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[Illustration: Illustrator: Charles Berger]


BELLY LAUGH

By IVAR JORGENSEN


    _You hear a lot of talk these days about secret weapons. If it's not
    a new wrinkle in nuclear fission, it's a gun to shoot around corners
    and down winding staircases. Or maybe a nice new strain of bacteria
    guaranteed to give you radio-active dandruff. Our own suggestion is
    to pipe a few of our television commercials into Russia and bore the
    enemy to death._

    _Well, it seems that Ivar Jorgensen has hit on the ultimate engine
    of destruction: a weapon designed to exploit man's greatest
    weakness. The blueprint can be found in the next few pages; and as
    the soldier in the story says, our only hope is to keep a sense of
    humor!_


Me? I'm looking for my outfit. Got cut off in that Holland Tunnel
attack. Mind if I sit down with you guys a while? Thanks. Coffee? Damn!
This is heaven. Ain't seen a cup of coffee in a year.

What? You said it! This sure is a hell of a war. Tough on a guy's feet.
Yeah, that's right. Holland Tunnel skirmish. Where the Ruskies used that
new gun. Uhuh. God! It was awful. Guys popping off all around a guy and
him not knowing why. No sense to it. No noise. No wound. Just popping
off.

That's the trouble with this war. It won't settle down to a routine.
Always something new. What the hell chance has a guy got to figure
things out? And I tell you them Ruskies are coming up with new weapons
just as fast as we are. Enough to make your hair stand on end.

Sugar? Christ, yes! Ain't seen sugar for a year. You see, it's like
this: we were bottled up in the pits around the Tunnel for seven damn
days. It was like nothing you ever saw before. Oops--sorry. Didn't mean
to splash you. I was laughing about something that happened there--to a
guy. Maybe you guys would get a kick out of it. After all, we got to
keep our sense of humor.

You see, there was me and a Kentucky kid named Stillwell in this pit--a
pretty big pit with lots of room--and we were all alone. This Stillwell
was a nice kid--green and lonesome and it's pretty sad, really, but
there's a yak in it, and--as I say--we got to keep a sense of humor.

Well, this Stillwell--a really green kid--is unhappy and just plain
drooling for his gal back home. He talks about his mother, of course,
and his old man, but it's the girl that's really on his mind as you guys
can plainly understand.

He's seeing her every place--like spots in front of his eyes--nice spots
doing things to him, when this Ruskie babe shows up.

My gun came up without any orders from me just as she poked her puss
over the edge of the pit, and--huh? Oh, thank you kindly. It sure tastes
good but I don't want to short you guys. Thank you kindly.

Well, as I was saying, this Ruskie babe pokes her nose over the edge of
the pit and Stillwell dives and knocks down my gun. He says, "You
son-of-a-bitch!" Just like that. Wild and desperate, like you'd say to a
guy if the guy was just kicking over the last jug of water on a desert
island.

It would have been long enough for her to kill us if I hadn't had good
reflexes. Even then, all I had time to do was knock the pistol out of
her hand and drag her into the pit.

With her play bollixed, she was confused and bewildered. She ain't a
fighter, and she sits back against the wall staring at us dead pan with
big expressionless eyes. She's a plenty pretty babe and I could see
exactly what had happened as far as Stillwell was concerned. His spots
had come to life in very adequate form so to speak.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stillwell goes over and sits down beside her and I'm very much on the
alert, because I know where his courage comes from. But I decide it's
all right, because I see the babe is not belligerent, just confused kind
of. And friendly.

And willing. Kind of a whipped-little-dog willing, and man oh man! She
was sure what Stillwell needed.

They kind of went together like a hand and a glove--natural-like. And
it followed--pretty natural--that when Stillwell got up and led her
around a wing of the pit, out of sight, she went willing--like that same
little dog.

Uhuh. No, you guys. Two's enough. I wouldn't rob you. Well, okay, and
thanks kindly.

Well, there I was, all alone, but happy for Stillwell, cause I know it's
what the kid needs, and in spots like that what difference does it make?
Yank--Ruskie--Mongolian--as long as she's willing.

Then, you guys, Stillwell comes back out--wall-eyed--real
wall-eyed--like being hit but not knocked out and still walking. I know
what it is--some kind of shock. I get up and walk over and take a look
at the babe where he'd left her--and I bust out laughing. I told you
guys there was a yak in this. I laughed like a fool--it was that funny.
As much as I had time to, before Stillwell cracked. It was enough to
crack him--the little thing that pushes a guy over the edge.

He lets out a yell and screams, "For crisake! For crisake! Nothing but a
bucket of bolts! Nothing but a couple of plastic lumps--"

That was when I hit him. I had to. He was for the birds, Stillwell was.
An hour later we got relieved and a couple of medicos carried him away
strapped to a stretcher--gone like a kite.

They took the robot too, and its clothes, but they forgot the brassiere,
so I took it and I been carrying it ever since, but I'll leave it with
you guys if you want--for the coffee. Might make you think about home.
After all, like the man says, we got to keep our sense of humor.

Well, so long, you guys--and thanks.




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ April-May 1953.
    Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
    copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
    typographical errors have been corrected without note.