ALL SCI-FI

[Bud Brewster]

If you're not a member of All Sci-Fi, registration is easy. Just use the registration password, which is —

gort



Attention members! If you've forgotten your password, just email me at brucecook1@yahoo.com.
____________________________________________________________________

I figured it was time to offer some unusual posts here today. And I certainly found a few that fit the bill.

Gentlemen, lift your glasses and toast Mr. Bob Tarmac, an All Sci-Fi member who created his own Forbidden Planet tonalities. He also took my original hand-drawn ASF logo and gave it 1,000 volts of pure pizzazz! I was quick to throw out the old one and use his about twelve years ago.

I became the one that was used for our All Sci-Fi T-shits!







The middle posts isn’t “unusual”, it’s just a slam-bang, picture-filled writeup of a great movie which boosted the 1950s science fiction boom right into the stratosphere . . . and beyond

The final posts is a whimsical short story I wrote which is deliberately loaded with as many “tough private eye” phrases as I could think up. It’s a hoot to read — and I promise that the ending will surprise you!

____________________________________________________________________

Bob Tarmac | Free Listening on SoundCloud

Bless my soul, Mr. Bob Tarmac has returned!

I'm delighted that the man who creates beautiful electronic music inspired by the Forbidden Planet Planet tonalities and shares them on his wonderful website has rejoined All Sci-Fi.

Just click on the image below and choose one of Bob's compositions to enjoy while you're here on All Sci-Fi -- the perfect soundtrack for science fiction fans.

Welcome back, Bob!


____________________________________________________________________

When Worlds Collide (1951)



Boy, ya gotta love a movie that promises big things like this --



-- and doesn't disappoint its audience one little bit.



This must have been a real crowd-pleaser in 1951, and it kept right on doing that through several re-releases over the years, including one in the 1980 when it was co-billed with War of the Worlds at the last of the drive-in theaters around the country.

Of all the 1950s movies that featured great "practical FX" (models and miniature landscapes), this one is a showcase for state-of-the-art work in that area.















The finished product is still a joy to behold, despite all the advances in special effects over the last 64 years.











The characters are very appealing, and the story moves right along. The cast is a real plus, too.











I wish they'd made the sequel -- After Worlds Collide -- that was planned but never went into production.
____________________________________________________________________

Who Done It? ~ by Bruce Cook


* Click for the YouTube version.

_______________________WHO DONE IT?

__________________________by Bruce Cook
_____________________________________________

With his hat shoved back on his head and his tie pulled down from his opened collar, private eye Jack O'Hart stood at the window of his second floor office and gazed out at the rain-drenched city.

It was 11:35 AM on a morning as gray and mean as the nose of .38 caliber bullet. Raindrops chased each other down the window pane like tiny glass ants looking for a free meal. In the street below, the traffic was bumper to bumper, a slow river of steel that flowed between the walls of the concrete canyon. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, crouched beneath their umbrellas like black beetles. Across the street, the neon sign above Joe's Cafe blazed with color, the closest thing to a rainbow this city would ever see.

Not exactly a picture postcard, thought O'Hart. No Garden of Eden, this town — but it was his town, his turf, his territory, his hunting ground. He loved it — but it was the kind of love a guy feels for a dame he knows is no good, the kind of dame that'll kiss you just before she knifes you in the back.

Sure, this town was a tramp . . . but O'Hart loved her anyway.

O'Hart's left hand was wrapped around a battered old coffee mug that had more chips than a high stakes poker game. But the coffee was fresh, and the aroma teased his nose, reassuring him that the coffee was hot and black and strong enough to do push-ups in the bottom of the cup.

He turned towards his desk and opened the bottom left-hand drawer, the one that held the half-full bottle of cheap whiskey. He poured a shot-and-a-half into the cup, making it so full that the black coffee almost spilled over the rim. He lifted the cup carefully and took a sip. The coffee wasn't as hot now, but it burned in a whole new way, a good way, a way that took the edge off the surly morning and softened his view of the melancholy city.

The musty air of the office was stirred gently by a big, black ceiling fan that turned slowly above O'Hart's head, the aging motor making a low hum with each turn of the dusty blades. O'Hart drank his coffee and watched the city and thought about a murder that somebody might solve today.

Just maybe.

The gun in his shoulder holster was an unwelcome weight on his left side, so he reached under his coat, pulled out the gun, and tossed it onto his desk. The snub-nosed .38 slid across the scarred wooden surface and collided with a morning newspaper whose bold headlines said that Paris had been liberated by the Allied Troops. That headline was the only bright spot in the day. It meant that some of O'Hart's buddies might be coming home soon — the ones that hadn't already come home in a pine box.

When O'Hart glanced up from the newspaper, he noticed a silhouette on the frosted glass panel of his office door, a silhouette superimposed against the reversed letters painted on the glass which said:

__________________ACE DETECTIVE AGENCY

_________________Jackson O'Hart — President

Somebody was out in the hall, trying to decide if they should knock on his door or just walk in. O'Hart opened his mouth to call out that the door was unlocked, but he stopped and studied the silhouette for a moment. It was obviously a dame . . . obviously a stacked dame . . . a dame with the kind of shape that sent Trojan's off to war.

Quickly O'Hart straightened his tie, tossed his hat over to the coat rack, and combed his fingers through his hair. Then he called out, "The door's unlocked. Come on in."

The knob turned and the door opened slowly, like a curtain rising on the first act. O'Hart heard his breath catch in his throat. The lady's silhouette hadn't done her justice. She was a doll, a dish, a real knockout — and O'Hart was down for the count.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, and it framed her like the paintings down at the museum, the ones that blushing mothers wouldn't let their little boys look it.

"I . . . wasn't sure you were open for business," she said hesitantly. Her soft voice was like the sound of a hand sliding slowly over a shapely knee encased in a nylon stocking. "Are you Jackson O'Hart"?

O'Hart's throat was suddenly as dry as Prohibition, and he swallowed hard to moisten it. "At your service, sweetheart," O'Hart said casually.

She walked into the office slow and smooth, the way honey pours out of a jar. The rhythmic rapping sounds of her high heels on the wooden floor were like exclamation points that hung in the air. O'Hart's eyes slide down to her shoes and back up to her face. He decided she had the best set of gams he'd ever see — and he'd spent years making a careful study of the subject. She wore an expensive gray suit, but the way it fit her, the way it clung and flexed . . . it might as well have been Salami's seven veils.

A diamond ring twinkled on her left hand, and a set of expensive pearls adorned her elegant neck. Her blonde hair fell across her shoulders like a silk waterfall. Her eyes had more green in them than the Saint Patrick's Day Parade. She had a pair of lips that were ripe and red and ready to be kissed.

Jack figured if he ever saw this gal in an evening gown he'd forget to blink.





Without thinking, O'Hart reached up and loosened his tie again.

"Have a seat and tell me your problems." He waved one hand towards the old wooden chair in front of the desk.

"What makes you think I have problems," she purred as she sat down slowly.

"Everybody who comes through that door has problems, Baby. Otherwise they'd be somewhere else."

"Oh. I see." She gave him a Mona Lisa smile as she crossed her legs, and O'Hart felt the room tilt a little. He walked around to her side of the desk and propped one hip on the edge, gazing down at her with obvious admiration.

"My name's Jack O'Hart, like it says on the door."

"Good morning, Mr. O'Hart. I'm Veronica Sloan."

"Can I get you some coffee, Miss Sloan?"

"No, thanks. I don't care much for coffee."

"Oh, really? How 'bout a drink then?" said O'Hart.

She arched one eyebrow. "Bit early in the day for that, isn't it?" Then she added, "But then again . . . why not? I'm a big girl now."

"Obviously," His eyes dropped lower for a moment, but he hauled them back up to her face.

He went around the desk and took the bottle from the bottom drawer, then he found a glass and a bottle of soda next to the coffee pot. He handed her the glass and poured her a shot, then added the soda. His hand shook a little when he poured, but she reached over and steadied it gently with her fingers. Her touch was electric, and he almost forgot to stop pouring when her glass was full. The diamond ring on her finger caught the morning light and danced around on the back of her hand like Cinderella at a quarter to twelve. O'Hart propped his hip on the desk again and watched her closely.

"Aren't you going to have one," Veronica said coyly.

"Sure," said O'Hart, smiling as he lifted his mug from the desk. "This isn't just coffee."

"Ah-ha. I should have known."

"Here's to us, Doll." O'Hart chuckled as he touched his cup to her glass.

"You're pretty fresh, aren't you?" she said — but the faint smile she'd worn since she first sat down never wavered, and those green eyes kept gazing at him through long eyelashes. She took a sip of her drink, then added, "Well, I guess you're okay. And I'd hate to think I was losing my touch."

"Losing it? Honey, you invented it," O'Hart said a trifle hoarsely.

She noticed his gun lying on the desk by the newspaper, and she said, "Is that yours? Or is it evidence from some crime?"

O'Hart smiled. "Actually . . . it might be both. I don't always play by the rules."

"That's good. I couldn't use you if you were too . . . timid."

"I got no problems there, baby," he said, leaning forward and letting his eyes roam over her gorgeous face. She held his gaze boldly, and her lips parted just a fraction. O'Hart heard his own pulse playing a Latin beat in his ears.

This dame is dangerous, he thought to himself.

"Then I guess we should talk about why I came," Veronica said softly.

"I'm all ears, sweetheart."

She let that one pass, but it made the corners of her mouth twitch upward. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "I think the police are going to arrest me."

O'Hart looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said, "That's definitely a problem. What did you do?"

"Nothing. I'm innocent." She saw the look in his eye and hastily added, "I mean, I haven't committed any crime. I swear it. But I'm afraid the evidence might point to me."

"What's the crime?"

"Murder."

"Uh-oh. And the cops think you did it?"

"Yes . . . but I swear I didn't," she said urgently. Her composure was beginning to slip. She reached up and took hold of O'Hart's arm with one hand. "You must believe me, Mr. O'Hart. I didn't do it."

She seemed just a little too desperate to persuade him that she hadn't done anything wrong. O'Hart gave her a sardonic smile. "Are you sure you haven't been a bad little girl, Honey ?"

She calmed herself with a visible effort and put those green eyes to work on him, drawing him towards her like a magnet. "I didn't do it. Please believe me, Mr. O'Hart."

"Of course I believe you, Doll," he said quietly, patting the back of her hand where it gripped his arm insistently. "Why shouldn't I believe you?"

She didn't look convinced, and O'Hart didn't expect her to be, but she sat back in the chair with a look of resignation.

"Now tell me, honey ," O'Hart said. "Who did you ki — I mean, who do the police think you killed?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, and the silence hung in the air like a cloud of stale cigarette smoke. When she finally spoke, her voice was so low he could barely hear it.

"Eddie Fortune."

The smile was swept from O'Hart's face like a hat coming off in a high wind. His eyes narrowed into hard points and his mouth twisted slightly, like a snarl on a junkyard dog. "Eddie Fortune, the syndicate boss? The guy they found shot through the head last week?"

"Yes, he was — "

"Wait a minute, Sweetheart. This is starting to smell a little. I know something about that case. Why do the police think you did it?"

His hard gaze was like a hot light shining down on her, and she melted back into the seat, trying to pull away from the look on his face.

"I . . . I don't know. Just some circumstantial evidence that — "

"Don't lie to me, baby," O'Hart said with a low growl. "Spill it. Let's have the truth."

"I don't know what you're talking about — "

O'Hart lunged forward, grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her out of the chair. Fear took hold of her beautiful face as O'Hart stood her in front of him and shook her roughly as he said, "Listen, sweetheart, I'm not in the mood to play games with you. Either tell me the truth or get out of here!"

Her tousled blonde hair was a soft halo around her head, and O'Hart saw the tears well up in her green eyes like morning dew forming on a rose. One tear spilled down her soft cheek and hung from the edge of her chin.

"Alright," she sobbed. "Alright. I'll tell you the truth."

O'Hart let go of her shoulders and she lowered herself back into the chair, her head hanging down so that her blonde hair hide her face for a moment. Finally she spoke, her voice sounding bleak and hopeless. "I was Eddie Fortune's . . . girlfriend. He and I had been . . . together for about two years."

"Eddie's mistress, eh?" O'Hart said bluntly. She flinched as if he'd splashed cold water on her face. "I heard rumors about you, sweetheart, but nobody seemed to know your name. I guess Eddie wanted you kept under wraps."

"He made sure nobody knew about us because he didn't want his enemies to strike out against him by hurting me. You know, rival organizations — "

"The West Coast Syndicate. I get the picture, doll. A guy in Eddie's racket can't afford to have anybody close to him. You were a liability to him. His Achilles' heel."

"Yes, that's right." She fished a small handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes with it. "You . . . you said you knew something about the case. Did you mean you'd read about it in the papers?"

O'Hart gave her a crooked smile. "Not quite, sweetheart. A bit more than that. I was on a case for Eddie Fortune when he was killed. He wanted me to get the goods on one of his own boys. Eddie was convinced that one of his lieutenants had been skimming off the profits from his protection racket on the South side. He hired me to check up on the matter."

"But why did he hire an outsider for a job like that? Didn't he have enough local talent to — "

"You're not thinkin', doll. He wasn't sure which of his boys had his hand in the till. So, he didn't know who he could trust in his own organization. That's why he had to bring in an outsider."

"Oh, yes . . . I see." Then a tiny light of hope sprang up behind her emerald eyes. "Mr. O'Hart! Maybe the killer was the man that was stealing money from Eddie's organization!"

"Bright girl," said O'Hart as he gave her a cynical smile. "Only one problem. I know who was skimming off the profits — and he wasn't the one who shot Eddie."

"You mean . . . you mean you know who shot Eddie?"

O'Hart chuckled, but his eyes were bitter. "I got a pretty good idea, honey."

She looked up at O'Hart with desperation in her lovely eyes. "I don't want to go to jail, Mr. O'Hart. You've got to prove I didn't do it — somehow."

"What have the cops got on you?"

"Eddie was murdered in his apartment on Long Island. The police say he was shot between 10:00 PM and midnight. I was out for the evening, but I came back about midnight and let myself in with the key Eddie gave me. I found Eddie's body in the living room. I was scared, so I ran. But the janitor saw me leaving, and he told the police."

"And you were the only one seen going into or leaving the apartment?"

"That's right. In fact, nobody saw me go in, so I can't prove I wasn't there when Eddie was murdered."

"Can anybody vouch for you? Were you with anybody up until the time you arrived?"

"No, nobody. I was at my own place until 11:00, an apartment I have about eight blocks away. I didn't take a cab, I drove my car to Eddie's place and went in the back way, just like I always did."

"That's bad luck for you, gorgeous. Without an alibi you're gonna look like a swell suspect to the cops."

Her white teeth nibbled at her lower lip for a moment, then she said, "Mr. O'Hart, the police might decide the murder was a lovers' quarrel or something. Eddie was a big flirt. He always made a play for the girls in the clubs — you know, that kind of thing. But I wasn't jealous, Mr. O'Hart. Honest, I wasn't! I knew that Eddie loved me. He really did."

"I can believe it, Sweetheart. Why would a man need anybody else if he had you?"

Her face softened and her eyelids grew heavy and she gave O'Hart a look that twisted his gut with desire. In a soft voice she said, "Please help me, Mr. O'Hart. I don't know where else to turn.

How could a man ever trust a woman this gorgeous? O'Hart thought to himself. In fact . . . when he thought about the story she'd told him . . . he suddenly realized there wasn't a word of truth in it!

O'Hart knew something she didn't know, and it proved she was lying.

Wearing his best poker face, he said, "So, you want me to find the real murderer, Sweetheart. That's why you came to me."

"Yes, Mr. O'Hart. I'll give you anything you want . . . anything."

She said the last word so softly he could barely hear her, and he knew she wasn't talking about money. It was quite an offer — the kind of offer a man would kill for. And all he had to do was find the real killer.

But O'Hart knew he wouldn't have to look far for the murderer. He already knew who it was. The murderer was right here in this room.

"There's one little problem with your story, doll — a problem you better straighten out before the police start asking questions. I happen to know that Eddie was killed just a little after midnight. You better not try to convince the cops you got there at the stroke of twelve, Cinderella. They'll eat you alive."

A strange look came over her face, a look O'Hart didn't like a bit. She stood up slowly and started backing away from him, towards the door, like a cornered animal with no place to run.

"How could you know that? How could you know the time when Eddie was shot?"

"Let's just say I'm psychic. I got a crystal ball."

"Yeah. Sure. Let's just say that."

She was still backing towards the door, still wearing that wild-eyed look. O'Hart wondered if he should try to stop her. He wondered if he could make himself stop her, even if he wanted to. She turned and opened the door a few inches, then she stood there a moment, holding the doorknob, as if she was about to yank it open and run.

"Just one question, O'Hart," she said, looking over her shoulder at him, her blonde hair hiding most of her face. "Just one last question." She paused, and the faint smile was suddenly back. She looked O'Hart dead in the eye and said, "What's going to happen when the police test your gun to see if it's the murder weapon."

It was the last question O'Hart had expected. And the last one he wanted to hear. "What?" he said in a voice like dry leaves stirred by an Autumn breeze. He suddenly felt like Joe Louis had put a hard right into his gut.

Veronica quickly reached into her purse and pulled out a pearl-handled automatic, a ridiculously small weapon, but still capable of making a nasty whole in a man. She swung the door open the rest of the way and then called to someone in the hall.

"Come on in, Lieutenant. He told me all I needed to know."

A police detective and three uniformed officers walked into the office, their guns all trained on O'Hart. Lt. Phillip Goborsky pushed O'Hart out of the way and picked up the private eye's gun from the desk. He held it up for a moment, sniffed at the end of the barrel, then clucked his tongue a few times.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Pretty stupid, O'Hart. You should have at least cleaned it after you plugged Eddie. Sloppy, sloppy."

O'Hart just stood there for a moment like a new father who's just been handed quintuplets. He gave Goborsky a nervous smile.

"What are you talkin' about, Lieutenant? You got nothin' on me."

"Oh, sure, Jack . . . not a thing. Nothing except an eye witness." Gorborsky chuckled as he watched the blood drain from O'Hart's face. After a few seconds O'Hart looked over at the woman. A look of admiration spread across is face. He shrugged and gave Veronica a dry smile.

"Pretty cute, aren't you, Honey? You reeled me in like a fat trout." His eyes narrowed and he studied her carefully. "Say, just who are you anyway?"

Veronica pulled her wallet out of her purse and held up her identification. "A private eye, just like you. No, wait. Not like you. I don't kill my own clients. You were working for Eddie Fortune. Why'd you kill him, O'Hart?"

O'Hart gave a sigh of resignation, then he said, "Guess it'll all come anyway, so I might as well tell you. I found out it was really him that was skimming off the syndicate's protection money. He was using me to frame one of his underlings. Eddie offered to pay me to keep my mouth shut, and I agreed — just buy a little time, because I knew
wanted me out of the way. Sure enough, he went for his gun and nearly parted my hair with a bullet, but I aimed better and . . . well, tough luck for Eddie."

"Self defense, eh?" said Lt. Goborsky. "Well, this city certainly won't shed any tears for the likes of Eddie Fortune. But the judge isn't going to like the sound of your story. Sounds too much like blackmail."

"That's why I tried to get away with it," O'Hart said bleakly. Then he turned to Veronica. "One thing I'm curious about, Doll. Who are you working for? Who hired you?"

"Eddie's mistress — the real one. She was asleep in the bedroom when you and Eddie had your little business meeting in the living room. The shots woke her up, but she was afraid to come out until you'd gone."

"Let me guess," said O'Hart. "The cops don't believe her story, so they've charged her with the murder."

"Right. She hired me to get her off." Veronica smiled as she put her gun back in her purse. She watched Lt. Goborsky put the cuffs on O'Hart. "I guess I earned my money, eh?"

"I guess so, doll. You're pretty good. It's a pity you and I never got the chance to work together."

Veronica shrugged and said, "Well, who knows? Maybe, with time off for good behavior, you'll get out in a few years."

"Yeah," O'Hart said. "Sure thing, sweetheart. I don't suppose you know a good lawyer."

Veronica gave him a smile Jack knew would keep up awake at night in his chilly prison cell. "I sure do," she said softly. "My father. Too bad you can't afford him." Jack heard Lt. Goborsky chuckle behind him.

As the uniformed officers lead O'Hart away, Veronica took out her compact and started delicately applying fresh powder to her nose. Lt. Goborsky watched her for a moment with keen interest, his hat shoved back on his head and his tie pulled down from his open collar. He reached up and straightened his tie, then walked over to Veronica.

"Say, uh . . . I'll be getting off duty in about an hour. Now that we've cracked this case, gorgeous, how 'bout you and me goin' out and celebrating with a few drinks."

As she finished powdering her nose, Veronica gave Lt. Goborsky a sidelong glance, her green eyes gazing at him through her long lashes. The compact case snapped closed with a sound like a tiny bear trap, and she turned to face the man.

In a soft, silky voice she said, "Buzz off, flat-foot. I'm busy."

Then she gave him a flirtatious smile and a wink that would haunt him the rest of his life.

Turning on her high heels, private eye Veronica Sloan went striding out of the office and down the hallway, leaving Lt. Goborsky standing there with a wry grin on his face, watching the hypnotic sway of her round hips beneath the snug skirt.

"Wow!" he breathed softly. "What a dame . . . "
____________________________________________




_________________
____________
Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)