The Scifi & Fantasy Collection

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Okay, Pop,” said Tim, his mill beginning to clatter.

  “Copy boy!” shouted Pop, pointing at Tim. “Pictures of Pennsylvania Station!” He grabbed a phone. “Branner! Keep adding to that extra. We got pictures coming of Pennsylvania Station. It’s gone.”

  “Penn— Oh boy, what a story!”

  Pop hung up. “Angles, angles—” The phone rang.

  “This is Lawson. I just heard that Grand Central disappeared. I’ll get down there for some pictures and call you back.”

  “Pennsylvania Station just went,” said Pop.

  “The hell,” said Lawson.

  “On your way,” said Pop.

  “Gone,” said Lawson.

  Pop reached for another phone which was clamoring.

  “This is Jenson again. I been checking all the angles. About a thousand people saw it disappear when—”

  “What? What’s gone now?”

  “Why, Grant’s Tomb—”

  “Hell, kill it. The Empire State, Pennsylvania and Grand Central have gone since then. Get down here with your photographer.”

  “I haven’t seen him. Did you send one?”

  “Get down here. Do you think this is a vacation? Bring in your yarns. They’ll just make our fourth extra.”

  “Okay, Pop.”

  “Got a statement from the mayor. He’s yelling sabotage,” said the cub. “He says he’s phoning the governor to call out the militia. He says they can’t do this to his town.”

  “Banner for extra number three,” barked Pop into the phone. “Mayor Objects. Calls Out Militia. Story coming down.” He jabbed a finger at the cub’s typewriter. “Roll it out and spread it thick. They’ll be half-panicked by now. Stab in a human-interest angle. Make ’em take it calm.”

  “Check,” said the cub nervously.

  Pop walked around his desk and again reached for his cigarette case, to again discover that it was missing. “Angles—two men with swallowtail coats—”

  Pop whirled, “Eddy! Take this lead. Mystery man seen in two catastrophes. A small man with a swallowtail coat was present today at both the vanishing of the tomb and Pennsylvania Station. Was seen to run across place where tomb had been and collided with one of our reporters just after Pennsylvania disappeared. Got it?”

  “Check.”

  Pop went over to the window. The Empire State was still gone. A thought was taking definite form in his mind now. For some reason he kept harking back to Hannibal Pertwee. Railway stations, cigarette case, swallowtail coat—

  Freeman came dashing up. “She’s sure gone.”

  “What?”

  “The Empire State. There’s nothing but a hole in the ground. There were umpteen thousand people inside and there’s no sign of them—”

  “Okay! Do me a story about the state of the city—how calm they’re taking it. Smooth them down. Third extra on its way and you’ll make the lead in the fourth.”

  “Right,” said Freeman. “But you oughta seen that cop—”

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t buy the paper. Write it.”

  “Okay, Pop.”

  Pop turned back to his desk. He was so preoccupied that he did not see a dark cloud come thundering through the city room.

  Caulborn, with a copy of the first extra in his hands, bore down upon what was obviously the center of the maelstrom.

  “Did you do this?” he cried, shaking the extra under Pop’s nose.

  “Sure. What about it?”

  “Why didn’t you call me? You know where I eat lunch! How do you know this story is true? What do you mean spreading terror all over the town? How is it that we get a paper out so quick when there’s nobody else on the streets? If this is a farce, then we’ll be in Dutch plenty. Civil and criminal actions—”

  “It takes guts to run a paper,” said Pop coldly.

  “If that’s what it takes, you’ve got too many. Now we’ve got to check everything we’ve printed. If you’ve got another extra on the rollers, we’ll have to kill it and find out if—”

  “The third extra is on the street,” said Pop.

  Caulborn stared, growing angry. “And you took the authority without even trying to find me?”

  “A story has got to go when it’s hot,” said Pop.

  “All right! All right! And you ran this one so hot that you’re driving New York into a panic! Get out!”

  “What?”

  “I said get out!” towered Caulborn. “You’re through, finished, washed up. Today instead of tomorrow!” And, nursing his injured importance, Caulborn flung off to his office.

  The city room was very quiet.

  Pop stood for a little while and then, with a shrug, picked up the package on his desk.

  “Well,” he sighed, “it was fun while it lasted.”

  “You’re going to take him at his word?” said somebody. “Just because you were smart enough not to wait? He’s just sore because you did it so swell—”

  “Maybe,” said Pop.

  “You’re going to quit like this?” said Freeman.

  “No. Not like this,” said Pop.

  “Whatcha going to do?” said the cub.

  Pop hefted his package. He looked grim.

  Chapter Four

  AT dusk Pop approached the fortress of Hannibal Pertwee. But this time he did not lean against the fence or spend time in reading signs. True, he could not miss:

  BEWARE OF THE LIONS!

  but, having seen none on his previous visit, he refused to be alarmed. In fact, he was so unswerving of purpose that nothing short of lightning itself could have stopped him and he had an antidote for that.

  At a garage he had managed to separate himself from five dollars he could ill afford, an electrician from a pair of insulated gloves, and the heaviest pair of wire cutters he could carry.

  Breaking and entering would be a very serious offense, but he was first going to give Hannibal a chance.

  For several minutes he waited dutifully at the gate, hoping that the mysterious voice would again speak. But this time it did not and the house remained as dark as it was small.

  “You asked for it,” muttered Pop.

  Very painstakingly he inspected the latch. Then he donned the rubber gloves and took the cutters and went to work. In a few minutes the gate was swinging open, leaving its latch behind.

  Oh, if this hunch he had was wrong!

  He marched through the miniature forest down the miniature path and ducked to mount the porch. But there his purpose was eased.

  Hannibal opened the door and gazed sadly at him.

  “It will be so much work to repair that gate,” said Hannibal.

  “Well . . . uh . . . you see—”

  “I was very busy. You are Mr. Frothingale from the Atlantic Science Survey, are you not?”

  “I’m from the World-Journal,” said Pop.

  “You’re sure you are not from the railroad company?”

  “Ah,” said Pop.

  “Well—I am very sorry but I can’t ask you in tonight. I am so busy.”

  “I . . . er . . . came after my cigarette case,” said Pop.

  “Cigarette case?”

  “Yes. I lost it when I was here before. I would dislike having to part with it permanently.”

  “Oh, that is very shocking. Did you lose it here?”

  “I had it when I was here and didn’t have it after I left.”

  “Mightn’t you have dropped it in the garden?”

  “I had it while I was in the house. You don’t mind if I come in and look, do you?”

  “Why . . . er—”

  But Pop was already shouldering past Hannibal Pertwee and the little man could not but give way. However, Hannibal skipp
ed to the fore and guided Pop into the minute living room.

  “I was sitting here in this chair,” said Pop, looking under it.

  Hannibal fidgeted. “Isn’t it lovely weather?”

  “Swell,” said Pop. “You don’t mind if I look elsewhere?”

  “Oh, yes! I mean no! I am very busy. Really, you will have to go.”

  “But my cigarette case,” said Pop, edging toward the train room, “is very valuable to me.”

  “Of course, of course. I appreciate your predicament. But if I had seen it and if I find it— Oh, dear, what am I saying?”

  “Well,” said Pop, suddenly crafty, “I won’t trouble you further. I can see how upset you are.” And he extended his hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Pertwee.”

  Eagerly Hannibal grasped the offered hand. Swiftly Pop yanked Hannibal close to him and gave him an expert frisk. The cigarette case leaped out of Hannibal’s pocket. Pop looked at it with satisfaction.

  “I wonder,” said Hannibal, distrait, “how that got there?”

  “So do I,” said Pop. “And now if I could inspect your trains again—”

  “Well . . . yes. All right. Just come this way.” And he stepped through the door.

  Pop was so close behind him that he almost got cut in half when the door slammed shut. There was the rumble of a shot bolt and Pop’s weight against the door had no effect at all. He swore and dashed for the hall. Another door slammed there. Pop stood glaring through the walls at Hannibal. Then he got another idea and rushed outside to take a tour of the house. But there was nothing to be seen.

  For two hours Pop prowled in the garden. But the night was cold and Pop was hungry and, at last, he had to be content with his victory in recovering his case. He went off up the road in the direction of the station.

  Grumbling to himself, he stood on the platform, waiting for a train to carry him back to New York. He could swear that there was some connection between the forest, the miniature car, the trains and the vanished buildings.

  “Dja hear about them things disappearin’ in N’York?” said a loafer.

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  “Awful, ain’t it?” said the loafer.

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  “It’s them Nazis,” said the loafer.

  Pop took out his cigarette case. It still contained several cigarettes so, evidently, Hannibal did not smoke. Pop lit up. He was about to replace the case when he wondered if any harm had come to it. He pressed the music button. No sound came forth.

  “Damn him,” said Pop. “Broke it.” Well, he could have it fixed. Hannibal, the loon, had probably worn it out.

  The train came at last and Pop settled himself for a doze. He could think best when he dozed. But his neighbor wasn’t sleepy.

  “Ain’t that awful what them Reds did in New York? I hear that people are runnin’ around trying to lynch all the Reds they know about. ’Course some don’t believe it was the Reds, and I hear tell the churches is full of people prayin’. I’m goin’ in to see for myself, but I’m tellin’ you, you won’t catch me walkin’ into no buildings.”

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  The train lippety-clicked endlessly, saying the same thing over and over: “Pop’s through, Pop’s through, Pop’s through.”

  About eight he wandered out of the station to straggle haphazardly uptown. He was trying to tell himself that he was glad he was through. No more chasing fire engines for him. What a hell of a life it was. Never any regular sleep, always on the go, living from story to story. Well! Now he could settle down and rest awhile. Yes, that was the ticket. Just rest. There was that farm his sister had left him. He’d go up there in the morning. Place probably all falling to pieces but it would be quiet. Yes, a helluva life for a man. He’d followed the news for years and now all the stories he had covered were lumped into one chunk of forgetfulness—and he was as stale as yesterday’s newspaper. What had it ever gotten him? Just headaches.

  Shuffling along, head down, hands deep in his jacket pockets, he coursed his way to Eighth Avenue. From far off came a thin scream of a police siren. Pop stopped, instantly alert. The clang of engines followed, swooping down a side street near him. He raced up to the corner and watched the trucks and police cars stream by full blast. He whirled to a taxi and then paused, uncertain. Gradually he lost his excitement until he was again slumped listlessly. Far off the police sirens and bells dwindled and faded into the surflike mutter of the city.

  “Taxi, buddy?”

  Pop glanced toward the hack driver. He slowly shook his head and pulled out his cigarette case. He lighted up and puffed disconsolately. A saloon was nearby and he wandered into it to place a foot on the rail.

  “Rye. Straight,” said Pop.

  The British-looking barkeep pushed out a glass and filled it with an expert twist of his wrist. Pop downed the drink and stood there for a while staring morosely at his reflection in the mirror behind the pyramided wares.

  “Fill it up,” said Pop.

  The barkeep did as bidden. “Ain’t that awful about them buildings and all?” he said the while. “The wickedness of this city is what brought it on. Just yesterday I says to a gent in here, I says, ‘A town as sinful as this—’”

  Pop took out his cigarette case. “Yeah.”

  “‘A town as sinful as this cannot meet but one fate in the mighty wrath—’”

  SWOOssssh!

  Pop was jarred out of his wits.

  The whole bar had vanished!

  The whole bar, complete with tender!

  The mirrors were still there, but that was all!

  A drunk who had been sitting at a side table looked unblinkingly in the direction of the phenomenon and then, with great exactness, lifted his glass and spilled the contents on the floor. Unsteadily he navigated to the street.

  Pop’s news-keen mind examined all the possibilities in sight. Was it possible that someone had come in that door and done this? Had Hannibal followed him?

  Absently he started to pay for his drink, coming to himself only when he saw for certain that he no longer leaned on the bar. He looked at the floor where the planks were patterned as the bar had stood. And then Pop received another shock.

  There was the bar!

  About an inch long!

  Almost lost in a crack between the flooring!

  Hastily he picked it up, afraid of hurting it. He could barely make out the bartender who did not seem to be moving. Pop put the thing in a small cardboard box he found in the refuse and then stowed it carefully in his pocket.

  This opened up a wide range of thought and he needed air in which to think. He went out into the street.

  Why was he so certain that it was Hannibal? He understood nothing of that man’s plans and certainly there were thousands of swallowtail coats in New York City. But still—

  This bar had dwindled in size. Was it not possible, then, that the buildings had done likewise? And if they had, mightn’t they still be there? He mulled this for a long time, standing at the curb, occasionally hearing the wonder of a would-be customer in the saloon.

  “Taxi?” persisted the driver.

  “Yeah,” said Pop. But before he got in, his abstraction led him to take out his cigarette case and light up. Then he entered the cab. “I want to go to the place Grand Central Station was.”

  “Okay, buddy,” said the cabby.

  He pondered profoundly as he waited for lights, and when the driver let him out near the police cordon which had been placed around the hole, he thought he had a glimmering of the meaning behind this series of events.

  He paid and strolled along the line.

  “Awful, ain’t it?” said another spectator.

  “Yeah,” said Pop. He edged up to an officer. “I’m from the World-Journal. I want to examine that hole fr
om the bottom.”

  “Sorry. Can’t be done. I got strict orders.”

  A few minutes later, Pop was wandering about the hole. The street lights were sufficient for his inspection and, very minutely, he covered every inch of the ground. Then, finding nothing, he again risked bunions by doing it all over, again without result. He got out and walked away toward the site of the Empire State.

  On the way he paused and bought some cigarettes, filling his case. When he had finished he wandered on down the avenue.

  But his inspection of the hole where the Empire State had stood left him once more without clue. He was very weary and muddy when he had finished, for it was difficult walking.

  He stood once more at the curb, determined to make his inspection complete.

  “Taxi?”

  Pop took out his case and started to extract a cigarette.

  “Tax—”

  SWOOssssh!

  And the cab folded into itself with such rapidity that Pop’s eye could not follow.

  Pop trembled.

  He shut his eyes and counted to ten.

  When he opened them the cab was still gone.

  Then he looked more closely at the pavement and stooped down. Here was the cab, a little less than an inch long and proportionate in the other two dimensions.

  Pop put it in his cardboard box.

  But nobody was near him. Evidently no one had seen this happen to the cab. And if Hannibal had sneaked up and caused it, there had been neither sign nor sound of his approach.

  Maybe—maybe Hannibal wasn’t guilty.

  Maybe New York would keep right on disappearing!

  To keep his sanity Pop vowed to complete his inspection. He moved to the next cab in the line in which the driver was dozing. The cabby woke with a start and reached automatically back for the door.

  “I want to go to Pennsylvania Station,” said Pop. And then, finding he still held the cigarette case in his hand, again opened it to take out another cigarette.

  SWOOssssh!

  And this second cab was gone!

  Pop began to tremble violently. His heart was beating somewhere near his tonsils. With a quick glance around he reached down and picked up the cab and slid it into his box.