Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensiveresearch did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication wasrenewed.
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was—whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturdaynight at The Space Room. Ifyou've seen any recent Martiantravel folders, you know the place:"A picturesque oasis of old Martiancharm, situated on the beauteousGrand Canal in the heart ofMarsport. Only half a mile fromhistoric Chandler Field, landingsite of the first Martian expeditionnearly fifty years ago in 1990. Avisitor to the hotel, lunch room orcocktail lounge will thrill at thesight of hardy space pioneers minglingside by side with colorfulMartian tribesmen. An evening atThe Space Room is an amazing,unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect toadd that the most amazing aspect isthe scent of the Canal's stagnantwater—and that the most unforgettableexperience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil"evaporate from yourpocketbook like snow from theGreat Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstandof the candle-lit cocktail lounge.Me—Jimmie Stanley—and myfour-piece combo. Maybe you'veseen our motto back on Earth:"The Hottest Music This Side ofMercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight.Only three. Ziggy, our bassfiddle man, had nearly sliced offtwo fingers while opening a can ofSaturnian ice-fish, thus decreasingthe number of our personnel by atragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, ourboss, was descending upon us withall the grace of an enraged Venusianvinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilledin his nasal tenor. He was almostskeleton thin, like most Martians,and so tall that if he fell down he'dbe half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can'tbe here, but we've called the Marsportlocal for another. He'll be hereany minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred toas Goon-Face and The Eye, leeredcoldly down at me from his eight-foot-three.His eyes were like blackneedle points set deep in a mask ofdry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job,"he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week ourcontract ended. Goon-Face had displayedlittle enough enthusiasm forour music as it was. His commentswere either, "Ees too loud, too fast,"or "Ees too slow, too soft." The realcause of his concern being, I suspected,the infrequency with whichhis cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the newman doesn't come, we're still here.We'll play for you." I glanced atthe conglomeration of uniformedspacemen, white-suited tourists,and loin-clothed natives who sat atancient stone tables. "You wouldn'twant to disappoint your customers,would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees betterdey be deesappointed. Ees betterno museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubleson Martian horn-harp, made afeeble attempt at optimism. "Don'tworry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new