where Martha would have placed it, brought out a blank piece of letter paper, folded it, shoved it into the envelope and sealed the envelope.

  That wasn’t too bad, he thought. It would be preferable, of course, if no letter at all arrived in Uncle Don’s office. But if, after Martha’s death, George reluctantly admitted to having noticed signs of increasing mental and emotional instability in his wife during the past few months, her mailing of a letter with no message on it would provide corroborating evidence. Again, it was questionable whether Martha would give him a chance to switch the letter for the one in her purse. But again, too, if the opportunity came, he would be ready for it.