by Don Wilcox
It would come. It would come. Time would not always be a pacing back and forth in a dark cave. Time hadn’t stood still for him ever. Even in this dungeon his diseased mind had found new events to feed upon.
Beyond the bars he swept his fingers lightly over a shadowed mound of dirt and small rocks. No one knew what that contained. The wingmen had never noticed it. Once he had almost dug into it and taken the treasures from it and exploded his way out. His desire to see the outside world had almost forced him—once. But he had resisted that once, and had strengthened his mad will to wait. He would keep those two bombs concealed until the time came to make them count. That would be when his sister and Poppendorf returned.
They had run out on him. Eventually Madame Zukor would come back for him—after she had set things up to take the earth into her own grasp. He knew her wily ways. She meant to outdo him—to make him second or third or fourth in command—but not to let him ever seize the reins again. No, he would get the crumbs from her table . . . That was what she thought.
Many times in his solitude Glasgow had weighed the two bombs in his hands. His strength was equal to the feat of hurling them, hard and fast and sure . . . The time would come. It would be an accident, of course . . . And Madame Zukor and Poppendorf would die . . .
Time had not stood still. Once he had hoped that the young couple, George and Anna, might have enough influence on the outside world to bring rescuers to Banrab. But he had given up that hope several months ago. George and Anna were going to have a baby—very soon.
They were going to have a baby, and they were already carrying on silly chatter about what they were going to name it. Their high spirits were something he could not understand. There they were, far down the cavernous corridors beyond the assembly chamber, with no more advantage than Glasgow except for an occasional glimpse of a streak of sunshine. And yet somehow they were managing to be happy through it all. The wingmen liked them. The wingmen even trusted George with a razor, Glasgow had heard. Well, they’d better not trust him with a razor. He’d slit their wings for them, the squawking savages.
Thud. Thud . . .
What was that? Something in the wall. In the old entrance.
Thud. Thud. Swisssh! A lot of stones were sliding. Something was at work tearing away the heap that had sealed the doorway.
Swissh. A streak of light struck through. The stones were being combed away. The big boulder that formed the corner of Garritt Glasgow’s cell was suddenly brushed aside. A shower of rocks and dust fell around the corridor floor. Glasgow leaped to the shadow where his bombs were concealed. Delicate things—a little more of this rock shaking would set them off. He hugged them to his stomach.
He heard an outcry from Anna, far down the corridor. George shouted, wanting to know who was there. Who was coming in?
Glasgow ran out into the corridor. It shocked him to realize that for the moment he was free. He was out of his cell. He was being forced to escape, whether he wanted to or not. Once he heard some wingmen screaming from the old cliff road, where the force was breaking in anew! They didn’t sound bold. They sounded scared to death. He was running around in circles. There was only one way out for him, if he dared—
A huge hand scraped away several tons of debris and Glasgow saw, as plain as the blue daylight that streaked in—it was the hand of Gret-O-Gret—the finger-of-fingers!
The wild panic that had once seized Glasgow when he and Paul and Katherine were in their ship on the Mogo planet, and the giant hand had cut into the side and forced them out, was upon him again—the same terror multiplied by all his later guilt.
“He’s after me. He’s come to get me!” Glasgow shrieked. “Help me, Paul! Don’t let him—” He choked off, trying to get control of himself. No sense in calling to Paul Keller. Paul wasn’t here. It was just the giant this time. That deadly hand that had almost taken him before—that had once imprisoned him—it was going to close over him this time. Unless—
The bombs were there, in his hand, hard against his stomach. He was doubled into a ball of terror, and that giant hand—ah, he was on his own, and he had two bombs.
“What luck!” he uttered a wild cry. For suddenly the hand had withdrawn, and—now it was Gret’s eye—his great orange and purple moon of an eye—that filled the whole out-of-doors. It moved up to the cavern opening.
Two eyes—two bombs! It would be easy. A mental picture of a blinded giant roaring through the universe was all that Glasgow could see. A blinded giant, stomping and roaring and raving, trampling all of man’s New Earth to hell under his feet. That’s what would happen. Glasgow would win. He would win after all—with two bombs—two bombs, because the giant had two very vulnerable eyes.
One of those eyes now moved up close to the newly torn cavern entrance.
Glasgow ran toward the eye and let fly with the first bomb. The trigger snapped on it as it sailed from his hand. It would flash in an instant—
In an instant! What a long time is an instant. What a surprising lot of motion can take place in an instant.
The eye flew upward, out of sight, and there, instead, were the giant’s lips, blowing!
One hard puff of air into the cave. One tornado puff. A blast that would have hurled Glasgow and all the other prisoners against the wall, even if there had been no flash of fire.
The flash came—the bomb returning—Flash—pain—death. Glasgow knew it was death—and then it was death, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER XXXXIII
Outside the cavern of Banrab they tried to comfort Gret-O-Gret. He was moaning softly, and the great tears from his eyes streamed down the mountainside trail.
“You couldn’t help it, Gret-O-Gret,” Katherine tried to comfort him. “You had to protect yourself. Don’t grieve so. Maybe we’ll find Anna and George still alive, if you’ll just help us.”
Gret moaned that there was simply no chance. The blast of air itself would have killed any human being in the cave, he believed. To have sent the flying bomb back into those recesses just as it fired off was sure to be fatal.
The disconsolate party waited, not knowing what to do. Some of the men, under Paul’s leadership, began work at the cavern entrance again. If the bodies of Anna and George had not been disintegrated, they should be found. They deserved a burial with highest honors for all their heroism of the past—
“Here’s your bodies!” Mamma Mountain suddenly cried out. “Here they come, right over the top of the mountain, and they’re walkin’ on their own legs!”
George and Anna, coming over the mountain, heard the wild cries of joy from the people down below, and they were jolted by the impulsive movements of a great Mogo creature, suddenly shifting on his elbows as he changed from his saddest mood to his gladdest. They would always say that it was positively the biggest change of expression they ever saw on a living face!
Just before they descended to join the waiting party, Anna and George stopped for a guarded word of conversation with the two winged persons who were carefully keeping out of sight.
“Remember,” said Green Flash, “you must never tell anyone that we lifted you out through the skylight ourselves. But we were worried for fear something might happen—”
“And since you’re about to become a mother,” Purple Wings added, “we couldn’t let you stay in there and be frightened when the cave front began to break away.”
“It was awfully kind of you,” Anna breathed. “We’ll never tell.”
“You mustn’t,” said Green Flash. “It was quite illegal. But they’ll never know, because all the other wingmen were out on the cliff road screaming their heads off . . . Good-bye . . . And good luck—”
“And don’t come back to Banrab,” Purple Wings said, giving them a little wave. “Hurry, now, or they’ll wonder what’s delaying you. We’ll watch you. Don’t stumble.”
On the way back to the American continent in the Mogo boat the earth party and Gret learned the story of the strange wingmen’s hospital. They listened wit
h interest as George told them the fuller story of Glasgow’s plans and ambitions, and how he had intended to be dictator of the earth at the start, and had dreamed of other conquests later, and how he had been bitter at Madame Zukor for outwitting him on the chance to escape. He and one of the porters—the one who had once been posted to push Judge Lagnese off the cliff and had been involved in other brutalities—were plotting Madame Zukor’s and Poppendorf’s murders and only biding their time for the Madame’s return.
“So much for the wingmen’s hospital,” said Anna. She winked at George. “I have a feeling I could use another kind of hospital very soon.”
The baby was born a few hours later.
George had paced the floor more in those two hours immediately preceding the blessed event, he said, than in all the months of imprisonment at Banrab.
Someone had tried to divert his mind with a bit of news that should have been very exciting to him.
“Madame Zukor has your ship now, George,” the news reporter said, “or rather she had it until yesterday. It was well enough disguised that it passed as her own—until she and Poppendorf started to take off in it from the space port. Do you know who recognized it?”
“No. Who?”
“Papa Mouse. He was on an observation tower, and acted on inspiration.”
“What do you mean—inspiration?”
“He had access to that smoke gadget that Gret had used on Mox, and he turned the blast on Madame Zukor and Poppendorf as they were boarding. They didn’t get off.”
“They didn’t?”
“You’re not listening to me, George. They’ll tell you when that baby comes. Don’t you want to know what happened to your ship?”
“They’ll tell me, will they?”
“The ship’s okay, and Zukor and Poppendorf are safe in jail, waiting for a trial. Waterfield says it’s high time the New Earth’s courts began to function. By the way, what are you going to name the child?”
“If it’s a girl, Anna. If it’s a boy, we’ll name him after Anna’s brother on Venus—that’s my plan, and I’m sure she’ll agree.”
“Good. What is her brother’s name?”
George shook his head dizzily. “You know, it’s a strange thing, but she’s never told me what his name is.”
It came, one of the new earth’s healthiest, pinkest little citizens, and it was a boy. The bells rang and the whistles blew, and the Mogo ship all ready to take off for another world, with a prisoner inside.
“Pardon me, George,” Paul said, tapping the elated new father on the shoulder, “but Gret-O-Gret would like to know the name of your child before he departs. If we’re not rushing things—”
George turned to Anna. “You’ve got to tell me now, Pantella—”
“Mrs. Hurley, if you please—”
“Mrs. Hurley, what is the name of your brother on Venus? We’ve got to give this young man the right name.”
Anna gave a deep quiet laugh and reached out to take George’s hand. “Don’t be angry with me, Big Boy. I don’t have a brother on Venus—all my family was lost.”
“But your brother—the one you kept telling me about.”
“All a fake. After I lost everybody all at once, here on the earth, I just had to have somebody, so I made him up—someone I could depend on—someone who would care for me and look after me—”
“But he sounded so real,” George protested. “He was such a wonderful guy.”
“That’s because I patterned him after you,” said Anna. “Tell Gret-O-Gret the baby’s name is George.”
Amazing Stories
May 1947
Volume 21, Number 5
It was like something out of Dante’s mind—it couldn’t be true. Yet it was—and here in an incredible desert was sheer hell. Yet, you met the most interesting people . . .!
CHAPTER I
It was a stormy night, as viewed from my hotel window. I had turned off the light to get the full benefit of the electric flashes over this prairie town.
I had been watching for many minutes—in fact, had almost forgotten that I was in need of a midnight lunch. This was a pleasant enough way to spend a lonesome hour. If you’ve ever stopped over in Fort Scott, you’ll remember the big, old-fashioned, brick hotel, no doubt elegant in its day.
I was in the southwest corner room on the top floor, with my elbows planted on the window-sill, taking in the panorama of blowing trees and wet rooftops and boiling black clouds.
I was thinking faraway thoughts, trying to visualize this historic spot as it might have been in the days of Indian trade.
My mental wanderings were interrupted when the window began to open from the top. A gust of rain blew in.
The lightning revealed a rain-drenched bare arm extending downward, gently forcing the window open.
My first impulse was to turn on the light, but instead I waited, fascinated by this singular action.
When the upper pane had been forced down, a man, who might have been suspended by his heels from an invisible balloon alongside the hotel wall, crawled down into view. He muttered a low “All right.” Then, whatever supported him let go, one leg at a time, and he came swinging into my room.
I had frozen during this extraordinary gymnastic. A parade of pink elephants wouldn’t have widened my eyes or sagged my jaw or wobbled my knees more than this half-naked apparition crawling in out of the storm.
The man’s “All right” echoed, convincingly in my ears, however, and so the least embarrassing thing I could do was to start a conversation. I did so and almost frightened the poor fellow to death.
“If you don’t mind—” I began, and his elbows jerked back as if he’d been shot.
“Whoa, McCorkle! What have I done?” he gulped.
“You’ve left the window open,” I said. “If you don’t mind, it ought to be closed. The rain’s coming in.”
“Wrong room,” he said. “Wrong room. I’ll be bumping along.” And with that he started to make a nervous retreat by way of the window.
“There’s a door over here,” I said “I’ll give you a light and you can bump along in comfort. Or do you travel exclusively on rooftops?”
“Oh, Granddaddy McCorkle,” he said. “What a bonehead! I didn’t need to come in. It was just a whimsy. I’ll go—”
“Don’t rush off,” I said. “There’s an extra chair here if you want to sit down.”
I turned on the light and we faced each other. He was a sight, all right, very much in a class with pink elephants. He was a little fellow, with quick eyes and a comical Irish face. He was forty years old, perhaps; rather shaggy, extremely tanned. His fingers might have belonged to a stone mason. He wore a pair of rough, tattered trousers. That was all. There wasn’t a stitch over his deep-tanned muscular back. He was barefoot.
“You must think I’m dressed a little queer,” he said apologetically.
He sat down, half grinning in his confusion. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
“Don’t mind that mirror,” I said. “It scared me too when I first saw myself.”
He stared at himself very seriously.
“I’m lots older than I thought,” he said. Then his furtive eyes were back on me and he seemed to feel guilty over his remark. “I’d better go. You’ll think I’m a house-breaker or something . . . I’m not . . . I’m just an ordinary citizen. . . in extraordinary circumstances,”
I took his word for it and asked no questions. It was plain that he hadn’t intended letting himself in for any troublesome company; so I did my best not to seem curious.
“I was just going down for a midnight lunch,” I said. “You’re welcome to stay here until the storm passes. There are some towels in the washroom. And here are some dry clothes in my suitcase. Make yourself comfortable. Shall I bring you a sandwich?”
“Sandwich . . . M-m-m.” He reached in his pocket and came up with a soiled leather billfold from which he gave me a sadly worn five-dollar bill. “Could you make it a thick, juic
y steak with all the trimmings—or—”
The thunder may have done it. The upper window pane gave forth a rather violent rattle, disturbing to our conversation, to say the least.
“As I was saying, two steaks, with all the trimmings,” he said.
“Two? I thought you said—”
“Two complete orders, that’s right.” I nodded. “Well done or rare?”
“Well done—er—”
Another rattle of the pane sounded amid low rolling thunder.
“That is,” he went on, “one well done and the other rare. Plenty rare.” I glanced toward the window. I opened the lower pane and stuck my head out in the rain. Then I looked back at my companion, whose eyes were large with anticipation.
“Still raining?” he asked weakly. “If you have any friends up there,” I said, “why not bring them in and we’ll make a party of it.”
“If I’ve got any friends up there,” he said evasively, “they like the rain.” He shifted his eyes and ran his nervous fingers through his unkempt brown hair. But as I left he gave me a friendly grin, and I guessed that, whoever or whatever he might be, I had begun to win his confidence.
A half hour later our dinners were brought up. If anyone could be more curious than I was as to why there should be three trays, it was the waiter. As soon as he was gone, my
mysterious companion came out of hiding, now looking considerably civilized, though my clothes were pretty baggy on him. He’d found an oversize shirt and some plus-fours I’d brought along for golf. With his deep tan, all he needed was a turban to pass for a Turkish prince.
“After I’ve sampled some food and drink,” he said, “I’ll feel more like talking.”
“I’d better warn you, anything you say may go into print,” I said. “I’m David Burton. You may have seen my name before. As a writer of stories I’m always picking up material.”