Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

Asha took himself out, then, and made his way sadly along the crowded streets to his home. There he packed up a few belongings and left to go into hiding himself; for he knew better than to try to tell So-qi any such cock-and-bull story. Yet if he went at all to So-qi, he had to tell something, and either way someone would be doomed, if not himself.

  Too-che took up the babe and fled through the city by night to the home of one Chojon, a maker of songs. This man had long made love to her with his poetry and his voice from afar, and she knew he would hide her and protect her. Her heart was in her throat, because she wondered if he would believe in her virtue now that she had a child, or in her love for him when he felt that another had given her child when he had been denied the privilege.

  Slender and dark-eyed and handsome he stood in his doorway, looking upon this girl who had come to him with her babe in her arms. A babe by another! His heart was hurt, tears came unbidden to his eyes as he turned and allowed her to enter. For a long time he could not speak, the shame and the hurt and pride and the strange new sudden emotions in him not suffering him to talk. At last he said:

  "Too-che, I love you and I cannot deny you anything. If you put this shame upon me, I will bear it as my own. Consider this your home, and me as your slave. If I did not love you, I would not bear this, but I do."

  Too-che saw the conflicting emotions upon his face, how his dark red lips struggled to remain firm, how his thin, wide nostrils trembled, how his eyes were wet with unshed tears, how his shoulders bowed as with a sudden burden.

  "Oh my dear Chojon, I have no other friend to whom I can turn—and that I thought of you, who has only loved me from afar with your eyes and your soft, sad songs, should tell you that I bring you no shame or insult. This is not the child of another man, for I have been with no man, ever. This is a child of the legends, a son of a God in the skies, our God, Mazda. He is a miracle, as hard for me to believe as for you, but it is true."

  Too-che could not stand the unbelieving eyes of Chojon, who thought that Too-che lied, and looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms, saying with a pitiful voice ...

  "Please, little stranger who talks like a wise man, wake and tell my Chojon that you are not the son of a man, but the son of one whom no maid could resist or run away from, ever. Tell him, little one!"

  And Mazda heard Too-che imploring speech of her child and made it to speak with his own voice.

  "Chojon, what my mother says is true. I am the child of the All-light, endowed with powers beyond ordinary men to accomplish my Lord's mysterious purposes here on earth. Do not hold my mother the less for my birth."

  Chojon sank slowly to his knees, realization stealing over him as he heard the adult words issue from the suckling babe's mouth. The unshed tears began to pour from his eyes in relief, for he knew now that Too-che might not love him yet as she would when she learned love, but at least she had given herself to no other mortal man. And the miracle of the Child of a God there before him lighted up his face as his inward soul, so that he took up his lute and lifted his rich, deep voice in a joyous song—the Song of Zarathustra. For the legend of their people had the name of the babe-to-come as Zarathustra, and Chojon knew that its name was thus, now.

  Too-che dwelt for some time in the house of Chojon, and the songs of Chojon were circulated among all the singers of the city, so that everyone knew he sheltered the Child of the God, Mazda, in his home.

  The songs of Chojon came at last to the King's ears, and as one of the songs proclaimed Zarathustra as stronger in one finger than all the power of So-qi, he let out a great oath and set his soldiers to find Too-che and the babe. But Chojon heard of the search. He took Too-che and her babe out of the gates in the night and went off into the forest and joined a band of Listians, who are raisers of goats, and a fine, strong people.

  Now when the search failed to find the babe, So-qi proclaimed that every male child of the City Oas would be slain if the child was not found. And within a week So-qi was sorry, because his own wife gave birth to a little son whose life was already forfeited by royal decree unless Too-che and her child were found. And they were not to be found in all Par'si'ya.

  Asha, the old philosopher, who had been in hiding all this time, now came out of his hole and went to the King to give him counsel.

  As Asha progressed through the city, mothers with male children in their arms on all sides were making their way through the streets to the gates to flee the city. For no decree of a King of Oas may be repealed, but is law forevermore.

  The King sat upon his throne of skulls, gnawing his nails off his fingers, for he had either to slay his own son or say that a law once made by a king could be un-made.

  If he allowed the law to be thus abused even by himself, such was the nature of his people they would have no respect for him, and might even kill him for a fool who could not enforce his own decrees when they hurt him a little.

  So it was that when Asha presented himself before the King, So-qi asked:

  "What shall I do, O Asha? My son has smiled in my face!"

  Asha was prepared for this, and answered:

  "Thou shalt send me and thy son and thy daughter's son and every male infant to the slaughter pens, and have us all beheaded and cast into the fire! Otherwise it will come true as the infant Zarathustra prophesied: his hand will smite Oas city, and it will fall as a heap of straw."

  So the king appointed a day for the slaughter, and ninety thousand male infants were adjudged to death.

  Chojon, from the safety of the forest, made a scornful song about the tyrant of Oas who went to war against babes, and it was sung everywhere in the city, and the king could do nothing about it, for it was cleverly worded, seeming to approve, though in satire only.

  When the day for the slaughter arrived, there were but a thousand appeared with their babes out of the ninety thousand adjudged to death—all the rest having fled to the forest as had Chojon.

  The King saw an excuse in this to get out of killing his own son, and stood pondering how to escape his own decree. His wife, Betraj, came before him, holding out her son, saying:

  "Here, oh King, take thou thy flesh and blood and prove the inexorable justice of the King's decrees."

  But the King said:

  "Let the officers go and collect all the others who have fled beyond the walls, and until all are gathered here before me, no matter how long it takes, let the decree be suspended."

  Now the God, Mazda, moved the soldiers' minds to see that their King had not the backbone to enforce his own decree when it hurt himself and they, one and all, took up stones and stoned the King to death.

  Asha, standing stripped for the slaughter, was made King by the clamor of the men who stoned So-qi to death.

  A great voice came out of the sky and announced to the people that God had given them a new and righteous ruler. Asha bowed his head and accepted the task put upon him. The people gave thanks to Mazda, the God, and Asha proclaimed him to all the city.

  Off in the forest, Too-che lifted her eyes to those of Chojon and thanked him for saving her son. And Chojon touched her with his fingertips, and kissed her on her lips, and the child crowed lustily to see their love.

  These two walked through the Forest of the Goats, Too-che bringing beauty like a spring breeze with her, and Chojon singing and touching his harp with magic fingers, so that joy and love walked before them, announcing them to the Listians—the people of the forest.

  When Zarathustra, the infant child the woman bore in her arms, lifted up his piping voice and spoke to these rude wild people, their worship sprang into life—for surely these were Gods come to them. And thus, all the people gave up the worship of murder and became Zarathustrians.

  * * *

  Contents

  HOIMAN AND THE SOLAR CIRCUIT

  By Gordon Dewey

  They lifted Hoiman's scratch, thus causing him to lose much smoosh. So he grabbed his bum and hit the high orbit.

  Pay day! I scrawled my Larry Maloney across the
back of the check and handed it to Nick, the bartender. "Leave me something to operate on," I told him.

  Nick turned it over. "Still with the News?"

  The question was rhetorical. I let it pass without swinging at it. I was mentally estimating the total of the pile of tabs Nick pulled out of the cash register, like a fighter on percentage trying to count the house. I didn't like the figure it gave me.

  Nick added them up, then added them again before he pulled some bills out of the money drawer and said, "Here's thirty skins. Your rent due?"

  "This'll cover it. I'll do my drinking here."

  I went over to a booth and sat down. I lit a cigarette. I smoked. And waited. Presently Sherry, tall, dark and delicious, decided I was making like a customer, and strolled over. "Would you like a menu, Mr. Maloney?" she trilled.

  "Larry to you," I reminded her. "No menu. Bring me a steak. Big. Thick. Rare. And a plate of french fries. No salad. Bread and butter. Coffee."

  She managed at last to pull her writing hand out of mine, and I had to repeat the order. Unless it could be turned into money, Sherry's memory was limited strictly to the present instant.

  She put in the order, then brought me a set-up. I let my eyes go over her, real careful, for maybe the thousandth time. No doubt of it--the lassie had a classy chassis. If she just wouldn't yak so damn much.

  "Did you see the matches last night?" She didn't wait for my answer, just went on with the yat-a-ta. "I spent the whole evening just glued to my television set. I was simply enthralled. When the Horrible Hungarian got the Flying Hackensack on--"

  "Standing Hackenschmidt, Sherry!"

  "--poor little Billie McElroy I wanted to--to scratch his eyes out."

  I pointed out that McElroy weighed in at two forty-one and had gone on to win the match. Sherry never heard me.

  "And the way the Weeping Greek kept hitting the other fellow--the announcer said he was throwing Judo cutlets."

  "Cuts, not cutlets."

  "But aren't Judo cutlets illegitimate?" The barest hint of a puzzled frown tugged at her flawless brows as she poured ice water into my glass.

  "The word," I repeated, "is cuts. And the blow is not illegal." I gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And what a mind. "Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is legal in wrestling."

  Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment longer than necessary before replacing it--regretfully--on the table.

  He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it."

  * * * * *

  He was thin, haggard, unkempt, and his brown suit--in which the chalk stripes were beginning to blend with the background--was threadbare. He needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty dissolved.

  "Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not--"

  He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better." He sighed.

  Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly.

  Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from his lax mouth. Then he slumped down again, spread his hands, shrugged, and said, "Now I esk you!"

  Sherry said, "I guess not." Then, "Shall I bring you something?" Her eyes were on me as she asked. She hadn't worked on Vine Street for six years without learning the ropes--about people at least.

  I nodded.

  Katz was waiting for the nod. He licked his lips. "I'll have a--"

  "Planet Punch?"

  "No. I'll have a--"

  "Solar Sling? Martian Mule?"

  Hoiman's eyes squinted shut, and he winced eloquently. "Martian!" he groaned. "With rassling, too! Bring me a bottle of beer. Two bottles!" After a moment he peered cautiously through slitted lids. "Is she gone?" he whispered. "Such woids. Rassling. Martian. Better I should have stood in Hollywood."

  I laughed. "What's the matter with wrestling, Hoiman? Last I heard you were managing a good boy--what was his name?"

  "Killer Coogan? That bum!"

  I had to do some thinking back. "Yeah," I said, "that's the boy. Started wrestling back in the fifties. Good crowd pleaser. Took the Junior Heavyweight Championship from Brickbuster Bates. Had a trick hold he called the pretzel bend--hard to apply, but good for a submission every time when he clamped it on. Right?"

  "Okay, so he won some bouts with it. But that was twenty-five years ago. He's slower, can't use that holt any more. We ain't had no main events for a long time, and my bum is a big eater, see?"

  "So?"

  "So Hoiman Katz is not sleeping yet at the switch. He's got it up here." A grimy forefinger tapped his wrinkled brow. "I says, Hoiman, if we don't get it here, we gotta go where we can get it."

  Sherry came back with Hoiman's two bottles of beer, and my steak and french fries. The steak was a dream, and the french fries were a crisp, rich golden brown that started my mouth watering.

  Sherry wanted to talk. I waved her down, and she went away pouting. If there was a story in Hoiman I wanted to get it without interference.

  He was pouring a second glass of beer. His beady eyes swivelled up to mine, then quickly away. "You want I should tell you about my bum?"

  I mumbled something through a mouthful of good juicy steak.

  Hoiman sighed, reminiscently, and a grimy paw swooped into my french fries. I moved them to the other side of my steak platter.

  We woiked all up and down the Coast, (Hoiman said). My bum took all comers. Slasher Slade had his abominal stretch. Crusher Kane had his rolling rocking horse split; Manslaughter Murphy had his cobra holt--but none of those guys had anything like my Bum's pretzel bend. He trun 'em all, and they stayed trun.

  That was fine. All through the fifties, and the sixties we made plenty scratch. Maybe it slowed down, but we was eating regular. In the seventies my bum was slowing up. I shoulda seen it when he started missing his holt. That leaves him wide open, see? And twict the other bum moiders him.

  That was recent--they was just putting in regular passenger service on the space lines, so you could buy tickets to the Moon, or Venus or Mars. Depended on whether you was ducking a bill or some broad.

  By this time my bum is getting pinned to the mat too regular, and we're slipping out of the big dough. I counts up our lettuce one day, and I says to my bum, I says, Ray, I says, you and me are going to the Moon.

  So what if they didn't have a rassling circuit there yet, I tell him. Just leave it to your uncle Hoiman. We'll make our own circuit.

  I figured that the ribbon clerks wouldn't be taking space rides for awhile, and if we went to the Moon we'd find some bums there who could give my bum a good bout, but not fast enough to toss him.

  So we went there.

  Hoiman's eyes, looking into the past, had lost their beadiness. He'd shifted his third glass of beer to his right hand, and his left, seemingly of its own volition, had found my plate of french fries. The pile had dwindled by half, and tell-tale potato crumbs were lodged in the whiskers on Hoiman's unshaven chin. Neither beer nor potatoes in his mouth seemed to matter--he went right on talking at the same rate.

  It takes me two weeks, (Hoiman continued), to ballyhoo up a bout, line up another bum, fix up the ring and hall and everything. We was down to our last lettuce that night. I gets my bum by the ear, and I tells him, I says, make it a good show. But don't take no chances--this is winner take all, and we better not lose. Don't use your pretzel bend unlessen you have to.

  This bum we rassle was a big miner, see?--hard as the rocks he juggles around in the daytime. He was stronger'n my bum, but he don
't know nothing about rassling. My bum tried a step-over toehold on him, but he knows how to kick. My bum goes through the ropes. He don't try that no more.

  They rassle around, and eight minutes later my bum takes first fall with a body press after flattening the miner with a hard knee lift. I told my bum to let him take the second fall, which he does. The big miner gets a head scissors on him and like to moiders him before he can submit.

  Ray isn't liking it, and he takes the third one quick with a abominal stretch, which surprises the big guy and takes all the fight outa him. He didn't know they was holts like that, and he passes the word around that my bum has plenty moxie. So we get only one more bout on the Moon--but outa the two we get enough scratch to take us to Venus.

  Hoiman paused, trying hard to pour more beer out of the empty second bottle. He licked his lips like they were real dry, and his beady eyes flicked a glance at me that came and went as fast as the tip of a swinging rapier. I signalled Sherry to bring two more bottles of beer. Hoiman relaxed, sighed, gazing almost affectionately at the new crop of french fries which had appeared suddenly in his clutching fist.

  Sherry, still pouting, came with the beer, and ten seconds later Hoiman was talking again.

  We did okay on Venus, (he said). Before long I have a regular little circuit woiked up in the three spaceports, and they is plenty bums there what think they can rassle. Some of them can--my bum has to use his pretzel bend oftener and oftener. He's lucky, and he don't slip none clamping it on--at first.

  I have ta tell you about them Venusians. Them dustlanders, I mean. They got big flat wide feet for padding through the dust, and their noses are like a big spongy thing all over their puss, to filter the dust out. So they got no expression on their pans. A guy like me, which has got a real expressive face, could get the willies just looking at them. And their eyes--round and flat, big as silver dollars.

  Them dustlanders was nuts about rassling. They flock to the rassling shows and buy good seats. They don't do no hollering and waving like people do. Just sit there, staring out of them big flat eyes and making funny chuffing noises at each other when some bum would get a good hold on the other.