by Don Wilcox
Another, trying to apologize for their sudden and awkward appearance, said, “We hoped to find the prisoner we need.”
Stupe wished that he dared peek at the men and women who belonged to these voices. Under the conditions he must not move. If they caught one glimpse of him the princess would be fatally embarrassed. She was lying to save his life, and plainly she was not used to lying.
“Pay no attention to the Old Man,” she said, waving them away. “He has strange voices in his head.”
They murmured unhappily over this rebuke. It seemed that the Old Man guarded the top of the stairway because he believed that some day one of his long-lost brothers would come. It was not like him to be calling false alarms.
“As a man grows old,” the princess said, “he may not trust his own senses.”
They retreated reluctantly, begging the Princess’ pardon for displaying sudden excitement. Stupe could hear them pattering down the mysterious stairs.
At last the central shaft which had risen through the platform descended to its normal level, its flat top surface becoming one with the surface of the table. Again it was only a flat plate of plastic, a little artificial island within the vast ocean, bearing no sign of life.”
“The door is gone,” the girl said quietly. “You are safe now. You may return to the platform. They will not see you.”
“Whew!” Stupe splashed up out of the water, knowing he had had a close call. “I don’t believe they would like me, especially if they knew you were being my friend.”
“Am I?” she said, a mischievous twinkle in the corner of her eyes.
The stallion bounded up out of the blue waters onto the plastic platform and knelt while the girl dismounted. She swung about so that the waters fell from her flowing green skirt. Then she sat down on the edge of the platform, pointing her toes toward the water. Her rich brown hair fell carelessly over her shoulders.
“If you aren’t already my friend,” said Stupe, “what can I do to make you my friend?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Smith.”
“Smith?” She passed the name over her tongue a few times, liking the effect. “It is a very pretty name. Are you proud of it?”
“To be honest, there are quite a few Smiths down where I come from,” Stupe said, smiling. “But I wouldn’t trade places with any other Smith just now.”
He sat down beside her. He felt somewhat self-conscious. He had never considered himself much of a lady’s man. He had always had difficulty trying to make conversation with girls. This girl was so wonderfully attractive that he was afraid his speeches would blunder off in strange directions. Just now he dared not remind himself that he had come on a mission for J.J. Wellington.
“How many other Smiths are there?” she asked. “Three or five? Not more than ten, I hope.”
“Why do you hope that?”
“Because I do not know numbers in your language above ten.”
Stupe smiled with amusement. What a naive person she was. In spite of her use of English, she knew hardly anything of earth ideas or meanings. Yet she was showing a friendly eagerness to learn. He was finding it quite easy to talk with her after all.
“In my world there were at least ten Smiths in my very block,” Stupe laughed. “And I’ll bet there were sixty thousand of them in my state.”
“Sixty thousand?” The princess liked the word. “That sounds like lots more than ten. Do you know what I like about you?”
“No, what?”
“The funny face you have.”
“What’s funny about it?” Stupe took a mirror from his pocket and gazed at his tanned wide forehead and the careless twists of water-soaked hair above it.
“The holes in your nose, when you are sleeping, go wide and small, wide and small.”
“There’s nothing strange about that.”
“Is it that way with all the Smiths?”
“All the Smiths and all the Joneses too,” said Stupe, laughing.
“Am I so funny?” she asked, enjoying his amusement without quite knowing why.
“Very. Do you know what I like about you?” Stupe was playfully mocking her. “I like the way you and Marble Boy ride through the water and go under without drowning. I’d vow that not another horse and rider in the solar system could do it.”
“What is the solar system?”
“The solar system is—well—”
Stupe made a fumbling explanation. He soon found himself involved in the system of planets. He was getting in deep water, and she knew it, the quick little mischief. Whenever he hesitated on the number of miles between a planet and the sun, she volunteered, “Sixty thousand.” It was her favorite number.
“I’d better swim back to shore before the afternoon gets any older,” he said presently. “I’ll need to eat again soon. I’ll bet I’ve lost five pounds on this grind.”
She looked up sympathetically. “Have you lost something? Maybe Marble Boy and I could help you look. Did you lose it in the water?”
“Didn’t you ever hear of losing weight? You just lose it—you don’t know when or where.”
“Oh-h!” She shook her head, displaying a sympathy that was not intended to be comical.
“It isn’t serious when you lose a few pounds.” He tapped his bare chest. “I still have plenty. Guess what I weigh.”
“Oh, how do I guess?” said the princess. “I do not know what it is to weigh. Maybe you weigh sixty thousand.”
“Ouch!” Stupe yelped, and then he laughed uproariously. “Heaven help me if I ever weigh sixty thousand. Even your horse doesn’t weigh that much.”
“He weighs eight,” said the princess.
“Eight? Eight what? Pounds or tons?”
She shrugged her shoulders. She couldn’t stop for technicalities. Pounds or tons, it made no difference to her. “His body is one, his neck is two, his head is three, his tail is four, his four legs make five, six, seven, eight. He weighs eight. See. I know all about figures up to ten.”
“You’re good,” said Stupe, rising. He offered a hand and lifted her to her feet. “Now if you can find your way through fifty thousand nine hundred and ninety more numbers you’ll reach sixty thousand.”
She was looking up at him with a sort of hero-worshipping adoration, as if to say, How wonderful to know all of these fine sounding numbers.
“I am about to go,” Stupe said. He still held her hand. It seemed proper that he should shake hands with her since he was about to go.
However, handshaking apparently did not have the same meaning for her. She was puzzled. She looked down at her arm and failed to discover any reason why it should be pumped up and down.
Marble Boy must have been distressed over all of this familiarity. He came over to them, his heavy hoof beats quickening as if he sensed some danger to his mistress. He bowed his graceful head, with the best of manners, Stupe thought, nevertheless his long white nose came between the two of them and nuzzled protectively against the princess’ side as if to move her away,
“Now, Marble Boy,” the princess said, ruffling the snowy hairs above his eyes. “Don’t you be getting nervous. This man is my guest. He is a stranger from another world, sixty thousand miles away.”
“More than that,” Stupe smiled.
“And he has a wonderful name—Smith.”
The big stallion raised his head high, and Stupe didn’t think his fiery eyes were any too friendly.
“It’s getting late,” said Stupe. “Do you see where the sun is?”
“Has it moved?” the princess asked, “or have we moved—or didn’t I understand what you said about the solar system?”
“I’m going to have to move toward some food,” Stupe declared, “or my own system is going to collapse.”
“Food? Food?” The princess gestured toward the waters beneath the platform. “Why don’t we go down? There’s plenty of food down there. Shall we?”
Stupe gave an uncomfortable glance toward the center of the platform where, previ
ously, the door had appeared and people had ascended a stairs to look for a possible prisoner.
“No, we don’t go down that way,” said the princess. “You may ride down with me on Marble Boy. It’s safer.”
She mounted and flung her flowing skirt to one side to make room back of her. Then she offered her hand and he leaped up. With a resounding splash they rode down into the waves.
CHAPTER XXI
In his inner study somewhere in New York City, J.J. Wellington paced the floor with such vigor that his servants wondered whether he wouldn’t begin to reduce. His numerous financial worries could hardly account for so much nervous energy. His luck was usually good. More often than not, his blustering and fuming over the probable loss of a few millions would be followed with an upturn in fortune that would prove all his worries a sham.
Far from reducing, he seemed to gain weight daily, so that he resembled the four-foot globe of Venus more than ever.
“Here is your drink, sir,” his servant murmured.
“That psychiatrist is four minutes late,” Wellington growled. “If he doesn’t show up in the next minute, I’ll cancel the appointment.”
“There’s the elevator now, sir—”
The psychiatrist, a handsome chap of thirty-eight with a clear complexion and steady eyes, took his time about removing his coat, settling down in an overstuffed chair, propping his feet on a footstool, and lighting a pipe. His pleasant and confident smile annoyed J.J. Wellington.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Wellington.”
The word bark was well chosen. Wellington barked now, giving a low, “Wrruff,” that would have done justice to a true canine.
“In brief, I have come to the conclusion that there’s nothing mentally wrong with Mr. Vest. I’ve been watching him for several days. He’s a little queer, but these are only the surface mannerisms which anyone may acquire. Basically, he’s quite sane and normal.”
Wellington stomped across to the globe and gave his fingers an angry flip against the red triangle that represented the American Colony.
“Sane, is he? So you believe in all these nonsensical adventures he tells? You take stock in all these queer whop-de-poofs he claims he’s seen? You’d better watch your reputation, Doc. Somebody will be putting a psychiatrist on your trail.”
The psychiatrist gave a low laugh.
“I don’t hold any briefs for the stories Mr. Vest tells, Mr. Wellington. It is quite outside my sphere to say whether these whop-de-poofs, as you call them, are more than the figments of Mr. Vest’s imagination. So far as I know, he hasn’t revealed in any of his lectures the story he told you of a beautiful sea-dwelling maiden who rides down into the waves on a white horse. It’s barely possible that he was clever enough to coin this adventure solely for you.”
For a moment the mighty financier purpled. If there was anything he couldn’t endure, it was the humiliation of being out-smarted by a man whose brains he was buying. Again he barked, a long and savage, “Wrrrowwff. That little devil.”
“Does that clear up everything, Mr. Wellington?” the psychiatrist asked pleasantly.
Wellington turned, drew a deep cooling breath and smeared his perspiring forehead with a white handkerchief.
“All right, all right, what’s the difference? I knew there wasn’t any such freak in any sea, understand?”
“You knew?”
“Of course. But I didn’t let him know I knew, see?”
“I—not exactly.”
“Never mind, the deal went over. As long as Stupendous Smith thinks there’s a girl—as long as the party has an excuse to stay on and plant a few outposts—”
The psychiatrist sat silently, his eyes half closed. Wellington suddenly realized that he might be talking too freely. He gestured abruptly.
“That’s all, Doc. That’s all. You’ve told me what I want to know. Send me your bill and we’ll call it square.”
As soon as the doctor had gone, Wellington rang for his secretary, and while waiting, he shuffled through some papers and photographs.
Here it was, the folder of clippings of Kreuger and his wife, explorers, rivals of Stupendous Smith.
“Yes, Mr. Wellington?” said his secretary.
“Any reply on that letter to Kreuger?”
“Not yet.”
“Get him on the telephone. Tell him I’m planning to send another expedition to Venus as soon as possible. Stupe Smith has bogged down and needs help. I want Kreuger and his wife to organize another party as soon as possible. Got it? Okay, get busy. Have Kreuger in here for a conference this afternoon.”
CHAPTER XXII
The American Embassy at the Venusian capital was on needles and pins.
Ambassador Jewell had been cruelly embarrassed by the Wellington expedition, and his disturbed state of mind was contagious.
After the mysterious attack by the wingmen, gossip traveled outward in an ever widening circle, carrying with it a state of nerves.
In answer to numerous telephone calls from other officials, the Ambassador’s secretary replied, “Ambassador Jewell will issue a public pronouncement soon. He believes the wingman attack was nothing more than a reckless prank, and there is no reason to fear that it will be repeated. However, he warns-”
The secretary never failed to follow his statement with a warning to the populace to be on the alert against other sporadic outbursts of trouble.
Dame Rumor insisted that the recently arrived Wellington party was somehow responsible for the wingmen’s possession of firearms. The Ambassador realized the importance of interviewing Captain Meetz as soon as possible.
Upon several attempts, however, be found the door closed to him. At length he ordered his own personal physician to assist with the case.
“Captain Meetz’s condition is no longer serious,” his physician reported. “Dr. Jabetta has done a good job.”
“I’d like for you to stay on the case,” said the Ambassador.
“Just as you say.”
But Dr. Jabetta, with his quietly possessive manner, kept the captain’s ailments well in his own hands. More often than not the Ambassador’s physician felt that his presence was superfluous.
On the night that the wind and rain pounded the windows of the Hotel, Dr. Jabetta, answering the physician’s call, gave assurance that the captain was sleeping soundly.
“Have no worries, Doctor,” Jabetta replied against the crackle of lightning. “I am with the captain. He is sleeping like a log.”
After Jabetta hung up, the captain turned over with a groan. “Who says I’m sleeping like a log? How can I sleep against this devilish rain?”
“Worrying captain?”
“Feverish. The voices keep rattling in my ears—”
“Voices?”
“They keep arguing. They won’t let me rest.”
“Oh?” Dr. Jabetta’s eyebrows raised slowly. He had been pacing the floor quietly, and his back was turned toward the bed, but through the wall mirror he gave the captain a look of curiosity which the latter did not see. Voices, Jabetta thought. He paused at the dresser to mix some medicines. The captain was shifting his pillow to block the light of the little pink night lamp out of his eyes. “More medicine?” he asked sleepily.
“Swallow it quickly,” Dr. Jabetta said.
The captain downed the liquid, returned the glass, and turned over as if he intended to fall asleep at once. His eyes were closed and he lay very still for two or three minutes. Then abruptly he propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes wide open.
“If the Ambassador doesn’t get out of our way—”
“What are we going to do?” Dr. Jabetta asked. The captain began to gesture as if wide awake and in the middle of a long-winded discourse. “If he doesn’t get out of the way, three things can happen. Are you listening, Dick? Good. Don’t miss a word, my boy.”
Dr. Jabetta came closer. His patient’s imagination had been stirred. Dick Bracket was hundreds
of miles away, but just now the captain believed the boy was present, listening in on a confidential discussion.
“Three things, Dick. In the first place, we can wait for Wellington to come through—”
A flare of lightning interrupted him.
“Snap off that light, Dick,” he said. “I can talk better in the dark.”
Jabetta turned off the night lamp and the room was in darkness. Now and then a flash of lightning across the Venus skies would reveal the sick man, sitting up in bed, his eyes blazing wildly as he raved.
“Six things can happen, Dick,” he said, improving upon his original proposition. “If the Ambassador doesn’t get out of our way and let us plant the Wellington empire according to plan—Dick, stop smashing up the furniture.”
A blast of thunder had broken in upon the speech. The captain took time out to scold Dick and several other imaginary listeners, until he seemed to be addressing a whole ball full of Wellington employees.
“Why can’t all of you sit quietly and listen, like Dr. Jabetta? Ah! When the empire unfolds, Jabetta will be one of the governors.”
“Go on with your speech,” said Jabetta, sitting near the captain in the darkness. “If the Ambassador doesn’t get out of our way—”
“Any of ten things can happen.” The captain’s voice was beginning to grow a trifle sleepy. In a few minutes the momentary exhilaration of the drug would wear off. “Any of ten—”
“Name them, captain.”
“One. The party stays right here waiting for his okay. Two. Stupe Smith goes exploring by himself to win his millions. Three. He gets disgusted because he doesn’t have our support. Four. He can’t find the girl he’s looking for. Five. He loads a spaceship and goes back to earth. Six. He tells Wellington the expedition was a flop. Seven. Wellington sends another expedition. Eight. They high-pressure the Ambassador and win their point. Nine. They bypass me and go out over Venus to plant outposts and start developing. Ten. I’m left out on a limb—and so are you and you and you.”
“Eleven?” Jabetta suggested.
“They forget their promises.”
“Twelve?”
“They hand us each a pick and shovel and tell us to go to work.”