The Rogue Waveform
By R. W. STOCKHEKER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories Summer 1955.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The way it started, Leo Stern decided I should make a publicityappearance at this soiree up in Bel Air. I wasn't happy about the deal.These Bel Air soirees are usually loaded with earnest intellectuals,and if there's one thing that upsets me it's mingling with earnestintellectuals. But Leo is my manager. What he decides I should do, I do.
"Being seen at this brain brawl will be smart box office, Freddy," Leotold me. "You can use a little high-brow publicity."
I could have used a little premonition and second sight too. It wouldhave kept me from getting mixed up with Panda, the beautiful Ph.D.It would have kept me from taking that fatal fall to Dr. StanleyMacCluett's synthetic symbiotic wave. I could have gone on for the restof my life being the same old obnoxious Freddy Booten.
That's my legal name—Freddy Booten. Professionally I am known as DonDiablo. This is because I am supposed to look very sinister. I havebasilisk black eyes, a satanic-type Vandyke and I am all over withmuscle. I am what is very loosely termed a wrestler.
Very, very loosely. On any given day you can pick up at least ahundred heavies around and about the country who can easily whip me nohands. The reason they consistently refrain from doing this is merelybecause promoters dearly love to amass money. Time and time again cashcustomers will come back to the arena in the hopes of seeing someclean-cut American kid twist me up like a cruller.
This never happens, of course. What happens is I leave the clean-cutAmerican kid writhing in frightful agony on the canvas. Sneeringhorribly, a red nylon robe tossed rakishly around my shoulders, I makemy victory strut up the aisle. While I strut and sneer, kindly oldladies try to beat me to death with their canes. I am indeed a veryobnoxious character.
Being obnoxious never bothered me. It was, I always figured, a fast wayto stack a buck on top of a buck. In a year or two, if some kindly oldlady didn't maim me first, I'd have enough to retire to my pig farmback in Fishhook, Illinois. I'm proud of that pig farm. People maydetest me, but I get along fine with pigs. We're real compatible.
The party Leo picked out for me to attend that night was being heldin one of those mansions which come equipped with their own privatemountain. It was jammed clear to the upstairs maid with artists, swamisand people, and I was prepared to have a very dull night. What I wasn'tprepared for was to meet Panda.
At the time, I didn't know that's who she was. All I knew was suddenlyhere was this spectacular girl with the glossy white streak in hersatin black hair standing in front of me. She had an orange juice andvodka in one hand and an expression of mild revulsion on her beautifulface.
"I can tell by that silly beard you're a male," she snarled. "But amale what?"
Then she reached up and dumped the orange juice and vodka over me.
It wasn't anything to get sore about. Lots of women throw drinks at me.I'm used to it by now. When it happens, I merely draw myself up to myfull six-feet-four and drip disdainfully down on the drink-tosser. ThenI stalk away. If there's a photographer around, I pause and lash mybeard a couple of times for the camera. It is, Leo says, very smart boxoffice.
It wasn't anything to get sore about, but tha