Galactic Heritage
By FRANK BELKNAP LONG
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories October 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He called himself Jim Rush.
No uglier giant had ever come striding in out of the rain to make aname for himself under the big top. He had the thickest eyebrows I'veever laid eyes on—and the boniest face.
When you've been in the Carny game as long as I have you don't letnew faces get on your nerves. But Rush was out of this world! When Ilooked at him I seemed to be in a dark room, sweating and stumblingover things. Then the room would vanish, and he'd be sitting on theplatform at my side, his face a big piece of jagged glass glinting inthe sunlight.
It was just my nerves, of course. Just a midget's overheatedimagination. I'm sure he wouldn't have looked that way to Dali. Itdidn't last anyway. In his street clothes, and most of the time on theplatform, all he did was scare the living daylights out of me.
But hold on tight now—we're going around a curve! I had him figuredout all wrong. He was the kindest big guy in the world. He was kind tome, and that meant he'd have been kind to anyone—a stray kitten, abroken-down short-change artist in an iron lung.
The first time Rush spoke to me the bally talker was adding a foot tohis height and wrapping a tape-measure around his biceps.
"Step in closer, folks! The kiddies want to see him too! That'sit—that's fine! Do you know where this big man was born?"
"The Constellation Cassiopeia," Rush said. "Or the Great Nebula inOrion!" If he was really smart, he'd keep them guessing!
Coming from Rush, whom I'd taken for an uneducated man, that remarkgave me a jolt. Me, I've read a lot and know as much about the stars asthe average cultured bartender.
I opened my eyes wide. "He's not kidding anybody!" I said.
Rush chuckled. "No, I suppose not."
He looked at me. "Tell me something, Ralph. How do you spend your sparetime? I've often wondered."
My full name is "Tiny" Ralph Moffatt. But I like to be called by mymiddle name. I stand three feet two in my stockings, and you don't knowwhat loneliness is if you've never had to climb on a chair to lookinto the eyes of a friend. Chances are, you'll have made the trip fornothing, for a midget doesn't have many friends.
That's why I answered so quickly. "Read a little," I said. "Go to themovies in the village. Stand on a crate and shoot pool with Pop Carden."
"How would you like to chew the fat with me some evening?" Rushasked. "I do a little—well, call it tinkering, in my spare time. I'minterested in electronics. Know anything about electronics, Ralph?"
Did I? I can build the cutest little radio set you'd care to see,blind-folded, with one arm tied behind me.
"If it's a machine," I said, "I can call the turns on the power sourcewithout looking at it!"
He grinned. "Great, Ralph! Why not make it this evening?"
So we practically shook hands on it, sitting there on the platform,with the crowd gawking up at us and the bally talker giving us afrenzied buildup.
When the crowd thinned out after the tent show he gave me his address.He lived in the village, up two flights of stairs on a crummy street.
"When the landlord saw how big I was he jacked up the rent!" Rushexplained. "Guess he figured my tread would wear holes in the carpet."
"That's a pitch!" I wisecracked. "Me, I ought to get a room fornothing."
He looked at me gravely. "Don't ever let it get you, Ralph. Your size,