THE CITY IN THE SOFA
by Cecil Corwin
>
(Author of "The Reversible Revolutions," "Thirteen O'Clock," etc.



Soldier-of-fortune Battle received his toughest assignment when he was sent to
the Billionaire's Club to fumigate the sofa! The fate of a world depended upon
it!



LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE tweaked the ends of his trim little military moustache
and smiled brilliantly at the cashier.
"Dear Judy," he said, "there seems to have been some mistake. I could have sworn
I'd put my wallet in this suit--"
The super-blonde young lady looked bored and crooked a finger at the manager of
the cafeteria. The manager crooked a finger at three muscular busboys, who
shambled over to the exit.
"Now," said the manager, "what seems to be the trouble?"
The lieutenant bowed. "My name," he said, "is Battle. My card, sir." He
presented a pasteboard square which bore the crest of the United States Marines
and the legend:
LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE,
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY
"A phony," said the manager with the wickedest of smiles. "A dead-beat. The
check says thirty cents, Major do you cough up or wash dishes?" He flung the
card aside, and an innocent-appearing old man, white-haired, wrinkled of face
and shabbily dressed, who had been patient]y waiting to pay his ten cent check,
courteously stooped and tapped the manager on the shoulder.
"You dropped this," he said politely, extending the card.
"Keep it," snarled the manager. The innocent old man scanned the card and
stiffened as though he had been shot.
"If you will allow me," he said, interrupting Battle's impassioned plea for
justice, "I shall be glad to pay this young man's check." He fished out an
ancient wallet and dropped a half dollar into the super-blonde's hand.
"May I have your address, sir?' asked Battle when they were outside. "I shall
mail you the money as soon as I get back to my club."
The old man raised a protesting hand. "Don't mention it," he smiled toothlessly.
"It was a pleasure. In fact I should like you to come with me to my club." He
looked cautiously around. "I think," he half-whispered, "that I have a job for
you, Lieutenant--if you're available."
"Revolution?" asked Battle, skeptically surveying the old man, taking in every
wrinkle in the suit he wore. "I'm rather busy at the moment, sir, but l can
recommend some very able persons who might suit you as well. They do what might
be called a cut-rate business. My price is high, sir--very high."
"Be that as it may, lieutenant. My club is just around the corner. Will you
follow me, please?"
Only in New York could you find a two-bit cafeteria on a brightly lit avenue
around the corner from the homes of the wealthy on one side and the poor on the
other. Battle fully expected the old man to cross the street and head
riverwards; instead he led the soldier of fortune west towards Central Park.
Battle gasped as the old man stopped and courteously gestured him to enter a
simple door in an old-style marble-faced building. Disbelievingly he read the
house number.
"But this is--" said Battle, stuttering a little in awe.
"Yes," said the old man simply. "This is the Billionaire's Club."
IN THE SMOKING room Battle eased himself dazedly into a chair upholstered with a
priceless Gobelin tapestry shot through by wires of pure gold. Across the room
he saw a man with a vast stomach and a nose like a pickled beet whom he
recognized as "Old Jay." He was shaking an admonishing finger at the
stock-market plunger known as the "Cobra of Canal Street."
"Where you should put your money," Old Jay rumbled--as Battle leaned forward
eagerly, the rumble dropped to a whisper. The Cobra jotted down a few notes in a
solid silver memo pad and smiled gratefully. As he left the room he nodded at a
suave young man whom the lieutenant knew to be the youngest son of the Atlantis
Plastic and Explosive dynasty.
"I didn't," said Battle breathlessly, "I didn't catch the name, sir."
"Gromleigh," snapped the old man who had brought him through the fabulous
portals. "Ole Cromleight, `Shutter-shy,' they call me. I've never been
photographed, and for a very good reason. All will be plain in a moment. Watch
this." He pressed a button.
"Yessir?" snapped a page, appearing through a concealed door as if by magic.
Cromleigh pointed at a rather shabby mohair sofa. "I want that fumigated,
sonny," he said. "I'm afraid it's crummy."
"Certainly, sir," said the page. "I'll have it attended to right away, sir " He
marched through the door after a smart salute.
"Now study that sofa," said Cromleigh meditatively. "Look at it carefully and
tell me what you think of it."
The Lieutenant looked at it careful]y. "Nothing," he said at length and quite
frankly. "I can't see a thing wrong with it, except that beside all this period
furniture it looks damned shabby."
"Yes," said Ole Cromleigh. "I see." He rubbed his hands meditatively. "You heard
me order that page to fumigate it, eh ? Well--he's going to forget all about
those orders as completely as if I'd never delivered them."
"I don't get it," confessed Battle. "But I'd like you to check--for my benefit."
Cromleigh shrugged and pressed the button again. To the page who appeared, he
said irascibly: "I told you to have that sofa fumigated-- didn't I?"
The boy looked honestly baffled. "No, sir," he said, wrinkling his brows. "I
don't think so, sir."
"All right, sonny. Scat." The boy disappeared with evident relief.
"That's quite a trick," said Battle. "How do you do it'!" He was absolutely
convinced that it was the same boy and that he had forgotten all about the
incident.
"You hit the nail on the head, young man," said Cromleigh leaning forward. "I
didn't do it. I don't know who did, but it happens regularly." He looked about
him sharply and continued: "I'm owing-gay oo-tay eek-spay in ig-pay atin-Lay.
Isten-lay."
And then, in the smoking room of the Billionaire's Club, the strangest story
ever told was unreeled--in pig-Latin !--for the willing ears of Lieutenant J. C.
Battle, Soldier of Fortune. And it was the prelude to his strangest job--the
strangest job any soldier of fortune ever was hired for throughout the whole
history of the ancient profession.
BATTLE WAS BEWILDERED. He stared about himself with the curious feeling of
terrified uncertainty that is felt in nightmares. At his immediate left arose a
monstrous spiral mountain, seemingly of metal-bearing ore, pitted on the surface
and crusted with red rust.
From unimaginable heights above him filtered a dim, sickly light... beneath his
feet was a coarse stuff with great ridges and interstices running into the
distance. Had he not known he would never have believed that he was standing on
wood.
"So this," said Battle, "is what the inside of a mohair sofa is like."
Compressed into a smallness that would have made a louse seem mastodonic, he
warily trod his way across huge plains of that incredible worm's-eye wood,
struggled over monstrous tubes that he knew were the hairy padding of the sofa.
From somewhere, far off in the dusk of this world of near night, there was a
trampling of feet, many feet. Battle drew himself on the alert, snapped out
miniature revolvers, one in each hand. He thought briskly that these
elephant-pistols had been, half an hour ago, the most dangerous handguns on
Earth, whereas here--well?
The trampling of feet attached itself to the legs of a centipede, a very small
centipede that was only about two hundred times the length of the Lieutenant.
Its sharp eyes sighted him, and rashly the creature headed his way.
The flat crash of his guns echoing strangely in the unorthodox construction of
this world, Battle stood his ground, streaming smoke from both pistols. The
centipede kept on going.
He drew a smoke-bomb and hurled it delicately into the creature's face. The
insect reared up and thrashed for a full second before dying. As Battle went a
long way around it, it switched its tail, nearly crushing the diminished soldier
of fortune.
After the equivalent of two miles' walk he saw before him a light that was not
the GE's, filtering down from the smoking room of the Billionaire's Club, but a
bright, chemical flare of illumination.
"It's them," breathed the Lieutenant. "In person!" He crouched behind a towering
wood-shaving and inspected the weird scene. It was a city that spread out before
him, but a city the like of which man's eyes had never before seen.
A good, swift kick would have sent most of it crashing to the ground, but to the
tiny Lieutenant it was impressive and somehow beautiful. It was built mostly of
wood-splinters quarried from the two-by-fours which braced the sofa; the base of
the city was more of the same, masticated into a sort of papier-mache platform.
As the soldier of fortune looked down on it from the dizzy height of two feet,
he felt his arms being very firmly seized.
"What do we do about this?" demanded a voice, thin and querulous. "I never saw
one this size."
"Take him to the Central Committee, stupid," snapped another. Battle felt his
guns being hoisted from their holsters and snickered quietly. They didn't know--
Yes they did. A blindfold was whipped about his eyes and his pockets and person
were given a thorough going-over. They even took the fulminate of mercury that
he kept behind his molars.
"Now what?" asked the first voice. Battle could picture its owner gingerly
handling the arsenal that he habitually carried with him.
"Now," said the second voice, "now freedom slowly broadens down." Clunk! Battle
felt something--with his last fighting vestige of consciousness he realized that
it was one of his own gun-butts--contact his head, then went down for the count.
THE NEXT THING he knew a dulcet voice was cooing at him. The Lieutenant had
never heard a dulcet voice before, he decided. There had been, during his hitch
with the Foreign Legion, one Messoua whose voice he now immediately classified
as a sort of hoarse cackle. The blonde Hedvig, Norwegian spy he had encountered
in service with Los Invincibles de Bolivia had seemed at the time capable of a
dulcet coo; Battle reallocated the Norse girl's tones as somewhere between a
rasp and a metallic gurgle.
The voice cooed at him: "Get up, stupid. You're conscious."
He opened his eyes and looked for the voice as he struggled to his feet. As he
found the source of the coo he fell right flat on his back again. J. C. Battle,
soldier-of-fortune extraordinary, highest-priced insurrectionaire in the world,
had seen many women in the course of his life. Many women had looked on him and
found him good, and he had followed the lead with persistence and ingenuity. His
rep as a Lothario stretched over most of the Earth's surface. Yet never, he
swore fervently to himself, never had he seen anything to match this little one
with the unfriendly stare.
She was somewhat shorter than the Lieutenant and her coloring was the palest,
most delicate shade of apple-green imaginable. Her eyes were emerald and her
hair was a glorious lushness like the hue of a high-priced golf-club's prize
putting-green on a Summer morning. And she was staring at him angrily, tapping
one tiny foot.
"Excuse me, madame," said Battle as he rose with a new self-possession in his
bearing. He noted that she was wearing what seemed to be a neat little paper
frock of shell pink. "Excuse me--I had no notion that it was a lady whom I was
keeping waiting."
"Indeed," said the lady coldly. "We'll dispense with introductions, whoever you
are. Just tell your story. Are you a renegade?" She frowned. "No, you couldn't
be that. Begin talking."
Battle bowed. "My card," he said, tendering it. "I presume you to be in a
position of authority over the--?" He looked around and saw that he was in a
room of wood, quite unfurnished.
"Oh, sit down if you wish," snapped the woman. She folded herself up on the
floor and scrutinized the card.
"What I am doesn't concern you," she said broodingly. "But since you seem to
know something about our plans, know that I am the supreme commander of the--"
She made a curious, clicking noise. "That's the name of my people. You can call
us the Invaders."
"I shall," began Battle. "To begin at the beginning, it is known that
your--Invaders--plan to take over this world of ours. I congratulate you on your
location of your people in a mohair sofa; it is the most ingenious place of
concealment imaginable. However, so that the sofa will not be fumigated, you
must perform operations at long-range--posthypnotic suggestion--I imagine--on
the minds of the servants at the Billionaire's Club. Can you explain to me why
you cannot perform these operations on the club-members themselves?"
"Very simple," said the woman sternly, with the ghost of a smile. "Since all the
billionaire members are self-made men they insist that even the lowest bus-boy
have advanced college degrees and be Phi Beta Kappas. This betokens a certain
type of academic mind which is very easy to hypnotize. But even if we worked in
twenty-four hour relays on "Old Jay" we couldn't put a dent in him. The psychic
insensitivity of a billionaire is staggering.
"And,' she added, looking at Battle through narrowed eyes, "there was one member
who noticed that the bus-boys never fumigated the sofa. We tried to work on him
while he slept, but he fought us back. He even subconsciously acquired knowledge
of our plans. Thought he'd dreamed it and forgot most of the details."
Battle sighed. "You're right," he admitted. "Cromleigh was his name, and he
tipped me off. Where are you Invaders from?"
"None of your business," she tartly retorted. "And where, precisely, do you come
from?"
"This Cromleigh," said Battle, "was--and is--no fool. He went to a psychologist
friend and had his mind probed. The result was a complete outline of your
civilization and plans--including that ingenious device of yours, the
minimifyer. He had one built in his lab and paid me very highly to go into it.
Then I was dropped by him personally into this sofa with a pair of tweezers."
"How much does he know?" snapped the woman.
"Not much. Only what one of your more feeble-minded citizens let him know. He
doesn't know the final invasion plans and he doesn't know the time-schedule--if
there is any as yet."
"There isn't," she said with furrowed brow. "And if there were, you imbecile
monsters would never learn it from us." Suddenly she blazed at him: "Why must
you die the hard way? Why don't you make room for the super-race while you have
the chance? But no! We'd never be able to live in peace with you--you--cretins!"
Then her lip trembled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be harsh--but
there are so few of us and so many of you--" The dam broke, and the little lady
dissolved in a flood of tears.
Battle leaped into the breech like a veteran He scored 99.9807 on the firing
range consistently and that was pretty good, but when it came to comforting
weeping female soldiers-of-fortune Battle really shone.
SOME MINUTES LATER they were chummily propped up against the wall of the wooden
room. Her weeps over, the little lady--who had identified herself as Miss
Aktying click! Byam--began:
"We come--you could have guessed this from our size--from an asteroid near
Jupiter. Don't ask me why my people are so much like yours except for size;
after all, why shouldn't they be? Spores of life, you know.
"Our space-ship's somewhere in your New Jersey; we landed there two years ago
and sized the situation up. We'd been driven from our own planet by nasty
creatures from Ceres who had the damnedest war-machines you ever saw.
Flame-guns, disintegrator rays--and they're going to mop up the universe when
they get around to it. By your standards they were three inches tall; to us they
were twenty-foot horrors.
"We sent out a few agents who learned the language in two or three days; we
could live on the space-ship and keep out of sight. The agents came back to us
all steamed up. They'd been riding in coat pockets and things, listening in on
private wires. They found out that most of the wealth in the world is
concentrated in the Billionaire's Club, right here where we are. So we moved en
masse, all three hundred of us, into this sofa and built our city.
"It isn't as easy as it sounds, of course. To listen in on a conversation means
that you have to weigh yourself down with almost an ounce of equipment for
raising the octaves of the voice and scaling it down to fit our ears. But now we
have our listening posts and we eavesdrop in relays to every word that's spoken.
If you knew what I know about Atlantis Plastic and Explosive--
"Anyway, Battle; we have our fingers on the economic pulse of the planet. We
could release information through dreams and hunches that would wreck the
market, as you call it, and create the most staggering" panic of all times. Once
that happens, Battle.. ."
"Go on," snapped the Lieutenant.
"Once that happens, Battle," she said in a small, tense voice, "we turn on a
little machine we have and every human being that walks the Earth turns into
pocket-fuzz."
She faced his horrified stare with a pitying smile. "It's true," she said. "We
can do it. When we're ready, when we're convinced that science and research is
so disorganized that they can't possibly do anything about it, we turn on the
machine, technically known as a protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic - discellular
converter and it happens."
"Not," grated Battle, "if I can stop it."
"That's the rub, my dear," she said with a frown. "You can't. You're my
prisoner." And she smiled exquisitely, baring apple-green teeth, so that Battle
was constrained to agree with the little lady.
"It seems fitting," he brooded absently. "A super-race indeed is come to humble
man."
"DARLING," SAID BATTLE, "it's the strange mixture of ruthlessness and
sentimentality that makes your people perpetually amazing to me. It's a pitched
battle in the dark on our part; my people have no notion of what's going on
behind their backs, and you see nothing evil or dark in the situation."
Busily Miss Aktying click! Byam kissed him and returned to her desk. "My sweet,"
she said, "if you trouble your head over our alien morality you'll never get to
the end of it. Enough that you are accepted into our midst as a non-combatant
worker and the very special charge of the Expediter-in-Chief--that's me. Now go
away, please. I'll see you tonight."
Battle pocketed the seal he had lifted from the desk and blew a kiss at her back
as he closed the door behind him.
The week he had been imprisoned had been no great hardship; he had been
privileged to roam within the limits of the city and examine the marvelously
complicated life these tiny invaders had made for themselves. There had been
other privileges as well...
The lieutenant, professional and romanticized killer, could not get over the
appalling technique of the invaders. It was not inefficient, it was not
cold-blooded; somehow to him it was worse. Like all right-minded military men of
the old school, he deplored the occasional necessity of spying. What then could
he think of a campaign that was spying and nothing else but?
He had been allowed to see--under guard--the wonderful listening posts of the
tiny people. From little speakers boomed the voices of "Old Jay" and the other
Titans of finance who worked off steam in the smoking room of the Billionaire's
Club. And nobody ever sat on the sofa or moved it; it simply would never occur
to a member to do so, and in the minds of the servants there had been built up a
myth that it was the very first sofa that the celebrated and deceased founder of
the club, Nicholas VanBhoomenbergen, had installed and that it would be a breach
of the club's rules to move it. The fact was that it had been brought in by two
men from Airways Express who had had their minds taken over for the nonce by the
invaders. A Mrs. Pinsky, for whom it had been originally consigned, never did
find out what happened to it.
Battle ascertained by judicious inquiry that the pocket-fuzz machine actual]y
did exist. It had been a swipe from the war-science of the invaders from Ceres.
The thing was broken down at the moment, but when they got it into shape
again--!
He had uneasy pictures of a vast number of speculators all waking up with the
same hunch on which way the market would jump. All bidding simultaneously for
the same securities would make a ticklish situation that could be touched off by
judicious inspiration of an investment banker--any investment banker-- who could
be dreamed into thinking his bank was without assets. Bank closes and banker
commits suicide.
Panic on the market; the vast number of speculators find themselves with
securities at fantastically high prices and worth fantastically near nothing at
all. Vast number of speculators sell out and are ruined, for then three more
banks close and three more bankers commit suicide. President declares
bank-holiday; the great public withdraws savings as soon as the banks open
again, therefore the banks close again. The great public holes up for a long,
hard winter. With loose cash lying around crime is on the upswing and martial
law is declared, at which Leftist organizations explode and start minor
insurrections in industrial cities.
Mexico attacks across the Rio Grande; the invaders from the asteroid had a
contingent of expert hypnotists ready to leave for Chihuahua where the southern
republic's army as stationed.
And then the protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic-discellular converter would get
turned on. The population of Manhattan would turn into pocket fuzz--or at least
separate large-molecule units resembling very closely the stuff you find in
pockets or handbags after two or three weeks of use.
Manhattan is fortified by the wee folk from the asteroid who build several more
of the flug-machines, aiming them at the other boroughs and moving their
twenty-mile field of effectiveness at the rate of a state each day. The North
American continent would be clear of any and all protoplasmic life at the end of
a week, they estimated.
And the hell of it was that they were right. But Battle was whistling cheerily
as he forged a pass with the aid of the seal from his lady's desk.
HE HAD CREPT out into the open, been perceived by the eagle-eye of old
Cromleigh, lifted on a pair of tweezers and whistled into a waiting Rolls.
Once again his natural size in the New Jersey lab he stretched comfortably.
"Thanks for being so prompt," he yawned. "Thanks a lot. They were coming after
me, by the sound of footsteps in the distance."
"Now you see why I had to be quiet and do this thing on the sly?" demanded the
financier. "If I'd told all I know they'd have called me mad and locked me up
the way his family treated poor old John Dee. (But don't let that get out,
Lieutenant.) Now tell me what you found there--begin at the beginning. How much
do they know about finance and manipulation? Have they got their records in a
safe place?"
Battle lit a cigarette; he hadn't taken any with him for fear of firing the
sofa. Luxuriously he drew in a draft of the smoke clear down to his toenails and
let it trickle from the corners of his mouth. "One question at a time," he said.
"And I'll ask the first few of them. Mr. Cromleigh, why won't you let me bomb
the sofa ?"
The old man twisted his hands nervously together. "Because a bomb in the
smoking-room would kill Old Jay when he hears about it; the man always goes to
Lhasa in Tibet when July Fourth rolls around. He's been that way since the Wall
Street Massacre in `24 or `5. Because I'm not cold-blooded. And because, dammit,
those little people I saw were cute."
"Yeah!" agreed Battle reminiscently. "That she was. To begin at the beginning,
your dream was substantially correct. They're little people from an asteroid.
They have war-machinery and no hearts whatsoever. They're listening twenty-four
hours a day. Not a word spoken in the room escapes them and it all goes onto
records."
"Good--good God!" whispered Cromleigh, cracking his freckled knuckles. "What
that information must be worth!" He rose. "Let's get back to Manhattan for a
drink, Lieutenant," he said shakily. "And there's another aspect I want to
discuss with you. Your first trip was a sort of foray. It was mostly to convince
me that I wasn't mad. And to size up the ground as well. Now can we discuss
planting a permanent spy in the sofa? To keep tabs on them and move only when
necessary?"
"Delightful," said Battle thoughtfully. "I have friends. My own club you
probably do not know of, but it is the best of its kind."
CROMLEIGH, NERVOUSLY tapping his desk with a pencil, was alone in the great New
Jersey lab as far as could be seen. Grotesque machinery lined the walls; during
the day there would be eight score technicians working, checking and
double-checking their results, bringing new honor and glory to the Cromleigh
Vacumaxie Sweeper and the rest of the string of electric products. His sugar
plants and labs were far away in Pasadena; the Cromleigh Iron Works were going
full blast in the ore basin of the continent. He looked like a very worried man.
From the shadows, with completely noiseless tread, stole a figure. "Good
evening, sir," said Battle. "I've brought all of the Sabre Club that's available
on two hours' notice.
"Miss Millicent, this is Mr. Cromleigh," he announced, leading forth from the
shadows a tall, crisp woman. When she spoke it was with a faint, Southern drawl:
"Pleased t' know you. Any frien' of Lieutenant Battle's . . ." She trailed back
into the darkness and vanished completely.
"Doctor Mogilov, former Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kazan." A
slight, smiling man bowed out from the darkness; he was smooth-shaven and looked
very un-Russian. In a pronounced Cambridge dialect he said: "Delighted," and put
one hand on the butt of a revolver slung from his slender waist.
"And Alex Vaughn, Yorkshire born and bred." The Englishman said thickly, in the
peculiar speech that makes the clear-headed, big-boned men of York sound always
a little intoxicated: "Ah coom wi' russi-veh-shins, soor. Lut thawt bay
oondair-stud."
"He says," interpreted the Lieutenant, "that he comes with reservations; let
that be understood. And that completes the present roster of the Sabre Club
present in New York."
"Only three?" complained Cromleigh. "And one a woman? You gave me to understand
that they could completely smash the invaders."
"Yes," said the Lieutenant, his voice heavy with added meaning. "Any invaders."
"No doubt--" said Cromleigh. Then some message in Battle's eyes alarmed him
unaccountably; his hand trembled on the desk-top and gripped the edge to steady
itself.
"That did it!" snapped Battle. He swung on Ole Cromleigh "How long have we?" he
grated, pulling a gun and aiming for the financier's throat.
In a voice hoarse with hatred Cromleigh yelled: "Just two minutes more, you
meddling scum! Then--"
"Lights !" yelled Battle. "Turn the damned lights on, Miss Millicent !" As the
overhead indirects flared up, bathing the huge lab in a lambent, flaming
radiance, the four figures of the Sabre Club members, the Billionaire Clubman
and one other leaped into sharp reality.
It was the figure of the sofa. "We took the liberty," said Battle, his gun not
swerving an inch, "of removing this object from the smoking room. It's going
lock, stock and barrel into the enlarging machine you have here."
"You fool !" roared Cromleigh. "Don't you know--" The descending gun butt cut
off any further conversation.
"Hurry up !" grated the Lieutenant. He hefted the sofa to his broad shoulders.
"That trembling hand was a signal if ever I saw one. His friends'll be here any
minute. Open that damned machine and plug in the power!"
The Russian philosopher, muttering wildly to himself, swung wide the gates of
the box-like magnifier through which Battle had come only a few hours before.
"Thank God there's plenty of room!" groaned Battle. "And if this doesn't work,
prepare for Heaven, friends!" He turned on the machine full power and speed,
took Miss Millicent by the arm and dragged her to the far end of the vast lab.
DURING THE INCREDIBLY long three minutes that ensued, they made ready their
weapons for what might prove to be a siege, while Battle explained in rapid-fire
undertones what he had had no time for during the plane-ride from Manhattan.
As he checked the load of his quickfirers he snapped: "Invaders--fooey! Anybody
could tell that those women were fresh from an office. They had the clerical air
about them. The only invader--as a carefully logical process of deduction
demonstrated-- was the gruesome creature who's been posing as Cromleigh. Just
murdered the old guy--I suppose-- and took over his body. Him and his friends
whom he just signaled. He's the only baby who hypnotized the Phi Beta Kappas
they use for busboys.
"Why did he risk sending me in there? The inevitable mark of a louse. Doesn't
trust anybody, not even his own office-staff dyed a pale green and reduced to
half gnat-size. So he sent me in for a spy on them. The whole cock-and-bull
story of the creatures from an asteroid was so that there'd be no suspicion
directed at him in case some bright waiter should find the louse-people.
Wouldn't be surprised if he's from an asteroid himself. Crazy business! Craziest
damned business!"
"How about the financial angle?" asked Vaughn, who could be intelligible when
money was involved.
"I picked that bird's pocket slick as a whistle just before I conked him. Feels
like a hundred grand."
"Here they come !" snapped Miss Millicent.
"They" were creatures of all shapes and sizes who were streaming through the
only door to the lab, at the other end of the room.
"Awk!" gulped the lady involuntarily. "They" were pretty awful. There were a
hundred or so of them, many much like men, a few in an indescribable
liquid-solid state that sometimes was gaseous. The luminous insides of these
churned wildly about; there were teeth inside them two feet long.
Others were gigantic birds, still others snakes, still others winged dragons.
"That settles it," grunted the Russian philosopher as he flicked his gun into
and out of its holster faster than the eye could follow. "That settles it. They
are amoebic, capable of assuming any shape at all. One is changing now--awk!" He
persevered. "Indubitably possessed of vast hypnotic powers over unsuspecting
minds only. Otherwise they would be working on us."
"They" were rolling in a flood of shifting, slimy flesh down the floor of the
lab.
"The machine! The sofa!" cried Miss Millicent. Battle breathed a long sigh of
relief as the cabinet-like expander exploded outward and the sofa it held kept
on growing--and growing--and growing--and growing! It stopped just as it filled
the segment of the lab that it occupied.
With a squeaking of tortured timbers the laws of cross-sectional sufferance
power asserted themselves and the hundred-yard-high sofa collapsed in a
monstrous pile of rubble.
"Sit very still," said the Lieutenant. "Be quite quiet and blow the head off any
hundred-yard centipede that wanders our way."
There were agonized yells from the other side of the couch's ruins. "That
couch," Battle informed them, "was just plain lousy. Full of centipedes, lice,
what have you. And when a louse smells blood--God help any invaders around, be
they flesh, fish, fowl or amoebic!"
AFTER TEN MINUTES there was complete quiet.
"What about the insects?" asked Vaughn.
"They're dead," said Battle, rising and stretching. "Their respiratory system
can't keep up with the growth. They were good for about ten minutes, then they
keel over. Their tracheae can't take in enough oxygen to keep them going, which
is a very good thing for the New Jersey countryside."
He strolled over to the vast pile of rubble and began turning over timbers, Miss
Millicent assisting him.
"Ah!" he grunted. "Here it is!" He had found the body of an apple-green young
lady whose paint was beginning to peel, revealing a healthy pink beneath. With
many endearing terms he brought her out of her swoon as Miss Millicent's
eyebrows went higher and higher.
Finally she exploded, as the two were cozily settled on a mountainous
upholstery-needle that had, at some time, got lost in the sofa.
"Just when, Lieutenant, did you find out that these people weren't invaders from
an asteroid?"
Rattle raised his eyebrows and kissed the girl. "Have no fear, darling," he
said. "A gentleman never-- er--kisses--and tells.



Back Cosmic SF (1:3): "The Colossus of Maia"

Forward Cosmic SF (1:3): "The Real Thrill"
Contents Cosmic SF (1:3): Issue Contents

Home VTSF Project Page




Wyszukiwarka