Yondering

by Robert Reginald (ed)

  “Bottom line, the cells might not take.” Dorseter sounded as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Could be a lot of pain and wasted time for nothing. Maybe infection, possibly serious. All medical procedures entail a certain amount of risk, Jeff, especially experimental ones.”

  “And I’d be back to square one?”

  He heard the hesitation in Dorseter’s reply. “It’s hard to be one hundred percent certain of anything.”

  He hung up.

  * * * *

  The FINISH looms, a hundred yards ahead. He flies toward it, whooping with excitement. Everything melts dizzyingly in the bright sunshine.

  This is what he lives for. This is who he is. The one thing he is certain of. He is a champion.

  Then he is through the tape.

  And suddenly the blur of faces waiting for him sharpens. He sees the cameras, the t-shirt vendors, Meg Lowenthal, a child in a wheelchair waving a flag. He sweeps past. Sound bursts roaring on his ears again. The crowd yells, jubilant, huge as the sound of winter surf. Hands reach out toward him as if to catch some of his wild energy for themselves.

  Carrie is waiting for him behind a barrier.

  Slowing, he lets go of the wheels and throws his arms up into the air in fierce exultation.

  * * * *

  “Ten seconds better than your time in Cannes,” Carrie says, draping a sweatshirt across his shoulders. “Nice going, Champ.”

  She maneuvers her chair beside his as they move away from the FINISH line.

  The reporters who took Jeff’s picture as he crossed the line turn back to the course where the runners will soon be coming in. The crowd jostles behind the race barriers to catch the first sight of the winners. A few yards away, a TV crew vies with photographers to catch a Hollywood starlet who’s here with her entourage to be seen at the race.

  The high mood of the race is still on him. He could wheel over, make a photo op. Jeff makes a vee with his fingers to a camera that isn’t watching him.

  Carrie’s van is parked nearby. Exhaustion is catching up with him now. Lungs burn, shoulder muscles ache, and his fingers have sprouted blisters. It’s an effort to keep turning the wheels. He waits patiently while she lowers the ramp, seeing the way her short brown hair lifts off her brow in the breeze.

  “This calls for steak and lobster,” she says. “Out of my league, though.”

  He glances at her, catches the barely hidden smile, and says, “I’m buying tonight.”

  “Champagne too.”

  This end of the parking area, where the handicapped slots are, is almost empty. In the space, two young boys, tired of waiting for something exciting to happen, are playing baseball with a plastic bat. A flop-eared dog runs in circles between them. One of the boys hits high and wide. The yellow tennis ball sails out of reach and comes arcing toward Jeff.

  “Hey, mister!” one kid yells. “Get our ball?”

  His hand shoots out and cups the ball as it falls.

  “Nice catch,” Carrie says.

  He bows in her direction then sends the ball winging back. The dog barks. The kids wave.

  Behind him, a roar goes up from the crowd as the runners begin to cross the FINISH line. He half-turns, his throat tightening.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  The race has to be over, one way or another, someday, he knows that. Nature will see to it if Dorseter doesn’t. Then what? And is a man given only one chance to do something with his life, or are there many races over many different courses as Carrie seems to think? He prides himself on being a tough competitor, sharp-eyed trader in uncertainty. Afraid of nothing.

  He swings the chair toward the van. Stops again. The wave of excitement and adulation sweeping out from the race buffets him till every nerve in his body thrums with tension and he shuts his eyes against the pain.

  “Jeff?” she says.

  He glances at Carrie’s face. Her face isn’t beautiful, but strong. He’s never really looked at it before. He realizes he’s never really looked at any woman before. Maybe he was afraid they’d look away.

  He sighs. “I’ve made my decision.”

  She brushes his cheek with her lips but says nothing. He reaches up and touches her short hair. Behind them, the crowd roars again.

  He wheels up the ramp and into Carrie’s van.

  THE LITTLE FINGER OF THE LEFT HAND, by Mel Gilden

  The old guy stood in the lounge looking out through the big picture window at the kids bounding across the surface of the Moon. Even in their bulky suits the old guy could tell them apart: red suit for Arthur, blue suit for Beatrice, and yellow suit for Little Dan. Ms. Fosdick, in her conservative brown suit, was leading them.

  Ms. Fosdick hurried them in through the public airlock, and as the kids removed their helmets their argumentative voices filled the lounge. Strangers looked at them, smiled, and went back to their own affairs.

  “I’m not kidding! I saw an alien fossil out there,” Little Dan insisted. He was a sturdy boy of seven.

  At fourteen, Arthur was tall for his age. He ran a hand through his hair, but it refused to lie down. “There is no life on the Moon,” Arthur said. “Never has been.”

  “Arthur’s right,” Beatrice said. “There are no aliens. Everybody knows that. What you saw was a rock formation, and that’s all.” Beatrice was only thirteen, but she was very pretty—everybody knew that, too. Her beauty gave her confidence.

  “You have such imaginative grandchildren, Mr. Slatterman,” Ms. Fosdick said as she smiled indulgently. She had a long thin face—like a horse, Little Dan always said when Ms. Fosdick wasn’t around.

  “What do you say, Gramps?” Little Dan asked. “Are there aliens?”

  Mr. Slatterman was older than all three kids put together. “When I was not much older than you are,” he said as he sat down on a long yellow couch, “I actually met some actual aliens.”

  Little Dan looked at him with wide-eyed wonder. Arthur and Beatrice frowned.

  “I see where the children get their imagination,” Ms. Fosdick said. She shook her head with disapproval.

  “No, really,” Mr. Slatterman said. “Aliens.”

  * * * *

  Young Howard Slatterman was lost in the big woods that surrounded his uncle Fred’s cabin. He’d developed a headache from reading comic books all day, and Uncle Fred suggested that a walk in the fresh air might help. The headache was gone, but Howard would have taken it back if it came with a good map.

  He walked among the big leafy trees, becoming more fearful all the time. Because he was a city boy, his sense of direction failed him in any region that wasn’t paved.

  “Hello!” he cried, but the wilderness seemed to swallow the sound whole.

  He entertained himself by trying to decide whether he’d rather be eaten by a bear or die of starvation. Were there bears around here? Were any of these plants edible? He had no idea. Not wanting to get more lost, he sat down on a big rock. Cold came up through his jeans.

  He was picking at the skin around one fingernail when he heard the shriek of something big diving through the sky, then an explosion that rattled the trees around him and the teeth in his head. Forgetting his fears for the moment, Howard leaped to his feet and glanced around. Off to his right a single spout of fire rose into the air and disappeared. Something must have crashed!

  Howard ran toward it, but as he approached the crash site he became more cautious. Attempting to be both silent and invisible, he crept up on it.

  He looked around the side of a big bush and saw something in a clearing—a spaceship about the size of a school bus, bent in half and smoking. It looked like a broken toy. It could have been a secret government project, Howard supposed, but he didn’t think so. From the odd look of the ship, humans had not had anything to do with designing or building it.

  Howard stepped forward slowly, his fear overwhelmed by his curiosity. Were there beings aboard the ship? Were they alive or dead? If they were alive, would they hurt him? Even if they were dead,
would they give him a strange alien disease?

  Something clambered out of the wreckage and staggered toward him.

  * * * *

  “Gosh,” Little Dan exclaimed.

  “It was a coincidence that you were out there when that ship crashed,” Arthur pointed out.

  “It could have happened to anybody,” Beatrice added.

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Slatterman agreed. “I was totally unprepared for what the guy wanted me to do.”

  “What was it?” Little Dan demanded.

  * * * *

  The guy fell face down on the ground. Howard hurried over and studied him. From this angle the guy looked human enough—two arms, two legs, a single head. He seemed to be wearing a long, brown raincoat.

  Howard almost knelt to help, but he stopped, wondering how he could help or if he even should help. Howard had seen enough TV shows and movies to know that not all aliens were friendly.

  Struggling, the guy turned himself over and leaned on one elbow so he could look up at Howard with large, heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth was a long slit. To Howard the guy looked kind of like a turtle. It was not a face that was easy to read. The front of his raincoat was covered with pockets of all sizes.

  “Yo,” the guy said. His voice was surprisingly high and clear, like the tinkle of a little bell.

  “Yo,” Howard replied, hoping that was a greeting and not a war cry.

  “I need your help,” the guy said.

  “You speak English,” Howard said, astonished. After considering for a few seconds, he continued more calmly. “You’ve probably been monitoring our radio and TV broadcasts,” he said.

  “Why would we do that?” the guy tinkled. “Everybody out in the galaxy speaks English.”

  “They do?”

  “Of course. English is a characteristic of life itself.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. But I don’t have time to argue about it.” He was wracked with a coughing fit, and when he was done he spit out a gelatinous, yellowish blob that grew frog’s legs and hopped out of sight into the underbrush.

  “What was that?”

  “I’m badly injured,” the guy said, his voice now more of a croak. He opened one of the larger pockets on the front of his raincoat and took from it a small football-shaped object. A single fin rose from one end, and lights chased each other around the long side. Every second or so it made a quiet blooping sound. To Howard’s surprise, the guy handed the thing to him.

  “What is this?” Howard asked.

  “We haven’t much time,” the guy said. “I am special operative Sandar Mons of the Galactic Police. I am being followed by agents of the evil Kralndor, Zeemoo. If this McGuffin falls into Zeemoo’s hands—he doesn’t actually have hands, but you know what I mean—the entire galaxy will be at risk.”

  “And I come into this sad story where?” Howard asked, entirely mystified.

  “Zeemoo’s agents will be here soon. Their ship was right on my tail when I lost control in your atmosphere. Your job is to prevent them from getting the McGuffin until more Galactic Police arrive. The police will take over from there.” He coughed and once again hawked up one of those tiny, gelatinous frogs.

  Howard liked this situation less the more Sandar talked. “When are the Galactic Police coming?” he asked, hoping it would be soon.

  “I don’t know. Soon. Maybe. You must help.”

  Howard was not encouraged by that. “I’m just a kid,” he said. “How am I supposed to fight the agents of an alien super bad guy?”

  “With this,” Sandar said. He reached out with a hand that seemed to have too many fingers and tightly gripped the front of Howard’s head.

  “Hey!” Howard cried and fought to get free. Suddenly, ideas began to fill his mind. They dazzled him so that he stopped fighting.

  “I have given you the ability to change your form at will,” Sandar said, sounding very tired, “and some simple codes that will allow you to change into several pre-determined shapes—the shape of a Galactic Policeman, for instance.”

  “Yeah! Sure!” Howard exclaimed. “I see! This is easy!” He looked at Sandar, frowning. “But why should I trust you? For all I know, you might be the bad guy. You and the agents of Zeemoo might both be bad guys.”

  “Sometimes, kid, you have to go with your guts. Here.” He took something else from another pocket and thrust it into Howard’s hands. “It’s a Lightning Five Thousand Proto Blaster. Don’t kill anybody by accident.” He collapsed back onto the ground and shut his eyes.

  “But what if—?”

  Sandar waved one hand in the air briefly before it dropped to the ground.

  Howard shook him frantically. “I’m just a kid!” he shouted.

  Sandar began to change. The features of his face, his body shape, even his clothing began to run slowly, as if they were made of warm wax. Despite his distress, Howard could not help being fascinated.

  Sandar’s face morphed until it was less like a turtle’s and more like an insect’s. He now had a complicated mouth and big compound eyes. Altogether, he looked like a man-sized cockroach with a thick lizard tail. He wore a long jerkin that seemed to be made of plastic straps. Near his left shoulder was a round midnight blue patch with a silver needle of a spaceship that zoomed across it again and again.

  “Gosh,” Howard said out loud. Sandar’s new shape was not one that inspired confidence. Still, he might be a Galactic Policeman after all. Maybe.

  Howard was sure Sandar was dead. He stood up, the McGuffin in one hand and the proto blaster in the other, and tried to let his guts tell him what to do. His guts told him to put down the McGuffin and the weapon and walk away quickly, to forget any of this ever happened. He was sure that Sandar’s intergalactic enemies were more than he could handle. Even so, he continued to stand there hefting the object in each hand.

  His guts spoke again. Wait a minute, he advised himself. You have a super power and a super weapon. You can do this. Yes, but should he? Identifying the bad guys was of more than theoretical interest. If he made the wrong decision, he might endanger the entire galaxy.

  He waited for his guts to give him another clue.

  The sound of thunder began far away and rolled toward him like a giant bowling ball until it was so loud he had to put down the McGuffin and the blaster and insert his fingers into his ears. A moment later a second ship dropped out of nowhere and touched down softly on the ground near the wreckage of Sandar’s ship.

  Howard stood up straight and thought one of the codes Sandar had taught him. A sensation came over him that he had never felt before. It was unusual but not entirely unpleasant. He could describe it only as squirmy, but that didn’t quite cover the sliding, squishing feeling of movement that went through his body as it changed shape.

  His body flowed until it was somewhat taller than it had been, yet thinner and lighter. He was hard on the outside and soft on the inside. A long jerkin that seemed to be made of plastic straps covered his body. He flexed his new hands, an odd experience because they seemed like lobster claws, but with an extra claw on each hand.

  “Cool!” he said as he caught his breath.

  He hurriedly shoved the McGuffin into a pocket which seemed to be bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. The McGuffin didn’t even bulge under his jerkin. He shoved the proto blaster into a holster which had bloomed at his waist.

  A hole opened in the second ship and a creature stepped out into the air in front of it. The creature looked like an intelligent bulldog. Its body was large and muscular and wore a bright yellow outfit that was as tight as a superhero’s uniform. Altogether, the bulldog creature looked very heroic. It looked a lot more noble than Sandar, who looked like a bug, for gosh sakes.

  Did looks mean anything? Appearance was not a reliable guide when dealing with humans—when dealing with aliens it was even less certain. Howard had watched enough TV to know you could not sort the good guys from the bad guys by the bulges on their foreheads, their hair
styles, or the shapes of their ears.

  When the lead bulldog neared the bottom of the invisible ramp, two more bulldogs stepped through the hole and began to descend.

  Howard might look like a Galactic Policeman, but he didn’t feel like one. However, as frightened as he was, he stood his ground.

  “Yo,” the lead bulldog said, greeting him.

  “Yo,” Howard replied. His voice tinkled as Sandar’s had at first. He felt an odd sensation on his forehead. It took him a moment to realize that his antennae were whipping around.

  “Please give us the McGuffin,” the lead bulldog went on politely. When it spoke its voice sounded like many voices which seemed to be talking through a mechanical voice box.

  “I have a better idea. Just come along quietly and nobody’ll get hurt.” It was just a bluff, of course. Howard had no idea where the bulldogs should come along to. Or in what. Howard pulled his proto blaster and the bulldog froze.

  “If you are truly a Galactic Policeman, you will not shoot us,” the bulldog said. The three bulldogs stepped forward.

  “If?” Howard cried, feeling queasy all over. “Aren’t you guys sure?”

  The bulldogs huddled. A moment later they broke up and the lead bulldog stepped forward. “We are sure,” he said. “We are the police. Please give us the McGuffin. It is the right thing to do.” The bulldog was firm but still pleasant.

  If Howard did not want the game to be over right now, before he figured out what was going on, he had no choice. He fired at the ground in front of the first bulldog. Howard and all three of the bulldogs jumped when the blaster spit a lightning bolt—not a real lightning bolt like one would see in the sky, but a brilliant jagged projectile like the lightning bolt one might see in a comic strip. It struck the ground with a loud boom and kicked up clods of dirt as it burst into sparkles that disappeared as they settled.

  Howard was inclined to fire again just for the entertainment value of it, but he controlled himself. A Galactic policeman wouldn’t do a thing like that, if that’s what he was.

  The lead bulldog held up one hand and for the first time Howard saw that it had a thumb at either end. “We don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but we must have the McGuffin.”