by Jerry
But they had little time now to consider such matters. From beside the huge desk a man was approaching them. And what a man! ‘He must have been six and one-half feet tall, with broad shoulders and athletic bearing. His age might have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. °AU they could remember about him was his iron-gray hair, brushed in pompadour fashion, and his keen and flashing black eyes. He must have been conventionally dad, because they could later recall no outstanding eccentricity of dress.
“Welcome to the Master’s way-station,” he greeted. “You wished to see me?”
Julie reached for her flash bulbs, but Joe grabbed her arm.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “Let me talk to the old boy first.” Then: “Yes. That is, if you are Reverend Fletcher B. Fletcher.”
“I am,” admitted their host, “although the title ‘Reverend’ is really a misnomer. It simply approximates the Earthly conception of my duties and office. I am actually the representative of the Universe Master.”
DUNN could not repress a smile. “All of which sounds like the double talk of the last decade,” he said frankly. “I don’t understand it. In fact, there’s a lot of strange stuff I don’t understand.” And he indicated the queerly lighted room, with a gesture of his arm.
“But that,” said Reverend Fletcher, “is not why you have come to see me. You are—?”
Joe Dunn introduced himself and Julie as reporters from “The New York Telegram.”
“We have come out here to interview you,” he concluded. “We understand that you have prophesied the end of the world, and we’d like a story on it. Also a picture,” Joe added as an after-thought, while Julie glared at him.
“My poor friends,” said Mr. Fletcher, “there will be no papers, radio, or telecasts tomorrow. Nothing tomorrow—nothing at all. Tonight is the last night on Earth for all humanity. It is the end of this project.” This was typical mumbo-jumbo stuff, and Joe Dunn shifted quickly into character. “Ah, but Reverend Fletcher! This is for today’s paper—the final editions. I’ll telephone the story in from the nearest town.” Reverend Fletcher looked at him pityingly. Then he shrugged faintly. “Very well. I suppose it is quite natural to carry on until the final gasp. Probably will prevent panic. I was sent here as the special envoy of the Universe Master to settle this account and select, if possible, a few deputy agents for field work in other departments. How your newspaper heard of the business was an accident which could be explained several ways. But to get to the point. On the eighth day of October, this year of Nineteen Hundred and Fifty-four, Earth time, the books will be closed. Promptly at twelve o’clock, midnight: That is all.”
“Who is this—this Universe Master?” asked Julie. “Do you mean God?”
“That, my dear child, you wouldn’t understand,” replied Reverend Fletcher. “There is no time to instruct your minds on the subject now.”
“But that’s no story,” objected Joe Dunn. “Tell me more about yourself. Where did you come from? How long have you been in New Jersey? Where did you get this information? How do you arrive at your rather drastic conclusions? What—the eighth of October! That’s tonight!”
“Quite true,” agreed Reverend Fletcher. “Definitely. I regret that I can offer you no refreshment, but this is a very busy day for me, as you might infer.”
“Space-dizzy!” said Joe Dunn under his breath. Which reminded him of something. “But the world can’t come to an end now. We are on the verge of spatial travel. The Cravenaugh development of the rocket principle has barely started.”
“There will be no space travel from Earth,” interrupted Reverend Fletcher firmly. “There will be—nothing.”
For one of the few times in his life, Joe Dunn felt at a loss how to proceed. This was one of the screwiest interviews he had ever tried to get. It was like punching at the empty air. He simply couldn’t come to grips with a crackpot like this. Julie was more practical.
“Reverend Fletcher,” the girl asked suddenly, “please, could I take a picture?”
“Certainly, my child, if you care to,” replied Fletcher amiably. And he assumed a slight pose.
This was more like it, reflected Joe Dunn a bit cynically. It took a woman and some personal publicity to soften some of these I.Q. erratics up.
The flash bulb lighted up the immediate area. Reverend Fletcher got into the mood of things quickly. He posed obligingly as Julie directed, and the girl shot half a dozen good pictures.
“I doubt if the pictures will do you any good,” said Fletcher at length. “Certainly, they will serve you no purpose. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a host of details which must be attended to.”
Joe took the hint. He was ready to leave, anyway. “Let’s go—er—Julie,” he said. “You’ve got enough pictures. If I stay here I’ll be believing this stuff myself.”
Reverend Fletcher favored him with a slight smile. “You know, it’s just possible that you might do as a special deputy,” he said slowly. Then, “But we will see about that later, Mr. Dunn, I must bid you good afternoon. We may meet later—if the Universe Master so wills.”
“Where will you be later, Reverend Fletcher?” he asked curiously. “Where will you be tonight? Here?”
“No, my son, I will be at the exact point in the world where Latitude forty degrees, forty-seven minutes North crosses longitude seventy-three degrees, fifty-nine minutes West.”
Joe wrote it down in his notebook, which had so little else. Then he realized suddenly just what he had taken down.
“I beg your pardon, but where would that be?” he asked.
“Young man, every intelligent person should know the heavens,” said Reverend Fletcher with his first show of impatience. “Good day, and may the Universe Master be with you.”
With a wave of his hand he dismissed them, and they found themselves walking out into a normal world once more. As they stepped off the rickety porch into ordinary sunlight it was difficult to believe they had come out of a place of such queer light and confines which somehow defied the accepted laws of plane and solid geometry.
“What are you doing?” demanded! Julie as Joe Dunn turned and craned his neck to survey the outlines of the old school house.
THE reporter’s face had a baffled expression. “I don’t see how Fletcher achieved such an atmosphere of large space inside that building,” he said. “It’s only a one-story house.”
“Don’t let that worry you. You should know of the latest advancements in the use of light. Or don’t you read the scientific journals? Get in and let’s be going.”
Joe complied. As Julie started the car and drove-out onto the county road, he was still grumbling.
“I think that guy was kidding me—giving directions on a longitude and latitude basis. Who does he think I am? Captain Future?” Julie’s answer was quick. “He might. He spoke of possibly making you one of the Futuremen. Shall I stop at the next town and let you telephone in the story?” Joe snorted. “And make the City Editor froth at the mouth? That was just rocket gas I was feeding Fletcher to get him to talk. And that’s all I got out of him. Rocket gas!”
Driving back to New York, Joe Dunn speculated on how people get that way.
“Imagine predicting the end of the world!” The more Joe thought about it the more burned up he was about people like, the Right Reverend Fletcher. “Upset a lot of people, work them into a frenzy, and then, it never comes off.”
Joe wondered what people do and say after making a prediction of that kind, when nothing happens. What do they do, all sit around looking at their watches until midnight, and then put their fingers in their ears and shut their eyes. At five minutes after twelve, would they start to heckle the Reverend? What can he say? What explanation could he give?
“It certainly must wash him up in his racket,” Joe decided. “I’d like to have a look at that old faker at say five minutes after twelve, at latitude whatever it was!”
Julie gave him an idea. If he wanted to see the Reverend with his face red, why not
find out where latitude whatever-it-was did cross longitude so-and-so? The more they talked about this, the better the idea seemed. The picture of Mr. Fletcher holding the bag might even make a column in the paper. When he mentioned his idea he learned Julie wasn’t so stupid. Julie, with a practical follow-through, pulled in to a road-side stand and told Joe to call the office and get some one to give him the spot the Reverend Fletcher had indicated so quaintly.
Joe’s conversation with his boss was not without incident. At first the City Editor thought Joe Dunn was drunk, and when he was finally convinced Joe wasn’t, he agreed to call him back.
In ten minutes Joe got the call from the Ship’s Editor who had run down the information as to where Longitude 73°59’ West crossed Latitude 40°47’ North.
“It’s approximately a spot between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets.”
During the drive into New York they speculated on the Radio. City angle. Could it be a promotion stunt? Where would the exact spot be? It might mean the Skating Rink, or it might mean the Rainbow Room. The only thing to do when they got in town was to go there and have a look around for a likely spot. “At the top” they agreed would be the most logical place.
Joe arranged to meet Julie at seven-thirty at Louis’, a little restaurant in the Village where Joe could cash checks. It was late in the afternoon, and Julie dropped Joe off near a subway station to a nearby studio to develop her films, arid then went on home. She wanted to change her clothes, too.
Joe continued on down to the office and wrote his story.
CHAPTER II
City of Frozen Time
JOE DUNN got to Louis’ early. By the time Julie had arrived he had choked down two old-fashioneds. Julie came up behind him at the bar. At first Joe Dunn didn’t notice her. She was wearing a good-looking black dress. For a second in the mirror Joe had a flash impression that somehow she looked smarter.
As he turned, Julie was putting on her glasses. Joe gulped and turned back to the bar. “Well?” he said, with a rising inflection.
Julie smiled behind his back and climbed up on the next stool.
“What’s the idea of the delayed take?”
“I didn’t know you without your glasses.”
Julie replied, with slight annoyance that people refused to take her seriously without them. Joe shook his head without comment, but his eyes were eloquent. Then Julie said something which changed his mood.
“Joe, listen—the strangest thing! I developed those shots I made of Reverend Fletcher. And every one of them came out blank. There wasn’t a thing on a single film! Nothing!”
Joe almost choked on his third drink. His shoulders began to shake, and then he was laughing out loud.
“It’s not funny!” she said furiously, her eyes flashing. “I suppose you wrote your old story, and I fell down on the pix assignment.”
“I wasn’t laughing about that. I was laughing at the dumb stunt of a usually smart photog. You simply forgot to take the cover off your lens.”
“Idiot!” she snapped. “I did not. I didn’t have a lens cover with me. I shot eight perfect pictures. And I got eight perfect blanks. There wasn’t even any background detail. It was just like unexposed film. I tell you it’s crazy!”
Joe had his own opinion on the matter, but he prudently dropped the subject. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “There has to be some explanation, of course. But let’s have dinner now.”
Dinner proved to be fun. Julie recovered from her worried, angry mood, and they began speculating on just what would happen if the world somehow did come to an end.
Julie had an interesting contribution on what would happen. It was based, she said, on some inside information she had been able to get from Sherman Billingsley.
“Suddenly, the whole world will be overrun with storks, temporarily, of course. The storks that brought us will come and take us away. It’s all very simple.”
They discovered it was eleven o’clock, so they left the restaurant and walked over to Fifth Avenue and took a bus uptown. They went into the R.C.A. Building of Radio City and took an elevator up to the observation platform. There was a small bar, and only a few people in the room, so they felt as if they almost had it all to themselves. The night had clouded over, and it was warm and a little sultry for late October.
Perched on stools at the bar, they ordered a highball and kept looking around the room for Mr. Fletcher, who as yet had not shown up. Julie walked out to the parapet and came back to report.
“There’s some lightning off towards New Jersey.”
Joe looked at his watch. It was eleven-forty-five. Still no Mr. Fletcher. It was beginning to rain, and one of the waiters had shut the door that led out on to the parapet.
By this time there was a first-rate electrical storm crackling over the city. Julie was standing looking out at the storm through the glass doors.
“Looks like we’ve drawn a blank, like your pictures,” said Joe Dunn. “Shall we go out and have a last look at New York?”
Julie sniffed at the allusion but pushed through the swing door. Joe grinned and followed. They walked out on the parapet into a rising wind that promised to blow into a small gale. There was a splattering of rain. The walkway was quite wet and slick.
New York lay spread out below them, a fairy city of lights and graceful towers. Central Park was a postage stamp to the north, and Times Square seemed right below them on the left. They made their way against the wind around the parapet. It was one minute of twelve, and New York was wide awake, beautiful—and throbbing with life.
“This is getting us nowhere, Julie, and we’re getting wet,” Dunn said finally. “It’s dangerous to stay out here in the wind. Let’s go back inside.”
SHIVERING slightly, the girl took his arm. As they leaned back against the wind to head for the door there was la vivid flash of lightning, a sudden shift of the wind, and a stinging patter of icy raindrops. The parapet simply slipped out from beneath their feet like soaped glass, and they crashed flat on their backs, their heads cracking against the flooring of the balcony. Instantly things went black for Joe Dunn. He didn’t even know he had been knocked unconscious . . . .
When Joe Dunn came to, which didn’t seem to be anytime at all, he lay still for a moment to orient himself. Then he remembered, and he felt quickly for Julie. She wasn’t there beside him. He tried to get up, but the wind was too strong and he was still woozy from his fall.
His hat was gone, too. But the clouds were opening up to show a bright moon. The worst of the storm seemed to have passed. Joe Anally got to one knee, and with one hand on the parapet rail, stood up. There was not a living soul in sight around him. He seemed to be utterly alone atop the R.C.A. Building. But Julie couldn’t have been blown overboard.
Grimly he started for the door working his way slowly along until he was opposite it, using all his strength and weight against the whistling wind. Suddenly the wind stopped—dead. Just like that. He was like someone pushing against a door when someone on the other side suddenly opens it. He nearly fell on his face.
He caught his breath for the first time and stood fully erect. The sky was sharply clear. It was a beautiful moonlight night. Even the few clouds had ceased to move. They were frozen against a star-studded firmament.
Joe Dunn looked at his wrist watch and discovered it had stopped. The hands pointed exactly to twelve o’clock. That would have been about the instant he had fallen. So now he had a five-dollar repair job at the jewelers to charge up to this Fletcher business.
Rubbing the bump on the back of his head, he walked slowly to the east side railing and stared down at Fifth Avenue. There it was—New York complete. But no, there was something different. Surely he was dreaming. There was something strange about it. There were no lights, no sounds, no—no motion.
Then he got it. That smack on his head had somehow unnerved him and deadened his senses. Everything just seemed dark and still.
Joe grabbed th
e railing with both hands and looked down again. That was it—there was no sound of cabs—no traffic sounds at all. It was quiet, and completely dark except for the light of the moon. It was beautiful, but it was too still.
He walked around to the southern edge of the platform where he could look south and west, and noticed the clock on the Paramount Building had also stopped. It looked to be about twelve o’clock—same time his own watch had stopped.
“My gosh, did everything stop at twelve o’clock?”
He went shakily into the bar. The moon gave a little light, filling the place with funny shadows. He lighted a match and tried to find a switch. It was over by a door which apparently led into a kitchen. Of course, it didn’t work. Joe knew it wouldn’t. It brought on his first touch of panic.
“Hey, Julie!” he yelled. The sound echoed around the room and he felt a shiver up and down his spine. His head ached like the devil. He rushed back to the door leading out to the platform and looked up and down for Julie. There was no sign of her. There was no sign of anybody.
He struck another match and walked around in back of the bar, grabbed a bottle and poured himself a big drink. It made him feel better, and he went out to look again.
The Waldorf-Astoria showed up dear and bright and silvery in the moonlight, but there were no lights in any of the rooms. To the south he could see the outline of buildings down at the Battery. That’s it, he thought, blacked out, like in war times a decade previous.
Joe Dunn now knew he was up against something abnormal. Maybe that smack on his head when he fell had done something to him. Maybe he was crazy. Suddenly panic struck him, and he rushed through the door toward the elevator and pressed the button. But everything was dead. He hurried back and tried to open the door leading to the stairs. It was stuck. Joe shoved, and it gave. He wept down a whole flight, then stopped, came back up to the bar and grabbed the bottle of Scotch. He looked around once more and then started down the stairs.