Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

Bailiss grunted, sopped up gravy.

“You’ve been defying public opinion for years now. There might come a time when you’d want good will. My advice to you — after all, your agent only paid $100 for Domino — is to settle with Worth for five hundred.”

Bailiss wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He reached for his hat, put it on, left money on the table, and got up.

“Shoemaker, stick to your last,” he said. Dr. Pierce shrugged. “Make that glass the final one. I want you at the jail tomorrow, early, so we can get the catalogue ready for the big sale next week. Hear?” the old man walked out, paying no attention to the looks or comments his passage caused.

On his horse Bailiss hesitated. The night was rather warm, with a hint of damp in the air. He decided to ride around for a while in the hope of finding a breeze stirring. As the horse ambled along from one pool of yellow gaslight to another he ran through in his mind some phrases for inclusion in his catalogue. Phyllis, prime woman, aged 25, can cook, sew, do fine ironing …

When he had first begun in the trade, three out of every five Negroes had been named Cuffee, Cudjoe, or Quash. He’d heard these were days of the week in some African dialect. There was talk that the African slave trade might be legalized again; that would be a fine thing. But, sho, there was always such talk, on and off.

The clang of a hammer on an anvil reminded him that he was close to Black Micah’s forge. As he rounded the corner he saw Sam Worth’s bandy-legged figure outlined against the light. One of the horses was unhitched from his wagon and awaited the shoe Micah was preparing for it.

A sudden determination came to Bailiss: he would settle with Worth about Domino. He hardly bothered to analyze his motives. Partly because his dinner was resting well and he felt comfortable and unexpectedly benevolent, partly because of some vague notion it would be the popular thing to do and popularity was a good thing to have before and during a big sale, he made up his mind to offer Worth $300—well, maybe he would go as high as $350, but no more; a man had to make some thing out of a trade.

As he rode slowly up to the forge and stopped, the blacksmith paused in his hammering and looked out. Worth turned around. In the sudden silence Bailiss heard another horse approaching.

“I’ve come to settle with you,” the slave trader said. Worth looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot. In a low, ugly voice Worth cussed him, and reached his hand toward his rear pocket. It was obvious to Bailiss what Worth intended, so the slave trader quickly drew his own pistol and fired. His horse reared, a woman screamed — did two women scream? Without his meaning it, the other barrel of his pistol went off just as Worth fell.

“Fo’ gawdsake don’t kill me, Mister Bailiss!” Micah cried. “Are you all right, Miss Elizabeth?” he cried. Worth’s wife and Miss Whitford suddenly appeared from the darkness on the other side of the wagon. They knelt beside Worth.

Bailiss felt a numbing blow on his wrist, dropped his empty pistol, was struck again, and half fell, was half dragged, from his horse. A woman screamed again, men ran up — where had they all come from? Bailiss, pinned in the grip of someone he couldn’t see, stood dazed.

“You infernal scoundrel, you shot that man in cold blood!” Old Major Jack Moran dismounted from his horse and flourished the riding crop with which he had struck Bailiss on the wrist.

“I never — he cussed me — he reached for his pistol — I only defended myself!”

Worth’s wife looked up, tears streaking her heavy face.

“He had no pistol,” she said. “I made him leave it home.”

“You said, ‘I’ve come to get you,’ and you shot him point-blank!” The old Major’s voice trumpeted.

“He tried to shoot Miss Whitford too!” someone said. Other voices added that Captain Carter, the High Sheriff’s chief deputy, was coming. Bodies pressed against Bailiss, faces glared at him, fists were waved before him.

“It wasn’t like that at all!” he cried.

Deputy Carter came up on the gallop, flung the reins of his black mare to eager outthrust hands, jumped off, and walked over to Worth.

“How was it, then?” a scornful voice asked Bailiss.

“I rode up… I says, ‘I’ve come to settle with you’… He cussed at me, low and mean, and he reached for his hip pocket.”

In every face he saw disbelief.

“Major Jack’s an old man,” Bailiss faltered. “He heard it wrong. He—”

“Heard it good enough to hang you!”

Bailiss looked desperately around. Carter rose from his knees and the crowd parted. “Sam’s dead, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Worth’s only reply was a low moan. The crowd growled. Captain Carter turned and faced Bailiss, whose eyes looked at him for a brief second, then turned frantically away. And then Bailiss began to speak anxiously — so anxiously that his words came out a babble. His arms were pinioned and he could not point, but he thrust his head toward the forge where the blacksmith was still standing — standing silently.

“Micah,” Bailiss stuttered. “Ask Micah!”

Micah saw it , he wanted to say — wanted to shout it. Micah was next to Worth, Micah heard what I really said, he’s younger than the Major, his hearing is good, he saw Worth reach …

Captain Carter placed his hand on Bailiss and spoke, but Bailiss did not hear him. The whole night had suddenly fallen silent for him, except for his own voice, saying something (it seemed long ago) to young lawyer Wickerson.

“ It makes no difference what Micah saw! It makes no difference what Micah heard! Micah is property!.. And property can’t testify !”

They tied Bailiss’ hands and heaved him onto his horse.

“He is fettered fast by the most stern bonds our laws take note of…can ’ t inherit — can’t bequeath…can neither sue nor prosecute—”

Bailiss turned his head as they started to ride away. He looked at Micah and their eyes met. Micah knew.

“…it’s basic principle of the law that a slave can never testify in court except against another slave.”

Someone held the reins of old man Bailiss’ horse. From now on he moved only as others directed. The lights around the forge receded. Darkness surrounded him. The necessity of his condition was upon him.

Where I come from in northern Australia, there’s a type of eucalyptus tree that’s called a blue gum . In Avram Davidson’s story “Help! I Am Dr. Morris Goldpepper,” you’ll meet some blue gums of a very different sort.

One of the hallmarks of a first-rate storyteller is that he or she (or it) can begin with the most outlandish premise — something utterly unbelievable — and upon this framework craft a narrative which is so thoroughly plausible that it compels our belief.

“Help! I Am Dr. Morris Goldpepper” offers a uniquely Avramesque premise: Namely, the planet Earth has been invaded by hostile aliens, and the only thing that can save mankind form this dread interstellar menace is the American Dental Association.

Clearly, this story takes place in an alternate universe, in which dentists are selfless dedicated artisans who have pledged themselves to the betterment of humanity. In real life, of course, dentists are a bunch of sadistic ghouls who enjoy torturing innocent people by shoving pneumatic drills into our bicuspids. Even after the drilling has stopped, and the screams turn to silence, dentists continue their reign of sadism by inflicting psychological torture upon us: They try to make us feel guilty for neglecting to floss.