Collected fiction, p.341
Collected Fiction, page 341
It went on.
“Funny,” Haggerty said finally. “I keep thinking I’ve got two heads.”
“It’s not funny at all,” Tinney said moodily. “It’s my uncle’s fault. The guy that kicked you in the pants. Remember?”
“I don’t get it. If I wasn’t drunk, I’d faint.” Haggerty looked unwell, anyhow. Tinney sighed.
“It’s that fourth-dimensional machine.”
“Oh. Science!” Haggerty nodded, as if that explained everything.
“If you’ll just listen a minute, I’ll explain,” Tinney told him.
He tried to do it, between pulls at the bottle, and finally it seemed as if Haggerty understood, albeit only hazily.
“Science. As long as it ain’t black magic, okay. I ain’t a sap. I’ll take your word for it. Especially since you say your uncle can fix us up all right again. Only—two heads!”
“And four arms,” Tinney pointed out unkindly.
“Well, we gotta find your uncle!”
“We can’t go out on the street this way. One of us has got to have his head wrapped up again.”
Haggerty considered. “Let’s look behind the bar. Maybe——”
THEY found a thin cloth bag, with a drawstring, that would just do. Rather unwillingly, Haggerty consented to having it pulled over his head.
“I can see out,” he announced. “Can you see me?”
“Nope. Looks like I’m carrying a bundle on my shoulder, that’s all. Where’ll we go?”
“Try the Peacock. Fiftieth and Seventh Avenue.”
Tinney concealed his extra arms and departed, rather unsteadily. He felt somewhat better for having an ally. Now if they could only find Uncle Wilbur——
They couldn’t. At five o’clock Haggerty called a halt.
“I gotta fight tonight. Let’s phone your house.”
“Fight? How——”
“At the Garden. I’m on the card. Wrestling Turk Zorion.”
“Well, I’ll phone Uncle Wilbur.” But Van Dill hadn’t arrived home. Tinney groaned.
They kept looking, in vain. Eventually Haggerty paused outside a coffee shop.
“Listen,” he said. “I gotta wrestle tonight. And it’s almost time.”
“You can’t wrestle like this, man!”
“Why not?” Haggerty asked stubbornly.
“Two heads—and four arms!”
“There ain’t any rules about how
many arms you got. And you can keep your head wrapped up in this bag, so nobody’ll notice. I know!” A note of plaintiveness crept into Haggerty’s voice. “They think I threw my last fight. My manager’s down on me. If I miss this bout, I’m sunk.”
“You’re crazy!”
“I’m fighting tonight,” Haggerty said stubbornly. “With four arms, I ought to have a swell chance. Anyhow, I’m taking it. You won’t get hurt.”
He kept talking. Presently he had convinced Tinney. It even seemed like a good idea. A man with four arms was practically certain to win a wrestling bout!
“Gotta sober up,” Haggerty said. “Let’s drink coffee. Here!” He plucked the cloth bag from his own head and affixed it over Tinney’s. “Let me take over, for a while.”
That was fair enough. Tinney had nearly passed out. He relapsed into slumber, waking occasionally to peer through the bag. He could see out, all right.
The coffee, in their common stomach, sobered both heads. Tinney awoke again and had an idea. He explained it to Haggerty, and they went to a phone booth.
First they tried the Van Dill house. Uncle Wilbur wasn’t there. A chastened Crockett said he might be at the Garden, for the fights.
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Tinney said to his companion. “We might run into him there.”
“I hope we do,” Haggerty muttered. “The dirty——”
“Sh-h! I’m trying to remember that number.”
HE REMEMBERED it at last—the number of the man named Joe with whom Uncle Wilbur placed his bets. He dialed.
“Joe?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Bruce Tinney.”
“Oh, Mr. Van Dill’s nephew. Sure. What’s up?”
“I want to place a bet on the fight tonight. On Twister Haggerty. Can—er—can you do that?”
“Twister—that stumble-bum!
Who’s it for? Your uncle?”
“No. For me. I’ve inside information.”
“Maybe,” Joe said skeptically. “But I’ll be glad to oblige. How much? Odds are about eight to one.”
“Two hundred dollars,” Tinney said, gulping.
He had just that much in the bank, painfully saved, by dint of much scrimping. Some day he had hoped to have enough to buy that stationery store. Now he was risking it on a gamble.
No, it wasn’t a gamble. Haggerty had assured him of that.
“Okay. Two hundred. On Twister.”
“Right,” said Tinney, and hung up.
Then he relapsed completely. From now on, everything was up to Haggerty.
There was a confusion of bright lights, a sweaty dressing-room, a number of frantic questions, and Haggerty’s responses. He wouldn’t let anyone in but his manager. And he refused to explain to that worthy how he had happened to acquire an extra set of arms, and what was in that bag on his shoulder.
“Just let it lay. It’s legal, ain’t it?”
“Sure, but——”
Then came the moment when Haggerty clambered over the ropes. Tinney awoke and peered through the bag. A gasp went up from the crowd at sight of the wrestler’s unusual physique. Typewriters began to hammer busily.
“Fake? Must be. No, they look real. Am I crazy——”
Turk Zorion entered the ring, a burly, hairy man with the face of a mad murderer. Tinney shuddered.
“Take it easy,” Haggerty whispered. “Leave everything to me. With four arms, this’ll be a cinch.”
Just then, someone whooped in a familiar raucous voice from the front row. Tinney turned his head, peering through the cloth of the bag. It was Uncle Wilbur, a quart bottle in his lap, eating peanuts.
Sure, he’d have bought a first-row seat for the fights from some scalper. Uncle Wilbur never missed a scrap in the Garden.
But Haggerty had seen the man, too.
The wrestler made a growling sound deep in his throat. Then he rose and hurled himself over the ropes at Uncle Wilbur.
“Haggerty!” Tinney yelped. “For Heaven’s sake!”
It was too late. Haggerty was doing his best to strangle Van Dill. The scientist’s face went purple. Frantically Tinney struggled to get control of his hands. They were completely Haggerty’s hands now.
Uncle Wilbur lifted the bottle and smashed it down on the wrestler’s head.
Haggerty’s eyes glazed. His head fell forward. He was knocked out—cold!
THERE was confusion. Tinney, again in command of his body, managed to struggle to his feet. People were all around him, asking questions.
“What’s the idea? You hurt?” Haggerty’s manager was plunging forward.
The wrestler’s head hung forward on his chest, eyes closed. Tinney’s own head, of course, was still hidden by the cloth bag. He could see through it—and what he saw wasn’t comforting.
Instinctively he dived back into the ring and found his stool. “Haggerty!” he whispered frantically. “Wake up! Wake up, man!” He slapped the wrestler’s cheeks with all four hands. To the onlookers, it seemed as though Haggerty was sitting with his head down, beating his face in an endeavor to clear his brain.
Uncle Wilbur had resumed his seat, apparently unhurt. Tinney gulped. The full horror of his position came home to him.
He felt panicky. This wasn’t real. He, Bruce Tinney, couldn’t be sitting here in trunks, with two heads and four arms, across from Turk Zorion——
The Garden was in an uproar. Tinney thought of his two hundred dollars and cursed Haggerty. “Wake up!” he gasped.
No answer.
What now? Retreat, obviously. But that would mean the loss of the two hundred dollars, and all Tinney’s hopes for the future. Haggerty might revive at any time. If Tinney could only stall the Turk until then——
It might be done. After all, he had four arms!
Yes, he’d go through with it. Until Haggerty awoke and took over, and unless Bruce was murdered in the meantime.
There were some consolations. Tinney had Haggerty’s muscular wrestler’s body. And the four arms. So——
It started. There was no trouble at first, except for the look of blank amazement on the Turk’s face, and the cries that went up from the audience.
Haggerty fought with his face down. People wondered how he could see what he was doing. His head lolled forward drunkenly. Also, how could that white linen bag stay in place on his shoulder? And those tour arms!
The Turk got over his puzzlement and closed. He picked Tinney up and attempted a flying mare. But never before had he wrestled a man with four arms. It was like trying to throw an octopus.
Tinney gradually climbed down the Turk’s body, in a spidery fashion.
The Turk was so astounded that he fell easy victim to Tinney. Tinney was thrown, but his four arms enabled him to somersault, so his opponent missed him entirely. Before the Turk could rise, he was seized, twisted over on his back, and four hands were pressing him down vigorously. The referee slapped Tinney’s back.
One fall. The Turk foamed unpleasantly. Tinney retreated and hissed, “Haggerty! Wake up!”
Then the Turk was on him again. This time Tinney was flung down bodily, but he managed to roll away. As he rose, the Turk came flying at him feet first, and a pile-driver hit Tinney in the middle. He collapsed.
The Turk leaped upon him and pressed his shoulders down. The referee was slightly puzzled. It was difficult to know where Tinney’s shoulders were.
However, Turk Zorion got the fall.
Tinney rose groggily. Sweat stung his nostrils. “Haggerty!” he gasped.
STILL no response. Haggerty’s head lolled forward. The sight was unorthodox in the extreme—a wrestler who fled around the ring, looking apparently at his feet, with a white bag on his shoulder, and Turk Zorion pursuing him.
Boos went up.
It was getting difficult to see through the linen bag. Tinney ran headlong into the Turk. Before he could break free, he was slammed down, and his opponent had sprung on his chest. The referee ran forward.
Tinney acted on impulse. All four of his hands shot forward. He got his palms under the Turk’s chin, overlapping, and shoved with all his strength. The Turk was dislodged.
As the man went over backward, Tinney sprang after him. He swarmed all over the other. Arms and legs tangled in a mad melee.
Perhaps the sight of Haggerty’s obviously unconscious face, hanging droopily above him, unnerved the Turk. At any rate, his nerve broke completely, and he went all to pieces, screaming hysterically, and making scarcely any resistance when Tinney slammed his shoulders against the canvas.
“Take him off!” the wretched Turk shrieked. “He’s a devil! He’s a zombie! Help!”
Tinney felt his back slapped. He stood up, wavering, and made his way to his corner.
An uproar of shouts was booming up from all over the Garden. Hats sailed into the air. Never before had such an extraordinary battle been staged in the ring.
“Uh—” said a familiar voice. “What happened? Who hit me?”
Haggerty lifted his head. “Oh, I get it. I’ll take over now, kid. Just relax. I’ll finish the Turk before he’s out of his corner.”
Tinney gritted his teeth, fighting back fury. Hastily he whispered to Haggerty what had happened.
“Huh? Oh, well, what d’ya know! Thanks!”
He arose, strode to the center of the canvas, and shook hands with himself. Four hands.
Newspapermen and spectators were converging on the ring. Tinney whispered to Haggerty as he caught sight of Uncle Wilbur making his way to one of the aisles.
“Yeah? Okay. I get the idea.”
“Sure you understand? Get him into a taxi, take him home, and make him reverse the fourth-dimensional machine. Once that’s done, we’ll be two people again. Uncle Wilbur can do it all right—if he’s willing.”
“He’ll be willing,” Haggerty promised grimly, and strode forward, pushing through the crowd. “Lemme by, there!” His voice was raised to a bull’s bellow. “Lemme past! I gotta see a guy.”
Tinney, safe in the linen bag, relaxed happily. All was well. Van Dill would restore him and Haggerty to their rightful forms. Better than that, he had won the fight. Two hundred dollars, at eight to one—certainly enough to buy that stationery store and settle down.
All was well.
Tinney grinned. The old saying was right. Two heads were better than one!
EARTH’S LAST CITADEL
Beginning a Great Fantastic Novel
Yank and Nazi, they fought in Tunisia—until the grim summons of an irresistible power carried them to a dying world a million years away.
PROLOGUE
BEHIND the low ridge of rock to the north was the Mediterranean. Alan Drake could hear it and smell it. The bitter chill of the North African night cut through his torn uniform, but sporadic flares of whiteness from the sea battle seemed to give him warmth, somehow. Out there the big guns were blasting, the battlewagons thundering their fury.
This was it.
And he wasn’t in it—not this time. His job was to bring Sir Colin safely out of the Tunisian desert. That, it seemed, was important.
Squatting in the cold sand, Alan ignored the Scots scientist huddled beside him, to stare at the ridge as though his gaze could hurdle its summit and leap out to where the ships were fighting. Behind him, from the south, came the deep echoing noise of heavy artillery. That, he knew, was one jaw of the trap that was dosing on him. The tides of war changed so swiftly—there was nothing for them now but heading blindly for the Mediterranean and safety.
He had got Sir Colin out of one Nazi trap already, two breathless days ago. But Colin Douglas was too valuable a man for either side to forget easily. And the Nazis would be following. They were between the lines now, lost, trying desperately to reach safety and stay hidden.
Somewhere in the night sky a nearing plane droned high. Moonlight glinted on Drake’s smooth blond head as he leaped for the shadow of a dune, signaling Sir Colin fiercely. Drake crouched askew, favoring his left side where a bullet gouge ran aslant up one powerful forearm and disappeared under his torn sleeve. He’d got that two nights ago in the Nazi raid, when he snatched Sir Colin away barely in time.
Army Intelligence meant such work, very often. Drake was a good man for his job, which was dangerous. A glance at his tight-lipped poker-face would have told that. It was a face of curious contrasts, and the people he met in the devious byways of his job were often misled by it. His tight mouth could break into a smile of singular gentleness. But his eyes were almost impassive. Opponents were at a loss trying to gauge his character by one contradictory feature or the other; more often than not they guessed wrong.
The plane’s droning roar was very near now. It shook the whole sky with a canopy of sound. Sir Colin said impersonally, huddled against the dune,
“That meteor we saw last night—must have fallen near here, eh?”
Such a comment was like the man. His cool technician’s brain never let danger distract it. He seemed to put a set of values uniquely his own on everything that happened. Danger held a very low rank in that setup.
Drake turned slightly to watch the Scotsman, wondering how he was standing the strain of a waterless desert trip. Well enough, apparently, he decided, narrowing his eyes at the raw-boned, brick-colored features, flaming now with sun and wind. Douglas entirely lacked the proverbial dignity of the scientist. A reddish, scraggly beard could not conceal the sensuous thickness of his lips or the deep lines graven at their corners that compounded smile and sneer. There were stories about Sir Colin. His mind was a great one, but until the war he had detested having to use it. Science was only his avocation. He preferred the pleasures which food and liquor and women supplied. A decadent Epicurus with an Einstein brain—strange combination. And yet his technical skill—he was a top-rank physicist—had been of enormous value to the Allies.
“Meteor?” Drake said. “I’m not worried about that. But the plane—” He glanced up futilely. The plane was drawing farther away. “If they spotted us . . .”
Sir Colin scratched himself shamelessly. “I could do with a plane now. There seem to be fleas in Tunisia—carnivorous sand-fleas, be damned to them.”
“You’d better worry about that plane—and what’s in it.”
Sir Colin glanced up thoughtfully. “What?”
“A dollar to a sand-flea it’s Karen Martin.”
“Oh.” Sir Colin grimaced. “Her again. Maybe this time we’ll meet.”
“She’s a bad egg, Sir Colin. If she’s really after us we’re in for trouble.”
The big Scotsman grunted. “An Amazon, eh?”
“You’d be surprised. She’s damned clever. She and her sidekick draw good pay from the Nazis, and earn it, too. You know Mike Smith?”
“An American?” Sir Colin scratched again.
“Americanized German. He’s got a bad history too. Racketeer, I think, until Repeal. When the Nazis got going, he headed back for Germany. Killing’s his profession, and their routine suits him. He and Karen make a dangerous team.”
The Scotsman got laboriously to his feet, looking after the vanished plane.
“Well,” he said, “if that was the team, they’ll be back.”
“And we’d better not be here.” Drake scrambled up, nursing his arm.
The Scotsman shrugged and jerked his thumb forward. Drake grinned. His blue eyes, almost black under the shadow of the full lids, held expressionless impassivity. Even when he smiled, as he did now, the eyes did not change.
“Come on,” he said.
The sand was cold; night made it pale as snow in the faint moonlight. Guns were still clamoring as the two men moved toward the ridge. Beyond it lay the Mediterranean and, perhaps, safety.
