Helen LaTour had the best hip wriggle in
galactic Burleyque. In fact, it was so good she
hipped herself smack into another dimension!...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I was relaxin' with my second Plutonian Stinger in the dignified
atmosphere of Charley's Venusian Retreat when there was this strange
noise outside the dive, like a flock of hot jets hittin' the
atmosphere. Right after a character comes bustin' through the door.
He looks behind him, scared-like, wipin' his forehead with a
handkerchief as big as one of Charley's tablecloths, only cleaner. He
stops near my table.
"I beg your pardon, would you mind if I joined you?"
"Listen, buster, if you got a ulterior motif, such as a touch, you kin
hop a jet, and--" I starts. Then I get a really good look, and hear
myself sayin', "Hey, you don't look so good. Maybe you better sit down."
"Thank you, oh thank you very much," he says, floppin' onto one of
Charley's flexible plastic stools.
"Well, I guess I kin maybe be a sucker and go fer just one," I says,
while he is still mutterin' somethin' to hisself. "Waiter! Hey, mug!" I
turns back to the little fella, feelin' real expansive, like they say.
"What'll be your pleasure, buster?"
"Oh, but please allow me."
Well, this is a new angle--a panhandler puttin' hisself on the pan.
But far be it from me to refuse a barroom curtsy, so I orders another
Jupiter sling.
"I'll have two of those drinks on your tray," the little guy pipes up
to the waiter. And the mug, who is also one of Charley's best bouncers,
almost drops his load.
"Hey, mister, these here's Plutonian stingers," the waiter yells.
"Y'know what's in them things, fella?" I chimes in. "They get ground
vesicantus herbs from Pluto, and--"
"Oh, what difference does it make?" The little guy looked mournful.
"He'll get me sooner or later, and then--"
"He?" Maybe I had this little guy all wrong. Maybe he was a nut that
had decided to bolt.
"Yes. Perhaps you heard that heat ray gun being discharged, just as I
came in."
"Oh. So that's what them noises was."
"Yes. Wherever I go, _he_ shoots at me. Waits for me to leave the
building, and then shoots at me."
"Well, mister, again it's none a my business, but--if you're carryin'
any asteroids around--they kin be cashed anywhere. Lots of guys would
take pot shots at ya."
"Oh, Luigi isn't interested in my--money."
"Luigi?" That name sent shudders goin' around my curvature.
"Precisely." He gives with a long sigh. "I've been dodging him for some
time now."
"Mister," I says, "everybody knows what a dangerous guy Luigi is. Why,
they got his mug on the wanted wall in every space station from here to
the outer galaxies."
"Yes, I presume they have."
"I figure one of these days the cops is gonna pin enough on him to
make him look like a astronavigator's space map," I adds.
"Oh, I doubt if the space control will ever have the opportunity to
apprehend him here on Venus. This is still a wild, mostly unsettled
planet, you know. And besides, Luigi is too smart," says this little
guy, like he knows Luigi personal.
"Yeh, he sure is. Uh--what's he got on you?"
* * * * *
The little guy reaches over like he doesn't know he's takin' the
Plutonian stinger right from under me nose, and says sort of
thoughtful-like, "He thinks I stole his girl."
"Yeh. Yeh, sure, that would make _any_ fella ma--" I starts, then it
seeps through, and I looks at this little, skinny, runty guy, only I
can't laugh.
"Oh, I didn't of course. But the fact that she was last seen entering
my apartment, and that she never left it, at least not visibly--well,
that makes it terribly difficult to convince him--"
"Now wait a minute--"
"Oh, I don't expect anyone to believe me, anymore. Sometimes I find it
hard to believe myself."
"D-do you know who Luigi's gal is?" I finally stutters.
"Was," he corrects, mournful-like. This sort of scared me. Either
this guy was the kind of crank they never use to wind up a cold jet,
or women had changed a lot since the last time I enriched my culture
by attending a performance of Flossie's Follies at the Little Venus
Circuit Burly-que.
"Mister, I ain't lookin' fer no trouble," I mutters, edgin' back on my
stool.
"Oh, but I assure you, I'm telling the truth."
"Helen LaTour, the terrific blonde," I says, meaningful-like.
"The same!"
"The queen of the burly circuit," I goes on, without realizin' that I
am stretched halfway across the table, shoutin' into his ear because
of a slight argument going on down the bar. "The most luscious hunk of
stuff that ever shook a notion to go on the stage," I enlarges. "Right
out of this world," I finishes up. "Right?"
"Precisely. Right out of this world."
"In your apartment?"
"In my apartment."
Now, I figures that maybe he was one of these here not-so-juvenile
delinquents what believes that if they can't have it, they can at least
kill it, so I starts edgin' away, but then I gets a sudden thought.
"You sure the cops ain't on your trail, bud?"
"No, but if Luigi doesn't get me, it's only a matter of time until they
will be. After all, anyone such as her, disappearing--"
"I thought she was out of town."
"No. Just out of this world."
Them words take on a sinister-like significance, the way he says them.
Then he gets up, sober-lookin' in spite of them Plutonian stingers that
would of disintegrated even a Martian.
"If you wouldn't mind running the risk, I'd appreciate your company.
I'm going back to my place now. The--ah--refreshments here lack the
needed stimulation. I have a much better supply home."
Now, maybe it was that stinger and the Uranus delight, because under
ordinary circumstances I would turn down such a invite from a guy who
is no doubt a no-orbit meteorite. But then I realize--he's invitin' me
to his apartment where, accordin' to _his_ story, the luscious LaTour,
queen of the strip world, has not been seen since. So I gives in.
* * * * *
When we reaches his apartment, he snaps on the lights, like he was
nervous somebody might be hidin' inside, and locks the door tight. I
watch close. He leaves the key in the lock, which makes me feel some
easier.
He has quite a nice little joint. Not gaudy, but nice. He goes to one
bookshelf, presses a button, and a shelf slides back. Inside, he's got
enough wiggle-water to fill all the Martian canals and irrigate the
Moon.
Well, we're heisting a couple, and then he starts talkin' like we was
never interrupted.
"Please forgive me for not introducing myself sooner, but under the
circumstances--My name is Timothy J. Brown, M.D., Ph.D., M.A. and A.B."
"Oh. Well, me monicker is Benjamin Spelvin, but you kin call me Benny."
"Very well--uh--Benny. I am, you see, a psychiatrist."
"Oh, yeh. But you'd never be able to figure _me_ out, Doc. I got so
many bumps on my head from hittin' th' anti-gravitational screens on
the jets during free fall--"
He laughs. "No, that would be a phrenologist you're thinking of,
Benny. I'm concerned mainly with psychological abnormalities and
mal-adjustments of the psyche. I'm also known as something of an expert
in the more physical science of phenomenology," he adds modest-like.
Now all this adds up to minus zero to me, but I'm sittin' in a
comfortable apartment in the better section of Venus, I got me a
glass of Uranus Number Eight, Vintage 2480, so I lets the little
fellow ramble on. Finally I says, "Uh, Mister--uh, Doc, you was sayin'
somethin' about Helen LaTour, the strip--"
"Oh, oh yes, I was coming to that. Well, now--uh, where was I? Oh,
yes ... Benny, these were the events that brought me, a modest
scientist, into contact with this Luigi and that--uh--delectable
creature, Miss Helen LaTour. And I'll leave it to you to decide for
yourself that I am telling the truth."
* * * * *
Not so long ago (the Professor starts out) I was visited here by a
rather attractive young woman who told me her name was Helen LaTour.
It is true, she had called me first on the telescreen, and at the sight
of that lovely--um--face, obviously mirroring distress, I assumed that,
having heard of my reputation she had sought me out for--um--treatment.
Still, it was rather--um--disturbing to me to be interrupted by this
beautiful young woman while I was in the midst of my studies.
"I'm grateful to you fer seein' me, P'fessor, honest I am," she
began, seating herself immediately, and crossing her--um--quite shapely
legs ... er, limbs, that is.
"Well, Miss--uh--LaTour, wasn't it?"
"Yeah. Helen LaTour. You heard of me 'way up here on Venusian Heights?"
"The--ah--name has a familiar ring. But I must remind you, I have
restricted my practice to native Venusians."
"Yeah, sure, Doc. Still, I figured you, bein' an Earth man, and me a
Earth woman, well--patriotism...."
Her eyes were indeed lovely, gazing at me so appealingly, and
I must confess she aroused my--um--sense of Earthy--that is,
Earthy--um--patriotism.
"Uh--just what can I do for you, Miss LaTour?"
"I dunno yet, doc. I'm happy in my work. I got a swell boy friend,
name of Luigi, maybe you heard of him? No? Well, I got no reason to be
unhappy, and yet--"
"Just a moment, please. What is your work?"
"Doc, I been known in the strip tease game as the Queen of the Solid
Shake."
"You are--er--a night club dancer?"
"Night clubs? Nah, I never leave the boards, Doc. I got my own circuit,
my agent takes good care of my bookings, and my wardrobe is the envy of
ingenues from Mercury to Pluto."
"You--act?"
"Yeah. Plenty of action, Doc."
"Just what type of--er--roles do you play?"
"I'm a tease artist, Doc. I take it off. Strip."
Every word this remarkable young lady uttered was punctuated by the
most fluid and expressive movements of her--um--agile--um--body, but I
must confess I was becoming more and more--er--confused.
"Want a demonstration?"
By now, I had begun to gather what she meant, and hastily asserted that
such a procedure would be unnecessary.
"Well, Doc, I'm solid sender, see? Hep with the jet.... Right out of
this world."
"Yes?"
"That's just the trouble. I _been_ right out of this world."
"You have dreams?"
"I dunno. Lemme explain. I'm opening next week after a layoff on
Earth, see? Them Earthmen are gettin' sorta tame, but we figure these
Venusians will appreciate what I got to offer when they come in after a
long, muggy day at them cold uranium mines, see?"
I commented that I had made some notations about the working conditions
of the native Venusians comparing them, especially atmospherically, to
the phenomenon of what is known on Earth as ACM--ancient, California
smog.
"Yeah, sure, sure, Doc. Well, they got the whole show at the Little
Venus Theater built around my number. I got my whole new wardrobe, with
the special anti-gravity zippers, some classy plastic bubbles, and a
special arrangement cooked up by Ziggy, the trumpeter from Mercury.
They're billing me tops, and I figured out a routine that's a sure
sensation. I been practicing it all during my vacation.
"I even been holding off Luigi so I could practice," Miss LaTour said.
"Luigi--that's your boy friend's name?"
"Yeah," she laughed, and added, "I been practicin' by myself so much he
thinks I been cheatin' on him." She winked her lovely eye at me.
"Well, you should see this number," she said. "It begins with me
wigglin' like this."
* * * * *
She began to swing about the room. I had to confess to myself that,
standing there, her dark eyes flashing, her long, rather--uh--shapely
legs, and--um--well, it was obvious that if anyone were better
qualified to interpret love, I had never seen it. But as I observed her
closely, she seemed truly agitated.
"Why, I even learned a couple of new languages, so I could sing a part
of my song in each language--one from each planet."
"Er--I believe we can dispense with that."
"But that's just it, Doc. I gotta tell you about it. It's all sort of
symbolic, see? A sort of United Planets number. The idea is that all of
the planets are held together by love, real, solid love, the kind that
grips you."
It was most apparent to me at that juncture that her--um--talents
_were_ of the--um--gripping variety.