Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 by Tristram Rolph Page A

the Turkey Track quilt. I sought out air single bone, even
     the little separate toe bones that come in the song, a-picking them up
     with the shovel blade. Somewhere I've heard tell there are two hundred and
     eight bones in a skeleton. Finally I got all of them. I swung the lid
     down, and Hallcott fastened the hook into the staple. Then we stood and
     harked. There was just a breath of sweet, cool breeze in some bushes. Nair
     other sound that we made out.
    Hallcott picked up another of the shovels, and quick we filled that grave
     in again. We patted it down smooth on top. Again we harked. Nair sound
     from where we'd buried the bones a second time.
    "I reckon he's at rest now," I felt like a-saying. "Leastways, all
     disconnected again thataway, he can't get up unless some other gone gump
     comes here and sings that song to him again."
    "For hell's sake, whatever was he?" Hallcott asked, of the whole starry
     night sky.
    "Maybe not even science folks could answer that," I said. "I'd reckon he
     was of a devil—people long gone from this country—a people
     that wasn't man nor either beast; a kind of people that pure down had to
     go, but gets recollected in ugly old tales of man-eating things. That's
     all I can think to say to it."
    I flung down the shovel and went back to where my stuff lay against the
     walnut tree. I slung my blanket roll and soogin on my back, and took my
     guitar up under my arm. Right that moment, I sure enough didn't have a
     wish to play it.
    "John," said Hallcott. "Where you reckon to head now?"
    "Preacher Melick kindly invited me to his house. I have it in mind to go
     there."
    "Me, too, if he's got room for me," said Hallcott. "Money wouldn't buy me
     to go nowheres alone in this night. No sir, nor for many a night to come."
    The End
    © 1981 by Manly Wade Wellman. First published in Sorceror's
     Apprentice, summer 1981. Permission granted by The Pimlico Agency,
     Inc., Agents for Estate of Manly Wade Wellman.

Allamagoosa
    Eric Frank Russell
    It was a long time since the Bustler had been so silent. She lay in
     the Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold, her shell particle-scarred, her air
     that of a long-distance runner exhausted at the end of a marathon. There
     was good reason for this: she had returned from a lengthy trip by no means
     devoid of troubles.
    Now, in port, well-deserved rest had been gained if only temporarily.
     Peace, sweet peace. No more bothers, no more crises, no more major upsets,
     no more dire predicaments such as crop up in free flight at least twice a
     day. Just peace.
    Hah!
    Captain McNaught reposed in his cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed the
     relaxation to the utmost. The engines were dead, their hellish pounding
     absent for the first time in months. Out there in the big city, four
     hundred of his crew were making whoopee under a brilliant sun. This
     evening, when First Officer Gregory returned to take charge, he was going
     to go into the fragrant twilight and make the rounds of neon-lit
     civilization.
    That was the beauty of making landfall at long last. Men could give way to
     themselves, blow off surplus steam, each according to his fashion. No
     duties, no worries, no dangers, no responsibilities in spaceport. A haven
     of safety and comfort for tired rovers.
    Again, hah!
    Burman, the chief radio officer, entered the cabin. He was one of the
     half-dozen remaining on duty and bore the expression of a man who can
     think of twenty better things to do.
    "Relayed signal just come in, sir." Handing the paper across, he waited
     for the other to look at it and perhaps dictate a reply.
    Taking the sheet, McNaught removed the feet from his desk, sat erect, and
     read the message aloud.
    Terran Headquarters to Bustler . Remain Siriport pending further
     orders. Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy due there seventeenth. Feldman. Navy
     Op. Command, Sirisec.
    He looked up, all happiness gone from his leathery features, and groaned.
    "Something wrong?" asked Burman,