Farrell The Laughter of Toffee & No Time For Toffee

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-656-6
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 135 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

This is a great collection of action short stories by Henry Farrell from The Golden Age of Science Fiction. Featured here: The Laughter of Toffee, and No Time For Toffee.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Farrell, Henry

Leseproben

No Time For Toffee!
Life was Marc's oyster, but: subversives
had shot him—a ghost was ready to haunt his
corpse—and Toffee was loving him to death! Just as he stepped to the microphone Marc caught sight of the swarthy man. He saw the red scar across the left eyebrow, the dull flash of metal in the large hairy hand. By then it was too late even to cry out. In the next instant the glass panel in the control booth shattered. Marc felt an explosion of hot pain deep inside his chest. He was aware of looking around dumbly at Dick Drewson and seeing Drewson's face register shocked disbelief. Then the scene—the room, Drewson and the others—disappeared, engulfed in a blinding sheet of flame—and Marc knew he was falling.... Somewhere, in a place where time and space didn't exist, grey mists began to seeth and swirl, and withall there was an ominous rumbling. The High Council was almost in session. In a sense, the High Council was already in session, for the Heads of the Council had developed their intellects to such an inconceivable degree that when a meeting of the Council was imminent they could send their thoughts on ahead of them and get the meeting under way even before putting in an appearance. There was an exchange of views and information long before the Heads accomplished the mundane and troublesome business of materialization. Thus it was that the mists of Limbo now rumbled with thought, counter thought and—on this particular occasion—downright aggravation, even before the arrival of the Supreme Head in the vapored chambers. There was an air of foreboding. Having declined all vanities in the pursuit of the Ultimate Intelligence, the Heads had allowed themselves to evolve into literal representations of their titles. Directing all their energy and development to the brain and its encasement, their bodies had suffered proportionately so that now they were little more than a group of preposterously large craniums, shaggy with cerebration, bearing faces weighted with the ponderous woe of Life, Death, Eternity and other such mental ballast. Five in all, they made up a company to be avoided whatever the cost. The Supreme Head cleared his throat and Eternity rattled with phlegmy discontent. Baleful glances were exchanged all around. "Well," said the Supreme Head, after a pause for attention. "I suppose you all know the reason for this meeting by now?" The Second Head, a bald party with large ears, nodded sadly. "You say this blighted Pillsworth has gone and got himself shot this time?" "Precisely," the Supreme Head affirmed. "In a broadcasting studio, if you please. There's simply no keeping that man out of trouble." "But why should we want to keep him out of trouble?" the Third Head, an elongated customer with eye pouches, wanted to know. "That's hardly our responsibility." "There's George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head said fatefully. "Surely you haven't forgotten about George?" A hush fell over the Council, a hush of horror. "Not George again?" the Second Head shuddered. "We don't have to face him again, do we?" He looked around beseechingly at the others. "After all, Pillsworth's only injured, isn't he? He's not dying?" The Supreme Head looked for a moment as though he wished he had shoulders so he might shrug them hopelessly. "The vibrations are confused again," he sighed. "I don't know what the interference is around Pillsworth, but the call never comes through clearly. All we know is that he's gotten himself into another mess of some sort and is either dead or dying." "It seems that the subversives are still strongly active in the United States, and of course Pillsworth couldn't stay out of it like a good citizen. He was approached by some men delegated by government authority to take control of national advertising. The theory was that American advertising could be used as a strong combative propaganda weapon against the enemy propaganda already circulating through the country. A committee was delegated to secure the cooperation of the nation's leading advertising agencies. Naturally, since Pillsworth is the nation's leading advertising executive, they contacted him first." "Then Pillsworth is a subversive?" the First Head enquired. "That's how he got into trouble?" "Not at all," said the Supreme Head. "That's just it. Pillsworth wasn't subversive, but the government committee was." "Eh?" "Exactly. It turned out that the program was one of the cleverest propaganda schemes ever devised. Actually, their aim was to insert alien ideals into the nation's advertising." "But you said the plan had government approval." "That's the really clever part of it. The method of presentation, while seeming on the surface to denounce the foreign creed and uphold the American one, actually was designed to win support for the enemy. The sales psychology employed was of the negative." "Negative?" "That's correct. It's the old principle of telling people they don't want a thing until they develop a feeling of defiance and decide they are going to have it. It's an extremely subtle approach, but almost infallible if properly developed. Knowing this, these men had a perfect plan, so subtle that even the government didn't recognize it. Also, they had help from within. A certain Congressman Entwerp pushed through the legislation." "But Pillsworth saw through it?" "Instantly," the Supreme Head nodded. "It was a principle he had been using assiduously for years, in fact the very one through which he achieved his success. The whole plot was as clear as a May morn the moment he heard it. That's when the trouble started. He contacted Congressman Entwerp." "Oh, dear!" "Indeed. Entwerp responded by holding Pillsworth up to ridicule." "But Pillsworth had logic on his side." The Supreme Head smiled tolerantly. "That's the Earth for you every time," he said. "Show a human a bit of logic and he gets truculent on the spot. Pillsworth was denounced as a witch hunter and instructed under penalty of law to cooperate to the fullest." "Shocking," the Third Head said. "I begin to feel sorry for this Pillsworth." "Pillsworth was similarly shocked. But he didn't feel sorry for himself. Despite his inclination for the quiet conservative life, he fought back." "Good," the Fourth Head put in. "I'm glad; it gives the story zip." "My thought in telling you this," the Supreme Head said caustically, "is merely to inform, not entertain." "Sorry, sir." The Head nodded acknowledgment. "But to get on, Pillsworth presented his case to a news broadcaster and asked to be allowed to recite his story to the nation in the interests of national security. He was shot. By whom we do not know; the fellow got away. But the fact we must hold in mind is that he definitely was shot." "Then it really is serious," the Third Head said. "We may have to interview this deadly George after all." "It's unavoidable," the Supreme Head sighed. "There's no way around it." "But we're not positive Pillsworth is dead yet. Couldn't we wait and be sure?" "His vibrations have been broken," the Supreme Head said. "Actually we have no cause to hesitate." He sighed. "I suppose we might as well get it over with." The others nodded in reluctant agreement. There was an oppressive silence. "But didn't we banish George?" the First Head said. "We must have after his last excursion to Earth." "That's right," the Second Head agreed. "I remember distinctly. He attempted to fire poor Pillsworth off into outer space without a pressure suit. We banished him to the Void to sing bass in the Moaning Chorus." "We certainly picked the right party for the job," the First Head reflected. "There isn't a more base spirit in all Limbo. Has he been summoned?" The Supreme Head coughed regretfully. "I issued the call through Message Center before I announced the council." "Oh, dear," the First Head murmured, "then the stinker is practically on the sloop at this very moment." "The stinker is crossing the sloop even now," the Supreme Head amended, his gaze fastened hauntedly on a disturbance in the outer mists. "Here he comes." "Secure your valuables," the Second Head said morosely. "And keep your hands in your pockets." Hesitantly, under the unblinking disapproval of the Council, George materialized. As the Council watched, a duplicate of Marc Pillsworth's long, lean body, made vague by misted robes, rose solidly out of the moiling vapors. It grew to full stature, rounded out at the shoulders, extended a neck, then stopped short of the head. There was an expectant pause, but nothing further developed. "The rotter's ashamed to face us," the First Head observed sourly. "Little wonder," the Third Head muttered. "After the way he's blotted the haunting profession, he hasn't got a leg to stand on." "George Pillsworth," the Supreme Head intoned with exasperation, "spiritual projection of the mortal entity, Marc Pillsworth, approach the Council. And put on your head, you fool." George stirred, and his head, working from the chin upward, materialized, revealing the face of Marc Pillsworth. All in all, as faces go, Marc's—and consequently also George's—hit very close to average. It was a nice face, a pleasant face, for all its lack of distinction. On George, therefore, it was a misleading face. With its lean plainness, its serious grey eyes and its shock of sandy hair, it failed utterly to express even a whit of George's unprincipled temperament. "Is that better, sir?" George asked, edging warily forward. "Hardly that," the Supreme Head groused. "The less of you the better. However it...