“Come on, Captain!” Cynthia shouted.
He stubbornly shook his head, rooted to the spot and eyes still tightly dosed. Fear and a fading bravado held him there. This was the end!!
“Git in here,” the old man shouted up at him. “You ain’t fit to live with!”
Alger refused to move, until at last the angry old fellow came up the beach and roughly seized his arm. With a complete lack of dignity, the young man was hauled across the sand by a brute force he could not resist, and flung bodily into the lake. He felt himself falling.
“Geronimo!” he shouted his last defiance.
He fell face-first into the lake and then the old man planted a rude foot in the middle of his back to hold him there. Alger struggled valiantly in the shallow water, determined not to sink without a struggle. The cold water stung his eyelids and when he opened his mouth the liquid rushed in. He spat it out again, fuming, and tried to roll from under the old one’s foot. Suddenly he ceased fighting. The water was shivery cold!
“Water!” Alger twisted away and sat up, opening his eyes in astonishment. He dug his fingers into the lake bed and held them up before his eyes, watching the mud and water trickle away. “This is water,” he exclaimed.
“What the devil did you expect,” the native barked, “fire and brimstone?”
“Water,” Alger repeated foolishly, delighted with the feel of it on his body. “Water, water, water, water ...” The old native stalked away in disgust.
Captain Alger clung to his dignity. He continued to wear his trousers and his officers cap after the girl had shed her garments in the lake. To be sure, the trousers were no longer complete and his rather knobby knees protruded, but they were the only pair of trousers in the new world and he intended to cling to them. And of course the officer’s cap was crushed out of shape but it still denoted his captaincy. As for the Lady Cynthia— well, she was quite beautiful, really, but shameless nevertheless. She and that old man carried on as though nothing were changed.
The evening on the lake was chilly and a larger fire than usual had been built. The girl, unused to her new raiment—or lack of it, huddled close. Alger caught the old man studying her closely. He moved protectively nearer the innocent miss. She glanced at him but said nothing.
After a while the native asked casually, “Does he know?”
Cynthia shook her head. “No. Not even tonight.”
“Dumb cluck,” the old man said.
“Very,” Cynthia agreed.
Alger had the distinct impression they were speaking of him. He cleared his throat. “Nice evening.”
They did not answer but simply stared at him.
“They sure raise ’em green anymore,” the fellow said after a while. “Not like when I was a boy.”
“How did you find your way here?” Cynthia wanted to know.
The native chuckled. “I didn’t. I was dumped here.”
“Do you mean deliberately abandoned?”
“Yep. The captain caught me fooling around with the captain’s wife. Couldn’t shoot me; that was illegal. So he dumped me on this world with a gun and some food. I been here ever since.”
“How dreadful! Has it been long?”
“Twenty years or more, I guess. I got used to it.” He grinned wickedly at her. “A woman sure looks good after twenty years or so.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia dimpled. “I like you, grandpappy.”
Alger cleared his throat once more. “Do you think a rescue ship will come soon?’’
Grandpappy studied him. “Ain’t been a ship here since the one that left me.”
“No ship in twenty years? That’s incredible!”
“That’s truth,” the oldster contradicted.
“Oh, my,” Alger said weakly.
“Guess you better wise up, son.”
“But—we may be marooned here for years!”
“For the rest of your life, more likely.” Again he glanced at the waiting girl. “Who’s it going to be, me or you?”
“What?” Alger asked.
“Marry her, you oaf!”
“Marry Lady Cynthia?” Alger showed his new astonishment. “Why, I hadn’t thought of such a thing.” He looked around almost bashfully.
“You’d better. Or I’m going to.”
“Why?” the Captain asked.
Grandpappy seemed pained.
“You see?” Cynthia exclaimed. “I’ve often wondered how he became a space pilot.”
Grandpappy said slowly as if explaining to a child, “In her condition she needs a husband.”
Alger examined the girl, fighting away his bashfulness. He looked approvingly on the strong arm and leg muscles, on the well developed body.
“Why? She looks healthy enough to me.”
The old man screamed, “By thunder!” He arose and walked away, to rummage impatiently through the pack Alger had carried. “You got that ship’s manual here?”
“Yes sir. Why do you need that?”
“Because the marriage ceremony is in it, you dunce. Ah—here it is.” He brought out the book and carried it over to the firelight, to sink down and riffle the pages. In a few moments he found what he was searching for. “Thought it was in here. Knew it used to be.” He glanced at the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Psmith. Lady Cynthia Psmith.”
“Knew a man by that name once.” Grandpappy nodded. “Good name. What’s yours, son?”
“Captain Arthur Alger.”
The old man stared at him. “What?”
“Captain Arthur Alger.”
“Where’d you get that name?”
“That was my father’s name. He was shipwrecked.” He looked up to find the native examining him curiously. “What’s the matter?”
“How’s your mother?” the old man wanted to know.
“Well—quite well, thank you. Why do you ask?”
After a small silence the oldster said, “Nevermind. You ready to marry this girl?”
“Well, if you say so.”
“I sure as hell do say so. Hold her hand.”
Grinning like a foolish ass, Alger reached out to touch Cynthia’s hand. She looked at him for a moment of exasperation and then grabbed his with a tight grip.
“Go ahead, grandpappy.”
Grandpappy did, with a curious mist to his eyes.
Unable to sleep, seething with the excitement of his sudden wedding, Captain Arthur Alger paced the lake shore and blissfully counted the stars. His wedding night! Little had he dreamed this might happen, on that long-ago day the beautiful young girl stepped into his ship enroute to visit her father. What an incredible chain of events had happened to him! He had been given his first command, he had lost that first command when sudden tragedy struck, he had by the sheerest nerve and most desperate cunning saved the ship and their lives on landing, they had had the good fortune to crash on a hospitable world, a kindly native had been there to guide their faltering footsteps, and now he was unexpectedly married to the loveliest creature in the galaxy! She had chosen him, of all men. It was like a dream and he wondered what he had done to deserve it.
He turned about for the return trip and found the old man approaching him.
“A nice evening, sir.”
“What you doing down here, son? Ought to be up there with your bride.”
“I’m too excited to sleep, sir.”
“By thunder! They sure grow ’em dumb these days.” He touched Alger’s arm, stopped him. “Don’t you know who I am? Look me in the face.”
The Captain stared long at the man. “Well, sir, you do look familiar. I’ve been trying to place you ever since we landed here. I thought—I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought— I’ve just about lost faith in your thinking processes. Use your memory. Seen my picture around anywhere?”
“Your picture?” Alger suddenly shouted, “Why—yes! Yes, of course. Your picture! Now I know where I had seen your face before. Your picture is ... is ... ”
>
“Is where?”
“ ... Is on mother’s vanity, at home! Why, sir, that makes you my—”
“Of course, of course, you dope.” The old man laughed gleefully. “And the girl calls me grandpappy. Get it?” He nudged the Captain’s ribs.
“Uh ... no sir.”
A suddenly sad expression replaced the gleeful laughter on the old man’s face. He shook his head, and said something into Alger’s ear.
Alger stared at him. “What?”
Grandpappy nodded, beaming.
“How do you know?” the Captain demanded.
Grandpappy tightened his lips in a thin determined line and turned on his heel without a further word. Alger watched him go, puzzled at his new-found father’s behavior. A dazzling thought struck him and he whirled to stare at the girl reclining by the fire. He broke into a run.
Cynthia saw him coming. She had followed his pacing to and fro on the shore, had watched grandpappy intercept and speak to him, had guessed at the tenor of their words. When the old man leaned forward to whisper a secret, when her new husband had cried his amazement to the night, she was serenely happy. Now he knew. She could forgive his long ignorance, forgive the sometimes unhappy weeks cooped up together in a runaway space ship, forgive his fumbling. At last he knew. He was coming now, running to her with the sure knowledge. Cynthia sat up in the flickering firelight and held out inviting arms to him.
Captain Alger sped by her without a word, throwing up sand in her face. He ran breathlessly to his pack and dipped into it, to haul out the battered old ship’s manual. Feverishly, he spun the pages.
Cynthia hurled a chunk of firewood at his head.
The End
****************************************
MCMLV,
by Wilson Tucker
Universe Nov. 1954
Short Story - 4765 words
When you have a door bell that goes ting ting thunk instead of
ringing properly, you get accustomed to unusual visitors. At least,
it seemed to Henry Mason that since his doorbell had taken to
misbehaving his visitors had been anything but run of the mill.
THE doorbell chimed its familiar one-two-three pattern, a tinkling ting-ting-thunk. Henry frowned at the unfinished sentence in the typewriter and twisted around to stare through the window at the street. People were always annoying him with that broken-step ting-ting-thunk; perhaps if he had the thunk fixed they would stop ringing his bell. He leaned a precarious distance from the edge of the chair, trying to peer around the edge of the window. He saw only a car parked out in front.
Resigned to the temporary defeat, Henry got up from the desk chair and padded into the adjoining room and to the front door. As he walked he buttoned the sleeves of his shirt and tried to smooth down his hair. It might be a woman waiting on the other side of the door—only last week a charming young miss had stood there, selling pots and pans. He turned the knob and yanked it open.
Two dull-looking gentlemen.
“Mr. Carew?” the nearest gentleman asked politely. “Cary Carew?”
A pleased expression settled on Henry’s face. “That’s my pen name,” he replied pleasantly.
“Ah, yes. Henry Mason, is it not?”
“That’s me.”
“I know you must be a busy man, Mr. Mason, but may we have a few moments with you? My name is Groves.”
Henry Mason raised his eyebrows. “What is it?”
Groves deftly reached into an inner pocket and brought out his wallet. Flipping it open with one hand, he held up and exhibited the silver shield pinned inside it. “F. B. I.” he said politely. “I also have credentials.”
“Now, look,” Henry burst out—“I can account for every penny! I always keep my receipts and records and every penny spent was a legitimate expense. I can show you—”
“No, no,” Groves said, still politely. “F. B. I., Mr. Mason. I’m not with Treasury.”
Mason blinked at him. “Oh.”
“May we come in? Your neighbors will be watching.” He smiled a vacant little smile that meant nothing.
Henry admitted the two of them, the polite F. B. I. agent and his companion who said nothing and did nothing. He led the way into his writing room because there was an easy chair there and the room was the most comfortable in the house.. The room was lined with book shelves and filing cabinets and stacks of typing paper, tools of the writer’s trade. He invited the agent to take the easy chair, brought in another for the second man, and sat him down beside the desk to lean warily on the typewriter. Henry said, “My neighbors are always watching me. They think I’m eccentric.”
“Indeed?” Still the politeness.
“Camouflage.” Henry waved a casual hand. “It lends an aura of glamor and mystery to my activities and sometimes increases the sale of my books. Besides—it keeps them away from me. Always nosing around.”
“I see.” The agent studied the writer.
Without speaking, Henry held out his hand to him. The agent stared at the open palm and then as if guessing his thoughts, brought out the wallet a second time, opened it, and placed it in Henry’s hand. Henry brought it close to his eyes to read the identity card. He read the agent’s brief description, looked at the name, carefully examined the small photograph and then peered up at the man, comparing the photograph to the face. Yes—unless the whole thing was a forgery, this was actually Arthur Groves of the F. B. I. Henry laid his open palm across the silver badge to get the feel of it. He saw the agent watching him.
“Testing it,” Henry explained. “I once wrote a story in which my protagonist discovered a government agent was an imposter, by feeling the badge. A silver badge imparts a certain cool sense to the touch, where another metal will not.”
“I see. And are you satisfied?”
“Yeah, I guess so; you’re F. B. I. all right. And this isn’t about my taxes, eh?”
“No indeed, but another matter entirely. Mr. Mason, we have been reading some of your most recent stories.”
Cary Carew beamed. “Did you like them?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a competent judge,” the agent told him. “It isn’t their merit that we are interested in, Mr. Mason, but their content. Some of your newer stories have chronicled the adventures of a government secret agent, and their content has been ... ah, interesting to the extreme.”
Cary Carew fixed the agent with a cold and beady eye. “Thought-police!” he snapped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, thought-police. You’re going to tell me what to think and what to write! I knew the government would come to this!”
Groves frowned ever so slightly. “But that isn’t true at all, Mr. Mason. I have no intention of telling you what to write. My only purpose here is to inquire into the content of some stories you’ve already written and published.”
Henry stared at the man for a long moment or two, his memory rushing back over the more recent tales that had appeared in print. “Aha!” he said suddenly. “I see.”
“What, may I ask?”
“Why you are here. Crimethink!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Crimethink. The crime of having thoughts not in sympathy with those currently in Washington.” The writer’s manner was an odd mixture of frightened Mason and defiant Carew. Very well—if he was being sent to The Rock he would go with head high. “I sometimes manage to include a bit of my personal philosophy in my fiction. And now Washington has discovered that and descends upon me like a cloud of locusts.” He looked around at the second man and thought to correct himself. “Two locusts.”
Groves stared across the room at his silent companion. The companion broke his silence. “Eccentric,” he muttered.
Groves shook his head and patiently began again. “Mr. Mason, you persist in misunderstanding me. I am not interested in your thoughts or your philosophy. I am interested only in certain phases of your stories dealing with this government secret a
gent, this fellow— What is his name?”
“Dan Devlin,” Cary Carew supplied promptly.
“Yes, Dan Devlin. This Mr. Devlin is a remarkable fellow. I might say he has seen more action in his brief career than I have in my entire life with the Bureau.”
“Thank you.”
“To get to the point of the matter, Mr. Mason, this Dan Devlin chap knows a little more about governmental secrets than we do ourselves.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. For instance in one recent story, you have him thwart an enemy spy who is intent on stealing plans for the atomic bomb. As I recall, he does succeed in trapping and capturing the spy and in recovering the stolen documents. But Mr. Mason, you then proceed to reveal the contents of those documents by causing your hero to read them, thus allowing the readers to learn them. The documents are read off in detail. You point out that twenty-two point seven pounds of U-235 are necessary to critical mass, you describe the materials of which the bomb casing is made, you draw a verbal picture of the triggering device which causes the bomb to explode, and you then show the exact amount of damage that bomb will do to a given area.”
“Of course,” Cary Carew said happily. He waved to the well-filled bookshelves about him. “I always do research.”
“That isn’t public knowledge,” the agent said. “Or wasn’t, until you wrote it.” He seemed bitter.
“Well-documented research always lends an aura of authenticity,” Carew proudly explained.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand me. I said, that wasn’t public knowledge. It was classified.”
Henry stared at him. “What was classified?”
“The entire data concerning the bomb which you published in the story.”
“Nonsense,” the writer said.
The second man leaned forward in his chair to fix Mason with a probing glare. “It isn’t nonsense. How do you explain it?”
“Who are you?” Henry demanded.
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