Stories Complete, page 2
I read some more. There were a lot of big words that I had to spell out for him, but the whole story about how Mr. Pfister had made the glasses for me was there. I guess Pop understood the big words, cause when I got to where it said continued on page 19, he called Mom from the kitchen. “Janet,” he said real serious like, “your son is going to have his picture in the paper. The secret of the lens is out.”
“Oh,” Mom said.
“It’s all in tomorrow’s paper,” Pop told her. “Mr. Pfister started checking on the glass he’d been using, right after you brought Jimmie in to see him last week. It seems that they traced back to the source, and found that the glass they’d been using to make the lenses was obtained from that section of New Mexico where they’re experimenting with those atomic explosions. It says that it is believed that the molecules in those grains of sand were disturbed in such a way as to give them strange properties.
“Just think. Janet. Our son is going to be famous.”
Mom didn’t look very happy.
She was even more scared after the reporters came. They asked me a lot of questions and took some pictures. When one of the men told me that my picture would be in tomorrow’s paper, I told him I knew cause I’d already seen it.
Then they all looked at each other and laughed.
The next day Pop went out right after breakfast and brought in all the papers. There was a big crowd outside the house when he got back and Pop had to push through them to get in. He disconnected the doorbell and left the phone off the hook, but there were two men who kept banging on the back door until finally Pop had to let them in. They said they were from the CBS television network and wanted me to appear on a coast to coast hookup that afternoon.
Mom didn’t want me to go, but Pop said the publicity would be good, so about four o’clock, they came back in a big car to pick me up. When Pop and I walked out the door, one of the men got out a camera and said he wanted a picture of Pop coming out of the house. I went out and waited in the car while Pop went inside to make out like he was just coming out the door. Only the men didn’t wait for Pop to come back out. As soon as he went inside, the man with the camera jumped in the car too, and the next thing I knew we were speeding down Pine Street.
After we rode a long while, the driver pulled up in front of a dirty looking building near the docks. It didn’t look like a television studio to me. And when we went inside, I was sure of it.
It was a big room with a lot of benches in the middle of the floor and blackboards on the wall. One of the blackboards said Belmont Park. Then I knew that all this had something to do with the horses.
A big man with a bald head walked up to me when we went inside. “Hello Jimmie,” he said.
The man smiled and held out his hand. “We’re not going to hurt you, Jimmie,” he said. “Not if you do like we say. Tell me, boy: Did you bring the lens with you?”
Well, there wasn’t any use lying to him. When they said I was going to be on television, they told me to be sure to bring the lenses.
I fished them out of my pocket.
“Good, Jimmie,” the man said. “Now put them on.”
He didn’t say what would happen to me if I didn’t put them on. He didn’t have to. I see fellows like him in the movies all the time.
“Now,” said the bald headed man after I’d put them on, “I want you to read me what it says on those blackboards. Start with that one over there.”
I looked over at it. “It says Belmont Park,” I told him.
He rubbed his hands together. “What else does it say, Jimmie?”
“That’s all. Just Belmont Park.”
And all of a sudden, the man wasn’t smiling anymore. “Don’t lie to me, Son,” he told me. “What does it say underneath?”
“I’m not lying to you, Mister,” I said to him. “It doesn’t say anything.”
He looked at his watch and turned to the other two men. “It’s four-thirty,” he said to them. “By this time tomorrow, the first six races will be in. This kid has to be lying!”
Then one of the men grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back.
“What does it say, Kid,” he yelled. “C’mon, speak up!”
He started to tighten up. Then the bald headed man stopped him. “Jimmie,” he said, “we don’t want to hurt you unless we have to. Now I want you to take a good look around the room and tell me what you see?”
I looked around. “I see a lot of benches,” I told him. “And a counter over there like they have in a grocery store.”
“There’s no one sitting on the benches?”
“No.”
“Take the lenses off.”
I took them off. “Now what do you see that looks different?” he asked me.
I looked around the room. “Nothing looks different,” I told him. “It looks the same with them off as it does with them on.”
He opened and closed his fists. “It can’t be,” he said under his breath. “By this time tomorrow, this joint will be jumping.”
“Maybe the lens isn’t working anymore,” I said.
Then one of the other men started toward me. “Let me fix this little squirt!” he said.
I broke away and started to run then. And just as I did, there was a lot of banging on the door.
The next thing I knew the whole room was full of cops.
THE three men were pushed in the back of a police van that was waiting outside. I rode up in front with the driver.
At the police station they told me to wait inside a room. One of the cops let me wear his hat while I waited. I was still wearing it when Pop came in.
When he saw me, he ran up and put his arms around me. “Are you all right, Son?” he asked me.
“Sure,” I told him.
Then a man who said he was a police lieutenant came in, and I had to-tell him what happened. As soon as he left, a couple of more men came in and I had to tell it all over again.
By the time we got out of there, the evening papers were already on the street. That was when we found out why I couldn’t see anything on the blackboard. It was right on page one: “RACETRACKS CLOSE DOWN—BLAME TIME LENS!”
“I don’t get it, Pop,” I said. “Why did the racetracks close down?”
“Well,” Pop said, “it was mostly because Mr. Pfister, and whoever else he let in on it, had the same idea I did. Only they got too greedy. No race track can operate on a minus pool.”
“What’s a minus pool?” I asked him.
Pop folded up the newspaper and put it under his arm. “Don’t ask so many questions, Jimmie,” he said.
I didn’t go to school the next day on account of Pop took me down to the police station again.
Mr. Pfister was there too. Him, and a real live F.B.I. man. For a long while, the F.B.I. man talked to Pop and Mr. Pfister about the chance to do a real service for their country. Then Mr. Pfister gave him a little box he was carrying and Pop gave him my lenses.
When we left, the F.B.I. man shook hands with me.
“Jimmie,” he said, “if we can only keep this secret where it belongs, I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about going into the army when you grow up. Cause from now on, your country is exactly one day ahead of any nation on earth.”
Pop said that he hoped that was true.
Not me though. I want to be a soldier when I grow up.
Will the army take a soldier who’s wearing horn rimmed glasses.
April 2, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
We are returning your manuscript, THE NINTH DIMENSION. At first glance, I had figured it a story well worthy of publication. Why wouldn’t I? So did the editors of Cosmic Tale back in 1934 when the story was first published.
As you no doubt know, it was the great Todd Thromberry who wrote the story you tried to pass off on us as an original.
Let me give you a word of caution concerning the penalties resulting from plagiarism:
It’s not worth it. Believe me.
Sincerely,
Doyle P. Gates Science Fiction Editor
Deep Space Magazine
April 5, 1952
Mr. Doyle P. Gates,
Editor Deep Space Magazine
New York 3, NY
Dear Mr. Gates:
I do not know, nor am I aware of the existence of any Todd Thromberry. The story you rejected was submitted in good faith, and I resent the inference that I plagiarized it.
“The Ninth Dimension” was written by me not more than a month ago, and if there is any similarity between it and the story written by this Thromberry person, it is purely coincidental.
However, it has set me thinking. Some time ago, I submitted another story to Stardust Scientificion and received a penciled notation on the rejection slip stating that the story was, “too Thromberrish.”
Who the hell is Todd Thromberry? I don’t remember reading anything written by him in the ten years I’ve been interested in science fiction.
Sincerely,
Jack Lewis
April 11, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
Re: Your letter of April 5.
While the editors of this magazine are not in the habit of making open accusations and are well aware of the fact in the writing business there will always be some overlapping of plot ideas, it is very hard for us to believe that you are not familiar with the works of Todd Thromberry.
While Mr. Thromberry is no longer among us, his works, like so many other writers’, only became widely recognized after his death in 1941. Perhaps it was his work in the field of electronics that supplied him with the bottomless pit of new ideas so apparent in all his works. Nevertheless, even at this stage of science fiction’s development it is apparent that he had a style that many of our so-called contemporary writers might do well to copy. By “copy,” I do not mean rewrite word for word one or more of his works, as you have done. For while you state this has been accidental, surely you must realize that the chance of this phenomenon actually occurring is about a million times as great as the occurrence of four royal flushes in one deal.
Sorry, but we’re not that naive.
Sincerely yours,
Doyle P. Gates
Science Fiction Editor
Deep Space Magazine
April 13, 1952
Mr. Doyle P. Gates,
Editor Deep Space Magazine
New York 3, NY
Sir:
Your accusations are typical of the rag you publish.
Please cancel my subscription immediately.
Sincerely,
Jack Lewis
April 14, 1952
Science Fiction Society
114 S. Front Ave
Chicago 28, IL
Gentlemen:
I am interested in reading some of the works of the late Todd Thromberry.
I would like to get some of the publications that feature his stories.
Respectfully,
Jack Lewis
April 22, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
So would we. All I can suggest is that you contact the publishers if any are still in business, or haunt your second-hand bookstores.
If you succeed in getting any of these magazines, please let us know. We’ll pay you a handsome premium on them.
Yours,
Ray Albert President
Science Fiction Society
April 24, 1952
Mr. Sampson J. Gross,
Editor Strange Worlds Magazine
St. Louis 66, MO
Dear Mr. Gross:
I am enclosing the manuscript of a story I have just completed. As you see on the title page, I call it WRECKERS OF THE TEN MILLION GALAXIES. Because of the great amount of research that went into it, I must set the minimum price on this one at not less than two cents a word.
Hoping you will see fit to use it for publication in your magazine, I remain,
Respectfully,
Jack Lewis
May 19, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
I’m sorry, but at the present time we won’t be able to use WRECKERS OF THE TEN MILLION GALAXIES. It’s a great yarn though, and if at some future date we decide to use it we will make out the reprint check directly to the estate of Todd Thromberry.
That boy sure could write.
Cordially,
Sampson J. Gross Editor
Strange Worlds Magazine
May 23, 1952
Mr. Doyle P. Gates,
Editor Deep Space Magazine
New York 3, NY
Dear Mr. Gates:
While I said that I would never have any dealings with you or your magazine again, a situation has arisen which is most puzzling.
It seems that all my stories are being returned to me by reason of the fact that except for the byline, they are exact duplicates of the works of this Todd Thromberry person.
In your last letter you aptly described the odds of one accidental occurrence of this phenomenon in the case of one story. What would you consider the approximate odds on no less than half a dozen of my writings?
I agree with you—astronomical!
Yet in the interest of all mankind, how can I get the idea across to you that every word I have submitted was actually written by me! I have never copied any material from Todd Thromberry, nor have I ever seen any of his writings. In fact, as I told you in one of my letters, up until a short while ago I was totally unaware of his very existence.
An idea has occurred to me however. It’s a truly weird theory, and one that I probably wouldn’t even suggest to anyone but a science fiction editor. But suppose—just suppose—that this Thromberry person, what with his experiments in electronics and everything, had in some way managed to crack through this time-space barrier mentioned so often in your magazine. And suppose—egotistical as it sounds—he had singled out my work as being the type of material he had always wanted to write.
Do you begin to follow me? Or is the idea of a person from a different time cycle looking over my shoulder while I write too fantastic to accept?
Please write and tell me what you think of my theory?
Respectfully,
Jack Lewis
May 25, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
We think you should consult a psychiatrist.
Sincerely,
Doyle P. Gates
Science Fiction Editor
Deep Space Magazine
June 3, 1952
Mr. Sam Mines
Science Fiction Editor Standard Magazines Inc.
New York 12, NY
Dear Mr. Mines:
While the enclosed is not really a manuscript at all, I am submitting this series of letters, carbon copies, and correspondence, in the hope that you might give some credulity to this seemingly unbelievable happening.
The enclosed letters are all in proper order and should be self-explanatory. Perhaps if you publish them, some of your readers might have some idea how this phenomena could be explained.
I call the entire piece, WHO’S CRIBBING.
Respectfully,
Jack Lewis
June 10, 1952
Mr. Jack Lewis
90-26 219 St.
Queens Village 28, NY
Dear Mr. Lewis:
Your idea of a series of letters to put across a science-fiction idea is an intriguing one, but I’m afraid it doesn’t quite come off.
It was in the August 1940 issue of MACABRE ADVENTURES that Mr. Thromberry first used this very idea. Ironically enough, the story title also was, WHO’S CRIBBING?
Feel free to contact us again when you have something more original.
Yours,
Samual Mines
Science Fiction Editor Standard Magazines Inc.
THE envelope was addressed in a bold sprawling hand that barely left room for the seventy-five cent special delivery stamp in the upper right hand corner. It was a nice stamp—a blue one commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Harvey’s first landing on Mars. Carl Keating tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of good paper, typewritten on one side. The message read:
Dear Mr. Keating:
Must see you at once.
Norman Hamlin
He’d barely slid the letter back in its wrapper when the desk phone rang. Automatically he pushed the view-plate to a respectful fifteen inches and threw in the video. The screen swirled for a moment in a milky blur, then abruptly a man’s head and shoulders jumped into focus. He was a lean, angular-faced man, with thin shoulders and thinner lips, which at the moment were set in a Lincolnish smile.
Tm Dr. Hamlin,” the face in the screen announced. “You got my letter?”
Carl nodded. “I have your letter doctor, but I’m afraid you have the wrong man. I can’t imagine what you’d want to see ME about.”
The image on the screen expanded as Norman Hamlin leaned toward the viewplate. “You are Major Carl Keating, retired?” the mouth asked.
Carl pushed the instrument back hoping the other man would do the same. “Retired as of last Tuesday,” he said, “at the tender age of thirty-six. What’s on your mind, doctor?”
The mouth got bigger till it filled the entire screen. “Major Keating, would it be possible for you to come out to Long Island tonight?”
“It would not!”
“Please it’s . . .”
“Dr. Hamlin,” Carl said not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “in the first place I don’t even know who you are; in the second place I’m packing for a vacation in Paris; and in the third place if there’s anything I detest, it’s talking down someone’s throat. Now if you don’t mind . . .”
“Wait!” The image on the screen diminished, till over the narrow shoulders Carl could make out a book-lined study, and beyond that a sunken living room. “It’s important—very important.”
