“Look,” Finlay said, “I don’t work that way. A giant clutching a spaceship—ha! There’s no cover material in that.”
“It’s a big giant,” Mr. Upjohn said. “No. Besides, how do I know what it’s supposed to look like?”
“Big, with horns and large pointed ears. All iridescent yellow, you know.”
“It won’t do,” I broke in. “Stories aren’t written like that, and if they were, they wouldn’t sell. Suppose I did what you suggested and simply recorded this incident as it happened? Do you know the editor of Astonishing?”
“No,” Mr. Upjohn murmured.
“I do,” I said simply.
The superman looked at us in a depressed fashion.
“It happened, you know,” he said. “The giant grabbed my ship, and I crawled out and burned his nose till he dropped it.”
“The nose?” Finlay asked stupidly. “The ship.”
“Weren’t you hurt?”
“I’m indestructible,” Mr. Upjohn said. “Different atomic structure.”
“In any case, no,” I said. “You should know better than to ask us—”
“But I am asking you. And I have the power to back up my demands. With a very slight expenditure of vital energy I could reduce you both to pinches of grayish ash.”
“Oh, have a drink,” Finlay said, getting disgusted. Mr. Upjohn complied. The liquor seemed to hit him at once.
“Shoop—supermen react quickly to alcohol,” he explained, blinking at us. “Too bad. But it wears off in a hurry.”
“No hangover?” I inquired.
“No,” he said. “I’m a sh—superman.”
“Anyhow,” I said, “we can’t help you. Stories aren’t written like this—salable ones at least. You got to have a plot.”
“No,” Mr. Upjohn decided. “That would spoil it. All I want is for you to write down what happened.”
“Like Saroyan,” I said. “No, my good man, I can’t. I must preserve the artistic unities. Besides, I couldn’t get a check for the yarn.”
Finlay was lapping at his Cuba Libre. “Same way about the illustration. A picture has to illustrate a scene in the story.
I don’t see any yellow giants playing with spaceships.”
“Nobody would believe it,” I said. “Even as fiction. You might as well say that, by a pure, raw coincidence, the guy in the next booth is the one who swiped your wife.”
Finlay rose and peered into the next booth. “No,” he told us. “No, there’s only a little guy here drinking a Horse’s Neck and playing with a marble or something.” He sat down again.
We did a double-take.
“A marble? I said. “What color?”
“Omigod,” Finlay cried in a heartfelt manner. “Chartreuse!”
WE STARED at Mr. Upjohn, who returned our gaze in an owlish and distracted fashion.
“ ’Sall a lie,” he muttered. “There is no Earth. You get my crystal or I’ll destroy you both. Wife-stealers, thass what. Urp!” He slid forward gently and lay with his face on the table. It proved impossible to rouse our drunken superman.
“Well, maybe it isn’t a raw coincidence,” Finlay said.
“If it’s the same guy—”
“Mr. Upjohn might have subconsciously come back to the same bar where he first met him.”
“Yeah,” we said, and pondered. After a while Finlay broke the silence.
“I wonder what did happen?”
“Our friend Upjohn is an alley peddler, maybe. He ran into this little guy and offered him an emerald cut-rate because it was hot. An old gag. Down on East Fifth, in Los Angeles, they used to sell diamonds that had been smuggled in from Tia Juana. They were fakes, naturally.”
“Then why does Mr. Upjohn want it back?”
“It’d take Dash Hammett to figure that one out,” I said, having another drink. “This is how murders always start—by chance encounters in bars. When we leave, we’ll probably run into a corpse weltering in its own gore.”
Finlay eyed me intently. “Weltering?”
I made helpless gestures, not feeling up to explaining it. “Oh—weltering. Sort of floundering. What the hell does it matter, anyhow? We’re talking about this hunk of green ice.”
“It wasn’t an emerald. I could tell.”
“Was there a blonde babe in it?” I inquired, growing ironic. “Are you starting to fall for Mr. Upjohn’s yarn?”
“The superman?” Finlay laughed. “Let’s wake him up. If he wants that chartreuse crystal back, it’s right here in the next booth.”
“Perhaps,” I hedged. “Don’t count on it.”
“Think Mr. Upjohn made up the whole story?”
“I dunno. Let’s ask him. In vino veritas. That is Latin.”
Finlay grunted skeptically. He leaned toward Mr. Upjohn and shouted in his ear—feeling, as he afterwards said, like Humpty-Dumpty addressing his messenger.
“About that giant—”
“It has green eyes,” said Mr. Upjohn, startled. “Don’t forget, two little piles of grayish ash. I can do it, too.” He instantly fell asleep again.
“Ha,” Finlay said. “A yellow giant with green eyes. Against a lavender background, I suppose. Well? What’ll we do with Mr. Upjohn?”
“We could put him in a teapot,” I said, “if we had a teapot.”
Mr. Upjohn did not, apparently, waken, but his voice said quietly, “I’ll take steps to make sure you do what I want. I’ll put a hypnotic compulsion on you both. Neither of you will be able to do a lick of work till you’ve fulfilled my commission”.
“Delirious,” I said briefly. “Let’s go see the guy in the next booth.”
Finlay rose and peered. “He’s gone.”
“I’ll trail him,” I said, hastily heading toward the door. “Take care of the check and follow me.”
“We’ll let Mr. Upjohn do that,” Finlay suggested, keeping pace with me. “Where’s our quarry? He couldn’t have gone far.”
HE HADN’T. We saw the little man getting into a taxicab at the curb. We heard him say, “Grand Central Station.”
“Well—” I said Indecisively.
“Why not?” Finlay asked me. We were both intrigued, I guess. At any rate, we felt like asking the little guy a question or two. So we piled into another taxi.
“Grand Central,” I said.
It was late afternoon. Snow was starting to come down. We cut along 42nd, Times Square on our left, dimmed out as usual, and turned into the taxi dock by Grand Central. Our quarry was disappearing into the station. We ran after him. He headed for the Oyster Bar with the air of man lusting for oysters, but stopped to glance at his watch. Then he scurried to a row of lockers, fumbled out a key and extricated a couple of small suitcases. By that time we were beside him.
“Hey,” I said. “We want to talk to you.”
He looked frightened. “Sorry. My train’s leaving.”
Finlay seized one arm, I got the other.
“This’ll only take a minute,” Finlay said. “Don’t yell for a redcap. We want to know where you got that chartreuse crystal you were playing with in the Pen & Pencil.”
“Is it stolen?” he asked, wide-eyed. “The man who gave it to me—”
“Mr. Upjohn?”
“Yes, that was his name. Are you detectives? I—I’m in New York on business, just for a few days. And I really must get back home. My train—”
“The crystal,” I said.
He tried to pull free. “My train’s pulling out! Gentlemen, if the jewel’s stolen I—”
“No,” Finlay said, “it isn’t stolen. We want to ask you some questions, that’s all.”
The little man fished something out of his vest pocket and thrust it into my palm. Instinctively I clutched it. It was warm and velvety, large as a big plum, and seemed to vibrate gently.
“Keep it!” the little guy said. “It’s enchanted anyway.” Then he pulled free and fled, his suitcases jouncing as he scuttled off.
Finlay and I looked afte
r him and then turned to examine what I held in my palm. It was the chartreuse crystal, all right. It felt funny as hell.
My hand tingled.
“Here,” I said hastily. “You try it.” I handed it to Finlay—and the. crystal jumped away from us. It didn’t fall. It jumped.
It landed on the floor, and we dived for it. The crystal slid away. It drifted off like water, or like a mouse flitting off to its hole. My stomach tried to jam itself into my sinuses.
That damn crystal ran away from us through Grand Central Station.
The station was crowded, as usual, and we were handicapped. We ran after it, jostling our way. I got an umbrella rib in my ear, and Finlay ran full tilt into a fat man with a derby hat and sent them both flying. Meantime the crystal skittered around toward the Oyster Bar, flowed down a ramp and glided toward one of the train gates.
So the little guy had said it was enchanted, eh? He was right!
It went through the gate. We went after it, ignoring a Brooklyn accent that demanded our tickets. We raced along the platform. A train was pulling out into the long tunnel.
The chartreuse crystal stopped, a dim splash of yellow-green light on the dingy gray pavement. I hurdled a hand truck and grabbed at it. The crystal bounced off my nose and sailed after the train.
It tried three windows before it found an open one. Then it went in. And vanished.
Finlay was sitting on the baggage truck, looking as stupefied as I felt. He got up as I approached, and we went back to the gate. The guy who tended it was taking down a sign that said CHICAGO.
“Maybe he’s getting off at Rochester.”
“If we knew his name—”
“Maybe we could wire ahead—”
“We’re not detectives,” Finlay said. “We haven’t any authority to pull a man off a train. Uh-uh. Let’s go find—ah—Mr. Upjohn.”
I could think of nothing better to do. So we returned to the Pen & Pencil.
Mr. Upjohn was gone.
We sat down at our table and had another drink.
“It never happened,” I said hopefully.
Finlay pointed to the tabletop. Etched there, in letters that shimmered like fire, were words.
Don’t forget what I want. I’ll make sure the work is published. Remember, two little piles of gray ash.
It was unsigned.
Presently the sentences faded out and vanished.
We had another drink. But we didn’t feel it.
AN HOUR later we broke it up. Finlay had a picture to do, I had a deadline to meet. I went home, slipped a sheet of paper into my typewriter and started.
I typed: Reader, I hate you.
Which wasn’t what I’d intended to say at all. I tried another sheet. And I typed the same thing.
I kept on doing it. That was all I could write, apparently. Post-hypnotic suggestion or something. But a superman—
No, I didn’t believe it.
After a while I telephoned Finlay. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“My wife got a new hat.”
“So did mine,” he said. “What are you working on now?”
“Oh, a story. Just—a story. And you?”
“A picture.”
“What—”
“A picture of a giant holding a spaceship,” he told me. “Well? Can I guess what you’re writing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You can guess. It’s all I can write.”
“And this is all I can draw,” he said. “Do you suppose—”
“It’s hypnosis, that’s all. It’s not impossible. We can get around it somehow or other.”
“Sure we can,” he said without conviction, and hung up.
A week later neither of us had got around it. My wastebasket was littered with crumpled sheets starting, Reader, I hate you. I don’t know what your name is—Joe or Mike or Forrest J—
And Finlay said his wastebasket was in a similar condition, jammed with unfinished roughs of giants.
That’s the way it was. Mr. Upjohn couldn’t do this to us. But he kept on doing it.
We went up to see the editor of Astonishing. He listened, and looked at us in a marked manner.
“You don’t believe us,” we said.
“No,” he said. “Not really.
“And you wouldn’t buy the story or the picture?”
He looked at us again, broodingly. We went away.
“Editors,” I said in the elevator, “have no imagination.”
“It wasn’t much to ask,” Finlay said plaintively. “He might have tried to believe us. All I can sketch is that damn yellow giant with green eyes.”
“And all I can write—”
“Maybe if we do what Mr. Upjohn wanted,” Finlay suggested, “the hypnosis would wear off.”
I said it was an idea, anyhow.
So we went home and got busy.
Halfway through the story my phone rang. It was the editor of Astonishing.
“Hey, Kuttner,” he said. “I’m in a spot. I need a story in a hurry. Can you—”
“Certainly,” I said, automatically. “I just yesterday thought of the greatest damn—”
Then I remembered. “Sorry,” I said. “You know how it is with me. That story I’m working on—I have to finish it.”
“That’s the one I mean,” he said. “Listen. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’m going to put it in the very next issxjp. Super Science, that is. It hits the stands before Astonishing.”
“I’ll finish it up right away,” I promised. “Friday. Do you think you can read it soon?”
“Read it,” His voice cracked. “Kuttner, I won’t read anything till I read that story!”
And he hung up. I chased over to see Finlay.
He was putting the finishing strokes on a picture of a giant holding a spaceship, beaming.
“You got a phone call,” I said.
“Yeah. He wanted a cover in a hurry. This cover. . . .”
We remembered the message on the table-top—Mr. Upjohn’s cryptic remark that he’d make sure our work was published.
“Do you suppose Mr. Upjohn visited—”
I didn’t finish. Too many strange things were going on. I’m a professional writer, not Faust. But I was beginning to feel like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
But—well, there it is. This isn’t orthodox. A cover picture always illustrates a scene in a story; it’s got to. And a story has to have a plot. Don’t ask me how this yarn and this cover ever got published. Ask Mr. Upjohn. He gets around. I’ve a hunch he got around to the editor.
NOW look—Joe or Mike or Forrest J or whoever you are. Get in touch with the editor. You buy this magazine, and this month it has a Finlay picture and a Kuttner story, so you’ll be triply certain to buy it. After you’ve read this, you’ll know the lowdown.
The chartreuse crystal seemed to like you. It found its way back into your pocket, I expect. But it isn’t yours.
That’s Mr. Upjohn’s wife you’re carrying around in your vest!
Mr. Upjohn is a superman. He’s put the bee on us. It’s worse than I’d thought, too. Unless you write Mr. Upjohn, care of the editor, Finlay and I will be in a spot. Two little piles of grayish ash
But, as I say, it’s much worse than we’d imagined. After finishing the cover picture, Finlay telephoned me.
“Look,” he said, “I painted in the eyes last night—gave it the final touch. It’s all done. I did what Upjohn wanted.”
“I’ll be through with the yarn tonight,” I said.
“Let me know what happens.”
“Why?”
His voice was bitter. “Because I started another picture. Because I tried to rough in a girl’s figure against a starry background, and I couldn’t do it. All I could sketch was a giant holding a spaceship.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. Mr. Upjohn forgot to limit his hypnotism. I can’t draw anything but that popeyed giant. Do I have to spend the rest of my life drawing that?”
“It
’s crazy,” I said.
Finlay sucked in his breath. “You’ll find out. Wait’ll you try to write another story. You won’t be able to do it. Listen, put in a note to the little guy with the crystal. When he gets in touch with Mr. Upjohn, tell him to be sure to mention our fix. We did what Mr. Upjohn wanted. So have the little guy tell his superman to lift that hypnotic spell he put on us.”
You got that?
Personally, I think Finlay’s wrong. When I finish this yarn, I’m going to start another. And it won’t begin, Reader, I hate you.
Well, that wraps it up. I’m through. Give Mr. Upjohn back his wife, and all will be forgiven. If you don’t—
But you will. Eh?
Okay—that’s all. Explicit. Thirty. The End. I’ll pull this sheet out of my typewriter and get started on a yarn about a survivor from Lemuria who finds himself in a modern world. . . .
READER, I hate you.
I don’t know what your name is—Joe or Mike or Forrest J—hut I refer to the little guy who—
HEY!
EARTH’S LAST CITADEL
Third Installment of a Four-Part Serial
Driven by his inhuman hunger, the Light-Wearer strikes—and Alan Drake faces the enemy of all mankind
Synopsis
ALAN DRAKE of U.S. Army Intelligence has been assigned the difficult task of protecting a distinguished Scottish scientist named Sir Colin Douglas. Stranded in the desert with Sir Colin, Alan fears capture by two Nazi hirelings—the beautiful spy, Karen Martin, and a former American gangster named Mike Smith.
These ruthless enemies do capture them, but by then the capture is no longer important’. For Alan and Sir Colin have discovered a monstrous, strangely glowing sphere which appears to have risen out of the desert sand. Some alien power compels the four of them to enter a door in the side of the sphere, and once inside they are swept into a kind of drugged sleep.
They awaken with only a faint memory of something called the Alien. But when they step out of the sphere, they find themselves in a strange gray world—a world of twilight and unfeatured landscape, drifting with mist. Far in the distance a huge and fantastic structure rears against the moon, and they proceed toward it—shocked with the realization that they have been transported countless centuries ahead into a world that is slowly dying.
Collected Fiction Page 357