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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/31586-h.zip b/31586-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..79b2f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/31586-h.zip diff --git a/31586-h/31586-h.htm b/31586-h/31586-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..803ed95 --- /dev/null +++ b/31586-h/31586-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1360 @@ +<!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 Very Black, by Dean Evans + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.g { letter-spacing: 2px;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.sidenote { + width: 100%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Very Black, by Dean Evans + +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 Very Black + +Author: Dean Evans + +Release Date: March 10, 2010 [EBook #31586] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERY BLACK *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="585" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<div class="sidenote"><i>Anders was pretty sure he was going to die. No one had yet +flown the new-style jet job and lived to tell the tale. A story both +chilling and heart-warming that shows us how bravely the human +equation can operate when the chips are stacked against it.</i></div> +<p> </p> + +<h1>the very black</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2><i>by ... Dean Evans</i></h2> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"><p>Jet test-pilots and love do not mix too happily as a +rule—especially with a ninth-dimensional alter ego messing +the whole act.</p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>There was nothing peculiar about that certain night I suppose—except +to me personally. A little earlier in the evening I'd walked out on +the Doll, Margie Hayman—and a man doesn't do that and cheer over it. +Not if he's in love with the Doll he doesn't—not <i>this</i> doll. If +you've ever seen her you'll give the nod on that.</p> + +<p>The trouble had been Air Force's new triangular ship—the new saucer. +Not radio controlled, this one—this one was to carry a real live +pilot. At least that's what the doll's father, who was Chief Engineer +at Airtech, Inc., had in mind when he designed it.</p> + +<p>The doll had said to me sort of casually, "Got something, Baby." She +called me baby. Me, one eighty-five in goose pimples.</p> + +<p>"Toss it over, Doll," I said.</p> + +<p>"No strings on you, Baby." She'd grinned that little one-sided grin of +hers. "No strings on you. Not even one. You're a flyboy, you are, and +you can take off or land any time any place you feel like it."</p> + +<p>"Stake your mom's Charleston cup on that," I said.</p> + +<p>She nodded. Her one-sided grin seemed to fade slightly but she hooked +it up again fast. A doll—like I said. This was the original model, +they've never gone into production on girls like her full-time.</p> + +<p>She said, "Therefore, I've got no right to go stalking with a salt +shaker in one hand and a pair of shears for your tailfeathers in the +other."</p> + +<p>"You're cute, Doll," I said, still going along with her one hundred +percent.</p> + +<p>"Nice—we get along nice."</p> + +<p>"Somebody oughta set 'em up on that."</p> + +<p>"So far."</p> + +<p>"Huh?" I blinked. I hate sour notes. That's why I'm not a musician. +You never get a sour note in a jet job—or if you do you don't get +annoyed. That's the sour note to end all sour notes.</p> + +<p>"Brace yourself, Baby," she said.</p> + +<p>I took a hitch on the highball glass I was holding and let one eye get +a serious look in it. "Shoot," I told her.</p> + +<p>"This new job—this new saucer the TV newscasts are blatting about. +You boys in the Air Force heard about it yet?"</p> + +<p>"There's been a rumor," I said. I frowned. Top secret—in a pig's +eyelash!</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh. Is it true this particular ship is supposed to carry a pilot +this time?"</p> + +<p>"Where do they dig up all this old stuff?" I growled. "Hell, I knew +all about that way way back this afternoon already."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh, Is it also true they've asked a flyboy named Eddie Anders to +take it up the first time? This flyboy named Eddie Anders being my +Baby?"</p> + +<p>I got bored with the highball. I tossed it down the hole in my head +and put the glass on a table. "You're psychic," I said.</p> + +<p>She shrugged. "Good looking, maybe. Nice shape, maybe. Peachy +disposition, maybe. Psychic, unh-unhh. But who else would they ask to +do it?"</p> + +<p>"A point," I conceded.</p> + +<p>"Fork in the road coming up," the Doll said.</p> + +<p>"Huh?"</p> + +<p>"Fork—look. It'll be voluntary, won't it? You don't have to do it? +They won't think the worse of you if you refuse?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Huh?</i>" I gawked at her.</p> + +<p>"I'm scared, Baby."</p> + +<p>Her eyes weren't blue anymore. They'd been blue before but not now. +Now they were violet balls that were laying me like somebody taking a +last long look at the thing down inside the nice white satin before +they close the cover on it for the final time.</p> + +<p>"Have a drink, Doll," I said. I got up, went to the liquor wagon. +"Seltzer? There isn't any mixer left."</p> + +<p>"Asked you something, Baby."</p> + +<p>I took her glass over. I handed it to her. My own drink I poured down +that same hole in my head. I said finally, "Nice smooth bourbon but I +like scotch better."</p> + +<p>"They've already crashed four of this new type on tests, haven't +they?"</p> + +<p>I nearly choked. <i>That</i> was supposed to be the very pinnacle of the +top secret stuff. But she was right of course. Four of the earlier +models had cracked up. No pilots in them at the time—radio +controlled. But jobs designed to carry pilots nevertheless.</p> + +<p>"Some pitchers have great big ugly-looking ears," I said.</p> + +<p>She didn't seem to mind. She said, "Or maybe I'm really psychic as you +said. Or maybe my Dad's being Chief at Airtech has something to do +with it."</p> + +<p>"Somebody oughta stitch a zipper across his big fat yap," I said. "And +weld the damn thing shut."</p> + +<p>"He told only me," she said softly. "And then only because of you. You +see, Baby, he isn't like us. He's got old fashioned notions you and +I've got strings tied around each other already just because you gave +me a ring."</p> + +<p>I stared at her.</p> + +<p>"Crazy, isn't it? He isn't sensible like us."</p> + +<p>"Can the gag lines, Doll," I said sourly. "The old bird's okay."</p> + +<p>And that fetched a few moments of silence in the room—thick pervading +silence. A silence to be broken at any fractional second and +heavy—supercharged—because of it.</p> + +<p>I said finally, "Somebody has to take it up. It might as well be me. +And they've already asked me."</p> + +<p>"You could refuse, Baby."</p> + +<p>"Sure I could. It's voluntary. They don't horsewhip a guy into it."</p> + +<p>"Uh-huh—voluntary. And you <i>can</i> refuse." She stopped, waited, then, +"Making me get right down there on the hard bare floor on both knees, +Baby? All right. None of us should be proud. None of us has a right to +be proud, have we?</p> + +<p>"All right, Baby. I'm down there—way, way down there. I'm asking you +not to take that ship up. I'm begging you—begging, Baby. Look, on me +you've never seen anything like this before. Begging!"</p> + +<p>I looked at my empty glass. The taste in my mouth was suddenly bitter. +"No strings, we said," I said harshly. "A flyboy, we said. Guy who can +take off and land anywhere, anytime he likes. Stuff like that we just +got through saying."</p> + +<p>She didn't answer that. I waited. She didn't answer. I got up finally, +got my lousy new officer's cap off the TV set and went over to the +door. I opened the door. I went on through.</p> + +<p>But before I closed it I heard her whisper. That's the trouble with +whispers, they go incredible distances to get places. The whisper +said, "That's right, Baby. Right as rain. No strings—<i>ever!</i>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When you don't have any scotch in the house you'd be surprised how +well rum will do—even Jamaica rum. I was on my own davenport in my +own apartment and there were two shot glasses in front of me. I was +taking turns on them so they wouldn't wear out. And what was keeping +these glasses busy was me and a fifth of the Jamaica rum in my right +hand. And that's when it all began.</p> + +<p>Across the room a rather stout woman was needling a classic through +the television screen and at the same time needing a shave rather +badly. I wasn't paying any attention to her. I was thinking about the +Doll. Wondering, worrying a little. And that's when it began.</p> + +<p>That's when the voice said, "Mr. Anders, would you do me the goodness +to forget that bottle for a moment?"</p> + +<p>The voice seemed to be coming from the TV screen although the stout +lady hadn't finished her song. The voice was like the disappointed +sigh of a poor old bloke down to his last beer dime and having to look +up into the bartender's grinning puss as the bartender downs a nice +bubbly glass of champagne somebody bought for him. Poor guy, I +thought. I downed glass number one. And then glass number two. And +then I looked over at the TV screen.</p> + +<p>That sent a little shiver up my spine. I dropped my eyes to the +glasses, filled them once more. Strong stuff, Jamaica rum. At the +first the taste is medicine. A little later the taste is pleasant +syrup. And a little later still the taste is delightful. But +strong—the whole way strong. I downed glass number one.</p> + +<p>I figured I wouldn't touch glass number two yet. I brought up my eyes, +let them go over to the TV screen again.</p> + +<p>He didn't have any eyes. That was the first thing that struck me. +There were other things of course, such as the fact he didn't have any +arms or legs. He didn't have any head either, in case he had eyes in +the first place. He was a black swirling bioplastic mass of something +or other and he was doing a graceful tango directly in front of the TV +screen, thereby blocking off from view the stout woman who needed a +shave.</p> + +<p>He said, "Do you have any idea what I am, Mr. Anders?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," I said. "Somebody's blennorrheal nightmare."</p> + +<p>"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. This substance is not mucous. Mucous is very +seldom black."</p> + +<p>"Mucous is very seldom black," I mimicked.</p> + +<p>"Correct, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>So all right. So they were making Jamaica rum a little stronger these +days. So <i>all right</i>! Next time I wouldn't get rum, I'd get scotch. +Hell with rum. I dismissed the thought from my mind. I picked up glass +number two, downed it. I wondered if the Doll was feeling sorry for +herself.</p> + +<p>"Incorrect, Mr. Anders," he said. "The rum is no stronger than usual."</p> + +<p>I jerked. I stared at the black sticky-looking thing he was. I shut my +eyes tightly, snapped them open again. Then I worked the glasses again +with the bottle.</p> + +<p>"Don't be shocked, Mr. Anders. I'm not a mind reader. It's just that +you discarded the thought of a moment ago. I picked it up, see?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," I said. "You picked it out of the junk pile of my mind, where +all my little gems go."</p> + +<p>"Correct, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>It was about time to empty the glasses again. I varied the routine +this time by picking up number-two glass first.</p> + +<p>"Light a cigarette, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>I'm a guy to go along with a gag. I fished a cigarette out, lit it +"Lit," I said. And just at that instant the stout dame without the +shave hit a sour one way up around A above high C. My ears cringed. I +forgot the cigarette and glared across the room, trying to see through +the black swirling mass that stood in front of the TV screen.</p> + +<p>"Puff, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>I puffed. The puff sounded like somebody getting his lips on a very +full glass of beer and quickly sucking so that foaming clouds don't go +down the sides of the glass and all over the bar. I didn't have any +cigarette.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ah!</i>"</p> + +<p>I blinked. The black swirling mass was going gently to and fro. At +about head height on a man my cigarette was sticking out from it and a +little curl of smoke was coming from the end. Even as I looked the +curl ceased and then a big blue cloud of smoke barreled across the +room toward my face.</p> + +<p>"Your cigarette, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>"Nice trick," I said. "Took it out from between my lips and I never +felt it. Nice trick."</p> + +<p>"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. When the singer flatted that particular note +your attention was diverted momentarily. Your senses are exceptional, +you see. Your ears register pain at false sounds. Therefore, you +discarded the thoughts of your cigarette during the moment you +suffered with the singer. Following this reasoning, your cigarette +went into abandonment. And I salvaged it. No trick at all, really."</p> + +<p>I thought, to hell with the shot glasses. I put the rum bottle to my +lips and tilted it up and held it there until it wasn't good for +anything anymore. Then I took it down by the neck and heaved it +straight at the black mass.</p> + +<p>The television screen didn't shatter, which proved something or other. +The bottle didn't even reach the screen. It hit the black swirling +mass about navel high. It went in, sank in like slamming your fist +into a fat man's stomach. And then it rebounded and clattered on the +floor.</p> + +<p>"Scream!" I said thickly. "You dirty black delusion—scream!"</p> + +<p>"I <i>am</i> screaming, Mr. Anders. That hurt terribly."</p> + +<p>He sort of unfolded then, like unfolding a limp wool sweater in the +air. And from this unfolding, something came forth that could have +been somebody's old fashioned idea of what a rifle looked like. He +held it up in firing position, pointed at my head.</p> + +<p>"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Anders. This is to convince you. A gun, yes, a +very old gun—a Brown Bess, they used to call it. I just took it from +the City Museum, where it was on display."</p> + +<p>He had a nice point-blank sight on my forehead. Now he moved the gun, +aimed it off me, pointed, it across the room toward the open windows.</p> + +<p>"Note the workmanship, Mr. Anders. Note the stock. Someone put a +little effort on the carving. Note the sentiment carved here."</p> + +<p>The rum was working hard now. I could feel it climbing hand over hand +up from my knees.</p> + +<p>"Let me read what it says, Mr. Anders—'<i>Deathe to ye Colonies</i>'. Note +the odd wording, the spelling. And now watch, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>The gun came up a trifle, stiffened. There was a loud snapping sound, +a click of metal on metal—Flintlock. As all the ancient guns were.</p> + +<p>And then came the roar. Wood across the room—the window +casing—splintered and flew wildly. Smoke and smell filled my senses.</p> + +<p>He said, chuckling, "Let's call it the Abandonment Theory for lack of +a better name. This old Brown Bess hasn't been thought of +acquisitively for some years. It's been in the museum—abandoned. +<span class="g">Therefore</span> subject to the discarded junk pile as you yourself so +cleverly put it before. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Anders?"</p> + +<p>Perfectly—oh, perfectly, Mr. Bioplast. The rum was going around my +eyes now. Going up and around and headed like an arrow for the hunk of +my brain that can't seem to hide fast enough.</p> + +<p>I guess I made it to the bedroom but I wouldn't put any hard cash on +it. And I guess I passed out.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The morning was a bad one as all bad ones usually are. But no matter +how bad they get there's always the consoling thought that in a few +hours things will ease up. I hugged this thought through a needle +shower, through three cups of coffee in the kitchen. What I was +neglecting in this reasoning was the splintered wood in the living +room.</p> + +<p>I saw it on my way out. It hit me starkly, like the blasted section of +a eucalyptus trunk writhing up from the ground. I stopped dead in the +doorway and stared at it. Then I got out my knife and got at it.</p> + +<p>I probed but it was going to take more than a pocket knife. The +ball—and it was just that—was buried a half inch in the soft pine of +the casing.</p> + +<p>I closed the knife and went to the phone and got Information to ring +the museum.</p> + +<p>"You people aren't missing a Brown Bess musket," I said. It was a +question, of course, but not now—not the way I had said it. "Nobody +stole anything out of the museum last night, did they?"</p> + +<p>Sweat was oozing over my upper lip. I could feel it. I could feel +sweat wetting the phone in my hand. The woman on the other end told me +to wait. I said, "Yeah"—not realizing. I waited, not realizing, until +a man's voice came on.</p> + +<p>"You were saying something about a Brown Bess musket, mister?" A cold +sharp voice—a gutter voice but with the masking tag of <i>official</i> +behind it. Like the voice of someone behind a desk writing something +on a blotter—a real police voice.</p> + +<p>I put the phone down. I pulled all the shades in the living room, went +out the door, locked it behind me and drove as fast as you can make a +Buick go, out to the field. But <i>fast</i>!</p> + +<p>The XXE-1 was ready. She'd been ready for weeks. There wasn't a +mechanical or electronic flaw in her. We hoped, I hoped, the man who +designed her hoped. The Doll's father—he hoped most of all. Even +lying quiescent in her hangar, she looked as sleek as a Napoleon hat +done in poured monel. When your eyes went over her you knew +instinctively they'd thrown the mach numbers out the window when she +was done.</p> + +<p>I went through a door that had the simple word <i>Plotting</i> on it.</p> + +<p>The Doll's father was there already behind his desk, studying +something as I came in. He looked up, smiled, said, "Hi, guy."</p> + +<p>I flipped a finger at him. I wondered if the Doll had told him about +last night.</p> + +<p>"Wife and I were going to suggest a snack when we got home last night +but you had already gone, and Marge was in bed."</p> + +<p>I didn't look at him. "Left early, Pop. Growing boy."</p> + +<p>"Yeah. You look lousy, guy."</p> + +<p>I put my teeth together. I still didn't look at him. "These nights," I +said vaguely.</p> + +<p>"Sure."</p> + +<p>I could feel something in his voice. I took a breath and put my eyes +on his. He said, "I'm a hell of an old duck."</p> + +<p>"Not so old, Pop."</p> + +<p>"Sure I am. But not too old to remember back to the days when I wasn't +too old." There was a grave look in his eyes.</p> + +<p>I didn't have to answer that. The door banged open and Melrose, the +LC, came in. He jerked a look at both of us, butted a cigarette he'd +just lit—lighted another, butted that. He ran a hand through thick +graying hair and frowned.</p> + +<p>"Anybody got a cigarette?" he said sourly. "Couldn't sleep last night. +This damned responsibility. Worried all night about something we +hadn't thought of."</p> + +<p>Pop looked up. Melrose went on. "Light—travels in a straight line, +no?" He blinked small nervous eyes at us. Then, "Can't go around +corners unless it's helped, you see. I mean just this. The XXE-One is +expected to hit a significant fraction of the speed of light once it +gets beyond the atmosphere. Now here's the point—how in hell do we +control it then?"</p> + +<p>He waited. I didn't say anything. Pop didn't say anything. Melrose ran +a hand through his hair once more, muttered <i>goddamit</i> to himself, +turned around and went barging out the door.</p> + +<p>Pop said wryly, "Another quick memo to the Pentagon. He never heard of +the Earth's gravity."</p> + +<p>"He's heard," I said. "It's just that it slipped his mind these last +few years."</p> + +<p>Pop grinned. He handed me a sheaf of typewritten notes. "These'll just +about make it. You'll notice the initial flight is charted pretty damn +closely."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Pop. I better take these, somewhere else to look 'em over. +Melrose might be back."</p> + +<p>"Pretty damn closely," he repeated. "Almost as closely as if she was +going up under radio control...." He stopped. He looked at me from +under his eyebrows.</p> + +<p>I studied him. "Already told the brass I'd take her up, Pop." I kept +my voice down.</p> + +<p>"Sure, guy. Sure. Uh—you mention it to Marge?"</p> + +<p>"Last night."</p> + +<p>"I see." His eyes got suddenly far away. I left him like that. Hell +with him—hell with the whole family!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was in the evening paper, tucked in the second section. They +treated it lightly. It seemed the night watchman had opened the rear +door of the museum for a breath of air or maybe a smoke. Or maybe to +kitchie-koo some babe under the chin in the alley.</p> + +<p>That's the only way it could have happened. And he'd discovered the +empty exhibit case at 2:10 in the morning. The case still had a little +white card on it that told about the Brown Bess musket and the powder +horn and the ball shot inside.</p> + +<p>But the little white card lied in its teeth. There weren't any such +things in the case at all. And he'd notified the curator at once.</p> + +<p>There was also mention of a mysterious phone call which couldn't be +traced.</p> + +<p>Things like this don't happen in 1953. So I didn't get loaded that +night. I went home, went to the davenport, sat down and told myself +they don't happen. Things like this have never happened, will never +happen. What occurred last night was something in the bottom of a +bottle of Jamaica rum.</p> + +<p>"Thinking, Mr. Anders?"</p> + +<p>I took a slow breath. He was swaying gently in the air a foot from my +elbow and he was still a black mucous scum, as he had been the night +before. I got up.</p> + +<p>I said, "I'm not loaded tonight. I haven't had a thing all day." I +took two steps toward him.</p> + +<p>He wasn't there.</p> + +<p>I took another breath—a very very slow breath. I turned around and +went back to the davenport.</p> + +<p>He was back again.</p> + +<p>"They'll find that musket," he said. "I have no use for it now. You +see I wanted it only to convince you, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>I put my hands on my knees and didn't look at him. I was suddenly +trying to remember where I'd put that Luger I'd brought home from +Germany a couple years back.</p> + +<p>"You're not quite convinced yet, Mr. Anders?"</p> + +<p><i>Where in the hell did I put it?</i></p> + +<p>"Very well, Mr. Anders. Now hear this, please. Now watch me." He +stirred at about hip height. A shelf-like section of the black mass +protruded a little distance from the main part of him. On this shelf +suddenly lay a rusted penknife.</p> + +<p>"A very little boy, Mr. Anders. And a very long while ago. A talented +boy, one of those who has what might be called an exceptional +imagination. This boy cherished a penknife when he was quite small. +Pick up the knife, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>The knife was suddenly in my lap. I picked it up. It was rusty. It had +a flat bone handle. "Museums again," I whispered to myself.</p> + +<p>"So highly did this boy prize his knife that he went to great pains to +carve his name very very carefully on one side of the bone handle. +Turn the knife over, Mr. Anders."</p> + +<p>The name was Edward Anders.</p> + +<p>"You lost it when you were eleven. You wouldn't remember though. I +found it in an attic where it lay unnoticed. As the years went by you +gradually forgot about the knife, you see, and when your mind had +completely abandoned the thoughts of it, it was mine—had I wanted it. +As a matter of fact I didn't. I retrieved it just today."</p> + +<p>I put the knife down. Sweat was coming on my forehead now, I could +feel it. I was remembering. I was remembering the knife and what was +scaring me even more was I was remembering the very day I had lost it. +In the attic.</p> + +<p>I said very carefully, "All right. You've made your point. You can +take it from there."</p> + +<p>"Quite so, Mr. Anders. You now admit I exist, that I have +extraordinary powers. I am your own creation, Mr. Anders. As I said +before you have exceptional senses, including imagination. And yes, +imagination is the greatest of all the senses.</p> + +<p>"Some humans with this gift often imagine ludicrous things, exciting +things, horrifying things—depending don't you see, on mood, emotion. +And the things these mortals imagine become real, are actually, +created—only they don't know it, of course."</p> + +<p>He stopped. He was probably giving me time to soak that up. Then he +went on. "You've forgotten to keep trying to remember where you put +that Luger, Mr. Anders. I just picked up the abandoned thought as it +left your consciousness just now."</p> + +<p>I gulped down something that tried to rise in my throat. I didn't like +this guy.</p> + +<p>"You created me when you were fourteen, Mr. Anders. You imagined me as +a swashbuckling pirate. The only difference between me and the others +who have been created in times past is that I have attained the ninth +dimension. I am the first to do that. Also the first to capture the +secrets of your own third dimension. Naturally then, it would be a +pity for me to die."</p> + +<p>"Get out," I said.</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, Mr. Anders. My time is short. I die tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"That's swell. Now get out."</p> + +<p>"We're not immortal, you see. When our creators die their imaginations +die with them. We too die. It follows. But for some time I've had an +idea."</p> + +<p>"Out," I said again. "Get the hell out of here!"</p> + +<p>"You're going to die tomorrow, Mr. Anders, in that new flying saucer. +And I must die with you. Except that I've had this idea."</p> + +<p>There are times when you look yourself in the eye and don't like what +you see. Or maybe what you see scares the living hell out of you. +When those times come along some little something inside tells you +you'd better watch out. Then the doubts creep in. After that the +melancholy. And from that instant on you aren't very sane anymore.</p> + +<p>"<i>Out!</i>" I yelled. "Out, <i>out</i>, OUT! Get the hell out!"</p> + +<p>"One moment, Mr. Anders. Now as to this idea of mine. There's this +woman—this Margie Hayman. This woman you call the Doll."</p> + +<p>That one jerked me around.</p> + +<p>"Exactly. Now listen very carefully. You aren't entirely you anymore, +Mr. Anders. I mean, you aren't the complete <i>whole</i> individual you as +you once were. You love this woman. Something inside you has gone out +and is now a part of her."</p> + +<p>"Therefore, if you will just discard the thought of her sometime +between now and when you take that ship up I can attach myself to her +sentient being, don't you see, and thereby exist—at least +partly—even though you yourself are dead."</p> + +<p>I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet. I stared at the entire black +repulsive undulating mass before me. I took a step toward it.</p> + +<p>"It isn't much to ask, Mr. Anders. You've quarrelled with her. You +want no more of her. You've practically told her that. All I ask is +that you finish the job—forget her. Discard her—throw her into the +mental junk pile of Abandonment."</p> + +<p>I didn't take any more steps. Something inside me was screaming, was +ripping at my guts, was roaring with all the cacaphony of all the +giant discords of all eternity. Something inside my brain was sucking +all my strength in one tremendous, surging power-dive of wish +fulfillment. I was willing the black mucous mass of him out of my +consciousness.</p> + +<p>He was no longer there. The only thing to prove he'd ever been there +at all was a very-old, very-rusty penknife over on the table in front +of the davenport—the knife with my name carved on the bone handle.</p> + +<p>After that I went unsteadily to the dresser in the living room. I got +the Doll's picture down off the dresser. I undressed. I took the +picture to bed with me. The lights burned in my bedroom the entire +night.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Lieutenant Colonel Melrose looked weatherbeaten. His graying hair was +pulled here and there like a rag mop that's dried dirty—stiff. He had +a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. He grinned nervously when he +saw me, butted the cigarette, said in a thin voice, "This is it, +Anders. Ship goes up in twenty minutes."</p> + +<p>"I know," I said.</p> + +<p>He poked another cigarette at his lips. He said, "What?" in a startled +tone.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," I said. "All right, I'll get ready."</p> + +<p>He lit the cigarette, took a puff that made the smoke do a frenetic +dance around his nostrils. He jabbed it at an ashtray, bobbed his head +in a convulsive movement, said, "Righto!"</p> + +<p>They strapped me in. Pop came to the open hatch. He stuck his head +in, grinned, said, "Hi, guy," softly. There was something in his eyes. +The Doll had told him how I hate sour notes.</p> + +<p>"How's the Doll, Pop?" I forced myself to say it.</p> + +<p>"Swell, Ed. Just got a call from her. On her way out here to see you +take off. Looks like she won't make it now though."</p> + +<p>I didn't say anything. His eyes went down to the wallet I had propped +up on my knees. The wallet was open, celluloid window showing. Inside +the window was the Doll's picture.</p> + +<p>"Tell her that, Pop," I said.</p> + +<p>"Yeah, guy. Luck."</p> + +<p>They shut the hatch.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt about the takeoff. If one thing was perfected in +the XXE-1 it was that. The ship rose like the mercury in a thermometer +on a hot day in July. I took it slow to fifty thousand feet.</p> + +<p>"Fifty thousand," I said into the throat mike.</p> + +<p>"Hear you, Anders." Melrose's voice.</p> + +<p>"Smooth," I said. "Radar on me?"</p> + +<p>"On you, Anders."</p> + +<p>I let the ship have a little head. This job used the clutch of a tax +collector's claws for fuel. It just hooked itself on the nothing +around us and yanked—and there we were.</p> + +<p>One hundred thousand.</p> + +<p>"Double that," I said into the mike.</p> + +<p>"Yeah, Anders. How is it?"</p> + +<p>"Haven't yet begun. Radar still on me?"</p> + +<p>I heard a nervous laugh. <i>He</i> was nervous. "The General—General +Hotchkiss just said something, Anders. He—ha, ha—he said you're on +plot like stitches in a fat lady's hip. Ha, ha! He's got <i>us</i> all in +stitches. Ha, ha!"</p> + +<p><i>Ha, ha!</i></p> + +<p>This was it. I released my grip on the accelerator control, yet it +slide up. They say you can't feel speed in the air unless there's +something relative within vision to tip you off. They're going to have +to revise that. You can not only feel speed you can reach out and +break hunks off it—in the XXE-1, that is. I shook my head, took my +eyes off the instruments and looked down at the Doll on my lap.</p> + +<p>"Melrose?"</p> + +<p>"Hear you, Anders."</p> + +<p>"This is it. Reaching me on radar still?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally."</p> + +<p>"All right."</p> + +<p>This was it. This was where the other four ships like the XXE-1—the +radio controlled models—had disintegrated. This was where it +happened, and they didn't come back anymore.</p> + +<p>I sucked in oxygen and let the accelerator control go over all the +way.</p> + +<p>Pulling a ship out of a steep dive, yes. Blackout then, yes. If the wings +stay with you everything's fine and you live to mention the incident at +the bar a little while later. Blackout accelerating—climbing—is not in +the books. But blackout, nevertheless. Not just plain blackout but a +thick mucous, slimy undulating blackout—the very black.</p> + +<p>The very very black.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>General Hotchkiss, "What's he saying, Melrose?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Doesn't answer."</p> + +<p>General Eaton, "Try again."</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Yes sir."</p> + +<p>General Hotchkiss, "What's he saying, Melrose?"</p> + +<p>General Eaton, "Still nothing?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Nothing."</p> + +<p>General Hotchkiss, "Dammit, you've still got him on radar, haven't +you?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Yes sir."</p> + +<p>General Hotchkiss, "Well, dammit, what's he doing?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Still going up, sir."</p> + +<p>General Eaton, "How far up?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Signal takes sixty seconds to get back, sir."</p> + +<p>General Hotchkiss, "God in heaven! One hundred and twenty thousand +miles out! Halfway to the moon. How much more fuel has he?"</p> + +<p>Melrose, "Five seconds, sir. Then the auto-switch cuts in. Power will +go off until he nears atmosphere again. After that, if he isn't +conscious—well, I'm awfully afraid we've lost another ship."</p> + +<p>General Eaton, "Cold blooded—"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The purple drapes before my eyes were wavering. Hung like rippled +steel pieces of a caisson suspended by a perilously thin whisper of +thread, they swayed, hesitated, shuddered their entire length, then +began to bend in the middle from the combined weights of thirteen +galaxies. The bend became a cracking bulge that in another second +would explode destruction directly into my face. I screamed.</p> + +<p>"Is—is that you, Anders?"</p> + +<p>I screamed good this time.</p> + +<p>"An—Anders! You all right? What happened? I couldn't get through to +you?"</p> + +<p>I took my hand from the accelerator control and stared numbly at it. +The mark of it was deep in the skin. I sucked in oxygen.</p> + +<p>"<i>Anders!</i> Your power is off. When you hear the signal you've got just +three more seconds. You know what to do then. You've been out of the +envelope, Anders! You broke through the atmosphere!"</p> + +<p>And then I heard him speak to somebody else—he must have been +speaking to somebody else, he couldn't have meant me—"Crissake, give +me a cigarette. The guy's still alive."</p> + +<p>I suppose I was grinning when they unstrapped me and slid me out of +the hatch. They were grinning back at any rate. The ground held me up +surprisingly—like it always had all my life before. They'd stopped +grinning now, their eyes were eating the inside of the ship. They +weren't interested in me anymore—all they wanted was the instruments' +readings.</p> + +<p>My feet could still move me. Knew where to go. Knew where to find the +door that had the simple word <i>Plotting</i> on it.</p> + +<p>The Doll was there with her father. The two of them didn't say +anything, just looked at me—just stared at me. I said, "He tried +damned hard. He put everything he had in it. He got me. He had me down +and there wasn't any up again for the rest of the world. For me there +wasn't."</p> + +<p>They stared. Pop stared. The Doll stared.</p> + +<p>"Just one thing he forgot," I muttered. "He gave me the tip-off +himself and then he forgot it. He told me I wasn't all me anymore, +that a part of me had gone out to you since I was supposed to be in +love with you. And that's where the tip-off lies. I wasn't all me +anymore but I hadn't lost anything. You know why, Doll?"</p> + +<p>They stared.</p> + +<p>"Simple—any damn fool would tumble. If I wasn't all me, then you +weren't all you. Part of you was me—get it? And <i>you</i> weren't +scheduled to bust out today. Not you—me! And that's what he couldn't +work over. That's what brought me down again. He couldn't touch that." +I stopped for a moment.</p> + +<p>I said suddenly, "What the hell you guys staring at?" I growled.</p> + +<p>"That's my Baby," said the Doll.</p> + +<p>"No strings," I said.</p> + +<p>"Like we said." Her words were soft petals. "Like we said, Baby. Just +like we said."</p> + +<p>"Sure. Only damn it, I don't like it that way. I <i>want</i> strings, see? +I want meshes of 'em, balls of 'em, like what comes in yarn—get it?"</p> + +<p>The Doll grinned. "Sure, Baby—you're sure you want it that way?"</p> + +<p>"Sure I'm sure. I just said it, didn't I? <i>Didn't</i> I?"</p> + +<p>"You just said it, Baby." She left her father's side, came over to me, +put her arm in mine, pulled close. We turned, started to go out the +door.</p> + +<p>"Where you guys going?" asked Pop. We turned again. He looked like +something was skipped somewhere on a sound track he'd been listening +to. I grinned.</p> + +<p>"Gotta look for a Brown Bess," I said. "Museum just lost one."</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Very Black, by Dean Evans + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERY BLACK *** + +***** This file should be named 31586-h.htm or 31586-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/5/8/31586/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 Very Black + +Author: Dean Evans + +Release Date: March 10, 2010 [EBook #31586] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERY BLACK *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + +[_Anders was pretty sure he was going to die. No one had yet + flown the new-style jet job and lived to tell the tale. A story both + chilling and heart-warming that shows us how bravely the human + equation can operate when the chips are stacked against it._] + + + the very black + + + _by ... Dean Evans_ + + + Jet test-pilots and love do not mix too happily as a + rule--especially with a ninth-dimensional alter ego messing + the whole act. + + * * * * * + + + + +There was nothing peculiar about that certain night I suppose--except +to me personally. A little earlier in the evening I'd walked out on +the Doll, Margie Hayman--and a man doesn't do that and cheer over it. +Not if he's in love with the Doll he doesn't--not _this_ doll. If +you've ever seen her you'll give the nod on that. + +The trouble had been Air Force's new triangular ship--the new saucer. +Not radio controlled, this one--this one was to carry a real live +pilot. At least that's what the doll's father, who was Chief Engineer +at Airtech, Inc., had in mind when he designed it. + +The doll had said to me sort of casually, "Got something, Baby." She +called me baby. Me, one eighty-five in goose pimples. + +"Toss it over, Doll," I said. + +"No strings on you, Baby." She'd grinned that little one-sided grin of +hers. "No strings on you. Not even one. You're a flyboy, you are, and +you can take off or land any time any place you feel like it." + +"Stake your mom's Charleston cup on that," I said. + +She nodded. Her one-sided grin seemed to fade slightly but she hooked +it up again fast. A doll--like I said. This was the original model, +they've never gone into production on girls like her full-time. + +She said, "Therefore, I've got no right to go stalking with a salt +shaker in one hand and a pair of shears for your tailfeathers in the +other." + +"You're cute, Doll," I said, still going along with her one hundred +percent. + +"Nice--we get along nice." + +"Somebody oughta set 'em up on that." + +"So far." + +"Huh?" I blinked. I hate sour notes. That's why I'm not a musician. +You never get a sour note in a jet job--or if you do you don't get +annoyed. That's the sour note to end all sour notes. + +"Brace yourself, Baby," she said. + +I took a hitch on the highball glass I was holding and let one eye get +a serious look in it. "Shoot," I told her. + +"This new job--this new saucer the TV newscasts are blatting about. +You boys in the Air Force heard about it yet?" + +"There's been a rumor," I said. I frowned. Top secret--in a pig's +eyelash! + +"Uh-huh. Is it true this particular ship is supposed to carry a pilot +this time?" + +"Where do they dig up all this old stuff?" I growled. "Hell, I knew +all about that way way back this afternoon already." + +"Uh-huh, Is it also true they've asked a flyboy named Eddie Anders to +take it up the first time? This flyboy named Eddie Anders being my +Baby?" + +I got bored with the highball. I tossed it down the hole in my head +and put the glass on a table. "You're psychic," I said. + +She shrugged. "Good looking, maybe. Nice shape, maybe. Peachy +disposition, maybe. Psychic, unh-unhh. But who else would they ask to +do it?" + +"A point," I conceded. + +"Fork in the road coming up," the Doll said. + +"Huh?" + +"Fork--look. It'll be voluntary, won't it? You don't have to do it? +They won't think the worse of you if you refuse?" + +"_Huh?_" I gawked at her. + +"I'm scared, Baby." + +Her eyes weren't blue anymore. They'd been blue before but not now. +Now they were violet balls that were laying me like somebody taking a +last long look at the thing down inside the nice white satin before +they close the cover on it for the final time. + +"Have a drink, Doll," I said. I got up, went to the liquor wagon. +"Seltzer? There isn't any mixer left." + +"Asked you something, Baby." + +I took her glass over. I handed it to her. My own drink I poured down +that same hole in my head. I said finally, "Nice smooth bourbon but I +like scotch better." + +"They've already crashed four of this new type on tests, haven't +they?" + +I nearly choked. _That_ was supposed to be the very pinnacle of the +top secret stuff. But she was right of course. Four of the earlier +models had cracked up. No pilots in them at the time--radio +controlled. But jobs designed to carry pilots nevertheless. + +"Some pitchers have great big ugly-looking ears," I said. + +She didn't seem to mind. She said, "Or maybe I'm really psychic as you +said. Or maybe my Dad's being Chief at Airtech has something to do +with it." + +"Somebody oughta stitch a zipper across his big fat yap," I said. "And +weld the damn thing shut." + +"He told only me," she said softly. "And then only because of you. You +see, Baby, he isn't like us. He's got old fashioned notions you and +I've got strings tied around each other already just because you gave +me a ring." + +I stared at her. + +"Crazy, isn't it? He isn't sensible like us." + +"Can the gag lines, Doll," I said sourly. "The old bird's okay." + +And that fetched a few moments of silence in the room--thick pervading +silence. A silence to be broken at any fractional second and +heavy--supercharged--because of it. + +I said finally, "Somebody has to take it up. It might as well be me. +And they've already asked me." + +"You could refuse, Baby." + +"Sure I could. It's voluntary. They don't horsewhip a guy into it." + +"Uh-huh--voluntary. And you _can_ refuse." She stopped, waited, then, +"Making me get right down there on the hard bare floor on both knees, +Baby? All right. None of us should be proud. None of us has a right to +be proud, have we? + +"All right, Baby. I'm down there--way, way down there. I'm asking you +not to take that ship up. I'm begging you--begging, Baby. Look, on me +you've never seen anything like this before. Begging!" + +I looked at my empty glass. The taste in my mouth was suddenly bitter. +"No strings, we said," I said harshly. "A flyboy, we said. Guy who can +take off and land anywhere, anytime he likes. Stuff like that we just +got through saying." + +She didn't answer that. I waited. She didn't answer. I got up finally, +got my lousy new officer's cap off the TV set and went over to the +door. I opened the door. I went on through. + +But before I closed it I heard her whisper. That's the trouble with +whispers, they go incredible distances to get places. The whisper +said, "That's right, Baby. Right as rain. No strings--_ever!_" + + * * * * * + +When you don't have any scotch in the house you'd be surprised how +well rum will do--even Jamaica rum. I was on my own davenport in my +own apartment and there were two shot glasses in front of me. I was +taking turns on them so they wouldn't wear out. And what was keeping +these glasses busy was me and a fifth of the Jamaica rum in my right +hand. And that's when it all began. + +Across the room a rather stout woman was needling a classic through +the television screen and at the same time needing a shave rather +badly. I wasn't paying any attention to her. I was thinking about the +Doll. Wondering, worrying a little. And that's when it began. + +That's when the voice said, "Mr. Anders, would you do me the goodness +to forget that bottle for a moment?" + +The voice seemed to be coming from the TV screen although the stout +lady hadn't finished her song. The voice was like the disappointed +sigh of a poor old bloke down to his last beer dime and having to look +up into the bartender's grinning puss as the bartender downs a nice +bubbly glass of champagne somebody bought for him. Poor guy, I +thought. I downed glass number one. And then glass number two. And +then I looked over at the TV screen. + +That sent a little shiver up my spine. I dropped my eyes to the +glasses, filled them once more. Strong stuff, Jamaica rum. At the +first the taste is medicine. A little later the taste is pleasant +syrup. And a little later still the taste is delightful. But +strong--the whole way strong. I downed glass number one. + +I figured I wouldn't touch glass number two yet. I brought up my eyes, +let them go over to the TV screen again. + +He didn't have any eyes. That was the first thing that struck me. +There were other things of course, such as the fact he didn't have any +arms or legs. He didn't have any head either, in case he had eyes in +the first place. He was a black swirling bioplastic mass of something +or other and he was doing a graceful tango directly in front of the TV +screen, thereby blocking off from view the stout woman who needed a +shave. + +He said, "Do you have any idea what I am, Mr. Anders?" + +"Sure," I said. "Somebody's blennorrheal nightmare." + +"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. This substance is not mucous. Mucous is very +seldom black." + +"Mucous is very seldom black," I mimicked. + +"Correct, Mr. Anders." + +So all right. So they were making Jamaica rum a little stronger these +days. So _all right_! Next time I wouldn't get rum, I'd get scotch. +Hell with rum. I dismissed the thought from my mind. I picked up glass +number two, downed it. I wondered if the Doll was feeling sorry for +herself. + +"Incorrect, Mr. Anders," he said. "The rum is no stronger than usual." + +I jerked. I stared at the black sticky-looking thing he was. I shut my +eyes tightly, snapped them open again. Then I worked the glasses again +with the bottle. + +"Don't be shocked, Mr. Anders. I'm not a mind reader. It's just that +you discarded the thought of a moment ago. I picked it up, see?" + +"Sure," I said. "You picked it out of the junk pile of my mind, where +all my little gems go." + +"Correct, Mr. Anders." + +It was about time to empty the glasses again. I varied the routine +this time by picking up number-two glass first. + +"Light a cigarette, Mr. Anders." + +I'm a guy to go along with a gag. I fished a cigarette out, lit it +"Lit," I said. And just at that instant the stout dame without the +shave hit a sour one way up around A above high C. My ears cringed. I +forgot the cigarette and glared across the room, trying to see through +the black swirling mass that stood in front of the TV screen. + +"Puff, Mr. Anders." + +I puffed. The puff sounded like somebody getting his lips on a very +full glass of beer and quickly sucking so that foaming clouds don't go +down the sides of the glass and all over the bar. I didn't have any +cigarette. + +"_Ah!_" + +I blinked. The black swirling mass was going gently to and fro. At +about head height on a man my cigarette was sticking out from it and a +little curl of smoke was coming from the end. Even as I looked the +curl ceased and then a big blue cloud of smoke barreled across the +room toward my face. + +"Your cigarette, Mr. Anders." + +"Nice trick," I said. "Took it out from between my lips and I never +felt it. Nice trick." + +"Incorrect, Mr. Anders. When the singer flatted that particular note +your attention was diverted momentarily. Your senses are exceptional, +you see. Your ears register pain at false sounds. Therefore, you +discarded the thoughts of your cigarette during the moment you +suffered with the singer. Following this reasoning, your cigarette +went into abandonment. And I salvaged it. No trick at all, really." + +I thought, to hell with the shot glasses. I put the rum bottle to my +lips and tilted it up and held it there until it wasn't good for +anything anymore. Then I took it down by the neck and heaved it +straight at the black mass. + +The television screen didn't shatter, which proved something or other. +The bottle didn't even reach the screen. It hit the black swirling +mass about navel high. It went in, sank in like slamming your fist +into a fat man's stomach. And then it rebounded and clattered on the +floor. + +"Scream!" I said thickly. "You dirty black delusion--scream!" + +"I _am_ screaming, Mr. Anders. That hurt terribly." + +He sort of unfolded then, like unfolding a limp wool sweater in the +air. And from this unfolding, something came forth that could have +been somebody's old fashioned idea of what a rifle looked like. He +held it up in firing position, pointed at my head. + +"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Anders. This is to convince you. A gun, yes, a +very old gun--a Brown Bess, they used to call it. I just took it from +the City Museum, where it was on display." + +He had a nice point-blank sight on my forehead. Now he moved the gun, +aimed it off me, pointed, it across the room toward the open windows. + +"Note the workmanship, Mr. Anders. Note the stock. Someone put a +little effort on the carving. Note the sentiment carved here." + +The rum was working hard now. I could feel it climbing hand over hand +up from my knees. + +"Let me read what it says, Mr. Anders--'_Deathe to ye Colonies_'. Note +the odd wording, the spelling. And now watch, Mr. Anders." + +The gun came up a trifle, stiffened. There was a loud snapping sound, +a click of metal on metal--Flintlock. As all the ancient guns were. + +And then came the roar. Wood across the room--the window +casing--splintered and flew wildly. Smoke and smell filled my senses. + +He said, chuckling, "Let's call it the Abandonment Theory for lack of +a better name. This old Brown Bess hasn't been thought of +acquisitively for some years. It's been in the museum--abandoned. +T h e r e f o r e subject to the discarded junk pile as you yourself so +cleverly put it before. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Anders?" + +Perfectly--oh, perfectly, Mr. Bioplast. The rum was going around my +eyes now. Going up and around and headed like an arrow for the hunk of +my brain that can't seem to hide fast enough. + +I guess I made it to the bedroom but I wouldn't put any hard cash on +it. And I guess I passed out. + + * * * * * + +The morning was a bad one as all bad ones usually are. But no matter +how bad they get there's always the consoling thought that in a few +hours things will ease up. I hugged this thought through a needle +shower, through three cups of coffee in the kitchen. What I was +neglecting in this reasoning was the splintered wood in the living +room. + +I saw it on my way out. It hit me starkly, like the blasted section of +a eucalyptus trunk writhing up from the ground. I stopped dead in the +doorway and stared at it. Then I got out my knife and got at it. + +I probed but it was going to take more than a pocket knife. The +ball--and it was just that--was buried a half inch in the soft pine of +the casing. + +I closed the knife and went to the phone and got Information to ring +the museum. + +"You people aren't missing a Brown Bess musket," I said. It was a +question, of course, but not now--not the way I had said it. "Nobody +stole anything out of the museum last night, did they?" + +Sweat was oozing over my upper lip. I could feel it. I could feel +sweat wetting the phone in my hand. The woman on the other end told me +to wait. I said, "Yeah"--not realizing. I waited, not realizing, until +a man's voice came on. + +"You were saying something about a Brown Bess musket, mister?" A cold +sharp voice--a gutter voice but with the masking tag of _official_ +behind it. Like the voice of someone behind a desk writing something +on a blotter--a real police voice. + +I put the phone down. I pulled all the shades in the living room, went +out the door, locked it behind me and drove as fast as you can make a +Buick go, out to the field. But _fast_! + +The XXE-1 was ready. She'd been ready for weeks. There wasn't a +mechanical or electronic flaw in her. We hoped, I hoped, the man who +designed her hoped. The Doll's father--he hoped most of all. Even +lying quiescent in her hangar, she looked as sleek as a Napoleon hat +done in poured monel. When your eyes went over her you knew +instinctively they'd thrown the mach numbers out the window when she +was done. + +I went through a door that had the simple word _Plotting_ on it. + +The Doll's father was there already behind his desk, studying +something as I came in. He looked up, smiled, said, "Hi, guy." + +I flipped a finger at him. I wondered if the Doll had told him about +last night. + +"Wife and I were going to suggest a snack when we got home last night +but you had already gone, and Marge was in bed." + +I didn't look at him. "Left early, Pop. Growing boy." + +"Yeah. You look lousy, guy." + +I put my teeth together. I still didn't look at him. "These nights," I +said vaguely. + +"Sure." + +I could feel something in his voice. I took a breath and put my eyes +on his. He said, "I'm a hell of an old duck." + +"Not so old, Pop." + +"Sure I am. But not too old to remember back to the days when I wasn't +too old." There was a grave look in his eyes. + +I didn't have to answer that. The door banged open and Melrose, the +LC, came in. He jerked a look at both of us, butted a cigarette he'd +just lit--lighted another, butted that. He ran a hand through thick +graying hair and frowned. + +"Anybody got a cigarette?" he said sourly. "Couldn't sleep last night. +This damned responsibility. Worried all night about something we +hadn't thought of." + +Pop looked up. Melrose went on. "Light--travels in a straight line, +no?" He blinked small nervous eyes at us. Then, "Can't go around +corners unless it's helped, you see. I mean just this. The XXE-One is +expected to hit a significant fraction of the speed of light once it +gets beyond the atmosphere. Now here's the point--how in hell do we +control it then?" + +He waited. I didn't say anything. Pop didn't say anything. Melrose ran +a hand through his hair once more, muttered _goddamit_ to himself, +turned around and went barging out the door. + +Pop said wryly, "Another quick memo to the Pentagon. He never heard of +the Earth's gravity." + +"He's heard," I said. "It's just that it slipped his mind these last +few years." + +Pop grinned. He handed me a sheaf of typewritten notes. "These'll just +about make it. You'll notice the initial flight is charted pretty damn +closely." + +"Thanks, Pop. I better take these, somewhere else to look 'em over. +Melrose might be back." + +"Pretty damn closely," he repeated. "Almost as closely as if she was +going up under radio control...." He stopped. He looked at me from +under his eyebrows. + +I studied him. "Already told the brass I'd take her up, Pop." I kept +my voice down. + +"Sure, guy. Sure. Uh--you mention it to Marge?" + +"Last night." + +"I see." His eyes got suddenly far away. I left him like that. Hell +with him--hell with the whole family! + + * * * * * + +It was in the evening paper, tucked in the second section. They +treated it lightly. It seemed the night watchman had opened the rear +door of the museum for a breath of air or maybe a smoke. Or maybe to +kitchie-koo some babe under the chin in the alley. + +That's the only way it could have happened. And he'd discovered the +empty exhibit case at 2:10 in the morning. The case still had a little +white card on it that told about the Brown Bess musket and the powder +horn and the ball shot inside. + +But the little white card lied in its teeth. There weren't any such +things in the case at all. And he'd notified the curator at once. + +There was also mention of a mysterious phone call which couldn't be +traced. + +Things like this don't happen in 1953. So I didn't get loaded that +night. I went home, went to the davenport, sat down and told myself +they don't happen. Things like this have never happened, will never +happen. What occurred last night was something in the bottom of a +bottle of Jamaica rum. + +"Thinking, Mr. Anders?" + +I took a slow breath. He was swaying gently in the air a foot from my +elbow and he was still a black mucous scum, as he had been the night +before. I got up. + +I said, "I'm not loaded tonight. I haven't had a thing all day." I +took two steps toward him. + +He wasn't there. + +I took another breath--a very very slow breath. I turned around and +went back to the davenport. + +He was back again. + +"They'll find that musket," he said. "I have no use for it now. You +see I wanted it only to convince you, Mr. Anders." + +I put my hands on my knees and didn't look at him. I was suddenly +trying to remember where I'd put that Luger I'd brought home from +Germany a couple years back. + +"You're not quite convinced yet, Mr. Anders?" + +_Where in the hell did I put it?_ + +"Very well, Mr. Anders. Now hear this, please. Now watch me." He +stirred at about hip height. A shelf-like section of the black mass +protruded a little distance from the main part of him. On this shelf +suddenly lay a rusted penknife. + +"A very little boy, Mr. Anders. And a very long while ago. A talented +boy, one of those who has what might be called an exceptional +imagination. This boy cherished a penknife when he was quite small. +Pick up the knife, Mr. Anders." + +The knife was suddenly in my lap. I picked it up. It was rusty. It had +a flat bone handle. "Museums again," I whispered to myself. + +"So highly did this boy prize his knife that he went to great pains to +carve his name very very carefully on one side of the bone handle. +Turn the knife over, Mr. Anders." + +The name was Edward Anders. + +"You lost it when you were eleven. You wouldn't remember though. I +found it in an attic where it lay unnoticed. As the years went by you +gradually forgot about the knife, you see, and when your mind had +completely abandoned the thoughts of it, it was mine--had I wanted it. +As a matter of fact I didn't. I retrieved it just today." + +I put the knife down. Sweat was coming on my forehead now, I could +feel it. I was remembering. I was remembering the knife and what was +scaring me even more was I was remembering the very day I had lost it. +In the attic. + +I said very carefully, "All right. You've made your point. You can +take it from there." + +"Quite so, Mr. Anders. You now admit I exist, that I have +extraordinary powers. I am your own creation, Mr. Anders. As I said +before you have exceptional senses, including imagination. And yes, +imagination is the greatest of all the senses. + +"Some humans with this gift often imagine ludicrous things, exciting +things, horrifying things--depending don't you see, on mood, emotion. +And the things these mortals imagine become real, are actually, +created--only they don't know it, of course." + +He stopped. He was probably giving me time to soak that up. Then he +went on. "You've forgotten to keep trying to remember where you put +that Luger, Mr. Anders. I just picked up the abandoned thought as it +left your consciousness just now." + +I gulped down something that tried to rise in my throat. I didn't like +this guy. + +"You created me when you were fourteen, Mr. Anders. You imagined me as +a swashbuckling pirate. The only difference between me and the others +who have been created in times past is that I have attained the ninth +dimension. I am the first to do that. Also the first to capture the +secrets of your own third dimension. Naturally then, it would be a +pity for me to die." + +"Get out," I said. + +"Forgive me, Mr. Anders. My time is short. I die tomorrow." + +"That's swell. Now get out." + +"We're not immortal, you see. When our creators die their imaginations +die with them. We too die. It follows. But for some time I've had an +idea." + +"Out," I said again. "Get the hell out of here!" + +"You're going to die tomorrow, Mr. Anders, in that new flying saucer. +And I must die with you. Except that I've had this idea." + +There are times when you look yourself in the eye and don't like what +you see. Or maybe what you see scares the living hell out of you. +When those times come along some little something inside tells you +you'd better watch out. Then the doubts creep in. After that the +melancholy. And from that instant on you aren't very sane anymore. + +"_Out!_" I yelled. "Out, _out_, OUT! Get the hell out!" + +"One moment, Mr. Anders. Now as to this idea of mine. There's this +woman--this Margie Hayman. This woman you call the Doll." + +That one jerked me around. + +"Exactly. Now listen very carefully. You aren't entirely you anymore, +Mr. Anders. I mean, you aren't the complete _whole_ individual you as +you once were. You love this woman. Something inside you has gone out +and is now a part of her." + +"Therefore, if you will just discard the thought of her sometime +between now and when you take that ship up I can attach myself to her +sentient being, don't you see, and thereby exist--at least +partly--even though you yourself are dead." + +I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet. I stared at the entire black +repulsive undulating mass before me. I took a step toward it. + +"It isn't much to ask, Mr. Anders. You've quarrelled with her. You +want no more of her. You've practically told her that. All I ask is +that you finish the job--forget her. Discard her--throw her into the +mental junk pile of Abandonment." + +I didn't take any more steps. Something inside me was screaming, was +ripping at my guts, was roaring with all the cacaphony of all the +giant discords of all eternity. Something inside my brain was sucking +all my strength in one tremendous, surging power-dive of wish +fulfillment. I was willing the black mucous mass of him out of my +consciousness. + +He was no longer there. The only thing to prove he'd ever been there +at all was a very-old, very-rusty penknife over on the table in front +of the davenport--the knife with my name carved on the bone handle. + +After that I went unsteadily to the dresser in the living room. I got +the Doll's picture down off the dresser. I undressed. I took the +picture to bed with me. The lights burned in my bedroom the entire +night. + + * * * * * + +Lieutenant Colonel Melrose looked weatherbeaten. His graying hair was +pulled here and there like a rag mop that's dried dirty--stiff. He had +a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. He grinned nervously when he +saw me, butted the cigarette, said in a thin voice, "This is it, +Anders. Ship goes up in twenty minutes." + +"I know," I said. + +He poked another cigarette at his lips. He said, "What?" in a startled +tone. + +"Nothing," I said. "All right, I'll get ready." + +He lit the cigarette, took a puff that made the smoke do a frenetic +dance around his nostrils. He jabbed it at an ashtray, bobbed his head +in a convulsive movement, said, "Righto!" + +They strapped me in. Pop came to the open hatch. He stuck his head +in, grinned, said, "Hi, guy," softly. There was something in his eyes. +The Doll had told him how I hate sour notes. + +"How's the Doll, Pop?" I forced myself to say it. + +"Swell, Ed. Just got a call from her. On her way out here to see you +take off. Looks like she won't make it now though." + +I didn't say anything. His eyes went down to the wallet I had propped +up on my knees. The wallet was open, celluloid window showing. Inside +the window was the Doll's picture. + +"Tell her that, Pop," I said. + +"Yeah, guy. Luck." + +They shut the hatch. + +There was no doubt about the takeoff. If one thing was perfected in +the XXE-1 it was that. The ship rose like the mercury in a thermometer +on a hot day in July. I took it slow to fifty thousand feet. + +"Fifty thousand," I said into the throat mike. + +"Hear you, Anders." Melrose's voice. + +"Smooth," I said. "Radar on me?" + +"On you, Anders." + +I let the ship have a little head. This job used the clutch of a tax +collector's claws for fuel. It just hooked itself on the nothing +around us and yanked--and there we were. + +One hundred thousand. + +"Double that," I said into the mike. + +"Yeah, Anders. How is it?" + +"Haven't yet begun. Radar still on me?" + +I heard a nervous laugh. _He_ was nervous. "The General--General +Hotchkiss just said something, Anders. He--ha, ha--he said you're on +plot like stitches in a fat lady's hip. Ha, ha! He's got _us_ all in +stitches. Ha, ha!" + +_Ha, ha!_ + +This was it. I released my grip on the accelerator control, yet it +slide up. They say you can't feel speed in the air unless there's +something relative within vision to tip you off. They're going to have +to revise that. You can not only feel speed you can reach out and +break hunks off it--in the XXE-1, that is. I shook my head, took my +eyes off the instruments and looked down at the Doll on my lap. + +"Melrose?" + +"Hear you, Anders." + +"This is it. Reaching me on radar still?" + +"Naturally." + +"All right." + +This was it. This was where the other four ships like the XXE-1--the +radio controlled models--had disintegrated. This was where it +happened, and they didn't come back anymore. + +I sucked in oxygen and let the accelerator control go over all the +way. + +Pulling a ship out of a steep dive, yes. Blackout then, yes. If the wings +stay with you everything's fine and you live to mention the incident at +the bar a little while later. Blackout accelerating--climbing--is not in +the books. But blackout, nevertheless. Not just plain blackout but a +thick mucous, slimy undulating blackout--the very black. + +The very very black. + + * * * * * + +General Hotchkiss, "What's he saying, Melrose?" + +Melrose, "Doesn't answer." + +General Eaton, "Try again." + +Melrose, "Yes sir." + +General Hotchkiss, "What's he saying, Melrose?" + +General Eaton, "Still nothing?" + +Melrose, "Nothing." + +General Hotchkiss, "Dammit, you've still got him on radar, haven't +you?" + +Melrose, "Yes sir." + +General Hotchkiss, "Well, dammit, what's he doing?" + +Melrose, "Still going up, sir." + +General Eaton, "How far up?" + +Melrose, "Signal takes sixty seconds to get back, sir." + +General Hotchkiss, "God in heaven! One hundred and twenty thousand +miles out! Halfway to the moon. How much more fuel has he?" + +Melrose, "Five seconds, sir. Then the auto-switch cuts in. Power will +go off until he nears atmosphere again. After that, if he isn't +conscious--well, I'm awfully afraid we've lost another ship." + +General Eaton, "Cold blooded--" + + * * * * * + +The purple drapes before my eyes were wavering. Hung like rippled +steel pieces of a caisson suspended by a perilously thin whisper of +thread, they swayed, hesitated, shuddered their entire length, then +began to bend in the middle from the combined weights of thirteen +galaxies. The bend became a cracking bulge that in another second +would explode destruction directly into my face. I screamed. + +"Is--is that you, Anders?" + +I screamed good this time. + +"An--Anders! You all right? What happened? I couldn't get through to +you?" + +I took my hand from the accelerator control and stared numbly at it. +The mark of it was deep in the skin. I sucked in oxygen. + +"_Anders!_ Your power is off. When you hear the signal you've got just +three more seconds. You know what to do then. You've been out of the +envelope, Anders! You broke through the atmosphere!" + +And then I heard him speak to somebody else--he must have been +speaking to somebody else, he couldn't have meant me--"Crissake, give +me a cigarette. The guy's still alive." + +I suppose I was grinning when they unstrapped me and slid me out of +the hatch. They were grinning back at any rate. The ground held me up +surprisingly--like it always had all my life before. They'd stopped +grinning now, their eyes were eating the inside of the ship. They +weren't interested in me anymore--all they wanted was the instruments' +readings. + +My feet could still move me. Knew where to go. Knew where to find the +door that had the simple word _Plotting_ on it. + +The Doll was there with her father. The two of them didn't say +anything, just looked at me--just stared at me. I said, "He tried +damned hard. He put everything he had in it. He got me. He had me down +and there wasn't any up again for the rest of the world. For me there +wasn't." + +They stared. Pop stared. The Doll stared. + +"Just one thing he forgot," I muttered. "He gave me the tip-off +himself and then he forgot it. He told me I wasn't all me anymore, +that a part of me had gone out to you since I was supposed to be in +love with you. And that's where the tip-off lies. I wasn't all me +anymore but I hadn't lost anything. You know why, Doll?" + +They stared. + +"Simple--any damn fool would tumble. If I wasn't all me, then you +weren't all you. Part of you was me--get it? And _you_ weren't +scheduled to bust out today. Not you--me! And that's what he couldn't +work over. That's what brought me down again. He couldn't touch that." +I stopped for a moment. + +I said suddenly, "What the hell you guys staring at?" I growled. + +"That's my Baby," said the Doll. + +"No strings," I said. + +"Like we said." Her words were soft petals. "Like we said, Baby. Just +like we said." + +"Sure. Only damn it, I don't like it that way. I _want_ strings, see? +I want meshes of 'em, balls of 'em, like what comes in yarn--get it?" + +The Doll grinned. "Sure, Baby--you're sure you want it that way?" + +"Sure I'm sure. I just said it, didn't I? _Didn't_ I?" + +"You just said it, Baby." She left her father's side, came over to me, +put her arm in mine, pulled close. We turned, started to go out the +door. + +"Where you guys going?" asked Pop. We turned again. He looked like +something was skipped somewhere on a sound track he'd been listening +to. I grinned. + +"Gotta look for a Brown Bess," I said. "Museum just lost one." + + * * * * * + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Very Black, by Dean Evans + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERY BLACK *** + +***** This file should be named 31586.txt or 31586.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/5/8/31586/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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