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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/29749-h.zip b/29749-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d839f76 --- /dev/null +++ b/29749-h.zip diff --git a/29749-h/29749-h.htm b/29749-h/29749-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07382d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/29749-h/29749-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1340 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Flying Cuspidors, by V. R. Francis + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2 {text-align: right; font-weight: normal; line-height: 2em;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .bk1 {margin: 1em auto 3em; border-top: solid 2px; border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bk2 {float: left; width: 15em; margin: 1em 2em 1em 0;} + .pr1 {line-height: 1.5em; margin-top: 4em;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 2em auto; visibility: hidden;} + .smcap,.smcapl {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smcapl {text-transform: lowercase; font-style: normal;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em; width: auto;} + a:link,a:visited {text-decoration: none;} + img {border: none;} + .figt {float: left; clear: left; margin: 15px; padding: 0; width: 145px;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; min-height: 230px;} + .trn p {margin: 15px;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Flying Cuspidors, by V. R. Francis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Flying Cuspidors + +Author: V. R. Francis + +Release Date: August 21, 2009 [EBook #29749] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLYING CUSPIDORS *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="bk1"><p><i><small>A trumpet-tooter in love can be a wonderful sight, if Local 802 will forgive +our saying so; when extraterrestrials get involved too—oh brother! +V. R. Francis, who lives in California and has previously appeared in men's +magazines, became 21 and sold to <span class="smcapl">FANTASTIC UNIVERSE</span> all in the same week.</small></i></p></div> + +<div class="bk2"><h1><b>the<br /> +flying<br /> +cuspidors</b></h1> + +<h2><small><i>by ... V. R. Francis</i></small></h2> + +<p class="pr1"><big><b>This was love, and what could be done about it? +It's been happening to guys for a long time, now.</b></big></p></div> + +<p class="cap"><span class="smcap">Hotlips Grogan</span> may not be as +handsome and good-looking like +me or as brainy and intellectual, but +in this fiscal year of 2056 he is the +gonest trumpet-tooter this side of +Alpha Centauri. You would know +what I mean right off if you ever +hear him give out with "Stars Fell +on Venus," or "Martian Love +Song," or "Shine On, Harvest +Luna." Believe me, it is out of this +world. He is not only hot, he is +radioactive. On a clear day he is +playing notes you cannot hear without +you are wearing special equipment.</p> + +<p>That is for a fact.</p> + +<p>Mostly he is a good man—cool, +solid, and in the warp. But one +night he is playing strictly in three +or four wrong keys.</p> + +<p>I am the ivory man for this elite +bunch of musicians, and I am +scooping up my three-dee music +from the battered electronic eighty-eight +when he comes over looking +plenty worried.</p> + +<p>"Eddie," he says, "I got a problem."</p> + +<p>"You got a problem, all right," +I tell him. "You are not getting +a job selling Venusian fish, the way +you play today."</p> + +<p>He frowns. "It is pretty bad, I +suppose."</p> + +<p>"Bad is not the word," I say, but +I spare his feelings and do not say +the word it is. "What gives?"</p> + +<p>He looks around him, careful to +see if anybody in the place is close +enough to hear. But it is only afternoon +rehearsal on the gambling +ship <i>Saturn</i>, and the waiters are +busy mopping up the floor and leaning +on their long-handled sterilizers, +and the boys in the band are +picking up their music to go down +to Earth to get some shut-eye or +maybe an atomic beer or two before +we open that night.</p> + +<p>Hotlips Grogan leans over and +whispers in my ear. "It is the +thrush," he says.</p> + +<p>"The thrush?" I say, loud, before +he clamps one of his big hands over +my kisser. "The thrush," I say, +softer; "you mean the canary?"</p> + +<p>He waves his arms like a bird. +"Thrush, canary—I mean Stella +Starlight."</p> + +<p>For a minute I stand with my +mouth open and think of this. Then +I rubber for the ninety-seventh time +at the female warbler, who is standing +talking to Frankie, the band +leader. She is a thrush new to the +band and plenty cute—a blonde, +with everything where it is supposed +to be, and maybe a little extra +helping in a couple spots. I give her +my usual approving once-over, just +in case I miss something the last +ninety-six approving once-overs I +give her.</p> + +<p>"What about her?" I say.</p> + +<p>"It is her fault I play like I do," +Hotlips Grogan tells me sadly. +"Come on. Leave us go guzzle a +beer and I will tell you about it."</p> + +<p>Just then Frankie comes over, +looking nasty like as usual, and he +says to Grogan, "You are not playing +too well today, Hotlips. Maybe +you hurt your lip on a beer bottle, +huh?"</p> + +<p>As usual also, his tone is pretty +short on sweetness and light, and +I do not see why Grogan, who +looks something like a gorilla's +mother-in-law, takes such guff from +a beanpole like Frankie.</p> + +<p>But Grogan only says, "I think +something is wrong with my trumpet. +I have it fixed before tonight."</p> + +<p>Frankie smirks. "Do that," he +says, looking like a grinning weasel. +"We want you to play for dancing, +not for calling in Martian moose."</p> + +<p>Frankie walks away, and Hotlips +shrugs.</p> + +<p>"Leave us get our beer," he says +simply, and we go to the ferry.</p> + +<p>We pile into the space-ferry with +the other musicians and anyone else +who is going down to dirty old +terra firma, and when everybody +who is going aboard is aboard, the +doors close, and the ferry drifts into +space. Hotlips and I find seats, and +we look back at the gambling ship. +It is a thrill you do not get used +to, no matter how many times you +see it.</p> + +<p>The sailor boys who build the +<i>Saturn</i>—they give it the handle +of <i>Satellite II</i> then—would not +know their baby now, Frankie does +such a good job of revamping it. +Of course, it is not used as a gambling +ship then—at least not altogether, +if you know what I mean. +Way back in 1998 when they get it +in the sky, they are more interested +in it being useful than pretty; anybody +that got nasty and unsanitary +ideas just forgot them when they +saw that iron casket floating in a +sky that could be filled with hydrogen +bombs or old laundry without +so much as a four-bar intro as warning.</p> + +<p>Frankie buys <i>Satellite II</i> at a war +surplus sale when moon flights become +as easy as commuters' trips, +and he smoothes out its shape so it +looks like an egg and then puts a +fin around it for ships to land on. +After that, it does not take much +imagination to call it the <i>Saturn</i>. +Then he gets his Western Hemisphere +license and opens for business.</p> + +<p>My daydreaming stops, for suddenly +Hotlips is grabbing my arm +and pointing out the window.</p> + +<p>"What for are you grabbing my +arm and waving your fist at the +window, Hotlips?" I inquire politely +of him.</p> + +<p>"Eddie," he whispers, all nervous +and excited from something, "I see +one."</p> + +<p>I give him a blank stare. "You +see one what?"</p> + +<p>"One flying cuspidor," he says, +his face serious. "I see it hanging +out there by the <i>Saturn</i> and then +suddenly it is gone. Whoosh."</p> + +<p>"Hallucination," I tell him. But +I look out hard and try to see one +too. I don't, so I figure maybe I am +right, after all.</p> + +<p>I do not know about this "men +from space" gimmick the science-fiction +people try to peddle, but lots +of good substantial citizens see flying +cuspidors and I think to myself +that maybe there is something to +it. So I keep looking back at the +<i>Saturn</i>, but nothing unusual is going +on that I can see. My logic and +super-salesmanship evidently convinces +Hotlips, for he does not say +anything more about it.</p> + +<p>Anyway, in a few minutes we +joggle to a stop at Earthport, pile +out, wave our identification papers +at the doorman with the lieutenant's +bars, and then take off for the +<i>Atomic Cafe</i> a block away.</p> + +<p>Entering this gem of a drinking +establishment, we make our way +through the smoke and noise to a +quiet little corner table and give +Mamie the high-sign for two beers. +A few minutes later she comes +bouncing over with the order and +a cheery word about how invigorating +it is to see us high-class gentlemen +instead of the bums that usually +hang around a joint like this trying +to make time with a nice girl +like her.</p> + +<p>"That is all very nice," I say to +her politely, "and we are overjoyed +beyond words to see you too, +Mamie, but Hotlips and I have got +strange and mysterious things to +discuss, so I would appreciate it if +you would see us later instead of +now." With this, I give her arm a +playful pat, and she blushes and +takes the hint.</p> + +<p>When we are alone, I ask Hotlips, +now what is the trouble which +he has.</p> + +<p>"Like I tell you before," Hotlips +says, "I have a problem. So here it +is." He takes a deep breath and lets +fly all at once. "I am in love of the +thrush, Stella Starlight."</p> + +<p>I am drinking my beer when he +says this, and suddenly I get a +snootful and start coughing, and he +whams me on the back with his +big paw so I stop, more in self-defense +than in his curing me. +Somehow, the idea of a big bruiser +like Hotlips Grogan in love of a +sweet fluffy thing like Stella Starlight +seems funny.</p> + +<p>"So?" I say.</p> + +<p>"So that is why I play so bad tonight," +he says. Seeing I do not +quite catch on to the full intent of +his remarks, he continues. "I am a +happy man, Eddie. I got my trumpet, +a paid-for suit of clothes, a +one-room apartment with green +wallpaper. Could a man ask for +much more?"</p> + +<p>"Not unless he is greedy," I +agree.</p> + +<p>Hotlips Grogan is staring at his +beer as though he sees a worm in +it and looking sadder than ever. +"It is a strange and funny thing," +he says, dreamy-like. "There she is +singing, and there I am giving with +the trumpet, and all of a great big +sudden—whammo!—it hits me, +and I feel a funny feeling in my +stomach, like maybe it is full of +supersuds or something, and my +mouth is dry just like cotton +candy."</p> + +<p>"Indigestion," I suggest.</p> + +<p>He shakes his big head. "No," +he says, "it is worse than indigestion." +He points to his stomach and +sighs. "It is love."</p> + +<p>"Fine," I say, happy it is not +worse. "All you got to do is tell +her, get married and have lots and +lots of kids."</p> + +<p>Hotlips Grogan's big eyebrows +play hopscotch around his button +nose, so I can tell he does not think +I solve all his troubles with my +suggestion.</p> + +<p>"You are a good man, Eddie," +he tells me, "but you are too intellectual. +This is an affair of the +heart." He sighs again. "I am never +in love of a girl before," he goes +on, more worried, "and I do not +know how to act. Besides, the +thrush is with us only a day, and +Frankie already is making with the +eyes."</p> + +<p>"So what should I do, give you +lessons?" The idea is so laughable +I laugh at it. "Anyway, Frankie +always makes with the eyes at +thrushes."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Hotlips Grogan admits, +"but never before have I been in +love of any of the thrushes Frankie +has made with the eyes at. Frankly, +Eddie, I am worried like all get out +about this."</p> + +<p>"Sometimes I do not even understand +the way you play even before +the thrush comes, Hotlips," I admit. +"Like for instance yesterday when +we play 'A Spaceship Built for +Two.' This is a song, as you know, +that does not have in it many high +notes, but even when you play the +low notes they sound somewhat +like they maybe are trying to be +high notes. It is a matter which is +perplexing to one of my curious +nature."</p> + +<p>Hotlips looks sheepish for a minute +and then he says, "It is a physical +disability with me, Eddie. When +I am young and practicing with my +trumpet one day, I have an accident +and get my tongue caught in the +mouthpiece, and it is necessary for +the doctor to operate on my tongue +and cut into it like maybe it is +chopped liver."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry to hear this, Hotlips," +I say.</p> + +<p>"I do not tell anyone this before, +Eddie," Hotlips confesses. "But +afterward when I play the trumpet, +I play two notes at one time, which +at first is pretty embarrassing."</p> + +<p>"This is great, Hotlips," I proclaim +as a big idea hits me; "you +can play your own harmony. With +talent like that, and my brain—"</p> + +<p>But Hotlips is shaking his head. +"No, Eddie," he says. "The other +note is way off in the stratosphere +someplace and no one can hear it, +even when the melody note is low. +And the higher the note is you can +hear, the higher the other note is +you cannot hear. Besides, now I +cannot even play what I am supposed +to play, what with the thrush +around."</p> + +<p>I sit there with my beer in my +hand and think about it for a while, +while Hotlips looks at me like a +lost sheepdog. I scratch my head but +I do not even come up with dandruff.</p> + +<p>Finally, I say, "Well, thrush or +not, if you play no better than you +do this afternoon, Frankie will +make you walk back home without +a spacesuit."</p> + +<p>"That is for positive," Hotlips +agrees sadly. "So what can I do?"</p> + +<p>I am forced to admit that I do +not know just what Hotlips can do. +"However," I say, "I have an idea." +And I call Mamie over and tell her +the problem. "So you are a woman +and maybe you know what my +musician friend can do," I suggest.</p> + +<p>Mamie sighs. "I am at a loss for +words concerning what your friend +can do, but I know just how he +feels, for it is like that with me, +too. I am in love of a handsome +young musician who comes in here, +but he does not take notice of me, +except to order some beer for him +and his friend."</p> + +<p>I click my teeth sympathetically +at this news.</p> + +<p>"And I am too shy and dignified +a girl to tell him," Mamie continues +sadly. "So you see I have the same +problem as your friend and cannot +help you."</p> + +<p>"See," I whisper to Hotlips, "it +is perfectly normal."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he hisses back. "But I am +still miserable, and the only company +I desire is that of Stella Starlight."</p> + +<p>"Maybe it really is your trumpet," +I suggest, not very hopeful, +though.</p> + +<p>Hotlips shakes his head. "Look," +he says and takes the trumpet from +his case and puts it to his lips, "and +listen to this."</p> + +<p>Inwardly, I quiver like all get +out, because I figure that is just +what the management will tell us +to do, once Hotlips lets go. Hotlips +puffs out his cheeks and a soft note +slides from the end of the trumpet—low, +clear, and beautiful, without +a waver in a spaceload. Only a few +people close by can hear the note +and they do not pay us any attention, +except to think that maybe +we are a little nuttier than is normal +for musicians.</p> + +<p>From his first note, Hotlips shifts +to a higher note which is just as +pretty. Then he goes on to another +one and then to another, improvising +a melody I do not hear before +and getting higher all the time. +After a while I can hardly hear it, it +is so high, but I can feel the glass +in my hand vibrating like it wants +to get out on the floor and dance. +I hold on to it with both hands, so +my beer will not slosh over the side. +Then there is no sound at all from +the trumpet, but Hotlips' cheeks are +puffed out and he is still blowing +for all he is worth—which is +plenty, if he can play like this when +Stella Starlight is around.</p> + +<p>I tap Hotlips on the shoulder. +"Hotlips, that is all very well for +any bats in the room which maybe +can hear what you play, but—" He +does not pay me any attention.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there is a large crinkle-crash +of glass from the bar and a +hoarse cry from the bartender as he +sees his king-size mirror come down +in little pieces. At the same time, +glasses pop into fragments all over +the room and spill beer over the +people holding them. Even my own +glass becomes nothing but ground +glass and the beer sloshes over the +table. At the moment, however, I +do not worry about that.</p> + +<p>There are other things to worry +about which are more important—like +Hotlips' and my health, for instance, +which is not likely to be so +good in the near future.</p> + +<p>Like I say, Hotlips does not play +loud and it is noisy in the place, so +there are not too many who hear +him. But they look around, all mad +and covered with beer, and see him +there with the trumpet in his hand +and a funny look on his big face, +and they put two and two together. +I can see they figure the answer is +four. And what makes things +worse, they are between us and the +front door, so we cannot sneak past +like maybe we are just tourists.</p> + +<p>"Hotlips," I say to him, my voice +not calm like is usual, "I think it +is a grand and glorious idea that +we desert here and take ourselves +elsewhere."</p> + +<p>Hotlips agrees. "But where?" he +wants to know.</p> + +<p>I am forced to admit to myself +that he comes up with a good +question.</p> + +<p>"Over here," Mamie said suddenly, +and we look across the room +to see her poking her nose through +a side door.</p> + +<p>We do not wait for a formal +invite but zoom across the floor and +through the door into another, +emptier room. Mamie slams the +door and locks it just as two or +three bodies thump into it like they +mean business.</p> + +<p>"The manager is out there and +is not completely overjoyed with +your actions of a short while ago," +Mamie informs us, explaining, "I +recognize the thump the character +makes."</p> + +<p>"Evidently," I surmise, "he is in +no mood to talk to concerning damages +and how we can get out of +paying them, so we will talk to him +later instead of now."</p> + +<p>"See what I mean, though, +Eddie," Hotlips says. "I play fine +when Stella Starlight is not in the +place. Like I say, it is love and what +can I do about it."</p> + +<p>"It is a problem," I say. "Even +if you <i>do</i> play, you will no doubt +be fired and cannot pay for the +damages to the bar room and to +the customers' clothing." Already +there are holes in my plastic clothing +where the beer splashes. "If you +can only give out on the <i>Saturn</i> like +you play here," I sigh, "we can +break all records and show +Frankie—"</p> + +<p>Suddenly Mamie is tugging at +my arm.</p> + +<p>"Mamie," I inquire politely of +her, "why are you tugging at my +arm?"</p> + +<p>"That is it," she informs me and +leans forward and whispers in my +ear.</p> + +<p>"But—" I say.</p> + +<p>"Hurry," she says, pushing us out +another door. "You have only got +this afternoon to do it."</p> + +<p>"But—" I say again, and Hotlips +and I are in the alley looking at the +door which Mamie closes in our +face.</p> + +<p>"What does Mamie say?" Hotlips +wants to know eagerly. "Can +she fix it up with me and Stella +Starlight?"</p> + +<p>I scratch my head. "That I do +not know, Hotlips, but she does +give me an idea which is so good +I am surprised at myself I do not +think of it alone."</p> + +<p>Hotlips gives me a blank stare. +"Which is?"</p> + +<p>"Come on," I say mysteriously. +"You and me have got things to +do."</p> + +<p>It is hard to say who is more +nervous that night, Hotlips or a certain +piano player with my name. +Frankie is smirking like always, and +Stella Starlight is sitting and looking +beautiful while she waits for +her cue. Hotlips is fumbling with +his trumpet like maybe he never +sees one before. And I—even I am +not exactly calm like always.</p> + +<p>The band begins to warm up, +but we do not knock ourselves out +because there are still no customers +to speak of. Frankie's license makes +it plain that he has to stay over the +western hemisphere so he has to +wait until it gets dark enough there +for the people to want to go night-clubbing, +even though it is not really +night on the <i>Saturn</i>, or morning +or anything else.</p> + +<p>We play along like always, and +Hotlips has his trumpet pressed +into his face, and nothing but beautiful +sounds come from the band. +I do not know if Frankie is altogether +happy about this, for he does +not like Hotlips and would like this +chance to bounce him. But what surprises +me most is that the thrush, +Stella Starlight, keeps looking back +at Hotlips like she notices him for +the first time and is plenty worried +by what she sees.</p> + +<p>We have a short break after +a while and I am telling Hotlips +that the idea goes over real great, +when Stella Starlight waltzes over. +Hotlips' big eyes bug out and I can +see him shaking and covered with +goosebumps.</p> + +<p>"You do not play like that before, +Hotlips," she coos. "What did +you do?"</p> + +<p>Hotlips blushes and stammers, +"Eddie and I fix—" But I give him +a kick in his big shins before he +gives the whole thing away.</p> + +<p>"Hotlips does some practicing +this afternoon," I tell her, "to get +his lip in shape for tonight."</p> + +<p>She looks at me like she is looking +through me, and then she turns +back to Hotlips and says, soft and +murmuring: "Please do not play too +high, Hotlips. I am delicate and am +disturbed by high sounds."</p> + +<p>She waltzes away, and I scratch +my head and try to figure out what +this pitch is for. Hotlips is not trying +to figure out anything; he just +sits there looking like he has just +got his trumpet out of hock for the +last time.</p> + +<p>"Hotlips," I say to him.</p> + +<p>"Go away, please, Eddie," he +tells me. "I am in heaven."</p> + +<p>"You will be in the poorhouse or +maybe even in jail if you tell somebody +how we fix your playing," I +warn him.</p> + +<p>"I still feel funny feelings +though, Eddie," he tells me, frowning, +"like I cannot hit high notes +now if I try."</p> + +<p>"Then do not try," I advise. +"One problem at a time is too +much."</p> + +<p>There is a commotion at the entrance +on the other side of the +dance floor, where some people all +dressed up come in. A woman is +holding her head and moaning and +threatening to faint all over the +place.</p> + +<p>Frankie hurries over to us, running +fidgety hands through his hair. +"For goodness sake, play something," +he almost begs.</p> + +<p>"What gives?" I inquire.</p> + +<p>"Flying cuspidors," Frankie says +in a frantic tone. "They are all +around the place, like they are maybe +mad at something, and a few +minutes ago they buzz the ferry and +get the passengers all nervous and +upset. If they do that again, business +will be bad; maybe even now +it will be bad. Play something!"</p> + +<p>He hops out in front with his +baton and gives us a quick one-two, +and we all swing into "Space On +My Hands," real loud so as to get +people's minds off things which +Frankie wants to get people's minds +off of.</p> + +<p>Stella Starlight gets up to sing, +but she looks more like she would +rather do something else. She stares +at Hotlips and at the trumpet on his +lips and begins to quiver like she is +about to do a dance.</p> + +<p>I remember she says she does not +like high notes, and this song has +some pretty well up in the stratosphere, +especially for the trumpet +section, which is Hotlips.</p> + +<p>She is frowning like maybe she +is thinking real hard about something +and is surprised her thoughts +do no good. Her face becomes waxy +and there is a frightened look on it.</p> + +<p>She quivers some more, as the +notes go up and up and up. Then +she lets out a shriek, like maybe she +is going to pieces.</p> + +<p>And then she does. Actually.</p> + +<p>Right before our popping eyeballs +she goes to pieces.</p> + +<p>As each one in the band sees +what is going on, he stops playing, +until finally Hotlips is the only one. +But the trumpet is in Hotlips' hand, +and the music is coming from the +recording machine we place under +his chair. The notes are clear and +smooth, and you can almost feel +the air shaking with them.</p> + +<p>But nobody notices the music or +where it comes from. They are too +busy watching the thrush, Stella +Starlight.</p> + +<p>She stands there, her face as +white as clay, shaking like a carrot +going through a mixmaster. And +then tiny cracks appear on her face, +on her arms, even in her dress, and +then a large one appears in her +forehead and goes down through +her body. She splits in the middle +like a cracked walnut, and there in +the center, floating three feet from +the floor is a small flying cuspidor.</p> + +<p>Nobody in the room says anything. +They just stand there, bug-eyed +and frightened like anything. +Somewhere, across the room, a +woman faints. I do not feel too well +myself, and I am afraid to look to +see how Hotlips takes this.</p> + +<p>There is no sound, but I hear a +voice in my mind and know that the +others hear it too. The voice sounds +like it is filled with wire and metal +and is not exactly human. It says:</p> + +<p>"<i>You win, Hotlips Grogan. I, as +advance agent in disguise, tell you +this. We will go away and leave you +and your people alone. We place a +mental block in your mind, but you +outsmart us, and now you know our +weakness. We cannot stand high +sounds which you can play so easy +on your trumpet. We find ourselves +a home someplace else.</i>"</p> + +<p>With that, the cuspidor shoots +across the room and plows right +through the wall.</p> + +<p>"That's the engine room!" +Frankie wails.</p> + +<p>There is a sudden explosion from +the other side of the wall, and +everybody decides all at once they +would like to be someplace else, +and they all pick the same spot. The +space ferry is pretty crowded, but +we jam aboard it and drift away +from the <i>Saturn</i>—musicians, waiters +and paying customers all sitting in +each other's laps.</p> + +<p>The <i>Saturn</i> is wobbling around, +with flames shooting out at all +angles, and Frankie is holding his +head and moaning. In the distance, +you can just about make out little +specks of cuspidors heading for the +wild black yonder.</p> + +<p>So all is well that ends well, and +this is it.</p> + +<p>Frankie uses his insurance money +to open a rest home on Mars for +ailing musicians.</p> + +<p>Hotlips is all broken up, in a +manner of speaking, over Stella +Starlight's turning out to be not human, +but he consoles himself with +a good job playing trumpet in a +burlesque house where the girls +wear costumes made of glass and +other brittle stuff.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>As for me, Mamie gets me a +job playing piano at the place where +she works, and everything is okay +except for one thing. When Mamie +is around I cannot seem to concentrate +on my playing. I feel a funny +feeling in my stomach, like maybe +it is full of supersuds or something, +and my mouth is dry like cotton +candy.</p> + +<p>I think maybe it is indigestion.</p> + +<div class="trn"><div class="figt"><a href="images/001-2.jpg"><img src="images/001-1.jpg" width="145" height="200" alt="" title="" /></a></div> + +<p><b><big>Transcriber's Note:</big></b></p> + +<p>This etext was produced from <i>Fantastic Universe</i> August 1958. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Flying Cuspidors, by V. R. 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R. Francis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Flying Cuspidors + +Author: V. R. Francis + +Release Date: August 21, 2009 [EBook #29749] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLYING CUSPIDORS *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + _A trumpet-tooter in love can be a wonderful sight, if Local 802 + will forgive our saying so; when extraterrestrials get involved + too--oh brother! V. R. Francis, who lives in California and has + previously appeared in men's magazines, became 21 and sold to + FANTASTIC UNIVERSE all in the same week._ + + + the + flying + cuspidors + + _by ... V. R. Francis_ + + + This was love, and what could be done about it? + It's been happening to guys for a long time, now. + + +Hotlips Grogan may not be as handsome and good-looking like me or as +brainy and intellectual, but in this fiscal year of 2056 he is the +gonest trumpet-tooter this side of Alpha Centauri. You would know what I +mean right off if you ever hear him give out with "Stars Fell on Venus," +or "Martian Love Song," or "Shine On, Harvest Luna." Believe me, it is +out of this world. He is not only hot, he is radioactive. On a clear day +he is playing notes you cannot hear without you are wearing special +equipment. + +That is for a fact. + +Mostly he is a good man--cool, solid, and in the warp. But one night he +is playing strictly in three or four wrong keys. + +I am the ivory man for this elite bunch of musicians, and I am scooping +up my three-dee music from the battered electronic eighty-eight when he +comes over looking plenty worried. + +"Eddie," he says, "I got a problem." + +"You got a problem, all right," I tell him. "You are not getting a job +selling Venusian fish, the way you play today." + +He frowns. "It is pretty bad, I suppose." + +"Bad is not the word," I say, but I spare his feelings and do not say +the word it is. "What gives?" + +He looks around him, careful to see if anybody in the place is close +enough to hear. But it is only afternoon rehearsal on the gambling ship +_Saturn_, and the waiters are busy mopping up the floor and leaning on +their long-handled sterilizers, and the boys in the band are picking up +their music to go down to Earth to get some shut-eye or maybe an atomic +beer or two before we open that night. + +Hotlips Grogan leans over and whispers in my ear. "It is the thrush," he +says. + +"The thrush?" I say, loud, before he clamps one of his big hands over my +kisser. "The thrush," I say, softer; "you mean the canary?" + +He waves his arms like a bird. "Thrush, canary--I mean Stella +Starlight." + +For a minute I stand with my mouth open and think of this. Then I rubber +for the ninety-seventh time at the female warbler, who is standing +talking to Frankie, the band leader. She is a thrush new to the band and +plenty cute--a blonde, with everything where it is supposed to be, and +maybe a little extra helping in a couple spots. I give her my usual +approving once-over, just in case I miss something the last ninety-six +approving once-overs I give her. + +"What about her?" I say. + +"It is her fault I play like I do," Hotlips Grogan tells me sadly. "Come +on. Leave us go guzzle a beer and I will tell you about it." + +Just then Frankie comes over, looking nasty like as usual, and he says +to Grogan, "You are not playing too well today, Hotlips. Maybe you hurt +your lip on a beer bottle, huh?" + +As usual also, his tone is pretty short on sweetness and light, and I do +not see why Grogan, who looks something like a gorilla's mother-in-law, +takes such guff from a beanpole like Frankie. + +But Grogan only says, "I think something is wrong with my trumpet. I +have it fixed before tonight." + +Frankie smirks. "Do that," he says, looking like a grinning weasel. "We +want you to play for dancing, not for calling in Martian moose." + +Frankie walks away, and Hotlips shrugs. + +"Leave us get our beer," he says simply, and we go to the ferry. + +We pile into the space-ferry with the other musicians and anyone else +who is going down to dirty old terra firma, and when everybody who is +going aboard is aboard, the doors close, and the ferry drifts into +space. Hotlips and I find seats, and we look back at the gambling ship. +It is a thrill you do not get used to, no matter how many times you see +it. + +The sailor boys who build the _Saturn_--they give it the handle of +_Satellite II_ then--would not know their baby now, Frankie does such a +good job of revamping it. Of course, it is not used as a gambling ship +then--at least not altogether, if you know what I mean. Way back in 1998 +when they get it in the sky, they are more interested in it being useful +than pretty; anybody that got nasty and unsanitary ideas just forgot +them when they saw that iron casket floating in a sky that could be +filled with hydrogen bombs or old laundry without so much as a four-bar +intro as warning. + +Frankie buys _Satellite II_ at a war surplus sale when moon flights +become as easy as commuters' trips, and he smoothes out its shape so it +looks like an egg and then puts a fin around it for ships to land on. +After that, it does not take much imagination to call it the _Saturn_. +Then he gets his Western Hemisphere license and opens for business. + +My daydreaming stops, for suddenly Hotlips is grabbing my arm and +pointing out the window. + +"What for are you grabbing my arm and waving your fist at the window, +Hotlips?" I inquire politely of him. + +"Eddie," he whispers, all nervous and excited from something, "I see +one." + +I give him a blank stare. "You see one what?" + +"One flying cuspidor," he says, his face serious. "I see it hanging out +there by the _Saturn_ and then suddenly it is gone. Whoosh." + +"Hallucination," I tell him. But I look out hard and try to see one too. +I don't, so I figure maybe I am right, after all. + +I do not know about this "men from space" gimmick the science-fiction +people try to peddle, but lots of good substantial citizens see flying +cuspidors and I think to myself that maybe there is something to it. So +I keep looking back at the _Saturn_, but nothing unusual is going on +that I can see. My logic and super-salesmanship evidently convinces +Hotlips, for he does not say anything more about it. + +Anyway, in a few minutes we joggle to a stop at Earthport, pile out, +wave our identification papers at the doorman with the lieutenant's +bars, and then take off for the _Atomic Cafe_ a block away. + +Entering this gem of a drinking establishment, we make our way through +the smoke and noise to a quiet little corner table and give Mamie the +high-sign for two beers. A few minutes later she comes bouncing over +with the order and a cheery word about how invigorating it is to see us +high-class gentlemen instead of the bums that usually hang around a +joint like this trying to make time with a nice girl like her. + +"That is all very nice," I say to her politely, "and we are overjoyed +beyond words to see you too, Mamie, but Hotlips and I have got strange +and mysterious things to discuss, so I would appreciate it if you would +see us later instead of now." With this, I give her arm a playful pat, +and she blushes and takes the hint. + +When we are alone, I ask Hotlips, now what is the trouble which he has. + +"Like I tell you before," Hotlips says, "I have a problem. So here it +is." He takes a deep breath and lets fly all at once. "I am in love of +the thrush, Stella Starlight." + +I am drinking my beer when he says this, and suddenly I get a snootful +and start coughing, and he whams me on the back with his big paw so I +stop, more in self-defense than in his curing me. Somehow, the idea of a +big bruiser like Hotlips Grogan in love of a sweet fluffy thing like +Stella Starlight seems funny. + +"So?" I say. + +"So that is why I play so bad tonight," he says. Seeing I do not quite +catch on to the full intent of his remarks, he continues. "I am a happy +man, Eddie. I got my trumpet, a paid-for suit of clothes, a one-room +apartment with green wallpaper. Could a man ask for much more?" + +"Not unless he is greedy," I agree. + +Hotlips Grogan is staring at his beer as though he sees a worm in it and +looking sadder than ever. "It is a strange and funny thing," he says, +dreamy-like. "There she is singing, and there I am giving with the +trumpet, and all of a great big sudden--whammo!--it hits me, and I feel +a funny feeling in my stomach, like maybe it is full of supersuds or +something, and my mouth is dry just like cotton candy." + +"Indigestion," I suggest. + +He shakes his big head. "No," he says, "it is worse than indigestion." +He points to his stomach and sighs. "It is love." + +"Fine," I say, happy it is not worse. "All you got to do is tell her, +get married and have lots and lots of kids." + +Hotlips Grogan's big eyebrows play hopscotch around his button nose, so +I can tell he does not think I solve all his troubles with my +suggestion. + +"You are a good man, Eddie," he tells me, "but you are too intellectual. +This is an affair of the heart." He sighs again. "I am never in love of +a girl before," he goes on, more worried, "and I do not know how to act. +Besides, the thrush is with us only a day, and Frankie already is making +with the eyes." + +"So what should I do, give you lessons?" The idea is so laughable I +laugh at it. "Anyway, Frankie always makes with the eyes at thrushes." + +"Yes," Hotlips Grogan admits, "but never before have I been in love of +any of the thrushes Frankie has made with the eyes at. Frankly, Eddie, I +am worried like all get out about this." + +"Sometimes I do not even understand the way you play even before the +thrush comes, Hotlips," I admit. "Like for instance yesterday when we +play 'A Spaceship Built for Two.' This is a song, as you know, that does +not have in it many high notes, but even when you play the low notes +they sound somewhat like they maybe are trying to be high notes. It is a +matter which is perplexing to one of my curious nature." + +Hotlips looks sheepish for a minute and then he says, "It is a physical +disability with me, Eddie. When I am young and practicing with my +trumpet one day, I have an accident and get my tongue caught in the +mouthpiece, and it is necessary for the doctor to operate on my tongue +and cut into it like maybe it is chopped liver." + +"I am sorry to hear this, Hotlips," I say. + +"I do not tell anyone this before, Eddie," Hotlips confesses. "But +afterward when I play the trumpet, I play two notes at one time, which +at first is pretty embarrassing." + +"This is great, Hotlips," I proclaim as a big idea hits me; "you can +play your own harmony. With talent like that, and my brain--" + +But Hotlips is shaking his head. "No, Eddie," he says. "The other note +is way off in the stratosphere someplace and no one can hear it, even +when the melody note is low. And the higher the note is you can hear, +the higher the other note is you cannot hear. Besides, now I cannot even +play what I am supposed to play, what with the thrush around." + +I sit there with my beer in my hand and think about it for a while, +while Hotlips looks at me like a lost sheepdog. I scratch my head but I +do not even come up with dandruff. + +Finally, I say, "Well, thrush or not, if you play no better than you do +this afternoon, Frankie will make you walk back home without a +spacesuit." + +"That is for positive," Hotlips agrees sadly. "So what can I do?" + +I am forced to admit that I do not know just what Hotlips can do. +"However," I say, "I have an idea." And I call Mamie over and tell her +the problem. "So you are a woman and maybe you know what my musician +friend can do," I suggest. + +Mamie sighs. "I am at a loss for words concerning what your friend can +do, but I know just how he feels, for it is like that with me, too. I am +in love of a handsome young musician who comes in here, but he does not +take notice of me, except to order some beer for him and his friend." + +I click my teeth sympathetically at this news. + +"And I am too shy and dignified a girl to tell him," Mamie continues +sadly. "So you see I have the same problem as your friend and cannot +help you." + +"See," I whisper to Hotlips, "it is perfectly normal." + +"Yes," he hisses back. "But I am still miserable, and the only company I +desire is that of Stella Starlight." + +"Maybe it really is your trumpet," I suggest, not very hopeful, though. + +Hotlips shakes his head. "Look," he says and takes the trumpet from his +case and puts it to his lips, "and listen to this." + +Inwardly, I quiver like all get out, because I figure that is just what +the management will tell us to do, once Hotlips lets go. Hotlips puffs +out his cheeks and a soft note slides from the end of the trumpet--low, +clear, and beautiful, without a waver in a spaceload. Only a few people +close by can hear the note and they do not pay us any attention, except +to think that maybe we are a little nuttier than is normal for +musicians. + +From his first note, Hotlips shifts to a higher note which is just as +pretty. Then he goes on to another one and then to another, improvising +a melody I do not hear before and getting higher all the time. After a +while I can hardly hear it, it is so high, but I can feel the glass in +my hand vibrating like it wants to get out on the floor and dance. I +hold on to it with both hands, so my beer will not slosh over the side. +Then there is no sound at all from the trumpet, but Hotlips' cheeks are +puffed out and he is still blowing for all he is worth--which is plenty, +if he can play like this when Stella Starlight is around. + +I tap Hotlips on the shoulder. "Hotlips, that is all very well for any +bats in the room which maybe can hear what you play, but--" He does not +pay me any attention. + +Suddenly there is a large crinkle-crash of glass from the bar and a +hoarse cry from the bartender as he sees his king-size mirror come down +in little pieces. At the same time, glasses pop into fragments all over +the room and spill beer over the people holding them. Even my own glass +becomes nothing but ground glass and the beer sloshes over the table. At +the moment, however, I do not worry about that. + +There are other things to worry about which are more important--like +Hotlips' and my health, for instance, which is not likely to be so good +in the near future. + +Like I say, Hotlips does not play loud and it is noisy in the place, so +there are not too many who hear him. But they look around, all mad and +covered with beer, and see him there with the trumpet in his hand and a +funny look on his big face, and they put two and two together. I can see +they figure the answer is four. And what makes things worse, they are +between us and the front door, so we cannot sneak past like maybe we are +just tourists. + +"Hotlips," I say to him, my voice not calm like is usual, "I think it is +a grand and glorious idea that we desert here and take ourselves +elsewhere." + +Hotlips agrees. "But where?" he wants to know. + +I am forced to admit to myself that he comes up with a good question. + +"Over here," Mamie said suddenly, and we look across the room to see +her poking her nose through a side door. + +We do not wait for a formal invite but zoom across the floor and through +the door into another, emptier room. Mamie slams the door and locks it +just as two or three bodies thump into it like they mean business. + +"The manager is out there and is not completely overjoyed with your +actions of a short while ago," Mamie informs us, explaining, "I +recognize the thump the character makes." + +"Evidently," I surmise, "he is in no mood to talk to concerning damages +and how we can get out of paying them, so we will talk to him later +instead of now." + +"See what I mean, though, Eddie," Hotlips says. "I play fine when Stella +Starlight is not in the place. Like I say, it is love and what can I do +about it." + +"It is a problem," I say. "Even if you _do_ play, you will no doubt be +fired and cannot pay for the damages to the bar room and to the +customers' clothing." Already there are holes in my plastic clothing +where the beer splashes. "If you can only give out on the _Saturn_ like +you play here," I sigh, "we can break all records and show Frankie--" + +Suddenly Mamie is tugging at my arm. + +"Mamie," I inquire politely of her, "why are you tugging at my arm?" + +"That is it," she informs me and leans forward and whispers in my ear. + +"But--" I say. + +"Hurry," she says, pushing us out another door. "You have only got this +afternoon to do it." + +"But--" I say again, and Hotlips and I are in the alley looking at the +door which Mamie closes in our face. + +"What does Mamie say?" Hotlips wants to know eagerly. "Can she fix it up +with me and Stella Starlight?" + +I scratch my head. "That I do not know, Hotlips, but she does give me an +idea which is so good I am surprised at myself I do not think of it +alone." + +Hotlips gives me a blank stare. "Which is?" + +"Come on," I say mysteriously. "You and me have got things to do." + +It is hard to say who is more nervous that night, Hotlips or a certain +piano player with my name. Frankie is smirking like always, and Stella +Starlight is sitting and looking beautiful while she waits for her cue. +Hotlips is fumbling with his trumpet like maybe he never sees one +before. And I--even I am not exactly calm like always. + +The band begins to warm up, but we do not knock ourselves out because +there are still no customers to speak of. Frankie's license makes it +plain that he has to stay over the western hemisphere so he has to wait +until it gets dark enough there for the people to want to go +night-clubbing, even though it is not really night on the _Saturn_, or +morning or anything else. + +We play along like always, and Hotlips has his trumpet pressed into his +face, and nothing but beautiful sounds come from the band. I do not know +if Frankie is altogether happy about this, for he does not like Hotlips +and would like this chance to bounce him. But what surprises me most is +that the thrush, Stella Starlight, keeps looking back at Hotlips like +she notices him for the first time and is plenty worried by what she +sees. + +We have a short break after a while and I am telling Hotlips that the +idea goes over real great, when Stella Starlight waltzes over. Hotlips' +big eyes bug out and I can see him shaking and covered with goosebumps. + +"You do not play like that before, Hotlips," she coos. "What did you +do?" + +Hotlips blushes and stammers, "Eddie and I fix--" But I give him a kick +in his big shins before he gives the whole thing away. + +"Hotlips does some practicing this afternoon," I tell her, "to get his +lip in shape for tonight." + +She looks at me like she is looking through me, and then she turns back +to Hotlips and says, soft and murmuring: "Please do not play too high, +Hotlips. I am delicate and am disturbed by high sounds." + +She waltzes away, and I scratch my head and try to figure out what this +pitch is for. Hotlips is not trying to figure out anything; he just sits +there looking like he has just got his trumpet out of hock for the last +time. + +"Hotlips," I say to him. + +"Go away, please, Eddie," he tells me. "I am in heaven." + +"You will be in the poorhouse or maybe even in jail if you tell somebody +how we fix your playing," I warn him. + +"I still feel funny feelings though, Eddie," he tells me, frowning, +"like I cannot hit high notes now if I try." + +"Then do not try," I advise. "One problem at a time is too much." + +There is a commotion at the entrance on the other side of the dance +floor, where some people all dressed up come in. A woman is holding her +head and moaning and threatening to faint all over the place. + +Frankie hurries over to us, running fidgety hands through his hair. "For +goodness sake, play something," he almost begs. + +"What gives?" I inquire. + +"Flying cuspidors," Frankie says in a frantic tone. "They are all around +the place, like they are maybe mad at something, and a few minutes ago +they buzz the ferry and get the passengers all nervous and upset. If +they do that again, business will be bad; maybe even now it will be bad. +Play something!" + +He hops out in front with his baton and gives us a quick one-two, and we +all swing into "Space On My Hands," real loud so as to get people's +minds off things which Frankie wants to get people's minds off of. + +Stella Starlight gets up to sing, but she looks more like she would +rather do something else. She stares at Hotlips and at the trumpet on +his lips and begins to quiver like she is about to do a dance. + +I remember she says she does not like high notes, and this song has some +pretty well up in the stratosphere, especially for the trumpet section, +which is Hotlips. + +She is frowning like maybe she is thinking real hard about something and +is surprised her thoughts do no good. Her face becomes waxy and there is +a frightened look on it. + +She quivers some more, as the notes go up and up and up. Then she lets +out a shriek, like maybe she is going to pieces. + +And then she does. Actually. + +Right before our popping eyeballs she goes to pieces. + +As each one in the band sees what is going on, he stops playing, until +finally Hotlips is the only one. But the trumpet is in Hotlips' hand, +and the music is coming from the recording machine we place under his +chair. The notes are clear and smooth, and you can almost feel the air +shaking with them. + +But nobody notices the music or where it comes from. They are too busy +watching the thrush, Stella Starlight. + +She stands there, her face as white as clay, shaking like a carrot going +through a mixmaster. And then tiny cracks appear on her face, on her +arms, even in her dress, and then a large one appears in her forehead +and goes down through her body. She splits in the middle like a cracked +walnut, and there in the center, floating three feet from the floor is a +small flying cuspidor. + +Nobody in the room says anything. They just stand there, bug-eyed and +frightened like anything. Somewhere, across the room, a woman faints. I +do not feel too well myself, and I am afraid to look to see how Hotlips +takes this. + +There is no sound, but I hear a voice in my mind and know that the +others hear it too. The voice sounds like it is filled with wire and +metal and is not exactly human. It says: + +"_You win, Hotlips Grogan. I, as advance agent in disguise, tell you +this. We will go away and leave you and your people alone. We place a +mental block in your mind, but you outsmart us, and now you know our +weakness. We cannot stand high sounds which you can play so easy on your +trumpet. We find ourselves a home someplace else._" + +With that, the cuspidor shoots across the room and plows right through +the wall. + +"That's the engine room!" Frankie wails. + +There is a sudden explosion from the other side of the wall, and +everybody decides all at once they would like to be someplace else, and +they all pick the same spot. The space ferry is pretty crowded, but we +jam aboard it and drift away from the _Saturn_--musicians, waiters and +paying customers all sitting in each other's laps. + +The _Saturn_ is wobbling around, with flames shooting out at all angles, +and Frankie is holding his head and moaning. In the distance, you can +just about make out little specks of cuspidors heading for the wild +black yonder. + +So all is well that ends well, and this is it. + +Frankie uses his insurance money to open a rest home on Mars for ailing +musicians. + +Hotlips is all broken up, in a manner of speaking, over Stella +Starlight's turning out to be not human, but he consoles himself with a +good job playing trumpet in a burlesque house where the girls wear +costumes made of glass and other brittle stuff. + + * * * * * + +As for me, Mamie gets me a job playing piano at the place where she +works, and everything is okay except for one thing. When Mamie is around +I cannot seem to concentrate on my playing. I feel a funny feeling in my +stomach, like maybe it is full of supersuds or something, and my mouth +is dry like cotton candy. + +I think maybe it is indigestion. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ August 1958. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Flying Cuspidors, by V. R. 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