Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The throne room was quiet, but the tiers of seats were jammed with the native population of the underground city. Neal noticed the silence particularly. It was the brooding silence of a death block before an execution.

  Zaraf bowed slightly to the figure on the dias and stepped down to face Neal.

  “Very shortly,” he said, “you are going to die in a quite spectacular manner. You are a fool and you deserve it. These people are incredibly brilliant in many things, many things which the outside world will pay steeply for. Their invisibility screen with which they surround their central pyramid is one instance. Your pistol shot accidentally disrupted the force field and thus you accidentally stumbled onto the pyramid.

  “The blue death, which they can send for fifty feet or fifty miles is one of the most destructive weapons the world will ever know. In your case they used a light charge which knocked you out, but they can use it to wipe out whole cities.

  “Things like that are more valuable than diamonds in the world today. With clever exploitation who knows how far I can go?” Zaraf smiled and there was a sinister ugliness in the effort. “You, however, Mr. Meddler are not going any farther at all. At my demand Horjak, the new ruler, has ordered your execution. It will be followed by wholesale executions of those who oppose the reign of Horjak.”

  “A very nice set-up,” Neal said quietly. “Those you don’t approve of, or who don’t approve of you, just get wiped out. It may work, Zaraf, but you’ll find living with yourself quite a job.”

  “I can stand it, I think,” Zaraf chuckled mirthlessly. “Now to get down to business. My real reason in coming down here was to point out the highly ingenious method I have selected for your elimination.”

  He pointed to a rack-like affair that was raised from the floor six or seven feet.

  “In words of one syllable,” Zaraf continued with relish, “you will be spread-eagled there, tied hand and foot to each of the four posts. Then at a signal from me, the executioner cuts a very slender cord and the most amazing thing happens.”

  He pointed up to the right and left of the rack, and Neal saw for the first time that a half dozen huge knives were suspended by ropes from the ceiling, parallel to the rack.

  “The knives swing down,” Zaraf said softly. “They are heavy and will travel very fast. They will pass through your suspended body and that will be that! Your wrists and ankles will still be attached to the posts but the rest of your body will be sliced as neatly as a sausage. Clever, isn’t it?”

  IN SPITE of himself, Neal felt a horrible revulsion crawling over him. To die was one thing. But to die like a butchered hog in front of a howling mob of savages was quite another.

  His eyes circled the arena desperately. Every exit was guarded with a dozen men, every aisle clogged with spectators. His gaze swung back to Zaraf and he used every ounce of will power in his control to force a smile over his features.

  “Am I supposed to be frightened?” he asked softly. “Am I supposed to be trembling and begging for mercy now? Sorry to disappoint you, Zaraf, but it doesn’t worry me that much.”

  Zaraf’s face flushed an angry red, but without another word, he turned and marched up the steps to the dais. Neal’s eyes followed him and then he saw Jane.

  Pale and regal, she was standing next to the dais, her arms bound behind her. Neal felt a cold sweat break out on his body. They couldn’t let her watch. It wasn’t human.

  Zaraf turned and smiled down at Neal.

  “Remember to be your most heroic,” he said mockingly. “We have distinguished company present.”

  The crimson-tuniced guards stepped forward now and grabbed Neal by the arms. His eyes were on Jane, and he hardly felt them shoving him toward the rack. He was trying desperately, frantically to tell her with his eyes that he loved her and would always love her, wherever he might be. He had never said the things he wanted to say to her and this was his last opportunity.

  Suddenly a clear, terrible scream of anguish sounded through the vast, packed throne room.

  “You can’t! You can’t! Let me die with him!” It was Jane sobbing and crying frantically, stumbling down the steps of the dais toward the execution rack.

  “You fool!” shouted Zaraf. “Come back here!”

  Leaping from his chair he plunged down the steps after her. Shouts and yells sounded through the throne room, as the natives lent their voices to the excitement.

  Neal turned at Jane’s scream. The two guards holding him relaxed their grip in the general confusion. With a sudden writhing twist Neal was free. He was weakened from his exposure in the desert, but his right hook was still a dangerous weapon. His first swing caught the guard off balance and dumped him in a complete somersault to the ground. Two more guards rushed at him, but he sidestepped them with a quick leap. As he landed he felt something jab into his thigh with an agonizing pain. Instinctively his hand moved to the spot, his fingers touched a slim, hard object close to his thigh. A surge of hope shot through him, not that he could hope to win, but that at least he could put up an excellent account for himself.

  The two guards were closing in on him now, but before they could grab him, his hand flashed from his pocket grasping the strange, diamond-studded knife that he had first seen in the Cairo curio shop and secondly, when he had found it under the canvas flooring of Jane’s tent. He had shoved it into his pocket then and forgotten it. His hand closed about the torso-handle of the knife now, and the diamond necklace that topped the torso flashed in a thousand scintillating sparkles as he drew his arm back to slash out at the two guards who were pressing him.

  But his arm did not fall! It remained rigidly aloft as though frozen.

  FOR the two guards were staring at the knife, fearfully, tremblingly. Hoarse, guttural pleas sounded inarticulately from their throats as they backed away from him, terror-stricken. When they were eight feet from him they suddenly hurled themselves to the floor and grovelled there, mouthing strange incantations. Neal wheeled, and as he flashed the knife about his head, the other guards dropped to their knees, their voices blending with the first two guards.

  Taking advantage of this sudden, but inexplicable break, Neal leaped toward the base of the dais where Jane was struggling helplessly with Zaraf.

  Horkak, the new ruler, saw Neal charge toward the dais brandishing the scintillating knife in his hand like an avenging angel. With a soft moan of terror he sank to his knees, babbling incoherently.

  Zaraf flung Jane to one side and leaped past Neal. He sprinted to the oval enclosure where the guards were moaning and grovelling on their faces.

  “Get up!” he screamed. “Get up you yellow hounds. Grab the prisoner and tear him apart with your hands. Get up! Get up!”

  But he might have been talking to lumps of clay or sodden logs for all the attention the guards paid his hysterical commands. There was a swelling moaning noise coming now from the rows of packed seats. On their knees and on their faces the natives moaned and chanted their mysterious mumbling incantations.

  Neal clasped Jane to him and slashed her bonds with the glittering knife, then he jumped from the dais and started after Zaraf.

  Zaraf saw him coming. With one last frantic scream at the oblivious natives, he turned blindly and dashed under the rack. His foot caught on a silken cord and hurled him to the ground, but he clambered quickly to his feet.

  Then he screamed—madly and hysterically, once.

  Neal saw it happen, saw the complete, incredibly horrible death by which Max Zaraf paid for his sins.

  His foot had tripped the knife release under the rack, and when he sprang to his feet, the heavy, speeding knives—poised for Neal’s execution—flashed downward with the devastating force of razor-sharp cleavers. Twelve blades there were, and each one found at least part of its target.

  SHAKEN, Neal made his way to Jane’s side. She was slumped at the foot of the dais, sobbing. He slipped his arm around her shoulder.

  “It’s all over darling,” he murmured softly. “I thin
k we can straighten things out now.”

  He looked up as a calm, wise looking old man with long white hair approached slowly.

  “I am a friend,” the old man said softly. “I am not afraid of the knife of Sali, the Goddess of Death. For I gave it to Professor Manners when he was here so many years ago. It was a pledge of our friendship and he always promised that he would bring it with him on his return.”

  “Why are the people afraid of it?” Neal asked.

  The old man shrugged.

  “People are afraid of things they do not understand. Years, centuries ago, it was believed by my people that Death was a woman who chose her victims in the dark and killed them with just such a knife as you hold in your hand. That knife was venerated by our people and prayed to, that it might spare them its sting. It was believed invincible.

  “As ruler, I discouraged such outmoded beliefs, and to further eliminate the belief I gave the sacred knife of Sali to Professor Manners. But I have been deposed as ruler, and under the influences of barbaric customs once again, you see how quickly,my children revert to the beliefs and customs of their fathers.”

  “A lucky thing for us they did,” Neal said. “What goes now? Will you take your job back as ruler around here?”

  The white haired old man smiled.

  “If my people want me,” he said simply, “I will be happy to retain my authority.”

  Neal put his hand under Jane’s chin and lifted her head up.

  “No more crying now,” he whispered. “Everything’s all set. The regular ruler is stepping back into the job and he’s a great old guy. Why—why I’ll bet he can even marry people!”

  THE CONTRACT OF CARSON CARRUTHERS

  First published in the January 1942 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  A half-million, dollars was a fortune, and Carruthers figured his body would be worthless to him after he was dead anyway!

  WHEN the Broadway musical “Jumping Jive,” folded after a two days’ run, everybody but the cast agreed that it had lasted two days too long.

  The play was a stinker, but that did not mollify Carson Carruthers, a tall, broad young man, who had been one of the leading spear carriers in the production.

  “It is a damnable outrage,” he cried dramatically to the bare walls of his small room. “It might have been my golden chance, my supreme opportunity to prove my genius, my brilliant thespian artistry. But now,” he continued blackly, “all is over, all is past, all is dead!”

  Mr. Carson Carruthers was 99 and 44/100% pure ham.

  In the same dark mood he gulped a mouthful of coffee and slumped into a chair with the morning paper. Carson Carruthers was a good example of the law of compensation. For all of his magnificent physique and blonde handsomeness, the space between his ears might have been accurately described as an almost perfect vacuum.

  He read the comics avidly, then wistfully perused the drama sections, and finally, with a deep, martyred sigh, turned to the help wanted columns. Even artists must eat, and while Carson Carruthers fell far short of fitting the accepted definition of an artist, he still had to eat.

  After a few moments his eye lighted on an advertisement that intrigued him. It read:

  “Interesting proposition for young man of commanding physique and refined handsome features. Must be exceptionally good-looking.”

  Carson rose to his feet and slipped into his coat. He placed his black Homburg carefully on his head and picked up his cane.

  Exceptionally handsome?

  He peered thoughtfully into the mirror. Yes, he decided judiciously, he was exceptionally handsome. With a last glance at the address listed in the advertisement he strode jauntily from the room.

  THE house which carried the address stated in the ad was a tall, brown-stone structure in lower Manhattan. It was the only building of its type in the block, and this singularity gave it a majestically foreboding appearance.

  Carson paused at the foot of the stone steps and checked the address, then trotted briskly up to the door. Before ringing the bell, he removed his hat and carefully smoothed his wavy hair, then squaring his shoulders, punched the button.

  The door was opened with a suddenness that surprised him. A small, fat man with ruddy cheeks and twinkling eyes smiled benignly at him over old-fashioned spectacles.

  “Come right in,” he said cordially. “I was expecting you.”

  “Were you now?” Carson said, pleased.

  With a slight bow that brought his best profile to bear on the fat little man, Carson stepped through the door. The man closed the door and pattered ahead of him into a comfortable room which opened off the hallway.

  “Please sit down,” he said breathlessly. “Very happy to welcome you to my humble quarters.”

  Carson sat down and carefully crossed his legs. He lighted a cigarette with a debonair gesture, hoping that the flame of the match brought out the lambent shades in his large gray eyes.

  The surroundings were as undistinguished as the fat little man who was bustling about behind a square desk set in one corner of the room. Carson noticed with faint distaste that his host was wearing a shiny serge suit and an atrocious high collar, but he managed to assuage his sartorial sensibilities by glancing briefly down at his own immaculately clad figure. This restored him somewhat.

  The fat little man had seated himself behind the desk and was staring at him with unfeigned admiration.

  “You’re Carson Carruthers, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Carson felt a warm glow stealing over him. If he had been a cat he would have undoubtedly purred.

  “That’s right,” he said chuckling contentedly. “Some of my fans aren’t quite as sharp in recognizing me without the grease paint.”

  The little fellow’s smile seemed to imply that such fans were unworthy of the name.

  “My name is Minion,” he said politely. “I am acting as agent for a very important person who is extremely desirous of purchasing a body. This might seem a little strange to you Mr. Carruthers, but I assure you it is a quite legitimate transaction.”

  Carson ran a finger about the inside of his natty collar, which had suddenly seemed a bit tight.

  “A body?” he said weakly.

  Mr. Minion smiled disarmingly. “That is correct. My client is prepared to pay exceedingly well for his purchase. His only stipulation is that it be a handsome body with a fine healthy appearance. A body, Mr. Carruthers, such as yours.”

  “Mine?” Carson echoed faintly. “But—”

  “Of course,” Mr. Minion went on unhurriedly, “when the transaction occurred you would naturally have no further use for your body yourself.”

  CARSON digested this in silence. For a few seconds his mind turned the idea over without much interest, until suddenly the whole proposition became clear as crystal.

  He smiled brightly.

  “I say,” he cried, “I just get what you’re driving at. It’s like those fellows who sell themselves to science because they’ve got two stomachs, or who have green skin or something like that.” Mr. Minion smiled and chuckled. “You’ve expressed it very graphically, sir.”

  Carson beamed.

  “Put the thing into a nutshell, didn’t I?” he said, pleased with himself. Then a disquieting thought struck him. His smile faded.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me,” he said dolefully. “Except for an attack of hiccups as a youth, I’ve been in tip-top shape all my life.”

  “That,” said Mr. Minion, “is precisely the reason you will be suitable. Not only is your physical well-being desirable, but even more important, your magnificent personal appearance makes you the ideal candidate for the proposition.”

  “Does it now?” Carson said genially. He found himself liking this little fellow more and more. “Of course it would be foolish for me to deny the obvious fact that I am quite exceptionally handsome. In my last review one critic was kind enough to say that in spite of everything I did, I looked the part of a matinee idol.”

  �
�How kind of him,” murmured Mr. Minion. “Now as to price. Would half a million be all right?”

  “Well,” Carson sighed, “if it’s the best—” His voice suddenly faltered as he realized what the other had said.

  “A half a million,” he gasped. “Y—you mean dollars?”

  “Naturally,” Mr. Minion said affably.

  After the first shock faded away, Carson’s well developed ego came to the fore. When all was said and done it was only a proper amount to pay for the remains of Carson Carruthers. If a man with two stomachs could get ten or twenty thousand, it was only logical that much more would be offered for such a perfect specimen as his own. Then a practical thought popped into his mind.

  “When do I get the money?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

  “Immediately after you sign the contract,” Mr. Minion answered pleasantly.

  “Cash?”

  “Of course.”

  Carson relaxed somewhat.

  “Usually my manager handles these tiresome affairs,” he said. “On my own part I can’t generate much enthusiasm over such sordid discussions. I am an artist, not a businessman. Will it be currency or check?”

  “Whichever you prefer,” Mr. Minion smiled. He was fussing with legal looking papers on his desk and now he shoved one toward Carson and held out a pen.

  CARSON scratched his name hurriedly on the bottom line of the contract. A vast excitement was growing on him. A sense of elation was rushing through his veins.

  “There you are,” he cried, completing his signature with a awkward flourish. “All in order.”

  “You’re quite light-hearted about it,” Mr. Minion observed cheerfully.

  “It’s the gay carelessness of the true artist,” Carson said expansively. “Life’s to be lived and devil take the hindmost.”