Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
_When last heard from, Captain Sheldon was preparing to return to Japan--on the not unreasonable claim that the Island Empire was the only place where he was able to write undisturbed. Considering this two-time Air Force officer's output, however--ranging from upper-bracket love and auto-racing tales to a brilliant new novel, TROUBLING OF A STAR, that has won major bookclub distribution, and including scores of fine science fiction stories--we wonder whether this peripatetic author may not be planning to flood all markets. Not a bad idea._
this is klon calling
_by ... Walt Sheldon_
One sure way to live dangerously is to become a practical joker. Should you have any doubts about it you might ask Professor Dane.
You didn't have to be a potential Einstein to take Professor Dane'scourse. For one thing you got a few easy credits and for another youwere entertained--without letup--by Professor Lyman Dane's celebratedwit.
Take the time he was illustrating terminal velocity. He jumped out ofthe open third story window, horrifying the class, until they learnedhe'd rigged a canvas life net on the floor below. Or the time he let amouse loose among the female students to illustrate chain reaction. Orthe afternoon he played boogie-woogie on the Huyler Memorial Carillon.
"The absorption of knowledge," he used to say, "increases in directproportion to the sense of humor--the belly laugh, measured in decibels,being constant."
He could say a thing like that and make it sound funnier than anybodyelse could. It was partly the way he looked--tall and mournful and sly,with wispy hair that had once been blond, drooping like a tired willowover his forehead.
But for all his vaudeville tactics he was by no means a second-ratescientist. Which was why he had gained his position at SouthwesternTech in the first place. He refused to work directly for the government(no sense of humor, just initials, he said) but this way he could atleast be called upon for consultation at the nearby Air ForceDevelopment Center, just at the foot of the mountains to the west.
Now the AFDC, as it was called, didn't advertise what sort of thing itwas developing--but everybody knew that Lyman Dane was an expert onreactive propulsion of rocket motors. He could tell you--and frequentlywould without being asked--exactly what mass ratio, nozzle diameter andpropulsive velocity would be needed for the first trip to the Moon. Heknew how many hours a round trip would take, both for landing there ormerely circling the body of the satellite.
He had the courses to Mars and Venus thoroughly charted--but considereda trip to Jupiter somewhat impractical. So, what with Dane's presenceand the mysterious white streaks that so often shot up into the sky likefuzzy yarn from the AFDC base, it wasn't hard to guess what was goingon.
Nevertheless Professor Dane was surprised and somewhat offended when theyoung man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came to call on himone afternoon. And the worst part of it was that the young man didn'thave much sense of humor.
"As you know, sir," the young man said, "we've been sighting andtracking these unidentified objects in the sky. You must have read aboutthose they chased near Atlanta yesterday."
"Ah," said Professor Dane. "Martian through Georgia, no doubt."
The young man stared at him blankly. He seemed to Professor Dane one ofthe most nondescript young men his eyes had ever beheld. He had aclean-shaven, pleasant face without exactly being handsome and his eyeswere sincere and mild. He wore a neat gray tropical worsted suit and anunobtrusive tie. He was about thirty. Professor Dane supposed that allthis was an advantage in his profession.
The young man went on--earnestly. "Without forming any theories aboutthese things we've been asked to take certain precautions. I don't knowwhether they suspect a hostile power, or what. That's not my job. At anyrate I've been given the responsibility of instituting certain securitytechniques. You do after all, sir, have access to and knowledge ofconsiderable classified information."
This lad reminded him somewhat of his old friend and colleague, Dr.Fincher, out in California. Wally Fincher was a well-known physicistnow, though how anyone ever managed to struggle through his dryponderous books Dane didn't know. Probably he had gained most of hisfame through his part in those experiments where they bounced radarblips off the moon, Dane thought.
Wally always talked in long unnecessary words. He never merely "went"when he could "proceed," he never simply "used" when it was possible to"utilize," he didn't "get things done"--he "implemented" them. ProfessorDane made a mental note to put in a long distance call to Wally thatevening and tweak his nose a bit. Maybe Dane could pretend he was theFBI--disguise his voice and interrogate Wally, as though he wereinvestigating him. He chuckled a little at the idea. Then he realizedthat the young man had been talking and he hadn't been listening.
"... so among other things, sir, we thought it best to monitor yourofficial mail and hope you won't mind."
"What?" said Dane, raising his eyebrows.
"_And_ your phone. You'll hear a couple of clicks whenever you use it.We're recording what's said over it--though I assure you all recordsobtained will be kept in strictest confidence."
* * * * *
Dane acquiesced. The young man finally managed to make it clear that allthis surveillance would have to be with Dane's permission and theprofessor, annoyed though he was, didn't want to appear uncooperative.He couldn't resist, however, giving the young man the wrong hat when hewent out and being delighted when the young man came back for the rightone five minutes later. He was glad to see that something could flusterhim.
But that wasn't really enough. Professor Dane had been annoyed, and heneeded to express himself further--by means of the joke, which was hisart--in order to regain some measure of his equilibrium andself-respect.
Inspiration visited him as he was climbing the stairs to his bedroom atten-thirty that evening. He stopped short, thought a minute, then beganto chuckle. He turned and went downstairs again, stepped to the phone.Professor Dane lived alone and no one else would be able to share hisplanned joke--but this didn't matter.
He had been privately enjoying his pranks ever since, as a frail boywith an unreasonable and dominating male parent, he had discovered thatthey were one way in which he could compete with hardier souls, at timeseven surpass them. Never mind the audience, he thought. The jest was thething!
It was an hour earlier in Los Angeles and Dr. Wallace Fincher was athome. Dane disguised his voice--he did a lot of University Theater workand this kind of thing came to him easily. He listened first to Dr.Fincher's arid, humorless, "Hello. Dr. Fincher speaking." Then he heardthe preliminary clicking, just as the FBI man had predicted.
"Thandor," said Professor Dane, "this is Klon calling."
"I beg your pardon?" said Doctor Fincher.
"The jig's up," said Professor Dane. "Captain Ixl in propul-cruisernine-nine-seven-three will never be able to break through. TheEarthlings have set up a close watch--they're suspicious."
"Who is this?" Doctor Fincher sounded startled. "Who the devil is thiscalling?"
Dane could barely keep his laughter from breaking into his voice."Thandor, we can come to no conclusion but that the Terrestrials aredefinitely hostile. We should have expected that from their primitivestage of development. They have orders to shoot any of ourpropul-cruisers they can catch. I suggest that we withdraw all ships ofthe Franistan class immediately from their free orbits and send them ona standard Keplerian course to the home planet for furtherconsultation."
"_Is this some kind of joke?_" Fincher sounded as if he were almostpanicky.
"Furthermore," said Dane, "I recommend that we
withdraw all agents fromEarth. We can't conceal our superior mental development and advancedtechnology much longer.
"Someone's bound to catch on pretty soon. I was against this plan in theGalactic Council in the first place, you'll remember. Well, farewell,Thandor! I'll be seeing you soon in space!"
And Professor Dane hung up before he exploded with laughter.
* * * * *
He laughed until the tears came to his eyes. He held his stomach withboth hands. He was weak. He supported himself on the stair railing andfor minutes was unable to take the first tread. With his livelyscientist's imagination he could picture the completely bewildered lookon the young FBI man's face when he listened to this conversation on thetape recorder or whatever it was they used.
He was certainly going to have to try to get that recording from them.Play it back for Fincher some time--Lordy, Fincher would have apoplexyevery time he heard it!
He finally gained enough strength to climb the stairs. He went into hisbedroom, still chuckling weakly, still wiping the tears from his eyes,stomach muscles still aching.
Dr. Wallace Fincher stood there by his bed. It _was_ Fincher--the samestocky round-faced man with the steel-rimmed glasses he had alwaysknown. It was either Fincher or the darndest hallucination he hadever ...
"I'm sorry, Lyman," said Dr. Fincher in a kindly but impersonal voice."You were getting a trifle too close. I'm afraid you have left me nochoice."
He pointed a little silvery tube at Professor Dane and there was a softbuzzing and the smell of ozone and Professor Dane was no longer in theroom--or anywhere else.
Dr. Fincher sighed, adjusted his glasses and faded into the dimensionthat would take him back to Los Angeles and his interrupted work.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.