Early morning deliveries were part of the Honeychile Bakery Service. But on this particular morning the service was reversed!
eaded snakes, the wires and cables supporting the traffic signal fell into the street. The unusual man pocketed his cutting tool--a long thin tube--and lowered the stop light to the truck. He looked at Whedbee. The corner street lamp reacted upon his eyes like a flashlight thrown on a tomcat in an alley. The eyes gleamed green.
Whedbee's whistle arced to the end of the chain and clanked against his metal buttons. A block away on Center Street, a heavy truck roared through the business section. The bell of a switch engine tolled near the freight depot, and a small dog barked suddenly at the obscured sky.
"I am promoting you to captain. You will replace Hanks, whom I am demoting," the figure on the truck announced.
"Chief Grindstaff?" Whedbee wondered.
The chief of police glared down at the patrolman. He hooked a bright metal globe to the stop light, lifted it in one hand, and jumped, landing lightly on the pavement. "Put this in the mobile unit," he said. "The truck, I evil."
"Huh? Sure, chief," Whedbee said. He tucked his night stick under his arm and prepared to accept a heavy load. Tensed muscles almost felled him when the signal p
A psychic alien on a collecting expedition spends the morning gathering a traffic light, a mailbox, and various people by appealing to what they want most in life (the people, not the traffic light and mailbox).
A fairly funny story that still works after 60 years or so.
Is The Iron Eagle a psychotic serial killer?
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