William McGivern - The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™ - 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

“Wilbur,” she said sharply, “I want you to meet Miss Elvira Chittling. Miss Chittling, my husband.”

Wilbur nodded and tried to look as if it were a great privilege. Miss Chittling was a huge, lumpy woman with a dull, bovine expression and coarse yellow hair that drooped discouragingly about her sloping shoulders.

She was looking at him appraisingly, he noticed.

“What house?” she asked suddenly.

“H-house,” floundered Wilbur, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, what house were you influenced by,” she repeated in a slightly exasperated voice. “What stellar combinations guide your destiny? Sagittarius, Capricorn, Scorpio—”

“I’m sorry, Elvira.” His wife was acidly apologetic. “My husband knows nothing of astrology. He refused to take lessons with me, refused to avail himself of the guidance of the stars — and look at him! Barely able to keep soul and body together. And as for me,” she stared heavenward like a martyr, “only they know what I’ve been through.”

Wilbur sighed despairingly.

“Who are they ?” he asked.

“The stars,” his wife said, in the voice of one who has learned not to look for intelligence in her listeners. “The stars that guide our destiny know the suffering I’ve seen.”

She bowed her head, and Miss Chittling bowed her head, and Wilbur thought forlornly of his delayed supper.

“Will you excuse me,” he said timidly, “you two girls probably have some er — er — stars stuff to talk over, so I’ll just step—”

“Mr. Wunch,” the lumpy Miss Chittling’s voice disorganized his retreat, “have you ever been cast ?”

“You mean thrown?” Wilbur offered blankly.

“I mean,” Miss Chittling gathered volume and dignity, “have you ever had your horoscope cast?”

“Well, no,” Wilbur admitted.

Miss Chittling surveyed him through narrowed lids and then beckoned imperatively.

“Come here,” she said softly. “Your time has come. The time for the stars to make known to you their will and desires has arrived. Sit beside me.”

“But,” Wilbur protested feelingly, “I don’t care what the stars have in store for me. I want my supper.”

“Wilbur!”

Wilbur flinched at the lash of his wife’s tone. When her voice developed that particular edge, it was no time to quibble.

“All, right,” he said wearily. With a last wistful look in the direction of the kitchen, he seated himself before the hefty figure of Miss Chittling.

She opened a leather portfolio and pulled out a number of sheets of heavy paper with intricate designs and circles drawn upon them. Wilbur noticed a clock-wise arrangement on the largest sheet of paper. It was crisscrossed by a half-dozen lines, and in each division of the circle there was the picture of some animal. Bulls, goats, and other animals that Wilbur couldn’t get a good look at.

“Astrology,” he mumbled.

He noticed that his wife and Miss Chittling looked up rather sharply at him, so he laughed weakly. “Heh, heh. Astrology, great stuff. Fine hobby.”

“Astrology,” Miss Chittling informed him sternly, “is no hobby. [11]Mr. Wunch, I want you to answer some questions for me. First the date of your birth.”

Wilbur told her. He also confided rather reluctantly a number of other things which Miss Chittling digested in somber silence.

“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “Very interesting, very interesting.” Her fingers ran up and down the various charts like plump rabbits chasing one another, finally stopped in one of the divisions of the largest circle. The one with animals, Wilbur noticed.

Miss Chittling then proceeded to take down some figures on a piece of scratch paper, then closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

Wilbur watched her furtively. Her lips were moving, and he could hear her breath whistling through her uneven teeth. She seemed to be mumbling some strange words that made no sense at all to Wilbur. It might be, Wilbur thought, that there was something to this astrology business after all. Maybe—

“ Incredible!” Miss Chittling’s shout blasted through his furtive thoughts.

“It’s incredible, simply incredible,” Miss Chittling repeated again with less volume but considerably more feeling. “In all my years of astrological research I have never encountered a more remarkable phenomenon.”

“Elvira,” Wilhelmina Wunch snapped out the word, “what is it? What is so remarkable about Wilbur’s horoscope?”

Wilbur squirmed uneasily. Maybe he had been tried and found wanting by some unfriendly star.

“It is one of those things,” Miss Chittling informed the world in general and Wilhelmina Wunch in particular, “that occurs but once in millions of years.” She turned to Wilbur. “You are very fortunate, Mr. Wunch, that you have the benefit of this information.”

“Am I?” Wilbur asked without enthusiasm.

“Mr. Wunch,” Miss Chittling said, “amazing things are in store for you. A galaxy of stellar bodies have centered their influence on you, and you will be most susceptible to their effect tomorrow as the sun sets.”

Wilbur tried to appear properly impressed.

“Gosh,” he said. This sounded rather inadequate so he added, “Gee.”

“It is not a light matter,” Miss Chittling informed him sternly. “You must plan now to take advantage of the friendly influence of these myriad stars that have, for some reason, interested themselves in your welfare.”

“That right nice of them,” Wilbur said politely, “but—”

“Oh, Elvira!” his wife cried, “are things really that favorable?”

“I have said,” Miss Chittling replied majestically, “that I have never seen anything like it.”

“Well,” Wilbur said cautiously, “this has been a lot of fun, but I’m kind of hungry now, so I think—”

“You stupid, miserable fool,” his wife blazed at him. “Is that all you can think about? Don’t you realize your own good fortune?”

That was easy.

“No,” said Wilbur, “I don’t.”

Miss Chittling harrumphed herself into the conversation.

“I will try and explain it to you, Mr. Wunch. When one star’s friendly influence is directed toward a person, that person is considered to be extremely fortunate or lucky. That is no doubt the origin of the expression born under a lucky star . But,” Miss Chittling paused to sniff, “there is no such thing as luck, merely stellar intervention in human affairs. But in your case, Mr. Wunch, not one, but millions of stars are interceding on your behalf.”

“What for?” Wilbur asked.

“That, I cannot answer,” Miss Chittling replied with rare modesty, “but I do know, Wilbur Wunch, that tomorrow will be a miraculously fortunate day in your life.”

“That’s fine—”

“If,” Miss Chittling rumbled imperturbably on, “you know how to take advantage of your good fortune.”

“You will help him, won’t you?” Wilhelmina said. “You will be good enough to help him, won’t you, Elvira?”

Wilbur scratched his head.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “If I’m going to be so lucky tomorrow, what do I need any help for?”

Miss Chittling smiled. “Silly boy,” she murmured, “you will be lucky tomorrow, yes. But you need someone to coordinate and concentrate the diffused star-force so that the total effect of its intercession will be felt. I can do this. I can, by special observation and interpretation, combine the loose threads of stellar influence so that your good fortune will be received in one lump, so to speak.”

“How?” asked Wilbur.

“By meteor study,” Miss Chittling declared. “I study the relation of meteorites to star-force to human destiny.”