Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  My bum didn't pay them no never mind at foist, but one day he tells me he keeps feeling them eyes on him while he's rasslin'. I give him the old razz--but that night he tries for his pretzel bend, and misses. The other bum is young and fast, and my bum gets trun, but good!

  So this happens a few more times, and my bum says we gotta move on--he can't rassle no more with them dustlanders staring at him and chuffing about him.

  Some of them ear benders on Venus are studying up on the side, anyhow, and the outlook for my bum ain't so good no more nohow. So we go to Mars.

  I signalled Sherry for my coffee, as Hoiman ground to a stop while he refilled his glass. I swear my eyes weren't away from the table for more than a half second, but in that moment all the french fries left my plate. I yielded to Fate--it wasn't meant to be that I eat french fries this pay day.

  Things are primitive like on Mars, (Hoiman was saying), on accounta the troubles they have with power there. We rassled under some funny set-ups, but that's okay with me as long as my bum tosses his man.

  This time they ain't none of them screwy Venusians to put the whammy on him, and he's doing okay. Until--I gotta admit it--I get deluges of grandeur, or something.

  I gotta tell ya about them Martians. They are about seven feet tall, not too heavy, but they got plenty moxie. And an extra pair of arms, so I get to thinking they oughta be terrific in the ring. Just so they ain't too terrific.

  I ask my bum, I says to him, I says, could he, does he think, trun one of them Martians? He says iffen he has to he'll use his pretzel bend, and they ain't no Martian on six legs, or eight, what won't say uncle.

  So I check with the Colony Administrator, and he says it's okay for a match perviding we don't interfere with any of their beliefs or customs or conventions. I ast him what were they, and he told me the Martians never talked about them, so we'd just have to be careful.

  What the hell, I says to my bum. A bout's a bout. So I start promoting. First I find out do them Martians have a bum what wants to rassle my bum, winner take all--which is the way we like to rassle, when I know my bum can trun the other bum. Natch.

  I don't mean we talk to the Martians--I don't savvy them squeaks they use on each other. We hire an interpreter--we have to take his word for it that everything is woiking out.

  So the night of the match comes around and them Martians insist on having it in their own town, Meekweek it sounds like, near as I can say it in people talk. Remember I told you it was primitive? You never seen nothing like this. They don't live with people by the way. They live off by theirselves in their own town.

  The ring and mat and ropes are okay--not regulation, but nothing to squawk about. Them lights was what get me. The Martians got no power, so they make a deal with some insecks. Cross my heart--'sa fack. You never see such insecks. Round, big as a dinner plate, flat on top, rounded off on the bottom. They stay up in the air by spinning like a wheel--just like them flying saucers the Rigellians was spying on us in the fifties. You wouldn't remember about that.

  At night the bottom part of them insecks lights up like a big electric bulb, almost as bright, too. They was enough of them zinging around over the ring to make it look like it was floodlighted. My bum says they remind him of them dish-eyed Venusians, but I quick change the subjeck. That shoulda tipped me off--shoulda give me a freemonition that the party was gonna get rough. If I'da known how rough, we'da stood in town.

  The Martian bum is a big mug, and those four arms of his look mighty plural. I quick tells my bum, I says to him, I says, watch out for arm locks and leg strangles. If that overgrowed spider ever gets one on you he'll double keylock it!

  * * * * *

  The two bums go in the ring, and get their instructions. Mostly the ref makes motions. The Martian nods his head like he understands fine. When the ref is telling them about trunnin' each other outen the ring, the Martian makes a motion like can he trun his man up in the rafters?

  The ref shakes his head no, and that seems to satisfy the Martian. The timekeeper blows a whistle, and things start to moving. That Martian Mangler puts down his two middle limbs, uses them like legs, and is across the ring and swarming all over my bum while he is still taking his foist step.

  Before you know it the ref is counting one, two, three, and my bum is trun for the foist fall. The Martian is using his middle limbs like arms, and he has a hammerlock and an arm strangle both on my bum--and both of them keylocked!

  The ref gets them untangled, and I quick tell my bum we ain't hurt until we get trun twict. So I tell him how to get that next fall--to keep away from them four arms and keep circling until he gets a chance to clamp on the pretzel bend.

  The whistle blows, and this time my bum uses my head. When the Martian Mangler gallops over to his corner, my bum has went through the ropes and quick runs around on the apron to the other side and comes at the Martian from behind before the goof knows what's happening.

  He lets the Martian have a rabbit punch, then a forearm smash, then a knee to his stomach. The Martian leans over, kinda sick, maybe, and gets a knee lift to the smoosh. This softens him up good, and my bum clamps the pretzel bend on him. That Martian squirms like an octopus, with arms and legs flying in all directions. And you coulda knocked me over with a subpoena when he got out of it!

  Your guess is as good as mine, how he done it. But my bum is moving fast, and he gives him some more knee lifts and a drop kick or two, and then a hair mare, and he falls on him for a body press and gets the count.

  Each bum has got a fall. You shoulda heard them Martians there squeaking this time--ten times as loud as when their bum won the foist fall. But they had no squawks. These flying chandeliers they had, they kinda bunched up to follow the action, and the light was good so the ref couldn't make no mistake about it.

  That Martian squirming out of the pretzel bend don't look so good, so I tell my bum not to use it for the thoid fall. I tell him to give the Martian some more of them knee lifts--he don't get along with them at all. I tell him to folly that up with a airplane spin and a body slam.

  My bum follys instructions to the alphabet, and that is just what happens. He bangs that Martian around with elbow smashes and knee lifts till he don't know is he on one leg or six. Then he goes in fast and grabs him by a coupla legs and arms, holds him up in the air, and spins him like a pinwheel.

  Right away I knowed something was in the air besides that Martian Mangler. Oi! Did things happen all to onct!

  My bum slams the Martian and falls on him for the count, and wins the thoid fall and the match. That part is okay. But while the Martian is still up in the air I notice that all the squeaking from the Martians has stopped all of a sudden.

  So from the Martians we are getting nothing but silence, strictly wholesale. I think maybe that's natural when their bum gets trun.

  And then--plop! plop! plop!--and them flying light bulbs all drop down flat on the mat and lay there just like the Martian bum, until they isn't enough light in the house to see to strike a match. And then the squeaking starts again, like a million hungry rats, and I can just barely see them Martians starting for the ring.

  I gets my bum by the arm and tells him something tells me we better blow the joint. We blow, fast. Them Martians is mad about something which I ain't had time to figure out, yet. My bum steps on one of them animated light fixtures when he gets out of the ring and squashes it. A puddle of light squirts out, and natch he steps in it. We are scramming through that crowd like mad, and we are in the clear. But we hear them squeaks behind us for a long time. They are follyin' the glowing footprints my bum is leaving to point the way.

  He emptied the last bottle of beer, holding it upended for a long time waiting for the final laggard drop to detach itself. He stalled over his drink, waiting for me to ask him what happened, so I did. He put on his most wounded expression, and I knew then that he'd suffered a mortal blow--to his purse.

  Yeah, we got away, I made my bum trun away his flashy shoes so they couldn't track
us by them. We walked all the way back to Neopolis, the people city. All kinds of plain and fancy rumors beat us there, so the Colony Cops put us in protective custody until they got the straight story.

  Nobody ever saw another Martian. It seems that they got some trick notions about theirselves. They are proud because they can walk on the ground and don't have to fly, so they got a hearty contemp for things that fly, like them insecks which they used for house lights.

  Now, them insecks is dopes too and would give anything if they could walk like the Martians. And the Martians know the insecks can think a little, and it makes them feel good to have the insecks looking up to them. Lord knows nobody else does.

  So when my bum lifted their bum up in the air and spun him around like a pinwheel it was a big insult to them. They took it that my bum was as much as telling them that he didn't think they was any better than them insecks flying around over the ring. And the insecks took it as a invite to come down and try the Martians racket so that's why they all flop into the ring and the lights go out. They was trying to walk.

  That's more than the Martians can take. They swarm into the ring and kill all the insecks. They'da killed us too, but I got smart brains and we didn't hang around asking for it.

  And now they won't have nothing to do with no people from Earth on account of they have lost so much smoosh, the way they look at it.

  We got no take from that bout. And the Colony Administrator lifts all our scratch--said we'd gummed up Martian trade and he'da trun us in the clink too only he didn't want to see no more of us. He wouldn'ta even give us fare back to Earth except he said he didn't want us anywhere on Mars.

  "So that," the little promoter concluded sadly, "is why I don't like Mars and rasslin' and Martian Mules and people who talk about such things." His beady eyes flicked a baleful glance at Sherry, who hovered nearby on the chance that he'd stop talking and give her an inning.

  Hoiman stood up, carefully shook the bottles to be sure that they were empty, extracted a cigarette from the pack he'd stuck into his pocket, and used my lighter again. He hefted it carefully, reluctantly putting it back on the table. Then his little black eyes swivelled to the last piece of potato on my plate--the piece he'd spared in previous raids.

  "What's the matter with them fries?" he asked.

  It disappeared into his mouth and he went away, munching, a dingy little man padding along on silent, predatory feet.

  He'd scarcely slipped out through the door when Sherry moved in.

  "Is he really a wrestler, Larry?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Him?" Even Sherry, vintage Vine Streeter that she was, should have got the pitch. "The only thing," I told her solemnly, "that Hoiman ever got a hammerlock on was a dollar bill!"

  But Sherry wasn't listening, "Don't you just love wrestling?"

  I let my eyes have a treat, taking their time as they went over that classy chassis. Then I said it. Fervently.

  "Any time, Sherry! Any time."

  * * *

  Contents

  ADJUSTMENT TEAM

  by Philip K. Dick

  It was bright morning. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and sidewalks, reflecting off the sparkling parked cars. The Clerk came walking hurriedly, leafing through his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He stopped in front of the small green stucco house for a moment, and then turned up the walk, entering the back yard.

  The dog was asleep inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail showed.

  "For Heaven's sake," the Clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped his mechanical pencil noisily against his clipboard. "Wake up, you in there."

  The dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking and yawning in the morning sunlight. "Oh, it's you. Already?" He yawned again.

  "Big doings." The Clerk ran his expert finger down the traffic-control sheet. "They're adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly nine o'clock." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Three hour alteration. Will finish by noon."

  "T137? That's not far from here."

  The Clerk's lips twisted in contempt. "Indeed. You're showing astonishing perspicacity, my black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why I'm here."

  "We overlap with T137."

  "Exactly. Elements from this sector are involved. We must make sure they're properly placed when adjustment begins." The Clerk glanced toward the small green stucco house. "Your particular task concerns the man in there. He is employed by a business establishment lying within Sector T137. It's essential he be there before nine o'clock.

  The dog studied the house. The shades had been let up. The kitchen light was on. Beyond the lace curtains dim shapes could be seen, stirring around the table. A man and woman. They were drinking coffee.

  "There they are," the dog murmured. "The man, you say? He's not going to be harmed, is he?"

  "Of course not. But he must be at his office early. Usually he doesn't leave until after nine. Today he must leave at eight-thirty. He must be within Sector T137 before the process begins, or he won't be altered to coincide with the new adjustment."

  The dog sighed. "That means I have to summon."

  "Correct." The Clerk checked his instruction sheet. "You're to summon at precisely eight-fifteen. You've got that? Eight-fifteen. No later."

  "What will an eight-fifteen summons bring?"

  The Clerk flipped open his instruction book, examining the code columns. "It will bring A Friend with a Car. To drive him to work early." He closed the book and folded his arms, preparing to wait. "That way he'll get to his office almost an hour ahead of time. Which is vital."

  "Vital," the dog murmured. He lay down, half inside his shed. His eyes closed. "Vital."

  "Wake up! This must be done exactly on time. If you summon too soon or too late—"

  The dog nodded sleepily. "I know. I'll do it right. I always do it right."

  Ed Fletcher poured more cream in his coffee. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Behind him the oven hissed softly, filling the kitchen with warm fumes. The yellow overhead light beamed down.

  "Another roll?" Ruth asked.

  "I'm full." Ed sipped his coffee. "You can have it."

  "Have to go." Ruth got to her feet, unfastening her robe. "Time to go to work."

  "Already?"

  "Sure. You lucky bum! Wish I could sit around." Ruth moved toward the bathroom, running her fingers through her long black hair. "When you work for the Government you start early."

  "But you get off early," Ed pointed out. He unfolded the Chronicle, examining the sporting green. "Well, have a good time today. Don't type any wrong words, any double-entendres."

  The bathroom door closed, as Ruth shed her robe and began dressing.

  Ed yawned and glanced up at the clock over the sink. Plenty of time. Not even eight. He sipped more coffee and then rubbed his stubbled chin. He would have to shave. He shrugged lazily. Ten minutes, maybe.

  Ruth came bustling out in her nylon slip, hurrying into the bedroom. "I'm late." She rushed rapidly around, getting into her blouse and skirt, her stockings, her little white shoes. Finally she bent over and kissed him. "Goodbye, honey. I'll do the shopping tonight."

  "Goodbye." Ed lowered his newspaper and put his arm around his wife's trim waist, hugging her affectionately. "You smell nice. Don't flirt with the boss."

  Ruth ran out the front door, clattering down the steps. He heard the click of her heels diminish down the sidewalk.

  She was gone. The house was silent. He was alone.

  Ed got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He wandered lazily into the bathroom and got his razor down. Eight-ten. He washed his face, rubbing it down with shaving cream, and began to shave. He shaved leisurely. He had plenty of time.

  The Clerk bent over his round pocket watch, licking his lips nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead. The second hand ticked on. Eight-fourteen. Almost time.

  "Get ready!" the Clerk snapped. He tensed, his small body rigid. "Ten se
conds to go!"

  "Time!" the Clerk cried.

  Nothing happened.

  The Clerk turned, eyes wide with horror. From the little shed a thick black tail showed. The dog had gone back to sleep.

  "TIME!" the Clerk shrieked. He kicked wildly at the furry rump. "In the name of God—"

  The dog stirred. He thumped around hastily, backing out of the shed. "My goodness." Embarrassed, he made his way quickly to the fence. Standing up on his hind paws, he opened his mouth wide. "Woof!" he summoned. He glanced apologetically at the Clerk. "I beg your pardon. I can't understand how—"

  The Clerk gazed fixedly down at his watch. Cold terror knotted his stomach. The hands showed eight-sixteen. "You failed," he grated. "You failed! You miserable flea-bitten rag-bag of a wornout old mutt! You failed!"

  The dog dropped and came anxiously back. "I failed, you say? You mean the summons time was—?"

  "You summoned too late." The Clerk put his watch away slowly, a glazed expression on his face. "You summoned too late. We won't get A Friend with a Car. There's no telling what will come instead. I'm afraid to see what eight-sixteen brings."

  "I hope he'll be in Sector T137 in time."

  "He won't," the Clerk wailed. "He won't be there. We've made a mistake. We've made things go wrong!"

  Ed was rinsing the shaving cream from his face when the muffled sound of the dog's bark echoed through the silent house.

  "Damn," Ed muttered. "Wake up the whole block." He dried his face, listening. Was somebody coming?

  A vibration. Then—

  The doorbell rang.

  Ed came out of the bathroom. Who could it be? Had Ruth forgotten something? He tossed on a white shirt and opened the front door.

  A bright young man, face bland and eager, beamed happily at him. "Good morning, sir." He tipped his hat. "I'm sorry to bother you so early—"