Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “But, sir,” Mudkins protested, “the Master gave me explicit instructions to allow no one in his room while he was away. He was most emphatic about it.”

  “This is for his own good,” I said determinedly.

  “Mark my words, he’ll thank us both for this some day.”

  AND so I went upstairs to Pointdexter’s room. The door was open and I entered. One glance convinced me that things hadn’t improved in my absence. The same general air of gloom prevailed, and both Bunsen burners were going full blast under beakers of smoking yellow liquids. Books were piled everywhere and the floor was littered with sheets of paper, covered with Pointdexter’s feverish scrawl.

  I took off my coat and rolled up my sleeves. My first official act was to open both windows wide, pull back the shutters and let the strong sun splash into the room. Things began to look better immediately.

  I turned off the Bunsen burners and dumped the contents of the beakers into the wash bowl. The steaming sulphurous liquid hissed and sizzled as I turned on the cold water faucet and let the clean water flush it down the drain. And that did away with the smoke problem.

  The clear keen autumn air whipped through the room driving out the rank aroma of the smoking fumes. I took a deep relieved breath. Pointdexter would be a new man after spending a few hours in this glorious smoke-free atmosphere.

  The books were next. I felt like a literary Carrie Nation as I bundled them up and carried them into the hallway to dump down the incinerator chute. Pointdexter would have trouble retrieving them, I thought cheerfully, for a roaring fire was blazing in the furnace, and when the books fell into the chute they were on their way to being embers.

  There must have been fifty or sixty of the heavy leather bound books to dispose of, but when I finished the job I felt a vast sense of relief. That, I felt, was that.

  When I returned to Pointdexter’s room I noticed the sheets of paper on the floor, marked with his scrawled writing. They were arranged on the floor in what seemed to be a deliberate design, as if someone had left them for a child to read as it crawled about the floor.

  Just another indication of Pointdexter’s general squirreliness.

  I scooped them up and, with the last remaining books, dumped them down the incinerator. I smiled happily as I returned and examined Pointdexter’s room. There was certainly a vast improvement over what it had been a half hour before.

  All the books were gone, his own feverish notes were consigned forever to oblivion and the mess he had been cooking under the Bunsen burners would no longer be filling the room with its choking vapors.

  I felt cheerfully contented. The job was done, thoroughly and completely and I felt that Pointdexter would be a new man from henceforth onward.

  At that point I heard a howling, full-throated bark from the downstairs region of the house; and a moment later the great gray dog of Pointdexter’s charged wildly into the room.

  It glared at me with red-rimmed eyes and then swung its head about the room, as if it were looking for something. When it completed its inspection it started loping about the room, raising its head occasionally to howl mournfully.

  Frankly I was puzzled. I had never seen a dog act quite this way before. It paid no attention to me at all, for which I was humbly grateful. The big brute just continued to lope about the place rather desperately, and when it passed the spot on the floor where Pointdexter’s papers had been arranged, it lifted its long snout and howled pitifully.

  Mudkins appeared at the open door.

  “What do you suppose is wrong with him sir,” he asked worriedly. “I’ve never heard him howl like this before.”

  “Probably disappointed in love,” I hazarded. “Has Pointdexter come in yet?”

  “No, sir, he hasn’t. He’s never stayed out this long before and it has me worried.”

  The dog had stopped howling for which I was glad. It was stretched out on the floor with its nose buried in its paws. Occasionally it lifted its head and stared at me with the damnedest look—as if it were accusing me of something.

  The brute’s stare made me feel rather uncomfortable and, since there wasn’t any point in my hanging around any longer, I said goodbye to Mudkins and toddled off.

  And that’s that. Queer business, wasn’t it?

  MARMADUKE finished this much of his story and turned to me with a bright cheerful smile.

  “I said, odd business what?” he repeated. “What do you make of it?”

  I ordered another drink and my hand was trembling as I raised it to my lips. My collar felt uncomfortably tight and there was a damp sweat on my forehead.

  I didn’t know what to say or think. Marmaduke’s story was so fantastic and its implications were so horrible, that my mind just seemed numb.

  “Have you heard from Pointdexter since then?” I finally managed to ask.

  Marmaduke shook his head.

  “Not a word, the bloke just disappeared. I dropped in on Mudkins several times but there’s been no sign of Pointdexter around there since then.”

  I ordered another drink. I felt I was going to need it.

  “And what about the dog?”

  “The dog?” Marmaduke looked puzzled. “Oh yes, Pointdexter’s dog. Well Mudkins and I talked that situation over and did the only possible thing under the circumstances. You see, the brute hung around Pointdexter’s room ever since that day I burned all of Pointdexter’s papers and books. Wouldn’t budge out of there, just howled and moaned and lay on the floor, refusing to eat. So we had to take stern measures.”

  The glass in my hand crashed to the floor.

  “My God, you didn’t kill him?” I cried.

  Marmaduke took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped away a few flecks of the drink from his trousers. Then he put the handkerchief away and waved to the bartender for another drink.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Did you kill Pointdexter’s dog?” I asked, and the words almost strangled me coming out.

  “Oh, no,” Marmaduke said cheerfully. “We wouldn’t do that. Mudkins and I crated him up one day and shipped him off to the WAGS.”

  “The WAGS?”

  “Yes. The Army dog corps. We figured Pointdexter would like to have his dog serving, as long as he wasn’t able to.”

  Marmaduke picked up his drink and sipped it reflectively.

  “Funny thing,” he murmured, “the dog seemed to know what we were doing. As a matter of fact it seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing. Interesting, what?” He put his drink back on the bar and shook his head. “But I’d still like to know what happened to old Pointdexter.”

  So would I.

  VICTORY FROM THE VOID

  First published in the March 1943 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Out there in space was a new body; an asteroid from nowhere, but the Nazis were there, using it as a base.

  CHAPTER I

  COLONEL PARKER MOLLISON, bronzed, gray haired, gray moustached chief of the United States Army Air Corps Special Experimental Unit, smiled tiredly at the short, fat, middle-aged civilian who stepped into his office.

  “Glad you were able to get here on time, Baldwin,” Colonel Mollison declared. “It would be a shame to have to run off our tests without the man whose brainwork has had so much to do with them.”

  The fat little civilian called Baldwin grinned amiably, taking off his hat and mopping perspiration from his bald brow.

  “Didn’t think I’d make those plane connections on time, Colonel,” Baldwin said. “The way they rush them through these days a man has to be one-half race horse and one-half mathematical genius to figure out those schedules and catch the planes on time.”

  “Throw your hat anywhere,” the colonel said, rising and reaching across his desk to grip Baldwin’s hand warmly. “We’ve still fifteen minutes left before the tests.” He waved his visitor to a chair beside the desk, then sat down again.

  Baldwin took a seat, placing his hat on his knee. He fished into his vest pocket,
found some cigars and held them forth to the colonel.

  “Thanks, no,” Colonel Mollison said. “Cigarettes are my folly.”

  Baldwin put all but one of the cigars back in his pocket. He peeled the cellophane from this, bit off the end, shoved it into his mouth. Flicking a kitchen match into flame with his thumbnail, the pudgy little civilian leaned back in his chair and leisurely lighted his cigar.

  “How, are things in Washington?” the colonel asked.

  Baldwin exhaled a cloud of blue, squinting through the smoke.

  “Still batting heads against the stone wall presented by the radium problem. Where in the blazes our enemies are getting the stuff seems to be beyond anyone.”

  Colonel Mollison shook his head worriedly. “There’s no question about one fact. We had those dirty devils licked until they got that mysterious radium source. This damned war would have been over in ’43, if they hadn’t been saved by that factor.”[*]

  “They say that the German recapture of Paris, last month, was the direct result of a radium bomb they’ve developed to a crude efficiency already,” Baldwin nodded.

  Colonel Mollison’s jaw was grim. “And the devils won’t be using it so crudely pretty soon. Don’t forget, it’s only been a year since they developed that source, and look at the progress they’ve made in reconquering territory since then. I was in Libya when they brought out the first radium tank gun. We lost more than five hundred tanks before we were able to replate with lead. And in that time, we’d lost Libya again.”

  THERE was a moment of silence.

  Then Baldwin spoke.

  “We’ll have licked a great problem if those tests are successful today, however.”

  The colonel nodded. “Of course. Space fringe fighters and transports can’t be matched by our enemies. Our entire problem of supply and transport will be solved. But we still will have their damned radium weapons to buck. And it will be a grave question as to whether or not your invention, magnificent as it is, will be able to swing the balance against the radium war the Axis is now fighting.”

  Baldwin nodded slowly.

  “You’re right, of course. We can only hope. Too, if the Axis scientists have been working space fringe transportation—and we have no way of knowing if they have or not—we’ll find ourselves fighting another war many hundred miles above earth.”

  Colonel Mollison nodded wearily. “Sometimes it seems endless,” he said. Then his jaw stiffened, and his big hands clenched into fists. “But by God, man, it can’t be. We’ll drive them back into their holes for the rest of time!”

  Baldwin looked wide-eyed at this change in the colonel. Then he smiled respectfully.

  “If we inventors can carry on as doggedly as you fighting men, Colonel,” Baldwin said, “there’s no danger of democracy dying.”

  Colonel Mollison had relaxed, and now smiled wryly.

  “Sometimes,” he declared, “I find myself willing to trade anything to be back in the real thick of it. A desk job like this, vital or not, can play hell with a fighting man’s nerves.” He smiled broadly now. “I have absolutely no doubt about the rumor that my men at the base here call me ‘Old Hell for Leather’. The way my nerves are at times, I must be pretty rugged on the boys.”

  Baldwin laughed.

  “You’ll probably find they love it, Colonel. They’re a nice looking bunch, from what I saw of them in the short time since my arrival.”

  “Bright lads,” Colonel Mollison said, “with guts.” There was pride in his eyes. “You’ll see what I mean when you meet Hawkins and Roberts, the two I’ve selected to make the test with your space fringe ship.”

  “They’re good?” Baldwin asked. “The very best,” Colonel Mollison declared emphatically. “They make an inseparable combination. I wouldn’t dare try to break them up. Been together since kids, I understand. Played in the same bunch, were on the same teams, worked on the same projects, when they were members of the American Boys’ Commonwealth back in Chicago. They joined the Air Corps together a couple of years ago. Roberts, one of ’em, was a radio bug, and made a master sergeant’s rating as a radioman. The other, Hawkins, was a natural as a pilot, and won his wings as a second lieutenant. Through good luck, they wound up together after they’d both graduated. Once back together, the entire War Department couldn’t have separated the two, even if it had wanted to.”

  “Unusual combination at that, eh?” Baldwin commented.

  “Not a bit,” the colonel replied. “The word unusual doesn’t fit them at all. Terrific would be a much better one-word description.”

  The colonel glanced at his watch. “They’ll be rolling your dream child out from the hangars for warming up by now, Baldwin. Like to go out and look it over?”

  The fat little civilian inventor grinned, nodding, and rose. Colonel Mollison, stepping back to let the inventor move in front of him, clapped a hand affectionately on Baldwin’s shoulder.

  “We’re counting a lot on those designs of yours today, old man,” he said.

  Baldwin nodded soberly.

  “And I’m counting a lot on those two men you mentioned to prove those designs as reality, Colonel. From what you said, I’ve a feeling no one will be let down.”

  They left the office . . .

  IN FLIGHT Barracks Number Four, Second Lieutenant Jim Hawkins was clambering into the incredibly thick, electrically insulated fur flying costume which he was to wear for the test flight that day.

  Hawkins was a tall young man, dark haired, lean jawed, and wide-shouldered. His eyes were gray, and at the moment were wearing an expression which was somewhere between grave solemnity and worry.

  Sitting on a bunk across the room from where his companion struggled into gear, was a short, blond, cherubfaced young man who grinned broadly as he watched the procedure. This blond young chap, Phil Roberts, was already attired in a similar thick costume of fur, leather and electric insulation.

  “Watch those neck straps, Jim,” Sergeant Phil Roberts chortled disrespectfully to his buddy and superior officer. “If you don’t look out you’re gonna hang yourself on ’em.”

  Second Lieutenant Jim Hawkins shot his cherub-faced pal a look of mingled annoyance and affection.

  “Quiet, Sergeant,” Hawkins said drawlingly. “I’ll have you planked in the guardhouse for that kind of mutinous disrespect.”

  Blond, cherub-faced Phil Roberts’ wide grin grew even wider.

  “Why, you long-legged stuffed shirt!” he yelped.

  In a split second Roberts had reached back and snatched a pillow from the bunk on which he was sitting. In another split second it was sailing across the room and into the face of the unprepared Jim Hawkins.

  Hawkins had been balancing himself on one foot at that instant, pulling one leg into his thick flying suit. The result was instantaneous. The young lieutenant spilled back asprawl on his own bunk.

  With a savage howl of happy triumph, the chunk form of blond Sergeant Roberts was across the room and atop his buddy. Then his fists were pummeling Hawkins good-naturedly around the chest and shoulders.

  “Come on, stuffed shirt,” Roberts chortled. “Say ‘Yessir’ !”

  Young Lieutenant Hawkins’ voice, muffled and half choked with laughter, answered after a minute or so.

  “Yessir, yessir, yessir!”

  Roberts climbed off, still chortling.

  “That’s better, pal,” he told Hawkins. “That’ll teach you not to get on your high horse.”

  Roberts turned away to step back to the bunk where he’d been sitting. And at that instant Hawkins extended one foot and shoved hard against Roberts’ back, sending the other sprawling face forward to the floor.

  In one leap the young lieutenant was atop his buddy’s back, starting a “knuckle massage” on Roberts’ blond hair.

  “Yieeeeee!” yelled Roberts.

  “Never turn your back on a smarter man than yourself, you moon-faced, little blond monkey!” Hawkins instructed him triumphantly. “It always results in someth
ing like this. Also, don’t pick battles with guys you know you can’t lick.”

  “Like who?” Roberts’ voice came indignantly four inches from the floor.

  “Like me!” replied Hawkins.

  “Yahhh!” Roberts answered, unimpressed.

  Still laughing, Hawkins rose.

  “Now behave yourself, Sergeant,” he told Roberts. “If I don’t get into this gear, how’ll you ever get more than five feet off the ground?”

  HAWKINS resumed his dressing.

  Roberts picked himself up in mock disgust and went back to sit on the side of the bunk. He surveyed his pal coldly for a minute, then grinned.

  “You’re a lucky guy, Jim,” Roberts observed.

  Hawkins was pulling himself into his thick jacket.

  “How so?” he asked.

  Roberts’ grin grew wider again. “To have a first-class, rootin-tootin radioman like Sergeant Phil Roberts along with you,” he said.

  “Such modesty!”

  “I cannot tell a lie, that’s all,” said Roberts.

  Hawkins was into his gear now. He snapped the last chokes around the collar and started for the door.

  “Come on, superman Roberts,” he said. “You’re going to have a chance to prove how valuable you are today.”

  Roberts followed as they stepped outside onto the flight field parade ground. He moved up beside his pal and they started off toward the hangars in the distance:

  For perhaps a minute they walked along in silence, Hawkins’ loose, long stride eating up ground while his companion’s short legs hurried double-time to keep abreast.

  On the other side of the flight field parade ground the rear of the big testing hangars were visible. These hangars faced the landing field proper, and both companions realized that at the moment the ship they were to take aloft on its first test had been rolled out and was probably under inspection by at least a half dozen civilian big shots and double that number of high-ranking flight officers.

  “You know, Jim,” Roberts said at last, breaking the silence, “I always feel like I’m going on a blind date when we’re ready for one of these trips.” Hawkins grinned at the analogy his chum had chosen.