A Large Anthology of Science Fiction: Volume 2 by Anthology

Author:Anthology [Anthology]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-04-11T04:00:00+00:00

And so ends part 2 of Li’l Harlan and His Sidekick Carl the Comet in Danger Land.

PART THREE

Doom Slaves

Carl gives me a look that clearly says, “Are you out of what little sand remains in that arid desert you call a brain?” It is the sort of look I’d get from Carl were I to have suggested he turn over the host chores on “Cosmos” to, say, Pauly Shore (though that embolism in the artistic arteries of this nation had not then probably even been born—had we but known—), and he looks down at his wristwatch and he says, “If we hurry, we can still make the lecture.”

I look at my own watch, and I see that he is correct. For all of our Sinbadlike peregrinations, we aren’t yet that close to show time, onaccounta we have ditched the group we were supposed to’ve gone to dinner with, and they’re probably only ordering dessert by this time. Because, amazingly, the whole imbroglio has only taken perhaps an hour and a half—though it seemed to have encompassed several eons.

“You are absolutely right,” I say to Carl, with a smile. And then I proceed to turn into the mouth of the alley and yell at the five, six kids shooting craps, “Yo! You up fer some fresh blood in this game?”

(Pause. This was many years ago. What I likely said was not anything as square as what I’ve just written. I cannot, at this time, at least several decades later, recall what incarnation of street patois or burgeoning ebonics I employed, but suffice to say I spoke what was current. What I said to them be something like, word up, homes, y’wanna cut me up some touch now? Whenever it is that you read this thrilling recountation of events, kindly fill in the slanguage current right now. I am a full-service author. I live to serve.)

And behind me I hear a sharp intake of breath as Carl sees me sashay into that dark passage, Death-Box Alley. Music by Bernard Hermann. Photography by James Wong Howe.

The children of chance have absolutely no problem with my getting into the game. White, black, mauve, paisley—they don’t give a shit, ’long as I’ve got the jack to lose. And so, with one eye on the boys, and the corner of the other watching over Carl—who has slipped into the alley following me, and is standing with back against the wall behind me as I hunker to get position among the five or six—I start to gallop them dominos.

And things are going only great, I’m up about a buck sixty, with Carl every so once in a while muttering that we oughtta be moseyin’ on down the waddy, when all of a sudden (make that allofasudden) boiling out of the far end of the alley, out of the utter darkness beyond that soft pool of dim bulblight—

A rival gang, maybe seven or eight—who the hell can remember how many, even five minutes after it happens—all you remember

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