by Jerry eBooks
A packing case stood upon a wharf. Pop chose it for a test and stood there for some time, pushing the case’s buttons. But the packing case stayed very stubbornly where it was.
And then, quite by accident, Pop pushed both buttons at once!
SWOOSSSSh!
The liner which had been at the pier abruptly vanished!
There was a snap as the after lines went. There was a small tidal wave as the seas came together.
Pop had missed his aim!
He had gotten over being stunned by now. His first thought was to snatch the hawser which had not parted. He hauled it swiftly in. The ship was barely attached to the line. Very carefully Pop looked at the tiny boat, perfect in all details, but. less than three inches long. He looked hurriedly about and shoved it into his pocket.
A steward was running in circles on the dock, yelling, “They’ve stole it! They’ve stole it! Help, murder, police! They’ve stole it!”
That “murder” set badly with Pop. He got out of there.
Ten minutes later he was in a phone booth. The night editor’s voice boomed over the wire.
“Joe, this is Pop. Look, I’ve got a bar, two taxis, an apartment building and an ocean liner in my pocket. Stand by for an extra about midnight.”
“You—huh? Sleep it off, Pop. And drink one for me.”
“No, no, no!” cried Pop.
But the wire was dead.
Pop walked out of the booth, turned around and walked into it again. He dropped his nickel and began a, series of calls to locate his man.
“World-Journal,” said Pop at last. “I want Barstow of Pennsylvania Railroad.”
“This is Barstow. But I’ve given out statements until I’m hoarse, call me tomorrow.”
“You’ll be at the World-Journal in two hours if you want your station back.”
“Call me tomorrow,” repeated the voice. ‘And lay off the stuff. It ain’t, good for you.” There was a click.
Pop sighed very deeply.
So they wouldn’t believe him, huh? Well, he’d show ’em! He’d show ’em!
And he loped for the station.
V.
“I WON’T,” said Hannibal, definite for the first time in his life.
They sat in Caulborn’s office and the clock said ten. Caulborn had not. yet come in.
Hannibal Pertwee showed signs of having been mauled a bit. And even now he tried to make a break for the door. Pop tripped him and set him back on the chair.
“It’s no use,” said Hannibal. “I won’t tell you or anybody else. After what they did to me, why should I do anything for them?”
In the center of the room sat a gunny sack. Carefully wrapped up within it some items Pop had found occupying the vacant spaces in the vicinity of “New York” on Hannibal Pertwee’s toy railway system.
“I’ll have you for burglary,” said Hannibal. “You can’t prove anything at all. What if I do have some models of buildings? Can’t I make models of what I please? And they’re just models. You’ll see!”
“What about those people you can see in them?” said Pop.
“They’re not moving. Can’t I make people in model form, too?”
Pop was alternating warm and chill, for he knew he was dabbling in very serious matters. Anxiously he looked at the clock. As though by that signal, Caulborn came in.
Caulborn had had a drink too many the evening before and he was in no condition to see Pop.
“What? You here again?”
“That’s right,” said Pop. “And I have—”
“There’s no use begging for that job. We don’t need anybody. Get out or I’ll have you thrown out.” And he reached across the desk for his phone.
Pop’s handy feet sent Caulborn sprawling. Pop instead pushed the button.
“Send in Mr. Graw,” said Pop, calling for the publisher.
“I’ll blacklist you!” cried Caulborn. “You’ll never work on another paper!”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Pop.
Mr. Graw, very portly, stepped in. He saw Pop anti scowled. Caulborn was dusting off his pants in protest.
“What’s this?” said Mr. Graw.
“He won’t get out,” said Caulborn. “He sent for you. I didn’t.”
“Well, of all the cheek!”
Pop squared off. “Now listen, you two. I been in this business a long time. And I know what a story is worth. You’re losing money and you need circulation. Well, the way to get circulation is to get stories. Now!”
“I won’t,” said Hannibal.
On the table Pop laid out the four objects from the gunny sack, the Pennsylvania Station, Grand Central, Grant’s Tomb and the Empire State. Then from his jacket he took the bar, the two taxis, the apartment house and the steamship.
“I won’t!” cried Hannibal, attempting another break. Once more Pop pushed him back to the chair.
“What are these?” said Mr. Graw.
“Just what you see. The missing buildings,” said Pop.
“Preposterous! If you have gone to all this trouble just to make some foolish story—”
Pop cut Mr. Graw’s speech in half. “I’ve gone to plenty of trouble, but not to have anything made. These are the real thing.”
“Rot,” said Caul born.
“I won’t!” said Hannibal.
“Well, in that case,” said Pop, “I’ll make you a proposition. If I restore these to their proper places, can I have my job back—permanently?”
“Humph,” said Mr. Graw. “If you can put back what this city has lost, I’ll give you your job back. Yes. But why waste our time—”
“Then call Mr. Barstow of the Pennsylvania Railroad,” said Pop. “You get him over here on the double and I’ll put the buildings back.”
“But how—”
Again Pop cut Mr. Graw down. “Just call, that’s all. You can’t afford to run the risk of losing this chance.”
“If you’re talking nonsense—” growled Mr. Graw. But he put through the call.
Caulborn was licking his lips in anticipation of what he would have done to Pop. What Caulborn had suffered in loss of pride yesterday could all be made up today. He’d show Graw!
IT WAS an uncomfortable wait, while Hannibal protested at intervals and Caulborn rubbed his hands.
But at last Mr. Barstow. in a sweat, came loping in.
“You called me, Graw? By God, I hope you’ve got news.”
Graw pointed at Pop. “This idiot claims to have your station. He says this is it.”
Barstow snatched up the “model” of Pennsylvania. It stung his hands and he put it back. He turned to Pop. “Is this a joke? That’s a perfect replica, certainly, but—”
“Look,” said Pop, “this is Hannibal Pertwee, probably the smartest scientist since Moses.”
“Oh, you,” said Barstow.
“So you know him,” said Pop.
“He used to bother us quite a bit,” said Barstow. “What is it now.”
“Ah, we get somewhere.” said Pop. “Barstow, if this gentleman replaces your Pennsylvania Station and these other objects, will you make a. contract with him?”
“About his ideas on freight?” said Barstow. “I don’t know which is the craziest statement, that you’ll restore the buildings, or that anything he can think up will effect our freight. But go ahead.”
Pop yanked out a slip of paper. “I typed this. Sign it.”
Smiling indulgently, Barstow signed the agreement. Graw and Caulborn shrugged and witnessed it with their names.
“All right,” said Pop to Hannibal. “This is what you used to be begging for. You’ve got it now. Go ahead.” And indeed Hannibal Pertwee had undergone a change. All trace of sullenness was gone from his face, replaced by growing hope. “You mean,” he said to Barstow, “that you’ll really consider my propositions? That you may utilize my findings?”
“I’ve said so in this paper,” said Barstow impatiently.
Hannibal rubbed his hands. “Well, yo
u see, gentlemen, my idea was to reduce freight in size so that it could be shipped easily. And so I analyzed the possibilities of infinite acceleration—”
“Spare the lecture,” said Pop. “Get busy. They won’t understand anything but action.”
“Ah, yes. Action. May I have the cigarette case?”
Pop handed it over.
“You see, you turn it upside down and—”
“Wait!” cried Pop. “My God, you almost made them come back in here. You want to kill all of us?” Hastily he hauled Hannibal outside, taking the bar and a taxi cab with him.
“Now,” said Pop, setting them down in a cleared space.
Hannibal caressed the case. “It was very ingenious, I thought. I had been waiting for this very thing. Apparatus would have been noticed, you see, but this was perfect. One can stand on the edge of a crowd and press the buttons, both together, and the atomic bubble within is set into nearly infinite acceleration. It spins out and engulfs the first whole object it embraces and sets it spinning in four dimensions. Of course, as the object spins at a certain speed, it. is accordingly reduced in size. Einstein—”
“Just push the buttons,” said Pop.
“Oh, of course. You see, to stop the object from spinning we have merely to engulf it with an atomic bubble spinning in four dimensions, all opposite to the first—”
“The buttons,” said Pop.
HANNIBAL turned the case around so that it would open down. He pointed it in the general direction of the tiny taxi.
“It compresses time as well as space,” continued Hannibal. “I just release the bubble—”
SWOOOOOssssh!
The taxi increased in size like a swiftly inflated balloon. The tic-tic-tic of its engine was loud in the room. The cabby finished opening the door and then turned to where he had last seen Pop.
“What address, buddy?” and then he saw his surroundings. He stared, gulped, looked at the ring of reporters and office men and hastily shut off his engine, shaking his head as though punch-drunk.
“Now the bar,” said Pop. Hannibal pushed the buttons again and, suddenly:
SWOOOOOssssh!
The bar was there, full size.
The British bartender finished filling the glass with an expert twist of his wrist. “And I says, ‘A sinful city like this will sooner or later—’ ” He had been turning to put away the bottle. But now he found no mirrors, only the reaches of the City Room. His British calm almost deserted him.
Pop handed the drink to the cabby who instantly tossed it down.
“Now we better not have a bar in this place,” said Pop, “if I know reporters. Cabby, you and the bar-keep step back here out of the way. Do your stuff, Hannibal.”
SWOOSSSSh!
Click, click.
SWOOSSSSh!
And both bar and taxi were toysized instantly. The cabby began to wail a protest, but Pop shoved the tiny car into his hands.
“We’ll make it grow up shortly,” said Pop. “Down in the street. Frankie! You and Lawson get some cameras. Freeman, you call the mayor and tell him to gather round for the fun. Sweeney, you write up an extra lead, telling the city all is well. I’ll knock out the story on I his—”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Graw. “Huh?” said Pop. “But you said, in front of witnesses—”
“I don’t care what I said. I’ve suddenly got an idea. Who got out those extras so fast yesterday?”
“Pop did!” yelled Sweeney, instantly joined by a, chorus.
Craw turned to Caulborn. “At first I believed you. But when I got to thinking it over after I found out how fast they really had come—”
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” said Pop. “He’s just a little young.”
“Pop,” said Graw, “you can’t have his job.”
“Well, I didn’t say—”
“Pop,” said Graw, “I’ve got a better spot for you than that. You’re managing editor. Maybe you can make this son-in-law of mine amount to something if you train him right.”
“Mana . . . managing editor?” gaped Pop.
“I’m going to slip out of the job,” said Graw. “I need rest. And so, Mr. Managing Editor, I leave you to your editions.”
The roof-raising cheer which went up from half a hundred throats about them made Pop turn lobster-color. Savagely he faced around.
“Well?” said Pop, “what are you waiting for? We got an extra, edition to get out and that means work. Hannibal, you trot along with Frankie and Lawson. They’ll help you put them buildings back. And listen, Frankie, don’t miss any shots.” Hastily he scribbled out the addresses where ship and taxi belonged and then shooed them on their way.
Pop took up the package he had left at the switchboard. He went into the office marked “Managing Editor” and laid his belongings on the desk. He shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and reached for the phone.
“Copy boy!” he shouted.
“O.K, Pop.”
The Roads Must Roll
Robert A. Heinlein
The higher civilization becomes, the more it is dependent on each unit—and the more it is at the mercy of a few!
“WHO makes the roads roll?”
The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd.
“We do! We do! Damn right!”
“Who does the dirty work ‘down inside’—so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?”
This time it was a single roar: “We do!”
The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. “What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives? The roads!” He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. “Where would the public be if you boys didn’t keep them roads rolling? Behind the eight ball, and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? ‘The right to resign whenever we want to.’ Every working stiff in any other job has that. ‘The same pay as the engineers.’ Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D’yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: The gentlemen in the control offices, or the boys down inside? What else do we ask? ‘The right to elect our own engineers.’ Why the hell not? Who’s competent to pick engineers? The technicians—or some damn dumb examining board that’s never been down inside, and couldn’t tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?”
He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. “I tell you, brother, it’s time we quit fiddlin’ around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let ’em yammer about democracy; that’s a lot of eyewash—we’ve got the power, and we’re the men that count!”
A man had risen in the back of the hall while the speaker was haranguing. Me spoke up as the speaker paused. “Brother chairman,” he drawled, “may I stick in a couple of words?”
“You are recognized, Brother Harvey.”
“What I ask is: “What’s all the shootin’ for? We’ve got the highest hourly rate of pay of any mechanical guild, full insurance and retirement, and safe working conditions, barring the chance of going deaf.” He pushed his antinoise helmet farther back from his ears. He was still in dungarees, apparently just up from standing watch. “Of course we have to give ninety days’ notice to quit a job, but, cripes, we knew that when we signed up. The roads have got to roll—they can’t stop every time some lazy punk gets tired of his billet.
“And now Soapy”—the crack of the gavel cut him short—“Pardon me, I mean Brother Soapy—tells us how powerful we are, and how we should go in for direct action. Rats! Sure, we could tie up the roads, and play hell with the whole community—but so could any screwba
ll with a can of nitroglycerin, and he wouldn’t have to be a technician to do it, neither.
“We aren’t the only frogs in the puddle. Our jobs are important, sure, but where would we be without the farmers—or the steel workers—or a dozen other trades and professions?”
He was interrupted by a sallow little man with protruding upper teeth, who said: “Just a minute, Brother Chairman, I’d like to ask Brother Harvey a question,” then turned to Harvey and inquired in a sly voice: “Are you speaking for the guild, brother—or just for yourself? Maybe you don’t believe in the guild? You wouldn’t by any chance be”—he stopped and slid his eyes up and down Harvey’s lank frame—“a spotter, would you?”
Harvey looked over his questioner as if he had found something filthy in a plate of food. “Sikes,” he told him, “if you weren’t a runt, I’d stuff your store teeth down your throat. I helped found this guild. I was on strike in ’60. Where were you in ’60? With the finks?”
The chairman’s gavel pounded. “There’s been enough of this,” he said. “Nobody that knows anything about the history of this guild doubts the loyalty of Brother Harvey. We’ll continue with the regular order of business.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Ordinarily, we don’t open our floor to outsiders, and some of you boys have expressed a distaste for some of the engineers we work under, but there is one engineer we always like to listen to whenever he can get away from his pressing duties. I guess maybe it’s because he’s had dirt under his nails the same as us. Anyhow, I present at this time Mr. Shorty van Kleeck—”
A shout from the floor stopped him. “Brother van Kleeck!”
“O.K., Brother van Kleeck, chief deputy engineer of this roadtown.”
“Thanks, Brother Chairman.” The guest speaker came briskly forward, and grinned expansively at the crowd. He seemed to swell under their approval. “Thanks, brothers. I guess our chairman is right. I always feel more comfortable here in the guild hall of the Sacramento Sector—or any guild hall for that matter—than I do in the engineers’ clubhouse. Those young punk cadet engineers get in my hair. Maybe I should have gone to one of the fancy technical institutes, so I’d have the proper point of view, instead of coming up from down inside.