His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  Yes, sir, that's when the Gasoline Pill came out Let me show you, sk!"

  He happily popped one of the green pills into a gallon of water and lectured as it bubbled and fumed and turned the water into 100-octane gasoline.

  The Eternal Match was interesting, the Two-Cent Sirloin was delicious, and the Vanishing Cream vanished a half-inch roll of fat from Bunny's belly while he watched. "But Lord bless you, sir," tittered the curator,

  "what would be the point of giving people something that worked?

  They'd just go ahead and use it, and then when they had no more need they'd stop using it, eh?

  "And this one, sir, it isn't really what you'd call suppressed. We're just working on it to build it up some; perhaps in five years well have it looking like it costs five thousand dollars, and then well be able to sell it" "It" was three-dimensional, full-color television; the heart of the system was a flashlight battery, a small C-clamp and a pinch of baking soda.

  Bunny visited also the vast pest-breeding establishment in the Rockies, where flies, roaches, mice, gnats, boll-weevils, the elm-rot fungus and the tobacco-mosaic virus were patiently raised to maximum virulence and dispatched by couriers to their proper places all over the world.

  The taciturn Connecticut Yankee who ran the sprawling plant snapped at him, "Danged better mousetraps almost wiped out the mousetrap industry. Think people'd have better sense. DDT almost killed off pesticide—whole danged business, employing two hundred thousand.

  They think of that? Naw! So we had ter breed them DDT-resistant strains and seed 'em everywhere."

  Bunny began to acquire the instinct to which Witz had referred. When he encountered an Oil Texan he could tell that the man's nervous hilarity and brag stemmed from his poverty, and he pitied him. When he encountered one day at Gonfalonieri's place in Baja California a certain quiet fellow named Briggs, he knew without being told that Briggs was one of Us. It was no surprise to learn later that Briggs held all the basic patents on water.

  Briggs it was, indeed, who took him aside for an important talk. The quiet man offered him a thousand-dollar cigar (for the growing of whose tobacco Briggs had caused an artificial island to be built in the deep Central Pacific at the exactly correct point of temperature, wind and humidity) and said to him, "It's time you took a wife."

  Bunny, who could not these days leaf through Vogue or the New Yorker without a tender, reminiscent smile for each of the lovely models shown in the advertisements, disagreed. "Can't see why, Briggs," he muttered. "Having jolly good time. Never used to have much luck with girls—all different now. Mean to say, with—" he gave the whimsical little shrug—"what little I have, doing awfully well and it doesn't cost me anything. Queer. When I had ten-twenty thou', when I was poor, had to buy corsages, dinners. Afl different now. They buy me things.

  Platinum watches. Have limply dozens. But the rules—have to take 'em.

  Queer."

  "We've all been through it," Briggs said. "When you get bored let me know."

  "Oh, promise," Bunny said. "Absolutely promise."

  He spent the next six months in Hollywood where golden girls vied in plying him with coq au vin, solid indium meat grinders, and similar trifles. One charming lady who had come out to the sound stages in 1934 presented him with a genuine hand-embroidered antique scabbard said to date back to the Crusades. It was a pleasant gift and it varied the ……the monotony?

  He sat up abruptly on the mutation-mink coverlet, causing the shapely blond head which remained on the silken pillow to emit a small sleepy snort

  "Monotony," Bunny said in a tragic whisper. "Definitely." He went home to Ohara, though not neglecting to pick up as he left his little present for the evening, a golden nutcracker set with diamonds and lined with unborn leopard pelt.

  Ohara dipped into his store of Oriental wisdom in an effort to console him. He suggested, "Missah Bunny think if must be monotonized, what beautifurr way to get monotonized"

  It did not help.

  Ohara suggested, "You try make funny, fo'get monotony. Fo' exampurr spend coupre mimon dorras make big reso't town, cawr same Schmir-ton, Ohio. Think how mad Missah Nickey be, he put up hoterr, have to cawr same Hoterr Hir-ton Schmir-ton! Oh, raffs!"

  It would not do.

  "Ohara," Bunny said tragically, "I would give—" he shrugged whimsically—"what little I have not to be bored with, ah, life."

  The impassive Oriental countenance of his manservant flickered briefly in a grimace. His orders were clear, and he knew how terrible would be the consequences of disobedience.

  Bunny tossed fitfully alone in his bed an hour later, and Ohara was on the phone to an unlisted New York number. "This Ohara," he whispered. "Missah Bunny talk about giving away money. Awr his money."

  The responding voice was that of an Englishman. It said: "Thank you, Ohara. One hopes, of course, for your sake, that the information has arrived in time. One hopes devoutly that it will not be necessary to inflict the Death of a Thousand Cuts on you. A book could be written about Number Three Hundred and Twenty-Eight alone, and as for Number Four Hundred and One—Well, I won't keep you with my chattering." He hung up.

  Within minutes the lonely house in a canyon was surrounded; the Fourth Plutocratic Airborne and Amphibious Assault Force was the ultimate in efficient mercenary troops. By dawn they had Bunny on his way to Barsax' Carolina estate under heavy sedation.

  He woke in the guest room he knew, just off the corridor which contained the Museum of Suppressed Inventions. Little Mr. Witz and quiet Mr. Briggs were there. With granite faces they told him: "You have broken the Code, young Coogler. You said there was something you valued above money. You have got to go."

  "Please," Bunny blubbered. "I didn't mean it. I’ll marry your daughter.

  I’ll marry both your daughters! Just don't kill me."

  Mr. Witz said implacably, "Our decent, money-fearing girls wouldn't have anything to do with a dirty plutophobe like you, young Coogler. If only your poor father had put through the trust fund in time—well, thank Heaven he's not alive to see this day. But we won't kill you, young Coogler. It is not within our power to cause the death of a billionaire as if he were an animal or mere human being. What we can and will do is quarantine you. In Virginia."

  This sounded like a rank non sequitur to Bunny until they look him to the Museum and trundled out a one-man space ship invented early in 1923 by a Herr Rudolf Grenzbach of Czernovitz, Upper Silesia, whose body had been found in Lower Silesia later that year.

  Officers of the Fourth PA.A.A.F. loaded him into the bomblike contrivance over his spirited protest and pre-set the course. Virginia, it seemed, was an asteroid rather than die neighboring state. They fired the rockets- and Bunny was on his way.

  Four years later Mr. Witz and Mr. Briggs conferred again. Terhaps,"

  said Mr. Witz,
  They tuned in the asteroid Virginia on another suppressed invention.

  "Young Coogler," Briggs said into the microphone. This is Briggs. We wish to know whether you've come to your senses and are ready to take your place in society—ours, of course."

  There squawked over the loud-speaker the voice of Bunny. "I say, what was that. No, not now, not for a second please. Where did that voice come from? Can you hear me, Mr. Briggs?"

  "I hear you," said Mr. Briggs.

  "Extraordinary! Another invention, eh?"

  "Yes," said Briggs. "I am calling, young Coogler, to learn whether you are properly contrite and if so to arrange for your rescue."

  "Rescue?" said the voice of Bunny. "Why, no thanks. That wont be necessary. Having a fine time here. They need me, you know. They love me for, ah, myself alone. Not the dashed money. Double-dash the money, I say!"

  Mr. Briggs, white to the lips, broke the connection.

  "He meant you to do that," Mr. Witz remarked.

  "I know. L
et him rot there."

  The quavery old curator had been listening, "On Virginia?" he asked tremulously. "You don't rot on Virginia, Don't you gentlemen know how it got its name?"

  "Never bothered to find out," Mr. Briggs snapped. "Since you're bursting to tell us, you might as well."

  The curator beamed. "They call it Virginia because it's the planetoid of virgins. The dangdest thing. Perpetual virgins. The Plutocratic Space Force says they've never seen anything like it, not on Mars, not on Callisto. Self-renewing—the dangdest thing!"

  Mr. Briggs and Mr. Witz looked at each other. After a while Mr. Witz spoke.

  "Bunny," he said reflectively. "Bunny. He was well named."

  The Advent on Channel Twelve

  [Star Science Fiction Stories #4, ed. Frederik Pohl, Ballantine, 1958]

  It came to pass in the third quarter of the fiscal year that the Federal Reserve Board did raise the rediscount rate and money was tight in the land. And certain bankers which sate hi New York sent to Ben Graffis in Hollywood a writing which said, Money is tight in the land so let Poopy Panda up periscope and fire all bow tubes.

  Whereupon Ben Graffis made to them this moan:

  O ye bankers, Poopy Panda is like unto the child of my flesh and you have made of him a devouring dragon. Once was I content with my studio and my animators when we did make twelve Poopy Pandas a year; cursed be the day when I floated a New York loan. You have commanded me to make feature-length cartoon epics and I did obey, and they do open at the Paramount to sensational grosses, and we do re-release them to the nabes year on year, without end. You have commanded me to film live adventure shorts and I did obey, and in the cutting room we do devilishly splice and pull frames and flop neg-atives so that I and my cameras are become bearers of false witness and men look upon my live adventure shorts and say lo! these beasts and birds are like unto us in their laughter, wooing, pranks, and con-tention. You have commanded that I become a mountebank for that I did build Poopy Pandaland, whereinto men enter with their children, their silver, and their wits, and wherefrom they go out with their children only, sandbagged by a thousand catch-penny engines; even this did I obey.

  You have commanded that Poopy Panda shill every weekday night on television between five and six for the Poopy Panda Pals, and even this did I obey, though Poopy Panda is like unto the child of my flesh.

  But O ye bankers, this last command will I never obey.

  Whereupon the bankers which sate in New York sent to him an-other writing that said, Even so, let Poopy Panda up periscope and fire all bow tubes, and they said, Remember, boy, we hold thy paper.

  And Ben Graffis did obey.

  He called unto him his animators and directors and cameramen and writers, and his heart was sore but he dissembled and said: In jest you call one another brainwashers, forasmuch as you addle the heads of children five hours a week that they shall buy our spon-sors'

  wares. You have fulfilled the prophecies, for is it not written in the Book of the Space Merchants that there shall be spherical trusts? And the Poopy Panda Pals plug the Poopy Panda Magazine, and the Poopy Panda Magazine plugs Poopy Pandaland, and Poopy Pandaland plugs the Poopy Panda Pals. You have asked of the Motiva-tional Research boys how we shall hook the little bastards and they have told ye, and ye have done it. You identify the untalented kid viewers with the talented kid performers, you provide in Otto Clodd a bumbling father image to be derided, you furnish in Jackie Whipple an idealized big brother for the boys and a sex-fantasy for the more precocious girls. You flatter the cans off the viewers by ever saying to them that they shall rule the twenty-first century, nor mind that those who shall in good sooth come to power are doing their homework and not watching television programs. You have created a liturgy of opening hymn and closing benediction, and over all hovers the spirit of Poopy Panda urging and coaxing the viewers to buy our sponsors' wares.

  And Ben Graffis breathed a great breath and looked them not in the eye and said to them, Were it not a better thing for Poopy Panda to coax and urge no more, but to command as he were a god?

  And the animators and directors and cameramen and writers were sore amazed and they said one to the other, This is the bleeding end, and the bankers which sit in New York have flipped their wigs. And one which was an old animator said to Ben Graffis, trembling, O chief, never would I have stolen for thee Poopy Panda from the Win-nie the Pooh illustrations back in twenty-nine had I known this was in the cards, and Ben Graffis fired him.

  Whereupon another which was a director said to Ben Graffis, O chief, the thing can be done with a two-week buildup, and Ben Graffis put his hands over his face and said, Let it be so.

  And it came to pass that on the Friday after the two-week buildup, in the closing quarter-hour of the Poopy Panda Pals, there was a spe-cial film combining live and animated action as they were one.

  And in the special film did Poopy Panda appear enhaloed, and the talented kid performers did do him worship, and Otto Clodd did trip over his feet whilst kneeling, and Jackie Whipple did urge in manly and sincere wise that all the Poopy Panda Pals out there in television-land do likewise, and the enhaloed Poopy Panda did say in his lova-ble growly voice, Poop-poop-poopy.

  And adoration ascended from thirty-seven million souls.

  And it came to pass that Ben Graffis went into his office with his animators and cameramen and directors and writers after the show and said to them, It was definitely a TV first, and he did go to the bar.

  Whereupon one which was a director looked at Who sate behind the desk that was the desk of Ben Graffis and he said to Ben Graffis, O chief, it is a great gag but how did the special effects boys manage the halo?

  And Ben Graffis was sore amazed at Who sate behind his desk and he and they all did crowd about and make as if to poke Him, whereupon He in His lovable growly voice did say, Poop-poop-poopy, and they were not.

  And certain unclean ones which had gone before turned unbeliev-ing from their monitors and said, Holy Gee, this is awful. And one which was an operator of marionettes turned to his manager and said, Pal, if Graffis gets this off the ground we're dead. Whereat a great and far-off voice was heard, saying, Poop-poop-poopy, and it was even so; and the days of Poopy Panda were long in the land.

  Filtered for error,

  Jan. 18th 36 P.P.

  Synod on Filtration & Infiltration

  O. Clodd, P.P.P.

  J. Whipple, P.P.P.

  Make Mine Mars

  [Science Fiction Adventures, November 1952]

  "X is for the ecstasy she ga-a-ave me; E is for her eyes—one, two, and three-ee; T is for the teeth with which she'd sha-a-ave me; S is for her scales of i-vo-ree-ee-ee …"

  Somebody was singing, and my throbbing head objected. I teemed to have a mouthful of sawdust

  T is for her tentacles ah-round me;

  J is for her jowls—were none soo-oo fair;

  H is for the happy day she found me; 'Fe is for the iron in her hair..,"

  I ran my tongue around inside my mouth. It was full of sawdust—

  spruce and cedar, rocketed in from Earth.

  "Put them all to-gether, they spell Xetstjhfe …"

  My eyes snapped open, and I sat up, cracking my head on the underside of the table beneath which I was lying. I lay down waited for the pinwheels to stop spinning. I tried to it out. Spruce and cedar . .

  .Honest Blogri's Olde Earthe Saloon …eleven stingers with a Sirian named Wenjtkpli…

  "A worrud that means the wur-r-l-l-d too-oo mee-ee-ee!"

  Through the fading pinwheels I saw a long and horrid face, a Sirian face, peering at me with kindly interest under the table. It was Wenjtkpli.

  "Good morning, little Earth chum," he said. "You feel not so tired now?"

  "Morning?" I yelled, sitting up again and cracking my head again and lying down again to wait for the pinwheels to fade again.

  "You sleep," I heard him say, "fourteen hours—so happy, so peaceful!"

  "I gotta get out of here,"
I mumbled, scrambling about on the imported sawdust for my hat. I found I was wearing it, and climbed out, stood up, and leaned against the table, swaying and spitting out the last of the spruce and cedar.

  "You like another stinger?" asked Wenjtkpli brightly. I retched feebly.

  "Fourteen hours," I mumbled. "That makes it 0900 Mars now, or exactly ten hours past the time I was supposed to report for the nightside at the bureau."

  "But last night you talk different," the Sirian told me in surprise. "You say many times how bureau chief McGillicuddy can take lousy job and jam—"

  "That was last night," I moaned. "This is this morning."

  "Relax, little Earth chum. I sing again song you taught me: X is for the ecstasy she ga-a-ave me; E is for—"

  My throbbing head still objected. I flapped good-by at him and set a course for the door of Blogri's joint. The quaint period mottoes:

  "QUAFFE YE NUT-BROWN AYLE" "DROPPE DEAD TWYCE" and so on—

  didn't look so quaint by the cold light of the Martian dawn.

  An unpleasant little character, Venusian or something, I'd seen around the place oozed up to me. "Head hurt plenty,

  “Huh?" he simpered.

  "This is no time for sympathy," I said. "Now one side or a flipper off—I gotta go to work."

  "No sympathy," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He fumbled oddly in his belt, then showed me a little white capsule. "Clear your head, huh? Work like lightning, you bet!"

  I was interested. "How much?"

  "For you, friend, nothing. Because I hate seeing fellows suffer with big head."

  "Beat it," I told him, and shoved past through the door.

  That pitch of his with a free sample meant he was pushing J-K-B. I was in enough trouble without adding an unbreakable addiction to the stuff. If I'd taken his free sample, I would have been back to see him in 12 hours, sweating blood for more. And that time he would have named his own price.