“But they can’t do this!” George protested.
“They have.”
Sidney’s hand shook as he picked up the sheaf of papers holding Huk’s story. Indicating it and the photographs, he said, “Well, they haven’t taken these away.”
“Haven’t they?” asked George. He picked up some of the pictures. “Look.”
Sidney looked and saw that the pictures were now blank. His glance went quickly to the typewritten sheets of paper in his hands. He cried out and then shuffled them frantically.
They, too, were blank.
Sidney jumped up. “I don’t care!” he exclaimed. “He told me and I’ve got it here!” He pointed to his head. “I can remember it, anyway.”
“Can you?” asked George.
“Why, certainly I can,” Sidney asserted confidently. “The reason the cliff dwellers left, George, was that they . . . ” Sidney stopped.
“What’s the matter, Sid?”
“Well, I—it—I guess it just slipped my mind for a second.” His brow puckered. He looked acutely upset and mystified. “Huk told me,” he faltered. “Just a minute ago I was thinking of it when I started to tell you. Now . . . I can’t remember.”
“That’s gone, too.”
“I’ll get it!” Sidney declared. “I’ve just forgotten it for a minute. I’ll remember!”
“No,” said George, “you won’t.”
Sidney looked around. “There must be something left.” He thought. “The atlatl lances they shot at us!” He looked at the U-Haul-It. The lances no longer stuck in its side. Nor were those that had fallen to the ground to be seen.
Sidney sat down again, heavily. “We had it all,” he moaned. “Everything we’d been working for. And now . . . ”
“Now we’ll have to dig for it again,” said George. “Do it the hard way. We’ll start tomorrow when the workmen come.”
Sidney looked up. “There’s one thing!” he cried. “The dent in the car made by the lance! It’s still there, George! However everything else worked, that was forgotten. It’s still there!”
George glanced at the dent in the side panel of the station wagon. “It’s still there,” he agreed. “But only to tell us this wasn’t a dream. No one else would believe it wasn’t caused by a rock.”
George groaned. He stared at the rise of ground behind which the Indians had disappeared. “Huk,” he pleaded. “Good Fox. Moon Water. The others. Come back, come back . . . ”
No one appeared over the rise of ground as the cool desert night began to close in.
Operation Earthworm
by Joe Archibald
Here he is again, the irrepressible Septimus Spink, in a tale as rollicking as an elder giant juggling the stars and the planets in his great, golden hands and laughing mirthfully as one tiny world—our own—goes spinning away from him into caverns measureless to man. With specifications drawn to scale, Joe Archibald, whose versatility with the quill never ceases to amaze us, has managed with slangy insouciance to achieve a rare triumph over space and time, and to aureole Spink in a resplendent sunburst of imperishable renown.
Septimus Spink didn’t need to read Jules Verne’s “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” He had more amazing ideas of his own.
Interplanetary Press, Circa 2022—Septimus Spink, the first Earthman to reach and return from New Mu in a flying saucer, threw a hydroactive bombshell into the meeting of the leading cosmogonists at the University of Cincinnatus today. The amazing Spink, uninvited, crashed this august body of scientists and laughed at a statement made by Professor Apsox Zalpha as to the origin of Earth and other planets.
“That theory is older than the discovery of the antiquated zipper,” Spink orated. “Ha, you big plexidomes still believe the Earth was condensed from a filament, and was ejected by the sun under the gravitational attraction of a big star passing close to the Earth’s surface. First it was a liquid drop and cooling solidified it after a period of a few million years. You citizens still think it has a liquid core. Some of you think it is pretty hot inside like they had atomic furnaces all fired up. Ha, the exterior ain’t so hot either what with taxes we have to pay after seven wars.”
Professor Yzylch Mgogylvy, of the University of Juno, took violent exception to Septimus Spink’s derisive attitude and stoutly defended the theory of adiabatic expansion. It was at this juncture that Spink practically disintegrated the meeting.
“For the last seventy years,” he orated, “all we have thought about was outer space. All that we have been hepped up about is what is up in the attic and have forgot the cellar. What proof has any knucklehelmet got that nobody lives far under the coal mines and the oil pockets? Something lives everywhere! Adam never believed anythin’ lived in water until he was bit by a crab. Gentlemen, I am announcin’ for the benefit of the press and everybody from here to Mars and Jupiter and back that I intend to explore inner space! I have already got the project underway.”
A near panic ensued as representatives of the press made for the audio-viso stellartypes. “You think volcanoes are caused by heat generated far down inside the earth. They are only boils or carbuncles. Awright, where do earthquakes come from?” Here Spink laughed once more. “They are elastic waves sent out through the body of the Earth, huh? Their observed times of transmission give a means of finding their velocities of propagation at great depths. I read that in a book that should be in the Terra-firmament Institute along with the Spirit of St. Louis.”
Septimus Spink walked out at this point, surrounded by Interplanetary scribes, one of whom was Exmud R. Zmorro. Spink informed the Fourteenth Estate that he would let them have a gander at the model of his inner space machine in due time. He inferred that one of his financial backers in the fabulous enterprise was Aquintax Djupont, and that the fact that Djupont had recently been brain-washed at the Neuropsychiatorium in Metropolita had no bearing on the case whatsoever.
*
I am seeing and listening to that news item right now which has been repeated a dozen times the last twenty-four hours as if nobody could believe it. I am Septimus Spink, and descended from a long line of Spinks that began somewhere back at the time they put up the pyramids.
All my ancestors was never satisfied with what progress they saw during when they lived, and they are the reasons we have got where we are today. And if there was no Spinks today the scientists would get away with saying that the Earth was only a drop from the sun that got a crust on it after millions of years. And they want to send me back to get fitted for a duronylon strait jacket again.
An hour after I shut off the viso-screen, and while I am taking my calves’ liver and onion capsules, my friend and space-lanceman, D’Ambrosia Zahooli comes in. He just qualifies as a spaceman as he takes up very little and is not much easier to look at than a Nougatine. Once D’Ambrosia applied for a plasticectomy but the surgeons at the Muzayo clinic just laughed and told him there was a limit to science even in the year 2022. But the citizen was at home when they divided the brains. Of course that is only my opinion. He is to fly with me into inner space.
“Greetin’s and salutations, and as the Martians say, ‘max nabiscum,’ Sep,” Zahooli says. “I have been figuring that we won’t have to go deeper than about four thousand kilometers. All that is worryin’ me is gettin’ back up. I still do not fully believe that we won’t melt. Supposin’ Professor Zalpha is right and that we will dive down into a core of live iron ore. You have seen them pour it out of the big dippers in the mills, Sep.”
“Columbus