Black Cat Weekly #134

By Ron Miller, Avram Lavinsky, Wayne J. Gardiner and 7 more

   This issue, we have 3 original tales. All are mysteries. Plus, we have 1 original science fiction tale, also a mystery. I leave you to unravel this puzzle! (Okay, I guess it’s not that much of a puzzle—one of the mysteries is also a science fiction story.) I moved Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken’s selection to the science fiction section (it was definitely science fiction) and I moved famous science fiction artist Ron Miller’s mystery into the lead spot. Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman’s story, by Wayne J. Gardner, is in the usual “Barb Goffman Presents” place.

   For mysteries, we also have a G.K. Chesterton classic and a Golden Age novel by J.J. Connington. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

   On the science fiction side, we have the “Michael Bracken Presents” story, Avram Lavinsky’s excellent “The Ion Bids Mystery,” plus tales by Cecil Corwin, R.R. Winterbotham, Chester B. Conant, plus a 3-way collaboration by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl. Fun stuff!

   Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Velda Does a Good Deed,” by Ron Miller [short story]
“Who Grabbed the Golden Hammer of Thor?” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“I Remember It Well,” by Wayne J. Gardiner [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Asylum of Adventure,” by G.K. Chesterton [short story]
Mystery at Lynden Sands, by J.J. Connington [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Ion Beds Mystery”by Avram Lavinsky [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“Crisis!,” by Cecil Corwin [short story]
“The Thought-Feeders,” by R.R. Winterbotham [short story]
“Forbidden Flight,” by Chester B. Conant [short story]
“Einstein’s Planetoid,” by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl [Novelet]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667603506

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

VELDA DOES A GOOD DEED, by Ron Miller

WHO GRABBED THE GOLDEN HAMMER OF THOR?, by Hal Charles

THE ASYLUM OF ADVENTURE, by G.K. Chesterton

I REMEMBER IT WELL, by Wayne J. Gardiner

I REMEMBER IT WELL, by Wayne J. Gardiner

MYSTERY AT LYNDEN SANDS, by J.J. Connington

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter XIII. Cressida’s Narrative

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

THE ION BEDS MYSTERY, by Avram Lavinsky

CRISIS!, by Cecil Corwin

THE THOUGHT-FEEDERS by R.R. Winterbotham

FORBIDDEN FLIGHT by Chester B. Conant

EINSTEIN’S PLANETOID by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER

CHAPTER

CHAPTER

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Cover art by Luca Oleastri.

Velda Does a Good Deed, is copyright © 2024 by Ron Miller and appears here for the first time.

Who Grabbed the Golden Hammer of Thor? is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

I Remember It Well is copyright © 2024 by Wayne J. Gardiner and appears here for the first time.

The Asylum of Adventure, by G.K. Chesterton, was originally published in Maclean’s Magazine, Nov. 1, 1924.

Mystery at Lynden Sands, by J.J. Connington was originally published in 1928.

The Ion Beds Mystery is copyright © 2024 by Avram Lavinsky and appears here for the first time.

Crisis! by Cecil Corwin, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring 1942.

The Thought-Feeders, by R.R. Winterbotham, was originally published in Science Fiction, October 1941.

Forbidden Flight, by Chester B. Conant, was originally published in Future, October 1941.

Einstein’s Planetoid, by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, Spring 1942.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue, we have 3 original tales. All are mysteries. Plus, we have 1 original science fiction tale, also a mystery. I leave you to unravel this puzzle! (Okay, I guess it’s not that much of a puzzle—one of the mysteries is also a science fiction story.) I moved Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken’s selection to the science fiction section (it was definitely science fiction) and I moved famous science fiction artist Ron Miller’s mystery into the lead spot. Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman’s story, by Wayne J. Gardner, is in the usual Barb Goffman Presents place.

For mysteries, we also have a G.K. Chesterton classic and a Golden Age novel by J.J. Connington. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction side, we have the Michael Bracken Presents story, Avram Lavinsky’s excellent The Ion Bids Mystery, plus tales by Cecil Corwin, R.R. Winterbotham, Chester B. Conant, plus a 3-way collaboration by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl. Fun stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Velda Does a Good Deed, by Ron Miller [short story]

Who Grabbed the Golden Hammer of Thor? by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

I Remember It Well, by Wayne J. Gardiner [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Asylum of Adventure, by G.K. Chesterton [short story]

Mystery at Lynden Sands, by J.J. Connington [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Ion Beds Mysteryby Avram Lavinsky [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Crisis!, by Cecil Corwin [short story]

The Thought-Feeders, by R.R. Winterbotham [short story]

Forbidden Flight, by Chester B. Conant [short story]

Einstein’s Planetoid, by C.M. Kornbluth, Robert A.W. Lowndes, and Frederik Pohl [Novelet]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

VELDA DOES A GOOD DEED,

by Ron Miller

I’ve got to get out of this business. It’s not that I don’t like it, which I sometimes do, it’s just that I can’t seem to make any money. If it weren’t for Joe letting me eat on the house and the Loewensteins being nice enough to let my rent ride for the last three months, I don’t know what I’d be doing. Probably shedding feathers back on the runway at Slotnik’s, God forbid. I really don’t want to give up detecting, though—the Hawkshaw course cost me twenty bucks and I’d hate like anything to waste it. That twenty bucks wasn’t easy to come by.

Besides, I wasn’t quite ready yet to get the old hoo-ha from my erstwhile pals at the Follies. So I wasn’t too proud to say, sure, you bet, when Mr. Arkady offered me a sawbuck to run some errands for him. He’s the old coot that deals in antiquarian books who lives in the apartment directly across the hall from me on the third floor. I’d hardly ever seen him—which was OK by me since he’s looks like a vampire on a crash diet—let alone spoken to him, so I was surprised when he asked me to give him a hand. I said sure partly because I need the cash and partly from guilt. When Volume Seven of my course arrived—Picking Locks and Performing Searches—I’d used Arkady’s apartment to practice on. I was very pleased because he never knew I’d been there. Or at least I hoped not.

I’d found a note in my mailbox when I got back from the beach after caging lunch from my reporter pal, Chip. I still had my camera and the bag with my swimsuit with me, but figured I might as well find out what the old man wanted.

There was only a kind of distant croak in response to my knock, so, taking this as an invitation, I opened the door and went in. As I’d half expected, the place didn’t look any different than when I’d last seen it. It was dark—Arkady always kept the shades pulled—and smelled of mildew and decaying leather. A dump with about four million old books piled everywhere.

Mr. Arkady?

In response to my question there was a kind of honk from the direction of the bedroom (all of the apartments in the Zenobia Arms are laid out alike), that might have been, In here, Miss Bellinghausen and might have been, well, just a honk.

Winding my way through a narrow path between piles of moldy books, I found the bedroom. Arkady was sprawled on an old Army cot, looking even more like Dracula than ever.

Ah, Miss Bellinghausen, he said, settling the honk versus voice question, thank you for coming.

I said that he looked like Dracula, but even John Carradine would have looked healthy if placed next to Arkady. The old man really looked sick—kind of like the pictures I’ve seen of people in the German concentration camps, all shrunken and wasted away.

You want me to get you a doctor, Mr. Arkady? I asked as I put my bag and camera by the bed. You look pretty rotten.

No, no—I do not trust doctors and, besides, they charge much too much money.

What can I do for you, then?

Well, first I must apologize for intruding on your time, Miss Bellinghausen—

Please call me Velda.

Velda, then. I must apologize, but I know you are the only one other than myself who is usually in the building for the greater part of the day.

God knows that’s true enough.

As we spoke, I was taking a closer look around the place. Other than the bed with Arkady there was nothing but books, thousands and thousands of books.

There must be a million books here! I said.

Some of them are very rare. This volume, for instance, he said, holding up a flat, brown, beat-up looking old book, "is a copy of Tamarlane by Poe. It’s easily worth a hundred thousand dollars."

Holy cow! I said, taking the book from him and turning it around in my hands. I’d seen better-looking phone books at the booth outside Joe’s. If a book is worth that much, I bet some people would kill to get their hands on it.

Little did I know that truer words have seldom been spoken.

I was hoping, Arkady said, that, if it is not too much of an imposition, I might ask you to run a few errands for me…just until I get over this poor spell. For some reason I have been feeling extremely weak lately. I am afraid that I have many clients who are expecting my services and I cannot ignore them in the meantime.

I’d be glad to whatever I can, Mr. Arkady, I said, glad for the offer of at least a diversion from my funk.

I would be most happy to compensate you for your services—in fact, I would insist on it. Twenty dollars, perhaps?

God, I wanted to do the right thing and say, No, no, not at all! I’d be glad to lend you a hand. After all, what are good neighbors for? But, Jesus! A sawbuck! So I swallowed hard and said that sounded just fine, thanks very much.

Well, it turned out to be the easiest twenty bucks I ever made. All I had to do was deliver bundles of old books to other old coots around town and collect Arkady’s fees. Most of these antique collectors—and you know how I meant that—were more than a little surprised to find me instead of Arkady when they answered their door, not that anyone seemed particularly disappointed. In fact, once they discovered that I wasn’t selling cosmetics or something, they seemed perfectly happy that Arkady hadn’t shown up. No one even asked about him.

More than once it was pretty hard tearing myself away from these old book collectors. I’d discovered that if I timed my deliveries just right I could usually promote a free lunch, since most of these geezers would have given me their last bowl of milk toast rather than see me leave. On the other hand, I’ve always hated places like hospitals and old folks’ homes and there was too much about the collectors’ homes that reminded me of them. Besides, while I don’t mind being ogled by rheumy-eyed octogenarians, neither do I want to be the cause of an embolism.

This went on for the rest of the week. By Sunday, it was pretty clear that Arkady wasn’t getting any better. So, again, I urged him to see a doctor and, like before, the stingy old bastard refused. That was a shame, but if he put that cheap a price on his own life, that was his own lookout.

Still, a couple of days later he was looking so godawful I thought that maybe I should try to figure out a way to get someone to see him. I mean, it was the least I could do. Besides, if he croaked that’d be the end of my weekly sawbuck. My first choice, naturally enough, was Doc Finlayson. He owed me for a big favor—the preservation of his license, no less—so he was always willing to make an installment on its repayment. As far as I was concerned, he’d repaid it several times over already, but who am I do say anything? So when I went down to Joe’s diner to bum another lunch, I used his phone to call the doctor. When he answered, I told him how awful Arkady looked and he sounded concerned and said he’d stop around that afternoon. I thanked him, hung up and went to the counter where Joe had a cheeseburger waiting for me.

A client? he asked, hopefully.

I only wish. I’ve been picking up some spare change running errands for one of my neighbors who’s been sick. He seems to be getting a lot worse, so I asked Doc Finlayson to look in on him.

What do you think’s wrong with him?

Beats me. The guy’s about a thousand years old, so who knows?

Old guy, huh? Not the one who sells the antique books?

One and the same. Why? You know him?

Not exactly. Sold him my dad’s World War One diary last year. Gave me three hundred bucks for it.

No kidding? Kind of tough, though, wasn’t it? Selling something that personal and all?

Are you kidding? I never liked the bastard. Figured he owed me the three cees.

* * * *

I’d only been back at my place for fifteen minutes when I heard the tentative tap at my door I recognized as Finlayson’s. I shouted for him to come in while I was changing clothes in the bedroom.

Haven’t heard from you since that dreadful case with the Fort girl. How’ve you been?

So-so, I replied, tucking my shirttail into my jeans as I came into the front room. You know how it is.

All too well.

If you’re ready, I’ll take you over to Mr. Arkady’s room.

I’m glad you called me, he said as I led the way into the hall, but I’m surprised you did, since you have a doctor living right here.

What do you mean?

I saw his card on the mailbox downstairs as I came in. Doctor Rubrogra.

First I’ve heard of him. I knew someone new moved in a couple of days ago, but I’ve been so distracted running around for Arkady, I completely forgot about it. Funny place for a doctor to live, I’d think.

Well, you never can know about things… Finlayson said uncomfortably, as he ran his finger around the inside of his collar. I knew what he meant. Maybe he’s not a medical doctor. Maybe just a professor or some such thing.

I didn’t bother to knock on Arkady’s door since his voice had gotten so weak I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear him whether he said come in or get lost. I told the doctor to wait while I went to the bedroom to tell the old man I’d brought someone to see him.

I’d only seen the book dealer the day before, but already he looked ten times worse. His skin was the color of old lard and had shrunk so close to his bones that it looked like it had been applied to his skeleton with a brush. He turned his eyes toward me and I thought they looked like a pair of fish eggs. I swallowed hard and told him that I’d brought a friend of mine, a doctor, who wanted to take a look at him. As I saw his mouth start to quiver with protest, I hastened to say that this was being done as a favor to me and wasn’t going to cost him a penny, at which news he relaxed. It was all pretty ghastly so I made no objection when Finlayson, who’d come in behind me, shooed me out of the room.

Oh wait! Arkady said in a voice that sounded like crumpling cellophane. Doctor, will you give Miss Bellinghausen this? She left it here the other day.

Finlayson came back out of the room with a little box hanging from strap. It was the camera I’d thought I’d lost. I’d been looking everywhere for it, too.

I decided to wander on downstairs to see what I could find out about my new neighbor from his mailbox. The card said only Dr. Damien Rubrogra, in the neat sort of copperplate hand that hadn’t been seen since the Harding administration. It didn’t tell me any more than what I’d heard from Finlayson. Rubrogra had moved into the apartment directly below Arkady’s, which would be 2A. I trotted back up the stairs and knocked at the door, not really expecting to find anyone home in the middle of the afternoon. I was half disappointed (because I’d kind of looked forward to a little lock-picking practice) when I heard the chain on the other side of the door rattling.

The door swung open a few inches and at first I thought the doctor must be standing behind it—until I glanced down and saw the little man glaring back up at me, the bright lenses of his pince-nez glasses making him look like some sort of ambulatory night light.

Well? he said belligerently, apparently not the least intimidated by the fact that I towered over him by at least a foot. He was a chunky little lump of a man who looked exactly like someone six feet tall who had been squashed by pressing really hard on top of his head. Evil little eyes glared out at me through the horizontal folds of his face.

Oh, well, ah, Doctor Rugobra… I, ah, I live upstairs. I know that you’re new to the building and just thought I’d, ah, sort of welcome you to the, uh, neighborhood, sort of.

Is that so?

Well, uh, yeah, I guess.

His gaze ran up and down me and I could actually feel it, like mice with cold, wet feet. He licked his lips—or what at least I guessed were his lips. They could have been just two more wrinkles for all I knew. The effect was much like that thing you do with kids where you make a fist and stick the tip of your thumb through the middle two fingers. You know what I mean? It doesn’t look as funny when a face does it, though.

Say, do all the broads in this dump look as good as you?

Well, no, not really, I replied. Ipheginia Birdwhistle, the aspiring Broadway star who lived on the top floor, was pretty good-looking, but she was short and blonde, so I wasn’t really lying to him.

"Say, if you really wanna welcome me to the place, why don’t you come in and have a drink? That’d be real friendly-like, you know?"

I knew all right.

That’d be swell, but I better take a rain check on that. I got a sick friend upstairs I better get back to.

Do that again, he said.

Do what?

Show your teeth like you just did.

You mean like this? I asked, baring my teeth like a grizzly bear or at least how I thought a grizzly bear would go about doing it.

Hmmm. he hmmmed, gazing up at my face from a foot below.

What do you mean, ‘hmmm’?

Those are pretty nice teeth you have there, though that lower right lateral incisor looks a little iffy to me.

Pardon?.

You will have to excuse me. I’m a retired dentist, from Chillicothe. It’s hard to break old habits.

While he was talking I was looking over his head into the room beyond. There wasn’t much to the place other than what I’d seen from the door. The front room was pretty much empty, except for a pile of cardboard boxes stacked up against a wall. Even the walls were bare.

Rugobra must have noticed the expression on my face. You will have to excuse me, he said, rubbing the palms of his hands together with the sound of a wet sponge being wrung out. I’ve only just moved in, as you probably know, and most of my furniture hasn’t yet arrived.

You interested in photography? I asked.

What makes you ask that?

I noticed the enlarger in the other room, I replied, wondering why he was suddenly so edgy.

Oh, that’s just a sort of souvenir, really.

I would think that a key fob be easier to haul around.

It’s really only a hobby I indulge in now and then.

It was a pretty serious hobby, I thought. The thing stood as tall as I do, a big gadget that looked a little like one of the spotlights at the Follies. It sat in the middle of what appeared to be an otherwise empty room. A heavy cord connected it to a wall socket.

Starting to feel pretty much like I do when I visit the snake house at the zoo, I made an excuse and hurried out of the place.

When I got back upstairs, Finlayson was just packing up his little black bag. I could see that Arkady was asleep.

How’s he doing, doc?

Nothing really serious. Mostly age, lack of exercise and slight malnutrition. What’s really wrong with him is anemia. Haven’t seen a case like his since I was in Japan after the war. Here, he said, tearing a little square of paper from a pad, take this down to the pharmacy at the end of the block and have them fill it for you. Follow the directions and make sure the old man takes it. It’ll do him good. And make sure he eats.

Sure thing. I got some film here I got to run down there anyway, to get processed.

* * * *

I paid my daily visit to Arkady the next morning.

I brought you some chicken soup from Joe’s, I said.

You are an angel of mercy!

How are you feeling?

Still not so hot. And look here, he said, leaning forward in bed and pulling up the back of his pajama shirt. The skin wasn’t the usual fish belly color. It was bright red. How in the world do you suppose I got a sunburn while lying in bed?

Beats me.

What do you have there?

I got some medicine Dr. Finlayson said I was to make sure you took every day.

I handed him the bottle and told him to follow the directions. Meanwhile, I opened the other package I’d picked up.

What do you have there? he asked.

Some snapshots my pal Chip took of me down at Coney Island the other day. I flipped through the glossy rectangles. Aww, rats!

What’s the matter?

Look here, I said, tossing the photos into his lap. Every single one of them is fogged!

* * * *

I showed the snapshots to Chip later and, to my surprise, he was more puzzled than upset.

Anything wrong with your camera? he asked.

Take a look for yourself, I said, handing him my Brownie. Looks to be all in one piece to me.

There’s something weird looking about these pictures. I might have thought you’d just messed up rewinding the film or that maybe the drug store made a mistake. But look here, he said, handing me one of the photos, see that pattern? There’s not just fogging…there’s some sort of shadowy image, like gears or something.

He asked if I’d mind if he showed the photos to F-Stop Fitzgerald, the paper’s staff photographer and I said sure, go ahead.

He called me the next day.

F-Stop wants to know if you’ve been hanging around any hospitals lately.

Hospitals? Why would I be hanging around a hospital? I feel fine.

He said that your film was spoiled by X-rays. That pattern I saw? Those were the parts of your camera showing up on the prints.

X-rays?

When I saw Arkady later that day, I told him that I thought someone had been deliberately trying to make him sick.

Why? Whatever for?

I know you have books here that are worth a lot of money. Has anyone been trying to get you to sell any special book, one that you won’t let go or someone might think you’re asking too much for?

"I don’t know… Well, there is this crank from somewhere in the midwest who’s been trying to buy a book from me for years. He’s gotten to be a real nuisance, though I haven’t heard anything from him for a couple of months."

What book is that?

Arkady stretched a long, thin arm to the bookcase beside his bed and pulled out a small, brown book.

This is a volume of poetry by Edward de Vere. He was a minor Elizabethan poet and the book has no real value. It’s just that I promised it to my niece, who is very fond of de Vere’s work for some reason.

I took the book from him and turned it around in my hands. It was bound in leather that was shedding in feathery flakes, like a molting bird. It left powdery brown stains on my fingers. I flipped though it and was surprised to see how white the paper was. I guess they used better material back in de Vere’s day than in the true detective magazines I like to read.

I handed the book back to Arkady and asked, Do you happen to have a worthless old book that looks just like this one?

Too many, he replied. Whyever do you ask?

I met Rugobra coming down the stairs as I was going up to my apartment a couple of days later. He still looked like some kid’s clay model of a gnome that the kid had gotten tired of and punched. He had lips that looked like slivers of raw liver and he licked them like he liked how they tasted.

My goodness, he said, you certainly seem pleased with yourself, Miss Bellinghausen.

Oh, but I am! That nice Mr. Arkady gave me this swell book of poetry for my birthday. Some old writer named de Vere. Wasn’t that sweet?

Rugobra turned even grayer and broke out in a sweat like a squeezed sponge. He stared at the little book I had in my hand—which I had been carrying around for two days, for Pete’s sake—in much the same way I used to see the front row at Slotnik’s Follies looking at me.

That evening I decided that a nice hot shower would be just the ticket. I was just climbing into the stall when I heard a floorboard creak outside the door.

About time! I thought.

I had just enough time to grab a shirt and pull it on when the door burst open, admitting an ugly little munchkin with an automatic in its pudgy paw.

Eek! I said in feigned surprise.

Get your hands up, lady! Rugobra said, trying his best to sound like Humphrey Bogart and failing.

You’re in the wrong bathroom in the wrong apartment on the wrong floor, I said.

But I don’t have the wrong dame! Where’s that book?

What book?

Don’t play dumb with me. From the looks of you, it’s probably the only book you own.

I resented that. I have at least five or six books.

You know exactly which book I mean, he continued. That book Arkady gave you. It’s rightly mine.

So what’s so important about an old book?

Edward de Vere is the man that many experts, myself included, believe was the actual author of Shakespeare’s plays.

Do tell.

I am convinced there is a letter from de Vere hidden in the binding that proves this is true. The discovery will make me the greatest expert on Shakespeare in the world!

You’ll still look like a garden gnome, I said. But what about the X-rays? I figured that out. That’s no photographic enlarger you got, it’s an X-ray machine. And it’s right under Arkady’s bedroom.

I figured if I could bump off the old man without anyone getting wise, I could buy the book for a song at the estate sale.

Well, if you want it so bad, the book’s right here in the bathroom.

What?

See? Over there hanging above the sink.

He looked where I was pointing. I probably could have kicked the gun out of his hand right then, but I was starting to have too much fun. What he saw was a little brown book dangling at the end of a string attached to the ceiling light fixture. It was wet and dripping an oily-looking liquid into the sink.

What are you doing?

There it is. Soaked in bug killer.

I took two steps over to the sink and picked up a Zippo cigarette lighter that was sitting by the tap. I snapped it open and an inch-long flame licked up.

And what do you suppose might happen if I got a little careless with this thing?

You wouldn’t dare!

You think not? I said, touching the flame to a corner of the book. There was a soft POOF as the book almost instantly disintegrated in a flash. A shower of greasy black ashes fell into the sink.

NO!

Rugobra dropped the gun and grabbed his throat with one hand and his chest with the other. I heard a muffled pop that was probably an artery or something exploding. He dropped like the sack of potatoes he resembled.

I knelt and felt for a pulse, being pretty sure I wouldn’t find one. I was right.

Well, I thought, "I guess that was a kind of poetry."

A few hours later, after I’d called Lieutenant Dillinger and had the mess in my bathroom cleaned up, I went down to Arkady’s place to report what had happened. I hadn’t told Dillinger much, just that my new neighbor had broken into my apartment and dropped dead from a heart attack. Dillinger said that he wasn’t surprised, me being dressed as I had been, and let it go at that. I was a little more forthcoming with Arkady.

Good heavens, Velda! he said. Weren’t you a little rough on the man?

No one fries one of my friends and gets away with it.

So, if there is any real moral to this report, try to remember that no matter how badly you might want something it’s never right to try to get it by exposing an old man to dangerous radiation.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ron Miller is an author/illustrator specializing in science, science fiction and fantasy. He is responsible for 73 books of his own, many of which have received awards and commendations, including a Hugo. He has designed postage stamps (one of which is attached to the New Horizons spacecraft) and has worked on motion pictures such as Dune.

WHO GRABBED THE

GOLDEN HAMMER OF THOR?,

by Hal Charles

Detective Kelly Stone had never been so excited about a case. Housemakers, the top-rated cable show about constructing new homes, was the favorite program of both her and her father, an ex-contractor. Watching a new house go up was almost as fun as the banter between the Flicker triplets, the show’s hosts, and this coming season’s added bonus—Housemakers was being filmed in her home town.

No sooner had she parked her car at the build site than she was greeted by a cute, small woman with a blonde ponytail. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective Stone. I’m Teresa Taylor, the showrunner for Housemakers."

My dispatcher must have received a garbled message, admitted Kelly, because she said something about the Golden Hammer of Thor being missing.

Teresa Taylor laughed. I suppose that description does sound a lot like typical TV hyperbole. At the end of the shooting season, which is next week, I was going to try something new—presenting the so-called hammer to the triplet who does the best job. But this morning the award was missing from my house.

Sounds interesting.

More like necessary. Harry, Gary, and Mary Flicker have evolved a poor working relationship. They spend most of their off-camera time sniping at each other.

That attitude sure doesn’t come across on the show, said Kelly.

Are you a real detective or just another actor Teresa hired? said a female, who looked like she spent most of her time pumping iron.

Mary Flicker, Detective Kelly Stone, introduced the showrunner. She’s here about the missing hammer.

I have never once visited that sawdust-covered rental where Teresa lives, said Mary. Besides, I spent last night at a local bar, The Nighthawk, out-drinking the locals. Unfortunately, there were a lot of losers with bruised male egos down there who might have trouble admitting they lost to a woman.

The Nighthawk recently installed a whole-establishment camera system for insurance purposes, said Kelly, so your story should be easy to check on.

Gotta go learn how to use the new mortiser, said Mary, departing.

Gee, Mary, said a male voice, then you’ll have one tool in your tool kit that you can actually use.

Detective Stone, said Teresa, meet Gary Flicker.

Kelly shook hands with the triplet who looked much less addicted to iron than his sister.

Before you even ask, Detective, I spent the entire night here trying to figure out how to lay flooring straight when the addition juts out at a five-degree angle.

I left last night about midnight, confirmed the showrunner, and Gary was here when I arrived at sun-up.

If you’ll excuse me, said Gary. The plumbing in the crawlspace doesn’t have the proper downward pitch, and I’ve got to fix it.

As he walked off, Kelly said, Gary seems quite dedicated to the integrity of the house-build. By the way, is the so-called Golden Hammer of Thor worth much?

It’s got more gold in it than the entire town has in their crowns, said Teresa. The web…network thought it was worth forking out the money to keep the peace on their highest-rated show.

It’s worth more than five times my contract, said the suddenly-appearing Harry Flicker. I think Mary took it because her bad attitude caused the web not to renew her contract next year.

The second part’s true, admitted Teresa. And Mary’s become an alcoholic, so she’s an insurance nightmare for the production company.

I see, said Kelly. Then she turned to Harry. Got an alibi for last night?

Harry whispered in her ear. I was with Teresa all night, but don’t let the cat out of the bag.

Don’t need to, said the detective. I think I know who stole the Golden Hammer of Thor.

SOLUTION

Mary was a liar. Kelly suddenly realized that the female triplet had made a contradictory statement. How could she know that showrunner Teresa’s rental was sawdust-covered if she had, as she claimed, never been there? The Nighthawk’s cameras confirmed Kelly’s diagnosis. Mary is currently employing her miniscule woodworking talents in the carpenter shop of state’s lock-up. Teresa awarded the Golden Hammer of Thor to Gary, which caused Harry to break up with her. Teresa then, in true reality TV-fashion, exchanged her sawdust-covered rental for Gary’s spic-and-span, sixth-floor condo.

THE ASYLUM OF ADVENTURE,

by G.K. Chesterton

A VERY small funeral procession passed through a very small churchyard on the rocky coast of Cornwall; carrying a coffin to its grave under the low and windy wall. The coffin was quite formal and unobtrusive; but the knot of fishermen and labourers eyed it with the slanted eyes of superstition; almost as if it had been the misshapen coffin of legend that was said to contain a monster. For it contained the body of a near neighbour, who had long lived a stone’s throw from them, and whom they had never seen.

The figure following the coffin, the chief and only mourner, they had seen fairly often. He had a habit of disappearing into his late friend’s house and being invisible for long periods, but he came and went openly. No one knew when the dead man had first come, but he probably came in the night; and he went out in the coffin. The figure following it was a tall figure in black, bareheaded, with the sea-blast whistling through his wisps of yellow hair as through the pale sea grasses. He was still young and none could have said that his mourning suit sat ill upon him; but some who knew him would have seen it with involuntary surprise, and felt that it showed him in a new phase. When he was dressed, as he generally was, in the negligent tweeds and stockings of the pedestrian landscape-painter, he looked merely amiable and absent-minded; but the black brought out something more angular and fixed about his face. With his black garb and yellow hair he might have been the traditional Hamlet; and indeed the look in his eyes was visionary and vague; but the traditional Hamlet would hardly have had so long and straight a chin as that which rested unconsciously on his black cravat. After the ceremony, he left the village church and walked towards the village post office, gradually lengthening and lightening his stride, like a man who, with all care for decency, can hardly conceal that he is rid of a duty.

It’s a horrible thing to say, he said to himself, but I feel like a happy widower.

He then went in to the post office and sent off a telegram addressed to a Lady Diana Westermaine, Westermaine Abbey: a telegram that said: I am coming morrow to keep my promise and tell you the story of a strange friendship.

Then he went out of the little shop again and walked eastwards out of the village, with undisguised briskness, till he had left the houses far behind, and his funeral hat and habit were an almost incongruous black spot upon great green uplands and the motley forests of autumn. He had walked for about half a day, lunched on bread and cheese and ale at a little public-house, and resumed his march with unabated cheerfulness, when the first event of that strange day befell him. He was threading his way by a river that ran in a hollow of the green hills; and at one point his path narrowed and ran under a high stone wall. The wall was built of very large flat stones of ragged outline, and a row of them ran along the top like the teeth of a giant. He would not normally have taken so much notice of the structure of the wall; indeed he did not take any notice of it at all until after something had happened. Until (in fact) there was a great gap in the row of craggy teeth, and one of the crags lay flat at his feet, shaking up dust like the smoke of an explosion. It had just brushed one of his long wisps of light hair as it fell.

Looking up, a shade bewildered by the shock of his hairbreadth escape, he saw for an instant in the dark gap left in the stonework a face, peering and malignant. He called out promptly:

I see you; I could send you to jail for that!

No you can’t, retorted the stranger, and vanished into the twilight of trees as swiftly as a squirrel.

The gentleman in black, whose name was Gabriel Gale, looked up thoughtfully at the wall, which was rather too high and smooth to scale; besides the fugitive had already far too much of a start. Mr. Gale finally said aloud, in a reflective fashion: Now I wonder why he did that! Then he frowned with an entirely new sort of gravity, and after a moment or two of grim silence he added: "But after all it’s much more odd and mysterious that he should say that."

In truth, though the three words uttered by the unknown person seemed trivial enough, they sufficed to lead Gale’s memories backwards to the beginning of the whole business that ended in the little Cornish churchyard; and as he went briskly on his way he rehearsed all the details of that old story, which he was to tell to the lady at his journey’s end.

* * * *

Nearly fourteen years before, Gabriel Gale had come of age and inherited the moderate debts and the small freehold of a rather unsuccessful gentleman farmer. But though he grew up with the traditions of a sort of small squire, he was not the sort of person, especially at that age, to have no opinions except those traditions. In early youth his politics were the very reverse of squires’ politics; he was very much of a revolutionary and locally rather a firebrand. He intervened on behalf of poachers and gipsies: he wrote letters to the local papers which the editors thought