All at once Gasket snaps his fingers. "Humpty!" he shouts. "We gotta wire the Smithsonian Institute right away! You have made a discovery that the biggest scientists in the world must investigate pronto!"
I have been afraid my partner will suggest some such unpleasantry, so I have already put the Guardian Angel back into my pocket. I do not want any stuffed shirts spoiling my glory. As I have pointed out, I am now determined to be cautious in what I do; but I have reconsidered certain matters. Moreover, I am impatient.
"Nix, Gasket," I tell him. "Not yet, anyhow." And I start for the door, being already a little absent-minded thinking of the new experiment I am going to make. It is a reasonable experiment this time; but the war-whoop Gasket Lengrin lets out, indicates he mistrusts my intentions. "Come back here, you—you—" he chokes.
I don't catch any more of what he says, because I am now practically in my car. This time I am headed for Schmidt's farm, which is on the Galesburg road.
The truth is I have taken a few flying lessons, because that is one method to become a daredevil. But Captain Riggs, the ex-army man who has been my instructor, has told me I will never be a good pilot.
However, I have since made an airplane of my own, which is in a pasture out at Schmidt's farm. It is not a very good airplane, but it is the best anybody can put together on twenty dollars capital. I built it from wire and oilcloth and wood and glue, and an old motorcycle engine which I overhauled. I am a very fine ordinary mechanic, as I have said; this is a fact.
I have flown this plane once, a couple of months back; and that is why my schnozzle is crooked and the lobe of my right ear is gone. I have rebuilt the plane.
Now, since I have risked my life in it before, without the Guardian Angel, I think that to try again while I am so well protected is no violation of my resolve to play safe.
I REACH the pasture where my ship is situated. When I tune up the motor, the sound is very sweet and gratifying. I ascend into the cockpit. I take off, and everything is very nice and unusual. I fly straight, and I have only a little trouble keepin' the wings level and the nose on the horizon. Then, after a couple of miles, I try to turn around, and I get tangled up in my efforts to work the controls correctly.
The nose of my crate goes down; the wires and struts creak and grunt. If it were not for the Guardian Angel, I should be reminded of a funeral in which I am going to be the corpse; for I am almost a thousand feet in the air now, which would be all right if I was convinced that the wings did not plan to fall off or nothing.
Abrupt and contrary, my luck turns awful bad. It must be the strain of all the crazy twists my ship is going through while I try to straighten her out, because all at once I see a jet of gasoline spraying out around the motor. The gas smells very sweet, and makes rainbow colors in the sunshine; but this does not help me to patch up the fuel-line, which has broken itself.
I am not given a chance to shut off the spark and prevent a conflagration. Quicker than you can spit out a hot potato, fire comes boiling out all around up ahead, and the motor fizzles to a stop by itself. The flames creeping—I better say jumping—back at me make a noise like a big blowtorch growling into the teeth of a hundred-mile wind.
With most awe-inspiring rapidity, I am right in the middle of Hell and Hallelujah! It is red and mean, and the smoke is very thick and dirty. It stinks of burnt oilcloth.
There is only the good old Guardian Angel next to my ribs. He does not resemble a gentleman, I am aware, with his cruel physiognomy and his devil's eyes; but again he proves to be a regular pal. I hear a "Click, click, click," under my arm, and then I don't smell no fumes anymore. I don't feel no heat. And there is a green haze wrapping me like a cocoon. It is very dim, and I am sure it could not be noticed from a distance, and I can see through it without any trouble.
So I try some more to get what is left of my burning plane on an even keel, and land. I have been sorta gyrating back toward the pasture which is my airport. But now, because I have no power left in my motor, I stall the ship and go into an awful round-and-round tailspin. Then, on account of the wear and tear and abuse, and because the struts are getting charred and weak, the whole darn kaboodle quit on me. It comes to pieces, like an un-starched shirt that has been soaked in acid.
THERE I am, hundreds of feet off the ground, with a lot of fiery fragments whirling so fast it makes my head swim seeing them. The pilot seat is still strapped to me, but what good does that do? I am falling terrible rapid, and I am not equipped with a parachute.
I have said that while I have this little black image on my person, I weigh only about fifty pounds. But as far as I can tell, this don't cut down my speed much. So I am doubtful that the Guardian Angel is going to save my skin after all.
I have just about time to think about making a will, which naturally is just a waste of effort. Then I hit the ground in a field not so very far from my pasture. I do not know immediately whether I am still a mortal or not, because there is something sort of heavenly in the sensations I experience.
If I am really squashed flat I do not know it so far.
The green haze which wraps me gets a little thicker for a moment, and I hear a buzz from the Angel, as though it is stepping up its protecting power. And if I notice any concussion at all, on coming into contact with Terra Firma, it is like dropping into the softest featherbed you ever slept on.
Then I bounce. Up I go, maybe fifty feet. I fall again, and bounce some more. Then I am at rest, upside down, with the pilot-seat over me like a bucket.
When I get myself extricated and unstrapped, I know that I am still plain Humpty Collins, an' not a spirit; for right there confronting me is Gasket Lengrin, shooting off his mouth again. He has guessed that I am destined to try the airplane when I leave the car-lot, and so he has followed me to the scene.
There is an argument on my hands, but with all the data in my favor it is easy to win. "Quit crabbin', Gasket!" I shout. "I have just dropped very far, and have not even broken a shoelace! I am going to test out just one more stunt. By then I will have a contract with some big advertising company. And you are my manager. That is better than giving my Guardian Angel to some intellectual old professors who will only hem and haw and think over it. So keep your shirt on and your mouth shut!"
Gasket sighs and gives in. "All right," he breathes, kind of weary; but I guess he grasps my point. He don't even ask what my final test consists of. Which is probably on account of that he is now almost as sure as I am that the Angel is one perfect safety device. He don't know that I'm thinking of dynamite. A hundred pounds of the best dynamite.
YEP, my optimism and ambition have reached this stage. I have forgot all about being careful. I do not know what a dumb cluck I am.
Since it is late, I postpone the grand finale till the next day. But I start a whispering campaign, because I want the most magnificent thrill to be semi-public. I don't give details, I just drop hints here and there.
"Tomorrow afternoon at two, out at Schmidt's farm," I tell old John Winbush, a terrific flannel-mouth, "I am going to do a piece of dare-deviltry which will ring down the ages."
People have heard about my latest airplane difficulty, and they know I have made some kind of marvelous escape; so I am sure I will have a crowd.
All goes fine. I get the dynamite without any trouble, since I have done blasting work in the past. I put it in a big carbide can. I fix the cap and a very short fuse. When the time comes, I walk out onto my recent landing field, carrying the explosive and warning everybody back. No one suspects what is in the container, or what my intentions are, though they are all waiting and eager for some kind of Roman Holiday, free for nothing.
I put the can down and sit on it. Then I light the fuse. I have not long to wait for action. That dynamite blows up marvelous.
I am in a big cloud of dirt, having been shot maybe a hundred feet off the field. So far, all is well, for the Guardian Angel is busy. The sound of the explosion, even, is muffled, to protect my eardrums. I fall, I bo
unce, I land; and all the time I am thinking that the whole world will soon bow down to the greatest daredevil that ever was born.
It is a swell show. I am grinning and walking casual toward Gasket, who is cussing me out once more, as he runs in my direction. He has plumb forgot to watch his language, even though I see that there is a lady with him, and that she is the blonde, Daisy Katz. She don't care what he says, though; and I imagine she don't notice his awful words at all. She is running along beside him, and is acting generally as flabbergasted as the rest of the crowd, except Gasket himself, who has his voice at least, because he can understand why I am not blown to smithereens.
I begin to taste the sweet cup of glory. Here I have all these people completely bamboozled and on their ears. Am I joyful? Boy! I have never had such a thrill! But as it turns out, I get just a sip of the nectar of importance. Then I get another thing, which is oil out of an altogether different barrel.
For no reason at all that I am able to think of, the Guardian Angel, hid inside my coat, lets out a kind of singing sound, like a simmering teakettle. Then it makes a noise that is half burp and half growl. Immediately I begin to itch, not just in one place but all over. But I try to ignore this, and keep my stage-presence. I can't take the Angel out of my pocket, because that might give my secret away; and I can't scratch, with all my acquaintances looking on, because that would be impolite.
A speech, I think, is in order; so I make the conventional opening. "Laydeez an' gentlemen!" I bellow. I intend to tell them that I am the one living person with an indestructible body, and thus mystify them some more. However, I am not able to get the words out, not because I am bashful but on account of the plain truth that this itching I spoke of has become something fierce. Every second it becomes worse an' worse. It is pretty near unendurable.
Trying to stand still, I grope toward my inside coat-pocket, thinking I’ll take the Angel out casually, and set it on the ground at my feet. You see I am sure that the Angel is responsible for my present difficulty.
NOW, however, my troubles have really begun. I can't get my hand inside my coat, even! There is something elastic and tough and invisible obstructing its passage. I squirm and poke with my arm, but it is no use.
So I am very badly worried indeed. Now my whole body has begun to feel very hot, in addition to the increasing discomfort I have already mentioned. I feel like I want to jump out of my skin.
"Speech!" somebody hollers as the throng mills around me. "Speech!"
So, since I have a lot of pride and courage, and think I must save my self-respect, I try over. "Laydeez an' gentlemen!" I start.
"Eeeyow!" I finish, as the itching reaches the unbearable point. Honor is gone and forgotten. I am making a joke of myself, but I don't care a busted washer. All I want is relief—blessed relief! I run toward the fence, beside which there is a horse-trough.
But I can't run fast. There is something that seems very stiff, all around me, which is odd, since it is just that green haze. It has become more visible than ever before. I stumble and fall to the ground, all doubled up.
It is Gasket who carries me to the horse-trough, and dumps me in. But the water doesn't help a bit. It does not even touch me, on account of I am encased as I have described.
Gasket don't know what else to do, so again he busts loose with his vocabulary. His voice is extremely thin an' faint to my ears, but I understand him well enough.
"You are a million kinds of a nitwit!" he screams at me. "First you try to shoot yourself. Then you fly an airplane that should of never been built. Then you deliberately go an' set off a charge of dynamite, big enough to wreck a skyscraper, directly under you! The Guardian Angel strove very hard to keep your skin together; but in so doin' it has gone an' ruined its works. Now it is out of kilter, an' is payin' you back! You have ruined the greatest wonder of all science, you sponge-headed, cackle-brained walrus, you—"
Well, it ain't nice to repeat the remainder of what Gasket said, even here in Randy's Tavern.
Daisy Katz, who is right close to the horse-trough where I am wallowing, also has a piece to speak. "You clumsy, stupid, insignificant so-an'-so!" she hollers.
BUT I don't pay any attention to the rest. I am too occupied with my own private misery, which is beyond words. It is a thousand times as bad as being in a sweatbox full of fleas, combined with a case of acute lockjaw.
"Oooh!" I groan. "Gawsh!" I gasp. For a second that is a year long, it feels as though the whole universe is pressing down upon me. I am not light anymore, but heavy as a hundred elephants. I hear the Angel sputter an' snarl.
Then something goes "Poof!" and it is all over except that I am exhausted. I climb out of the water. My coat has been all ripped and burned by a flash of flame, and the Angel falls from my ruined pocket. I pick it up, and it looks the same except that where its lips was is now a smoking gap. This way its face ain't mean anymore, but kind of surprised an' sad. Like it was hurt.
Well, Gasket gets me home. An' Daisy Katz purchases some lotion for my sore hide. It is funny, but she is very kind now that I am no longer a hero.
I have become a changed man. I now believe in the simple life instead of fame and glory. I will stick to fixing old cars. I am a square peg in a square hole.
Those professors from the Smithsonian Institute have got the Angel. But it is just a hollow statue now. All its insides were blown out. Which makes them grey-beards kinda sore at me.
Guess that's all, Mister Reporter. Thanks for the drinks. They drive away my sorrows and make my joys complete.
Daisy Katz? Well, I am kind of astonished myself. Me an’ her are getting married next Thursday....
The End
*********************************************
The First Long Journey,
by Raymond Z. Gallun
Thrilling Wonder Stories April 1951
Short Story - 5117 words
The First Long Journey—was like being sentenced
to an unimaginable solitary confinement!
HE HAD been considered normal and tough but since starting this Journey he had developed the habit of speaking to himself as if he were twins. Also to absent people—and to surrounding objects.
“Like Crusoe without Friday,” he thought. “But cooped up together out here, two guys would probably murder each other in a month. Besides needing tons more of supplies. Good thing I get along well with myself.”
He had to lie on his stomach in his craft’s cabin, which was like a big round pipe, four feet in diameter and padded inside. He called it his Diogenes Tub. Gaudy girl-pictures were pinned to the padding. At the forward end of this odd compartment, there was a thick window of darkened quartz and an array of instruments and controls.
At the other end was an electric stove, to which in the absence of gravity a pressure-cooker could be clamped. Also, there was a hatch through which he could crawl aft inside the hull, drawing himself along by means of straps and stanchions, to inspect machinery.
Checking over the tanks where his air bubbled through the green slime of plant chlorophyll to be purified or making sure again that his fission-jet engines were ready to function once more when it was time to brake his craft’s velocity, he would steal a moment to admire braces and struts that were nicely pared out to give the greatest strength with the least mass. Or to pat affectionately some wolfish mechanism that would have been at home with the farthest stars.
“Tin Can,” he’d say to his ship, “you’re wonderful—automatic, sure of yourself. There’s no split in your personality. Like in a man, who wants the distance, the different. While maybe finding out that he likes rocking chairs better. Wish I were like you ...”
Of course he’d grin and chuckle as he tried thus to borrow companionship and strength from metal. His self-confidence, as good as anyone’s for hair-trigger living, had here boiled away like liquid air left in a vacuum, as if he had passed a barrier beyond which courage did not reach.
Sometimes he’d spiel personal data to
the reflection of his hard face in some burnished surface, as if to convince himself of who he was in this vastness.
“You’re Chester Ross, born in Colorado, June seventeenth, nineteen fifty-six. Twenty-three years old. Light hair, grey eyes, one hundred forty-six pounds—on Terra Firma. High emotional-stability and self-sufficiency scores by Army test. Efficient thinking under strain. Tops. So you were picked from all the others for this historic job. Besides, you were wild to go.”
NEAR the stern of the ship there was a bullseye window—and during those belly-crawling tours of inspection he’d peer through it worriedly. To one side of the dazzling sun was a planet that had shrunk until it was no brighter than Venus used to be on a summer evening of his kid-days. Near it was a faint spark—the Moon.
Peeking like that was a bad habit. It gave some idea of how completely normalcy could slip away behind millions of miles. There was claustrophobia in it. From months ago, soon after the beginning of the Journey, he had the memory of the space-vertigo and of hysteria.
The latter could return. So he would clutch at a girder under the window and reason his rebellious and primitive nerves back toward calmness by reciting what, to his intellect, was the most obvious part of history.
“During World War Two, before your time,” he’d mutter, “experts began to see that trips like this would really be made. Maybe in thirty years. The power was in sight. A minimum velocity of seven miles per second, built up in—say—twenty minutes, so that the pilot wouldn’t be hurt by too-rapid acceleration, meant escape from Earth’s gravity and a gliding on, without additional jet-thrust, in empty space.
“You’ve got to realize how things are. You know that the Army has had its Moonbase and fortress for almost a year, now. You started out from there—to here. Most guys don’t go buggy at Moonbase anymore. Seeing the airless mountains doesn’t matter.
Then and Now: Another Collection of Science Fiction Page 21