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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32213-h.zip b/32213-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..42dc66c --- /dev/null +++ b/32213-h.zip diff --git a/32213-h/32213-h.htm b/32213-h/32213-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a2007d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/32213-h/32213-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1009 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hoiman and the Solar Circuit, by Gordon Dewey + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold; font-size:smaller;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Hoiman and the Solar Circuit, by Gordon Dewey + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hoiman and the Solar Circuit + +Author: Gordon Dewey + +Release Date: May 2, 2010 [EBook #32213] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOIMAN AND THE SOLAR CIRCUIT *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="588" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<h1>Hoiman and the Solar Circuit</h1> + +<p> </p> +<h2>By Gordon Dewey</h2> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"> +<i>They lifted Hoiman's scratch, thus causing him to lose much +smoosh. So he grabbed his bum and hit the high orbit.</i></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_p.jpg" alt="P" width="21" height="40" /></div> +<p>ay day! I scrawled my Larry Maloney across the back of the check and +handed it to Nick, the bartender. "Leave me something to operate on," +I told him.</p> + +<p>Nick turned it over. "Still with the <i>News</i>?"</p> + +<p>The question was rhetorical. I let it pass without swinging at it. I +was mentally estimating the total of the pile of tabs Nick pulled out +of the cash register, like a fighter on percentage trying to count the +house. I didn't like the figure it gave me.</p> + +<p>Nick added them up, then added them again before he pulled some bills +out of the money drawer and said, "Here's thirty skins. Your rent +due?"</p> + +<p>"This'll cover it. I'll do my drinking here."</p> + +<p>I went over to a booth and sat down. I lit a cigarette. I smoked. And +waited. Presently Sherry, tall, dark and delicious, decided I was +making like a customer, and strolled over. "Would you like a menu, Mr. +Maloney?" she trilled.</p> + +<p>"Larry to you," I reminded her. "No menu. Bring me a steak. Big. +Thick. Rare. And a plate of french fries. No salad. Bread and butter. +Coffee."</p> + +<p>She managed at last to pull her writing hand out of mine, and I had to +repeat the order. Unless it could be turned into money, Sherry's +memory was limited strictly to the present instant.</p> + +<p>She put in the order, then brought me a set-up. I let my eyes go over +her, real careful, for maybe the thousandth time. No doubt of it—the +lassie had a classy chassis. If she just wouldn't yak so damn much.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="400" height="579" alt="It looked as though Hoiman's Bum would be remembered +on Mars." title="" /> +<span class="caption">It looked as though Hoiman's Bum would be remembered +on Mars.</span> +</div> + +<p>"Did you see the matches last night?" She didn't wait for my answer, +just went on with the yat-a-ta. "I spent the whole evening just glued +to my television set. I was simply enthralled. When the Horrible +Hungarian got the Flying Hackensack on—"</p> + +<p>"Standing Hackenschmidt, Sherry!"</p> + +<p>"—poor little Billie McElroy I wanted to—to scratch his eyes out."</p> + +<p>I pointed out that McElroy weighed in at two forty-one and had gone on +to win the match. Sherry never heard me.</p> + +<p>"And the way the Weeping Greek kept hitting the other fellow—the +announcer said he was throwing Judo cutlets."</p> + +<p>"<i>Cuts</i>, not cutlets."</p> + +<p>"But aren't Judo cutlets illegitimate?" The barest hint of a puzzled +frown tugged at her flawless brows as she poured ice water into my +glass.</p> + +<p>"The word," I repeated, "is <i>cuts</i>. And the blow is not illegal." I +gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And <i>what</i> a mind. +"Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is +legal in wrestling."</p> + +<p>Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he +slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in +bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to +a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his +pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment +longer than necessary before replacing it—regretfully—on the table.</p> + +<p>He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="20" height="40" /></div> +<p>e was thin, haggard, unkempt, and his brown suit—in which the chalk +stripes were beginning to blend with the background—was threadbare. +He needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely +familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty +dissolved.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not—"</p> + +<p>He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected +tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better." +He sighed.</p> + +<p>Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting +for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly.</p> + +<p>Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from his lax +mouth. Then he slumped down again, spread his hands, shrugged, and +said, "Now I esk you!"</p> + +<p>Sherry said, "I guess not." Then, "Shall I bring you something?" Her +eyes were on me as she asked. She hadn't worked on Vine Street for six +years without learning the ropes—about people at least.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>Katz was waiting for the nod. He licked his lips. "I'll have a—"</p> + +<p>"Planet Punch?"</p> + +<p>"No. I'll have a—"</p> + +<p>"Solar Sling? Martian Mule?"</p> + +<p>Hoiman's eyes squinted shut, and he winced eloquently. "Martian!" he +groaned. "With rassling, too! Bring me a bottle of beer. Two bottles!" +After a moment he peered cautiously through slitted lids. "Is she +gone?" he whispered. "Such woids. Rassling. Martian. Better I should +have stood in Hollywood."</p> + +<p>I laughed. "What's the matter with wrestling, Hoiman? Last I heard you +were managing a good boy—what was his name?"</p> + +<p>"Killer Coogan? That bum!"</p> + +<p>I had to do some thinking back. "Yeah," I said, "that's the boy. +Started wrestling back in the fifties. Good crowd pleaser. Took the +Junior Heavyweight Championship from Brickbuster Bates. Had a trick +hold he called the pretzel bend—hard to apply, but good for a +submission every time when he clamped it on. Right?"</p> + +<p>"Okay, so he won some bouts with it. But that was twenty-five years +ago. He's slower, can't use that holt any more. We ain't had no main +events for a long time, and my bum is a big eater, see?"</p> + +<p>"So?"</p> + +<p>"So Hoiman Katz is not sleeping yet at the switch. He's got it up +here." A grimy forefinger tapped his wrinkled brow. "I says, Hoiman, +if we don't get it here, we gotta go where we <i>can</i> get it."</p> + +<p>Sherry came back with Hoiman's two bottles of beer, and my steak and +french fries. The steak was a dream, and the french fries were a +crisp, rich golden brown that started my mouth watering.</p> + +<p>Sherry wanted to talk. I waved her down, and she went away pouting. If +there was a story in Hoiman I wanted to get it without interference.</p> + +<p>He was pouring a second glass of beer. His beady eyes swivelled up to +mine, then quickly away. "You want I should tell you about my bum?"</p> + +<p>I mumbled something through a mouthful of good juicy steak.</p> + +<p>Hoiman sighed, reminiscently, and a grimy paw swooped into my french +fries. I moved them to the other side of my steak platter.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_w.jpg" alt="W" width="34" height="40" /></div> + +<p>e woiked all up and down the Coast, (Hoiman said). My bum took all +comers. Slasher Slade had his abominal stretch. Crusher Kane had his +rolling rocking horse split; Manslaughter Murphy had his cobra +holt—but none of those guys had anything like my Bum's pretzel bend. +He trun 'em all, and they stayed trun.</p> + +<p>That was fine. All through the fifties, and the sixties we made plenty +scratch. Maybe it slowed down, but we was eating regular. In the +seventies my bum was slowing up. I shoulda seen it when he started +missing his holt. That leaves him wide open, see? And twict the other +bum moiders him.</p> + +<p>That was recent—they was just putting in regular passenger service on +the space lines, so you could buy tickets to the Moon, or Venus or +Mars. Depended on whether you was ducking a bill or some broad.</p> + +<p>By this time my bum is getting pinned to the mat too regular, and +we're slipping out of the big dough. I counts up our lettuce one day, +and I says to my bum, I says, Ray, I says, you and me are going to the +Moon.</p> + +<p>So what if they didn't have a rassling circuit there yet, I tell him. +Just leave it to your uncle Hoiman. We'll make our own circuit.</p> + +<p>I figured that the ribbon clerks wouldn't be taking space rides for +awhile, and if we went to the Moon we'd find some bums there who could +give my bum a good bout, but not fast enough to toss him.</p> + +<p>So we went there.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>Hoiman's eyes, looking into the past, had lost their beadiness. He'd +shifted his third glass of beer to his right hand, and his left, +seemingly of its own volition, had found my plate of french fries. The +pile had dwindled by half, and tell-tale potato crumbs were lodged in +the whiskers on Hoiman's unshaven chin. Neither beer nor potatoes in +his mouth seemed to matter—he went right on talking at the same rate.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>It takes me two weeks, (Hoiman continued), to ballyhoo up a bout, line +up another bum, fix up the ring and hall and everything. We was down +to our last lettuce that night. I gets my bum by the ear, and I tells +him, I says, make it a good show. But don't take no chances—this is +winner take all, and we better not lose. Don't use your pretzel bend +unlessen you have to.</p> + +<p>This bum we rassle was a big miner, see?—hard as the rocks he juggles +around in the daytime. He was stronger'n my bum, but he don't know +nothing about rassling. My bum tried a step-over toehold on him, but +he knows how to kick. My bum goes through the ropes. He don't try that +no more.</p> + +<p>They rassle around, and eight minutes later my bum takes first fall +with a body press after flattening the miner with a hard knee lift. I +told my bum to let him take the second fall, which he does. The big +miner gets a head scissors on him and like to moiders him before he +can submit.</p> + +<p>Ray isn't liking it, and he takes the third one quick with a abominal +stretch, which surprises the big guy and takes all the fight outa him. +He didn't know they was holts like that, and he passes the word around +that my bum has plenty moxie. So we get only one more bout on the +Moon—but outa the two we get enough scratch to take us to Venus.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>Hoiman paused, trying hard to pour more beer out of the empty second +bottle. He licked his lips like they were real dry, and his beady eyes +flicked a glance at me that came and went as fast as the tip of a +swinging rapier. I signalled Sherry to bring two more bottles of beer. +Hoiman relaxed, sighed, gazing almost affectionately at the new crop +of french fries which had appeared suddenly in his clutching fist.</p> + +<p>Sherry, still pouting, came with the beer, and ten seconds later +Hoiman was talking again.</p> + +<p>We did okay on Venus, (he said). Before long I have a regular little +circuit woiked up in the three spaceports, and they is plenty bums +there what think they can rassle. Some of them can—my bum has to use +his pretzel bend oftener and oftener. He's lucky, and he don't slip +none clamping it on—at first.</p> + +<p>I have ta tell you about them Venusians. Them dustlanders, I mean. +They got big flat wide feet for padding through the dust, and their +noses are like a big spongy thing all over their puss, to filter the +dust out. So they got no expression on their pans. A guy like me, +which has got a real expressive face, could get the willies just +looking at them. And their eyes—round and flat, big as silver +dollars.</p> + +<p>Them dustlanders was nuts about rassling. They flock to the rassling +shows and buy good seats. They don't do no hollering and waving like +people do. Just sit there, staring out of them big flat eyes and +making funny <i>chuffing</i> noises at each other when some bum would get a +good hold on the other.</p> + +<p>My bum didn't pay them no never mind at foist, but one day he tells me +he keeps feeling them eyes on him while he's rasslin'. I give him the +old razz—but that night he tries for his pretzel bend, and misses. +The other bum is young and fast, and my bum gets trun, but good!</p> + +<p>So this happens a few more times, and my bum says we gotta move on—he +can't rassle no more with them dustlanders staring at him and +<i>chuffing</i> about him.</p> + +<p>Some of them ear benders on Venus are studying up on the side, anyhow, +and the outlook for my bum ain't so good no more nohow. So we go to +Mars.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>I signalled Sherry for my coffee, as Hoiman ground to a stop while he +refilled his glass. I swear my eyes weren't away from the table for +more than a half second, but in that moment all the french fries left +my plate. I yielded to Fate—it wasn't meant to be that I eat french +fries this pay day.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>Things are primitive like on Mars, (Hoiman was saying), on accounta +the troubles they have with power there. We rassled under some funny +set-ups, but that's okay with me as long as my bum tosses his man.</p> + +<p>This time they ain't none of them screwy Venusians to put the whammy +on him, and he's doing okay. Until—I gotta admit it—I get deluges of +grandeur, or something.</p> + +<p>I gotta tell ya about them Martians. They are about seven feet tall, +not too heavy, but they got plenty moxie. And an extra pair of arms, +so I get to thinking they oughta be terrific in the ring. Just so they +ain't <i>too</i> terrific.</p> + +<p>I ask my bum, I says to him, I says, could he, does he think, trun one +of them Martians? He says iffen he has to he'll use his pretzel bend, +and they ain't no Martian on six legs, or eight, what won't say uncle.</p> + +<p>So I check with the Colony Administrator, and he says it's okay for a +match perviding we don't interfere with any of their beliefs or +customs or conventions. I ast him what were they, and he told me the +Martians never talked about them, so we'd just have to be careful.</p> + +<p>What the hell, I says to my bum. A bout's a bout. So I start +promoting. First I find out do them Martians have a bum what wants to +rassle my bum, winner take all—which is the way we like to rassle, +when I know my bum can trun the other bum. Natch.</p> + +<p>I don't mean we talk to the Martians—I don't savvy them squeaks they +use on each other. We hire an interpreter—we have to take his word +for it that everything is woiking out.</p> + +<p>So the night of the match comes around and them Martians insist on +having it in their own town, Meekweek it sounds like, near as I can +say it in people talk. Remember I told you it was primitive? You never +seen nothing like this. They don't live with people by the way. They +live off by theirselves in their own town.</p> + +<p>The ring and mat and ropes are okay—not regulation, but nothing to +squawk about. Them lights was what get me. The Martians got no power, +so they make a deal with some insecks. Cross my heart—'sa fack. You +never see such insecks. Round, big as a dinner plate, flat on top, +rounded off on the bottom. They stay up in the air by spinning like a +wheel—just like them flying saucers the Rigellians was spying on us +in the fifties. You wouldn't remember about that.</p> + +<p>At night the bottom part of them insecks lights up like a big electric +bulb, almost as bright, too. They was enough of them <i>zinging</i> around +over the ring to make it look like it was floodlighted. My bum says +they remind him of them dish-eyed Venusians, but I quick change the +subjeck. That shoulda tipped me off—shoulda give me a freemonition +that the party was gonna get rough. If I'da known how rough, we'da +stood in town.</p> + +<p>The Martian bum is a big mug, and those four arms of his look mighty +plural. I quick tells my bum, I says to him, I says, watch out for arm +locks and leg strangles. If that overgrowed spider ever gets one on +you he'll double keylock it!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="22" height="40" /></div> +<p>he two bums go in the ring, and get their instructions. Mostly the +ref makes motions. The Martian nods his head like he understands fine. +When the ref is telling them about trunnin' each other outen the ring, +the Martian makes a motion like can he trun his man up in the rafters?</p> + +<p>The ref shakes his head no, and that seems to satisfy the Martian. The +timekeeper blows a whistle, and things start to moving. That Martian +Mangler puts down his two middle limbs, uses them like legs, and is +across the ring and swarming all over my bum while he is still taking +his foist step.</p> + +<p>Before you know it the ref is counting one, two, three, and my bum is +trun for the foist fall. The Martian is using his middle limbs like +arms, and he has a hammerlock and an arm strangle both on my bum—and +both of them keylocked!</p> + +<p>The ref gets them untangled, and I quick tell my bum we ain't hurt +until we get trun twict. So I tell him how to get that next fall—to +keep away from them four arms and keep circling until he gets a chance +to clamp on the pretzel bend.</p> + +<p>The whistle blows, and this time my bum uses my head. When the Martian +Mangler gallops over to his corner, my bum has went through the ropes +and quick runs around on the apron to the other side and comes at the +Martian from behind before the goof knows what's happening.</p> + +<p>He lets the Martian have a rabbit punch, then a forearm smash, then a +knee to his stomach. The Martian leans over, kinda sick, maybe, and +gets a knee lift to the smoosh. This softens him up good, and my bum +clamps the pretzel bend on him. That Martian squirms like an octopus, +with arms and legs flying in all directions. And you coulda knocked me +over with a subpoena when he got out of it!</p> + +<p>Your guess is as good as mine, how he done it. But my bum is moving +fast, and he gives him some more knee lifts and a drop kick or two, +and then a hair mare, and he falls on him for a body press and gets +the count.</p> + +<p>Each bum has got a fall. You shoulda heard them Martians there +squeaking this time—ten times as loud as when their bum won the foist +fall. But they had no squawks. These flying chandeliers they had, they +kinda bunched up to follow the action, and the light was good so the +ref couldn't make no mistake about it.</p> + +<p>That Martian squirming out of the pretzel bend don't look so good, so +I tell my bum not to use it for the thoid fall. I tell him to give the +Martian some more of them knee lifts—he don't get along with them at +all. I tell him to folly that up with a airplane spin and a body slam.</p> + +<p>My bum follys instructions to the alphabet, and that is just what +happens. He bangs that Martian around with elbow smashes and knee +lifts till he don't know is he on one leg or six. Then he goes in fast +and grabs him by a coupla legs and arms, holds him up in the air, and +spins him like a pinwheel.</p> + +<p>Right away I knowed something was in the air besides that Martian +Mangler. Oi! Did things happen all to onct!</p> + +<p>My bum slams the Martian and falls on him for the count, and wins the +thoid fall and the match. That part is okay. But while the Martian is +still up in the air I notice that all the squeaking from the Martians +has stopped all of a sudden.</p> + +<p>So from the Martians we are getting nothing but silence, strictly +wholesale. I think maybe that's natural when their bum gets trun.</p> + +<p>And then—plop! plop! plop!—and them flying light bulbs all drop down +flat on the mat and lay there just like the Martian bum, until they +isn't enough light in the house to see to strike a match. And then the +squeaking starts again, like a million hungry rats, and I can just +barely see them Martians starting for the ring.</p> + +<p>I gets my bum by the arm and tells him something tells me we better +blow the joint. We blow, fast. Them Martians is mad about something +which I ain't had time to figure out, yet. My bum steps on one of them +animated light fixtures when he gets out of the ring and squashes it. +A puddle of light squirts out, and natch he steps in it. We are +scramming through that crowd like mad, and we are in the clear. But we +hear them squeaks behind us for a long time. They are follyin' the +glowing footprints my bum is leaving to point the way.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p>He emptied the last bottle of beer, holding it upended for a long time +waiting for the final laggard drop to detach itself. He stalled over +his drink, waiting for me to ask him what happened, so I did. He put +on his most wounded expression, and I knew then that he'd suffered a +mortal blow—to his purse.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>Yeah, we got away, I made my bum trun away his flashy shoes so they +couldn't track us by them. We walked all the way back to Neopolis, the +people city. All kinds of plain and fancy rumors beat us there, so the +Colony Cops put us in protective custody until they got the straight +story.</p> + +<p>Nobody ever saw another Martian. It seems that they got some trick +notions about theirselves. They are proud because they can walk on the +ground and don't have to fly, so they got a hearty contemp for things +that fly, like them insecks which they used for house lights.</p> + +<p>Now, them insecks is dopes too and would give anything if they could +walk like the Martians. And the Martians know the insecks can think a +little, and it makes them feel good to have the insecks looking up to +them. Lord knows nobody else does.</p> + +<p>So when my bum lifted their bum up in the air and spun him around like +a pinwheel it was a big insult to them. They took it that my bum was +as much as telling them that he didn't think they was any better than +them insecks flying around over the ring. And the insecks took it as a +invite to come down and try the Martians racket so that's why they all +flop into the ring and the lights go out. They was trying to walk.</p> + +<p>That's more than the Martians can take. They swarm into the ring and +kill all the insecks. They'da killed us too, but I got smart brains +and we didn't hang around asking for it.</p> + +<p>And now they won't have nothing to do with no people from Earth on +account of they have lost so much smoosh, the way they look at it.</p> + +<p>We got no take from that bout. And the Colony Administrator lifts all +our scratch—said we'd gummed up Martian trade and he'da trun us in +the clink too only he didn't want to see no more of us. He wouldn'ta +even give us fare back to Earth except he said he didn't want us +anywhere on Mars.</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p>"So that," the little promoter concluded sadly, "is why I don't like +Mars and rasslin' and Martian Mules and people who talk about such +things." His beady eyes flicked a baleful glance at Sherry, who +hovered nearby on the chance that he'd stop talking and give her an +inning.</p> + +<p>Hoiman stood up, carefully shook the bottles to be sure that they were +empty, extracted a cigarette from the pack he'd stuck into his pocket, +and used my lighter again. He hefted it carefully, reluctantly putting +it back on the table. Then his little black eyes swivelled to the last +piece of potato on my plate—the piece he'd spared in previous raids.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with them fries?" he asked.</p> + +<p>It disappeared into his mouth and he went away, munching, a dingy +little man padding along on silent, predatory feet.</p> + +<p>He'd scarcely slipped out through the door when Sherry moved in.</p> + +<p>"Is he really a wrestler, Larry?" she asked breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"Him?" Even Sherry, vintage Vine Streeter that she was, should have +got the pitch. "The only thing," I told her solemnly, "that Hoiman +ever got a hammerlock on was a dollar bill!"</p> + +<p>But Sherry wasn't listening, "Don't you just <i>love</i> wrestling?"</p> + +<p>I let my eyes have a treat, taking their time as they went over that +classy chassis. Then I said it. Fervently.</p> + +<p>"Any time, Sherry! Any time."</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Hoiman and the Solar Circuit, by Gordon Dewey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOIMAN AND THE SOLAR CIRCUIT *** + +***** This file should be named 32213-h.htm or 32213-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/2/1/32213/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hoiman and the Solar Circuit + +Author: Gordon Dewey + +Release Date: May 2, 2010 [EBook #32213] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOIMAN AND THE SOLAR CIRCUIT *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1952. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + + Hoiman and the Solar Circuit + + + By Gordon Dewey + + + _They lifted Hoiman's scratch, thus causing him to lose much + smoosh. So he grabbed his bum and hit the high orbit._ + + * * * * * + + + + +Pay day! I scrawled my Larry Maloney across the back of the check and +handed it to Nick, the bartender. "Leave me something to operate on," +I told him. + +Nick turned it over. "Still with the _News_?" + +The question was rhetorical. I let it pass without swinging at it. I +was mentally estimating the total of the pile of tabs Nick pulled out +of the cash register, like a fighter on percentage trying to count the +house. I didn't like the figure it gave me. + +Nick added them up, then added them again before he pulled some bills +out of the money drawer and said, "Here's thirty skins. Your rent +due?" + +"This'll cover it. I'll do my drinking here." + +I went over to a booth and sat down. I lit a cigarette. I smoked. And +waited. Presently Sherry, tall, dark and delicious, decided I was +making like a customer, and strolled over. "Would you like a menu, Mr. +Maloney?" she trilled. + +"Larry to you," I reminded her. "No menu. Bring me a steak. Big. +Thick. Rare. And a plate of french fries. No salad. Bread and butter. +Coffee." + +She managed at last to pull her writing hand out of mine, and I had to +repeat the order. Unless it could be turned into money, Sherry's +memory was limited strictly to the present instant. + +She put in the order, then brought me a set-up. I let my eyes go over +her, real careful, for maybe the thousandth time. No doubt of it--the +lassie had a classy chassis. If she just wouldn't yak so damn much. + +[Illustration: _It looked as though Hoiman's Bum would be remembered +on Mars._] + +"Did you see the matches last night?" She didn't wait for my answer, +just went on with the yat-a-ta. "I spent the whole evening just glued +to my television set. I was simply enthralled. When the Horrible +Hungarian got the Flying Hackensack on--" + +"Standing Hackenschmidt, Sherry!" + +"--poor little Billie McElroy I wanted to--to scratch his eyes out." + +I pointed out that McElroy weighed in at two forty-one and had gone on +to win the match. Sherry never heard me. + +"And the way the Weeping Greek kept hitting the other fellow--the +announcer said he was throwing Judo cutlets." + +"_Cuts_, not cutlets." + +"But aren't Judo cutlets illegitimate?" The barest hint of a puzzled +frown tugged at her flawless brows as she poured ice water into my +glass. + +"The word," I repeated, "is _cuts_. And the blow is not illegal." I +gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And _what_ a mind. +"Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is +legal in wrestling." + +Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he +slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in +bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to +a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his +pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment +longer than necessary before replacing it--regretfully--on the table. + +He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it." + + * * * * * + +He was thin, haggard, unkempt, and his brown suit--in which the chalk +stripes were beginning to blend with the background--was threadbare. +He needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely +familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty +dissolved. + +"Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not--" + +He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected +tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better." +He sighed. + +Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting +for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly. + +Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from his lax +mouth. Then he slumped down again, spread his hands, shrugged, and +said, "Now I esk you!" + +Sherry said, "I guess not." Then, "Shall I bring you something?" Her +eyes were on me as she asked. She hadn't worked on Vine Street for six +years without learning the ropes--about people at least. + +I nodded. + +Katz was waiting for the nod. He licked his lips. "I'll have a--" + +"Planet Punch?" + +"No. I'll have a--" + +"Solar Sling? Martian Mule?" + +Hoiman's eyes squinted shut, and he winced eloquently. "Martian!" he +groaned. "With rassling, too! Bring me a bottle of beer. Two bottles!" +After a moment he peered cautiously through slitted lids. "Is she +gone?" he whispered. "Such woids. Rassling. Martian. Better I should +have stood in Hollywood." + +I laughed. "What's the matter with wrestling, Hoiman? Last I heard you +were managing a good boy--what was his name?" + +"Killer Coogan? That bum!" + +I had to do some thinking back. "Yeah," I said, "that's the boy. +Started wrestling back in the fifties. Good crowd pleaser. Took the +Junior Heavyweight Championship from Brickbuster Bates. Had a trick +hold he called the pretzel bend--hard to apply, but good for a +submission every time when he clamped it on. Right?" + +"Okay, so he won some bouts with it. But that was twenty-five years +ago. He's slower, can't use that holt any more. We ain't had no main +events for a long time, and my bum is a big eater, see?" + +"So?" + +"So Hoiman Katz is not sleeping yet at the switch. He's got it up +here." A grimy forefinger tapped his wrinkled brow. "I says, Hoiman, +if we don't get it here, we gotta go where we _can_ get it." + +Sherry came back with Hoiman's two bottles of beer, and my steak and +french fries. The steak was a dream, and the french fries were a +crisp, rich golden brown that started my mouth watering. + +Sherry wanted to talk. I waved her down, and she went away pouting. If +there was a story in Hoiman I wanted to get it without interference. + +He was pouring a second glass of beer. His beady eyes swivelled up to +mine, then quickly away. "You want I should tell you about my bum?" + +I mumbled something through a mouthful of good juicy steak. + +Hoiman sighed, reminiscently, and a grimy paw swooped into my french +fries. I moved them to the other side of my steak platter. + +We woiked all up and down the Coast, (Hoiman said). My bum took all +comers. Slasher Slade had his abominal stretch. Crusher Kane had his +rolling rocking horse split; Manslaughter Murphy had his cobra +holt--but none of those guys had anything like my Bum's pretzel bend. +He trun 'em all, and they stayed trun. + +That was fine. All through the fifties, and the sixties we made plenty +scratch. Maybe it slowed down, but we was eating regular. In the +seventies my bum was slowing up. I shoulda seen it when he started +missing his holt. That leaves him wide open, see? And twict the other +bum moiders him. + +That was recent--they was just putting in regular passenger service on +the space lines, so you could buy tickets to the Moon, or Venus or +Mars. Depended on whether you was ducking a bill or some broad. + +By this time my bum is getting pinned to the mat too regular, and +we're slipping out of the big dough. I counts up our lettuce one day, +and I says to my bum, I says, Ray, I says, you and me are going to the +Moon. + +So what if they didn't have a rassling circuit there yet, I tell him. +Just leave it to your uncle Hoiman. We'll make our own circuit. + +I figured that the ribbon clerks wouldn't be taking space rides for +awhile, and if we went to the Moon we'd find some bums there who could +give my bum a good bout, but not fast enough to toss him. + +So we went there. + + +Hoiman's eyes, looking into the past, had lost their beadiness. He'd +shifted his third glass of beer to his right hand, and his left, +seemingly of its own volition, had found my plate of french fries. The +pile had dwindled by half, and tell-tale potato crumbs were lodged in +the whiskers on Hoiman's unshaven chin. Neither beer nor potatoes in +his mouth seemed to matter--he went right on talking at the same rate. + + +It takes me two weeks, (Hoiman continued), to ballyhoo up a bout, line +up another bum, fix up the ring and hall and everything. We was down +to our last lettuce that night. I gets my bum by the ear, and I tells +him, I says, make it a good show. But don't take no chances--this is +winner take all, and we better not lose. Don't use your pretzel bend +unlessen you have to. + +This bum we rassle was a big miner, see?--hard as the rocks he juggles +around in the daytime. He was stronger'n my bum, but he don't know +nothing about rassling. My bum tried a step-over toehold on him, but +he knows how to kick. My bum goes through the ropes. He don't try that +no more. + +They rassle around, and eight minutes later my bum takes first fall +with a body press after flattening the miner with a hard knee lift. I +told my bum to let him take the second fall, which he does. The big +miner gets a head scissors on him and like to moiders him before he +can submit. + +Ray isn't liking it, and he takes the third one quick with a abominal +stretch, which surprises the big guy and takes all the fight outa him. +He didn't know they was holts like that, and he passes the word around +that my bum has plenty moxie. So we get only one more bout on the +Moon--but outa the two we get enough scratch to take us to Venus. + + +Hoiman paused, trying hard to pour more beer out of the empty second +bottle. He licked his lips like they were real dry, and his beady eyes +flicked a glance at me that came and went as fast as the tip of a +swinging rapier. I signalled Sherry to bring two more bottles of beer. +Hoiman relaxed, sighed, gazing almost affectionately at the new crop +of french fries which had appeared suddenly in his clutching fist. + +Sherry, still pouting, came with the beer, and ten seconds later +Hoiman was talking again. + +We did okay on Venus, (he said). Before long I have a regular little +circuit woiked up in the three spaceports, and they is plenty bums +there what think they can rassle. Some of them can--my bum has to use +his pretzel bend oftener and oftener. He's lucky, and he don't slip +none clamping it on--at first. + +I have ta tell you about them Venusians. Them dustlanders, I mean. +They got big flat wide feet for padding through the dust, and their +noses are like a big spongy thing all over their puss, to filter the +dust out. So they got no expression on their pans. A guy like me, +which has got a real expressive face, could get the willies just +looking at them. And their eyes--round and flat, big as silver +dollars. + +Them dustlanders was nuts about rassling. They flock to the rassling +shows and buy good seats. They don't do no hollering and waving like +people do. Just sit there, staring out of them big flat eyes and +making funny _chuffing_ noises at each other when some bum would get a +good hold on the other. + +My bum didn't pay them no never mind at foist, but one day he tells me +he keeps feeling them eyes on him while he's rasslin'. I give him the +old razz--but that night he tries for his pretzel bend, and misses. +The other bum is young and fast, and my bum gets trun, but good! + +So this happens a few more times, and my bum says we gotta move on--he +can't rassle no more with them dustlanders staring at him and +_chuffing_ about him. + +Some of them ear benders on Venus are studying up on the side, anyhow, +and the outlook for my bum ain't so good no more nohow. So we go to +Mars. + + +I signalled Sherry for my coffee, as Hoiman ground to a stop while he +refilled his glass. I swear my eyes weren't away from the table for +more than a half second, but in that moment all the french fries left +my plate. I yielded to Fate--it wasn't meant to be that I eat french +fries this pay day. + + +Things are primitive like on Mars, (Hoiman was saying), on accounta +the troubles they have with power there. We rassled under some funny +set-ups, but that's okay with me as long as my bum tosses his man. + +This time they ain't none of them screwy Venusians to put the whammy +on him, and he's doing okay. Until--I gotta admit it--I get deluges of +grandeur, or something. + +I gotta tell ya about them Martians. They are about seven feet tall, +not too heavy, but they got plenty moxie. And an extra pair of arms, +so I get to thinking they oughta be terrific in the ring. Just so they +ain't _too_ terrific. + +I ask my bum, I says to him, I says, could he, does he think, trun one +of them Martians? He says iffen he has to he'll use his pretzel bend, +and they ain't no Martian on six legs, or eight, what won't say uncle. + +So I check with the Colony Administrator, and he says it's okay for a +match perviding we don't interfere with any of their beliefs or +customs or conventions. I ast him what were they, and he told me the +Martians never talked about them, so we'd just have to be careful. + +What the hell, I says to my bum. A bout's a bout. So I start +promoting. First I find out do them Martians have a bum what wants to +rassle my bum, winner take all--which is the way we like to rassle, +when I know my bum can trun the other bum. Natch. + +I don't mean we talk to the Martians--I don't savvy them squeaks they +use on each other. We hire an interpreter--we have to take his word +for it that everything is woiking out. + +So the night of the match comes around and them Martians insist on +having it in their own town, Meekweek it sounds like, near as I can +say it in people talk. Remember I told you it was primitive? You never +seen nothing like this. They don't live with people by the way. They +live off by theirselves in their own town. + +The ring and mat and ropes are okay--not regulation, but nothing to +squawk about. Them lights was what get me. The Martians got no power, +so they make a deal with some insecks. Cross my heart--'sa fack. You +never see such insecks. Round, big as a dinner plate, flat on top, +rounded off on the bottom. They stay up in the air by spinning like a +wheel--just like them flying saucers the Rigellians was spying on us +in the fifties. You wouldn't remember about that. + +At night the bottom part of them insecks lights up like a big electric +bulb, almost as bright, too. They was enough of them _zinging_ around +over the ring to make it look like it was floodlighted. My bum says +they remind him of them dish-eyed Venusians, but I quick change the +subjeck. That shoulda tipped me off--shoulda give me a freemonition +that the party was gonna get rough. If I'da known how rough, we'da +stood in town. + +The Martian bum is a big mug, and those four arms of his look mighty +plural. I quick tells my bum, I says to him, I says, watch out for arm +locks and leg strangles. If that overgrowed spider ever gets one on +you he'll double keylock it! + + * * * * * + +The two bums go in the ring, and get their instructions. Mostly the +ref makes motions. The Martian nods his head like he understands fine. +When the ref is telling them about trunnin' each other outen the ring, +the Martian makes a motion like can he trun his man up in the rafters? + +The ref shakes his head no, and that seems to satisfy the Martian. The +timekeeper blows a whistle, and things start to moving. That Martian +Mangler puts down his two middle limbs, uses them like legs, and is +across the ring and swarming all over my bum while he is still taking +his foist step. + +Before you know it the ref is counting one, two, three, and my bum is +trun for the foist fall. The Martian is using his middle limbs like +arms, and he has a hammerlock and an arm strangle both on my bum--and +both of them keylocked! + +The ref gets them untangled, and I quick tell my bum we ain't hurt +until we get trun twict. So I tell him how to get that next fall--to +keep away from them four arms and keep circling until he gets a chance +to clamp on the pretzel bend. + +The whistle blows, and this time my bum uses my head. When the Martian +Mangler gallops over to his corner, my bum has went through the ropes +and quick runs around on the apron to the other side and comes at the +Martian from behind before the goof knows what's happening. + +He lets the Martian have a rabbit punch, then a forearm smash, then a +knee to his stomach. The Martian leans over, kinda sick, maybe, and +gets a knee lift to the smoosh. This softens him up good, and my bum +clamps the pretzel bend on him. That Martian squirms like an octopus, +with arms and legs flying in all directions. And you coulda knocked me +over with a subpoena when he got out of it! + +Your guess is as good as mine, how he done it. But my bum is moving +fast, and he gives him some more knee lifts and a drop kick or two, +and then a hair mare, and he falls on him for a body press and gets +the count. + +Each bum has got a fall. You shoulda heard them Martians there +squeaking this time--ten times as loud as when their bum won the foist +fall. But they had no squawks. These flying chandeliers they had, they +kinda bunched up to follow the action, and the light was good so the +ref couldn't make no mistake about it. + +That Martian squirming out of the pretzel bend don't look so good, so +I tell my bum not to use it for the thoid fall. I tell him to give the +Martian some more of them knee lifts--he don't get along with them at +all. I tell him to folly that up with a airplane spin and a body slam. + +My bum follys instructions to the alphabet, and that is just what +happens. He bangs that Martian around with elbow smashes and knee +lifts till he don't know is he on one leg or six. Then he goes in fast +and grabs him by a coupla legs and arms, holds him up in the air, and +spins him like a pinwheel. + +Right away I knowed something was in the air besides that Martian +Mangler. Oi! Did things happen all to onct! + +My bum slams the Martian and falls on him for the count, and wins the +thoid fall and the match. That part is okay. But while the Martian is +still up in the air I notice that all the squeaking from the Martians +has stopped all of a sudden. + +So from the Martians we are getting nothing but silence, strictly +wholesale. I think maybe that's natural when their bum gets trun. + +And then--plop! plop! plop!--and them flying light bulbs all drop down +flat on the mat and lay there just like the Martian bum, until they +isn't enough light in the house to see to strike a match. And then the +squeaking starts again, like a million hungry rats, and I can just +barely see them Martians starting for the ring. + +I gets my bum by the arm and tells him something tells me we better +blow the joint. We blow, fast. Them Martians is mad about something +which I ain't had time to figure out, yet. My bum steps on one of them +animated light fixtures when he gets out of the ring and squashes it. +A puddle of light squirts out, and natch he steps in it. We are +scramming through that crowd like mad, and we are in the clear. But we +hear them squeaks behind us for a long time. They are follyin' the +glowing footprints my bum is leaving to point the way. + + +He emptied the last bottle of beer, holding it upended for a long time +waiting for the final laggard drop to detach itself. He stalled over +his drink, waiting for me to ask him what happened, so I did. He put +on his most wounded expression, and I knew then that he'd suffered a +mortal blow--to his purse. + + +Yeah, we got away, I made my bum trun away his flashy shoes so they +couldn't track us by them. We walked all the way back to Neopolis, the +people city. All kinds of plain and fancy rumors beat us there, so the +Colony Cops put us in protective custody until they got the straight +story. + +Nobody ever saw another Martian. It seems that they got some trick +notions about theirselves. They are proud because they can walk on the +ground and don't have to fly, so they got a hearty contemp for things +that fly, like them insecks which they used for house lights. + +Now, them insecks is dopes too and would give anything if they could +walk like the Martians. And the Martians know the insecks can think a +little, and it makes them feel good to have the insecks looking up to +them. Lord knows nobody else does. + +So when my bum lifted their bum up in the air and spun him around like +a pinwheel it was a big insult to them. They took it that my bum was +as much as telling them that he didn't think they was any better than +them insecks flying around over the ring. And the insecks took it as a +invite to come down and try the Martians racket so that's why they all +flop into the ring and the lights go out. They was trying to walk. + +That's more than the Martians can take. They swarm into the ring and +kill all the insecks. They'da killed us too, but I got smart brains +and we didn't hang around asking for it. + +And now they won't have nothing to do with no people from Earth on +account of they have lost so much smoosh, the way they look at it. + +We got no take from that bout. And the Colony Administrator lifts all +our scratch--said we'd gummed up Martian trade and he'da trun us in +the clink too only he didn't want to see no more of us. He wouldn'ta +even give us fare back to Earth except he said he didn't want us +anywhere on Mars. + + +"So that," the little promoter concluded sadly, "is why I don't like +Mars and rasslin' and Martian Mules and people who talk about such +things." His beady eyes flicked a baleful glance at Sherry, who +hovered nearby on the chance that he'd stop talking and give her an +inning. + +Hoiman stood up, carefully shook the bottles to be sure that they were +empty, extracted a cigarette from the pack he'd stuck into his pocket, +and used my lighter again. He hefted it carefully, reluctantly putting +it back on the table. Then his little black eyes swivelled to the last +piece of potato on my plate--the piece he'd spared in previous raids. + +"What's the matter with them fries?" he asked. + +It disappeared into his mouth and he went away, munching, a dingy +little man padding along on silent, predatory feet. + +He'd scarcely slipped out through the door when Sherry moved in. + +"Is he really a wrestler, Larry?" she asked breathlessly. + +"Him?" Even Sherry, vintage Vine Streeter that she was, should have +got the pitch. "The only thing," I told her solemnly, "that Hoiman +ever got a hammerlock on was a dollar bill!" + +But Sherry wasn't listening, "Don't you just _love_ wrestling?" + +I let my eyes have a treat, taking their time as they went over that +classy chassis. Then I said it. Fervently. + +"Any time, Sherry! Any time." + +THE END + + * * * * * + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Hoiman and the Solar Circuit, by Gordon Dewey + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOIMAN AND THE SOLAR CIRCUIT *** + +***** This file should be named 32213.txt or 32213.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/2/1/32213/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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