Cunningham Amazing Stories Volume 115

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-708-2
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 117 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Amazing Stories Volume 115 is a great collection of action short stories from The Golden Age of Science Fiction. Featured here are five short stories by different authors: The Man Who Flew, by Charles D. Cunningham, The Good Work by Theodore L. Thomas, A Planet for Your Thoughts by James Norman, Sargasso of the Stars by Frederic A. Kummer, and South to Propontis by Andrew Ackermann.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Cunningham, Charles D.

Leseproben

The Man Who Flew
Charles D. Cunningham
The Man Who Flew could
not exist—but he had
committed a foul crime! Clouds hung low over the city, gray and dismal. The shining metal thruway partially reflected their somber visage. A few vehicles scurried nervously through the city. Keller turned away from the window dismally. His conscience was bothering him, and it affected his every movement. Looking over his humbly furnished office, he entertained the thought, not for the first time, that he should change jobs if he wanted to eat. A buzz sounded—the intercom system. That would be Sally, his secretary. It was a mystery what she would want. Usually she never bothered him except in case of an emergency, and the last client Keller had had dropped his case three months ago. Apparently it was another customer, unlikely as it seemed. Keller heard voices outside, Sally's irritated and protesting, and a nervous baritone. Abruptly the door opened, disclosing a rugged, bushy-haired C-3 (average intelligence and advanced extra-sensory perception, but unexercised), who was in a bad state of nerves. He seemed to have forced his way past Sally into the inner office. Keller flashed a thought at Sally: **How does he look?** **Not so hot,** she answered. **I didn't bother to scan much—don't want to lower myself to that depth—but he seems to be a big payer. He's impatient, though. And he wants everything run his way.** Oh, fine, thought Keller. My first victim in three months, and it has to be the Big Shot type. He made the usual Q-R opening; curtly and efficiently: "Your name?" "Uh—Harold Radcliffe." "Why the hesitation?" But Keller had scanned it already. The man was simply cautious. He continued without letting Radcliffe answer: "Age?" 33. "Occupation?" Hesitation: Salesman. "Residence?" After writing this and Radcliffe's telephone number down, he closed his grimy black notebook and sat back. "And now, Mr. Radcliffe, why exactly did you come here?" Radcliffe, unsure of himself at first, gathered confidence as he noticed Keller's interest growing. He began: "Well sir, for this job I need one of the best detectives—" he paused at Keller's grimace—"and since you're one of the few detectives in the city who can read minds, and the only A-2 'tec in the state—" He shrugged, and finished, "I figured you'd be the man for me." Keller saw that he was telling the truth, after a quick check into the man's mind. "All right, Mr. Radcliffe. What's your problem?" Radcliffe seemed to not be able to focus his thoughts. His mind, Keller saw, was a loose stream of unconnected thoughts, trying to merge into a whole. Keller could read no message out of them. He suspected a block—an unusual thing for a C-3, but not impossible. He gave up, sat back and awaited the other's response. Finally it came, jerking Keller out of his chair. "It's murder, Mr. Keller. The murder of my wife." Murder! It was the first suspected murder in thirteen years. Ever since the Ricjards case in '04, peace and tranquility reigned in a calm and placid nation. For thirteen peaceful years there had been no hint of manslaughter other than accidental. It had been conditioned out of humans at the prenatal stage, and unless there was a violent, all-encompassing urge to kill, murder was completely out of the question. It was hard to believe. But it was not a lie; no non-tele could block a lie, and Keller scanned the truth in Radcliffe's brain. "Wait a minute, Radcliffe. Are you sure it's not murder by accident—unintentional manslaughter, as the police term it? Or it could be suicide. Had you thought of that?" Radcliffe shook his head impatiently. He rose out of his chair, pacing the floor nervously. "It could not possibly be accident. You'll see that when you investigate the case. Suicide? It's possible. Anything is possible, I suppose, but I would lay any kind of odds against it. We had just been to the theater. We returned to our apartment at about five minutes to eleven. "After undressing and showering, I started to turn in. I noticed a light on in her room—we sleep in separate rooms—and called to her, to see if anything was wrong. There was no answer. "I figured that she had gone to sleep with the light on, and went into the room to turn it off. That was when I saw her on the floor." He stopped. Keller read grief, fear and love in his memory. "How had she been killed?" "It was a handgun, Mr. Keller. Her face was all blackened and charred. Barely recognizable. But I knew it must be her. Our rooms connect, you see. There are two other doors to each room; one to the outside hall, and one to each bathroom. "When she was shot, my door was locked on the inside—triple-locked, I remember, because I felt like being left alone that night. It was locked by chain, bar and bolt. It's a fairly ancient apartment house. We like it that way. Her bathroom door was open and there was no one hiding inside. The same went for my bathroom. And both hall doors were locked and bolted. "The windows were locked on the inside, and there is no opening to shoot through that would not leave traces. I checked. "Even if the killer had gotten in some way or other, there was no way he could get out and still leave the doors and windows locked up tight." Keller thought, there is one way, Mr. Radcliffe. But he kept it to himself for the moment. He looked up and smiled as confidently as he could. "I'll be glad to take your case, Mr. Radcliffe. Of course you want me to spare no expenses," he added hopefully. At Radcliffe's harassed nod, he relaxed. Next came the most dangerous part of the job. It was a part which had eliminated several competent detectives from their jobs—the Probe phase. This involved plunging into the subject's mind, and sorting out relevant details which could furnish extra clues. Several Probers had got themselves trapped in the subject's mind, unable to get out because of a mental block or insanity. It might, however, be unnecessary. He flashed a thought to the girl in the adjoining room: **Sal, should I give him the H-R treatment?** Answer: **Emphatically! He's hiding something. Not intentionally, but it needs to be uncovered. A superficial scanning of the preconscious doesn't get the job done.** Keller sighed. The Probe (also called the H-R treatment, because a certain amount of hypnotism was involved) was trying on not only the subject but also the scanner. He said: "Now, Mr. Radcliffe, I'm going to go into your subconscious mind and get your impressions of last night. I want you to concentrate on ... let's say ... the moment when you saw your wife." He shut off all of his five senses, and took the plunge. The image formed: Shrieking terror. A tinge of ozone in the air. The Creature creeping up from behind. A beheaded teddy bear lying full length on the floor. A hole in the air near the door, colored red. Floating demon—where? Nonononono! The Creature bending over him. Terror—heat. No! THE MAN WHO FLEW. Melting walls. The door (now violet) disintegrating. The teddy bear shriveling now—turns into a snake— He emerged. Before he could take full control of his body, a thought came: **Rick? How did you come out?** He flashed her the image. **Lousy. I can't get a true impression-picture to save my life. Just a lousy nightmare, fantasy-symbolism deal. But I did get something out of that mess. I'll let you know about it as soon as I verify it.** To Radcliffe, since the time when Keller had stopped talking until right now, as Keller opened his eyes and frowned in thought, no time had elapsed. In actuality, the time taken was one and one-half microseconds. Keller flashed: **Sally, tune in on this conversation, please.** "Radcliffe," he said slowly, "When did you lose your sight?" The other man sat up rigidly, then relaxed. "How did you find out? Did you scan it?" "No. When I was receiving your impressions, I caught an idea of melting walls. Then there were nameless creatures and demons floating around. I examined your senses when I came out, and saw that you were blind. What is it—sort of a sight perception-tuning sense?" Radcliffe nodded. "I can sense everything except colors. Everything seems black, white and gray to me." He paused wearily. "Otherwise, there's no difference. No one else knew about it. Not even my wife." Keller nodded. "Now, let's try it again. Concentrate on the moment when you entered here and saw me for the first time." He flashed a thought to Sally. **Those Creatures were his fear of the unknown. He's got a lot of fright in there. Probably afraid that the killer would jump out at him from some shadowy corner. I don't quite see how he could visualize different colors, having never seen them before—but that's probably my interpretation of them. Here goes.** The image: Heat. Light. The teddy bear rising up again. Fear. THE MAN WHO FLEW. The snake again—coiling—striking—missing. Fleeing. Dying. Melting walls. Voices around him—laughing—shrieking. Colors of the rainbow. The creature dying—dead—dissolving. No more.... Voices again. Talking to him. Telling him—what? His life flashing before him—stopping. His brain—undressing? Hole in the air at—the desk? Fear. THE MAN WHO FLEW. Fear-terror-hate-revenge ... determination.... **Sally? Did you catch all that mess?** **Unfortunately.** **Something's wrong, Sally. I should be seeing something akin to the actual events through his eyes. Instead all I get is this meaningless stuff—unless—oh, God, now I...