slightly and saw Lucky Larson, the chief and a half dozen other guys staring down at me.
“It’s not very original,” I said, “but where the hell am I?” That was silly of me because I knew where I was, so I said: “Never mind that but please tell me what the hell happened?”
The chief laughed and Lucky Larson laughed and then they slapped each other on the back. “Don’t worry about a thing,” the chief said, “those crooks are under lock and key and there’s not a thing to worry about.”
“But how—I mean what…?” My voice trailed off. Nothing made sense.
“Well,” the chief broke in, “Lucky here really deserves the credit for catching them. And I’m not forgetting your good work either. Both of you will receive more tangible evidence of my appreciation. But Lucky really did the brainwork.”
“Awww,” Lucky mumbled, “it wasn’t much. Just a little common sense and, uh, a little luck.”
“It was damn fast thinking,” the chief cut in belligerently, “you knew your stunting over the base would drive me crazy. You knew I’d get so mad I’d call out the base police and have you thrown in when you moored. And when you did moor and the crooks toppled out we were right on hand to receive them. They were so weak from the shaking up you gave them that they didn’t have a chance.”
Lucky rolled innocent eyes to the ceiling. “Sometimes,” he remarked piously, “stunting has its uses.”
“Congratulations,” I said weakly. “You certainly used your head. Caught the chief’s attention with your stunting and almost knocked the crooks out with it too. That’s killing two birds with one stone, all right.” Then another thought occurred to me.
“How did you know I was in trouble?” I asked curiously. “How did you know we had those crooks on board?”
“Why—why,” Lucky sputtered, “that was simple. I just happened to look behind me and I saw those boys piling into you. So I did a little fast thinking and then I whipped the ship into a few maneuvers and, like the chief says, they caught his eye all right.”
The chief was beaming fondly and I turned my head to hide the smile on my lips. “So you just looked behind you,” I muttered. “Well, Lucky, you certainly are—and were.”
He grinned down at me and winked. “You said it, kid.”
I wanted to ask him a question then, but I decided to wait until we were alone. I closed my eyes and smiled again, thinking of his expression when I would ask him how he had been able to look behind him and see me struggling with those crooks, when the door of the pilot’s chamber was closed all the time….
MARTIAN V. F. W.
by G. L. Vandenburg
There’s nothing like a parade, I always say. Of course, I’m a Martian.
Mr. Cruthers was a busy man. Coordinating the biggest parade in New York’s history is not easy. He was maneuvering his two hundred pounds around Washington Square with the agility of a quarterback. He had his hands full organizing marchers, locating floats, placing the many brass bands in their proper order and barking commands to assistants. But Mr. Cruthers approached the job with all the zeal of an evangelist at a revival meeting.
As he approached the south-west corner of the square he saw something that jarred his already frayed nerves. He stopped abruptly. The mass of clipboards and papers he was carrying fell to the street. There before him were one hundred and fifty ants, each of them at least six feet tall. His first impulse was to turn and run for the nearest doctor. He was certain that the strain of his job was proving too much for him. But one of the ants approached him. It seemed friendly enough, so Mr. Cruthers stood his ground.
“My group is waiting for their assignment.” The ant’s voice seemed to be coming from the very core of its thorax which was a violent red.
“Good Lord!” Mr. Cruthers’ mouth opened up as wide as an oven door.
“Mr. Cruthers, I believe the parade is about to start and my group—”
Mr. Cruthers managed to blurt out. “What the devil are you anyway!”
“This is the parade marking the International Geophysical Year, is it not?” The ant had a pleasant, friendly voice.
“Well, yes, but—”
“And you are Mr. Cruthers, the manager of the parade, is that not correct?”
Mr. Cruthers rubbed his eyes and took another look at the strange creature. Its head was a brilliant yellow. It had two large goggle eyes which rolled like itinerant marbles when it spoke. The low slung abdomen was a burnt brown. It was bad enough, Cruthers thought, that these ants were six feet tall, but it was nightmarish to see them in three colors.
“Mr. Cruthers,” the ant continued, “haven’t you been instructed by the National Academy of Sciences that the Martian V.F.W. is to participate in this parade?”
“The Martian—!!” Mr. Cruthers’ mouth was open again. Then he realized that when the ant spoke its mouth didn’t move. He picked up his clipboard and papers from the street. His voice was hostile now. “What the hell is this, some kind of a gag! What are you trying to do, scare a man half to death!”
“Oh, we’re not joking, Mr. Cruthers. The National Academy—”
“They didn’t say anything to me about a bunch of clowns dressed up like ants!” Mr. Cruthers’ indignation became intensified. He was loathe to admit that he’d been taken in by such obviously animated costumes. “Now look here, I’m a very busy man.”
“The arrangements have been made, Mr. Cruthers. If my group is refused a place in this parade we shall file suit immediately. As manager you’ll be named co-defendant.” The ant was gentle but firm.
The thought of being sued softened Mr. Cruthers’ attitude. “Well, I’m very sorry, pal, but every contingent in this parade is listed on my clipboard and you’re not. I know this list by heart. What did you say the name of your group was?”
“The Martian V.F.W.”
Mr. Cruthers was amused. “Those sure are the craziest outfits I’ve ever seen,” he chuckled. “Where’d you get them? Walt Disney make them for you?” He followed his own little joke with a long throaty laugh.
The ant was impatient. “About the parade, Mr. Cruthers, there isn’t much time.”
“Oh, yes, the parade. Well, let me see,” he thumbed through the clipboard, “I guess there’s always room for a few laughs. How many in your group?”
“One hundred and fifty. And we also have a float with us. Not a very large one. It measures twenty by twenty.”
“Tell you what. You move your group to the corner of Thompson Street and Third Street. Get behind the Tiffany float and follow them, okay?”
The ant paused a moment to record the instructions in his mind. Then he turned to leave.
“Oh, wait a minute,” Mr. Cruthers cried before the ant could rejoin his group. “Just who did you speak to at the National Academy of Sciences?”
“I believe it was a Mr. Canfield.”
Mr. Cruthers’ face lit up. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place! I’d have placed you right away.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Cruthers.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you guys do but those costumes should certainly bring the house down. There’s going to be four million people watching this parade. I bet that’s the biggest audience you’ve ever seen.”
“It certainly is.” With that the ant strode away.
“Good luck!” Mr. Cruthers shouted after him.
“Daddy! Daddy, look! Look at the big rocket!” The little boy jumped up and down gleefully. “It must be a whole mile long, Daddy! What kind is it?”
