The Holes and John Smith

  Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.

  _He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was_--whoops!...

  The HOLES and JOHN SMITH

  By Edward W. Ludwig

  Illustration by Kelly Freas

  It all began on a Saturday night at _The Space Room_. If you've seenany recent Martian travel folders, you know the place: "A picturesqueoasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal inthe heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field,landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge willthrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side withcolorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at _The Space Room_ is anamazing, unforgettable experience."

  Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnant water--and that the mostunforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporatefrom your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.

  We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me--Jimmie Stanley--and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen ourmotto back on Earth: "The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."

  But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.

  Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all thegrace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.

  "Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell downhe'd be half way home.

  I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be here any minute."

  Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.

  "Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.

  I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face haddisplayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. Hiscomments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, toosoft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, theinfrequency with which his cash register tinkled.

  "But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, _we're_ still here.We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers,would you?"

  Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek."

  Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bassman will be here."

  "Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think Ihear him coming now."

  Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. Hisnaked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expandingballoon.

  "Five meenutes!" he shrieked. "Eef no feedle, den you go!" And hewhirled away.

  We waited.

  Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over hischair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.

  "Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune.Course, you don't live more than five years there--"

  "Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.

  "Using what for fare?" I asked. "Your brains?"

  Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits ofNeptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's toobad. We're so young, too."

  The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare inour direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard ofmy electronic piano.

  Then it happened.

  * * * * *

  From the entrance of _The Space Room_ came a thumping and a gratingand a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a coldwind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee froma pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, toowide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than abass.

  The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it,streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have beencompressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of afield of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked thesides of his face.

  His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. Histightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a parkbench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywherebetween twenty and forty.

  The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.

  "Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." Hespoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."

  A moment's silence.

  "Your plan?" I echoed at last.

  "How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known italready.

  Hummm, I thought.

  My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, andthey were as cold as six Indians going South.

  "We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering. "Now,we'd better start playing. John, do you know _On An Asteroid WithYou_?"

  "I know _everything_," said John Smith.

  I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancient depths.

  And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one namedJohn Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.

  Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, andthen--

  My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic micefeet.

  The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held adepth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were likeno others I'd ever heard.

  First they went _Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom_, and then,_boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom_, just like the tones of allbass fiddles.

  But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could _feel_ the tingling just as one can feel thevibration of a plucked guitar string.

  I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, theyseemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark headsin time with the rhythm.

  I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features wasmiraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by ablack-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid s
eeing Santa Claus.

  We finished _On An Asteroid With You_, modulated into _Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn_ and finished with _Tighten Your Lips on Titan_.

  We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling ofthe Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.

  "If I didn't hear it," I gasped, "I wouldn't believe it!"

  "And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober,seemed quite drunk.

  "Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a _Zloomph_. This is the only one in existence." He pattedthe thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the