Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  He blew her a kiss and left the room.

  CHAPTER VII

  REGGIE’S first stop was the colonel’s garage, where he climbed into a horse van and then, after inquiring the direction to the Mannering estate, started the truck and drove down the winding lane to the highway.

  It was about eleven o’clock then, and the race was scheduled for one in the afternoon.

  He pulled up before the immense Mannering stables and got out of the truck. Guy Mannering was standing in the doorway, every inch the sportsman in riding breeches and polo shirt. His face was puzzled as he recognized Reggie.

  “What brings you out here?” he asked.

  “Just a simple errand,” Reggie said calmly, “I came to get Blue Star.”

  Reggie watched Mannering closely as he spoke and he saw a momentary flicker of anxiety in his eyes. But it was hidden quickly behind an amused smile.

  “And what makes you think I have Blue Star?” he asked.

  “I know you have,” Reggie said. “And if you don’t produce him I intend to whale you within an inch of your life.”

  Mannering smiled and dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with the toe of his boot.

  “You’re being very funny,” he said.

  “I don’t mean to be,” Reggie said.

  He stepped forward and doubled his fists.

  “Now, just a minute,” Mannering said quickly. “Maybe we can talk this over.”

  “All right,” Reggie said. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Start talking.”

  “Well, I just thought we might get together,” Mannering said. He shifted his weight slightly and glanced over Reggie’s shoulder. “We aren’t alone, you know.”

  Reggie looked around and saw no one, but before he could turn back, Mannering’s fist crashed with stunning force into the side of his head. He went down limply.

  Through the fog that seemed to be settling over him he heard Mannering laughing.

  “Never lead with your chin, sucker,” he said.

  Reggie crawled dazedly to his feet and started for the sound of Mannering’s voice. He swung wildly as he charged in, and he felt bone under his right fist.

  He shook his head and saw Mannering sitting on the ground holding his jaw.

  “Get up,” he said. “You’re in for a licking.”

  Mannering got cautiously to his feet and backed away.

  “Now, just a minute,” he said. “I—”

  Reggie stepped quickly in and hit him twice in the face with all his strength. Mannering went down again and this time there was fear in his eyes. And Reggie knew that the man’s magnificent physique and loud bluster concealed a heart the size of a dandelion.

  “Where’s Blue Star?” he demanded. “I’m through stalling.”

  “He’s gone,” Mannering said, scrambling to his feet. “He’s too far away by this time to ever get here for the race.” There was a light of triumph in his eye as he backed away from Reggie. “Your heroic act won’t get you anything,” he said.

  “You’re lying,” Reggie said.

  HE STARTED forward, but Mannering suddenly turned and ran into the stable, slamming the big doors shut behind him. Reggie could hear his efforts to slide the bolts home that locked the door.

  Reggie lunged at the door, trying to wedge it open before Mannering could lock it. But the fumbling at the bolts had stopped and he realized despairingly that Mannering had bolted the door. With the frenzy of desperation he hurled himself at its solid wooden surface, and to his surprise it gave inward and he almost sprawled flat on his face.

  There was no sign of Mannering, but his head-long rush brought him into collision with a large stallion that was standing just inside the door.

  Reggie glanced at the horse automatically and then looked away. But something caused him to turn back.

  The horse had the most bewildered, frightened expression on its face he had ever seen in his life. Its eyes were rolling wildly and when it saw Reggie it whinnied frantically.

  Reggie stared at the horse and an incredible thought occurred to him.

  But no! It couldn’t be!

  And then he remembered one important fact that made him regard the bewildered horse with a sudden grin.

  For he had just remembered the potion the little man had brought to the Ravenal home. And his own efforts to prevent the colonel and Eileen from drinking any of the weird drug. He had knocked their glasses to the floor—but he hadn’t touched Guy Mannering’s glass!

  And this bewildered looking horse could be

  “Guy Mannering!” he said.

  The horse started and then nodded its head vigorously. The look of desperate terror on its face deepened as Reggie began to chuckle.

  Its tail whipped about in an agony of fright and its eyes were fixed beseechingly on Reggie.

  “You look very natural, Guy,” Reggie said.

  The horse whinnied piteously.

  Reggie was so stunned by the fact that Mannering had turned into a horse, that he forgot for the moment that he still had a big problem on his hands.

  But he did remember almost immediately. And he knew then he would never find Blue Star in time for the race, for the only person who could tell him where the horse was, wasn’t in any position to do any talking.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a groom.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” the groom said, “But I was looking for Mr. Mannering.”

  The horse whinnied desperately and the groom turned to him with a frown.

  “This is a new one, isn’t it, sir?” he asked.

  The horse shook its head desperately and pawed the ground, but Reggie suddenly smiled and slapped the horse sharply in the ribs.

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “Mister Mannering was going to buy it from me, but he changed his mind. Will you put a saddle and bridle on it, please, and help me load it into the van? I’m taking him out to the races today.”

  “Sure thing, sir. Pity Mister Mannering didn’t want the animal. He’s a beauty.”

  AN idea had occurred to Reggie that for sheer stupendous irony surpassed anything he had ever imagined or heard. It might not work, but it was the only thing left for him to do.

  The groom threw a saddle over the back of the horse and tightened the cinches.

  “What kind of a bit does he like, sir?” the groom asked. “Mister Mannering always uses a saw-edged bit for his horses. I don’t like the idea myself—too hard on the horse—but some of them need it.”

  “So Mannering always uses a saw-edged bit, eh?” Reggie said reflectively.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’ll use one too,” Reggie said decisively.

  The groom took a bit and bridle from the stable wall, but the horse suddenly reared in fright.

  “Down,” the groom said sharply. He took a crop from the wall and shook it at the horse. “Or do you want a touch of this?”

  The horse subsided and the groom slipped the bit into its mouth.

  “Probably need a saw-edge on this one,” he said. “He seems a little wild.

  Have you got a good crop?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Reggie said.

  “Take this one, then. If he gives you any trouble whack him on the tips of the ears. He’ll behave.”

  “Thank you very much,” Reggie said with a delighted smile. “Now just help me put him in the van.”

  “Sure. He looks like a good animal, but he needs a little disciplining.”

  “He’s going to get it,” Reggie said. “Are you goin’ to run him today?”

  “You said it,” Reggie said. “This is Colonel Ravenal’s substitute entry for the race today. He’s going to have his legs run right into his belly if he doesn’t work.”

  The horse rolled piteous eyes at Reggie and whinnied despairingly.

  “Let’s go,” Reggie said briskly.

  THE band was playing Boots and Saddles when Reggie arrived at the track. A huge holiday crowd was on hand, and th
e packed stands were decorated with gay bunting.

  Reggie drove directly to the judge’s booth at the stable9. He climbed out and ordered a Ravenal groom to take the horse from the van, then he looked up the judge, a gray-haired gentleman in a wide black hat.

  “I want to announce a substitution for the Ravenal entry,” he said.

  The judge looked at him in surprise. “I can’t do that now, son,” he said. “The horses are going to the post. Colonel Ravenal withdrew his entry about five minutes ago, anyway.”

  “He wants to reinstate it,” Reggie said.

  “Have they found Blue Star?” the judge asked incredulously.

  “No, it’s a substitute,” Reggie said frantically.

  “Waal,” the judge said thoughtfully, “seems like it wouldn’t be no race at all without a Ravenal entry. I guess we can do it. Who’s your rider?”

  “I am,” Reggie said promptly.

  “You ain’t going to have time to change,” the judge said. “Them horses are rarin’ to go right this minute. And where’s Mannering? Thought he was going to ride the colonel’s entry.”

  “He’s doing his bit,” Reggie said cryptically. “Now make the announcement.”

  “All right, son, but you’d better hurry.”

  Reggie trotted to his horse and mounted.

  “Now listen, Mannering,” he said, leaning close to the horse’s ear, so the grooms wouldn’t hear. “You are going to run that race to win, understand? If you don’t I’ll flay you alive.”

  He dug his heels in hard and the horse started for the track at a fast trot.

  The radio was announcing the substitution when Reggie rode onto the track. He saw Colonel Ravenal and Eileen standing in their box, staring unbelievingly at him, and then Eileen waved happily and he saw the colonel throw his hat into the air and slap the man at his side resoundingly.

  The rest of the horses were at the gate and the starter was trying to get them off. Reggie snapped the crop down on his mount’s flank and raced for the gate, but while he was still a dozen feet away, the starter’s pistol cracked sharply, and the crowd was on its feet shouting, “They’re off!”

  Reggie yelled into his horse’s ear, but with every foot he fell steadily back. At the quarter turn he was five lengths from the leaders, at the back stretch he was seven and when they swung into the three quarter turn he was full ten lengths behind and dropping further behind with every stride.

  Mannering was deliberately throwing the race!

  “All right!” Reggie yelled, “you asked for it!”

  He brought his crop down in a swishing snap across the tip of the horse’s ears.

  “Run, you good-for-nothing sneak!” he shouted, bringing the crop down again with stinging force. The horse whinnied wildly and lunged ahead, its hooves driving into the hard track with a drumming roar.

  “Get movin’ !” Reggie cried.

  THEY began to close on the pack, and when they hit the home stretch, they had passed the last two horses and were driving on the outside in a wild Garrison finish.

  The stands were a solid roaring block of humanity as they roared toward the finish line, and Reggie was hanging on desperately to keep from being thrown.

  Another twenty feet and they were pressing the leaders, and then it was neck-and-neck in a driving, furious finish with the horse that had led the entire distance.

  “Come on!” Reggie screamed.

  The horse under him found a burst of strength from somewhere and strained into the lead as they flashed by the finish line—winning by a nose!

  Reggie swung the horse then into the lane that led to the stables and didn’t stop until he had ridden the animal into the Ravenal van.

  Then he jumped behind the wheel of the truck and roared away. He reached the Mannering estates in record time, climbed out and opened the rear door of the truck.

  Guy Mannering was lying on the floor of the van, his sides heaving desperately and his tongue hanging almost to his waist. His hair was plastered wet with perspiration. He looked like a man who had run a horse race—which he had.

  “Nice going, Mannering,” Reggie grinned. “You were magnificent. Too bad you’ll never get any credit for winning one of the most important races of the year.”

  “Go ’way,” Mannering panted. “Let me alone. Never want to see you again.” Reggie took the young sportsman’s collar and hauled him out of the truck.

  “I don’t think you will,” he said. “I’m going back to the Ravenal’s now to find out the date Eileen wants to marry me. We won’t be seeing much of you in the future, so, cheerio.”

  He climbed in the van and drove away.

  EILEEN was waiting for him at the Ravenal estate.

  “Darling!” she cried, “you were wonderful. But why didn’t you wait after the race to receive the trophy? And father wanted to see you, to tell you how sorry he was for the way he acted.”

  “Time for all that, later,” Reggie grinned. “Now I’ve got only one thing on my mind.”

  “And what is that?” Eileen asked demurely.

  “This,” Reggie said.

  He took her in his arms and held her tightly.

  “I never want to let you go,” he murmured.

  “Why, Reggie,” Eileen smiled, “I think you’re turning into a wolf.”

  “My God!” Reggie cried.

  He shoved her away and looked down at his legs apprehensively. Then he began to smile nervously.

  “Reggie, darling, what’s the matter?” Eileen asked.

  Reggie took her in his arms again and kissed her soundly.

  “Nothing,” he said, “but I didn’t know you were referring to this kind of wolf.”

  DOUBLE-CROSS ON MARS

  First published in the September 1944 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Terry Lester figured he couldn’t hate anybody as much as he did his employers. Then he got mixed up with the Martians and found his error—the hard way!

  TERRY LESTER was a red-headed, square-jawed space pilot, and when he walked into Commander Moore’s large imposing office he did it with the confident arrogance that marked his every gesture.

  The commander was a small, tightfaced man with graying hair and keen, thoughtful eyes. He glanced up when Terry stopped at his desk. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he noted that the wide-shouldered space pilot was standing with his hands in the pockets of his whip-cord breeches.

  “Did you want to see me?” Terry asked, chewing idly on a match in the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes,” Commander Moore said shortly, “I did. I wish to offer you a job of considerable importance and, I might add right here, considerable danger.”

  He leaned back in his chair and picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk.

  “I have here a complete file on you, Mr. Lester, extending back several years. It is only fair me to tell you that I am completely familiar with your career.” He paused and glanced up at the bronzed space pilot and his eyes were quietly watchful. “Even the incidents surrounding your resignation from the Federated Space Command several years ago.”

  Terry Lester’s face might have been hewn from burnished mahogany for all the expression that was apparent; but his eyes were like hard bright pebbles.

  “I hope you enjoyed your snooping, Commander,” he said ironically. “Since I am no longer one of your underpaid puppets, it doesn’t matter a damn to me what you know.”

  He turned sharply on his heel and headed for the door. With his hand on the knob he paused and said over his shoulder, “Whatever your job was, consider it refused.”

  “Just a minute, Lester,” Commander Moore said quietly, and something in his voice caused Terry to turn and wait as the commander stood up and walked slowly around to the front of his desk. “I am offering you this job,” he continued, “knowing full well that you can refuse it if you like. You are a freelance pilot and not subject to my orders. But I’d like you to listen to me for just a minute before you make up your mind.”

 
Terry Lester glanced at his watch and grinned with sardonic amusement.

  “I am a busy man, Commander,” he said, “but fire away.”

  “I will be brief,” Commander Moore said dryly. “The job I am offering you is a special assignment to handle our latest space-fighter in a public demonstration.”

  “Not interested,” Terry said flatly. “I don’t intend to risk this neck of mine testing some engineer’s brain-child to give the public a thrill. Find another sucker to handle your space-going coffin; I’m not having any, thanks.”

  “This is not a demonstration to thrill the public,” Commander Moore said quietly. “This is a demonstration which might very possibly save Earth from a gigantic space war which it is not, at this time, prepared to wage.”

  TERRY took his hand slowly away from the door knob.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “This demonstration is scheduled for Mars a few weeks from today,” Commander Moore said. “We have been invited to send our latest equipment there for the annual conference on space communication and travel. Ostensibly the offer had been made in the friendliest possible spirit, but our Intelligence believes that is merely a ruse to examine our latest fighter space craft at close range.”

  “Why send them, then?” Terry asked bluntly. “Tell the double-faced little red cockroaches to go to hell.”

  “Unfortunately Intelligence feels we aren’t in a position to take that attitude,” Commander Moore said, with a bare trace of sarcasm. “And if we refuse to send our latest space-fighter, the Martians will infer that we haven’t any, or that our production is so slow as to make them a negligible factor in any immediate war.”

  “Well,” Terry said irritably, “what’s the dope? Have we got a fighter or haven’t we?”

  “We have a fighter space ship,” Commander Moore said firmly. “We have a ship which we believe to be the most effective weapon in existence in the void today. But—” he paused and his shoulders moved in a shrug “—we have only one of these ready for flight at the present time. It is a special model, built practically by hand in our research laboratory. We are not yet ready to produce it on a major scale. When we are, we will be prepared for any contingency that might arise. But until such a time, we must bluff Mars into moving carefully and slowly in any belligerent action. If they see our experimental fighter in action, and are led to believe it is only one of thousands we are producing, they will not be anxious to provoke hostilities until they develop something to match our new fighter.