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Title: The agent

Author: Stephen Marlowe

Illustrator: Mort Lawrence
        Leo Manso


        
Release date: June 21, 2026 [eBook #78912]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Stratford Novels Inc., 1953

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78912

Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AGENT ***




                               The Agent

                           by Stephen Marlowe
                      [Pseudonym of Milton Lesser]




  _There’s no business like show business! You do one-night stands in
  one-horse villages. You sleep in flea-bitten rooming houses, eat
  sandwiches three times a day, ride from town to town in creaking
  busses whose springs went out with Coolidge...._

  _And all the time you have your eyes on a dream that keeps slipping
  over the horizon, and one day you wake up with no more bookings and
  you realize that maybe you’ll never catch up to your dream. But then
  you meet a dark little man who promises to make you a star without
  even looking at you twice! It sounds too good to be true...._

  _It sounds out of this world...._


[Illustration: Illustrator: Mort Lawrence]




I wasn’t exactly the best crooner in the business, but I could sing,
and they even told me I could make the dames’ hearts palpitate if I
tried hard enough. It wasn’t my fault that I was out of a job just now,
and not too far from trying to bum a meal.

So when I ran into Vera and Vera told me she had a job, I felt hopeful.
Vera was an old timer on the stage, and now she had begun to sag in the
wrong places--but she still insisted on lead-roles. The result was that
Vera lost more weight than a dame with six months at a slenderizing
salon behind her, and she was even hungrier than me.

“Mike,” she said, “I got a job. Placed by a new agent. I never even
heard of the guy, he comes outa nowhere. But he got me a job and the
pay’s good and I start soon.”

“Honey,” I said, “you just tell Mike all about it. Who is this guy?” I
wanted to meet him--if he could place Vera, he could place anybody.

At this point, Vera noticed I, too, could use a few vitamins, so she
bought me a hot dog. I overflowed the bun with mustard and sauerkraut,
and then I said: “Well, where do I find him?”

“He--it’s kinda a different sort of office, Mike. I’m going out there
now.”

I gulped the last chunk of bun. “Vera, you need a chaperon. Let’s go,
eh?”

Vera nodded, and I didn’t even realize that she sagged in the wrong
places. She looked beautiful.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a stupid place for an office. I wondered how the guy could do
business out here in the sticks. But I couldn’t complain. He had given
Vera the taxi fare and the trip took two hours--out into Pennsylvania
somewhere, and the place was so deserted, there wasn’t even a telegraph
pole. But this office stood out there in the middle of all that
wilderness, a big round barn of a place with a pasteboard sign out
front. The sign said:

  QUONTAS QUORON: _Theatrical Agent_

  WANT A JOB? I CAN PLACE YOU.

Then, in smaller print:

  _No experience necessary._

Vera squeezed my arm as we got out of the taxi. “See?” she said.

“Honey,” I said, “I wanna meet this guy.”

The door of the big, round barn was high up off the ground, and we had
to walk up a ramp to reach it. When we got inside, we weren’t alone.
There was a big room, swanky as hell, with indirect lighting and plush
seats all around. This guy Quoron sure had the shekels. Maybe twenty
people were sitting around, waiting, and because I’ve been around in
this game a long time, I knew most of them. I didn’t exactly teach Rudy
Vallee how to sing, but I’m no youngster.

Here was just about the weirdest collection of theatrical has-beens. I
saw them all--the would-be Shakespearean hams, the musical comedy stars
who were on the way out when Oklahoma was nothing more than a state,
the ventriloquists, singers, sword-swallowers, bearded ladies--everyone
who had ever been on a stage and couldn’t get back on one.

This Quoron was no dud, and word got around.

I said hello to a few people, but I kept it selective; I couldn’t be
associating with the riffraff of the profession who would wind up in a
tank-town carnival somewhere, if Quoron could place them. He may have
been a miracle man, but sword-swallowers were as passé as ragtime.

We all waited and I swallowed nervously each time I looked at the
little door marked “Quontas Quoron, Private.” My courage soared up
and down like an express elevator. Every time I thought of how hard
jobs were to get, I shuddered. But when I looked at sagging Vera and
realized Quoron had placed her, I felt much better.

It was like the scene after the big act which leaves everyone gasping
when the guy finally came out. I mean, we waited so long that we didn’t
know what to expect, and when the little guy came out it was sort of a
letdown.

“I am Meldon Quoron,” he said, “Quontas’ brother. He’ll be along soon.
Meanwhile....”

He went into the old familiar spiel about jobs being hard to get and
placement being necessary in out-of-the-way places, but I didn’t give a
damn. If he got me a job, I didn’t care if it was in Squedunk--as long
as he paid the carfare.

He was a little guy, almost as big around the middle as he was tall,
and in his dark blue--almost black--suit he looked like a bowling ball.
But his face was ridiculous--I noticed that now. The body was short and
plump--he could make Costello look like Charles Atlas, but the face was
angular. It was more than that--it was elongated. I never saw anything
like it. His chin was long, narrow and pointed, and his nose could have
been a small white salami. Then, at the top, his head started to come
to a point; at least it looked that way, but it probably was the way he
combed his hair. And anyway, this was stupid as hell. Here I was, out
of a job, and unconsciously making fun of the guy who could maybe get
me one.

I nudged Vera. “Ever see this guy before?”

She shook her head. “No. I dealt directly with his brother, but they
look alike. Quontas is a little older, and fatter, and with a skinnier
face. You’ll see him soon.”

“...and so,” Meldon was saying, “acting is pretty much like any other
job, and jobs are hard to come upon. If there were too many shoemakers
in this town, and if you were a shoemaker, you’d go someplace else.
That’s the general idea....”

This guy Meldon seemed amiable enough, but he could have gone on all
day, and I was glad when his brother came out. Like Vera said, he was
shorter and fatter and he had a face even more elongated, like a big
yam.

He was preceded by a secretary. She must have been a secretary or she
wouldn’t have been in front of him with a pad and pencil in her hand,
but she would have made the girls at the old Minsky’s turn green with
envy. Vera looked her up and down and then sniffed.

“Cheap-looking hussy,” she observed.

Preoccupied, I said yeah. But I’ve been around, and this dame had it.

The girl’s voice could have got her a job in the top Broadway musical,
and even when she spoke it sounded like singing. “Mr. Quoron,” she
said, “is ready to see you. One at a time.”

Quontas Quoron bowed, and then he stepped back into his office, and the
secretary said:

“Who’s first?”

A little guy in one of the seats near the door got up, and a seal,
oinking like he had just seen a bathtub full of fish, followed him into
Quoron’s private office.

In less than a minute, the guy and the seal came out. Meldon was still
talking, droning on about how hard it was to get jobs, but no one was
listening. This time I didn’t even hear the seal oinking, because the
little guy said, “I got the job! I got the job!”

He must have been out of work even longer than me.

       *       *       *       *       *

That went on for twenty minutes. Someone went inside, and a moment
later, he came out, smiling and nodding his head. No one was turned
down; everyone got a job.

Meldon was still talking when I walked past the secretary into his
brother’s office. Quontas Quoron sat at a big desk with a bottle of
liquor in front of him.

“Drink?” he said.

I nodded and he poured me a stiff one. I downed it fast and a hot dog
doesn’t exactly fill your stomach, so the liquor went to my head pretty
quick. And the odd part of it was that I had had a lot of drinks in
my day, but I couldn’t place this one. It wasn’t bourbon, but it was
more like bourbon than either Scotch or rye, and I shrugged. I wasn’t
going to be impolite, and maybe Quoron made home brew. I wouldn’t be
surprised at anything.

“What do you do?” he said.

“I sing. If you want. I can show you clippings from _Variations_. I’ve
been around, Mr. Quoron, and most of the reviews are good. If you want
I should sing now....”

I began to tune up my voice, but Quoron only looked irritated. “No,” he
said. “Please. It won’t be necessary.”

I shrugged. If he wanted to put me on without an audition, I wasn’t
going to argue.

Now he smiled, and his elongated head nodded up and down. “I’m sure
you’ll do,” he told me. “There’s no need for an--audition. There’s only
one thing....”

I frowned. There had to be a catch in all this. A guy just doesn’t
go around hiring everyone who comes looking for a job, placing them
without an audition. Not in these hard times.

I sighed. “Okay, Mr. Quoron. What’s the rub?”

“Rub?”

“Gimmick. Gimmick. What’s the gimmick?”

“Eh?”

This guy was a rube. “I mean, what do I have to do to get the job?”

“Oh. You don’t have to do anything. Simply sign this.”

He handed me a sheet of paper. I looked at it. Some kind of contract
no doubt--and again I frowned. Long legalities always confused me. But
here, happily, there only were a few lines, and I scanned them rapidly.

  I hereby agree to accept the job which my agent, Quontas Quoron, has
  for me, and I further agree that the location of the position is of
  no consequence. It is understood, of course, that Quontas Quoron and
  his brother will provide means of transportation.

I smiled. “Hell, is that all?”

Quoron nodded and handed me a pen. “A pleasure,” I said, and signed the
paper with a flourish. Then I waited.

“There is something else, Mr. Hennesy?” Quoron demanded, looking at my
signature.

I was a little dubious, and my face must have showed it. “Yeah. Yeah,
there is. First, how much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do I get paid?”

“Umm. That’s hard to say. It will be up to my client. But the important
thing now is that I can guarantee you good living quarters and good
food.”

My stomach gurgled. He was right--that _was_ the important thing. “But
one more thing,” I said. “How can you have this job for me without
hearing my singing and without even contacting anyone about me? Er, you
don’t mind the question, do you?”

Quoron shrugged. “No. Why should I mind? I can assure you this: there
is a great demand for your talent, and the job is a certainty. Any
further questions?”

I shook my head.

“All right, Mr. Hennesy, just wait outside in the sitting-room with the
others.”

Outside, I sat in the plush chair next to Vera. “See?” she said. “What
did I tell you? You got the job, didn’t you? As easy as pie. I’ll bet
the Quoron brothers will be the top agents in the business pretty soon.”

I nodded. Little Meldon was still talking about how hard it was to get
jobs, and I wondered for a moment why he wanted to impress that on us
so much. But then I shrugged, especially when the gorgeous secretary
brought about refreshments for everybody. And this was surprising--the
stuff looked like little cubes of candy, and you sucked on it like
candy, only it tasted like filet mignon. But I wasn’t complaining.

Meldon could talk all he wanted to. I wouldn’t complain a bit. They had
a job for me, and that’s what counted.

Presently the last of the hopefuls came dancing out of Quoron’s office,
his ventriloquist-dummy riding jauntily on his shoulder. The dummy’s
head bobbed up and down, and the dummy said, in a high, squeaky voice.
“We’re hired. I don’t know what they want with my lousy sidekick here,
but we’re hired.”

I fidgeted about against the plush cushions. “Well, what do we do,
just wait?” I directed the question at no one in particular, but Vera
nodded. Vera had taken me to her sagging bosom, it seemed, since she
had given me wind of this agency, and I didn’t mind at all. If she were
fifteen years younger, I could have loved the gal.

“Of course we wait,” she said. “We don’t want to be impolite.”

For the first time, I noticed that there were no windows in the
building. That struck me as strange, but I hardly had time to think
about it. A buzzer sounded and a red light glowed above Quontas
Quoron’s door.

Meldon’s head jerked up. He muttered, “That’s all this trip, I
suppose.” And he disappeared inside his brother’s office.

Then I jerked upright in my chair, and Vera screamed. A great peal of
thunder ripped through the building, and the whole structure shuddered.

I patted Vera’s hand. “Take it easy, honey. It’s only a summer storm.
Relax.”

But that thunder had been close; I could still feel the structure
shuddering. And then, suddenly, I was slammed back hard in my seat like
some invisible giant had pushed me with a hand the size of a Greyhound
bus.

“What the hell....” I started to say. But then I couldn’t talk. I could
hardly move and the words wouldn’t come out. I could only move my eyes
around slowly, and everyone was sitting around like I was, paralyzed.

In a little while, the giant hand lifted up. It did more than that--it
lifted and took something with it, because, abruptly, I leaned forward,
and I found myself _floating_ off my plush-cushioned chair. Floating is
the only word I can use, because that’s what I was doing.

There were a lot of screams all around, and I could see most of the
other people floating, too. Even the seal, and he was oinking like
crazy. After a while, I learned. It was almost like swimming, swimming
in water. This was crazy, this couldn’t be happening--but I did a neat
breast-stroke through the air and reached Quoron’s door.

I pounded on it but it was locked, and then I kicked off again with my
feet, but I kicked too hard and I hurtled across the room, bumping into
the far wall like a battering ram. A lot of stars exploded in my head,
and then I felt myself floating down to the floor like a feather, only
I never remember hitting....

I awoke slowly, like you do when you’re having a bad nightmare, and I
tried to shake my head to clear the stars out of it, but I couldn’t.
The giant hand was pressing against my chest again, and I couldn’t move.

No one was floating any more. Everyone was on the floor, stationary,
and Vera looked like she was trying to whimper, only no sound came out.

Then I heard the thunder, booming through the structure once more,
and then, with a gentle bump, the giant hand was gone. I stood up and
brushed my clothing off and, brother, was I furious. I didn’t know what
was going on, but I intended to find out. I almost ran to Quoron’s
door, but it opened before I could reach it, and Quontas Quoron stepped
out.

“Well,” he said, “we have arrived.”

I stuck out my hand and prodded my index finger into his chest to say
something, but there was just nothing to say. I didn’t know what this
was all about. And Quoron walked right by me, heading for the outer
door.

He opened the door and I saw a lot of red light come spilling in, and
when I strode over to the door I saw the craziest damned place....

       *       *       *       *       *

Here on Mars, there are no cities like we have on earth. Instead, they
have these long canals with urban and rural communities stretched out
along them for hundreds of miles. You just keep traveling and traveling
in one direction, and all you see is houses--but look off to the right
or the left, and there’s that rusty desert, a wilderness which would
make the Sahara look like an oasis. These canals give the Martians
water and life on a very thirsty planet. The water famine of 1950 in
New York was a Deluge compared to the constant trouble here. But don’t
get me wrong: I like it here.

Here on Mars, there are no nations like we know them on earth, no
international boundary lines, no wars, warm or cold, no disputes--just
one huge planetary nation, extending along the network of canals.
There’s no time for squabbles: everyone’s too busy keeping warm and
getting enough water to drink. And in one huge network city there’s
an artificial supply of air, because Mars’ atmosphere is too thin to
support a kite. Ever have an oxygen jag? It’s a lot more fun than
bourbon. So I like it here.

And best of all, I like the status of Martian entertainers.... But
before I go further, let me answer your question--yeah, sure, we’re on
Mars.

Quontas Quoron’s “office” was a spaceship: the first earth
interplanetary travelers came to Mars via a theatrical agent. Quontas
Quoron is a Martian.

The most amazing thing is the fact that there _was_ no entertainment
on Mars. Don’t ask me where Quoron got the idea, but it was a natural:
all the Martians are too busy trying to eke out their existence.
They have no music, no plays, no movies, no Minsky’s, no sports, no
television--not even the Martian equivalent, with pointed head, of
course, of Milton Berle.

We couldn’t miss. We were a success overnight, all of us--all except
the poor ventriloquist who can’t do much since he doesn’t know the
language. Instead, he’s started an Actor’s Equity for us, and already
it’s functioning better than it ever did on earth. Mars will do
anything to keep us. We’re wonderful. Everything is still pantomime
because we don’t know the language, but we’re learning it. Even Vera
is a hit. Sagging, dragging, round where she should be flat, and flat
where she should be round, she’s still the answer to a Martian prayer.

Popular? We gave them a pantomime of Romeo and Juliet last night,
and Vera had ’em roaring for more. They don’t applaud on Mars; they
jump up and down, and, because the gravity is lighter here, a lot of
pointy heads almost made a lot of holes in the ceiling of our brand new
theater!

Me? I don’t sing--I can’t until we learn the language, and I’m learning
that fast. Meanwhile, all I do is hum. Ever hear _All the Things You
Are_ hummed to an audience of screaming Martian females? I won’t
comment because I don’t want to sound egotistical but Sinatra should
see me now....

       *       *       *       *       *

Tonight, Quontas Quoron had a bright idea. He’s taking his ship back to
earth for more talent. Or that is, he thinks he is. But Actor’s Equity
voted him down. He can bring in new talent: but only five people a
year, and theatrical people of our choosing. They’ve got to be out of
work and they’ve got to be guys and gals who won’t conflict. Take me:
one crooner on Mars is enough--we leave for the Northern Hemisphere
tomorrow on the first swing of our Canal Circuit. And I wouldn’t want
to think there’s another crooner here down south while I’m gone. All by
myself I want to melt the ice cap out of every Martian gal’s heart.

Vera just came in. Vera looks radiant, making allowances, of course.
But anyway, it’s all a matter of standards, and these Martian
women, too busy with the nasty matters of water and temperature,
are beauty-starved: as a sideline, Vera is starting a planet-wide
beautician’s organization.

And, as I’ve said, it’s all a matter of standards. Everything is
relative.

Vera looks more beautiful every day, and right now she’s the most
beautiful woman on Mars--that is, discounting Quontas Quoron’s
secretary--but technologically Mars has an advanced culture, and rumor
has it that Quoron’s secretary is a robot.

Pardon me, please. My wife is calling to me from our kitchen.

“What’s that, dear? Tired? Well, why don’t we turn in, Vera?”

You’ll have to excuse us. Tomorrow there’s a matinee. Vera and I will
kill ’em!




Transcriber’s note:


  Milton Lesser changed his legal name to Stephen Marlowe in 1960.
  Before this he used it as an occasional pseudonym.

  This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader,
  April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).

  Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
  minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.


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