Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe Aug-Sept 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
the very black
by ... Dean Evans
Jet test-pilots and love do not mix too happily as arule—especially with a ninth-dimensional alter ego messingthe whole act.
There was nothing peculiar about that certain night I suppose—exceptto me personally. A little earlier in the evening I'd walked out onthe Doll, Margie Hayman—and a man doesn't do that and cheer over it.Not if he's in love with the Doll he doesn't—not this doll. Ifyou've ever seen her you'll give the nod on that.
The trouble had been Air Force's new triangular ship—the new saucer.Not radio controlled, this one—this one was to carry a real livepilot. At least that's what the doll's father, who was Chief Engineerat Airtech, Inc., had in mind when he designed it.
The doll had said to me sort of casually, "Got something, Baby." Shecalled me baby. Me, one eighty-five in goose pimples.
"Toss it over, Doll," I said.
"No strings on you, Baby." She'd grinned that little one-sided grin ofhers. "No strings on you. Not even one. You're a flyboy, you are, andyou can take off or land any time any place you feel like it."
"Stake your mom's Charleston cup on that," I said.
She nodded. Her one-sided grin seemed to fade slightly but she hookedit up again fast. A doll—like I said. This was the original model,they've never gone into production on girls like her full-time.
She said, "Therefore, I've got no right to go stalking with a saltshaker in one hand and a pair of shears for your tailfeathers in theother."
"You're cute, Doll," I said, still going along with her one hundredpercent.
"Nice—we get along nice."
"Somebody oughta set 'em up on that."
"So far."
"Huh?" I blinked. I hate sour notes. That's why I'm not a musician.You never get a sour note in a jet job—or if you do you don't getannoyed. That's the sour note to end all sour notes.
"Brace yourself, Baby," she said.
I took a hitch on the highball glass I was holding and let one eye geta serious look in it. "Shoot," I told her.
"This new job—this new saucer the TV newscasts are blatting about.You boys in the Air Force heard about it yet?"
"There's been a rumor," I said. I frowned. Top secret—in a pig'seyelash!
"Uh-huh. Is it true this particular ship is supposed to carry a pilotthis time?"
"Where do they dig up all this old stuff?" I growled. "Hell, I knewall about that way way back this afternoon already."
"Uh-huh, Is it also true they've asked a flyboy named Eddie Anders totake it up the first time? This flyboy named Eddie Anders being myBaby?"
I got bored with the highball. I tossed it down the hole in my headand put the glass on a table. "You're psychic," I said.
She shrugged. "Good looking, maybe. Nice shape, maybe. Peachydisposition, maybe. Psychic, unh-unhh. But who else would they ask todo it?"
"A point," I conceded.
"Fork in the road coming up," the Doll said.
"Huh?"
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