V. R. Francis - The Flying Cuspidors.pdf - V. R. Francis - widez2

The Flying Cuspidors

Francis, V.R.

Published: 1958

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/29749

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Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe August 1958. Extens-

ive 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.

Hotlips Grogan may not be as handsome and good-looking like me or as

brainy and intellectual, but in this fiscal year of 2056 he is the gonest

trumpet-tooter this side of Alpha Centauri. You would know what I

mean right off if you ever hear him give out with "Stars Fell on Venus,"

or "Martian Love Song," or "Shine On, Harvest Luna." Believe me, it is

out of this world. He is not only hot, he is radioactive. On a clear day he

playing

notes

you

cannot

hear

without

you

are

wearing

special

equipment.

That is for a fact.

Mostly he is a good man—cool, solid, and in the warp. But one night

he is playing strictly in three or four wrong keys.

I am the ivory man for this elite bunch of musicians, and I am scoop-

ing up my three-dee music from the battered electronic eighty-eight

when he comes over looking plenty worried.

"Eddie," he says, "I got a problem."

"You got a problem, all right," I tell him. "You are not getting a job

selling Venusian fish, the way you play today."

He frowns. "It is pretty bad, I suppose."

"Bad is not the word," I say, but I spare his feelings and do not say the

word it is. "What gives?"

He looks around him, careful to see if anybody in the place is close

enough to hear. But it is only afternoon rehearsal on the gambling

ship Saturn , and the waiters are busy mopping up the floor and leaning

on their long-handled sterilizers, and the boys in the band are picking up

their music to go down to Earth to get some shut-eye or maybe an atomic

beer or two before we open that night.

Hotlips Grogan leans over and whispers in my ear. "It is the thrush,"

he says.

"The thrush?" I say, loud, before he clamps one of his big hands over

my kisser. "The thrush," I say, softer; "you mean the canary?"

waves

his

arms

bird.

"Thrush,

canary—I

mean

Stella

Starlight."

For a minute I stand with my mouth open and think of this. Then I

rubber for the ninety-seventh time at the female warbler, who is standing

talking to Frankie, the band leader. She is a thrush new to the band and

plenty cute—a blonde, with everything where it is supposed to be, and

maybe a little extra helping in a couple spots. I give her my usual

approving once-over, just in case I miss something the last ninety-six

approving once-overs I give her.

"What about her?" I say.

"It is her fault I play like I do," Hotlips Grogan tells me sadly. "Come

on. Leave us go guzzle a beer and I will tell you about it."

Just then Frankie comes over, looking nasty like as usual, and he says

to Grogan, "You are not playing too well today, Hotlips. Maybe you hurt

your lip on a beer bottle, huh?"

As usual also, his tone is pretty short on sweetness and light, and I do

not see why Grogan, who looks something like a gorilla's mother-in-law,

takes such guff from a beanpole like Frankie.

But Grogan only says, "I think something is wrong with my trumpet. I

have it fixed before tonight."

Frankie smirks. "Do that," he says, looking like a grinning weasel. "We

want you to play for dancing, not for calling in Martian moose."

Frankie walks away, and Hotlips shrugs.

"Leave us get our beer," he says simply, and we go to the ferry.

We pile into the space-ferry with the other musicians and anyone else

who is going down to dirty old terra firma, and when everybody who is

going aboard is aboard, the doors close, and the ferry drifts into space.

Hotlips and I find seats, and we look back at the gambling ship. It is a

thrill you do not get used to, no matter how many times you see it.

The sailor boys who build the Saturn —they give it the handle

of Satellite II then—would not know their baby now, Frankie does such a

good job of revamping it. Of course, it is not used as a gambling ship

then—at least not altogether, if you know what I mean. Way back in 1998

when they get it in the sky, they are more interested in it being useful

than pretty; anybody that got nasty and unsanitary ideas just forgot

them when they saw that iron casket floating in a sky that could be filled

with hydrogen bombs or old laundry without so much as a four-bar in-

tro as warning.

Frankie buys Satellite II at a war surplus sale when moon flights be-

come as easy as commuters' trips, and he smoothes out its shape so it

looks like an egg and then puts a fin around it for ships to land on. After

that, it does not take much imagination to call it the Saturn . Then he gets

his Western Hemisphere license and opens for business.

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