This is the third time I’ve featured science fiction short stories by Fredric Brown (1906-1972). No big surprise there. I try to select stories for quality and brevity, so Brown’s work is bound to turn up.
Brown wrote at such a feverish pace, and churned out such a steady stream of creative stuff, that he must have gone to bed each night exhausted. He was not only a superb idea man, but he also had the ability to tell a story cleanly and concisely — and then stop. He never embellished a tale with unnecessary description or dialogue, as so many writers (sigh) are wont to do.
As a result, Brown was an acknowledged master of the short-short story — a genre known in modern times as “flash fiction.”
Here are four of his trademark micro tales, all published in 1954.
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Naturally
Published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction, September 1954
Henry Blodgett looked at his wrist watch and saw that it was two o’clock in the morning. In despair, he slammed shut the textbook he’d been studying and let his head sink onto his arms on the table in front of him. He knew he’d never pass that examination tomorrow; the more he studied geometry the less he understood it. Mathematics in general had always been difficult for him and now he was finding that geometry was impossible for him to learn.
And if he flunked it, he was through with college; he’d flunked three other courses in his first two years and another failure this year would, under college rules, cause automatic expulsion.
He wanted that college degree badly too, since it was indispensable for the career he’d chosen and worked toward. Only a miracle could save him now.
He sat up suddenly as an idea struck him. Why not try magic? The occult had always interested him. He had books on it and he’d often read the simple instructions on how to conjure up a demon and make it obey his will. Up to now, he’d always figured that it was a bit risky and so had never actually tried it. But this was an emergency and might be worth the slight risk. Only through black magic could he suddenly become an expert in a subject that had always been difficult for him.
From the shelf he quickly took out his best book on black magic, found the right page and refreshed his memory on the few simple things he had to do.
Enthusiastically, he cleared the floor by pushing the furniture against the walls. He drew the pentagram figure on the carpet with chalk and stepped inside it. He then said the incantations.
The demon was considerably more horrible than he had anticipated. But he mustered his courage and started to explain his dilemma. “I’ve always been poor at geometry,” he began…
“You’re telling me,” said the demon gleefully.
Smiling flames, it came for him across the chalk lines of the useless hexagram Henry had drawn by mistake instead of the protecting pentagram.
Voodoo
Published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction, September 1954
Mr. Decker’s wife had just returned from a trip to Haiti — a trip she had taken alone — to give them a cooling off period before they discussed a divorce.
It hadn’t worked. Neither of them had cooled off in the slightest. In fact, they were finding now that they hated on another more than ever.
“Half,” said Mrs. Decker firmly. “I’ll not settle for anything less than half the money plus half the property.”
“Ridiculous!” said Mr. Decker.
“Is it? I could have it all, you know. And quite easily, too. I studied voodoo while in Haiti.”
“Rot!” said Mr. Decker.
“It isn’t. And you should be glad that I am a good woman for I could kill you quite easily if I wished. I would then have all the money and all the real estate, and without any fear of consequences. A death accomplished by voodoo can not be distinguished from a death by heart failure.”
“Rubbish!” said Mr. Decker.
“You think so? I have wax and a hatpin. Do you want to give me a tiny pinch of your hair or a fingernail clipping or two — that’s all I need — and let me show you?”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Decker.
“Then why are you afraid to have me try? Since I know it works, I’ll make you a proposition. If it doesn’t kill you, I’ll give you a divorce and ask for nothing. If it does, I’ll get it all automatically.”
“Done!” said Mr. Decker. “Get your wax and hatpin.” He glanced at his fingernails. “Pretty short. I’ll give you a bit of hair.”
When he came back with a few short strands of hair in the lid of an aspirin tin, Mrs. Decker had already started softening the wax. She kneaded the hair into it, then shaped it into the rough effigy of a human being.
“You’ll be sorry,” she said, and thrust the hatpin into the chest of the wax figure.
Mr. Decker was surprised, but he was more pleased than sorry. He had not believed in voodoo, but being a cautious man he never took chances.
Besides, it had always irritated him that his wife so seldom cleaned her hairbrush.
Answer
Published in the short story collection “Angels and Spaceships,” 1954
Dwar Ev ceremoniously soldered the final connection with gold. The eyes of a dozen television cameras watched him, and the subether bore throughout the universe a dozen pictures of what he was doing.
He straightened and nodded to Dwar Reyn, then moved to a position beside the switch that would complete the contact when he threw it. The switch that would connect, all at once, all of the monster computing machines of all the populated planets in the universe — ninety-six billion planets — into the supercircuit that would connect them all into one supercalculator, one cybernetics machine that would combine all the knowledge of all the galaxies.
Dwar Reyn spoke briefly to the watching and listening trillions. Then after a moment’s silence he said, “Now, Dwar Ev.”
Dwar Ev threw the switch. There was a mighty hum, the surge of power from ninety-six billion planets. Lights flashed and quieted along the miles-long panel.
Dwar Ev stepped back and drew a deep breath. “The honor of asking the first question is yours, Dwar Reyn.”
“Thank you,” said Dwar Reyn. “It shall be a question which no single cybernetics machine has been able to answer.”
He turned to face the machine. “Is there a God?”
The mighty voice answered without hesitation, without the clicking of a single relay.
“Yes, now there is a God.”
Sudden fear flashed on the face of Dwar Ev. He leaped to grab the switch.
A bolt of lightning from the cloudless sky struck him down and fused the switch shut.
Daisies
Published in the short story collection “Angels and Spaceships,” 1954
Dr. Michaelson was showing his wife, whose name was Mrs. Michaelson, around his combination laboratory and greenhouse. It was the first time she had been there in several months and quite a bit of new equipment had been added.
“You were really serious then, John,” she asked him finally, “when you told me you were experimenting in communicating with flowers? I thought you were joking.”
“Not at all,” said Dr. Michaelson. “Contrary to popular belief, flowers do have at least a degree of intelligence.”
“But surely they can’t talk!”
“Not as we talk. But contrary to popular belief, they do communicate. Telepathically, as it were, and in thought pictures rather than in words.”
“Among themselves perhaps, but surely –”
“Contrary to popular belief, my dear, even human-floral communication is possible, although thus far I have been able to establish only one-way communication. That is, I can catch their thoughts but not send messages from my mind to theirs.”
“But — how does it work, John?”
“Contrary to popular belief,” said her husband, “thoughts, both human and floral, arc electromagnetic waves that can be — Wait, it will be easier to show you, my dear.”
He called to his assistant who was working at the far end of the room, “Miss Wilson, will you please bring the communicator?”
Miss Wilson brought the communicator. It was a headband from which a wire led to a slender rod with an insulated handle. Dr. Michaelson put the headband on his wife’s head and the rod in her hand.
“Quite simple to use,” he told her. “Hold the rod near a flower and it acts as an antenna to pick up its thoughts. And you will find out that, contrary to popular belief –”
But Mrs. Michaelson was not listening to her husband. She was holding the rod near a pot of daisies on the window sill. After a moment she put down the rod and took a small pistol from her purse. She shot first her husband and then his assistant, Miss Wilson.
Contrary to popular belief, daisies do tell.
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