The Science-Fantasy Megapack: 25 Classic Tales from Fantasy Adventures

THE GUNMAN, by Philip E. High

Needless to say, the formula in any state was illegal.

It had been discovered and stolen by a research chemist working for one of the big combines in the West.

He was well aware that the formula, given to his employers, would bring him little or no reward. Handled illegally and to the right people, however would bring rich rewards.

The formula, in liquid state, could be contained in a capsule no bigger than the normal pill.

Dropped into a glass of water, the capsule would dissolve in eight seconds.

It was colorless, odorless and tasteless.

Best of all, it was not a poison.

Any unfortunate deaths that might occur could never be traced to its use.

The actual results were obscure yet devastating.

No, not insanity, just change. The recipients remained, outwardly, as before and quite rational and exhibited no symptom that a psychiatrist could pin down.

For example, a well-known business magnate sold his business outright and joined a religious organization.

It is, perhaps, fortuitous, that this got several financially involved directors off the hook.

Adam Wenstone was chief director and absolute owner of a large business complex in the East.

His father had escaped the normal Inheritance Tax by passing the business on to his son at the age of seventy.

It was a sound business, and making a steady profit but there were those among the directors who thought it could do better. The number of opportunities which had cropped up and had somehow been missed!

So great had been the opportunities that two of the Directors had seen fit to take secret gambles of their own — with the firm’s money.

Good God, who could have foreseen that Maxtrose investments would go down the pan overnight leaving nothing?

If only a greater part of the business was left to the other directors. With time and a little ducking and weaving they might have kept the inevitable at bay for long enough to recoup the loss but not with Wenstone in control. He checked and re-checked regularly and took painstaking computer surveys.

Desperate, Argyle and Martin, the two directors, snatched at the only straw which had become available to them.

“Are you absolutely sure this bloody stuff will work?” Martin wiped his sweaty palms with a handkerchief.

“For the tenth time man, not absolutely sure. Nothing is absolutely sure, you must know that.”

“Suppose it fails?”

“It has succeeded on twelve occasions so I see no reason for it to fail now. On the other hand, since you keep pushing it, I have taken alternative measures.”

Martin dabbed at his palms again. “What other alternative—?” He stopped, his face pale. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Can you think of anything better? After all, we only have to resort to it if this formula fails.”

Adam Wenstone was thirty-three, slim and fit. Outwardly gentle and easy-going; he had an astute mind and was interested in many things but riotous living was not one of them.

Yet he awoke on that particular morning with the smell and the distinct taste of liquor in his mouth.

He tried to open his eyes and they refused to open.

He was conscious again of the smells and tried to identify them. Horses, yes, no mistake about that; there was one near somewhere.

He came back to the liquor again. How? He was teetotal. Yet somehow in an odd way, his body felt as if it was used to it and liked it.

His senses returned to the smell, a disgusting mixture of horse, sweat and unwashed body.

It was his body and it stank.

His arm shifted but he hadn’t shifted it.

He thought: “God, I feel like hell this morning.”

They were his thoughts but he hadn’t thought them

He was suddenly very much afraid but he kept a grip on himself because it was clear that there was nothing he could do about it.

He was trapped somewhere and, at the moment there was nothing he could do to escape.

He tried to speak but could make no sound.

He tried to direct a thought message: “Can you hear me?” but there was no response.

His head itched. He could feel fingers scratch the itch and feel the fingers scratching but not by him.

He could feel every inch of his body, every twitch and breath but he had no control over it.

He thought: “That Mex is real fast, I’ll have trouble there.”

They were not his thoughts, they had not come from him, yet he understood what the thoughts implied. The dark skinned man from over the border had come in for a fight, a challenge.

Adam Wenstone was an intelligent man and already had an outline of his situation. Somehow — be it illusion or something else — he was occupying, and sharing, the body and mind of another man.

The other man was the host occupant while he, Adam, was the passenger.

The host was in absolute control. When he wanted to move, he moved

He, Adam, could feel and experience what was happening but that was all.

He knew every thought of the host knew everything the host knew but again, could do nothing about it.

On the other hand, the host had no idea that he had taken another intelligence on board, who was sharing his life with him.

The host opened his eyes and Adam saw that he was in a crude wooden shed. Two tethered horses shifted and stamped at the far end and he the host, was lying on a sort of crude shelf on the opposite side.

Adam knew, because his host knew, that this was Jake’s place.

The wide door swung open with a creaking sound and a man came in.

“I got you something to eat, bacon, beans and that. I’ll try and get you some coffee later when Mom’s place gets open.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You always do, Limpy, but I’m worried about this Mex, he’s Godawful fast. Buxton is offering four to one against you.”

Adam, at the time, was only half listening. His host was fully awake and conscious and awake, his mind was open.

There was no need to see outside the shed, the whole picture was there, now part of Adam’s knowledge and memories.

Mentally Adam’s mind almost revolted. What was this, besides everything else — time travel?

This was a sleepy, one-horse town, settled in the curve of a wide rive yet close to the railroad.

It had a wide dirt street lined by wooden shacks with only a few rising to two stories.

Adam had seen a large number of such streets in Westerns but there the picture had stopped. The film could not convey the smell of horses, wood smoke and most certainly not the flies. Dear God, the flies! On some days they swirled so thickly they blurred the vision. They covered the face, explored the corners of the eyes and probed the mouth and nostrils.

It caused his host no great irritation, It was part of life, like the fleas, the lice and, at night, of course, the skeeters. One slapped a few and squashed them flat but, always, a fair number got through and sucked their fill of blood.

Adam realized suddenly that he was being biased. If this was, somehow, time travel, then the great cities of the world were very little different.

The majority of the inhabitants were also lousy. Most of the bedrooms were filled with cockroaches and excreted the sour and sickly smell of bed bugs. Many of the streets held open sewers and rats ran openly across the road.

Beyond this town, however, was the open country with the soft river smells, grasses, wild flowers and the scent of pine.

Adam’s host climbed to his feet and took a few uncertain steps. Limpy had broken his leg at the age of thirteen and had limped ever since. ‘Doc’ Munsen had fixed it as best he knew how but it was not one of his specialities. The broken bone had knit O.K. but somehow the leg had got shorter. Again the foot would not go flat to the ground properly.

Munsen, however, was still known as Doc because he had a half-breed woman who made concoctions out of herbs and suchlike. The stuff was very good for saddle sores, rope burns and things like that. Quite often — although his host had no knowledge of them — they stopped dangerous infections dead in their tracks.

His host ate then limped out into the street. Cotter, the local storeowner, had kindly taken his horse when he had been too drunk to find it, let alone mount the damn thing.

A short way up the street, a tall man in a striped apron shouted a greeting, and added: “Goin’ to take that Mex tonight Limpy.”

“I reckon.”

Adam was a little taken aback by his host’s answer. It implied a subtlety which he had not suspected in the man. It was not a boast yet suggested confidence. It was, on the face of it, a wholly neutral observation that could be taken either way.

Adam had thought, at first, that his host was little more than an oaf with a horse and a gun, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Limpy had principles. He believed that women and children should be protected at any cost. His given word was an oath he would never break and he was unshakably loyal to his friends.

Then, of course, there were horses. After a minute or so, Adam became convinced that this man knew more about horses than the greatest race trainers and breeders of his own age.

He not only knew about horses, he felt, loved and understood then. He was often employed to break one in. Sometimes he got thrown a few times but he always won through by love and persistence, never by violence.

“If Limpy breaks one in, it’s broke, you can take my word for it.”

Somehow all this failed to fit in with the portrait of a gunslinger but Adam could see the complete picture.

Limpy had not gone out looking for a fight. He carried six-guns from habit and necessity as most of them did but he had never fired them in anger.

Limpy had killed ten men and the first had been a traveling gambler with a green eyeshade and a greasy pack of marked cards

The gambler moved from township to township, staying only a night but cleaning up before moving on.

Limpy was only eighteen then and it was his first killing.

It was in the saloon and one of the painted girls from the house down the road was powdering her facer near the stable.

Perhaps she caught a reflection in her mirror or just saw something from the corner of her eyes but she said; “his bastard is switching cards!”

The gambler reacted, this was not the first time he had been caught out and had been forced to shoot his way out of a situation.

The set-up looked easy enough, not many in the saloon as yet. A group with their backs to him playing cards by themselves in the corner. Four elderly men at the bar and three girls, including the one near him, was al he had to contend with.

There was, of course, the fresh faced kid on the opposite side of the table. He’d already taken him for three dollars anyway.

The gambler swung back his jacket and reached for his guns. He’d kill the girl first, experience had taught him that killing a woman, no matter what she was, always caused diversion and delay.

The gambler had only just got his guns clear of their holsters when he got his.

Limpy, holding cards in his left hand, had been scratching his upper thigh when the gambler reached.

The single shot punched the gambler and his chair over backwards and tumbled them to the floor.

Limpy looked down at the dead man and tried not to be sick. There was a hole in the man’s chest, blood trickled from his open mouth and his eyes were still open. Somehow the eyeshade had come down his face and lay across his nose creating a grotesque effect.

Limpy felt no triumph, only a sort of gut-shock, he was shivering and shaking. It seemed to him that even his bad leg had begun to hurt a little.

“He was going to kill me,” said the girl. “I sort of sensed it inside me like.”

She turned to Limpy. “I owe you, boy, really owe you. You can come and see me any time, any time. Won’t cost you nothing.”

Again, Adam was amazed. His host might have been forgiven for a feeling of triumph, but he felt only regret. It was kill or be killed, himself and the girl but he didn’t like killing and never learned to like it.

Four weeks later a man burst into the saloon one Sunday evening but this was no gun duel, this was revenge.

“Where’s the murdering bastard what killed my brother?” He carried a heavy shotgun, pointed. “I’m looking for a guy what limps. You lot at the bar there, stand clear of him or you’ll get it too.”

Only one reaction was possible. Limpy dropped flat and fired from the floor.

The man with shotgun dropped it before he could pull the trigger. He staggered, his face registering mild surprise, then he coughed blood and fell sideways.

Number three was a youth from a nearby township who fancied himself as a gun slinger. With a little more practice he’d go bounty killing.

He provoked and provoked. “What’s the matter, you yeller livered bastard — draw!”

He made the mistake of reaching for his guns himself but was too slow to clear his holsters.

The memories and experiences of his host’s life were now completely Adams’, as if he had lived two lives. He was, however, still fumbling for an explanation. This life he was living now was real although he could take no active part in it. Was he telepathically or hypnotically attuned to the man?

If so, why the past? He could make no sense of it.

He had ceased to be afraid aside from a few vague apprehensions. He had almost convinced himself that he was the victim of some curious circumstance that would right itself in time. In all probability he was the victim of some accident which had mentally induced the whole business.

He was almost happy in it and grateful that he had acquired such a vast range of additional knowledge almost without effort.

He could survive in the wilderness out there, if forced, without weapons. He could make fire, strike out for a certain destination without a compass, and read terrain by a mere glance.

Each day he was learning more both about his host and the customs of the day. Tonight, for example, he would observe—

It was then, on that one word, that the implications hit him.

On another level of existence, in another age, Martin was trying to stop himself reaching for the whisky bottle for the third time. The trouble with this was that it relied too much on speculation.

It was fine for Argyle to be cock-a-hoop and say it was bound to be a success. Right, it had worked with twelve cases but, like the wonder drugs that had appeared in the last decade, cures might be limited to the few.

Argyle came in as he was reaching for a drink, as usual bouncing with confidence.

“Got a lot of news for you, old son, managed to make some important contacts. First of all, I’ve managed to get details in respect of the stuff. In the first place, the recipient goes to bed and sleeps in an outwardly normal way. He oversleeps slightly in the morning but begins to symptoms as soon as he comes down.”

“What kind of symptoms?” Martin was filling his glass,

“Well, first he seems withdrawn, absent-mined, does not what is said to him. He shows no interest in his own but exhibits activity in other matters. This symptom lasts around four d. change is announced, or becomes apparent on the fifth day.”

“The fifth day.” Martin glanced at the office calendar. “That Day.”

“Eh — what?” Argyle looked blank.

“Oh don’t be so bloody obtuse man, our Carnival for the couples only. The old man started the tradition forty years ago, Wenstone just carried it on. They hold it every year.”

Argyle’s face brightened. “Of course, I had forgotten. The day the bonuses and merit awards are presented. Everyone arrives in fano there’s a grand party, a dance, all that sort of thing.”

He paused and grinned. “Fits in perfectly. I have no doubt the boss will use the occasion to announce his retirement.”

“I wish I felt as damn confident as you.” Martin drained his glass.

“Aren’t you listening to me, man? I was trying to tell you, he’s shown all the symptoms. Like the others, he’s ringing around all over the pi obviously making plans. He’s acting out of character and, for reasons unknown, he limps occasionally. Another thing, he keeps fingering the of his right ear and then inspecting his fingertips. I tell you, man, he’s his way out.”

“Where the hell are you getting all this information?”

“I’ve come to an arrangement with one of his household servants.”

“More money!”

“Well, of course, I’ve got to pay the bloody man, Martin, but, in the long run, it will get us out from under. We only need one hit and you know the opportunities which are passed up here.”

“You’ve still got this hit-man laid on?”

“Naturally, I’d be a fool if I didn’t prepare for every contingency however remote.”

Adam Wenstone had a sick feeling of horror inside him. Why had he not failed to see, realized sooner? He was not going to stand aside and watch a gun fight. He was going to be a participant, he and his host, were going to be the target when the shooting started. A man called Mex — reputedly

Godawful fast — going to make him his target.

His host was not happy either. He had a weary resignation concerning the future. If he came out of this alive, he was away. He’d join a wagon train to far away or just ride out— He’d go so far that no one had ever heard of Limpy and come in to challenge him with a gun. It was not from choice, he had been born here. His folks had died here when some sickness had swept the town some nine years ago.

Adam knew that his host meant it, once the man made a decision, he stuck to it although it hurt to leave his home.

Sundown, opposite the saloon, the setting sun throwing long black shadows across the road but giving advantage to neither man.

Adam admitted to himself that he was terrified. There was nothing he could do. He was like a fish in a bowl, swirling round and round in a desperate effort to escape and there was no escape. He accused himself also. He had been quite happy to lean back and observe before the implications hit him.

The bullets, if they came first and accurately, would hit their body, a body belonging to himself and his host.

There were no obvious spectators on the street, they were there but too experienced to show themselves. Men could miss, or agonizingly hit, let fly in a fury Then there was the death shot — Adam would call it a reflex. Old Ma Spinney had died like that years ago, a shot from a dying man as he fell.

The Mex, when he came to meet them, was tall and sallow ^te was a man who liked killing and took some pride in his appearance so that people would always recognize him and give him respect.

Adam never knew who shouted “Draw!” but he felt his host go for it with bewildering speed.

The Mex was faster.

Faster but less accurate.

It felt as if a red-hot poker had been slapped against Limpy’s head but his own guns had already jerked in his hands.

The Mex jerked as if he had been heavily punched.

He took three uncertain steps, then he crumpled into an untidy heap. There were two large holes, almost side by side, in the center of his chest.

The conspirators had not taken the four-day wait easily. Martin needed constant resort to the bottle to keep his nerves under control.

Argyle, on the other hand, was outwardly more assured than ever. “I repeat, man, there is no mistaking the pointers, they fit in like the others all along the line.”

Martin nodded almost from habit. Why couldn’t he dismiss the uneasy feeling that Argyle was talking just to convince himself and that he, too, was harboring inner doubts.

He handed Martin a spare pair of binoculars. “Get a good view from up here on the balcony, see the parade as it crosses the sports fields reaches the main hall. Hello, there’s the boss’s car — ah, it looks as if he’s dumped that Pilgrim Father costume he usually wears. Good God! Look at that! Didn’t I say, didn’t I tell you!”

There was some confusion at the main gate also and the security man was becoming aggressive. “You can’t bring that in here.”

“Why not? I’ve an authority here signed by Mr. Wenstone himself.”

“Not for a damn great truck. What’s in it, anyway?”

“Well printed on the side is the word HORSES — you can read I assume?”

The security man went through his list and colored slightly. “I’m sorry, friend, I really am, but a horse — for the boss — good God!”

“So strange?”

“Hell, yes. If you handed Mr. Wenstone a horse, he’d look for a starter button. I’ve worked for him for years and my old man before me.”

“Perhaps he just wants to lead it.”

“Ah. You’re probably right, he might just manage that to head the parade to the conference area.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

Up on the balcony Argyle said: “There, there, I told you! Complete change, can you imagine the old Wenstone going through a charade like that? There’s even a bloody horse carrier thing there, but the Boss doesn’t know one end of a horse from the other.”

There was trouble in the horsebox, too. Bulmer the chief groom — mainly an executive position — was having personal troubles.

“What’s the trouble with that damn mare, Selby?”

“Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, I did mention it at the time. We should have brought, Mabel, nothing troubles her.”

“Are you questioning my judgment, Selby? Who the hell do you think you are? If she won’t move, give her a touch of the whip to help her along.”

“Some trouble here?” A man walked up the ramp and into the transit.

“Get out of here, you.” Bulmer loved throwing his weight around and lost his temper easily.

“I’ve enough trouble on my hands without some idiot prancing in here dressed up as a stage cowboy You’d like me to call security, perhaps?””

The other nodded expressionlessly. “Yes — yes, I’d rather like that. I pay his wages.”

Bulmer opened his mouth to retort but no sound carne. He was not too insensitive to realize that this man had authority

Wenstone turned to Selby. “I gather from some of the conversation that the mare is nervous.”

“Yes, sir, Jesse doesn’t like bands, sir, the drums and that.”

“Poor old lady. Here, give her to me.”

He took the bridle and began to talk to her. They could not hear what he said and the soft words he used were beyond them anyway His hands stroked her head and neck, pulled gently at her ears. “Come on, girl, come on.”

They saw him lead the animal down the ramp and onto the ground.

They saw him put his foot into the stirrup and swing himself easily into the saddle.

Up on the balcony Argyle had a fixed leer of utter disbelief. “He can’t ride.” It no longer comforted him that Wenstone had changed.

Despite the change the man appeared, even at this distance, to have gained additional control.

Webster, a junior executive, joined them on the balcony He carried one of the new, digital binoculars. “What do you mean, the Boss can’t ride? I do a bit of riding myself and look at the way he sits the saddle. He’s good, let me tell you; been riding since a kid, no doubt.”

He leaned forward, pointing. “The Old West is one of my personal hobbies and that fancy dress of his is spot on, take it from me. The guns too are exactly placed for a quick draw. Obviously someone who knows his business has advised him on detail.”

Argyle said nothing he had a sick feeling inside that somehow the whole business had gone sour.

Martin, for his part, was near to tears and the bottle now failed to assure him.

Turning away from the parade below, he almost collided with yet another who had joined the group. “Get out of my damned way!”

“Sorry, I can’t do that. I want you and Mr. Argyle together. Mr. Wenstone wants you in his office in half an hour.”

Wenstone had not bothered to change back to civilian clothes but sat on the edge of his desk, smiling inwardly with relief. God that had been close. He raised his hand, fingered his ear then studied his fingers briefly. No, he was not bleeding but he kept feeling he might be. That blasted dago had taken off the top of his ear and burned a short furrow in his scalp as well. It was an experience he had somehow brought back which was more vivid than memory.

Someone pressed the announcer plate on the outside of the door, and Wenstone said: “Come in.”

Martin came first, red faced and looking close to tears. Argyle, also deflated but with a shaky smile of defiance. “I don’t know what this is all about,” he said. “This man here/’ he jerked his head at the third member of the party who entered behind them, “maybe, as he says, he’s a police official but—”

“Save it.” Wenstone cut him short. “We knew all about it from the beginning. Obviously we do not advertise the fact but all our financial computers are fitted with micro-surveillance units as well as our main offices. If necessary we can trace a single ancient coin round the world. We were well aware, therefore, of your incursion into high finance with our money which, needless to say, was never confirmed. Similarly we know of the odd million you paid to a professional assassin to dispose of me in case your first trick went wrong.”

Wenstone withdrew one of his six-guns from its holster, inspected it and replaced it. “I would like to have disposed of you both cleanly, in fair fight with one of these but unfortunately present law does not permit it. However, I have not brought here to gloat but to tell you, before you do ‘life’ exactly what your formula mystery drug did.”

He paused and smiled at the third member of the party. “Oh, do sit down First Class Officer Bradley — liquor — coffee — tea—? Just press the button in the arm of your chair. However to return to the drug which, since analysis, is known as Genetic Stimulant. In short the drug awakens a racial memory so vividly that the recipient seems to revert back many generations to some outstanding event in his past. Very often it is not a good incident, perhaps a mass execution, the wholesale slaughter of the innocent and like incidents. I cannot report on all but I have the outlines of two and these two, being honorable men felt that they must redeem themselves in this life for the evils they had committed in the past. Therefore it was concluded, incorrectly, that everyone given the drug would change their life-style completely.”

Wenstone paused and smiled faintly. “I was lucky, my grandfather, many times removed, was a gunman named Limpy. Not from choice, it was forced upon him and, anyway, he got out from under long before his life was over.”

He paused and looked long and hard at the two accused men in turn.

“I’m well aware, needless to say, that you paid a top flight hit-man over a million of the firm’s money to have me removed should the drug fail. But for this there might have been mitigating circumstances; I might have spoken on your behalf. Unwittingly you did me a favor, you, gave another life, other knowledge and other senses which I had never known about before.”

He shook his head, sighed and looked at Bradley, the police officer.

“Can you get rid of these two?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve a couple of men waiting in the corridor, outside.”

When they had gone, Wenstone said: “Have any trouble with the hit-man?”

“Oh, no, sir. We picked him up in the Long Corridor where he intended to wait for you.”

“Oh, yes, that reminds me.…” Wenstone crossed his office to his secretary’s desk in the corner. “The photos from our surveillance cameras.” He handed the other a large envelope.

“Thank you, Mr. Wenstone — er — excuse me asking sir, but have you had an accident recently?”

“No — why?”

“You were walking with a distinct limp, sir.”

Wenstone said easily: “Oh, my foot went to sleep when I was leaning on the desk.”

Inwardly he cursed himself. He really must force himself to place his foot flat on the floor in a normal way.

He said: “Please tell me more about this hit-man.”

“Well he offered no resistance, sir. With seven guns pointed at him, he had little choice. Needless to say, he was in fancy dress like everyone else. The odd part being he was dressed as a cowboy, just like you, although his was a darker costume than yours. He had some nasty weapons dotted around inside it, too.”

“Tell me, was he tall, thin and kind of sneery?”

“Yes, sir, now that you come to mention it, he was. Do you think you might have met him at some time, sir?”

“Not really, just a mental picture in my mind.”

“He was not a Nordic type, sir, more dark skinned if you understand me but by God, he was thorough. A large part of that fancy dress costume was not fancy. The six-guns in the holster were real and fully loaded.”

“Well, it is strange that.” Wenstone drew his own guns and spun them deftly round his index fingers. “So are mine.”