The Scifi & Fantasy Collection

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “There’s such a thing as vengeance after death, Tommy.”

  “Sure, but I haven’t met his ghost yet.”

  “Not his ghost, Tommy. It’s those books!”

  Late that night Maizie lay wide awake and apparently sound asleep in the dark of the stateroom berth, fearfully watching Tommy, the king of midget showmen—who did not want his crown—sitting gnomelike at the dressing table, surrounded by a litter of cracked and weighty tomes whose parchment pages were like mummies’ skin in the gloom. The book he was studying was so unwieldy that he had propped it with greasepaint cans to save his arms.

  Maizie wanted badly to weep, to cry out, to plead with him and tell him how much he meant to her, but she lay like some perfect doll, put away and forgotten by a careless child.

  She had been with him for five years on the sawdust trail, and each day she found something new about him. The world pushed so heavily against him, and his tiny body was so frail and his spirit so great that she would have given her very heart to have been a big person and able to defend him.

  To the world of superlative polysyllables and sawdust, Little Tom Little was known for an ace. As a half-pint Punchinello who dared to deride them all, he had gained much fame. None of them knew that the dapper, vest-pocket edition longed for anything but to keep his name properly on the posters. Had they known, they probably would have laughed at him about it. And they would have howled over his ambition to be a ringmaster. But only Maizie knew. Only Maizie had seen him in a deserted tent cracking a long whip around his tiny black boots and putting imaginary rosinbacks through their paces. And Maizie—all was not well with Tommy and so nothing was well with her.

  A big cat was howling his displeasure somewhere along the train and Maizie saw Little Tom Little fidget uneasily. How he had hated the big fellows since that break in Kansas City when the lion had almost killed him! And seeing him wince at the sound, Maizie felt willing to go and gag the animal, if it would give Tommy a little rest.

  What would he dig from those volumes? The danger of a cat was as nothing to the knowledge he so eagerly gulped.

  Everyone had known the Professor as a misfit, and more than one had breathed a sigh of relief when he had passed into what he had described as a glowing land of happiness. But wherever he had gone, he had left evil memories behind him. He had been a vulture of bad omen, a cadaver without a coffin, a man whose eyes gleamed at the tidings of misfortune. He had lived on bad luck, had purveyed ominous forebodings to cringing clients, and his lot had not been easy. He had been far more than a sideshow mitt reader. And when Tommy, impartial as always, had taken to giving a mimic mitt act to take off the Professor, Maizie had known that someday Tommy would pay for humbling a vicious pride. Tommy’s act had been funny. But now—

  Why had the Professor left those books, his entire library, to Tommy?

  The big cat roared more loudly and Tommy impatiently leaped up to wrestle the window down. Reaching thus across Maizie, he saw that she did not sleep.

  “Anything wrong?” said Tommy.

  She saw how abstracted he was. “Nothing.”

  “You feel all right, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Certainly!”

  Tommy kissed her thoughtlessly and went back to his book. She saw how animated he was, how his small body could scarcely contain the enthusiasm he built up within it.

  And when he turned, his face flushed, and cried, “Maizie! I’ve got it!” it was all she could do to repress a sob of despair. As gaily as she could, she answered, “What is it, Tommy?”

  “The solution! I said today I was never again going to be a midget. Well! I’m not! Tomorrow . . . tomorrow I shall be ringmaster of this show!”

  Her alarm was real, but she masked it. “How . . . how do you mean, Tommy?”

  “Why, it’s here. It’s all here! This is a treatise on the transmigration of the soul. You understand that, don’t you? When a fellow kicks off, he enters into another body, see? It’s a wonder I never found this before. It’s all marked and there was a slip of paper between the pages. Say, maybe the Professor wasn’t such a bad egg after all, huh? He said when he left me all these that he’d indicated one place specially, and this must be it.”

  “Oh, Tommy,” she whispered. “Are you sure it won’t mean—”

  But Tommy’s excited voice swept on and his thirty inches of height seemed to double themselves already. “It says if the transmigration of the soul can be effected after death, it is logical to conclude that it can be done in life. It says the only vital, thinking portion of man is his soul energy, and that it can be projected from one body to another. Maizie, think what this means!”

  She took heart, for he seemed to have nothing definite. But Tommy sent her faint hopes tumbling.

  “And here’s how it’s done! How simple! All you have to do is miss a few meals, say breakfast and lunch, and then begin your concentration upon the object into which you desire to transfer. Think of it, Maizie! To leave your body and become another person! To put behind you everything you have done wrong, and all the mistakes you have made, and begin all over in a different guise!”

  “What . . . what happens to the other person?”

  But he swept this away as well. “Why, naturally, whether he will or no, he is forced to occupy the body you have left—or else die.”

  “Tommy . . . this is dangerous!” But she could not say more, for the possibilities of this terrible idea were overwhelming.

  “And it’s so easy! It says here that man becomes everything he senses, even for the briefest of instants. If you look at a hero in a story, you are, for the duration of that story, the hero. You take on his mannerisms and his way of speech. But because he is just a hero of a story he cannot return that concentration. It says that all men, when talking to other men, are too watchful of the other’s words and actions and too conscious of self to achieve this feat. But if one refuses to be aware of the possible menace to self from the other ego, then it is simple to completely assimilate the other person and to project oneself into the other.

  “Think of it, Maizie! If I needed money!”

  “Tommy, Tommy, this is madness! It cannot possibly work!”

  “Look, Maizie. I have not eaten since noon, and it is now nearing midnight—”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Maizie, look at me.”

  “No!”

  “Maizie, do you love me?”

  “Oh, Tommy . . .”

  And then she felt a curious chill, a feeling as though she had risen several feet above herself and now hung suspended over her body in the air. But in a moment she was again in the bed.

  “It . . . it takes practice,” said Tommy, beads of sweat upon his brow. “Look at me, Maizie!”

  “Please! Tommy, for the love of the God that made us . . . !”

  And again she felt that chill, that feeling of lift. Terror struck at her lest she were blind and deaf.

  But in a moment she could begin to see a little and hear the big cat snarling far off. With a start she found herself gazing, not at the dressing table from the bed, but at the bed from the dressing table! The big book was heavy against her hand. The curtain of the bed moved, as though blown by a gentle breeze.

  She saw “Maizie” sit up in the berth!

  Dazedly she looked at herself, turned her attention to the body which she now inhabited, not believing the trousers with their tight belt or the tie and collar which choked her. She whirled to the mirror and recoiled at the image of Tommy!

  Tommy was shaken to the last spark of his consciousness. He was propped up on one elbow, staring in disbelief at the nightdress which he clutched. He came to himself and whipped a hand to his head. The long, golden curls—

  They stared at each other, then, silent and nu
mb with awe. When minutes had passed, Tommy laughed shakily. “You see—it works.”

  “But . . . but Tommy . . . how are we going to get back?”

  But he was triumphant now and growing bolder. “Why should we?” he teased.

  “It’s . . . it’s horrible, Tommy!” And she was hard put to keep back her tears. “Undo this . . . this terrible spell! Please, Tommy!”

  The longing to be herself made her sight dim. There was a whirling motion about her and she went blind and feelingless, and then she was shivering, as herself, in the middle of the stateroom, looking at Tommy once more.

  Suddenly she threw herself at his feet, trying hard to find the words to tell him that this thing could bring nothing but unhappiness.

  Tommy hardly noticed her in his excitement. “These are the right words to think, then. These words written here! It’s true! These years of misery are done! No more do I have to step quickly from the path of the big people and look a man in his shins. Eye to eye, Maizie! And tomorrow”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“tomorrow I shall be ringmaster!”

  Hermann Schmidt arose and dressed with his usual extreme care. His boots had been polished into black mirrors; his stock had been starched into armor plate; his waistcoat had been brushed until it resembled newly shed blood. He set his swallow-tailed coat to perfection upon his mighty shoulders and then, inventorying himself in the mirror, petted his gleaming top hat down upon his broad brow. He selected a crop from a rack, glanced at his watch, and sauntered down the cars to the special diner. As he went, everyone from razorback to high traps bowed low and, in return, Schmidt gave them lofty nods which held a certain amount of doubt, as though he was not quite sure they existed.

  Such was his show day routine. Mighty and domineering, a colossus of size and influence, it was small wonder that the fate of the show rested so certainly in his hands—for who, looking at such a figure of a man, could doubt his ability?

  He could not remember a time when he had not been a man of importance. As a boy, he had been his father’s son and his father had been a ringmaster in the old country. And why shouldn’t a man be important, if he knew the business from bale ring to stakes?

  He ended his individual spec at the snowy cloth of his breakfast table whereon was spread the local morning paper. He disdained such yokel print and sat looking through the car window at the less fortunate denizens of sawdust who trailed toward the crumb castle of the grounds dressed to kick ’em by ten o’clock. Far away, somebody tuned up a horse piano, and nearby a bull man sicced his rubber mules upon a mired wagon amid much trumpeting and shouting. It was altogether soothing, and Schmidt sighed comfortably.

  Fried potatoes and a small steak were placed under his nose by an obsequious man and Schmidt armed himself and prepared to attack.

  He became conscious of someone who had slid into the seat across the table. He knew who it was and repressed a shudder. Ruefully he stared at the silver service, which reflected a face in all manner of distortions. The face was ancient and seamed and sallow, and the eyes held an expression which made Schmidt wince; for, certain as he was of most things, he doubted whether he could keep on forever avoiding the necessity of fixing a date for their marriage.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” he said with a low bow.

  She smiled in a fluttery way. “How are you today, darling?”

  “Very fine, thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Hermann”—she reached out a ruin of a hand and touched the back of his own—“must we be so formal? After all, we are engaged.”

  “Forgive me, my lovely one,” he said, “but I was so engrossed with affairs—” Then inspiration struck: “Unless we can show a profit on our balance sheets, we mustn’t think of our own private affairs. For I promise I shall never marry you until I can prove my full worth.”

  “But we are doing such good business—”

  “Prices are up everywhere,” he reminded her. “Our feed bill alone is enough to ruin us. And our licenses have doubled, what with sales taxes and all. Ach, my darling, it is not good. But with me—I repeat my vow. I shall make a profit, before we are man and wife.”

  “Oh, Hermann—you are so noble.”

  Hermann smiled in a somewhat sickly fashion and again addressed his steak. She had been such a lovely woman once, he thought. Too bad she had not been able to keep the years from rolling over her. She was active—indeed, it was said she could outride any rosinback in the show. But that was hardly compensation. He wished desperately for a moment that he had never thought up the idea of proposing to her, but still—he could hold her off a little longer, with skill. And when the final time came, he would leave a note. How she would squirm when she read it! It was his one consoling thought in an otherwise revolting association.

  He patted her hand in hypocritical affection as he stood up. “Never mind, my dear. Just leave all this to me, and we’ll show a profit yet.”

  “If I didn’t have you, Hermann . . .”

  Hurriedly he sought the morning outside the car. He stood for a moment, mantling himself with majesty, and then strode through the piles of gear toward the grounds. Ahead of him the tail end of the march was filing into the street to the brassy tune of the steam fiddle and the cloppety-clop of horses’ hoofs. The grounds were deserted save for razorbacks, lot lice, a few spielers and menagerie men. These nodded politely but, since they were not worth notice, Schmidt swept by.

  With the air of a king entering his palace, he climbed into the wagon which would ordinarily be the governor’s office, but which only he occupied. Easing into a seat at the desk, he unlocked the safe at its side and drew out the books.

  For the next half-hour he made the art of the show’s slip artists seem pale, and as he worked a stiff smile of lofty satisfaction came upon his face. It went away swiftly when there sounded a knock. He threw the books into the safe and slammed the door.

  A very beautiful girl timidly entered at his call. She had great, soft eyes and long blond curls, and the loveliness of her figure belied its trained strength.

  “Betty!” he said, pulling out a chair.

  “I didn’t come to . . . to sit down,” she replied.

  But nevertheless he eased her into the seat. Resentfully but scared, she sat on the chair’s edge, staring at him.

  There was triumph in his voice. “I knew, sooner or later, that you’d come to me of your own accord. After all, it isn’t fitting that I should always be the one to arrange meetings.”

  “I came,” she said in a strained tone, “to tell you that this . . . this wild plan of yours can’t go on.”

  “Nonsense! You have been thinking too much. Don’t we love each other? Can’t—”

  “No!” she cried out. “Don’t say that, Hermann. You haven’t any right. I have never told you I loved you.”

  “It is enough,” he smiled, “that I love you. And my plans are your plans. Before long we will leave this show. You shall divorce Gordon and marry me. We’ll be rich, and you shall be more famous than you have ever dreamed.”

  “It’s all crazy,” said Betty, trying to withstand the onslaught of his personality. “I’ve been trying to think straight about this. And . . . I still love Gordon, Hermann. He may be rough and forgetful—”

  “There was a day,” said Hermann, “when you two had small enough spots.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ve worked hard to become an ace. I’m one of your stars! I work hard!”

  “True, you were fortunate in having Gillman kill himself. But of course, if you insist that you will not go with me, you and Gordon can, of course, go together. And the big cats can stay with me, for there’s a matter of feed bills for them. And there are many wire acts I can get. There’s a telegram here somewhere”—and he made a pretense of searching for it—“from Thomas and Maletto,
wondering if I could place them. Their high wire—”

  “Hire them, then!” she cried. “I can’t go on, Hermann. Give us back our contracts—”

  Hermann laughed sharply. “I picked you both out of the mud and taught you everything you know—and you talk to me this way! But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. Jerry Gordon is happy just so long as he is playing games with his beloved big cats. He was ruined once. You know what he did—he blamed you for everything and lushed all the liquor in sight. And he’d have killed you with abuse if I hadn’t yanked you up out of nothing, to star him with his cats and you on the high wire.”

  “He . . . he didn’t mean to be so bad to me. He’s a good man, Hermann. He fights forty big cats all together in the arena and there isn’t another man in the business who can do that. And I have a high wire without a net, and the customers—”

  “Without my consent, you and Gordon are nothing. Without his act he’ll drop even lower than he was when I picked you up and starred you both. It would probably kill him, Betty. And you as well.”

  “But he loves me, Hermann! What’s past is past! It’s useless to think of running away with you and divorcing him. Crazy!”

  “And yet if you don’t,” said Hermann, smiling, “you’ll very much wish you had.”

  The strain of holding out so long against his will at last broke her own. She began to weep quietly and forlornly, and when at last he cupped her face in his hands and said, “Of course you’ll go with me, won’t you?” she could only nod a weary assent.

  And, leaving his wagon after she had gone, Hermann Schmidt appeared a match for more than a dozen mere lion trainers. An aloof demigod, secure in his realm, proud of his abilities and cunning, he passed the sideshow—with no eyes at all for the midget who stood there, apparently waiting for someone.

  Little Tom Little was so filled with excitement that he found great difficulty in breathing. To him, Schmidt was a Brobdingnagian, a Zeus and a Colossus of Rhodes all superadded into one, and when, in this breath before the zero minute, he contemplated what he was about to do, he was flabbergasted by his own temerity.