“People of the United States,” he said. “This is Alfred Jordan the First addressing you. You are all to listen to me and obey in all things. This country had been suffering from misrule long enough. It has been going from bad to worse; your leaders have been inefficient and criminally foolish. You need discipline, a strong hand over you, a man with vision and power. Then you will rise to your rightful place as a great nation, with food and plenty for every one, with the respect of the world beating on your shores.
“I am your new dictator, and my lightest word shall be your law. The overthrow of the present stupid government is complete. My army has met and defeated the governmental troops. The president and Congress have fled from my wrath. I am in full control; the seat of the government shall continue as before at Washington. You are to resume normal activities, always obedient to my will. You are to report at once the whereabouts of the fugitive president, of the officials of his deposed government—”
Wentworth shut the radio off angrily. “It’s worse than I dared think. We’ll have to—”
He broke off. The woman looked blank, obedient. But Dr. Knopf was set in a rigid mold.
“Jordan is a great man,” he said monotonously. “I must obey him; I shall not—”
Margaret cried out, shrinking away from him.
Wentworth spoke rapidly: “Snap out of it, my friend. You take no orders from Jordan; you are free. Do you understand?”
Dr. Knopf shook his head confusedly. His eyes cleared. “I was under his control then,” he said in awed tones.
“So is the whole nation,” Wentworth groaned. “At least all who listened in. Jordan has brains, and knows how to use them. I should have thought of that broadcast stunt myself.”
“Why not try it, Craig?” Margaret said timidly.
“Couldn’t get the hook-up to be of any practical value,” he explained. He started to the door. “We’re going to Washington.”
“And Marshall?”
He paused at the door, looked back. “I have an idea,” he said slowly, “that gentleman will be there, too.”
At the moment, however, Anthony Marshall had other fish to fry. The little instrument he had found interested him. Why had Craig Wentworth, whom Jordan had said was a physicist of parts, been working on it so feverishly at the time of his capture? Tony looked it over with shrewd eyes. He saw a flat, thin disk like a diaphragm. One side was slightly curved, as if it were a suction plate. Very fine filaments sprouted from the outer surface, dangling some three feet of wire.
He took it to Columbia, commanded the services of Verrill, head of the physics department. That obedient worthy examined it, unscrewed it delicately, peered into the complicated system of coils and batteries compactly within.
“I can’t give you an opinion as to what it is without testing,” he said finally. “If you will leave it—”
Tony left it and hurried back to the improvised prison. His prisoners were gone, the Bluebands as mysteriously had disappeared. He leaned against the door, panting, cursing himself for a fool. Somehow Wentworth must have worked the gag out of his mouth. After that, it was simple. He did not know of course that Margaret Simmons was also possessed of the gift.
Marshall realized with awful clarity that as long as the others knew of his secret, he was not safe. Jordan would not hesitate an instant to kill him off; as for Wentworth, the thought of the threatened operation turned him physically sick. Now he was free, and both of them would be gunning for him. Alison La Rue, too! One could never trust a woman, especially a woman of her type. He shuddered as though a cold blast had struck him. Almost he was ready to give up the fatal possession, if only he could buy peace, safety. But no operation—no!
He went wearily to his penthouse to think things out. It was night. His butler met him at the door.
“A man’s been calling you all evening, sir. Sounded very much excited.”
“What was his name?”
“Verrill, sir. Said it was most urgent you call him back.”
Marshall’s feet ached; his heart pumped alarmingly from the unaccustomed excitement and exertions of the past two days. His stomach was not so good, either.
“T’hell with him,” he muttered drowsily. “I’m going to bed. Draw me a nice warm bath; plenty o’ bath salts in it.”
The next morning, around noon, he awoke. He felt a bit refreshed, and his courage had returned. He went to Columbia, found the physicist literally dancing with excitement.
“This instrument—” he spluttered.
“Well, what about it?” Marshall was still decidedly grumpy.
Verrill told him. He used easy, nontechnical language. Tony Marshall’s eyes went wider and wider. His bewildered mind groped for implications. If only he could use it—
Verrill’s voice acted like a cold douche.
“Unfortunately,” he was saying, “the instrument is not complete. Just what activates it—in other words, what its motivating force is—I confess I don’t know.”
Marshall knew. He saw it all now. He told the physicist in guarded words, not revealing too much.
Verrill shook his head. “That’s out of my line, of course. And I doubt, with only that to go on, if any one could help.”
“Who would be the most likely?”
Verrill thought a moment. “Dr. Knopf, I’d say.”
Faint memory stirred in Tony. “A little man with a stubby black beard and high, bald forehead?”
“That’s the man. Do you know him?”
But Marshall had already snatched up the tiny disk with its dangling wires, crowded it into his pocket, and was out of the laboratory. Fool, he clamored to himself, Knopf then was the other man with Wentworth, the insignificant chap to whom he had scarcely given a second thought. He had had everything within his grasp and had permitted it to slide out.
Out in the street, once more normal with life, he paused uncertainly. What could he do now? He would go to Washington, he determined. There was Jordan; there was the heart of things.
He commandeered a taxi; drove to the Newark airport. A fast cabin plane was placed at his disposal by suddenly obsequious officials.
IX.
By the 24th, Jordan had matters well in hand. His office in the White House was a maelstrom of excitement. Officials dashed in, clicked to attention, received snapped orders, saluted, and dashed out again. Telephones buzzed with unceasing clamor; telegraph instruments clicked under the flying fingers of skilled operators. The nation was completely enmeshed.
“Bring in the prisoners, Hollis,” said Jordan the First, resplendent in gold lace. It was an admiral’s full-dress uniform with modifications.
“Yes, sir.”
They came in quietly, hands bound behind backs. The President of the United States, the secretary of state, the secretary of war, General Collins, and the speaker of the house.
Jordan leaned back in his padded armchair, and surveyed them with something of a sneer. They returned his look with dignity.
“The former government of this country, eh?”
They said nothing.
“Well, you made a mess of it, and I, Jordan the First, have taken over. You were no good. Do you understand?”
A tremor ran over them. “We understand,” they spoke in unison, mechanically.
“That is fine!” said Jordan. “Now listen to me. From now on you take orders from me. I’m going to let you work; help in the divisions of government you used to handle. You’ll assist me; handle some of the detail work.”
“Thank you, sir.” They sounded for all the world like a chorus of yes-men. “We’ll do our best.”
“Take ’em out,” Jordan ordered. “And, oh, yes, remove their bonds. They aren’t necessary any more.”
He was pleased. Government had proved far more complicated than he had dreamed. The capture of these men in their hiding place had proved a lucky break. They could do the necessary jobs for him, subject, of course, to his final say-so. He rubbe
d his hands with a touch of acquired pompousness.
“A good job, eh, Hollis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That broadcast idea of mine was smart. It calmed the country, stopped all rebellion. The people are my slaves now. They’ll follow me to hell. Now we’ll organize a bit and go after the rest of the world.” His eyes turned inward, as though seeing a vision. A beatific smile spread over his countenance.
“Alfred Jordan the First, Dictator of the World!”
How sweetly it rolled on the tongue!
Hollis was practical; that was why he was an excellent secretary. “How about the others?” he ventured.
Jordan came out of his dream. “Eh? What others?”
Hollis tapped his forehead significantly.
Jordan’s dark brow clouded.
“Two of ’em are dead.” The wreck had been duly reported, and the incineration of car No. 2. No rescues had been made, according to the report. “As for Marshall and Wentworth—what can they do now? What’s the last word?” he ended with an eagerness that belied his assumed carelessness.
“No news of Wentworth. Seems to have vanished out of sight. Marshall, according to Newark airport, took a plane, with their best pilot, and flew off, destination unknown.”
“Scared,” remarked Jordan. “Running for Canada, no doubt. I’ll get him there before long.”
A guard walked in stiff-leggedly, said in will-less tones: “Miss Alison La Rue to see you, excellency.”
Jordan was on his feet, gripping his desk, his face drained of blood. High heels made clatter through the doorway, and Alison, her round baby face wreathed in its best seductive smile, stood before his desk, alone. Doolittle was not with her.
“Hello, big boy! I got here finally, didn’t I?” She turned on a gaping Hollis. “Scram, fellow! Can’t you see I want to talk to your boss?”
Hollis went out.
“Now you listen to me, Jordan,” she shook a playful finger at the astounded dictator.
Somehow, he listened.
Wentworth, Dr. Knopf, and Margaret Simmons were in hiding on the outskirts of Washington. Sleepless days followed sleepless nights. It was a difficult, almost an impossible, job. Wentworth was trying to reconstruct his instrument. He tried one supply store after another, seeking the necessary parts. Some were still missing; vital ones. Margaret went out daily, doing the shopping.
She walked slowly down the broad avenue. She was listless, weary. She had not slept for several days, but it was more than mere physical exhaustion. It was the maddening strain of close contact with the one man in all the world whom she loved, and whom alone she could not compel to love in return.
He was wrapped up in the instrument, feverish over the enchainment of the country, heedless of her except as a comrade, a companion in the work. Once, when in Marshall’s power, there had been a gleam in his eyes, but it had quickly died.
She turned down Pennsylvania Avenue. The street was filled with hurrying government clerks, obedient to the strange, new government. How easy it would be to make one of them stop, become devoted to her. That tall young man with the blond hair, for instance. She toyed with the mad whim. He turned left, was entering a small, one-story building flush up against the imposing department of agriculture.
A man came around the corner from the opposite direction, stopped short, spoke to the tall young man. Margaret forgot her whim, born of tired, sapped strength, forgot her weariness. She shrank against the marble of the agriculture building, fearful of being noticed.
The two men conversed earnestly a minute, then the door opened, and they disappeared within. Margaret stopped a taxi, got in, heart fluttering. She must get back to their quarters at once.
The second man had been Anthony Marshall.
When Margaret had finished her story, Dr. Knopf said quietly:
“Marshall has discovered your secret, Craig. That chap, from the description, is Hugh Lofting, the government’s chief neurologist. I know him well. He’s a good man. That building is his laboratory. Some one put Marshall on the right track, and Lofting will ferret out the last step within an hour.”
Craig Wentworth rose, went to the desk drawer, took out a revolver. His face was set, grim.
“What are you going to do?” Margaret asked in alarm.
“Get that instrument back.”
Dr. Knopf sighed and looked at his finger nails. “I’ll go with you.”
It was over an hour before they got to Lofting’s laboratory. Wentworth pushed the bell venomously.
A white-coated young man opened the door.
“Dr. Lofting? Sorry; he’s particularly busy now. Left orders that he could see no one.”
Wentworth pushed his way past. “You’re taking orders from me now. Keep quiet and tell me just what room he is in.”
The young assistant became instantly docile.
“Yes, sir. It’s the third door to the left. There’s some one in there with him. They’ve been together for over an hour.”
“I know,” said Wentworth grimly. “Come on, Knopf.”
Pistols in hand, they slid quietly down the corridor. The young man sat down in a chair in the entrance hall, immobile. At the third door they paused. It was closed, and a confused murmur of voices came from within. Wentworth put his ear to the door crack and listened. The voices grew stronger. Some one was saying:
“It sounds of course unbelievable. But if Verrill said so, there must be something to it. The hook-up is rather simple. I could arrange it right here. It wouldn’t take over an hour all told.”
Marshall’s voice filtered through, strained, anxious: “Means an operation, doesn’t it?”
“Naturally. But a very minor one. No danger at all.”
A gusty sigh, a mumbling. “Operations, operations! All right, I’ll be game.”
Wentworth signaled to Dr. Knopf. He stepped back, put hand on knob, jerked quickly. The door crashed open and the two men plunged into the room, pistols steady.
A tall young man with a pleasant smile froze into alarmed rigidity. Marshall swerved, recognized the intruders, and cowered in sudden fear.
“Let me have that machine,” Wentworth demanded.
Moving as in a daze Dr. Lofting extended his hand, dropped the precious disk with its dangling wires into Wentworth’s outstretched fingers. For the moment Wentworth forgot Marshall. Dr. Knopf was covering him.
Tony saw the opportunity, grasped it. Fear made him move swiftly. “Out of my way!” he cried suddenly.
Dr. Knopf lowered his gun, side-stepped in complete will-lessness. Tony dashed out through the open door, ran down the long corridor, out into the safety of the street as fast as gouty legs and leaky heart could carry him. By the time Wentworth whirled for him, he was gone.
“Damn!” He smiled wryly. “I keep forgetting. It’s not your fault, Knopf.”
The doctor came out of it, chagrined. Then he brightened: “At any rate we have the instrument.”
“Yes. We’re going right back to the lab. As for you, Dr. Lofting,” he turned to that startled and eminent neurologist, “you will forget this entire transaction.”
The tall man nodded mechanically.
Back in their tiny room on the outskirts, with Margaret acting as nurse and Dr. Knopf swathed in aseptic white bandages, the operation was performed. Wentworth lay still and cold on the improvised operating table. The odor of ether permeated the room. Keen knives flashed and dipped. Tiny wires were inserted, imbedded in special agar packs around the pineal body.
Knopf glared ferociously at the strange pulsing globule—his whole scientific being cried out to remove it, to analyze, to test—but the fate of Wentworth, of the world possibly, was in the way. And there was Margaret, white-lipped, holding herself steady as a proper nurse should by wholesale drains on reserve energy, praying with anguished inner tears for the safety of the man she loved. To Knopf it was just another operation.
At last it was over, the sutur
es completed, and Wentworth stirred weakly. Knopf had left the room to wash and dress. In the whirl of dizziness incident upon ether it seemed to Wentworth that he saw Margaret’s face close to his, brimming with tears, and a voice from far away, sobbing brokenly:
“My dear, my dear, awake! Don’t die; I love you.”
His brain stopped its ceaseless whirl; warmth flooded him; he opened his eyes. Margaret tried to step back, red flooding her shapely neck, but he caught weakly at her hand, and smiled contentedly. Then he went to sleep.
Protruding from the base of his skull were two fine wires that ran down to the small of his back. There they entered a broad band which carried them around to his chest and into the flat disk that lay cupped against the flesh.
Doolittle did nothing else for two days but gape around Washington. He forgot Maria, who may or may not have been weeping for her absent lord and master at home, he forgot his friends, he forgot even the sacrosanct bank, and reveled in an orgy of sight-seeing. All his life he had yearned to travel, he whose traveling had been confined to the diurnal subway trip from the Bronx to lower Manhattan.
It was a novel sensation. He ate in the most gaudy restaurants and waved aside the check with an air, he journeyed conscientiously to the top of the Washington Monument, he blinked owlishly at the weird planes and bold primary colors of the modernists at the Phillips Memorial Gallery, he tiptoed in awe through the echoing Congressional Halls—Congress was on permanent vacation; Jordan had no need of it—he even saw how money was made at the treasury. And he lived on the fat of the land without a penny in his pockets. That much of his influence he had learned from his association with the ex-chorus girl.
On the morning of the 25th he awoke in his luxurious suite at the Mayflower, and felt fed up with his wild, free life. The grim visage of Maria rose before him, softened and sentimentalized with the blurring effects of absence. Routine, habit, called him with irresistible force.
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