Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

Quintus could see men crawling from the rear tailgate of the truck with ropes and tackle in their hands. They went to work speedily and efficiently. Ropes were draped about Quintus’ recumbent form and the truck was backed up next to him. He heard a hoist crank revolving creakingly and the next instant he was rising from the pavement. Four feet, five feet he rose before a couple of the men swung his two-ton body into the truck. Then the hoist rachet was released and Quintus dropped to the floor of the truck with a stony rattle.

  “Don’t know how they got it away,” he heard one of the workmen say bewilderedly. “Must’ve stole it from the museum last night with a truck and a block and tackle. Can’t see how any man would want a silly looking thing like that, though?”

  “Funny thing,” another added. “I mean those clothes on the statue. They’re regular clothes. They wouldn’t waste good clothes on a statue would they?”

  “It’s not our worry,” the first replied. “All we got to do is get this thing back to the museum and our troubles are over.”

  Quintus heard the tailgate clam with a banging sound of finality. Seconds later the motor started and the truck rumbled away. Quintus felt an anguished despair creeping over him. On his way to the museum to be displayed like a statue while the Puff and Huff advertising agency tore their hair and damned the day that Quintus Quaggle had entered their employ. It was too much.

  On top of these calamities there was Phylis, sweet lovable Phylis who had had confidence in him. What would she think of him? Maybe when the memory was no longer bitter she would come down to the museum on Saturday afternoons and put flowers around his neck. This was a touching thought but not very encouraging.

  The truck rumbled on and Quintus thought of the language he would use if he ever got back to normal. He had reached the end of his not too extensive vocabulary when the truck stopped with a jar.

  The doors were opened. The ropes and hoists did their work again and finally Quintus’ rigid body was wheeled into the museum on a dolly.

  A MAN with a black satin smock came over and peered closely at Quintus.

  “I don’t remember this one,” Quintus heard him mutter, “but wheel it over to the municipal gallery. We can use something innocent-looking over there. The wives of the Municipal board are coming here today to protest against the indecent art work they claim I’ve brought in here. With this statue to show ’em we may get by.”

  The laborers rolled Quintus through the museum, past the countless objet d’art that were littered about the floor, through to a narrow aisle that led to a group of statuary entitled simply, MUNICIPAL EXHIBITION OF SAN FRANCISCAN EXPRESSIONISTIC SURREALISM.

  Quintus was wheeled in front of this imposing group and unceremoniously dumped to the floor. His soul was writhing with the indifference and lack of interest displayed in him but there was nothing he could do about it. He could see a clock on the wall and its hands pointed to nine o’clock. Mr. Snatzy was just about stalking into the Huff and Puff agency to demand a look at the copy which Quintus had in his breast pocket. The situation was lost now. Everything had gone smash.

  In the middle of these gloomy thoughts Quintus heard a number of voices approaching him. They belonged, it turned out, to three smock-coated men, evidently museum attendants. They stopped at sight of him, perplexed. Then they hurried to his side. Quintus could hear snatches of their conversation.

  “Never saw this before.”

  “Somebody put some clothes on it for a practical joke.”

  “Well we haven’t got all day. Let’s take ’em off.”

  Quintus tried desperately to open his mouth, to shout the truth to them but it was no go. He could feel his clothes being torn from his body, his shoes jerked off, his shirt removed. In a matter of minutes Quintus was stretched on the floor with nothing but his shorts left to hide his mortification.

  “Get a jack and a hoist,” he heard a voice say, “we’ll prop this specimen up in place.”

  Within a few minutes Quintus found himself on top of a pedestal, poised on one foot, arms outflung. It was the supremely embarrassing moment of his life, but not by a flicker of an eyelid or the blush of a cheek did he betray his humiliation. He stood there on one foot, a thin narrow-chested little man, with a furtive, hunted expression stamped in stone on his face, posed like a poor facsimile of a heroic Grecian athlete.

  The museum attendants laughed uncontrollably.

  “Wait a minute,” one of them said between spasms, “we haven’t taken the shorts off yet. That’s why the blamed statue looks so funny. It’s the shorts, they make it look almost human.”

  Suddenly a babel of voices could be heard over the hum of the museum; feminine voices, strident and angry, coming closer and closer.

  “The jig’s up,” one of the attendants hissed, “here come those women that was goin’ to look over this group this morning. We’ll get the sack for this sure.”

  “Not if they don’t see us,” another snapped. “Quick! Grab those clothes and those shoes. We gotta clear out of here. No time to get those shorts off that statue now. Scram!”

  THERE was a frantic scurrying of footsteps and Quintus was left alone. Alone in his shorts to meet the indignant women and the photographers who now came tumbling through the narrow aisle and into the room that housed the SAN FRANCISCAN statuary group.

  Quintus felt wave after wave of embarrassment flooding over him. With all his spirit he longed to flee, to leap from the pedestal and hide himself behind something more concealing than the shorts he was wearing. Pink striped shorts, he recalled with a shudder. Down the legs of the shorts the word Snatzy was formed by looping violets intermingling with trailing hyacinths. As if he need that to make his humiliation complete. He had been wearing them in the feeble hope that they might inspire him to write of them with more effectiveness and sparkle. He was sorry now that he had ever donned them.

  The women and the photographers were milling in front of him now. From the horde of angry women uncomplimentary epithets floated up to him.

  “Disgraceful!”

  “Revolting!”

  “It should be smashed!”

  The photographers moved in close with their flashbulbs raised. The women gathered in a determined circle at the base of Quintus’ pedestal as if they wanted to smash it and him on the spot.

  “Just a minute, ladies,” one of the photographers called.” We need one clear shot before you do anything violent.”

  An instant later a brilliant, blinding light exploded in the room as eight or ten flash bulbs ignited simultaneously.

  Some of the women jumped involuntarily.

  So did Quintus Quaggle!

  At the instant of the lightning explosion the rigidity flowed from his body, his muscles loosened and—he jumped involuntarily.

  He teetered precariously on top of the swaying pedestal and then with a wild cry he crashed to the floor, landing in the center of the throng of astounded women. For a split instant there was a terrible, pregnant silence. Then the women found their voices and made up for their silent second. Their wild, hysterical screams flooded the museum as they fought and clawed to get out of the room. Some of them stared at Quintus as if mesmerized, unable to speak or move.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Quintus began but that was as far as he got.

  With a wild whoop the women came to life and charged after their fleeing sisters, who were chasing after the cameramen.

  Quintus was left quite alone.

  FOR several seconds he was too amazed to act and then, as full realization struck him, he wheeled and darted down the corridor taken by the museum attendants, who had purloined his clothes. But it was not his clothes that Quintus was after primarily. It was the Snatzy shorts copy that was in the pocket of his coat. If he could get that, get to the agency, there might still be hope.

  He rounded a corner, jerked open a door and stumbled into a furnace room. His eyes swept the room expectantly. There was nothing—his heart suddenly pounded hopefully. There on a garbage heap was a brown coa
t. Hardly daring to believe his good luck, Quintus dragged the garment from the ashes, slid his hand into the pocket—felt smooth crisp paper under his fingers. Holding his breath, Quintus pulled out the sheaf of papers. A glance convinced him that he had what he wanted.

  He shoved them hurriedly back into the pocket, slipped into the coat. He looked about frantically but he could see nothing of his shoes or pants. It was at this moment that the Hero in Quintus Quaggle rose to the surface.

  “To hell with ’em,” he cried stoutly. “This copy has got to get through.” With this high resolve burning in his heart, Quintus set out. Short on pants but long on courage, shirtless but plucky, Quintus wrapped the skimpy coat about him like a shield.

  He raced through Bay’s park and was mistaken by a group of maypole maidens for one of their number, who happened to be missing. An irate copper chased him through the park and he escaped durance vile by leaping on the rear bumper of a car that pulled out from the curb and roared away.

  This was just the start. For a frantically hectic half hour, Quintus dodged women and police, clung to trucks and cars, and finally, panting and desperate, stumbled into the lobby of the building which housed the Puff and Huff advertising agency. Fortunately the elevator operator knew Quintus and, with some grave misgivings, whisked him to the sixteenth floor.

  Quintus staggered from the elevator, bare-footed and bare-legged, clutching the Snatzy shorts copy in his hand like a banner. It might not yet be too late. He shoved open the doors to the agency just in time to hear a fat, stormy, bald-headed man bellow:

  “I’m through forever with Puff and Huff and more than that. I’m through for good. Where is the copy you are going to have for me? Do you think it is funny to keep Samuel Snatzy waiting for two hours? I give you no more chances but one. Produce that copy or I go. And with me goes my business!”

  Quintus swallowed weakly. No one had noticed him yet. Mr. Puff and Gordon Strong were trying futilely to placate Mr. Snatzy. Phylis Whitney was at her desk, he noticed miserably. For one humiliating instant Quintus looked down at his nude nether extremities and then he drew a deep breath. The die was cast.

  “Gentlemen,” he said weakly, “here’s the copy.”

  HEADS turned as if they were one hinge. Every eye in the room focused on Quintus’ pathetic, half-clad figure. For a long minute a stunned silence reverberated in the room. A stunned silence that was broken by the head of the Puff and Huff agency.

  “You blithering nincoompoop,” Mr. Puff raged. “Give me that copy and get out of my office before I have you thrown into jail. You’ve almost lost me my biggest account. Where have you been? No! Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter. Get out! Get out!”

  “You—you mean,” Quintus faltered, “you—you don’t want me here any more. You—you sort of want me to get out. Is that it?”

  “Yes that’s it!” Puff almost screamed. “I want you to get out and stay out forever.”

  “Not a very clever idea, Quaggle,” Gordon Strong said smoothly. “Trying to steal my copy to make me look bad. You should have known you couldn’t get away with it.”

  “I didn’t try and steal your copy,” Quaggle said beseechingly. “Something—something very funny happened to me.”

  Quintus saw Phylis then. She looked very angry and determined. She faced Mr. Puff and Gordon Strong, hands on her hips.

  “Why don’t you give him a chance?” she blazed. “You’re condemning him without giving him a chance to explain what delayed him.” She turned to Quintus. “Tell them,” she said pleadingly. “Tell them why you weren’t able to get here with Gordon’s copy.”

  Quintus moistened his lips. He had a good excuse, the best excuse in the world, but who would believe him? He might as well be hung for a steer as a calf or something. He squared his shoulders.

  “I haven’t got a thing—” he started, but he never finished the sentence.

  The doors behind him were burst open. Two agency men dashed into the office waving papers over their head.

  “Look at this,” one of them yelled. “Talk about advertising ideas. This is the great grand-daddy of them all. Snatzy shorts are made from this day onward.”

  They flung the papers to Mr. Puff and Mr. Snatzy, and Quintus staggered from the edge of the crowd, crestfallen and despondent. Suddenly a war whoop blasted through the office. Quintus jerked his head up just as Mr. Puff and Mr. Snatzy bore down on him, waving the papers excitedly.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mr. Puff demanded delightedly. “It’s the biggest idea in years.”

  “My boy,” Mr. Snatzy cried breathlessly. “It was worth waiting for.”

  In unison they spread the papers before Quintus’ widening eyes. He stared at the front page spread and his knees wobbled.

  For there in screaming black headlines was the legend: SNATZY’S SHORTS ARE STATUARY SENSATION! Beneath this headline was a full page picture. A full page picture of Quintus Quaggle poised on a teetering pedestal, clad in a pink-striped pair of shorts, plainly marked SNATZY on either leg.

  QUINTUS sagged weakly. “B—but,” he protested, “it wasn’t really—”

  “Don’t be modest, my boy,” Mr. Puff said grandly. “I know genius when I see it. That’s the kind of copy I want. Humorous stuff, funny stuff. Makes this drivel of Strong’s look stupid. I want more of this stuff, Quaggle, and you’re my man. Name your price and I’ll meet it.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Phylis whispered in his ear, “until—until we talk it over.”

  Quintus put his arm around her shoulder almost, it seemed, by instinct.

  “All right, Darling,” he said confidently.

  “Now look, Quaggle,” Puff said suddenly, “I’ve got a campaign lined up in New York and I want you to get to work on it. It’s a campaign conducted by some civic group and they want a lot of advertisements to show how heavy and unbearable the taxes have become. If you can get me a good idea on that we’ll make millions.”

  Snatzy beamed fondly and patted Quintus on the back.

  “He can do it,” he said proudly. “That boy’s a genius I’m telling you.”

  Quintus thought desperately. He knew he wasn’t expected to pull an advertising campaign out of his hat but if he just could get an idea right on the spot it would be terribly impressing.

  He thought feverishly and little by little an idea grew.

  “Look,” he cried excitedly, “I haven’t got it all, but listen. We have billboards printed, showing the average, middle class man.”

  “Go on,” Puff said tensely.

  “We show this average man,” Quintus was thinking rapidly, “almost crushed under a mighty avalanche of taxes and assessments.”

  “It’s good,” Puff cried. “Go on!”

  “There’s this little fellow,” Quintus said excitedly, “bowed under, crushed to the floor by this huge load. It’s so heavy he can’t stand under it.” Quintus knelt down, arms outspread. “He’s doing his best trying to hold it up but it’s no use. He’s crumbling under the load, sinking, sinking, sinking . . . Quintus’ tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. A horribly familiar sensation enveloped him, freezing him into immobility and rock-like hardness. He heard a crunching, cracking under his feet and then with rumbling speed Quintus crashed through the floor.

  A stunned, unbelieving silence gripped the office. Mr. Puff was the first to recover. He stepped forward gingerly and peered through the ragged hole. Then he looked solemnly about the awe-stricken group.

  “Colossal,” he whispered reverently. “Colossal!”

  SIDNEY, THE SCREWLOOSE ROBOT

  First published in the June 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Sidney, the robot, was perfect in every detail, except for one thing—he had a screw loose! Which made a difference . . .

  STRETCHED out on the workbench he—I almost said “it”—looked just like one of those illustrations you see in science fiction magazines. You know the kind . . . robots with jointed arms and legs, cylindrical steel
bodies and bucket-like heads, generally caught by the artists in the act of crushing their creators.

  But Sidney—why we called him that I don’t know—was not a picture. He was the real McCoy. A living, thinking robot. Our tests had just proved that beyond any doubt.

  I gazed down at him paternally. I don’t suppose he was actually any more handsome than a polished-up garbage can, but to me he was the most beautiful sight in the world. Family pride, I guess.

  I heard my partner, Dave Wright, draw a deep trembly breath behind me. I looked at him and smiled at the somehow, ludicrous expression that was stamped on his fat pear-shaped face.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s all over but the shouting. Sidney hits an all six so I guess that makes fathers out of us—or something.”

  “Yeah,” Dave continued to gaze solemnly at Sidney. “Do you think we ought to pass out cigars—or something?”

  I laughed and slapped him on the back. In spite of our clowning this was probably the biggest moment of our respective lives. For four years Dave and I had slaved to prove that the creation of rational robot life was more than just a wild dream.

  And now we had before us the tangible evidence that our years of toil and sacrifice had not been wasted. Important also was the fact that our success had arrived just in time to save our financial as well as our scientific standing. Bills had been piling up for months and our only hope had been to get Sidney ready in time to exhibit at the science convention. If the judges considered Sidney a useful, productive addition to society—and we knew they would—we would be eligible for a fellowship that would enable us to continue our experimental research free from the spectre of impatient creditors and nagging collectors.

  “Come on,” I said jubilantly, “let’s have a drink. Every father is entitled to that much after pacing the floor all night. We’ll connect Sidney up again when we come back. We’ve got to get an early start on his education, y’know.”

  “About his education,” Dave said later, as I poured him two fingers—up and down—of Scotch, “just how much will we have to teach him?”