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,