Collected fiction, p.135
Collected Fiction, page 135
Woosh!
“Mile-away.” Moratti slumped across Aker’s knees. He had been taken for a ride—six hundred years into the past!
IN Pete Manx’ brain, the whirling mists swiftly cleared away. He had a sudden sense of vertigo, very familiar to him. He swayed, regaining his balance just in time.
He looked around. In the distance lay meadows. Beyond, hemming him in, was a thick wood. Under his feet was a log and beneath the log rippled a fairly deep stream.
Pete closed his eyes, crossed his fingers and fervently hoped for a change of luck. In Rome he’d been an unsuccessful thief. In the days of the Pharoah’s he’d been a slave. Maybe this time he inhabited the body of a king, or at least a local big shot.
He glanced down at his attire. He groaned, though he felt like crying.
His clothing was of torn and ragged buckskin. His cap was a shapeless mess, his purse disgustingly flat. In his hands he gripped a large quarterstaff.
There was only one consolation—his new body this time was a honey. He was tall and husky, a regular Tarzan. Pete wished Moratti were here now. Things would certainly be different . . .
He had started on across the stream when a voice halted him with a sharp command.
“Hold, fellow!”
Hold what? Pete glanced up to see someone starting toward him on the log. The newcomer was a tall, slender, lithely muscled man dressed neatly in green.
“Hold yourself, mug,” said Pete belligerently, conscious of his bulging biceps. “Back up and chase yourself. I was here first.”
The other laughed, with a flash of white teeth.
“And you’ll be first in the stream if you don’t make way,” he said cheerfully.
“Yeah? Who says so?”
“I declare thusly. Master O’ Sherwood Forest am I, Robin Hood!”
Well! The guy didn’t look much like Errol Flynn, but he ought, to know who he was. And if he was Robin Hood, then this was fourteenth century England. Pete tried vainly to remember the picture he had seen quite a while back, or ahead, whichever way you want to look at it. About all he could salvage was something about Robin Hood meeting a muscleman on a log. Little John, the name had been.
But Robin Hood, also holding a quarterstaff, was moving warily forward. He thrust it out.
“Learn, stranger, what it is to meet with a champion of the quarterstaff!”
Pete parried. With very unorthodox strategy, he jabbed Robin Hood on his corns. As the outlaw hopped in agony on one foot, another poke sent him sprawling off the log. There was a mighty splash.
Pete finished crossing the log, considerably gratified. He jumped on a grassy bank just as Robin Hood crawled out of the water. For a moment war clouds hovered. Then the brigand threw back his head and bellowed laughter.
“Swounds! If I but blew this silver whistle at my belt, I’d have a score of my merry men here before you could escape. They’d beat you till your pelt was sore indeed, and hang you by yon oak, I doubt not. But I like you, friend. You did not blanch at the name of Robin Hood. Give me your hand on’t.”
Two calloused palms met in a firm grip.
“Okay, pal,” Pete said, grinning.
ROBIN shook himself like a terrier, water cascading from his Lincoln green.
“Who are you?” he asked pleasantly. “How are you named?”
“Uh—Pete’s the name. Peter Manx.”
“A mere stripling, forsooth!” Robin took stock of the other’s giant frame. “Little Peter. Ha! A good name for you, indeed. Are you serf or freed-man, esne or landholder?”
“Republican,” said Pete, and fell to thinking. He had no idea how long he’d be marooned in this alien time sector. Meanwhile, he had to live. “Listen, Hood,” he said at last. “Know where I can snaffle some chow—food, I mean? I’m hungry.”
“You’ll feast royally on venison,” Robin Hood promised. “Venison belonging to Sir Guy of Gisbourne, may it turn to poison if he ever sinks his. teeth in it. Come along. By your looks, you’re neither nobleman nor usurer, and therefore probably as honest as I.”
Along a well trodden path through the wood, Pete followed Robin Hood. They suddenly found themselves in a large clearing that swarmed with lean and hardy men dressed in green, and rang with good-natured oaths and laughter.
With a queer! sensation of having been through it all once before, Pete was introduced; to men bearing familiar names. Friar Tuck, fat and profane, begged divine forgiveness at every blasphemy. There was Will Scarlett. Alan-a-Dale strummed melancholy love tunes. And he met all the rest.
Almost immediately they sat down to eat at a long open-air table. The setup reminded Pete of a sheriffs barbecue.
Throughout a meal of succulent venison, wild fruits and nuts from the forest, and magnificent ale, Pete’s brain took in all the information available. He turned it over and over like a squirrel in a cage. Characteristically, Pete was looking for an angle that would enable a wise lad like him to get along.
Robin Hood, plainly much taken with the newcomer, sounded Pete out on the idea of joining the outlaw band.
“Our only rule,” he said, “is that all who join our merry throng must contribute a needed service. Something new.”
“Well, let’s get the picture,” said Pete through a mouthful of pasty. “As I see it, this Sir Guy and his pals run the country. He is rolling the pork-barrel for his friends and slapping huge taxes on John Q. Public.”
Robin Hood looked despairingly at Friar Tuck.
“You’re a scholar,” he appealed. “Know you whereof he speaks?”
Friar Tuck downed a stoup of ale before allowing his mind to work.
“Ha! He speaks strangely now, but his meaning is clear. Aye, friend. Guy of Gisbourne, under the usurper John, rules England with a sword. He commits all the crimes in the calendar. No man’s goods, property or wife can be left unguarded whilst he lives.”
“Yeah. Like Chi in the good old days. And you’re hi-jackers, huh?”
“We take only from the rich,” said Robin Hood, “and give only to the poor.”
“That’s what we were doing back home. Well, you got a good racket. But you ain’t organized. You need system. All you do is hide in Sherwood here and hi-jack anything that comes by. What you need is an efficiency expert. And I’m the guy for the job.”
Robin Hood shook his head in bewilderment.
“What advantage will this—er—efficiency be to me and my merry men?”
“Make things easy,” Pete explained. “You’re risking a scrap every time with Sir Guy and his stooges, and the other nobles you knock off. Under the Little Peter system, see, they’ll be glad to pay us a monthly stipend. Without argument. Without fighting. See?”
THE listening outlaws exchanged looks of worried amazement.
“He hath not the manner of a madman,” Will Scarlett said doubtfully, “but—”
Robin Hood was overlooking no bets, however crazy they might seem.
“And how will you persuade Sir Guy of Gisbourne to part with a monthly contribution to outlaws’ purses?” he asked.
Pete leaned back, grinning.
“The answer to that is simple, pal. We’ll give him the old oil.”
“Oil?”
“Yeah. Oil. That fishy stuff you burn in lamps. Oil.”
At dawn, three days later, Little Peter, Robin Hood, and the tribe stood atop the highest hill in the vicinity. The outlaw was disguised, a patch over one eye and a shoddy yeoman’s costume on his lithe frame.
“Don’t forget,” he warned, “call me Locksley. There’s a price on Robin Hood’s head.”
“Don’t let that bother you,” Pete comforted. “Stick with me and you’ll wear diamonds.”
Robin Hood pointed out Sir Guy’s castle, a towering battlemented structure of gray stone. It stood below them, not a quarter mile distant, though it rose above the surrounding plain. A hard-baked dirt road, from which heat shimmers rose, stretched from their feet toward the village of Nottingham, beyond the castle.
Pete, in his new body, wasn’t even panting when the outlaws climbed the knoll and reached the moat. A drawbridge was presently lowered over the circle of scummed, putrid water. Pete and Robin Hood strode across the resounding planks. At the bastioned gate, a sentry in chain mail roused himself to present his pike.
“The tradesmen’s entrance is at the back,” he grunted.
Robin Hood took from his tunic a small leathern bag that clinked.
“We have important business with Sir Guy of Gisbourne.” He rattled the coins suggestively. “Eh?”
The bag disappeared and the sentry also vanished. After a moment, a huge, tough looking customer appeared, as big as Pete himself. The newcomer was richly but sloppily dressed. By the appearance of his neatly trimmed beard, he’d had eggs for breakfast.
“I am Guy of Gisbourne,” the man growled. “And who are you?”
“Glad to know you,” Pete said, professionally cordial. “We got business to talk over with you. We want to do you a favor—”
The lord scrutinized them nastily.
“Do you think I need help from such tattered beggars as you two?” he broke in jeeringly.
“We’re incognito,” Pete, explained with an air of great patience. “We represent the Sherwood Mutual Insurance and Protective Association. You pay us so much a month, and we insure you against accidents.”
GUY’S eyes opened wide. “Accidents? Insurance? What manner of madness is this?”
“Sure. Accidents happen all the time. This country is crawling with bandits. They make trouble for you solid citizens just for the hell of it. They’re getting bolder every day. First thing you know, one of ’em will come along and heave a brick through your window, just for no reason at all. Like this.”
Pete found a convenient stone and demonstrated. Glass flew, with a shattering crash. Guy’s jaw dropped in horrified disbelief. If the castle itself had tumbled about his ears, he could have been no more surprised.
“See?” Pete prattled on. “Insure with us and your windows are safe.”
Sir Guy shivered slightly. His fingers were twitching as he looked intently at Pete’s throat.
“No outlaw dares do that to Guy of Gisbourne. Heads would fall hereabouts like the leaves of autumn.”
“But you don’t savvy how smart these hoodlums are getting. They ain’t scared of you. They doped out a clever angle to make it tough for you. The. SMIPA is the only company what can insure you against this new trick, because we know how to put a stop to it.”
Guy was intrigued in spite of himself.
“And what might this device be? Though, mind you well, I fear no shabby outlaw trickery. Heads,” he reiterated, “would fall—”
Pete wasn’t listening. Instead, he was directing two of Robin Hood’s men to roll a few of the rough-hewn casks, which they had painfully carried with them, to the brink of the moat. These they broached. Fish oil dripped slimily onto the green waters and spread rapidly. At a signal, a torch was flung in.
“This,” Pete explained, “is what you may have to contend with if you don’t sign up with the SMIPA.”
A sheet of flame belched up surrounding the castle. Black smoke rose in a greasy cloud.
“Phew!” gasped Pete, falling back. “That must be whale oil. This is sure going to smell up the place!”
“Worse than a lazar-house,” Robin Hood agreed, holding his nose.
The castle wasn’t air-conditioned. Since the moat completely surrounded it, it didn’t matter which way the wind blew. Fish oil smoke blasted in through crevices, windows, and over the battlements. The aroma was enough to change history.
Furiously, bewilderedly, Guy thundered orders. His men streamed out of the castle and vainly sought to stem the blaze with dirt.
The outlaws fell back, scattered down the knoll to enjoy the spectacle. Only Pete and Robin Hood stuck it out on the drawbridge, presenting Sir Guy their cogent arguments. They maintained he really should sign up with SMIPA to prevent recurrence of such an atrocity. Sir Guy was wondering which heald to lop off first when an interruption came.
A MAGNIFICENT coach came charging up the road leading to the castle. It was drawn by six white horses, and soldiery sprouted from every window. On the door was printed a sign in golden letters.
“Ye Sheryff of Nottinghamshire. And Hys Deputys.”
Most of the outlaws retreated to a safe distance. But Robin Hood and Pete were trapped on the drawbridge as the carriage pulled up. An enormous personage descended grandly, a Falstaff, a veritable Tony Galento of a person. He bowed with incredible ponderousness to Sir Guy.
“The law is usually administered by ourselves, Sheriff,” Guy growled irritably. “I was just going to—”
The sheriff took over with great efficiency, herding everyone available inside the castle walls and explaining in an undertone to Guy as he did so. Pete caught snatches of the conversation.
“Saw the smoke from your village . . . I’ve been expecting some unusual phenomenon . . . There’s an infamous wretch of an outlaw in these parts lately, a low fellow with some native shrewdness. But he is incapable of coping with the advanced scientific functions of law enforcement. Preparations have been made . . .”
The sheriff won a grudging assent from Guy. Quickly, the fat man unrolled a bundle he was carrying. It consisted of the air-tight bladder of some animal.
A hole at one end was fitted around an upright, hollow reed.
The sheriff’s eyes glittered as he glanced from Pete to Robin Hood.
“Bare your right arms,” he commanded.
A horrible suspicion seeped into Pete’s brain. That bladder outfit looked very much like a blood-pressure tester. Wrap it around the arm, fill it with air, put liquid in the reed to rise and fall, as the heart beat.
But no! It was worse than that!
“Wow!” cried Pete as understanding dawned. “That’s a lie detector! And you ain’t no sheriff. You’re Professor Aker.”
The sheriff chortled triumph, putting his apparatus away.
“It will be unnecessary to conduct my test. This oaf”—he indicated Pete—“is my man. Thief, murderer, politician, cheat, wanted by the Crown. I take him into custody.”
Sweating, Pete clutched the sheriff by a fat arm and dragged the man aside.
“You can’t do this to me,” he whispered frantically. “It’s a doublecross!”
Professor Aker looked mean. “I suppose you didn’t plant that money in my pocket and get me almost killed by Moratti. When we went back to Rome, you were a politician and I was thrown to the lions. In Egypt, I was a felon and you made yourself a promoter. Bah! You’re going to sit quietly in a cozy little cell now, till Mayhem brings us back to our own time sector. You won’t be hurt. But you’ll be where I can have my eye on you.”
Sir Guy approached, smiling unpleasantly.
“You have my thanks, Sheriff. But I shall administer the law myself. I have a score to settle with both these men. Get you gone. I shall send you a bag of gold.”
PROFESSOR Aker blinked. He had not bargained for this. Repenting too late, he endeavored to argue, but soon found that Sir Guy of Gisbourne was stronger than the law in Nottingham.
Still wildly protesting, the sheriff was ejected with all his men. Pete was too stunned even to protest. Fortune had kicked him, with great thoroughness and vigor, in the pants. And of course he had only himself to blame. If only he hadn’t stashed that dough in Aker’s pocket!
Rough hands seized Pete. “Take them away!” Sir Guy roared. “To the dungeons with the rest of the rats!”
* * *
Pete sat on the straw of his cell and scratched himself. The oil smoke hadn’t killed the fleas, apparently. He rattled his chains, sighing sadly.
There were three possibilities. One, Dr. Mayhem might bring him back to 1940 before it was too late. Luckily for Pete’s peace of mind, he did not knew that Moratti’s wild gunfire, just before the gangster had lost consciousness in the lab, had smashed two of Mayhem’s ingenious tubes. The doctor was laboring day and night to replace them.
Two, the execution might go through as scheduled. Pete shuddered. Aker might be able to help, but he was seemingly helpless to untangle the knot he had created. Law officers were simply creatures of the feudal barons. Stooges, in fact. Yet Aker was a scientist, and he might be able to dope out something.
Three, a way of escape might be found. Yeah! Like escaping from Alcatraz!
Torchlight glimmered on the walls, and Pete peered through the barred door. A scrawny, middle-aged man in tattered garments was staggering dazedly along the corridor. He carried a flambeau. Alternately he stared at the torch, at his surroundings, at his body and clothing. Then he wrapped his free hand around his head, monkey fashion, and rocked from side to side. Now and then he cackled in mad laughter and muttered hysterically.
Pete’s eyes grew round. He was listening to Italian oaths and prayers! Swift comprehension dawned on Peter Manx.
“Holy smoke,” Pete gurgled. “It’s Moratti.”
THE skinny man looked up, saw Pete. He rushed toward him, clutching the bars in talonlike Angers.
“For Gawd’s sake, brother, help me! I am Moratti, only I ain’t. One minute I’m Moratti back home, then I’m somebody else. And I look like somebody that’s been dead for hunnerts of years. What is this, anyhow? And who’re you, brother? D’you savvy this business?”
Moratti seemed half crazy with fright. Pete grinned, enjoying his triumph. He reached out and seized Moratti’s throat.
“Rat,” he said, “I’m Manx. You was gonna plug me a few days ago. Well, now—”
His stubby Angers began to tighten, when a greater idea dawned. He released his fainting victim.
“Moratti,” he said earnestly, “you want me to get you out of this mess?” The gangster was utterly broken by his inexplicable transformation. He promised Manx great things if he would only Ax up this mess. Pete was equally free with his promises.
