by Various
Possy paused, inferentially transferring the question to his friend.
"I can't account for the cat," Smithy said. "Unless we assume its death was a coincidence. But I confess you've aroused my curiosity. Could I see and talk to this boy who wants to be a--" he grimaced--"a Destructor?"
"I'm glad you asked." Possy sighed with relief. "Actually he is outside now, waiting to join us. But I must warn you that you'll find him quite precocious. However, he's extremely amenable."
Possy went quickly to the door, opened it and called, "Herbux, come in."
The boy entered. He was, Smithy observed, a quite ordinary-looking boy. He was so obviously ten years old that you couldn't say he was either old or young, large or small, fat or thin or anything else, "for his age." He was just ten years old and a boy.
"Herbux," said Possy, "I want you to meet a friend of mine--the famous Dr. Smithlawn."
"How do you do, sir," Herbux said politely.
"How do you do," returned Smithy. He had already decided not to be patronizing, but to take a bold, frank, comradely course with the lad.
"Herbux," he said, "Professor von Possenfeller has been telling me the story of your life. Now you tell me, Herbux. Not what you want to be when you grow up, but why."
"I don't know why, sir," Herbux replied easily. "I only know that I want to be a Destructor."
"But, Herbux, what is a Destructor?"
Herbux looked around the room. He saw Smithy's birdcage, walked over to it and stared for a moment quietly at Dicky, the doctor's parakeet.
Dicky looked back, chirped angrily twice and toppled from his perch. He landed on his back, his tiny feet rigid and unmoving. He was quite dead, Smithy observed, with a sudden, detached, unbelieving horror. Why, Dicky was seven years old and he had been as good a pet as any lonely old professor could have desired as a cheery avian companion.
"Look here, young man," he began sternly. Then, as the shock passed, he hastily changed his tone. Suppose this child did have some strange sort of power--mystic perhaps, but definitely abnormal. He may belong in the School of the Future, Smithy thought. Or perhaps in the School of the Past--the Dark Ages Department. But not here!
"Don't worry, sir," Herbux said. "I can't do it to you."
"But--do what?" Smithy cried. "What did you do?"
"I destructed."
Smithy took a deep breath. He felt as though a cruel hoax had been played on him. After all, Possy could have lied about the cat and the other creatures. And the boy was quite obviously bright enough to learn lines and play a part. But how explain Dicky?
He tried to calculate the coincidental odds that might have caused Dicky to die a natural death at one precise instant in time under unusual and exact circumstances. They proved to be incalculable to his unmathematical brain. He rubbed his face with the palms of both hands. Then he turned abruptly to Possy.
"I just don't know what to say about it," he explained. "How could I know? How could anybody know?"
He faced the boy again. "Look here, Herbux. This--this power of yours. When did you first notice you had it?"
"Last year, sir. I always knew I would do it sometime. But one day I was looking at a bird perched on my windowsill, and it fell over dead, just as your parakeet did. I thought it was an accident or a coincidence. But then the next day it happened again--with a squirrel. Soon I got to where I could do it on purpose. But I don't know how."
"Well, how do you feel about it? Do you want to kill these harmless pets?"
"Oh, no, sir. I don't want to kill them. I just want to be a Destructor."
Smithy had a sudden, disquieting conviction that he was in the presence of some completely alien, dangerous being. A cold breeze seemed to shiver through the room, though he knew that his quarters were airtight and perfectly ventilated. This is ridiculous, he told himself, turning to Possy with a helpless shrug. To feel like this over such a nice-looking young lad ...
"My friend," he said, "all this has occurred so suddenly I must have time to think. Such a thing could never have happened in my school. Perhaps you should--but doubtless it has already occurred to you--turn him over to physio-psychological rebuilding?"
Possy nodded. "It has, of course. But then I said to myself, 'Possy, they are a bunch of dunderheaded old fossils over there. They can take a criminal and tear him apart and make a good citizen out of him, granted. But do they find out why he was a criminal? Have they reduced the number of new criminals? No. And they would not find out why this boy wants to be a Destructor--nor even what a Destructor is.'
"'You're right,' I told myself. 'And besides, Herbux is a nice boy. Why, with this power of his--if he wanted to do harm--there wouldn't be an animal left alive around the whole University. And if he could do it to people he's had many an opportunity to practice on me. But has he? No, not once. Besides, if you keep him in school, you can maintain a good close watch over him. Herbux has promised to keep me fully informed as to the progress of his strange power. If he feels it getting stronger, he will let me know immediately.' Isn't that right, Herbux?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy quietly.
"You are quite sure," Smithy asked, "that you know absolutely nothing about this boy's past? His parents, his birthplace--anything at all? There must be some clue."
"You know very well I don't," Possy retorted angrily.
"I just thought that perhaps you might have subjected him to hypno-research," Smithy said, placatingly.
"I wouldn't dream of such a thing--" Possy began--and stopped with a gasp. "How did you know about that?" he demanded.
Smithy was flustered. "I--well, that is--" He could think of no convincing answer. Hypno-research was one of Possy's most secret projects. He had used it constantly in his efforts to determine reasons for non-conformity to set patterns of behavior in some of his more recalcitrant students. He had kept it a secret because it added up to an admission that perhaps heredity could play a part in the development of a student's character.
"Smithy, my dear old friend," he said with mock humility. "This is no time for us to quarrel. Let us face the facts candidly. You have been spying on my school--and I in turn have been spying on yours. I know, for instance, that when your students don't behave the way their heredity charts predict you often use hypno-therapy to change their thought-lines, and force them to conform. Is that any less fair than what I do?"
Smithy sighed. "I guess not, my friend. No, wait. I will go farther than that. It is not a matter of guessing. I am quite certain about it. We are a couple of aging frauds, struggling selfishly along, playing with the lives of these children solely to keep our jobs. Perhaps we should--"
"Nevertheless, we have a problem," interrupted Possy. "It's a problem that won't be solved by our becoming senile idiots. Get your mind back on Herbux, and help me. I feel this is a most desperate situation. If it gets beyond just the two of us, we are likely to be thoroughly investigated. Then goodness knows what would happen."
"But why? The child can do no real harm. Suppose he does 'destruct' an animal or two? There are plenty more. And sooner or later they would die of natural causes, anyway. And it's unthinkable that he could ever do it to--to people ..."
Smithy paused, obviously struck by a startling thought. He turned to Herbux. "Boy," he said, quite sternly. "Come here."
Herbux obeyed, advancing to within a foot of the old doctor and facing him squarely.
"Look me in the eyes," Smithy commanded.
Questioningly, Herbux began to stare at Smithy.
"Well," Smithy said, after a time, "turn it on."
A set look came over Herbux's face. His lips were compressed and a thin dew of sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Possy stood aghast, slowly comprehending what his old friend Smithy was doing. He was actually risking his life--or so he believed--to prove that the child could not destruct a human being. He wanted to stop the boy, but he could not move from where he stood.
Suddenly Herbux broke and turned away. He bega
n to sob.
"It's no use!" he cried. "I can't do it. I just can't do it ..."
Smithy went to him and put an arm on his shoulders.
"Tell me, boy," he exclaimed. "What do you mean? Do you mean that you can't bring yourself to do it, or that it is physically impossible?"
Herbux just stood there, his head bowed, crying wildly.
"I just can't do it," he repeated, sounding now completely heart-broken.
Possy, coming alive again, said soothingly, "Don't cry, son. It's not bad. It's good, that you can't do it."
Herbux whirled around, facing Possy, his face inflamed with a sudden rage.
"But I will," he screamed, "I will do it! I will! When I grow up!"
* * *
Contents
THE HOLES AND JOHN SMITH
By Edward W. Ludwig
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room. If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place: "A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water--and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me--Jimmie Stanley--and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth: "The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked. "Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there--"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked. "Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
* * * * *
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering. "Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You?"
"I know everything," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then--
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom, and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom, just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You, modulate
d into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan.
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped, "I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph. This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me. "For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
* * * * *
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars. He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle--I mean, his Zloomph--with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment. "Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You--you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly, "even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.