Laumer,Keith - The Lighter Side

Keith Laumer:

The Lighter Side

By Keith Laumer

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and

any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

"In the Queue" was first published by Putnam in 1970 as part of the anthology Orbit 7, edited by

Damon Knight. "The Planet Wreckers" was first published in Worlds of Tomorrow, February

1967. "The Body Builders" was first published in Galaxy, August 1966. Time Trap was first

published by Putnam in 1970. "The Devil You Don't" was first published by Doubleday in 1970

as part of the anthology Alchemy & Academe, edited by Anne McCaffrey. "The Exterminator"

(aka "A Bad Day for Vermin") was first published in Galaxy, February 1964. "The Big Show"

was first published in Galaxy, February 1968. "Goobereality" was first published by Berkley in

1968 as part of the anthology of Keith Laumer stories entitled It's a Mad, Mad, Mad Galaxy.

"Prototaph" was first published in Analog, March 1966. The Great Time Machine Hoax was first

published by Simon & Schuster in 1964.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3537-0

Cover art by Richard Martin

First printing, May 2002

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

THE RUTABAGA THAT

WALKED LIKE A MAN

The girl lay in the rain by her crumpled motorcycle. "You must help me," she whispered.

"Deliver the message: Beware the Rhox!"

"What rocks?" Roger looked around wildly. "I'll go for a doctor!"

Her voice faltered. "No time . . . to explain . . . take . . . button . . . put it in . . . your ear. . . ."

The green eyes held on Roger's, pleading.

"Seems like a funny time to worry about a hearing aid," Roger gulped, "but . . ." He held the

button to his ear. Did he hear a faint, wavering hum, or was it his imagination? He pushed it in.

"Drive to Pottsville," the girl's voice said in his ear. "Start now. Time is precious!"

There was the sound of a motor. The headlight of a second motorcycle was approaching. As it

shot past, he saw the shape behind the handlebars: a headless torso, bulbous, ornamented with

two clusters of tentacles. Through the single goggle, an eye as big as a pizza swiveled to impale

him with a glance of utter alienness.

With a strangled yell, Roger leaped back and saw the motorcycle veer wildly, hurling its

monstrous rider clear, then skid to a stop in the center of the highway. Roger could see that the

rider's upper portion was smashed into a pulp.

"I should go to the police," he said. "But what can I say? That I was responsible for the death

of a giant rutabaga?"

"Time is of the essence," the girl's slightly accented voice said. "Get going! Take the

motorcycle!"

"That would be stealing!"

"Who's going to report it? Relatives of a giant rutabaga?"

"You have a definite point there," Roger said . . .

-from Time Trap

BAEN BOOKS by Keith Laumer:

The Compleat Bolo

Retief!

Odyssey

Keith Laumer: The Lighter Side

IN THE QUEUE

The old man fell just as Farn Hestler's power wheel was passing his Place in Line, on his way

back from the Comfort Station. Hestler, braking, stared down at the twisted face, a mask of soft,

pale leather in which the mouth writhed as if trying to tear itself free of the dying body. Then he

jumped from the wheel, bent over the victim. Quick as he was, a lean woman with fingers like

gnarled roots was before him, clutching at the old man's fleshless shoulders.

"Tell them me, Millicent Dredgewicke Klunt," she was shrilling into the vacant face. "Oh, if

you only knew what I've been through, how I deserve the help-"

Hestler sent her reeling with a deft shove of his foot. He knelt beside the old man, lifted his

head.

"Vultures," he said. "Greedy, snapping at a man. Now, I care. And you were getting so close

to the Head of the Line. The tales you could tell, I'll bet. An Old-timer. Not like these Line, er,

jumpers," he diverted the obscenity. "I say a man deserves a little dignity at a moment like this-"

"Wasting your time, Jack," a meaty voice said. Hestler glanced up into the hippopotamine

features of the man he always thought of as Twentieth Back. "The old coot's dead."

Hestler shook the corpse. "Tell them Argall Y. Hestler!" he yelled into the dead ear. "Argall,

that's A-R-G-A-L-L-"

"Break it up," the brassy voice of a Line Policeman sliced through the babble. "You, get

back." A sharp prod lent urgency to the command. Hestler rose reluctantly, his eyes on the waxy

face slackening into an expression of horrified astonishment.

"Ghoul," the lean woman he had kicked snarled. "Line-!" She mouthed the unmentionable

word.

"I wasn't thinking of myself," Hestler countered hotly. "But my boy Argall, through no fault

of his own-"

"All right, quiet!" the cop snarled. He jerked a thumb at the dead man. "This guy make any

disposition?"

"Yes!" the lean woman cried. "He said, to Millicent Dredgewicke Klunt, that's M-I-L-"

"She's lying," Hestler cut in. "I happened to catch the name Argall Hestler-right, sir?" He

looked brightly at a slack-jawed lad who was staring down at the corpse.

The boy swallowed and looked Hestler in the face.

"Hell, he never said a word," he said, and spat, just missing Hestler's shoe.

"Died intestate," the cop intoned, and wrote a note in his book. He gestured and a clean-up

squad moved in, lifted the corpse onto a cart, covered it, trundled it away.

"Close it up," the cop ordered.

"Intestate," somebody grumbled. "Crap!"

"A rotten shame. The slot goes back to the government. Nobody profits. Goddamn!" the fat

man who had spoken looked around at the others. "In a case like this we ought to get together,

have some equitable plan worked out and agreed to in advance-"

"Hey," the slack-jawed boy said. "That's conspiracy!"

"I meant to suggest nothing illegal." The fat man faded back to his Place in Line. As if by

common consent, the small crowd dissipated, sliding into their Places with deft footwork. Hestler

shrugged and remounted his wheel, put-putted forward, aware of the envious eyes that followed

him. He passed the same backs he always passed, some standing, some sitting on canvas camp

stools under sun-faded umbrellas, here and there a nylon queuebana, high and square, some

shabby, some ornate, owned by the more fortunate. Like himself: he was a lucky man, he had

never been a Standee, sweating the line exposed to the sun and prying eyes.

It was a bright afternoon. The sun shone down on the vast concrete ramp across which the

Line snaked from a point lost in distance across the plain. Ahead-not far ahead now, and getting

closer every day-was the blank white wall perforated only by the Window, the terminal point of

the Line. Hestler slowed as he approached the Hestler queuebana; his mouth went dry as he saw

how close it was to the Head of the Line now. One, two, three, four slots back! Ye Gods, that

meant six people had been processed in the past twelve hours-an unprecedented number. And it

meant-Hestler caught his breath-he might reach the Window himself, this shift. For a moment, he

felt a panicky urge to flee, to trade places with First Back, and then with Second, work his way

back to a safe distance, give himself a chance to think about it, get ready . . .

"Say, Farn." The head of his proxy, Cousin Galpert, poked from the curtains of the three foot

square, five foot high nylon-walled queuebana. "Guess what? I moved up a spot while you were

gone."

Hestler folded the wheel and leaned it against the weathered cloth. He waited until Galpert

had emerged, then surreptitiously twitched the curtains wide open. The place always smelled

fudgy and stale after his cousin had spent half an hour in it while he was away for his Comfort

Break.

"We're getting close to the Head," Galpert said excitedly, handing over the lockbox that

contained the Papers. "I have a feeling-" He broke off as sharp voices were suddenly raised a few

Spaces behind. A small, pale-haired man with bulging blue eyes was attempting to force himself

into Line between Third Back and Fifth Back.

"Say, isn't that Four Back?" Hestler asked.

"You don't understand," the little man was whimpering. "I had to go answer an unscheduled

call of nature . . . " His weak eyes fixed on Fifth Back, a large, coarse-featured man in a loud shirt

and sunglasses. "You said you'd watch my Place . . . !"

"So whattaya think ya got a Comfort Break for, ya bum! Beat it!"

Lots of people were shouting at the little man now:

"Line-ine-ucker-bucker-Line bucker, Line bucker . . . "

The little man fell back, covering his ears. The obscene chant gained in volume as other

voices took it up.

"But it's my Place," the evictee wailed. "Father left it to me when he died, you all remember

him . . . " His voice was drowned in the uproar.

"Serves him right," Galpert said, embarrassed by the chant. "A man with no more regard for

his inheritance than to walk off and leave it . . . "

They watched the former Fourth Back turn and flee, his hands still over his ears.

After Galpert left on the wheel, Hestler aired the queuebana for another ten minutes, standing

stony-faced, arms folded, staring at the back of One Up. His father had told him some stories

about One Up, back in the old days, when they'd both been young fellows, near the end of the

Line. Seemed he'd been quite a cutup in those days, always joking around with the women close

to him in Line, offering to trade Places for a certain consideration. You didn't see many signs of

that now: just a dumpy old man in burst-out shoe-leather, sweating out the Line. But he himself

was lucky, Hestler reflected. He'd taken over from Father when the latter had had his stroke, a

twenty-one thousand two hundred and ninety-four slot jump. Not many young fellows did that

well. Not that he was all that young, he'd put in his time in the Line, it wasn't as if he didn't

deserve the break.

And now, in a few hours maybe, he'd hit the Head of the Line. He touched the lockbox that

contained the old man's Papers-and of course his own, and Cluster's and the kids'-everything. In a

few hours, if the Line kept moving, he could relax, retire, let the kids, with their own Places in

Line, carry on. Let them do as well as their dad had done, making Head of the Line at under

forty-five!

Inside his queuebana it was hot, airless. Hestler pulled off his coat and squatted in the crouch-

hammock-not the most comfortable position in the world, maybe, but in full compliance with the

Q-law requirement that at least one foot be on the ground at all times, and the head higher than

the waist. Hestler remembered an incident years before, when some poor devil without a

queuebana had gone to sleep standing up. He'd stood with his eyes closed and his knees bent, and

slowly sunk down to a squat; then bobbed slowly up and blinked and went back to sleep. Up and

down, they'd watched him for an hour before he finally let his head drop lower than his belt.

They'd pitched him out of Line then, and closed ranks. Ah, there'd been some wild times in the

queue in the old days, not like now. There was too much at stake now, this near the Head. No

time for horseplay.

Just before dusk, the Line moved up. Three to go! Hestler's heart thumped.

It was dark when he heard the voice whisper: "Four Up!"

Hestler jerked wide awake. He blinked, wondering if he'd dreamed the urgent tone.

"Four Up!" the voice hissed again. Hestler twitched the curtain open, saw nothing, pulled his

head back in. Then he saw the pale, pinched face, the bulging eyes of Four Back, peering through

the vent slot at the rear of the tent.

"You have to help me," the little man said. "You saw what happened, you can make a

deposition that I was cheated, that-"

"Look here, what are you doing out of Line?" Hestler cut in. "I know you're on-shift, why

aren't you holding down a new slot?"

"I . . . I couldn't face it," Four Back said brokenly. "My wife, my children-they're all counting

on me."

"You should have thought of that sooner."

"I swear I couldn't help it. It just hit me so suddenly. And-"

"You lost your Place. There's nothing I can do."

"If I have to start over now-I'll be over seventy when I get to the Window!"

"That's not my lookout-"

" . . . but if you'll just tell the Line Police what happened, explain about my special case-"

"You're crazy, I can't do that!"

"But you . . . I always thought you looked like a decent sort-"

"You'd better go. Suppose someone sees me talking to you?"

"I had to speak to you here, I don't know your name, but after all we've been four Spaces

apart in Line for nine years-"

"Go away! Before I call a Line cop!"

Hestler had a hard time getting comfortable again after Four Back left. There was a fly inside

the queuebana. It was a hot night. The Line moved up again, and Hestler had to emerge and roll

the queuebana forward. Two Spaces to go! The feeling of excitement was so intense that it made

Hestler feel a little sick. Two more moves up, and he'd be at the Window. He'd open the lockbox,

and present the Papers, taking his time, one at a time, getting it all correct, all in order. With a

sudden pang of panic he wondered if anyone had goofed, anywhere back along the line, failed to

sign anything, missed a Notary's seal, or a witness' signature. But they couldn't have. Nothing as

dumb as that. For that you could get bounced out of Line, lose your Place, have to go all the way

back-

Hestler shook off the morbid fancies. He was just nervous, that was all. Well, who wouldn't

be? After tonight, his whole life would be different; his days of standing in Line would be over.

He'd have time-all the time in the world to do all the things he hadn't been able to think about all

these years . . .

Someone shouted, near at hand. Hestler stumbled out of the queuebana to see Two Up-at the

Head of the line now-raise his fist and shake it under the nose of the small, black-moustached

face in the green eye-shade framed in the Window, bathed in harsh white light.

"Idiot! Dumbbell! Jackass!" Two Up yelled. "What do you mean take it back home and have

my wife spell out her middle name!"

Two burly Line police appeared, shone lights in Two Up's wild face, grabbed his arms, took

him away. Hestler trembled as he pushed the queuebana forward a Space on its roller skate

wheels. Only one man ahead of him now. He'd be next. But no reason to get all upset; the Line

had been moving like greased lightning, but it would take a few hours to process the man ahead.

He had time to relax, get his nerves soothed down, get ready to answer questions . . .

"I don't understand, sir," the reedy voice of One Up was saying to the small black moustache

behind the Window. "My Papers are all in order, I swear it-"

"You said yourself your father is dead," the small, dry voice of Black Moustache said. "That

means you'll have to reexecute Form 56839847565342-B in sextuplicate, with an endorsement

from the medical doctor, the Residential Police, and waivers from Department A, B, C, and so

on. You'll find it all, right in the Regulations."

"But-but he only died two hours ago: I just received word-"

"Two hours, two years; he's just as dead."

"But-I'll lose my Place! If I hadn't mentioned it to you-"

"Then I wouldn't have known about it. But you did mention it, quite right, too."

"Couldn't you just pretend I didn't say anything? That the messenger never reached me?"

"Are you suggesting I commit fraud?"

"No . . . no . . . " One Up turned and tottered away, his invalidated Papers clutched in his

hand. Hestler swallowed hard.

"Next," Black Moustache said.

It was almost dawn six hours later when the clerk stamped the last Paper, licked the last

stamp, thrust the stack of processed documents into a slot and looked past Hestler at the next man

in Line.

Hestler hesitated, holding the empty lockbox in nerveless fingers. It felt abnormally light, like

a cast husk.

"That's all," the clerk said. "Next."

One Down jostled Hestler getting to the Window. He was a small, bandy-legged Standee with

large, loose lips and long ears. Hestler had never really looked at him before. He felt an urge to

tell him all about how it had been, give him a few friendly tips, as an old Window veteran to a

newcomer. But the man didn't give him a chance.

Moving off, Hestler noticed the queuebana. It looked abandoned, functionless. He thought of

all the hours, the days, the years he had spent in it, crouched in the sling . . .

"You can have it," he said on impulse to Two Down, who, he noted with surprise, was a

woman, dumpy, slack-jowled. He gestured toward the queuebana. She made a snorting sound and

ignored him. He wandered off down the Line, staring curiously at the people in it, at the varied

faces and figures, tall, wide, narrow, old, young-not so many of those-dressed in used clothing,

with hair combed or uncombed, some with facial hair, some with paint on their lips, all

unattractive in their own individual ways.

He encountered Galpert whizzing toward him on the power wheel. Galpert slowed, gaping,

came to a halt. Hestler noticed that his cousin had thin, bony ankles in maroon socks, one of

which suffered from perished elastic so that the sock drooped, exposing clay-white skin.

"Farn-what . . . ?"

"All done." Hestler held up the empty lockbox.

"All done . . . ?" Galpert looked across toward the distant Window in a bewildered way.

"All done. Not much to it, really."

"Then . . . I . . . I guess I don't need to . . . " Galpert's voice died away.

"No, no need, never again, Galpert."

"Yes, but what . . . ?" Galpert looked at Hestler, looked at the Line, back at Hestler. "You

coming, Farn?"

"I . . . I think I'll just take a walk for a while. Savor it, you know."

"Well," Galpert said. He started up the wheel and rode slowly off across the ramp.

Suddenly, Hestler was thinking about time-all that time stretching ahead, like an abyss. What

would he do with it . . . ? He almost called after Galpert, but instead turned and continued his

walk along the Line. Faces stared past him, over him, through him.

Noon came and went. Hestler obtained a dry hot dog and a paper cup of warm milk from a

vendor on a three-wheeler with a big umbrella and a pet chicken perched on the back. He walked

on, searching the faces. They were all so ugly. He pitied them, so far from the Window. He

looked back; it was barely visible, a tiny dark point toward which the Line dwindled. What did

they think about, standing in Line? How they must envy him!

But no one seemed to notice him. Toward sunset he began to feel lonely. He wanted to talk to

someone; but none of the faces he passed seemed sympathetic.

It was almost dark when he reached the End of the Line. Beyond, the empty plain stretched

toward the dark horizon. It looked cold out there, lonely.

"It looks cold out there," he heard himself say to the oatmeal-faced lad who huddled at the tail

of the Line, hands in pockets. "And lonely."

"You in Line, or what?" the boy asked.

Hestler looked again at the bleak horizon. He came over and stood behind the youth.

"Certainly," he said.

Laumer, Keith - The Lighter Side

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: