“Why's Baby so excited?"
“Sonya,” Burton said, “Maybe/'m crazy, or maybe youare only playing a nonsense game backed up with hypnotism—but... "
Sonya stopped smiling. “What is it, Baby?"
Burton said, “If you really do come from another planet where there is almost no insanity, homicidal or otherwise, what I'm going to tell you will be news. Sonya, we've just lately had several murders on Earth where a man plants a time-bomb on a big commercial airplane to explode it in the air and kill all its passengers and crew just to do away with one single person—generally for the sake of collecting a big life-insurance policy. Now if an Earth-murderer could be cold-blooded or mad enough to do that, why mightn't a super-murderer—"
“On no,” Sonya said slowly, “not blow up a whole planet to get rid of just one person—"
She started to tremble.
“Why not?” Burton demanded. “Your husband is crazy, only you can't prove it. He hates you. He stands to collect a fortune if you die in an accident—such as a primitive vacation planet exploding. He presents you with money for a vacation on such a planet and at the same time he gives you a cigarette lighter that is an exact model of—"
“I can't believe it,” Sonya said very faintly, still shaking, her eyes far away. “Not a whole planet..."
“But that's the sort of thing insanity can be, Sonya. What's more, you can check it,” Burton rapped out flatly. “Use that XYZ-ray gadget of yours to look through the lighter."
“But he couldn’t,” Sonya murmured, her eyes still far away. “Not even he could..."
“Look through the lighter,” Burton repeated.
Sonya picked up the black thing by its base and carried it over to the traveling case.
“Remember not to flick it,” Burton warned her sharply. “You'd told me he was bugged on the number thirty-three, and I imagine that would be about the right number to allow to make sure you were settled on your vacation planet before anything happened."
He saw the shiver travel down her back as he said that and suddenly Burton was shaking so much himself he couldn't possibly have moved. Sonya's hands were on the other side of her body from him, busy above her traveling case. There was a click and her pinkish skeleton showed through her. It was not
quite the same as the skeleton of an Earth human—there were two long bones in the upper arms and upper legs, fewer ribs, but what looked like two tiny skulls in the chest.
She turned around, not looking at him.
“You were right,” she said.
She said, ”Now I’ve got the evidence to put my husband away forever! I can’t wait!”
She whirled into action, snatching articles of clothing from the floor, chairs and dresser, whipping them into her traveling case. The whole frantic little dance took less than ten seconds. Her hand was on the outside door before she paused.
She looked at Burton. She put down her traveling case and came over to the bed and sat down beside him.
“Poor Baby,” she said. “I'm going to have to wipe out your memory and yet you were so very clever—I really mean that, Burton."
He wanted to object, but he felt paralyzed. She put her arm around him and moved her lips towards his forehead. Suddenly she said, “No, I can't do that. There's got to be some reward for you."
She bent her head and kissed him pertly on the nose. Then she disengaged herself, hurried to her bag, picked it up, and opened the door.
“Besides,” she called back. “I'd hate you to forget any part of me."
“Hey,” Burton yelled, coming to life, “You can't go out like that!"
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you haven't a stitch of clothes on!"
“On my planet we don't wear them!"
The door slammed behind her. Burton sprang out of bed and threw it open again.
He was just in time to see the sports car take off—straight up.
Burton stood in the open door for half a minute, stark naked himself, looking around at the unexploded Earth. He started to say aloud, “Gosh, I didn't even get the name of her planet,” but his lips were sealed.
THE PHANTOM SLAYER
His ghastly shadow hung over block upon block of dingy city buildings—and his theme song was the nervous surge of traffic along infrequent boulevards...
“So this is the room?” I said, setting down my cardboard suitcase. The landlord nodded.
“Nothing been changed in it since your uncle died.” It was small and dingy, but pretty clean. I took it in. The imitation oak dresser. The cupboard, the bare table. The green-shaded drop light. The easy chair.
The kitchen chair. The cast-iron bed. “Except the sheets and stuff,” the landlord added. “They been washed."
“He died unexpectedly, didn't he?” I said in a sort of apologetic voice.
“Yeah. In his sleep. You know, his heart."
I nodded vaguely and, on an impulse, walked over and opened the cupboard door. Two of the shelves were filled with canned stuff and other supplies. There was an old coffee pot and two saucepans, and some worn china covered with a fine network of brownish cracks.
“Your uncle had cooking privileges,” the landlord said. “Of course you can have them, too, if you want."
I went over and looked down three stories at the dirty street. Some boys were pitching pennies. I studied the names of the stores. When I turned around I thought maybe the landlord would be going, but he was still watching me. The whites of his eyes looked discolored.
“There's twenty-five cents for the washing I told you about.” I dug in my pocket for a quarter. That left me forty-seven cents.
He laboriously wrote me a receipt. “There's your key on the table,” he remarked, “and the one for the outside door. Well, Mister, the place is yours for the next three months an’ two weeks."
He walked out, shutting the door behind him. From below came the rackety surge of a passing street car. I dropped down into the easy chair.
People can inherit some pretty queer things. I had inherited some canned goods and the rent of a room, just because my Uncle David, whom I never remembered seeing, paid for things in advance. The court had been decent about it, especially after my telling them I was broke. The landlord had refused to make a refund, but you could hardly blame him for that. Of course, after hitch-hiking all the way to the city,
I'd been disappointed to hear there was no real money involved. The policeman's pension had stopped with my uncle's death, and funeral expenses had eaten up the rest. Still, I was thankful I had a place to sleep.
They said my uncle must have made his will just a little while after I was born. I don't think my father and mother knew about it, or they'd have mentioned it—at least when they died. I never heard much about him except that he was my father's elder brother.
I vaguely knew he was a policeman, that was all. You know how it is; families split up, and only the old folks keep in touch, and they don't talk to the young folks about it, and pretty soon the whole connection is forgotten, unless something special happens. I guess that sort of thing has been going on since the world began. Forces are at work that break up people, and scatter them, and make them lonely. You feel it most of all in a big city.
They say there's no law against being a failure, but there is, as I'd found out. After a childhood in easy circumstances, things got harder and harder. The depression. Family dying. Friends going off. Jobs uncertain and difficult to find. Delays and uncertainties about government assistance. I'd tried my hand at bumming around, but found I lacked the right temperament. Even being a tramp or a sponger or a scavenger takes special ability. Hitch-hiking to the city had left me feeling nervous and unwell. And my feet hurt. I'm one of those people who aren't much good at taking it.