LIGHTER THAN YOU THINK-2
2137 Words
“Individual flight a la Superman? No dice. I can testify from personal experience that once you get up there you’re completely out of control. And I can’t see any sense in humans trying to fly with jet flames scorching their base of operations.
“Elevators? Derricks? Building cranes? Possible. But lifting a couple hundred pounds is one thing. Lifting a few tons is a horse of a different color.
“No, Pat,” I continued, “I don’t see just how—”
Sandy Thomas squeaked suddenly and grasped my arm.
“That’s it, Mr. Mallory!” she cried. “That’s it!”
“Huh? What’s what?”
“You wanted to know how Pat could make money from his invention. You’ve just answered your own question.”
“I have?”
“Horses! Horse racing, to be exact. You’ve heard of handicaps, haven’t you?”
“I’m overwhelmed with them,” I nodded wearily. “A secretary who repulses my honorable advances, a receptionist who squeals in my ear—”
“Listen, Mr. Mallory, what’s the last thing horses do before they go to the post?”
“Check the tote board,” I said promptly, “to find out if I’ve got any money on them. Horses hate me. They’ve formed an equine conspiracy to prove to me the ancient adage that a fool and his money are soon parted.”
“Wait a minute!” chimed in Joyce thoughtfully. “I know what Sandy means. They weigh in. Is that right?”
“Exactly! The more weight a horse is bearing, the slower it runs. That’s the purpose of handicapping. But if a horse that was supposed to be carrying more than a hundred pounds was actually only carrying ten—Well, you see?”
Sandy paused, breathless. I stared at her with a gathering respect.
“Never underestimate the power of a woman,” I said, “when it comes to devising new and ingenious methods of perpetrating petty larceny. There’s only one small fly in the ointment, so far as I can see. How do we convince some racehorse owner he should become a party to this gentle felony?”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” smiled Sandy cheerfully. “I’m already convinced.”
“You? You own a horse?”
“Yes. Haven’t you ever heard of Tapwater?”
“Oh, sure! That drip’s running all the time!”
Joyce tossed me a reproving glance.
“This is a matter of gravity, Donald,” she stated, “and you keep treating it with levity. Sandy, do you really own Tapwater? He’s the colt who won the Monmouth Futurity, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. And four other starts this season. That’s been our big trouble. He shows such promise that the judges have placed him under a terrific weight handicap. To run in next week’s Gold Stakes, for instance, he would have to carry 124 pounds. I was hesitant to enter him because of that. But with Pat’s new invention—” She turned to Pat, eyes glowing—“he could enter and win!”
Pat said uncertainly, “I don’t know. I don’t like gambling. And it doesn’t seem quite ethical, somehow—”
I asked Sandy, “Suppose he ran carrying 124. What would be the probable odds?”
“High,” she replied, “Very high. Perhaps as high as forty to one.”
“In that case,” I decided, “it’s not only ethical, it’s a moral obligation. If you’re opposed to gambling, Pat, what better way can you think of to put the parimutuels out of business?”
“And besides,” Sandy pointed out, “this would be a wonderful opportunity to display your new discovery before an audience of thousands. Well, Pat? What do you say?”
Pat hesitated, caught a glimpse of Sandy’s pleading eyes, and was lost.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll do it. Mr. Mallory, enter Tapwater in the Gold Stakes. We’ll put on the most spectaceous exhibition in the history of gambilizing!”
Thus it was that approximately one week later our piratical little crew was assembled once again, this time in the paddock at Laurel. In case you’re an inland aborigine, let me explain that Laurel race track (from the township of the same name) is where horse fanciers from the District of Columbia go to abandon their Capitol and capital on weekends.
We were briefing our jockey—a scrawny youth with a pair of oversized ears—on the use of Pat’s lightening rod. Being short on gray matter as well as on stature, he wasn’t getting it at all.
“You mean,” he said for the third or thirty-third time, “you don’t want I should hit the nag with this bat?”
“Heavens, no!” gasped Pat, blanching. “It’s much too delicate for that.”
“Don’t fool yourself, mister. Horses can stand a lot of leather.”
“Not the horse, stupid,” I said. “The bat. This is the only riding crop of its kind in the world. We don’t want it damaged. All you have to do is carry it. We’ll do the rest.”
“How about setting the dial, Don?” asked Joyce.
“Pat will do that just before the horses move onto the track. Now let’s get going. It’s weigh-in time.”
We moved to the scales with our rider. He stepped aboard the platform, complete with silks and saddle, and the spinner leaped to a staggering 102, whereupon the officials started gravely handing him little leather sacks.
“What’s this?” I whispered to Sandy. “Prizes for malnutrition? He must have won all the blackjacks east of the Mississippi.”
“The handicap,” she whispered back. “Lead weights at one pound each.”
“If he starts to lose,” I ruminated, “they’d make wonderful ammunition—”
“One hundred and twenty-four,” announced the chief weigher-inner. “Next entry!”
We returned to Tapwater. The jockey fastened the weights to his gear, saddled up and mounted. From the track came the traditional bugle call. Sandy nodded to Pat.
“All right, Pat. Now!”
Pending twisted the knob on his lightening rod and handed the stick to the jockey. The little horseman gasped, rose three inches in his stirrups, and almost let go of the baton.
“H-hey!” he exclaimed. “I feel funny. I feel—”
“Never mind that,” I told him. “Just you hold on to that rod until the race is over. And when you come back, give it to Pat immediately. Understand?”
“Yes. But I feel so—so lightheaded—”
“That’s because you’re featherbrained,” I advised him. “Now, get going. Giddyap, Dobbin!”
I patted Tapwater’s flank, and so help me Newton, I think that one gentle tap pushed the colt half way to the starting gate! He pattered across the turf with a curious bouncing gait as if he were running on tiptoe. We hastened to our seats in the grandstand.
“Did you get all the bets down?” asked Joyce.
I nodded and displayed a deck of ducats. “It may not have occurred to you, my sweet,” I announced gleefully, “but these pasteboards are transferrable on demand to rice and old shoes, the sweet strains of Oh, Promise Me! and the scent of orange blossoms. You insisted I should have a nest egg before you would murmur, ‘I do’? Well, after this race these tickets will be worth—” I cast a swift last glance at the tote board’s closing odds, quoting Tapwater at 35 to 1—“approximately seventy thousand dollars!”
“Donald!” gasped Joyce. “You didn’t bet all your savings?”
“Every cent,” I told her cheerfully. “Why not?”
“But if something should go wrong! If Tapwater should lose!”
“He won’t. See what I mean?”
For even as we were talking, the bell jangled, the crowd roared, and the horses were off. Eight entries surged from the starting gate. And already one full length out in front pranced the weight-free, lightfoot Tapwater!
At the quarter post our colt had stretched his lead to three lengths, and I shouted in Pending’s ear, “How much does that jockey weigh, anyway?”
“About six pounds,” said Pat. “I turned the knob to cancel one eighteen.”
At the half, all the other horses could glimpse of Tapwater was heels. At the three-quarter post he was so far ahead that the jockey must have been lonely. As he rounded into the stretch I caught a binocular view of his face, and he looked dazed and a little frightened. He wasn’t actually riding Tapwater. The colt was simply skimming home, and he was holding on for dear life to make sure he didn’t blow off the horse’s back. The result was a foregone conclusion, of course. Tapwater crossed the finish line nine lengths ahead, setting a new track record.
The crowd went wild. Over the hubbub I clutched Pat’s arm and bawled, “I’ll go collect our winnings. Hurry down to the track and swap that lightening rod for the real bat we brought along. He’ll have to weigh out again, you know. Scoot!”
The others vanished paddockward as I went for the big payoff. It was dreary at the totalizer windows. I was one of a scant handful who had bet on Tapwater, so it took no time at all to scoop into the valise I had brought along the seventy thousand bucks in crisp, green lettuce which an awed teller passed across the counter. Then I hurried back to join the others in the winner’s circle, where bedlam was not only reigning but pouring. Flashbulbs were popping all over the place, cameramen were screaming for just one more of the jockey, the owner, the fabulous Tapwater. The officials were vainly striving to quiet the tumult so they could award the prize. I found Pending worming his way out of the heart of the crowd.
“Did you get it?” I demanded.
He nodded, thrust the knobbed baton into my hand.
“You substituted the normal one?”
Again he nodded. Hastily I thrust the lightening rod out of sight into my valise, and we elbowed forward to share the triumphant moment. It was a great experience. I felt giddy with joy; I was walking on little pink clouds of happiness. Security was mine at last. And Joyce, as well.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the chief official. “Your attention, please! Today we have witnessed a truly spectacular feat: the setting of a new track record by a champion racing under a tremendous handicap. I give you a magnificent racehorse—Tapwater!”
“That’s right, folks!” I bawled, carried away by the excitement. “Give this little horse a great big hand!”
Setting the example, I laid down the bag, started clapping vigorously. From a distance I heard Pat Pending’s agonized scream.
“Mr. Mallory—the suitcase! Grab it!”
I glanced down, belatedly aware of the danger of theft. But too late. The bag had disappeared.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Who swiped my bag? Police!”
“Up there, Mr. Mallory!” bawled Pat. “Jump!”
I glanced skyward. Three feet above my head and rising swiftly was the valise in which I had cached not only our winnings but Pat’s gravity-defying rod! I leaped—but in vain. I was still making feeble, futile efforts to make like the moon-hurdling nursery rhyme cow when quite a while later two strong young men in white jackets came and jabbed me with a sedative ...
Later, when time and barbiturates had dulled the biting edge of my despair, we assembled once again in my office and I made my apologies to my friends.
“It was all my fault,” I acknowledged. “I should have realized Pat hadn’t readjusted the rod when I placed it in my bag. It felt lighter. But I was so excited—”
“It was my fault,” mourned Pat, “for not changing it immediately. But I was afraid someone might see me.”
“Perhaps if we hired an airplane—?” I suggested.
Pat shook his head.
“No, Mr. Mallory. The rod was set to cancel 118 pounds. The bag weighed less than twenty. It will go miles beyond the reach of any airplane before it settles into an orbit around earth.”
“Well, there goes my dreamed-of fortune,” I said sadly. “Accompanied by the fading strains of an unplayed wedding march. I’m sorry, Joyce.”
“Isn’t there one thing you folks are overlooking?” asked Sandy Thomas. “My goodness, you’d think we had lost our last cent just because that little old bag flew away!”
“For your information,” I told her, “that is precisely what happened to me. My entire bank account vanished into the wild blue yonder. And some of Pat’s money, too.”
“But have you forgotten,” she insisted, “that we won the race? Of course the track officials were a wee bit suspicious when your suitcase took off. But they couldn’t prove anything. So they paid me the Gold Stakes prize. If we split it four ways, we all make a nice little profit.
“Or,” she added, “if you and Joyce want to make yours a double share, we could split it three ways.
“Or,” she continued hopefully, “if Pat wants to, we could make two double shares, and split it fifty-fifty?”
From the look in Pat’s eyes I knew he was stunned by this possibility. And from the look in hers, I felt she was going to make every effort to take advantage of his bewilderment.
So, as I said before, what this country needs is a good cigar-shaped spaceship. There’s a fortune waiting somewhere out in space for the man who can go out there and claim it. Seventy thousand bucks in cold, hard cash.
Indubitatiously!
TROUBLE ON TYCHO
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station’s existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
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