Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “I don’t believe it,” he cried.

  “It’s God’s truth.”

  “Who is the man?” Horatio cried brokenly.

  “Mystiffio.”

  “Mystiffio!”

  I nodded slowly. “It’s a tough break, kid, but the sooner you forget her the better.” I had already decided I’d get rid of her. She wouldn’t be hard to replace. Horatio was my gold mine and I didn’t want anyone to do a scorched-earth job on him.

  “But she never told me,” he muttered.

  “Naturally,” I said. “She’ll probably even deny she’s married to him now, but don’t let that fool you.”

  “No, sir,” Horatio said. “She won’t make a sucker out of me.” His anger must have subconsciously affected his visibility mechanism for he was visible and his lean jaw was hard, but there was a hurt look in his clear blue eyes.

  “That’s the boy,” I said. “Just remember who your friends are and you won’t go wrong.”

  “I won’t, Mr. Flannigan,” he promised solemnly.

  THE next afternoon Morry arrived to see the act. He was dressed in a natty pin stripe suit and he wore a big yellow carnation in the buttonhole, but his sallow face was impassive.

  I escorted him down the dark empty theatre to the front row.

  “Just hold your breath now,” I told him. “I’ll have the act on stage in a jiffy.”

  He yawned and glanced at his watch.

  “I haven’t got long,” he said.

  I went backstage and found Alice.

  “Hurry up,” I said. “Morry is waiting.”

  She looked at me as if I’d just crawled out from the wainscoating. “I’ve just talked to the kid,” she said. “He thinks I’m poison. What kind of a yarn have you been feeding him?”

  “Me? Why, honey, that hurts. Do you think your Uncle Patrick would breathe an unkind word about you?”

  “Well, it’s mighty strange,” she said. “He won’t even tell me what’s biting him.”

  “I wouldn’t pay any attention to him,” I said. “Perhaps it’s all for the best.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, eyeing me shrewdly.

  “Come on now, be a good kid and get things rolling. A lot depends on this you know.”

  I went back and joined Morry.

  Well the act was terrific. Mystiffio had Morry’s eyes sticking out inside of thirty seconds. I hadn’t told Morry about Horatio. I figured I’d let that angle ride for a while.

  But Morry was really impressed.

  “The guy is good,” he said. “The things he does don’t seem humanly possible.”

  Of course he didn’t know that most of the effects were being created by the invisible Horatio but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And he didn’t miss Alice, either. When she came on stage in her cute, abbreviated little costume, he straightened up and opened his eyes.

  “The kid is nice,” he murmured.

  “Are we in?” I demanded.

  “Can’t say yet. I gotta talk to the act but I’d say your chances were pretty good.”

  I almost swooned with happiness. The break I’d been waiting for all my life was here at last. The golden apples were about ready to drop into my lap.

  WHEN Mystiffio finished his routine I took Morry backstage. I found Alice.

  “Here she is, Morry,” I said. “And she’s just as nice as she looks.” I shoved Alice toward him. “Be nice, baby,” I hissed in her ear.

  Morry took one of her little hands and his eyes were interested.

  “I kinda like the act,” he said. “If you could find time to be nice to me I might like it a whole lot.”

  Alice takes her hand back as if it had accidentally brushed something slimy.

  “I’m sorry but I don’t go with the act,” she snapped. “There are some things worth more to me than three meals a day and a paycheck.”

  “Okay, sister,” Morry said without expression. He turned to me. “Guess I made a mistake coming up here. The act is lousy.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I yelled. “You said it was good. You can’t walk out now.” I wheeled to Alice. “Baby, baby, don’t do this to me. Tell him you’re sorry.”

  Mystiffio came up behind us while we were talking.

  “What is the matter?” he asked. I noticed he put an arm around Alice’s shoulders. I was too distraught to think about it.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said desperately. “Alice just took offense at something Morry said. Nobody meant any harm.”

  Mystiffio drew himself up straight and he grabbed Morry by the lapels. Morry struggled to free himself but he was pinioned helplessly.

  “You cad! You bounder!” Mystiffio roared. “Do you mean you’ve been making advances to my daughter?”

  Daughter! How do you like that! That just goes to show you never to trust people.

  Morry pulled himself loose.

  “You’re all crazy,” he shouted. “Lemme out of here.”

  He wheeled and started away, but before he had taken two strides he collided with a solid, unyielding, invisible substance.

  He backed away a few steps, his mouth working in terror.

  “What is it?” he screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” Horatio’s voice sounded in the air a few feet from Morry.

  Morry’s face went white; he stared wildly about for another instant and then charged madly out of the theatre, screaming in terror.

  I CHASED after him, but it was a hopeless effort. When I got to the sidewalk he was gone. Moodily I slumped back into the theatre and went backstage. My big opportunity was gone, but I still had Horatio.

  I found Alice in the office and she was alone. She smiled sweetly when she saw me.

  “You too, Brutus,” I muttered. Then I thought about my meal ticket and looked worriedly around the room.

  “Where’s Horatio?” I snapped.

  “Horatio,” she smiled, “is gone. Too bad you missed him. He would have liked to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye!” I shrieked. “Where’s he going?”

  “Into the Army,” Alice said sweetly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “You’re crazy,” I shouted. “The Army won’t take him.”

  “I arranged a little something for him,” Alice said. “I’m sure he’ll be very useful in the camouflage department.”

  Camouflage!

  I groaned and sank into a chair.

  “Yes,” Alice said pleasantly, “when he learned that Mystiffio was my father—not my husband as you so cleverly told him—he was quite angry for a while. But of course he felt better when he thought it over. And he was very happy to take my suggestion to apply for a commission in the camouflage. I think Horatio and I are going to get along nicely.”

  I groaned again.

  Mystiffio stuck his head in the door.

  “Goodbye,” he said. “Ready, dear?”

  “Yes,” Alice said, moving to the door. “I’m ready.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I cried. “Where are you two going? You’re the last act I’ve got.”

  “I am enlisting!” Mystiffio said proudly.

  “As what?”

  “Signal corps, in charge of messenger pigeons.”

  Mystiffio flapped his coat tail and a lone pigeon fluttered into the air. “I’ve had a lot of experience with the little devils.”

  I groaned again and dropped my head in my hands.

  What was left?

  When I looked up, Mystiffio and Alice had gone.

  For a moment I sat there staring about the quiet dusty office. Then I stood up and I knew what I was going to do.

  I put my hat on and walked out of the building. I didn’t stop walking until I reached the Marine recruiting office. A big poster said, “The Marines Promise You Action!”

  I walked in. Nothing could be worse than what I’d just been through. I felt contented for the first time in sixteen years.

  [*] The young man’s peculiar physical condition is not as fantastic and unprecedented as one mi
ght at first believe. Everyone has had the experience of meeting a person who makes almost no impression whatsoever on them. People with such anemia of the personality are constantly being forgotten, overlooked even by friends who know them well. Their presence in a room will be unobserved for several minutes and, frequently, such people will be completely ignored, even when they are sitting or standing in plain view. In nature, the chameleon has similar properties but for a definite reason, namely that of defense against its stronger enemies. The chameleon blends perfectly into the brown and green foliage of its native habitat and even the marvelously keen eyes of its natural enemies are unable to detect its presence. It is not impossible to conceive that the same camouflaging property could develop in a human being.

  Nature might appreciate the difficulty of a retiring, sensitive person to mingle with his more vivid fellow creatures, and so clothe him with a defensive armor of practical invisibility to insulate him against the attacks of those with stronger personalities. Readers of Fantastic Adventures will remember John York Cabot’s classic, “The Man the World Forgot,” as an exposition of this theme. Unexplained instances of men and women “disappearing” from normal environments might be simply cases of submerged personalities which did not “disappear” but were simply and tragically forgotten.

  VISITOR TO EARTH

  First published in the February 1943 issue of Amazing Stories.

  The advertisement could have been a gag; but the Axis and a reporter thought otherwise.

  I WAS sitting at my desk in the city room of the Washington Chronicle, glancing through the paper, when my eye landed on an advertisement tucked away in the bottom of the Business Opportunities column.

  The ad was simple and curt; it said: “Secret Weapon Available—Reasonable Contact Mart Shean, 2250 Constitution I took my feet down from my desk and began scratching my head. This was obviously a gag of some sort but, with the country at war, things like this just weren’t funny any more.

  My city editor, Williams, walked over to my desk with a copy of the paper in his hand. He was scowling under his green eyeshade.

  “Have you seen this?” he said, shoving the ad section under my nose. I noticed that he had circled with blue pencil the same ad that had caught my attention.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Is this the first day it’s been run?”

  Williams shook his head. “It was in yesterday and the day before. All the papers in town have carried it.” He tapped a pencil against his teeth and frowned. “What do you think it is, Mac?”

  “I haven’t the remotest idea,” I said truthfully and cheerfully. “Apparently it’s a gag of some sort. Was it phoned in?”

  “Yes,” Williams said. “I checked on that. I think there might be a story behind this somewhere. At least, a good humorous feature. Get on it, Mac.”

  He waddled away and I sighed and prepared to go to work. I sharpened a pencil, put on my hat and left the building of the Chronicle. I took a cab to the address listed in the ad. It was a small office building in an outlying business building.

  I consulted the building directory and found a Mart Shean listed on the twelfth floor. That was my man.

  The glazed glass door of Mart Shean’s office was blank except for his name. I stood there uncertainly for a moment and then put my hand on the knob. As I opened the door I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a tall dark man with a slouch hat walking toward me along the otherwise deserted corridor. The slouch hat obscured most of his face and my only impression was of a lean narrow jaw and full-lipped mouth. The man paused an instant when he saw me. His hands were jammed into the side pockets of his coat and he seemed to be studying me with peculiar intensity. Finally he turned and walked quickly back down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

  I shrugged and opened the door of the office. A mild pleasant voice said:

  “Won’t you please come in?”

  I looked and saw a small, neatly dressed man sitting behind a desk in the corner of the room. The office was small and comfortably furnished. Sun poured in symmetrical slits through a Venetian blind that covered the only window and there were several extra chairs arranged about the office. There was a rather large closet in one corner and its door was closed. From the physical appearance of the office it was impossible to tell just what Mart Shean’s business was.

  I turned my attention to the man behind the desk who was regarding me with bright pleasant eyes. He was small and frail but he somehow gave the impression of perfect health. Possibly it was because of the redness of his skin and the shining luster of his dark, carefully combed hair. His ears were small and pointed and his lips were slightly full. But his eyes held my attention. They seemed to be of one solid color, a deep grayish-green, and there was a peculiar suggestion of infinite intelligence in their depths.

  “Won’t you please sit down?” he said politely. His voice was soft and smooth and absolutely without accent. It would have been impossible to judge the man’s nationality from his inflection or voice.

  “Thank you,” I said. I sat down, facing him. I was at a loss for a moment. There was something strangely disturbing in the little man’s quiet stare. I said, “Are you Mark Shean?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am Mark Shean.” But he didn’t pronounce the ‘k’ and he slid the two words together. He continued to stare brightly at me. “What can I do for you?”

  I unfolded the ad section of the Chronicle and tossed it on his desk.

  “I came to see you about your ad,” I said.

  “Ah, that is excellent,” he murmured. “Are you from the War Department?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  He looked disappointed. “I was expecting someone from there,” he said. “Possibly their representative will come later.”

  “Ah—yes,” I said. “They’re pretty busy over there now.” I was beginning to feel slightly uneasy. The interview wasn’t going quite as I’d planned. I was supposed to be humoring some nut or practical joker to get a story out of him, but I had the strange sensation that the shoe was on the other foot.

  “And what can I do for you?” Mark Shean asked politely.

  “Well, I’m a newspaper man,” I said. “Frankly I was intrigued by your ad. I’d like to get the details of your secret weapon. You do have one, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m happy that my ad attracted you. You see I haven’t, had much experience with that sort of thing and I was afraid that I hadn’t done it correctly. Since no one came to investigate I thought possibly that it was my fault.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “But tell me, why didn’t you take this weapon of yours directly to the War Department?” Mark Shean frowned. “I wasn’t sure that that would be the thing to do. You see I’m a stranger here on Earth and I didn’t know the proper procedure under the circumstances. I—”

  “Pardon me, but—”

  “Yes?”

  I swallowed. The room seemed a little close.

  “Did you say you were a stranger here on Earth?” I asked.

  “Why yes,” the little man said. “I’ve only been here a few days. Naturally I knew considerably of your customs before I arrived, but there are things I find puzzling. That is only natural, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” I said weakly. “As you say, that’s only natural.” I took out my handkerchief and mopped my brow. I realized I was probably talking to the great-granddaddy of all mental cases. This guy was nuttier than a fruit cake. That much was obvious from his remarks, but his calm air of assurance and his baffling poise made me doubt the evidence of my ears. Maybe I was nuts! I’d toyed with that idea before, but this seemed a good time to think about it seriously.

  “Where is your secret weapon?” I asked.

  “In the closet,” he answered.

  “What does it do?” I asked inanely. I found myself thinking dizzily of the old gag about the two loonies and the hat. One nut asks the other to guess what he’s hiding under his hat. The second nut says a horse. The
first loony looks carefully under the hat and then asks, “What color?”

  I was getting to that stage when I started asking serious questions about the potentialities of secret weapons in the closets of normal business offices. But the queer thing was that the little man’s attitude of confidence and certainty made it seem quite possible that there was a secret weapon in the closet of his office.

  “In your ad you said the terms would be ‘reasonable’,” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “That wasn’t quite what I meant,” the little man said, frowning. “I mean to give the weapon to the Government of the United States. The word ‘reasonable’ was an unhappy selection; another of the mistakes I can’t quite help. You see everything is so very strange here.”

  We were back to that again.

  “Your name is Mark Shean, isn’t it?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound particularly foreign.”

  The little man looked puzzled for an instant.

  “Not Mark Shean,” he said. “Mark Shean. You do not pronounce it correctly.”

  “Marshean?” I asked. “Is that better?”

  “Much.”

  I felt as if I were getting somewhere. Why, I don’t know.

  “Now,” I said briskly, “suppose you tell me something about this secret weapon of yours, Mr. Marshean.”

  “I will be happy to, but my name is not ‘Marshean’,” the little man said gently.

  “But you said—”

  “My name is Ang-Ar,” the little man went on imperturbably. “ ‘Marshean’ is simply what you would call an adjective. It describes the place from where I come.”

  “But you said you were Marshean!” I said, bewildered.

  “I am,” the little man said firmly. “I am Ang-Ar, a citizen of Mars.”

  “Mars!”

  “Yes. I came from Mars and I shall return there when my work here is completed. Why, is that so surprising?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that I was close to the door. My little chum, despite his benign exterior, might be violent.

  “No, that isn’t surprising,” I said in a nice soothing voice, “We’ve been more or less expecting someone from Mars to drop in one of these days. After all, there’s nothing like neighborliness. Tell me, how were things on good old Mars when you left?”