The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  “Why not?” Lennox demanded impatiently.

  “You’re forgetting that one Nazi Gremlin implies more. If I rounded up a gang, the Nazi Gremlin would round one up, too, and we wouldn’t stand a chance with their size.”

  Lennox groaned, then bit his lip in desperate, aching thought. Of a sudden, he released a yell of triumph.

  “I’ve got it!”

  Gremlin Bob removed his hands from his battered eardrums and blinked his one good eye at Lennox. “Got what?” he wanted to know.

  “The solution!” Lennox cried. “There’s only one thing that could draw that Nazi Gremlin from von Thelm’s ship, and that’s a Fifinella! Do you see?”

  “I certainly do!” replied Gremlin Bob. He leered delightedly. “A Fifinella will turn the trick, if nothing else will.” And with that, he vanished amid his usual bright, blue flash.

  Lennox roared along for a time, at full speed. Frequent glances to his rear showed that von Thelm was still holding doggedly to the Spitfire’s tail. Obviously, the Nazi hadn’t had a solitary duel for such a long time that he was willing to pursue this latest victim to Kingdom Come just to break the monotony.

  Lennox grinned. Well, this time von Thelm was going to get more than he had bargained for.

  When Lennox judged that Gremlin Bob had had ample time to accomplish his task, he pulled back the stick, sending the Spitfire into a wide, inside loop. Von Thelm’s Messerschmitt flashed by, and then, realizing what had happened, the Nazi banked sharply and came around.

  Lennox leveled just as von Thelm straightened out. For an instant the rear of the Messerschmitt was in his sights, and Lennox instinctively pressed the firing button in the stick. His guns thundered flaming tracer, and his mouth split in a wide grin as he saw a line of black dots crawl along the tail of the Messerschmitt and chew pieces out of the rudder.

  The tight ball of tension in Lennox’s stomach vanished, and his eyes lighted with confidence and hope. Things were evened up, now. Von Thelm was matched in a sky duel at last.

  For long months later, the people along the Channel coast talked about that battle in the sky. It was a never-to-be-forgotten exhibition of cunning and skill. Again and again the Messerschmitt would pull out of some intricate maneuver designed to catch the Spitfire in a trap, but always the Spitfire would dodge free, its guns striking into some new part of its opponent. The Spitfire was like a dog goading a vicious bull, grown clumsy in its rage. It harried, worried at the Messerschmitt until the Nazi ship was literally filled with holes. And then, as if unable to bear longer the clever, nimble series of dodges and nips to which it was being subjected, the Messerschmitt suddenly broke from the battle and roared out into the Channel.

  But the Spitfire wouldn’t allow the battle to end that way. It pursued the Messerschmitt until it whirled in blind, desperate fury. And the duel was suddenly over. For, as the Messerschmitt made an abrupt turn, the Spitfire swung up to meet it, its guns raking from engine housing to tail assembly.

  For an instant, the Messerschmitt poised there in the sky as if unable to believe the doom which had come to it. Then, with black smoke curling from its damaged engine, it nosed down and fell, twisting and turning, into the Channel.

  Von Thelm, the terror of northern English skies, was gone forever.

  * * * *

  It wasn’t until more than a month later that Lennox saw Gremlin Bob again. Lennox—Lieutenant Robert Lennox, now, and flight commander of the 15th—was returning from a special, secret conference at General Headquarters. It was evening, and the setting sun had stretched long streamers of red and gold across the horizon.

  Lennox blinked at a sudden flicker before his eyes. And there was Gremlin Bob, seated on the rim of the speed indicator.

  “Hello, there!” Gremlin Bob greeted.

  “You!” exclaimed Lennox. “Where have you been all this time?”

  Gremlin Bob grinned slyly. He had on a new green derby, and his outfit of little red jacket and corduroy pants was once more immaculate.

  “I’ve been busy raising a family,” he answered. “Got the nicest crop of little Widgets and Flipperty-Gibbets you ever saw. I’ll bring them around sometime.”

  “Do that,” Lennox seconded, with a smile. “I’ll be glad to meet them. But, say, I want to thank you for that favor you did me. Everything worked out beautifully. I got von Thelm, and the only inquiries that the inquiry board made later, were those as to how I had done it. Just look at the medals!”

  Gremlin Bob looked. Then his little face screwed up into a grimace of puzzlement. “Favor? Thank me? What’re you talking about?”

  “Why, surely, you remember how you went after a Fifinella to draw that Nazi Gremlin out of von Thelm’s plane?”

  “Fifinella?” Gremlin Bob leered reminiscently. “What a cute little trick she was! She’s my wife, now, you know. But about von Thelm—”

  Gremlin Bob’s features dropped in dismay, and then he lifted his green derby and scratched his bald head sheepishly.

  “Well, what do you know!” he said. “I clean forgot about it!”

  “Forgot about what?” asked Lennox.

  “About von Thelm,” Gremlin Bob replied, with a rueful expression on his brown, pixie face.

  “What!” choked Lennox.

  “Uh huh. You know how we Gremlins are about Fifinellas. Well, the one I went after to use on that Nazi Gremlin was such a swell little number that I just forgot about everything and went chasing after her myself!”

  IF YOU BELIEVE

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, July 1943.

  On the field of the ’drome great Lancaster and B-17 bombers were warming up preparatory for a raid. Mechanics and handlers swarmed everywhere, making final check-ups on the bombers and wheeling into position their escorting fighter craft, P-38 Lightnings, Hawker Hurricanes, and Spitfires. Orderlies darted about with last-minute instructions. Pilots, gunners, navigators, bombardiers, and radio-men were waiting in the barracks, pulling on helmets, adjusting ’chute packs.

  The center of attention was a big, blond gunner, who had more than a score of Nazi aircraft to his credit.

  “Ever heard of Aviara?” he asked.

  “Aviara?” several of his listeners echoed.

  “What is Aviara?” one of the youngsters prompted.

  The gunner spoke with his eyes fixed upon a far distance, as if each word were building something there.

  “Aviara is the sky fighter’s paradise. It’s the place where all good airmen go.”

  None of the listeners said a word. It was very still in the barracks.

  “Why shouldn’t there be a place like that?” the gunner demanded, as though in defense of the concept. His voice rose persuasively. “Look. Civilians have their Heaven—but has it ever occurred to you that it would hardly be suited to the requirements of us airmen after fighting in the war? Fighters have always had their own special kind of heaven. Greek warriors of ancient times had their Isles of the Blest. Vikings had their Valhalla. The Moors that almost conquered Europe in the Middle Ages had their Gardens of Paradise. Even the Japs of today die fighting gladly in the belief they’ll go straight to their own kind of heaven. So why shouldn’t we have ours?”

  No one in the group said anything immediately. Like the gunner, they were staring into a far distance, as if watching the unveiling of something there.

  “What is it like—this place?” someone asked haltingly.

  “I can’t say exactly.” The gunner’s response was slow and meditative. “But it’s a place where the sky is always clear and bright, with visibility good even at the highest altitudes. The wind always blows from the right direction, and there aren’t any pesky air currents or bumps. It’s a place where airmen can fly around as free as they please, with no brass-hats to tell them what to do or how they’re supposed to do it, with no worries of any Hun jumping on
their tail or diving down at them from out of the sun. They’ll have wings, of course. But,” he added quickly, “there won’t be any of this harp and halo stuff. And—” The gunner broke off suddenly, peering at his listeners in suspicion.

  But they neither laughed nor spoke. They were very still, looking at something far away.

  The gunner experienced a feeling of mystic wonder. It was somehow as if he had momentarily been invested with the powers of a god and had given life to a new creation, to stand, now, at once delighted and dismayed at the result of his handiwork. He realized abruptly that these gullible youngsters believed. Each and every one of them believed.

  And why not? he thought. He knew suddenly that he had believed all along himself. He hadn’t really intended to fool them. He had just wanted urgently to tell someone—

  * * * *

  Aviara! The magic word spread the length and breadth of England. It traveled to every other place where Allied airmen were to be found—Africa, the Solomons, Alaska, the Philippines, the Hawaiians, and even aircraft carriers far out at sea.

  The war was one in which the airplane reigned supreme. Battles were won or lost depending on the number and quality of aircraft in each engagement. But these were not the only important factors. Morale was another and, in many ways, a greater one. The legend of Aviara supplied this latter in astonishing amount, and though it probably won’t ever be attributed entirely to the rapid and conclusive Allied successes, it nevertheless played an important role.

  Legends and myths arise out of Man’s attempts to explain the otherwise inexplicable. But more often they fill a real spiritual need. They can make the mysteries of this world natural and understandable, and they can remove the veil of the great unknown which lies beyond. Thus, if you believe, death becomes an insignificant thing, no more to be feared than passing into a deep sleep in which dreams are certain to be pleasant.

  It was this consolation which Rand Howell felt as he flew his P-38 one night, deep over Nazi Germany. He was part of a tiny bombing fleet which included three B-17’s and two Hurricanes. Their mission was one which amounted to nothing more or less than a suicide flight, but Rand Howell didn’t feel particularly concerned. Like almost all other airmen, he believed explicitly in the legend of Aviara, and out of this belief he drew courage and strength. Death holds no terrors, if you believe.

  From information gathered over a long period of months, Air Intelligence in London had come to the conclusion that Kleindorf, a small German town, harbored a long-sought munitions supply center. Kleindorf connected with a railroad line, and observation flights had reported the line intensely active about that area.

  Photographs taken at high altitudes and compared with older ones on file had shown certain portions of the town blotted out under what could be nothing else than camouflage. Moreover, anti-aircraft batteries had been found to be particularly concentrated around the town.

  The Bomber Command felt it had enough upon which to act, and accordingly volunteers were asked for the raiding of Kleindorf. The raid might possibly be one of no return, for if the town were indeed the suspected munitions supply center, the Nazis would have it heavily armed and well protected and would make every desperate attempt to keep it from being destroyed. But the sacrifice of a few men would be worth it, since destruction of the center would shorten the war by many months.

  Rand Howell remembered his instructions clearly. He was to protect the bomber he was accompanying from intercepting enemy aircraft at all costs, until it had unloaded its cargo of bombs. After that, he was on his own, free to make his way back to England—if he were still alive and able.

  It was a fine night for the mission. The Weather Bureau had designated it especially. It was very dark, for moon and stars were hidden behind great masses of low-lying clouds. Bombers and fighters flew high above these, with only occasional glimpses of the ground below.

  Rand glanced at his instruments. It wouldn’t be long now. He spotted a rift in the cloud-floor ahead, and glanced down as he passed it. The lights of a town glowed dimly below. He looked at his instruments again, and decided that would be Mitteldorf. Kleindorf was less than a dozen miles away, and at the speed they were flying, would be reached in a matter of seconds.

  Then the half-expected occurred. Rand’s earphones crackled with sudden sound.

  “Up and at it, old chap. Enemy aircraft ahead.”

  And now Rand saw them. An enemy squadron approached, blacking out the stars one by one, their exhausts flaming redly. A moment later searchlights lit up on the ground below. The Nazis were swinging into defensive action.

  In unison with the two other fighters, Rand sent his ship into a steep climb for altitude. Then they nosed down in a sharp dive at the oncoming Nazi craft, which now became discernible as Messerschmitts. It was their intention to break up the enemy formation so that the gunners in the bombers would have a chance to help in beating off the attack.

  Rand’s face set grimly, doggedly. Death was a certainty, but he just had to hold it off for awhile—long enough, at least, for the bombers to complete their task.

  And then the Messerschmitts were below him. He found his sights lined up on one of the leaders and pressed the firing button in his control stick automatically. Flaming tracers spat from his guns. He felt a cold exultation as he saw the ship upon which he had fired nose down and go spinning to the earth. Then his attention leaped to the other Messerschmitts further back in the formation.

  He fired again, but couldn’t see whether or not his shells had taken effect, for the Nazis were firing now also. He kicked the rudder sharply, banked, and came around in a swift curve.

  Rand found himself almost on the tail of a Messerschmitt. He maneuvered quickly and got his sights lined up. But just then anti-aircraft batteries on the ground began firing at the bombers. His eyes were dazzled by exploding shells. The next thing he knew, two Nazi craft were hurtling at him, one from the front and one from the side, and tongues of flaming tracer were licking toward his cockpit.

  It happened, then, in that moment of deadly danger. Rand’s cool fighter’s mind was seeking with lightning-like rapidity for some way out of the trap. But before he could act, his P-38 was shaken with a sudden, strange vibration. Something like an electric current ran through his body. It tingled along his nerves and made his teeth ache. Then the world about him seemed to explode in a silent flare of light.

  Night sky and Nazi aircraft were gone. Rand found himself rushing through sunlight and white clouds. Bewildered, stunned, he peered quickly about him. The sky was blue, a soft, incredible blue. Of Messerschmitts, B-17’s, and Hurricanes there was no sign. Except for the clouds, he was alone.

  Rand was dazed and uncomprehending. He couldn’t understand what had happened. One moment it was night and he was in the midst of a fierce battle. The next it was day, and battle and darkness alike were gone.

  Thoughts gyrating chaotically, Rand banked and peered down at the ground below him. He found no trace of towns, roads, or railroad tracks, or any other of the indications of a civilized, heavily-populated section of country. There was nothing to be seen but forests and hills and broad meadows. To one side lay the silver thread of a small river, and far in the distance a range of mountains towered.

  Rand brought his P-38 down closer to the ground and cut speed. He cruised slowly along, glancing around him with puzzled, wondering eyes. Long minutes passed while he searched, but he found nothing to tell him where he was, nor did his spinning mind produce even the slightest hint of an answer to the mystery.

  His eyes narrowed with a sudden, chilling thought. What was to become of him here, in this strange world? His fuel wouldn’t last forever, and sooner or later he’d have to land. Where would he find food and shelter—or, and most important, other human beings who might be able to help him? He wondered if there were human beings here.

  And then something that was white and angular leap
ed out in vivid contrast to the green and gold of the vegetation below. An exclamation of joy burst from Rand’s lips. It was a house!

  Rand circled, peering at it eagerly. He revised the results of his first flash of discovery. It was a house, true enough, but a tiny one—a cottage. And something about it stirred memories that brought a catch to Rand’s throat.

  Abruptly, a slender figure appeared in the doorway of the little dwelling and stood looking upward, one hand raised to shade its eyes. Rand stared. Unless he was very badly mistaken, it was a girl. He felt a warm surge of relief. There were human beings here after all, and they were civilized as well, if the house was any evidence. Now he would be able to find out where he was, and if still possible, get back to help his comrades in their mission.

  Rand looked about for a place where he could land his P-38. There was a small field a short distance from the house, and he brought the plane down upon it. Then, eagerly, he climbed from the cockpit and jumped to the ground.

  He stiffened at the sound of beating wings. Was that a bird? He looked up and then gasped in shock and incredulity. A girl—no, the girl—floated toward him in the air on vibrating, white pinions! He watched in dazed fascination as she approached and finally settled to the ground a few yards away.

  Rand felt shaken and numb. What sort of a place had he fallen into? What sort of a place could it be, where everyone flew about on great, shining wings? For a moment he thought he had the answer, but he rejected it almost immediately. No, this just couldn’t be Aviara, for he knew that he was still very much alive. Those Nazi shells hadn’t had time to reach his cockpit, and there wasn’t a mark upon him.

  Then where was he? Who was this girl?

  He became suddenly aware of her. His perceptions narrowed upon her, then recoiled in stunned surprise, like light striking a reflecting surface.

  “Madge!” he gasped. The name of the girl back in the States to whom he was engaged came involuntarily. But an instant later he realized that he had made a mistake. This wasn’t Madge. There was a striking resemblance, to be sure, but that was as far as it went. This girl was poignantly lovely, whereas Madge was only pretty, in a calm, gracious way.