Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Kirkstar slept at his desk, worked around the clock, and gradually he began to see improvement here and there. Europe was pretty well cleaned up, and England was in fair shape. India and Africa were fine, of course—all he’d had to do there was move the best people up North, and that had been rather simple.

  Kirkstar didn’t know it, however, but certain of his twelve-man board did not share his pure enthusiasm for their work.

  In fact, they were not above accepting bribes from people who wanted their enemies or business competitors sent South. There was a lot of that sort of thing going on right under Kirkstar’s nose but he was too busy looking for undesirable people to notice it. Husbands had their wives sent South in some cases to make room for mistresses; and a Distillery paid a sum of money to have all the prohibitionists shipped away. Certain churchmen were sent off by the racket elements who didn’t like religious busybodies stirring up trouble, and, all in all, it was a fine way to eliminate human obstacles.

  When Kirkstar found out what was going on he did the only possible thing—he shipped his entire twelve-man board South. He then took over their work in addition to his own—a load which might have killed an ordinary man, but Kirkstar was sustained by his dream of a clean orderly world, un fouled by undersirable and inferior people.

  There was a noticeable tic in his left cheek now as the final days approached. He had made some trying decisions in the last month and that, plus the burden of his work, was taking its toll. There was a bright gleam in his eyes and the muscle in his cheek worked spasmodically as he strode up and down his great office shouting orders at his assistants.

  “Send all the Navies South,” he shouted. “The Navy is a foolish institution. The Armies as well. They are both neo-Fascist, Autocratic, and Communist by definition. And the Smiths. Send all Smiths South. Why are they hiding under that pale meaningless name? What have they been «p to? Send them South.”

  ASSISTANTS hurried away with these orders and new ones took their places to await Kirkstar’s new commands. The process of disposal had become so automatic now that there was only the slightest time-lag between Kirkstar’s orders and the accomplished fact. The people who were left in the Northern half of Earth were becoming increasingly jittery. No one could guess who was going next so people kept a bag packed and a satchel of food close by at all times. Some of them went South voluntarily to end the suspense. But not too many. The term “Southie” had become a bitter slur by this time and It was the exceptional person who would deliberately lay himself open to that insult.

  Meanwhile, as the time of impact drew near, Kirkstar reached new heights of zeal and industry. He sent away all people with warts, wens, carbuncles, birthmarks, scars, or acne. He dispatched boatloads of atheists, priests, philosophers, free-thinkers, free-lovers, heretics, apostates, agnostics, trancendentalists, and Darwinians.

  He ordered South all neurotics, schizophrenics, all mother-lovers and father-lovers, all the mal-adjusted and adjusted, everyone with quick tempers or placid dispositions, and all dark-haired chemists.

  The cold bright dream was almost reality, and Kirkstar laughed aloud now as he saw in his mind the calm beautiful earth and the superior desirable people who, with him, would enjoy its benefits.

  He laughed louder and ordered all his assistants, all his office staff, and all his acquaintances Southward. That done, Kirkstar checked his reports and saw that the hour of impact was approaching. He sighed with relief. The job was done, and without an extra second to spare.

  Kirkstar couldn’t think of a single undesirable person left in the Northern half of Earth.

  And so he hurried out onto the broad steps of his administration building and peered into the Southern sky. There he could see it now, a splinter of spinning light no larger than his hand, rushing toward Earth.

  Kirkstar laughed and bobbed his bullet-shaped head. The light in his black eyes gleamed as brightly as the light from the comet. Standing on the steps of the mighty building, Kirkstar glanced about, smiling, looking for the super-creatures he had sifted from the chaff of humanity.

  There was no one in sight. The streets stretched away in empty silence. The buildings and homes were deserted.

  “Where are my people?” Kirkstar cried out in astonishment.

  Above the comet entered the atmosphere of Earth with the sound of roaring fire.

  Kirkstar stared up in sudden terror. He knew then what he had done but the implications were too vast to

  understand. There was a mighty sound as the comet struck the earth and Kirkstar was thrown to his knees. The world was cut cleanly in half and Kirkstar put his forehead on the cold cement and cried out in anguish. For he knew that he was alone. . .

  TINK TAKES OVER

  First published in the February 1951 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Terrence wanted a job badly, and it seemed that the leprechaun was going to get him one—even if it killed him!

  TERRENCE O’REILLY put his arm about the girl’s waist as they strolled along the edge of the park.

  “Ah, the night is glorious,” he said. “I wish—”

  The girl stopped abruptly and pushed his arm down.

  “Now there you go again, Terrence!” she said.

  Terrence sighed arid ran a hand through his thick black hair.

  “It’s just a manner of speaking,” he said. “A habit, as you well know.” The girl whose name was Carol Lee, and who was slim, red-haired and lovely, stamped a neatly shod foot in annoyance.

  “A grown man shouldn’t be in the habit of wishing for everything like a mooning child. My father says you should get your head out of the clouds.”

  Terrence sighed. “Wouldn’t it be pleasant to get through an evening without once quoting your father on the subject of my unworthiness and general, debility?”

  “Father’s right,” Carol said, heatedly. “Everything about you is just too vague. You wish you had a million dollars, and you wish we could get married, and wish you had a job—”

  She faced him with storm signals flying in her deep blue eyes. “You’re always wishing for something to happen, but you never try to make it happen.”

  “Well, there are enough practical people in, the world,” Terrence said defensively. “I have imagination and vision, and what’s the harm in that?”

  “The harm is that you’re an idler and a wisher. We’ve been engaged two years now during which time you’ve done nothing to help us get married. Professionally you’re travelling nowhere at amazing speed.”

  “You’re going too far,” Terrence said ominously. “I realize you’ve inherited your father’s petty and unfortunate temper, but you can’t use it on me with impunity.”

  “Oh, is that so! Well let me tell you . . .”

  After two or three more heated exchanges the young man and the young woman strode angrily off in opposite directions.

  * * *

  “What a pity! They seem like nice people.”

  “Bah! A pair of dopes.”

  Tink and Nastee, city-dwelling Leprechauns, were seated on the arm of a park bench, enjoying the early evening breezes. Tink looked after the swiftly retreating figure of Terrence O’Reilly with a sympathetic gleam in his eye.

  “You’re wrong as usual, Nastee,” he said. “All that young man needs is a push in the right direction.”

  “You’ll drown in the milk of human kindness one of these days,” Nastee said, and his expression made it clear that such a development would delight him. immensely.

  Tink looked thoughtful. “I think I’ll give him a push,” he said.

  “He’ll fall on his face.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “I’ll see about that,” Nastee said.

  “Oh!” Tink glanced at Nastee with a challenging smile. “You’re going to undo my good work, eh?”

  “Why, naturally.”

  Tink’s laugh bubbled up merrily and caused a passing policeman to raise his eyebrows in astonishment. The policeman, whose name
was Clancy, hadn’t heard a sound like that since he’d left Donnegal as a boy fifty years ago. He listened hopefully for a. moment or so, and then walked on, shaking his graying head,-, and dreaming of games he’d played on a green lawn beside his father’s cottage . . .

  “You’ll never learn, Nastee,” Tink said, leaping to the ground. “Good always wins out over bad, you know.”

  “Horsefeathers,” Nastee said rudely . . .”

  THE NEXT morning Terrence O’Reilly awoke with the elusive feeling that he’d had a bad dream whose details he couldn’t remember. Then, he recalled his fight with Carol and realized gloomily, that it was no bad dream that accounted for his depression.

  He climbed out of bed, went through his rather strenuous morning exercises listlessly, then showered, shaved and went downstairs for breakfast.

  His landlady, Nora McGlinchley, met him at the door of the dining room.

  “You’re recalling that matter we discussed last week?” she said pointedly.

  Terrence gave her his broadest smile. “I’ve thought of very little else, Nora, except the wonders of your cooking and the cuteness of your dimples.”

  Miss Nora, who was on the; unfortunate side of forty, stiffened herself against this broadside of Irish charm.

  “Well, have you reached a decision? You know this isn’t a Red Cross Shelter I’m running here. I must pay my bills like everyone else, and if my roomers don’t pay me, then what am I to do?”

  “To be truthful with you, Nora, I’ve got a little deal in the fire that’s going to solve all my problems. If you could just exercise a wee bit of your saintly patience—”

  “I’ve heard that before. But I don’t want to be harsh with you. I’ll wait another week. Now get your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  “Ah, that’s my girl.”

  Terrence consumed his usual modest breakfast of grapefruit, ham and eggs, toast, jam, and muffins, and then settled back with his cup of coffee to peruse the morning paper. But an odd thing happened then. His hand trembled mysteriously and coffee sloshed into, the saucer.

  “Well, I’m damned!” he cried.

  Normally his nerves were like rock; but he felt as if something had pushed his hand. That was an idiotic idea of course.

  He put the paper down and set the cup on it while he dabbed at his spattered tie with his napkin. Then he picked up the cup and prepared again to read his paper.

  He found himself staring at the Help-Wan ted columns, which was hardly his choice of pleasant reading. And he noticed that the damp bottom of the cup had neatly ringed one particular ad.

  “Well,” he said. His curiosity was caught by this coincidence so he read the ad.

  It said:

  Wanted: young, intelligent, resourceful man for interesting, remunerative. managerial position. Excellent future prospects for right man. Apply in person to Mr. Carruthers, Savoy Hotel.

  “Glory be, Mr. Carruthers is practically begging for me,” Terrence, said aloud.

  He was caught by the curious chain of circumstances that had brought this Heaven-sent opportunity to his attention. If his hand hadn’t wavered so inexplicably, and if he hadn’t put the cup down in exactly the spot he had—why he might never have seen the ad at all!

  A powerful believer in all sorts of astral intervention in the affairs of men, Terrence felt certain that some Power had decided to do him the favor of managing his affairs.

  And so, with a confident cheery smile, he grabbed his hat, and with the morning paper under his arm, went out to hail a cab.

  “OH, VERY clever of you, I’m sure.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  Tink was seated on the radiator cap of Terrence’s speeding cab. He was smiling and swinging his legs contentedly.

  “Pretty old stuff,” Nastee said derisively. “Jiggling his hand like that and steering the cup onto the right ad.”

  “I repeat, it worked.”

  Nastee laughed suddenly. “There’s many a slip twixt you-know-what and you-know-what hat. Don’t be so cocky . . .”

  * * *

  Mr. Carruthers was a tall, powerfully built man, with graying hair and keen eyes. He took Terrence’s measure with a swift appraising glance and decided he liked what he saw. Terrence was even bigger than he was, and his handshake was impressive and his countenance was frank and honest.

  After Terrence had told him about his schooling, and his war, record, Mr. Carruthers said: “That all sounds excellent, Mr. O’Reilly. Now here’s what I have in mind. I represent the. Tidal Rubber Company, of which you may have heard. We need a manager for our branch in Malaya. The technical requirements for the job aren’t too important. They can be learned. What we need and must have though, is a fearless man, a man without nerves. Do you understand?”

  Terrence thrust out his chin. “Indeed I do, sir.”

  “Fine. You see, we’ve had trouble with the natives down there, and trouble with the government. Our last manager couldn’t take it. Went to pieces. Pressure got him.”

  Terrence permitted himself a sympathetic shake of the head for this example of lesser clay.

  “Are you married?” Carruthers asked irrelevantly.

  “No—although I’ve plans.”

  “Good. It’s a lonely life, you know. And a good woman—”

  Carruthers rubbed his nose and said. “You see my point.”

  “Oh, perfectly,” Terrence said. “You’ll have to be an absolute tower of strength, believe me. A rock. You’ll have to bear yourself with dignity and courage at all times. You’ll—”

  Mr. Carruthers broke off as Terrence suddenly slapped himself on the cheek.

  “Must be a fly,” Terrence said. He looked about the air above him with a puzzled expression.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. “Carruthers said, after a significant pause. “However, to come back to the matter at hand. I feel—”

  Terrence slapped his other cheek. “Something kicked my ear,” he said in an angry voice.

  “Something—er—kicked your ear?”

  “Yes!”

  “The fly, perhaps?” Mr. Carruthers asked the question. Gently.

  “No, it must have been bigger than a fly,” Terrence said.

  “I see.” Mr. Carruthers cleared his throat and looked earnestly at Terrence. Suddenly he squinted and leaned forward slightly in his chair. “I say, your cheek is twitching.”

  “I know it is,” Terrence said plaintively. He slapped at his cheek, several times. “Nothing there,” he said, with a hollow laugh.

  “Perhaps, if you’d leave us your phone number,” Mr. Carruthers said, rising.

  He took Terrence by the elbow and led him to the door.

  Outside in the corridor Terrence heard the door click behind him with finality, and with a desolate but puzzled expression, he walked heavily to the elevators. . .

  * * *

  Nastee’s laugh was a yodel of glee.

  “You’d better give up, Tink,” he said.

  “I will not. I’ll help him out now if it’s the last thing I do.”

  They were at their accustomed park, bench, and. Nastee was performing ecstatic pirouettes on the iron filigree.

  “Did you see him slapping his, cheek?” he cried out in delight.

  “Yes, I saw him,” Tink said.

  “All I did was kick him with my heel.”

  Tink suddenly swung down to the ground.

  “Hey, where you going?”

  “Remember, there are three points to a triangle,” Tink said mysteriously and flashed away down the path.

  “YOU HAD another quarrel with that loafer, Terrence O’Reilly, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Carol said. “Is it as obvious as all that?”

  Carol’s father put his paper down with a deliberate gesture. “No, it required very astute deduction. I noticed first that you’ve apparently been crying most of the night. Secondly, your behavior during breakfast would make that of a Trappist monk seem mad and uncontrolled by comparison. Thirdly, y
ou’ve been sighing like a leaky calliope every time you glance at his stupid picture on the mantel, and so, with brilliant logic, I decided you had a quarrel.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  Mr. Lee removed his glasses, which gave his face the appearance of a denuded persimmon, and pointed a stern forefinger at his daughter.

  “Terrence O’Reilly is a lazy, idling romantic,” he said in-precise accents.

  “But I love him.”

  “Bah! Of all the ridiculous, insane comments I’ve ever—”

  “He’s right. He said you had a petty temper.”

  Mr. Lee put his-glasses back on and peered closely at his daughter. “Nonsense!” he shouted.

  “You see? Now you’re shouting at me.”

  Carol suddenly rose and ran around the table and put her arms about her father’s neck. “Don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I do love him, and I can’t help it.”

  Mr. Lee looked sour for a moment, but finally he sighed and said, “Oh, all right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Couldn’t you find a place for him in the bank?”

  “My dear, you say the most preposterous things!”

  “Why? He’s honest and he’s strong.”

  “We are not hiring dray horses.”

  “Oh, daddy!”

  Carol rubbed her cheek against her father’s and he sighed and shook his head after a moment. “Very well, my dear. Call him and ask him to do me the honor of stopping by at his convenience. I’ll talk with him . . .”

  A tinkling sunny laugh sounded surprisingly. Carol looked at her father with a puzzled smile. “Did you hear that?”