The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  ‘There’s probably a switch right by the door,” suggested Timuroff. “There has been everywhere. May I?”

  Traeger moved aside for him. He reached in to the right. The cobwebbed switch was there. He snapped it on. In front of them, hanging naked from the ceiling, another ancient light bulb glowed. And in its dusty yellow light they saw the room.

  It was a large room with a stone floor, so large that—had it been empty—the solitary light would not have shown its corners clearly. Timuroff guessed it as twenty by twenty feet.

  But it was by no means empty. Exactly in its center, under the hanging lamp, a plain deal table stood. Two kitchen chairs flanked it, carelessly, as though their occupants had only just arisen and departed. On the tabletop, there was a whiskey bottle, two glasses, and a book.

  And all around the walls were wooden cases neatly stacked. Most of them were about four feet long and a foot deep, but eight or ten, toward the rear, were much larger. Dust lay on it all, but—considering the long intervening years—not too thick a layer. The air was stale but breatheable.

  They entered, treading very carefully to avoid roiling up the dust. There was a chorus of exclamations and excited questions.

  “What on earth is all this?” demanded Hector Grimwood. “What was Albright up to, anyway?”

  “Heck, I can answer that right now!” Timuroff’s voice betrayed his own excitement. “Look at those cases! Each of them say WRA—that’s Winchester Repeating Arms Company, and they’re exactly the right size. You probably have several hundred rifles here!”

  “What big eyes you have, grandmother!” Pete whispered in his ear.

  Timuroff did not answer him. He walked back to the larger cases, looked closely at them. “They’re from Colt. I think—yes, they’re Gatling guns! Heck, it’s not what anyone expected, but you do really have a treasure!”

  “Do you mean that Albright—?”

  “I mean that Albright, among other things, was almost certainly a gun-runner. These must’ve been part of his stock in trade.”

  Liselotte stared at him wide-eyed. “Timmy!” she cried out, stamping her foot. “You cannot mean that all these cases have nothing in them except guns? How can you do a thing like this to me?”

  Clayton Faraday saved him from answering. The judge had picked the book up from the table and opened it. Now it was he who was excited.

  “You have more than just one treasure here, Dr. Grimwood! Look at this!” He held the open book before them, dust sifting down from it. “Black Beetles in Amber, by Ambrose Bierce, and I think it’s a first edition! But that’s not what’s important. It provides one clue at least to the solution of another mystery. Bierce disappeared into Mexico in 1913, when he was seventy, and no one ever really knew why he crossed over. Now listen to what’s written on the fly-leaf—

  Albright, friend and enemy,

  More friend than enemy, perhaps. I’ve never told you what I really think of you because then you might become more enemy than friend. And I won’t tell you now. I’ll leave a space for it instead. When I return, you and I will drain the bottle and I’ll finish this.

  He left a lot of space above his signature. He must have known Albright really well. And it is signed Ambrose Bierce.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful!” Hector Grimwood was delighted. “Of course, I’ve heard about him and his disappearance. Old Mrs. Albright often talked of him. But I had no idea that they were thick as thieves!”

  “Not thieves,” laughed Judge Faraday. “Gun-runners. This at least tells us that, when he went into Chihuahua, he was adventuring and not just trying to end it all, as so many writers seem to think. He and Albright must really have been more friends than enemies. Otherwise Albright wouldn’t have sealed this chamber up—guns, bottle, book, and all—when Bierce did not return.”

  “What kind of Winchesters do you think they are?” Pete asked.

  “Let’s have a look!” replied Dr. Grimwood eagerly. “I know that Tim can hardly wait. I’m so pleased with all this! For two weeks now, Albright’s secret rooms and passages have brought me only fear and death and danger. It wasn’t his fault and it isn’t theirs. Now they’re back to normal—carrying the spice of old romance, old mystery, adventure in the past. Bill, could you and Pete open one of these cases up?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a pry bar with the tools. You want it opened here, or do we take it up?”

  “Well—” The doctor hesitated.

  “We’d better take it up,” said Timuroff. “It’s really pretty dusty here, and breathing’s better in the poker parlor.”

  “There at least we can have another drink,” declared Liselotte. “I shall drown my disappointment!”

  They left the room, Faraday still carrying the book. Pete and Bill Traeger brushed the dust from one of the long wooden cases and, grunting and straining, brought it out and up the stairs. Timuroff spread two bar towels on the poker parlor floor to put it on. While Edstrom tended bar, they opened it. Timuroff carefully lifted out a rifle.

  His face lit up. “Heck, look at that! They’re Model 95’s, and muskets, and brand new—no rust has touched them. And they’re .30-40 calibre, and really hard to find in that condition—and with their bayonets!” He passed the lever-action rifle to the doctor. “They are a treasure—and those Gatling guns, regardless of their calibre, are much rarer.” Hector Grimwood examined the weapon in his hands. “What will I ever do with them?”

  “Sell them, of course,” said Timuroff.

  “What are they worth?”

  “I haven’t counted them—let’s say you have four hundred—well over a hundred thousand, without the Gatlings.” The doctor frowned. “Oh dear! That means I can’t afford to sell them—it’d put me in an insufferable tax bracket. But I hope you’ll each take at least one musket and one Gatling gun as souvenirs?”

  “Me, I’d be happy to accept a musket,” Norman Edstrom answered. “I’m a gun nut from way back, but a Gatling’s just too valuable. It’s too bad, too, because legally they aren’t machine guns.”

  Pete and Traeger echoed him.

  “Well, I can’t just leave them there,” Hector Grimwood said. He handed the musket back to Timuroff, and absent-mindedly accepted a drink from Edstrom. He sipped it. Suddenly his expression cleared. “I know exactly what I’ll do!” he cried. “I can afford to sell the lot of them if I don’t get too much. Twenty-five thousand dollars! Tim, would you like them for that price?”

  Timuroff was embarrassed. He hesitated. He began stammering apologies.

  “Nonsense!” the doctor told him. “You’ll actually be doing me a favor. Here, let’s shake hands on it. Is it a deal?” Avoiding Liselotte’s eyes, Timuroff shook hands.

  “Talk about smelling like a rose!” murmured Pete admiringly.

  Timuroff smiled. at Olivia. “There’s your little station wagon,” he promised her.

  “And also my new mink, and perhaps a big emerald,” said Liselotte decisively.

  Timuroff reached for the glass Edstrom was holding out to him. He raised it. “To our host and hostess!” He bowed to Hector Grimwood and to Penny Anne, and everybody drank. “And to successful gun-running!”

  The phone rang. The doctor answered it. “Florencio,” he announced, “tells me dinner’s ready. After Pete and Bill take off their coveralls we’ll go upstairs. What a shame it is that Evangeline couldn’t be here, but she’ll be sitting at the table with us, so you’ll all have a chance to talk to her.”

  “Evangeline?” asked Timuroff. “I thought that after the way she’s been behaving you were going to change her name?”

  “I am. I just haven’t been able to decide on one. I thought of Juliet of the Spirits—do you remember that Fellini movie years ago? What do you think of it?”

  “I think she might prefer it to Evangeline.”


  “So do I,” agreed Hector Grimwood. “It’s not so—well, quite so dated. She seemed quite pleased about it when I told her.”

  They started out, Pete and Timuroff bringing up the rear. In the hall, Pete hung back a little, deliberately.

  “Tell me, Tim,” he whispered, “did you really have that sword fight with the Paraguyan general?”

  Timuroff smiled at his friend. He stroked his scar. “Pete,” he said softly, “does it matter?”

  IN A PICKLE (Feghoot 33)

  With thanks to Capt. E.D. Harris.

  Ferdinand Feghoot was the greatest irigation engineer in all history. He brought water to Mars by diverting icebergs from the trans-Plutonian asteroid belts. He piped fresh ammonia to the deserts of Capella XII, where valuable crystalline music-plants grow. He almost settled the water dispute between Northern and Southern Calfunya.

  But his hardest task came on Lushmeadow Acres, a small planet sold to a colony of New Amish by Good-as-Gold Gazreeb, a Vegan promoter. The arable land lay at over 10,000 feet; the water at sea-level. “Our religion forbids us machinery,” the settlers explained. “We can afford only one more cargo from Earth. In six months, Good-as-Gold will foreclose. Save us, Ferdinand Feghoot!”

  Feghoot took charge. He ordered the final cargo, and he started the colonists channeling and digging. When Gaazreeb came with his bailiffs, rivers were flowing uphill all over the planet, every field was loaded with crops, and the bank had refinanced.

  “How did you do it?” screamed Gaazreeb, using every one of his voice ducts. He pointed at the tide from the fresh-water sea, running into a river bed. “No machine! Water flows over pickles!”

  “Naturally,” smiled Ferdinand Feghoot. “That was our cargo. We’ve known it for centuries on Earth. Dill waters run steep.”

  THE GNU MUTATION (Feghoot 38)

  On July 4th, 2007, Ferdinand Feghoot addressed the D.A.R.’s National Convention, hastily substituting for Robert A. Heinlein, who had been delayed on the Moon. Not knowing that his audience expected a more appropriate theme, he spoke on the many new nations of Africa.

  “And in conclusion,” he finally remarked, “I must mention the fascinating Republic of Gnus. We all know how, after the African bomb tests, the intelligence of the gnus suddenly rose to the human level, and how they organized and were admitted to the U.N. We know about their already great contributions to speculative philosophy and the arts of government. But few of us are aware of their tragedy—for the gnus soon learned that they have no aesthetic sense whatsoever. This made them feel deeply inferior. After years of searching, they shouted with joy when a young male showed signs of a singular genius for arranging glazed ceramic squares in pleasing patterns which were then made permanent with cement. The called me to examine this prodigy, and I gave him every imaginable test. But he was not truly talented. It was sadly indeed that I rendered my verdict—”

  At this point, the President General leaned over to say the he should at least end his speech patriotically. “A simple slogan will suffice, dear Mr. Feghoot,” she whispered.

  “—Typical gnu and tiler too!” shouted Ferdinand Feghoot.