Black Gondolier and Other Stories by Fritz Leiber

him, busy above her traveling case. There was a click and her pinkish skeleton showed through her. It was not quite the same as the skeleton of an Earth human—there were two long bones in the upper arms and upper legs, fewer ribs, but what looked like two tiny skulls in the chest.
    She turned around, not looking at him.
    â€œ You were right, ” she said.
    She said, “Now I’ve got the evidence to put my husband away forever! I can’t wait!”
    She whirled into action, snatching articles of clothing from the floor, chairs and dresser, whipping them into her traveling case. The whole frantic little dance took less than ten seconds. Her hand was on the outside door before she paused.
    She looked at Burton. She put down her traveling case and came over to the bed and sat down beside him.
    â€œPoor Baby,” she said. “I’m going to have to wipe out your memory and yet you were so very clever—I really mean that, Burton.”
    He wanted to object, but he felt paralyzed. She put her arm around him and moved her lips towards his forehead. Suddenly she said, “No, I can’t do that. There’s got to be some reward for you.”
    She bent her head and kissed him pertly on the nose. Then she disengaged herself, hurried to her bag, picked it up, and opened the door.
    â€œBesides,” she called back. “I’d hate you to forget any part of me.”
    â€œHey,” Burton yelled, coming to life, “You can’t go out like that!”
    â€œWhy not?” she demanded.
    â€œBecause you haven’t a stitch of clothes on!”
    â€œOn my planet we don’t wear them!”
    The door slammed behind her. Burton sprang out of bed and threw it open again.
    He was just in time to see the sports car take off—straight up.
    Burton stood in the open door for half a minute, stark naked himself, looking around at the unexploded Earth. He started to say aloud, “Gosh, I didn’t even get the name of her planet,” but his lips were sealed.

THE PHANTOM SLAYER

    His ghastly shadow hung over block upon block of dingy city
    buildings—and his theme song was the nervous surge
    of traffic along infrequent boulevards . . .

    â€œSO THIS is the room?” I said, setting down my cardboard suitcase. The landlord nodded.
    â€œNothing been changed in it since your uncle died.” It was small and dingy, but pretty clean. I took it in. The imitation oak dresser. The cupboard, the bare table. The green-shaded drop light. The easy chair. The kitchen chair. The cast-iron bed. “Except the sheets and stuff,” the landlord added. “They been washed.”
    â€œHe died unexpectedly, didn’t he?” I said in a sort of apologetic voice.
    â€œYeah. In his sleep. You know, his heart.”
    I nodded vaguely and, on an impulse, walked over and opened the cupboard door. Two of the shelves were filled with canned stuff and other supplies. There was an old coffee pot and two saucepans, and some worn china covered with a fine network of brownish cracks.
    â€œYour uncle had cooking privileges,” the landlord said. “Of course you can have them, too, if you want.”
    I went over and looked down three stories at the dirty street. Some boys were pitching pennies. I studied the names of the stores. When I turned around I thought maybe the landlord would be going, but he was still watching me. The whites of his eyes looked discolored.
    â€œThere’s twenty-five cents for the washing I told you about.” I dug in my pocket for a quarter. That left me forty-seven cents.
    He laboriously wrote me a receipt. “There’s your key on the table,” he remarked, “and the one for the outside door. Well, Mister, the place is yours for the next three months an’ two weeks.”
    He walked out, shutting the door behind him. From below came the rackety surge of a passing street car. I dropped down into the easy chair.
    People