LITMIR.BIZ

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all joking aside, Spink,” the news analyst says dolefully, “you don’t expect this to work.”

      “Of courst!” I says emphatically. “You forget the first man to reach New Mu was a Spink. A Spink helped Columbus wade ashore in the West Indies. The first man to invent a road-map all citizens could unfold and understand was a Spink.”

      Zmorro turns to Zahooli and Wurpz. “Don’t ask us anythin’!” they yelp in unison. “You would only git a silly answer.”

      “A world inside of a world you said once, Spink. Ha—”

      “Is that impossible? You have seen those ancient sailing ships built inside of a bottle, Mr. Zmorro,” I says.

      He paws at his dome and takes a hyperbenzadrine tablet. “Well, thank you, Septimus Spink. And have a good trip.”

      It is Friday. We climb up the ladder and into the Magnificent Mole. “Check everything,” I says to Wurpz. “You are the sub-strata astrogator.”

      “Rogeria. I hope this worm can turn,” Wurpz says.

      *

      Zahooli checks the instruments. We don’t put on space suits, but have a pressure chamber built in to insure against the bends. I wave good-bye to the citizens outside and close the door.

      “I have got to git out,” D’Ambrosia Zahooli says and heads for the door. “I forgot somethin’.”

      “Huh?”

      “I forgot to resign,” he says, and I pull a disintegrator Betsy on him and tell him to hop back to the controls.

      “Awright, we have computed the masses of fuel we need. Stand by for the takeoff—er, takedown. Eight seconds. Seven—Six—Five—Four—”

      “I know now my mother raised one idiot,” Zahooli says.

      “Three seconds—two seconds—one second!” I go on. “Awright, unload the pile in one and three tubes! Then when we have gone about five hundred miles, give us the radium push.”

      Whir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-o-o-om! The Mole shudders like a citizen looking at his income tax bite and then starts boring. There is a big bright light all around us, changing color every second, then there is a sound like all the pneumatomic drills in all the universe is biting through a thousand four-inch layers of titanium plate. And with it is a rumble of thunder from all the electric storms since the snake bit Cleopatra. In less than five seconds we turn on the oxygen just in case, and I jump to the instrument panel and look at the arrow on a dial.

      “Hey,” I yell, “we are makin’ a thousand miles per hour through the ground!”

      “Don’t look through the ports,” Wurpz says. “In passin’ I saw an angleworm three times the size of a firehose, and a beetle big enough to saddle.”

      “Git into the compression chamber quick,” I says to him. “You are gettin’ hallucinations.”

      I turn on the air conditioning as it gets as humid in the Mole as in the Amazon jungle during the dog days. The boring inner spaceship starts screeching like a banshee.

      I look at the instrument panel again and see we are close to being seven thousand miles down, and all at once the gauges show we are out of energy. I look out the port and see a fish staring in at me, and a crab with eyes like two poached eggs swimming in ketchup.

      Then we are going through dirt again and all of a sudden we come out of it and I see a city below us all lit up and the buildings are made of stuff that looks like jade run through with streaks of black.

      The Mole drops down about a thousand more feet and then hits the floor of the subterranean city and we land like a fountain pen with its point slammed into the top of a lump of clay. Bo-o-o-o-i-ing! We twang like a plucked harp string for nearly five minutes and I hit my noggin against the pilot’s seat.

      When I pick up my marbles I look around for either an Elysium field or a slag heap but instead a creep is staring down at me. He looks part human and part beetle and has a face the color of the meat of an avocado. His head is shaped like a pear standing on its stem and has two eyes spaced about six inches apart and they are as friendly as those of a spitting cobra irked by hives. He is about four feet tall and has two pairs of arms. I guess I am still a little delirious or I would not have told the thing he would make a swell paper hanger.

      The subterranean creep throws a fit and belts me with four fists. “Dummkopf!” it says, and then I really get scared as he has got a lop of hair falling down over one eye and has a black mustache the size of a Venutian four centra stamp over his mouth which is like that of a pouting goldfish.

      I get to my feet and grab for a railing, and I see Wurpz and Zahooli held by two other monsters that look more like beetles than the one standing beside me.

      “Zo!” the creep with the mustache says. “It is a surprise I talk Universa? We have radar and telepathometers that give us everything that is said in the upper world.”

      I think back and try not to. In the hermetically sealed cylinder back upstairs among my Americana Spink I have some photographs, Circa 1945. One is of a citizen of old Nazi Germany who was supposed to have cremated himself in a bunker. Papers there record that my forebear, Cyril Spink, had his doubts at the time.

      “I am the Neofeuhrer, Earthman,” this creep says. “I will conquer the universe.”

      “Look,” I says, pawing beads of sweat as big as the creep’s eyes from my brow, “have you been testin’ atom bombs and worse down here?”

      “Jar.”

      “There, I knew Professor Zalpha was off the beam,” I yelp at Wurpz. “This is what is causin’ the earthquakes.”

      “Come, schwine,” the creep says. “I will show you something. The tomb of my ancestor. Then to the museum to show you how he arrived in Subterro in the year 1945. This is the city of Adolfus. Mach schnell! Heil Hitler. I am Agrodyte Hitler, grandson of the Liberator.”

      The short hairs on the back of my neck start crawling down my spine. We leave the Mole and walk along a big square paved with a mineral we never saw upstairs. Thousands of inhabitants of Subterro hiss at us and click their long black fingers. We walk up a long flight of steps and come to a cadaver memorial and on the front there are big letters and numerals in what looks like bloodstone that says: ADOLPH HITLER. 1981.

      “Jar, Earthmen, mortal enemies of Subterro’s hero, you thought he did not escape, hah? Come, we go to the museum.”

      We do. In a glass case is an antique U-boat. “I can’t believe it,” I says to Zahooli.

      “Neither do I. We never took off. They have us locked up in the booby hatch in Metropolita. We went nuts.”

      “He escaped in a submarine, bringing three of Nazi Germany’s smartest scientists with him. He brought plans showing us he could split the atom. He brought working models.” The creep laughs mockingly. “We have certain elements down here also. Puranium, better than your uranium. And pitchblende Plus Nine. It will power our fleet of submarines that will conquer Earth. It is nearly der tag! We will leave through the underground river that our benefactor found three miles below the surface of the ocean near Brazil. It spirals down through this earth and empties into Lake Schicklegruber eighty miles from here.”

      “And Hitler took one of those Subterro dames as a mate, huh,” I says. “It figures. He was not human himself.”

      I get another cuffing around but I am too punchy already to feel anything. The next thing I know I am in the Subterro clink with Wurpz and Zahooli. D’Ambrosia says maybe we will get released from the strait jackets soon and get shock treatments and find ourselves back in Metropolita in our favorite night spot.

      “We have to be dreamin’ this,” I keep telling myself. The guard looks in at us and he has little slanting eyes.

      “How did Jap beetles get here?” I ask Wurpz. I shiver. I think of all the Subterro

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