“Quite, young man. Just so. Millions of years. Dashed nuisance now, perhaps, but it wouldn’t be the thing. No show—whippersnappers—understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Whitlowe with a heavy heart. He tried another tack. “Where do you expect to land?”
“Right here—wilderness.” The Director produced a globe of Earth, held a reading glass of enormous power over a tiny section. “You know the spot?”
“Yes,” replied Whitlowe, studying it. “We call it New Jersey. Good place to land, too.” To himself he prayed they’d fall into the middle of a swamp and stay there. “About how many ships?”
“In round numbers, two thousand, each containing a thousand Martians. We aren’t a numerous people, but,” the Director grinned, “a powerful one.”
“Excuse me,” said Whitlowe, reaching for the tracer device. “I’ll have to sign off now. But we’ll keep our lens on you till after you land. All right?”
“Perfectly. Carry on!” The Martian’s image faded from the screen and Whitlowe snapped into action, reaching for two telephones at once and barking orders to Gary. “Get Wylie and have him mobilize all available infantry and tanks for concentration outside of Glenwood, New Jersey.” And then, into one of the ‘phones: “Mayor? I’m Whitlowe of the commission. Evacuate Glenwood completely within four hours. Arrangements will be made for you in New York City—you’ll get confirmation and full instructions in a few minutes.” Then, into another: “Admiral? You’ll get the chance, now. Move the fleet up the Hudson, aiming at the swamps to the North East of Glenwood, New Jersey. Confirmation from the White House and full instructions will follow. Firing orders will come only from the Commission.”
He snatched a phone from Gary. “Public Works?” he barked. “This is Whitlowe of the Commission. Get every inch of barbed wire in North America and recruit every volunteer male you can get to have it strung around Glenwood, New Jersey’s swamps. Deadline’s four hours—they’ll be here at”—he glanced at his watch—“eleven-thirty. Right? Right.”
He turned to Gary with haunted eyes. “That’s that,” he said slowly. “It isn’t a joke any more. I don’t think I’ll ever laugh again. Let’s get out and give the unhappy town of Glenwood, New Jersey a speedy double-o.”
UP THE HUDSON steamed the dawn-grey might of the combined battle-fleets of North, Central, and South America. Japan’s was on the way, not yet there. They were anchoring; guns were swinging toward the Jersey side, ready to drop shells within the neat rectangle bordered by several hundred miles of twisted and double-taped electrified barbed wire.
“Well,” said Gary, hefting the audio pack he was strapped into.
“Okay,” said Whitlowe, taking up a mike and tuning in. “Do not be alarmed,” he called to the Martian.
“This is a wound-circuit without vision—we are on the grounds where you decided to land, with a—reception committee, and were unable to bring along the heavier vision-circuit.”
“You, is it?” the hearty voice of the Director replied. “Well, we’ll be down in dashed little time—ready to start our bally lives over again, what?”
“Yes,” said Whitlowe, gulping. He signalled an aide, who came running with record tape.
“No change in your landing plans?” asked Whitlowe desperately.
“None whatsoever. Decide and carry through—understand? Down in thirteen minutes, every one of the two thousand. Excuse me.”
Whitlowe snapped off the set. “Can you hear anything?” he asked the aide.
“No, sir. But we should—two thousand big ships, didn’t he say?”
“They each carry a thousand Martians, so they must be big. But we ought to hear them—or, if they’re silent, we should feel the wind. I don’t understand.”
“Keep your shirt on, Whit,” advised Gary. “It’s these skeeters that I can’t stand.” He slapped viciously at a vampirish insect that settled on his wrist for a drink.
“I’m going to”—began Whitlowe, impatiently snapping in the audio pack.
“Hello!” he called. “Are you going to land? Where are you?”
“About twenty miles up,” came the reply.
“We can’t see or hear your ships!” stated Whitlowe.
“You will. We’re ten miles down now. Excuse me—I have to—” the voice trailed off.
“Why,” fretted Whitlowe, “don’t they come out into the open? Are they going to bomb New York or something?”
“Cut it out!” growled Gary. “They’re on the level and they gave their word. That’s enough. Anything else you can set down to newspaper hysteria. They should be in sight any moment now. Calm down!” They were interrupted by roarings from the audio. “We’ve landed!” shrilled a voice. “We’ve landed!” Staring insanely, Whitlowe inspected the swamp area. “No!” he stated flatly. “Not a sign of two thousand ships, each containing one thousand Martians. Not a sign of anything.” From the audio came a cry of terror. “What’s the matter?” yelled Gary, snatching the mike. “We’re being attacked—by monsters! Huge monsters! Send help!” thundered the Director.
“Monsters? Like what?”
“Six legs; twice our height. Wings. Terrible blood-drinking beak!”
“They didn’t land on Earth!” gasped Whitlowe.
Gary laughed suddenly. “Yes they did!” he roared. “Look there!” He turned the beam of his flashlight on a little dark clump in the air about a hundred feet away.
“What!”gasped Whitlowe, staring.
It was a turbulent knot of insects, distinguished by bluish flashes of light. Whitlowe lowered the beam to the ground below. There were arrayed the two thousand ships—tiny things, about the size of cigarettes.
“And that,” said Gary, “is the Martian race. All bets are off, and, if we wish to save our insignificant but witty friends from the monstrous gnats and mosquitoes that are beseiging them, we’d better rush out some Flit.”
Return from M-15
He had the machine that could bring the Earth unfold prosperity, but how could he compel the Syndicate to give way without destroying the world?
CHAPTER I
“FOR THIS DEVICE,” declared the haggard young man, “and all rights, I want thirty percent of the World Research Syndicate voting stock.”
The big man grinned. “Your little joke, Dr. Train. World Research Syndicate has little interest in independents—but from a person of your ability, perhaps we’ll examine it. What is it you have there? Perhaps a payment of a few thousands can be arranged.”
“Don’t laugh just yet. Look over these plans—you’ll see what I mean.”
The engineer took up the sheaf of cap with a smile and unrolled one of the sheets. His brow wrinkled, the smile became a frown. He opened other sheets and stared at them.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking up. “I think I see what you are driving at, but I can’t deliver an opinion on this sort of thing. I’m an expert in my own line and I know dielectrics as well as most, but this stuff is over my head. I shall endorse your work and refer it to the Board of Technology. And I think you’ll scare hell out of them.”
Train laughed freely. “I’ll do my best, Hans. And have you any idea of what this device will do?”
Vogel looked frightened. “I almost hope I’m wrong,” he said. “Does it—” he whispered in Train’s ear.
“Right the first time. It does and it will. And if the Syndicate doesn’t meet my demands, then I can set it up myself and go into business.”
The other man looked strangely sober. “Young Dr. Train,” he started, “I am strangely inclined to advise you like a father.”
“Go ahead, Hans,” replied Train cheerfully.
“Very well. I tell you, then, to moderate your request, or you will find yourself in the gravest of difficulties.” He looked about the room apprehensively. “This is not a threat; it is merely advice. I am almost convinced that you should scrap your machine or technique, or whatever it is, and forget about it as completely as you can.”
Train
rose angrily. “Thank you. Vogel, you must be the truest and most faithful slave the Syndicate has; you and your advice can both go to the same place. I’m leaving the plans with you; they are not complete, of course. I hold all the key details. Send them in to your board and have them communicate with me. Good day.”
ANN WAS primping herself before a mirror. “Barney,” she warned coldly as she saw Train sneaking up behind her.
“I just wanted to straighten my tie,” he said meekly.
“A likely story!”
“It isn’t every day one calls on Jehovah,” he said. “I think Mr. T J. Hartly would be disgruntled if I appeared with a crooked tie to receive a check for a million dollars.”
“For a check that big you should be willing to go in stark naked,” she said reflectively.
“Possibly. Where shall we have dinner? I want to flash the check in a head-waitress’ face. They’ve been sneering at me all my life and I think it’s time I got even.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” she retorted indignantly. “The moment we get that check, we head for the city clerk and get married. The money may be in your name, but I’m not going to be short-changed.”
“Come on,” he said, taking her arm and starting for the door. “It is sort of wonderful, isn’t it? I’m so damned nervous I might burst into tears.”
Suddenly sober, she looked at him. “Yes.”
“Husband and wife,” he mused. “Free from care and poverty; we can just love each other and buy all the crazy, expensive machines we want. We can get acid stains on our hands whenever we feel like it, and have explosions three times a day. It’s like a dream.”
She kissed him abruptly. “On our way.” They hopped into a taxi, and after a few moments of frenzied driving, pulled up at the entrance to the Syndicate Building.
Train paid the driver, gave him an enormous tip. On the elevator, Ann kicked him sharply in the shin.
“What was that for?” he inquired injuredly.
“For wasting our money, dear.”
“Then this,” he replied, kicking her back, “is for interfering in the distribution of our funds.” The door opened and they hobbled out of the car.
“Mr. Train and Miss Riley?” asked a polished young man, looking curiously at them. “Please come this way.” He opened a hugely carven oak door and ushered them through. Then the door closed solidly behind them.
The room was huge and impressively bare. At the far end, beneath clouded windows, was a large desk. Impressively the man behind it rose. “I am Mr. Hartly,” he said.
“Riley and Train,” replied Barnabas Train nervously. “We are pleased to meet you.”
Hartly smiled acknowledgment and studied a sheaf of papers. “As the arrangement now stands, we have investigated your device—tagged Independent Fourteen—and are prepared to take over all rights and techniques in exchange for a stated payment. This payment will be an advance of one million dollars to be delivered in toto now, in return for the final details of Independent Fourteen which are in your possession, to be followed by a transfer of thirty percent of the voting stock of Research Syndicate.”
“Correct,” said Train. “I’m prepared to deliver if you are.”
Hartly—who was really a very small man, Ann noted with some surprise—smiled again. “As director of the Syndicate I have decided to request a slight moderation in your demands.”
“To what?” snapped Train, his eyes hardening.
“It has been thought that an ample payment would be arranged on a basis of the million advance and—say—one tenth of one percent of non-voting stock.”
Train laughed shortly. “Don’t joke with me. I know the spot you’re in. I’m holding out for a strong minority for one reason only—I want to put in my vote when I have to and keep your financiers from taking young technicians from the schools and making them your slaves as you’ve always done. And if you don’t give in—Independent Fourteen goes into operation under my direction and at my discretion. And you know what that machine can do to your trust!”
Hartly tapped his teeth with a pencil. “As well as you, certainly.” A moment of silence. “Then if we can reach no agreement you had better leave.”
“Come on, honey,” said Train, taking Ann’s arm. “We have work to do.” Turning their backs on the little financier, they walked to the huge door and pulled it open. Before them was a line of police. “Go back,” said an officer quietly.
“What the hell is this?” demanded Train as they were hustled back to Hartley’s desk, surrounded by an escort with drawn guns. The officer ignored him and addressed the man behind the desk. “We heard there was trouble in here, sir. Are these the ones?”
“Yes. The man has attempted blackmail, theft, sabotage and assault. The woman is of no importance.”
“He’s lying!” exploded Train. “I’m Dr. Train and this snake’s after stealing an invention he won’t meet my terms on.”
“You’d better search him,” said Hartly quietly. “I believe he has on him documents stolen from our files. They will be marked as specifications for Independent Fourteen.”
Suddenly Train stopped struggling. “You’re wrong on that point,” he said coldly. “All the missing details are in my head; you’ll never get them from me.”
“It really doesn’t matter, Doctor,” returned Hardy negligently. “My engineers can reconstruct them from what we have.”
“I doubt that very much! The chances are one in a million of your ever stumbling on certain facts that I did. I warn you—Independent Fourteen’s lost for good if you do not turn me loose.”
“That may be,” smiled Hartly. Suddenly he burst into laughter. “But surely you didn’t think we were going to operate your device. It would cripple our economy if we worked it to one percent of its capacity. That machine of yours is impossible—now. We may use it for certain purposes which we shall decide, but your program of operation was a joke.”
Train and Ann looked at each other. “I think, Barney,” she said softly, “that sooner or later we’ll kill this little man.”
“Yes. We will because we’ll have to. I’ll be back, Ann—wait for me.”
“Captain,” broke in Hartly to the officer, “here is a warrant of transportation signed by the Commissioner. It authorizes you to remove the prisoner to a suitable institution for indefinite detention. I think that had best be M-15.”
TRAIN had been hustled into a police car and rushed to the outskirts of the city. There his guard turned him over to another group in grey uniforms. He looked for insignia but found none. A policeman said to him, before driving off, “These men don’t talk and they don’t expect prisoners to. Watch your step—good-bye.”
Train’s first question as to who his guards were was met with a hammer-like blow in the face. Silently they shoved him into an armored car, as grey and blank as their uniforms, and all he knew was that they were driving over rough roads with innumerable twists and turns. At last the car stopped and they dragged him out.
He almost cried out in surprise—they were at a rocket-port. It was small and well hidden by surrounding trees and hills, but seemed complete. On the field was a rocket the like of which he had never seen. Without windows save for a tiny pilot’s port, comparatively bare of markings, and heavily armored, it loomed there as a colossal enigma.
His guards took his arms and walked him to the ship. Silently a port opened, making a runway with the ground, and other men in grey descended. They took Train and the single sheet of paper that was his doom and dragged him into the ship.
“Where—,” he asked abruptly, and a club descended on his head.
He opened his eyes with the feel of cold water on his forehead. An inverted face smiled at him. “Feeling better?” it asked.
Train sat up. “Yes, thanks. Now suppose you tell me where we are and what in hell’s going to become of us.” He stared about him at their quarters; they were in a little room of metal plates with no door apparent.
“I think we�
�re on a prison ship,” said his companion. “They were apparently delaying it for your arrival. We should be taking off shortly.”
“Yes—but where are we going?”
“Didn’t you know?” asked the other with pity in his eyes. “This ship goes to M-15.”
“I never heard of it or him. What is it?”
“Not many know it by its official number,” said the other carefully and slowly, “but rumors of its existence are current almost everywhere. It is a planetoid in a tight orbit between Mercury and Vulcan—an artificial planetoid.”
He smiled grimly. “For eighty years, it has been in operation as a private prison for those who offend against World Research. Employees of the Syndicate who attempt to hold out work they have developed with the company’s equipment make up one part of the prison rolls. Attempted violence against high officers also accounts for many of the inmates.” Suddenly his eyes flashed and he drew himself up. “And I am proud,” he said, “to be one of those.”
Train moistened his lips. “Did you,” he asked hesitatingly, “try to kill—”
“No, not kill. I am a chemist, and chemistry means mathematical logic. If one can produce the effects of death without creating the state itself, the punishment is far less. I am only human, and so I dosed—a certain corporation official—with a compound which will leave him less than a mindless imbecile in a month.”
“Then I certainly belong here with you. If anything, I’m the greater criminal. You only stole the brains of one man; I tried to cripple the Syndicate entire.”
“A big job—a very big job! What did—”
His words were cut off by a shattering, mechanical roar that rattled them about in their little room like peas in a pod.
“Hold on!” shouted the man to Train above the noise, indicating the handgrips set in the floor. “We’re going up!”
They flattened themselves, clutched the metal rods. Train was sick to his stomach with the sudden explosive hops of the ship as it jerked itself from the ground, but soon its gait steadied and the sputtering rocket settled down to a monotonous roar.
Collected Short Fiction Page 31