His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

"He actually was a noble of Britain, and he used every cent he had on lecherous pursuits and the proof of his doctrine—a kind of superman-cum-troglodyte-cum-Mendel-cum-Mills-cum-Wells-cum-Pavlov social theory. Fantastic, of course. Couldn't work except in a case like this.

"So he financed research along lines much like mine and brought himself and mistresses and library and equipment into this plane. And then he proceeded with his scheme. It was his aim to propagandize a race with such thoroughness that his will would be instinct to his descendants! And he succeeded, in a limited way.

"Arbitrarily, he divided his offspring into two camps, about the third generation, and ingrained in each a hatred of the other. To further the terrible joke he named them arbitrarily Black and White, after the innocent war-games of his youth. His aim was—ultimately—to have both camps exterminate the other. For him to be the only survivor.

Madman! Hideous madman!"

"That all?" I ask, not wanting to tire him.

"No. He has the equipment to get back into our own plane. I'm going to use it now to send you back, Matt. You can say with almost perfect veracity that you bumped me off as per orders."

"But why don't you send these people back?" I ask, being real bright.

"They wouldn't like it, Matt. It would be too great a strain on them.

Besides, in the month or so that I'll last here, with this wound in my shoulder, I can throw a perfectly effective monkeywrench into the Old Man's plans. I think that in a few years the Blacks and Whites will be friends."

"I got a better idea," I says with authority. "You go back to Earth and I stay here. You can get patched up by any good medico. And I won't mind it much." And that's what little Matt says, thinking of a golden-haired lady who might be taught that monogamy ain't necessarily a deadly sin.

So Judy, you be a good little sister and open that safe-deposit box of mine—doc will give you the key—and give doc five thousand to square himself with Lucco. And you take the rest and quit that chain-store job and start yourself the swellest beauty parlor in town, just like you always wanted to.

And keep in touch with doc. He's a great guy, but he needs somebody around to see that he don't hurt himself.

Dead Center

[Stirring Science Stories - February 1941 as by S. D. Gottesman]

The chilled-steel muzzle of the old-fashioned automatic swerved not an inch as Angel Maclure spoke: "I'm at your service, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

"Put that gun down," advised the shorter man easily. "We just didn't want any fuss. You have our blasters—we won't try anything."

Maclure grinned and lowered his pistol. "Right," he said. "I wasn't sure whether you'd mistaken me for a banker or somebody who deserved killing." He gestured at the blasters which he had wrenched from his assailants' hands. "Pick 'em up, boys." They did, and pocketed the deadly little tubes. "Now what did you want?"

The shorter, softer-spoken man began: "Excuse my friend—he's new in our service. He doesn't realize that we should have asked you first and then pulled the tubes. Understand?"

"All forgiven," said Maclure shortly. "I just didn't expect to be jumped two minutes after I get off a liner. It usually takes months before the police hear that I'm around. What's the service you mentioned?"

"Let's wait before I tell you anything," said the shorter man. He smiled confidingly. "You'll find out enough to blow your top off. Now, Mr.

Maclure, you're supposed to come with us—whether of your own free will or by force. Understand?"

"Sure. Call me Angel. What's your tag?"

Maclure walked off down the street, flanked by the other two. He knew that their pocketed hands fingered blaster tubes, and that a false move might cost him a foot or arm. But he was interested by the distinctly peculiar set-up he had seemingly blundered into. The last year he had spent on Venus doing a big engineering job—barracks and installation—for one of the wildcat land promoter outfits. The new scar on his jaw he had acquired when he had stormed into the company offices with a pay-slip that he wanted cashed in full. He still carried the scar, but he had got his due amount, and with it a bit of interest lying in the back of the blasted safe. His trip to Earth again had been in quest of some much-needed relaxation; he had not taken kindly to being jumped by two strangers.

The shorter man hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of me. Baldur Gaussman."

"Yeah?" asked Angel, impressed. "You did that first floating weather station on Uranus, didn't you?"

"That's right," said Gaussman. He halted before a curtained taxi. "We get in here," he said quietly. And they did.