The Flying Cuspidors Read online

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  _A trumpet-tooter in love can be a wonderful sight, if Local 802 will forgive our saying so; when extraterrestrials get involved too--oh brother! V. R. Francis, who lives in California and has previously appeared in men's magazines, became 21 and sold to FANTASTIC UNIVERSE all in the same week._

  the flying cuspidors

  _by ... V. R. Francis_

  This was love, and what could be done about it? It's been happening to guys for a long time, now.

  Hotlips Grogan may not be as handsome and good-looking like me or asbrainy and intellectual, but in this fiscal year of 2056 he is thegonest trumpet-tooter this side of Alpha Centauri. You would know what Imean 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 isout of this world. He is not only hot, he is radioactive. On a clear dayhe is playing notes you cannot hear without you are wearing specialequipment.

  That is for a fact.

  Mostly he is a good man--cool, solid, and in the warp. But one night heis playing strictly in three or four wrong keys.

  I am the ivory man for this elite bunch of musicians, and I am scoopingup my three-dee music from the battered electronic eighty-eight when hecomes 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 jobselling 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 saythe word it is. "What gives?"

  He looks around him, careful to see if anybody in the place is closeenough to hear. But it is only afternoon rehearsal on the gambling ship_Saturn_, and the waiters are busy mopping up the floor and leaning ontheir long-handled sterilizers, and the boys in the band are picking uptheir music to go down to Earth to get some shut-eye or maybe an atomicbeer or two before we open that night.

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

  "The thrush?" I say, loud, before he clamps one of his big hands over mykisser. "The thrush," I say, softer; "you mean the canary?"

  He waves his arms like a bird. "Thrush, canary--I mean StellaStarlight."

  For a minute I stand with my mouth open and think of this. Then I rubberfor the ninety-seventh time at the female warbler, who is standingtalking to Frankie, the band leader. She is a thrush new to the band andplenty cute--a blonde, with everything where it is supposed to be, andmaybe a little extra helping in a couple spots. I give her my usualapproving once-over, just in case I miss something the last ninety-sixapproving once-overs I give her.

  "What about her?" I say.

  "It is her fault I play like I do," Hotlips Grogan tells me sadly. "Comeon. 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 saysto Grogan, "You are not playing too well today, Hotlips. Maybe you hurtyour lip on a beer bottle, huh?"

  As usual also, his tone is pretty short on sweetness and light, and I donot 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. Ihave it fixed before tonight."

  Frankie smirks. "Do that," he says, looking like a grinning weasel. "Wewant 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 elsewho is going down to dirty old terra firma, and when everybody who isgoing aboard is aboard, the doors close, and the ferry drifts intospace. 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 seeit.

  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 agood job of revamping it. Of course, it is not used as a gambling shipthen--at least not altogether, if you know what I mean. Way back in 1998when they get it in the sky, they are more interested in it being usefulthan pretty; anybody that got nasty and unsanitary ideas just forgotthem when they saw that iron casket floating in a sky that could befilled with hydrogen bombs or old laundry without so much as a four-barintro as warning.

  Frankie buys _Satellite II_ at a war surplus sale when moon flightsbecome as easy as commuters' trips, and he smoothes out its shape so itlooks 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.

  My daydreaming stops, for suddenly Hotlips is grabbing my arm andpointing out the window.

  "What for are you grabbing my arm and waving your fist at the window,Hotlips?" I inquire politely of him.

  "Eddie," he whispers, all nervous and excited from something, "I seeone."

  I give him a blank stare. "You see one what?"

  "One flying cuspidor," he says, his face serious. "I see it hanging outthere by the _Saturn_ and then suddenly it is gone. Whoosh."

  "Hallucination," I tell him. But I look out hard and try to see one too.I don't, so I figure maybe I am right, after all.

  I do not know about this "men from space" gimmick the science-fictionpeople try to peddle, but lots of good substantial citizens see flyingcuspidors and I think to myself that maybe there is something to it. SoI keep looking back at the _Saturn_, but nothing unusual is going onthat I can see. My logic and super-salesmanship evidently convincesHotlips, for he does not say anything more about it.

  Anyway, in a few minutes we joggle to a stop at Earthport, pile out,wave our identification papers at the doorman with the lieutenant'sbars, and then take off for the _Atomic Cafe_ a block away.

  Entering this gem of a drinking establishment, we make our way throughthe smoke and noise to a quiet little corner table and give Mamie thehigh-sign for two beers. A few minutes later she comes bouncing overwith the order and a cheery word about how invigorating it is to see ushigh-class gentlemen instead of the bums that usually hang around ajoint like this trying to make time with a nice girl like her.

  "That is all very nice," I say to her politely, "and we are overjoyedbeyond words to see you too, Mamie, but Hotlips and I have got strangeand mysterious things to discuss, so I would appreciate it if you wouldsee us later instead of now." With this, I give her arm a playful pat,and she blushes and takes the hint.

  When we are alone, I ask Hotlips, now what is the trouble which he has.

  "Like I tell you before," Hotlips says, "I have a problem. So here itis." He takes a deep breath and lets fly all at once. "I am in love ofthe thrush, Stella Starlight."

  I am drinking my beer when he says this, and suddenly I get a snootfuland start coughing, and he whams me on the back with his big paw so Istop, more in self-defense than in his curing me. Somehow, the idea of abig bruiser like Hotlips Grogan in love of a sweet fluffy thing likeStella Starlight seems funny.

  "So?" I say.

  "So that is why I play so bad tonight," he says. Seeing I do not quitecatch on to the full intent of his remarks, he continues. "I am a happyman, Eddie. I got my trumpet, a paid-for suit of clothes, a one-roomapartment with green wallpaper. Could a man ask for much more?"

  "Not unless he is greedy," I agree.

  Hotlips Grogan is staring at his beer as though he sees a worm in it andlooking sadder than ever. "It is a strange and funny thing," he says,dre
amy-like. "There she is singing, and there I am giving with thetrumpet, and all of a great big sudden--whammo!--it hits me, and I feela funny feeling in my stomach, like maybe it is full of supersuds orsomething, and my mouth is dry just like cotton candy."

  "Indigestion," I suggest.

  He shakes his big head. "No," he says, "it is worse than indigestion."He points to his stomach and sighs. "It is love."

  "Fine," I say, happy it is not worse. "All you got to do is tell her,get married and have lots and lots of kids."

  Hotlips Grogan's big eyebrows play hopscotch around his button nose, soI can tell he does not think I solve all his troubles with mysuggestion.

  "You are a good man, Eddie," he tells me,