Zacks Amazing Tales Volume 129

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-3-98744-726-6
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 74 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Dive into the enchanting worlds of Amazing Tales Volume 129, where each story transports you to realms both familiar and fantastical. This anthology weaves together narratives of adventure, mystery, and cosmic wonder, inviting readers to explore the vast expanse of human imagination. In From Outer Space by Robert Zacks, a seasoned spacefarer mesmerizes a group of young listeners with stories of Earth, a distant world they can only dream of. Through his vivid tales of love, labor, and the enigmatic fate of their ancestral home, the old storyteller becomes a vital link to a forgotten past, sparking a longing for a world unseen. Transitioning to Joseph Samachson's Forgotten Danger, the atmosphere shifts to a shadowy swamp where Crusoe awakens, haunted by an undefined threat. Surrounded by strangers with cryptic intentions, he uncovers a miraculous power within himself, transforming the eerie landscape into a playground of suspense and wonder. Next, journey to a bygone England with Mistake Inside by James Blish, where the allure of coffee houses eclipses the charm of pubs. Amidst the swirling smoke and lively conversations, a mysterious visitor from the future disrupts the ordinary rhythm, casting a spell of intrigue and altering the course of a seemingly mundane evening. Finally, venture into the cosmos with Frank Belknap Long's And We Sailed the Mighty Dark. Follow Jim Sanders and Pete as they explore abandoned starships in the graveyard of space legends. Their journey through tales of luck and redemption on the system's edge delves into the profound depths of friendship and the irresistible pull of a second chance. Amazing Tales Volume 129 offers an unforgettable voyage through stories that challenge the boundaries of reality, leaving readers both captivated and contemplative.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Zacks, Robert

Leseproben

Forgotten danger

Joseph Samachson

Crusoe could remember only one thing—that
somewhere near some deadly danger
threatened him! He had no way of knowing
what it was, or why he was in the swamp.
Then he found he could work miracles!

He had a feeling that there was something he had to remember, something urgent, something that had to do with danger. But it was hard to think of it, it was hard to think at all. There was a dullness in his head as if he had been too long asleep. And now that he had awakened at last, he did not know for the moment where he was. He would realize, of course, once he shook himself and straightened out his mind. But so far he did not know. Nothing was familiar.

It was dark, and in the background he saw the silhouettes of bushes, a bridge, trees. Closer at hand there was a fire over which a large pot was boiling. Around the fire were four men in ragged clothes. As the firelight flickered over their faces, casting weird lights upon the battered features, he studied them carefully. He knew none of them.

One was a big subtly mis-shapen bull of a man with a three days' beard. There was power in the set of his shoulders, in his easy slouch as, with narrowed eyes, he stirred the contents of the pot. Another was small, with a pointed beard and a shining bald head. The first one, he gathered from their conversation, was called Angel, the second, Professor. The other two were of more moderate size. He saw that their faces assumed strange colors in the light of the leaping flames. He could not, no matter how hard he tried, gather what their names were. But he knew that names didn't matter. The thing that mattered was the danger that somehow threatened and that he couldn't remember.

Angel lifted something out of the pot with a long spoon, said curtly, "Stuff's ready," and began to ladle out the steaming mixture. The men moved toward him with their large tin cups, and then moved back to eat. The largest portion of all Angel kept for himself. The next largest he brought to the sitting man, stumbling as he did so over a root that tangled his shoe. But he caught himself before he had spilled the contents of the cup and said, "Here y'are, Crusoe."

Crusoe. A strange name. Not his at all. But he said automatically, "Thank you."

Angel had lifted a spoonful of the stew to his own mouth. Now he gulped it down hastily and said, "Hey fellows, he sounds like he came out of it."

The other men gathered around him. Professor, staring with sharp eyes, asked, "Do you recall your real name now?"

He shook his head. "I don't remember a thing. How did I get here?"

"You don't remember that?"

He said with irritation, "I have just told you so."

"Don't get huffy, chum," said Angel. "I been feedin' you and takin' care of you and your pal for two weeks. And you don't know a thing about it, huh?"

"I recall nothing. Except that there is danger."

"The railroad bulls who chased us," said one of the other men. "He remembers them."

"Bulls? No, it is something more than that."

"What about it, Professor?" asked Angel. "Think he'll snap out of it so he really remembers?"

"I certainly hope so," returned the little bald man. "When I first found him, wandering around near the swamp, he seemed to be in a complete coma. Then, after a few days of rest, he seemed to realize dimly what was going on around him. But from day to day he remembered nothing. Perhaps the events are not completely forgotten, perhaps they reside in his subconscious, ready to be called to mind again upon proper occasion. However, so far there is no evidence on this point."

"But he's gettin' better all the time," said Angel defensively.

"Yes, that is the thing that indicates there is hope. From now on I think that he will consciously remember all that happens. And perhaps, in time, he will recall who he really is. In the meantime, of course, he is like a shipwrecked mariner discovering an entirely strange land. That is why I have named him Crusoe." He smiled wistfully. "Perhaps he is more fortunate than he seems. I would give much for his ability to forget."

"Stop harpin' on it, Professor. It happened long ago."

"But I still remember it as keenly as if it had happened yesterday. Strange, all the whiskey and gin I have drunk have not dulled my memory in the least. I was very successful in my profession, gentlemen. I was already an Associate Professor of English Literature, a recognized authority on the novel. I had a great career ahead of me. And then, one day, coming home from a Christmas party with my wife, my car skidded on the ice—"

Angel's heavy hand fell across his shoulder. "It's okay, Professor, don't talk about it no more. I know where I can pick up some rotgut tomorrow night, and you'll celebrate and forget all about it."

Crusoe listened with interest. He had a vague memory of having heard Professor's story about his wife's death before, as if the man had told it to others before they had met Angel and the latter's friends. But it was so vague that he could hardly be sure it was a memory at all. And meanwhile the feeling of danger persisted. He had to do something, do it rapidly. But what?

He felt the anger of frustration, an anger that made him tense and irritable. He ate his stew in silence, aware of its strong and slightly unpleasant taste. He had a feeling as if he were used to better food—and yet he must have been eating the stew all along for the past weeks.

The fire was dying down, and several of the other men talked in low voices to each other. He heard Angel: "And so this cop says to me, 'Move on, ya funny-lookin' bum—'" And then, the rough voice rose in amusement. "I give him a airplane whirl and toss him over the bridge. And then he comes up, coughin' up water, and says, 'Now I remember when I seen you before. You was the Destroyin' Angel. You used to wrestle with The Masked McGinty!'"

Angel had been a wrestler, Professor a student of literature. If he asked the other men what they had been, they would doubtless know. What had he himself been?

Again his mind seemed blank. He sat there sullenly, staring at his empty cup, and wondered if there were any torture greater than that of not being able to remember something that insistently demanded to be remembered.

Soon the conversations died down. The men settled themselves on the dry grass, pulled their old worn apologies for blankets over them, and began to snore. Around them, as the fire was reduced to embers, the night closed in. Crusoe could hear the chirping of crickets and the quiet flow of water under the bridge. A crackling shower of sparks spurted unexpectedly from the still glowing coals.

He couldn't sleep. He had slept enough during the past weeks. Now he had to awaken fully, to realize what he must do next. But first he must recall what had happened. Where had the Professor met him? He had been wandering around near a swamp. Now, what on earth had he been doing near a swamp?

The night passed slowly as he tried to track down the thoughts which kept eluding him. Even the chirping of the crickets died away, and at last there was only the ripple of the water. Then, after a time, he became aware of new sounds. The crunching of twigs under foot, the creak of shoes on the ground. People were approaching.

He sat up suddenly, as if he had recognized that this was the danger he had feared. "Angel!" he called.

The ex-wrestler awoke, and the Professor with him. "Could be cops," whispered Angel hoarsely. "Some farmer loses a chicken, and they think of us. We better get goin'."

He rose quietly and led the way in the direction opposite the approaching sounds. Crusoe could hear the heavy breathing of the other men, almost as if they were continuing to snore even though they were now awake. They were on the alert, but not seriously alarmed. No, this wasn't the danger he had to fear. This was a mere trifle. The real danger was deep, hidden—

Some one stumbled loudly. A voice came out of the darkness. "Hey, you—stop!"

"Better start runnin'," muttered Angel, and lumbered forward. He tripped over something and cursed, but kept on going.

It was growing lighter now, and Crusoe found it easier to see. In front of him the ground rose gently toward the top of a low hill. And halfway up the slope stood two men, armed with rifles. They lifted the rifles and one of them said harshly, "Hold it, you bums."

Their retreat was cut off. Angel came to a stop, the others near him, the slower and slighter Professor bringing up the rear. Without thinking, Crusoe raised his arm, and just as if his hand held a weapon, he pointed at the two men with their rifles.

The rifles exploded. They flew apart into countless fragments, and as if by magic, blood appeared on the faces of the two men. Angel grasped the situation instantly. He said, "Come on, fellows," and rushed forward again. But the two men collapsed before he reached them.

From behind them came angry yells as the first group realized that the trap had failed. Angel chuckled. "They thought they had us," he said. "When they see what happened to those two guys, they won't be in such a hurry to get close to us again."

"What did happen?" asked one of the men. He gestured with reluctance at Crusoe. "This guy just pointed his hand—"

Angel whirled around. "Him? I thought somebody in back of me threw a grenade. I wasn't askin' who done it—"

"Nobody threw no grenade. He just pointed at them."

"Just with his finger? And them rifles exploded? It ain't possible!"

They surrounded Crusoe and stared at him with fear-filled eyes. "How did you do it, pal?"

He shook...