by Unknown
For a long while I stared silently into space.
The captain dismissed a pilot from the control room and had me come in.
“You can see for yourself that we are straight on our course. You have already seen that all the supplies are holding up. You have seen that the population problem is well cared for. What more do you want?”
What more did I want! With the whole population of the Flashaway steeped in ignorance—immorality—superstition—savagery!*
Again the captain shook his head. “You want us to be like your friends of the twenty-first century. We can’t be.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out some bits of crumpled papers.
“Look. I save every scrap of reading matter. I learned to read from the primers and charts that your son’s grandparents made. Before the destruction, I tried to read about the Earth-life. I still piece together these torn bits and study them. But I can’t piece together the Earth-life that they tell about. All I really know is what I’ve seen and felt and breathed right here in my native Flashaway world.
“That’s how it’s bound to be with all of us. We can’t get back to your notions about things. Your notions haven’t any real truth for us. You don’t belong to our world,” the captain said with honest frankness.
“So I’m an outcast on my own ship!”
“That’s putting it mildly. You’re a menace and a troublemaker—an ogre! It’s in their minds as tight as the bones in their skulls.”
The most I could do was secure some promises from him before I went back to the ice. He promised to keep the ship on its course. He promised to do his utmost to fasten the necessary obligations upon those who would take over the helm.
“Straight relentless navigation!” We drank a toast to it. He didn’t pretend to appreciate the purpose or the mission of the Flashaway, but he took my word for it that it would come to some good.
“To Robinello in 2666!” Another toast. Then he conducted me back, in utmost secrecy, to my refrigerator room.
I awoke to the year of 2566, keenly aware that I, was not Gregory Grimstone, the respected Keeper of the Traditions. If I was anyone at all, I was the Traddy Man—the ogre.
But perhaps by this time—and I took hope with the thought—I had been completely forgotten.
I tried to get through the length of the ship without being seen. I had watched through the one-way glass for several hours for a favorable opportunity, but the ship seemed to be in a continual state of daylight, and shabby-looking people roamed about as aimlessly as sheep in a meadow.
The few persons who saw me as I darted toward the captain’s quarters shrieked as if they had been knifed. In their world there was no such thing as a strange person. I was the impossible, the unbelievable. My name, obviously, had been forgotten.
I found three men in the control room. After minutes of tension, during which they adjusted themselves to the shock of my coming, I succeeded, in establishing speaking terms. Two of the men were Sperrys.
But at the very moment I should have been concerned with solidifying my friendship, I broke the calm with an excited outburst. My eye caught the position of the instruments and I leaped from my seat.
“How long have you been going that way?”
“Eight years!”
“Eight—” I glanced at the huge automatic chart overhead. It showed the long straight line of our centuries of flight with a tiny shepherd’s crook at the end. Eight years ago we had turned back sharply.
“That’s sixteen years lost, gentlemen!”
I tried to regain my poise. The three men before me were perfectly calm, to my astonishment. The two Sperry brothers glanced at each other. The third man, who had introduced himself as Smith, glared at me darkly.
“It’s all right,” I said. “We won’t lose another minute. I know how to operate—”
“No, you don’t!” Smith’s voice was harsh and cold. I had started to reach for the controls. I hesitated. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on me.
“We know where we’re going,” one of the Sperrys said stubbornly. “We’ve got our own destination.”
“This ship is bound for Robinello!” I snapped. “We’ve got to colonize. The Robinello planets are ours—America’s. It’s our job to clinch the claim and establish the initial settlement—”
“Who said so?”
“America!”
“When?” Smith’s cold eyes tightened.
“Five hundred years ago.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. Those people are all dead.”
“I’m one of those people!” I growled. “And I’m not dead by a damned sight!”
“Then you’re out on a limb.”
“Limb or no limb, the plan goes through!” I clutched my gun. “We haven’t come five hundred years in a straight line for nothing!”
“The plan is dead,” one of the Sperrys snarled. “We’ve killed it.”
His brother chimed in, “This is our ship and we’re running it. We’ve studied the heavens and we’re out on our own. We’re through with this straight-line stuff. We’re going to see the universe.”
“You can’t! You’re bound for Robinello!”
Smith stepped toward me, and his big teeth showed savagely.
“We had no part in that agreement. We’re taking orders from no one. I’ve heard about you. You’re the Traddy Man. Go back in your hole—and stay there!”
I brought my gun up slowly. “You’ve heard of me? Have you heard of my gun? Do you know that this weapon shoots men dead?”
Three pairs of eyes caught on the gleaming weapon. But three men stood their ground staunchly.
“I’ve heard about guns,” Smith hissed. “Enough to know that you don’t dare shoot in the control room—”
“I don’t dare miss!”
I didn’t want to kill the men. But I saw no other way out. Was there any other way? Three lives weren’t going to stand between the Flashaway and her destination.
Seconds passed, with the four of us breathing hard. Eternity was about to descend on someone. Any of the three might have been splendid pioneers if they had been confronted with the job of building a colony. But in this moment, their lack of vision was as deadly as any deliberate sabotage. I focused my attack on the most troublesome man of the three.
“Smith, I’m giving you an order. Turn back before I count to ten or I’ll kill you. One…two…three….”
Not the slightest move from anyone. “Seven…eight…nine…” Smith leaped at me—and fell dead at my feet.
The two Sperrys looked at the faint wisp of smoke from the weapon barked another sharp command, and one of the Sperrys marched to the controls and turned the ship back toward Robinello.
Chapter VII: Time Marches On
For a year I was with the Sperry brothers constantly, doing my utmost to bring them around to my way of thinking. At first I watched them like hawks. But they were not treacherous. Neither did they show any inclination to avenge Smith’s death. Probably this was due to a suppressed hatred they had held toward him.
The Sperrys were the sort of men, being true children of space, who bided their time. That’s what they were doing now. That was why I couldn’t leave them and go back to my ice.
As sure as the Flashaway could cut through the heavens, those two men were counting the hours until I returned to my nest. The minute I was gone, they would turn back toward their own goal.
And so I continued to stay with them for a full year. If they contemplated killing me, they gave no indication. I presume I would have killed them with little hesitation, had I bad no pilots whatsoever that I could entrust with the job of carrying on.
There were no other pilots, nor were there any youngsters old enough to break into service.
Night after night I fought the matter over in my mind. There was a full century to go. Perhaps one hundred and fifteen or twenty years. And no one except the two Sperrys and I had any serious conception of a destination!
These tw
o pilots and I—and one other, whom I had never for a minute forgotten. If the Flashaway was to go through, it was up to me and that one other—
I marched back to the refrigerator room, people fleeing my path in terror. Inside the retreat I touched the switches that operated the auxiliary merry-go-round freezer. After a space of time the operation was complete.
Someone very beautiful stood smiling before me, looking not a minute older than when I had packed her away for safe-keeping two centuries before.
“Gregory,” she breathed ecstatically. “Are my three centuries up already?”
“Only two of them, Lora-Louise.” took her in my arms. She looked up at me sharply and must have read the trouble in my eyes.
“They’ve all played out on us,” I said quietly. “It’s up to us now.”
I discussed my plan with her and she approved.
One at a time we forced the Sperry brothers into the icy retreat, with repeated promises that they would emerge within a century. By that time Lora-Louise and I would be gone—but it was our expectation that our children and grandchildren would carry on.
And so the two of us, plus firearms, plus Lora-Louise’s sense of humor, took over the running of the Flashaway for its final century.
As the years passed the native population grew to be less afraid of us. Little by little a foggy glimmer of our vision filtered into their numbed minds.
The year is now 2600. Thirty-three years have passed since Lora-Louise and I took over. I am now sixty-two, she is fifty-six. Or if you prefer, I am 562, she is 256. Our four children have grown up and married.
We have realized down through these long years that we would not live to see the journey completed. The Robinello planets have been visible for some time; but at our speed they are still sixty or eighty years away.
But something strange happened nine or ten months ago. It has changed the outlook for all of us—even me, the crusty old Keeper of the Traditions.
A message reached us through our radio receiver!
It was a human voice speaking in our own language. It had a fresh vibrant hum to it and a clear-cut enunciation. It shocked me to realize how sluggish our own brand of the King’s English had become in the past five-and-a-half centuries.
“Calling the S.S. Flashaway!” it said.
“Calling the S.S. Flashaway! We are trying to locate you, S.S. Flashaway. Our instruments indicate that you are approaching. If you can hear us, will you give us your exact location?”
I snapped on the transmitter. “This is the Flashaway. Can you hear us?” “Dimly. Where are you?”
“On our course. Who’s calling?”
“This is the American colony on Robinello,” came the answer. “American colony, Robinello, established in 2550—fifty years ago. We’re waiting for you, Flashaway.”
“How the devil did you get there?” I may have sounded a bit crusty but I was too excited to know what I was saying.
“Modern space ships,” came the answer. “We’ve cut the time from the earth to Robinello down to six years. Give us your location. We’ll send a fast ship out to pick you up.”
I gave them our location. That, as I said, was several months ago. Today we are receiving a radio call every five minutes as their ship approaches.
One of my sons, supervising the preparations, has just reported that all persons aboard are ready to transfer—including the Sperry brothers, who have emerged successfully from the ice. The eighty-five Flashaway natives are scared half to death and at the same time as eager as children going to a circus.
Lora-Louise has finished packing our boxes, bless her heart. That teasing smile she just gave me was because she noticed the “Who’s Who Aboard the Flashaway” tucked snugly under my arm.
*Professor Grimstone is obviously astounded that his charges, with all the necessities of life on board their space ship, should have degenerated so completely. It must be remembered, however, that no other outside influence ever entered the Flashaway in all its long voyage through space. In the space of centuries, the colonists progressed not one whit.
On a very much reduced scale, the Flashaway colonists are a more or less accurate mirror of a nation in transition. Sad but true it is that nations, like human beings, are born, wax into bright maturity, grow into comfortable middle age and oft times linger on until old age has impaired their usefulness.
In the relatively short time that man has been a thinking, building animal, many great empires—many great nations—have sprung from humble beginnings to grow powerful and then wane into oblivion, sometimes slowly, sometimes with tragic suddenness
Grimstone, however, has failed to take the lessons of history into account through the mistaken conception that because the colonists’ physical wants were taken care of, that was all they required to keep them healthy and contented.—Ed.)
DON WILCOX ON DON WILCOX (Written for the January 1941 Amazing Stories.)
I was born within a few miles of one of the geographical centers of the United States (there are three or four scattered around through Kansas) thirty-one years ago—back in the days when the creeks still ran and severe dust storms were something to be complained about.
I was brought up on public schools, swimming holes, musical instruments, and Mark Twain.
As a boy I learned how much fun it was to dig caves and what grueling labor it was to hoe the garden—even though the former occupation afforded more blisters.
Eventually I underwent the transition from the dangerous life of a semi-civilized Tarzan to the far more perilous existence of an over-civilized school teacher.
While teaching English I would frequently admonish my theme-writing students to use more imagination! MORE IMAGINATION! Poor kids—I longed to write their stories for them. George Bernard Shaw’s words burned in nay ears: “He who can does; he who cannot teaches.” I desired to join the “does” class.
The desire grew when my wife and I began writing plays for high school students and discovered we could market them.
Returning to my alma mater, the University of Kansas, for graduate studies, I found interest in drama, journalism, and sociology. These studies offered juicy nourishment for the would-be writer. Then there was a creative writing class of five or six members who met at the home of an author to drink tea and lash each other’s literary efforts—two wholesome exercises for budding authors.
I was treated to three years of serving on the sociology staff of a university, where I enjoyed sharing ideas with a few hundred students.
Later, my college vacations brought similar thought-churning exercises. Though a victim of the rural philosophy which exalts simple hard work to the skies, once I had the sweat glowing from the brow, the vacuum within became a playground for chance ideas. If you are a professional window washer or house painter, you know what I mean. Those silent hours of work contain some curious creative experiences, seldom brought to light.
Outdoor workers love to spin yarns. I found the errant harvest hands and the multi-colored rock crusher gangs full of stories—good and bad; also full of character, open to observation. There was the silent boss who watched over our rock trench. He and the sleepy old chimpanzee at the zoo could have changed places; no one would have noticed the difference. There was Lame John, a ragged haggle-toothed Negro, who taught me to swing the maul so the rocks would crack instead of rounding off. He managed his finances like an expert, bought winter groceries in July, was proud that he’d lost only three of his ten kids.
Perhaps these sidelights are incidental. Most of my hours have gone into academic pursuits. School teaching—more years than I dare count—then more university life, undertaken in ’34 with a professional writing career now clearly in view. By this time I had published a few plays.
While a graduate student, I placed some articles with the Kansas City Star, sold a novelty musical comedy, captured some prizes in the Kansas Authors Club contests; dropped into a university instructorship in sociology (as a result of the state’s economy
program), which gave me contacts with many fine minds, young and old. I glimpsed endless avenues of research that lay waiting, tried a little, found it intriguing. It made you throb with the feeling that you were doing something vital—the same as our space explorers and laboratory heroes of fiction. Still, it did not answer my craving for creative activity.
However, my chance meeting with the editor of Amazing Stories proved to be a milestone. His .generous suggestions were calculated to put an end to the blind stabbing of dizzy freelancers, give direction to their efforts. This he did for me.
This sketch needs a supplement in which the pronoun “I” is omitted, to tell the great share which parents, relatives, friends, teachers, and editors have had in giving me a start. My wife is my chief critic and assistant. Our three-year-old red-haired daughter furnishes diversion.
(After the death of the pulp magazines in the early 1950s, Don Wilcox returned to teaching at the university level. He died in 2000.)
Other fine classics can be found at FuturesPastEdition.
Spirit Dance by
Douglas Smith
In the beginning of things, men were as animals and animals as men.—Cree legend
Vera made a warding sign as I entered the store, my hound Gelert trailing behind me. She pretended to wipe her hands on her faded blue apron, but I caught the dance of her fingers.
“Hello, Vera. It’s been a while,” I said.
“Yes, yes it has, Mr. Blaidd,” she said too quickly, not returning my smile. Turning from where she’d been refilling a food bin, she addressed her husband. “I gotta check something in the back, Ed.” Almost running, she slipped behind the long wooden counter and into the storeroom at the rear of the store.
Edward Two Rivers leaned on the counter beside the cash register, a newspaper spread in front of him, his long gray hair spilling onto the pages. He watched her leave then smiled at me.