Jing hurried away, and after a few minutes search she found Nastee up in the nose of the plane, sulking.
“Nastee,” she said, “I think you’re just terrible.”
Nastee grinned at her. “You aren’t fooling me. Tink sent you to get me to tell you what I did to the plane.”
“Oh no he didn’t,” Jing said. “I wasn’t even thinking of that. I was talking about the terrible way you fool everybody.”
“Fool everybody?” Nastee said blankly. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” Jing said firmly. “You’re so anxious to impress everyone with how bad you are, that you even lie about it. You know you do. And actually you’re just quiet and nice and afraid to do anything wrong. But it’s lying about it and making people think you’re bad when you’re really not, that’s terrible.”
“But I am really bad,” Nastee protested. ‘I don’t lie about that.”
“Oh yes you do,” Jing said. “You lied when you said you’d done something to the plane. And I know you didn’t.”
“How do you know?” Nastee challenged.
“Because I just heard the pilot talking,” Jing said, “and he said everything is working perfectly.”
Nastee grinned slyly. “He doesn’t know yet, that’s all. Just wait a while.”
“Now you’re just lying again,” Jing said.
Nastee looked at her in quick irritation.
“Oh, is that so,” he snapped. “Well, just you look here.”
He bent down and pulled aside a metal disc under which ran one of the main gas lines. There was a slow, steady leak from the pipe. Gas had collected at the base of the small steel chamber in a three inch puddle and it was rising steadily.
“You see,” Nastee chuckled, “We punctured the gas line.”
Jing looked helplessly at the steady trickle of gas that was dripping from the pipe into the small chamber. Nastee was on his knees peering gleefully at the slowly rising pool of gas and, suddenly, Jing stood up, and from sheer helpless irritation raised her foot and kicked Nastee squarely in the rear.
He squawked loudly and fell forward into the small, gas-filled chamber. She saw his legs threshing about wildly, and then he got himself straightened out and stood up sputtering indignantly-
“What’s the big idea?” he squeaked wrath fully.
The gas was at his neck and rising steadily. He looked at her and suddenly the belligerence left his face. He swallowed nervously.
“What are you going to do? he asked weakly.
“I don’t know,” Jing said.
Tink suddenly appeared at her side. He patted her back again solemnly. He peered down at Nastee and chuckled as the drenched little leprechaun shook an angry fist at him.
“Get me out of here,” Nastee shrieked. “This gas will be over my head soon.”
“Not if you’re smart,” Tink said.
“What do you mean?” Nastee cried.
“Well,” Tink said, “you can reach the leak, can’t you?”
Nastee stood on tip-toes and reached up until his hand closed over the small puncture in the gas pipe.
“Why, yes,” he said, “I can.”
The gas had reached his chin, but it stopped rising as the trickle from the pipe stopped.
“Well you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Tink grinned. “As long as you hold the leak, you won’t drown.
“But I’m soaking wet,” Nastee cried. He stared at Tink and Jing grinning down at him over the edge of the chamber, and his little face suddenly flushed with anger.
“It was all a trick,” he shouted. “You did this just to save the gas. Well I won’t do it. I’ll drown first.”
“I don’t think so,” Tink grinned.
He waved cheerfully at Nastee and then closed the cover of the metal chamber.
He put his arm around Jing’s waist and smiled at her.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said.
And in the cabin of the plane the young lieutenant duplicated the gesture but he added a little something to it that the leprechauns haven’t gotten around to imitating yet.
He kissed her soundly.
Death Makes a Mistake
First published in Amazing Stories, January 1943.
Mr. Demise had Reggie Van Fiddler’s name in his book, but Reggie didn’t want to be on any list, so he set out to correct the mistake!
When Reggie Van Fiddler sauntered into the cool somber depths of the Midland Club’s lobby, he was feeling in an exceptionally amiable mood. There was a song in his heart and a bland, dreamily vague smile on his long, narrow face.
This state of blissful tranquility could be attributed to the fact that Reggie’s tan and white shoes were taking him directly toward the Club Bar, where he planned to while away the day sipping various long, cool drinks. And Reggie was always happy when the immediate future held the prospects of a drink.
He nodded brightly to a uniformed attendant.
“Glorious morning, isn’t he?” he said.
“It was a glorious morning,” the attendant corrected politely.
Reggie looked blankly at a clock on the wall and a puzzled frown spread over his equine features.
“Well, well,” he muttered, shaking his head, “how’d that happen?” He sauntered on toward the bar, nibbling at a hang nail. The morning had slipped away from him somehow. Here it was two o’clock in the afternoon already. It was quite a blow.
He remembered then that he had slept until twelve thirty and he brightened considerably. That explained it. Whistling merrily he strode on into the dim cool bar, with its heavy brown fixtures and solid atmosphere of masculinity.
The bartender set up his usual drink and with knowledge born of long experience, immediately began the preparation of a second.
Reggie sipped his drink and relaxed.
For several moments he stood at the bar, lazily contented, his brain slowed to about one revolution per minute. Finally he happened to glance toward the end of the bar and he noticed a small, dark, narrow-eyed man watching him closely.
Reggie smiled uncertainly and returned to his drink. The dark man at the end of the bar was the only other customer and Reggie knew that he was not a member of the club, for he had never seen him before in his life.
Reggie finished his drink and when the bartender set another before him he glanced again toward the end of the bar. The little dark man was still there, regarding him, it seemed, with a steady fixed stare.
Reggie coughed nervously and gulped his drink. There was something in the dark little man’s beady-eyed gaze that disturbed him. He had another quick drink and peeked from the corner of his eye at the little dark man.
There was something sinister about the chap, he felt sure. Reggie was the owner of an extremely lurid imagination and now, warmed by the glow of alcohol, he began to envision all sorts of wild possibilities.
After his fourth drink he was certain that the man was an Axis agent. Just why an Axis agent would be staring at him he had no idea, but he still felt sure the man was a Nazi.
Reggie finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. Then he casually sauntered toward the door. A few paces from the room’s only exit, he paused and under the pretense of inspecting a faded sports print on the wall, sneaked a quick glance at the dark little man.
The dark little man was still staring at him with narrowed, shaded eyes.
Reggie yawned ostentatiously and inched closer to the door. He was going to make a break for it, but it would have to be fast and clever. His heart was pounding with more gusto than usual and there were bright spots of excitement in his pale cheeks. This new role of dodging the Gestapo appealed enormously to his comic strip sense of melodrama.