utter integrity—on Mr. Grebb himself!
He stalked into the warehouse with magnificent dignity, to find himself confronted by Joe Hallix, by the bookkeeper, and by two other men of ominous aspect.
“Look here, Grebb!” said the bookkeeper sternly. “I worked all night on this thing! There’s four hundred kegs of beer missing in the past six months! Every record is straight but yours? Your delivery slips are a mess! What’ve you been putting over?”
Mr. Grebb breathed heavily.
“Me,” said Mr. Grebb dramatically, “I been thinkin’! Thinkin’ about why my records always get jammed up an’ why Joe Hallix always keeps pickin’ on me an’ ripenin’ me up for a fall guy for him! Any of the other drivers will tell you I’m a right guy, an’ any one of ’em will tell you he’s a crook!”
The bookkeeper interrupted impatiently, but Mr. Grebb bellowed him down.
“Look in his desk!” he roared in righteous wrath. “Look where he keeps his blank forms! You’ll find the whole works right there! Right in this here drawer!”
He thumped with a hairy ham of a hand, breathing in snorts of indignation.
Joe Hallix tried to laugh scornfully. But it wasn’t good. That Mr. Grebb, of all humans, should have hit so instantly and with such uncanny accuracy upon the hiding-place of papers he had to have handy for the working of his racket, and which nobody in the world should ever have thought of looking for, was simply beyond belief. It was too sudden and too startling and too starkly impossible.
Joe Hallix tried to laugh it off, but sweat poured out on his forehead. When the bookkeeper, after one look at his graying face, stooped to pull out the drawer, Joe Hallix got panicky. And the two ominous gentlemen turned their attention to him.
Mr. Grebb returned to his boarding house in a mood of triumphant indignation. He was as near to perfect happiness as he would ever get. Joe Hallix was unmasked and headed for jail, and he, Mr. Grebb, was proven innocent as a babe unborn. Moreover, that half-keg of beer he had managed to get away with, two months before, would never be charged against him.
He was magnificent in his sensations of vindicated purity. He told his landlady about it at supper. But he did not mention the newspaper. He did not understand that, and therefore he ignored it. She listened admiringly.
“I always knew you were smart, Mr. Grebb,” she said with conviction. “That’s why I asked you about that machine down in the basement. Did you ever get time to look at it again, Mr. Grebb?”
“It’s no good,” said Mr. Grebb largely. “It’s just some stuff put together crazy. It don’t work.”
“Too bad,” said the landlady. “And I’ve let it clutter up my cellar all this time.”
“I’ll get it out for you,” said Mr. Grebb, generously. “Give it a couple kicks to get it in two pieces so I can handle it easy, an’ I’ll pile it out on the sidewalk for the garbage man to haul away.”
Which, out of the kindness of his heart, he did. It is still a mystery in high scientific circles just what Professor Muntz did with himself, and what sort of experimental apparatus he had to back his work in The Mathematics of Multiple Time-Tracks. Some eminent scientists still hope he will turn up eventually, in spite of his passionate shyness. It is not likely, because he jumped out of the way of a truck and landed in front of a bus. In this time-track, at any rate. Perhaps in another, different conditions prevail. But life and the theory of multiple time-tracks are full of paradoxes.
In this time-track the paradox was that nobody would ordinarily think of Mr. Grebb and Professor Muntz in the same breath, so to speak, yet their careers most curiously impinged upon each other. Mr. Grebb was driving the truck that Professor Muntz dodged when he jumped in front of the bus, and Mr. Grebb moved into the lodging Professor Muntz vacated, and Mr. Grebb kicked to pieces the device which was the Professor’s life-work, and set the fragments out on the sidewalk for the garbage-man.
But Professor Muntz had his effect on Mr. Grebb, too. It was his device that brought those newspapers from another time-track and enabled Mr. Grebb to unmask the fine villainy of Joe Hallix. It is due to Professor Muntz’ life-work in fact—it is its fine fruit—that Mr. Grebb still drives a truck for the Ajax Brewing Company.
TINY AND THE MONSTER, by Theodore Sturgeon
She had to find out about Tiny—everything about Tiny.
They were bound to call him Tiny. The name was good for a laugh when he was a pup, and many times afterward.
He was a Great Dane, unfashionable with his long tail, smooth and glossy in the brown coat which fit so snugly over his heavily muscled shoulders and chest. His eyes were big and brown and his feet were big and black; he had a voice like thunder and a heart ten times his own great size.
He was born in the Virgin Islands, on St. Croix, which is a land of palm trees and sugar, of soft winds and luxuriant undergrowth whispering with the stealthy passage of pheasant and mongoose. There were rats in the ruins of the ancient estate houses that stood among the foothills—ruins with slave-built walls forty inches thick and great arches of weathered stone. There was pasture land where the field mice ran, and brooks asparkle with gaudy blue minnows.
But—where in St. Croix had he learned to be so strange?
When Tiny was a puppy, all feet and ears, he learned many things. Most of these things were kinds of respect. He learned to respect that swift, vengeful piece of utter engineering called a scorpion, when one of them whipped its barbed tail into his inquiring nose. He learned to respect the heavy deadness of the air about him that preceded a hurricane, for he knew that it meant hurry and hammering and utmost obedience from every creature on the estate. He learned to respect the justice of sharing, for he was pulled from the teat and from the trough when he crowded the others of his litter. He was the largest.
These things, all of them, he learned as respects. He was never struck, and although he learned caution he never learned fear. The pain he suffered from the scorpion—it happened only once—the strong but gentle hands which curbed his greed, the frightful violence of the hurricane that followed the tense preparations—all these things and many more taught him the justice of respect. He half understood a basic ethic: namely, that he would never be asked to do something, or to refrain from doing something, unless there was a good reason for it. His obedience, then, was a thing implicit, for it was half reasoned; and since it was not based on fear, but on justice, it could not interfere with his resourcefulness.
All of which, along with his blood, explained why he was such a splendid animal. It did not explain how he learned to read. It did not explain why Alec was compelled to sell him—not only to sell him but to search out Alistair Forsythe and sell him to her.
She had to find out. The whole thing was crazy. She hadn’t wanted a dog. If she had wanted a dog, it wouldn’t have been a Great Dane. And if it had been a Great Dane, it wouldn’t have been Tiny, for he was a Crucian dog and had to be shipped all the way to Scarsdale, New York, by air.
The series of letters she sent to Alec were as full of wondering persuasion as his had been when he sold her the dog. It was through these letters that she learned about the scorpion and the hurricane, about Tiny’s puppyhood and the way Alec brought up his dogs. If she learned something about Alec as well, that was understandable. Alec and Alistair Forsythe had never met, but through Tiny they shared a greater secret than many people who have grown up together.
“As
