Overruled

by Hank Davis

  We met in the lobby of his hotel and he greeted me in a warm avuncular manner, as if I were truly an old friend or relative. He suggested we take a walk through the hotel’s garden where he would explain the reason for this meeting. As we walked along he named the flowers and plants on display and said he’d chosen them himself. Was he the hotel’s gardener? Would I insult him if I asked him that? More than likely he was the hotel’s manager. I decided to give him a curious look and hope for an answer. It didn’t work so I decided to just go ahead and make a fool of myself. “Are you a gardener now? That seems a drastic change of profession.”

  “Ha, sorry,” he said chuckling. “My company owns the Franklin Hotel chain.”

  “Impressive!”

  “Thank you. Please, let’s get down to business. For many years I’ve carried a heavy weight of guilt regarding my involvement in sending you to space,” he explained, “and I wish to make amends. I made considerable money recruiting artists to travel into space. Each young person I persuaded to sign the company’s damnable contract brought me a bonus and residuals. That money and some lucky investments have made me a wealthy man. As such I bought back all of the contracts that I had my artists sign and I’m releasing them from them. You were the first artist I recruited, and you’re the last of the artists whom I sent into space. I’ve come to you last because you were sent out far—farther into space than anyone else was. Today, the greater burden of my guilt will be lifted if you’ll accept this amount as recompense for my transgression.” He handed me an envelope with a notecard in it; a very large number was written on it. It amounted to many times my lifetime earnings. I was flabbergasted and it showed so much on my face that Jerry laughed aloud.

  “I accept,” I exclaimed once my shock subsided. And with a shake of his hand to seal the deal the money was in my account.

  “That will be enough for you to return home, and to live a fine life of some luxury, but take this as well.” He handed me another envelope. I opened it and removed a fanciful ticket for a luxury room on Lenoria Rocket Lines. “That company issues paper tickets merely as a keepsake. It’s pretty, isn’t it? Your flight home is already arranged for you whenever you’re ready to leave. Giving that ticket home to you helps me feel as if I’ve returned your life to you.”

  After that we talked a little about my adventures as a Sketcher. Then he told me of our homeworld, how much it had changed during my absence. It sounded wonderful. He showed me videos of what seemed to be a virtual utopia. I knew that things were better, but this was an astonishing change, and the first I’d seen of it.

  We parted, and we both promised to stay in touch from time to time. I returned to my small and dingy apartment, a new man, a wealthy man—a man now with the means to be fully in charge of his future. My fairy godmother, a man named Jerry Sam, had released me from my life of hardship. I set the rocket ticket on my dresser and looked at it for a while. Jerry was not so much a fairy godmother as a Glinda the Good Witch; that ticket was my Ruby Slippers. It offered me a return to humanity and the good life. I pressed my thumb on the ticket to call up the spaceline, and pressed my finger down on my wrist-tat to have it cashed in. Checking to make sure that the money had been transferred to my account, I tore up the metaphorical—and most defunct—ticket in half and threw it into the trash.

  I went out onto my balcony to look at the stars. They gleamed down at me, and I gleamed up at them while I pondered my now bright future. The viz-con in my pocket vibrated so I set it on my patio table and answered.

  Before me glowed Jane’s face. “Hi,” she said, “I want to bring you up to date, have a face-to-face, post-hiring talk and discuss our plans for how to proceed on this new case.”

  “Okay, but first, let me tell you what just happened. I very much need to tell someone; it’s too incredible to keep to myself.” I began to tell her about my meeting with Jerry Sam. Once I got to the part about my new wealth, and receiving the ticket, she interrupted, “So, you’re leaving us? I’m sure Queen Catherine will let you out of your contract without…”

  I then interrupted her, “No, I don’t want out of the contract. I’m staying. I cashed in my ticket home.”

  Surprise showed on Jane’s face. “I’m happy to hear that,” she said with a pleased look on her face.

  “I’m happy to hear that you’re happy to hear that,” I said with a broad smile.

  “Then we can be happy together,” Jane smiled back. Yes, very much together, I hoped.

  “Oh, then we need to get down to business now, don’t we? To start, I thought I’d let you know that Perri will be working on the new case with us.”

  I suppressed a groan.

  •

  Tom Kidd is best known as an illustrator. The story he’s written for this book is his first sold piece of fiction. He has written four nonfiction books on art: The Tom Kidd Sketchbook (1990—Tundra) and Kiddography: The Art & Life of Tom Kidd (2006—Paper Tiger), OtherWorlds (2010—Impact) and How to Draw and Paint Dragons (2010—Quarto). His art has won him a World Fantasy Award (Best Artist 2004) and eight Chesley Awards. As a concept designer, he has worked for Walt Disney, Rhythm & Hues, and Universal Studios. He has illustrated two classic works of literature: The Three Musketeers (1998—William Morrow) and The War of the Worlds (2001—Harper Collins). Tom is the official artist for the “1632” series of alternate history books by Eric Flint and others, published by Baen Books, for which he has done over thirty covers—and counting. Highlights of his other projects include a deluxe illustrated version of The Dying Earth and the Book of Babel series by Josiah Bancroft, both for Subterranean Press. For Centipede Press he has illustrated Swords and Deviltry by Fritz Leiber, Dark Crusade by Karl Edward Wagner and a deluxe illustrated edition of Elric: Fortress of the Pearl by Michael Moorcock. One final credit for Tom—he painted the cover for this collection.

  You can see an alliterative selection of his art here: https://tomkidd.myportfolio.com.

  JERRY WAS A MAN

  Robert A. Heinlein

  The suave sales executive from the Phoenix Breeding Club greeted the very rich couple (well, the wife was very rich) with all the charm he could muster. It wasn’t every day that a couple, no matter how rich, wanted to blow two million on a life-sized living Pegasus (well, the wife’s trophy husband wanted one), even if it couldn’t fly. But things got more complicated when the very rich wife wanted to buy a chimp whose intelligence had been increased so he could do menial work, but was now scheduled for euthanasia, and her offer was declined. When very rich people get mad, they call their lawyers. And you know what lawyers do…

  •

  Don’t blame the Martians. The human race would have developed plasto-biology in any case.

  Look at the older registered Kennel Club breeds—glandular giants like the St. Bernard and the Great Dane, silly little atrocities like the Chihuahua and the Pekingese. Consider fancy goldfish.

  The damage was done when Dr. Morgan produced new breeds of fruit flies by kicking around their chromosomes with X-rays. After that, the third generation of the Hiroshima survivors did not teach us anything new; those luckless monstrosities merely publicized standard genetic knowledge.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bronson van Vogel did not have social reform in mind when they went to the Phoenix Breeding Ranch; Mr. Van Vogel simply wanted to buy a Pegasus. He had mentioned it at breakfast. “Are you tied up this morning, my dear?”

  “Not especially. Why?”

  “I’d like to run out to Arizona to order a Pegasus designed.”

  “A Pegasus? A flying horse? Why, my sweet?”

  He grinned. “Just for fun. Pudgy Dodge was around the Club yesterday with a six-legged dachshund—must have been over a yard long. It was clever, but he swanked so much I want to give him something to stare at. Imagine, Martha—me landing on the Club ‘copter platform on a winged horse. That’ll snap his eyes back!”

  She turned her eyes from the Jersey shore to look indulgently at her husband. She was not fooled;
this would be expensive. But Brownie was such a dear! “When do we start?”

  They landed two hours earlier than they started. The airsign read, in letters fifty feet high:

  PHOENIX BREEDING RANCH

  Controlled Genetics—licensed Labor Contractors

  “‘Labor Contractors’?” she read. “I thought this place was used just to burbank new animals?”

  “They both design and produce,” he explained importantly. “They distribute through the mother corporation ‘Workers.’ You ought to know; you own a big chunk of Workers common.”

  “You mean I own a bunch of apes? Really?”

  “Perhaps I didn’t tell you. Haskell and I—” He leaned forward and informed the field that he would land manually; he was a bit proud of his piloting.

  He switched off the robot and added, briefly as his attention was taken up by heading the ship down, “Haskell and I have been plowing your General Atomics dividends back into Workers, Inc. Good diversification—still plenty of dirty work for the anthropoids to do.” He slapped the keys; the scream of the nose jets stopped conversation.

  Bronson had called the manager in flight; they were met—not with red carpet, canopy, and footmen, though the manager strove to give that impression. “Mr. Van Vogel? And Mrs. Van Vogel! We are honored indeed!” He ushered them into a tiny, luxurious unicar; they jeeped off the field, up a ramp, and into the lobby of the administration building. The manager, Mr. Blakesly, did not relax until he had seated them around a fountain in the lounge of his offices, struck cigarettes for them, and provided tall, cool drinks.

  Bronson Van Vogel was bored by the attention, as it was obviously inspired by his wife’s Dun & Bradstreet rating (ten stars, a sunburst, and heavenly music). He preferred people who could convince him that he had invented the Briggs fortune, instead of marrying it.

  “This is business, Blakesly. I’ve an order for you.”

  “So? Well, our facilities are at your disposal. What would you like, sir?”

  “I want you to make me a Pegasus.”

  “A Pegasus? A flying horse?”

  “Exactly.”

  Blakesly pursed his lips. “You seriously want a horse that will fly? An animal like the mythical Pegasus?”

  “Yes, yes—that’s what I said.”

  “You embarrass me, Mr. Van Vogel. I assume you want a unique gift for your lady. How about a midget elephant, twenty inches high, perfectly housebroken, and able to read and write? He holds his stylus in his trunk—very cunning.”

  “Does he talk?” demanded Mrs. Van Vogel.

  “Well, now, my dear lady, his voice box, you know—and his tongue—he was not designed for speech. If you insist on it, I will see what our plasticians can do.”

  “Now, Martha—”

  “You can have your Pegasus, Brownie, but I think I may want this toy elephant. May I see him?”

  “Most surely. Harstone!”

  The air answered Blakesly. “Yes, boss?”

  “Bring Napoleon to my lounge.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Now about your Pegasus, Mr. Van Vogel…I see difficulties but I need expert advice. Dr. Cargrew is the real heart of this organization, the most eminent bio-designer—of terrestrial origin, of course—on the world today.” He raised his voice to actuate relays. “Dr. Cargrew!”

  “What is it, Mr. Blakesly?”

  “Doctor, will you favor me by coming to my office?”

  “I’m busy. Later.”

  Mr. Blakesly excused himself, went into his inner office, then returned to say that Dr. Cargrew would be in shortly. In the meantime Napoleon showed up. The proportions of his noble ancestors had been preserved in miniature; he looked like a statuette of an elephant, come amazingly to life.

  He took three measured steps into the lounge, then saluted each of them with his trunk. In saluting Mrs. Van Vogel he dropped to his knees as well.

  “Oh, how cute!” she gurgled. “Come here, Napoleon.”

  The elephant looked at Blakesly, who nodded. Napoleon ambled over and laid his trunk across her lap. She scratched his ears; he moaned contentedly.

  “Show the lady how you can write,” ordered Blakesly. “Fetch your things from my room.”

  Napoleon waited while she finished treating a particularly satisfying itch, then oozed away to return shortly with several sheets of heavy white paper and an oversized pencil. He spread a sheet in front of Mrs. Van Vogel, held it down daintily with a fore foot, grasped the pencil with his trunk finger, and printed in large, shaky letters, “I LIKE YOU.”

  “The darling!” She dropped to her knees and put her arms around his neck. “I simply must have him. How much is he?”

  “Napoleon is part of a limited edition of six,” Blakesly said carefully. “Do you want an exclusive model, or may the others be sold?”

  “Oh, I don’t care, I just want Nappie. Can I write him a note?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Van Vogel. Print large letters and use basic English. Napoleon knows most of it. His price, nonexclusive is $350,000. That includes five years’ salary for his attending veterinary.”

  “Give this gentleman a check, Brownie,” she said over her shoulder.

  “But Martha—”

  “Don’t be tiresome, Brownie.” She hardly looked up when Dr. Cargrew came in.

  Cargrew was a chilly figure in white overalls and skull cap. He shook hands brusquely, struck a cigarette, and sat down. Blakesly explained.

  Cargrew shook his head. “It’s a physical impossibility.”

  Van Vogel stood up. “I can see,” he said distantly, “That I should have taken my custom to NuLife Laboratories. I came here because we have a financial interest in this firm and because I was naïve enough to believe the claims of your advertisements.”

  “Siddown, young man!” Cargrew ordered. “Take your trade to those thumb-fingered idiots if you wish—but I warn you they couldn’t grow wings on a grasshopper. First you listen to me.

  “We can grow anything and make it live. I can make you a living thing—I won’t call it an animal—the size and shape of that table over there. It wouldn’t be good for anything, but it would be alive. It would ingest food, use chemical energy, give off excretions, and display irritability. But it would be a silly piece of manipulation. Mechanically a table and an animal are two different things. Their functions are different, so their shapes are different. Now I can make you a winged horse—”

  “You just said you couldn’t.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I can make a winged horse that will look just like the pictures in the fairy stories. If you want to pay for it; we’ll make it—we’re in business. But it won’t be able to fly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not built for flying. The ancient who dreamed up that myth knew nothing about aerodynamics and still less about biology. He stuck wings on a horse, just stuck them on, thumb tacks and glue. But that doesn’t make a flying machine. Remember, son, that an animal is a machine, primarily a heat engine with a control system to operate levers and hydraulic systems, according to definite engineering laws. You savvy to aerodynamics?”

  “Well, I’m a pilot.”

  “Hummph! Well, try to understand this. A horse hasn’t got the heat engine for flight. He’s a hayburner and that’s not efficient. We might mess around with a horse’s insides so that he could live on a diet of nothing but sugar and then he might have enough energy to fly short distances. But he still would not look like the mythical Pegasus. To anchor his flying muscles he would need a breast bone maybe ten feet long. He might have to have as much as eighty feet wing spread. Folded, his wings would cover him like a tent. You’re up against the cube-square disadvantage.”

  “Huh?”

  Cargrew gestured impatiently. “Lift goes by the square of a given dimension; dead load by the cube of the same dimension, other things being equal. I might be able to make you a Pegasus the size of a cat without distorting the proportions too much.”


  “No, I want one I can ride. I don’t mind the wing spread and I’ll put up with the big breast bone. When can I have him?”

  “I’ll have to consult with B’na Kreeth.” He whistled and chirped; a portion of the wall facing them dissolved and they found themselves looking into a laboratory. A Martian, life-size, showed in the forepart of the three-dimensional picture.

  When the creature chirlupped back at Cargrew, Mrs. Van Vogel looked up, then quickly looked away. She knew it was silly but she simply could not stand the sight of Martians—and the ones who had modified themselves to a semi-manlike form disgusted her the most.

  After they had twittered and gestured at each other for a minute or two Cargrew turned back to van Vogel. “B’na says that you should forget it; it would take too long. He wants to know how you’d like a fine unicorn, or a pair, guaranteed to breed true?”

  “Unicorns are old hat. How long would the Pegasus take?”

  After another squeaky-door conversation Cargrew answered, “Ten years probably, sixteen years on the guarantee.”

  “Ten years? That’s ridiculous!”

  Cargrew looked shirty. “I thought it would take fifty, but if B’na says he can do it in three to five generations, then he can do it. B’na is the finest bio-micrurgist in two planets. His chromosome surgery is unequalled. After all, young man, natural processes would take upwards of a million years to achieve the same result, if it were achieved at all. Do you expect to be able to buy miracles?”

  Van Vogel had the grace to look sheepish. “Excuse me, Doctor. Let’s forget it. Ten years really is too long. How about the other possibility? You said you could make a picture-book Pegasus, as long as I did not insist on flight. Could I ride him? On the ground?”