by Earl
To Hale, returning from the living dead, all this was supreme realization of the pure joy of living.
At the edge of the woods, looking out, he drank in the sight of the city that lay close at hand. He was on Long Island, he knew, where the airport lay. Beyond gleamed the silvery spires and elevated spans of New Washington, seat of the World Government. It had been founded in 1979, a new city to commemorate and govern the new World State. It glinted magnificently in the morning Sun.
Suddenly he froze. A surprised gasp came from his lips. A mile or so away from the city proper he saw now the ramparts of a mighty structure. Erected of gleaming white stone and shining alloy, it’s colossal dome stood outlined against the blue of the ocean beyond.
Hale stood stunned.
His mind flew back to New Century’s Eve of 2000 A.D. He had stood beside the model of such a dome, the cap over a mile-deep pit sunk into Earth. At its lower end, he knew, must be the shaft of the great Sub-atlantic Tube, piercing under the ocean to Europe.
Transport Corporation, of course, had carried on the plans, taken over the project. When it was completed, probably within two years, the Five would control the Tube that he, Richard Hale, should rightfully control.
The Five!
He had almost forgotten them in the joy of his resurrection on Earth. And suddenly the joy of freedom faded into a grim rage that seeped into his brain like an acid.
“Revenge!”
He hurled the word silently out over the world. Revenge against the Five for taking from him this magnificent thing that the dome represented. Revenge for three years of blighted existence. Revenge for destroying what had been his Tomorrow. That New Year’s Eve of 2000.
Now a new Tomorrow must take its place.
“Five steps to tomorrow!” he vowed grimly.
He stepped away from the dome, finally, toward the farming section of the island. Rapid plans danced through his mind. First he would approach some farmer for a meal, shave and bath. Then he would go back to New York, get an odd job, save pennies. He had to start from scratch. There was no one he could go to, no one he could trust of all his former acquaintances. He thought momentarily of Laura Asquith. She least of all!
He must make his way as a nonentity at first. No one on Earth knew he was here. As Richard Hale, he was dead!
SIX months later, in a small bare little room in New York’s poorest quarters, a young man dressed in a cheap suit watched a queer little apparatus.
A strange grid of beryllium and platinum wires, fed by house-current, glowed weirdly with purling violet light.
Hale observed breathlessly. Like Dr. Allison’s little grid, it substituted for a quarter-ton cyclotron. Between the wires bounced atoms of volatilized lead metal. Would they or would they not break down?
With his rheostat, Hale fed more current to the grid. Its glow became iridescent, filling the room with spangled colors. The hum of dancing atoms sounded like a hiveful of bees.
He saw it then, a mist of golden color that formed around the grid. The mist thickened, became a fine, impalpable, golden dust that drifted away in all directions. Hale rubbed his finger along the suddenly dusty table top under the grid, held it before his eyes and saw the tawny yellow color. Its shade was unmistakable.
“Gold!” he whispered in awe. “Pure gold!”
He sat there hunched before his little apparatus like some medieval alchemist. He watched the lead atoms burst and turn into gold atoms. The grid had ripped one unit of atomic number—ten units of atomic weight—from an atom of lead, leaving it an atom of gold. Scientists had done it with cyclotrons, but at a cost far greater than the value of the gold itself.
Hale had used a few cents worth of electricity, a few dollars worth of apparatus, and lead worth thirty cents a pound. And he had produced gold so cheap that it wasn’t worth the equivalent in high-grade steel!
The clue had been under the noses of scientists for years. But they had not recognized it, and possibly never would. Only a mind in solitude for thirty years had tracked down the clue. It was the first of Dr. Allison’s scientific secrets.
Hale watched the gold dust swirl out and fill the room with earthly wealth. A minute before he had been penniless. Now he was making money—literally—at a faster pace than the greatest capitalist in history. But the wealth itself gave him no thrill. It was the thought of what he could do with it. He would not reveal the process, for that would destroy the world’s money system. He would use the magic wealth for his own secret purposes.
First he would buy an isolated estate, somewhere north of New York. There, in a fully equipped laboratory, he would search out the secrets of a profound brain that for thirty years had molded great things out of pure thought.
Then he would emerge to confront the Five!
A slow, grim smile touched his lips. What was that old well-known line from a light-opera?
“Make the punishment fit the crime.”
He would make the punishment fit the person!
Hale stepped before a mirror suddenly. Would they recognize him? The face that stared back was not the same face of over three years before. Richard Hale of 2000 had been boyish, clear-eyed, round-cheeked.
The Richard Hale of 2004 was aged by ten years. Thin cheeks were surmounted by burning dark eyes. His hair had thinned. Lines had appeared where none had been before. The compressed lips could only draw up in a light, sardonic smile. Frustrated prison life had left its mark. His own father, were he living, might not have seen more than a puzzling, frightening resemblance to the son he had known.
No, he wouldn’t be recognized. He could safely face the Five. Besides, their last thought of Richard Hale would have been his reported death in trying to escape Strato-prison.
But still he would make the necessary test. . . .
CHAPTER XI
One Step to Tomorrow
LAURA ASQUITH looked at her visitor with natural feminine interest as he walked into the living room.
He was tall, slender, dark-haired, yet his complexion bore a strange dull pallor. He had a rather severe, intellectual face, with straight lips under a small black mustache. He wore tortoise-shelled glasses that seemed to hide dark eyes that burned at her.
Womanlike, she tried to guess his age. But that was impossible. He might have been twenty-five or forty-five. Foreign, of course. With the queer name of Dr. Strato, he could only be a Greek or Latin.
“Dr. Strato?” she murmured in greeting. “You sent me lovely flowers and asked to see me.” She hesitated, for something disturbed her. “Have I met you before?” she added apologetically.
“I believe not.” The visitor’s voice was suave, with the precise accent of a foreigner who has learned English thoroughly. “A poet friend of mine, Antonio Vinci, met you at a ball. He asked me to pay his respects to you. He said you were a lovely girl. He was right.”
Smiling at the compliment, Laura Asquith’s thoughts flew back.
“Antonio Vinci? Why, that was at the New Year’s ball of nineteen-ninety-nine, five years ago! I was so young then, merely eighteen. Yet I do remember it vividly. I was with—”
She stopped, eager reminiscence vanishing from her eyes.
“Yes?” prompted Dr. Strato politely.
“Just a friend,” Laura finished.
“Was it young Richard Hale?”
The girl started, and then nodded wordlessly, A fixed smile had appeared on her lips.
“Antonio mentioned him,” the visitor pursued conversationally. “Antonio was quite captivated by your charm, but you seemed, he said, to be loyal to the American. All the world has heard, of course, of his unfortunate doings and sentence to Strato-prison. Antonio asked, as a matter of curiosity, if you had heard any more of him.”
Laura darted a sharp glance at her mysterious visitor.
“He died last year trying to escape,” she said tonelessly.
“How unfortunate! However, those who plot treason deserve death. I believe you were one of the witnesses at t
he trial?”
Laura nodded briefly, trying to show distaste for the topic. Dr. Strato went on as if unaware of her increasing nervousness.
“There were some who believed Richard Hale had been innocent. But of course he must have been guilty, if a girl like yourself helped convict him.”
Laura Asquith jumped up.
“Please, Dr. Strato, may I excuse myself? I’m not feeling well.”
Without another word she left the room, leaving her visitor to find his way out.
On the street, Richard Hale permitted himself a sigh of relief. She hadn’t recognized him. He was safe. The added items of a mustache, darkened eyebrows and hair, and hornrimmed plain glasses had completed the natural disguise of three years of prison. His practised accent and foreign manner were further subterfuges. Now he could face the Five without fear of premature recognition. Laura had been the real acid test.
Also he had found out that Richard Hale was completely dead, in their minds. That left him free to move about as he wished. As Dr. Strato, a mysterious foreign scientist, he could twine an invisible net around them as they once had around him. Hale was pleased with the initial success of his plan.
But striding along, his thoughts went back to Laura Asquith.
As much as to test his changed identity, he had wanted to see her, to make certain that their love was cold, dead ashes. Should he make it six steps instead of five—bring down the heavy hand of vengeance on her too? Why not? Did she deserve any better? He hated her, despised her for what she had done. It was impossible that his love could survive three bitter years. If his heart had hammered, it had been in repressed hate.
He straightened his shoulders. That was that. He would think what to do with her in due time.
Right now, he was ready for Step One. . . .
SIR CHARLES PAXTON received his caller in his private office in New Washington. The door lettering said, “Secretary of Finance, World Government.” The furniture was upholstered in tawny yellow leather, filling the room with a golden glow. He basked in that, as one would in sunshine.
Hale walked up to his desk slowly, staring at him, Outwardly he was the cool, calm Dr. Strato. Within, his blood pounded. Vividly the court scene of five years before stood in his mind. He remembered every little merciless expression Paxton had worn on that occasion.
“Dr. Strato?” Sir Charles Paxton frowned, looking at the card again. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you. What is your business?”
Hale leisurely sat down in a comfortable chair without waiting for permission. He carried a cane for effect and folded his two hands over its handle. Then he looked up blandly at the man who controlled world finance.
“I’m a scientist by profession, a rich man through good fortune,” Hale drawled. He saw the added interest in Paxton’s eyes at the phrase “rich man”. He went on. “The official opening of the Subatlantic Tube is scheduled within a month. I would like to have the privilege of being among the first passengers who ride through the tube. A whim of mine.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid,” retorted Paxton shortly. “Only high Government officials will have that privilege. Sorry.”
He was already looking down at the papers on his desk.
“What would be the price?” persisted Hale.
“There is no price.”
“I’m sure there is,” Hale contradicted. He had opened his coat and was toying with a pure gold watch fob and chain. “Money, I have heard, buys everything. Everything, perhaps, except a clear conscience. The price of that is often more than all the gold on Earth can purchase!”
Paxton’s sidelong glance was veiled, and slightly disturbed.
“What do you mean?” he asked in a low tone.
“Nothing. A mere epigram.” Hale was still toying with his gold chain, his voice still bland. “Let’s call my request a fare. Shall we say—a million dollars?”
Paxton gasped. His sharp face peered closely at his strange visitor.
“A million dollars! You would be willing to pay that for a three-and-a-half hour trip in the Tube?” He reddened suddenly. “I don’t appreciate the humor.”
“I’m serious,” Hale interposed, rising. “My address is on the card. If you think it can be arranged, drive out and see me. My offer will hold good for twenty-four hours.”
With an enigmatic smile, Hale strolled out of the office.
Alone, Sir Charles Paxton looked at the card.
“A million dollars!” he murmured.
With an annoyed gesture, he tossed the card in the waste basket and went back to his papers.
THAT evening the roles were reversed. Paxton was the caller at Hale’s isolated Long Island estate.
Hale’s engimatic grin returned. He was not surprised. He had known his man, knew he would come. The irresistible lure of money had drawn Paxton as surely as honey drew flies.
Paxton hemmed and hawed around guiltily while Hale watched him in secret amusement. Finally he came to the point.
“If you are still serious about the matter we discussed this afternoon, I think it might be arranged, purely as a personal favor to you.”
And the million dollars would be purely a personal payment to Paxton, Hale knew. He would not miss this chance to add a million at one stroke to his personal fortune.
“Fine,” Hale nodded.
“If you could give some little token of your—ah—”
Hale was prepared. He opened a small sack into a porcelain bowl. Shining gold dust slithered out softly.
Paxton shoved forward to the edge of his chair, his eyes glistening.
“Gold dust! Where do you get it? You have a mine somewhere?”
“I have the Midas touch,” returned Hale. “Everything I touch turns to gold.”
Paxton smiled weakly at this eccentric man’s humor.
“A most admirable gift, if you had it,” he remarked seriously.
“It was a curse in the fable,” reminded Hale. “As a matter of fact, however, I manufacture the gold dust.”
Paxton smiled again, in annoyance. “Naturally if you don’t wish to tell the truth . . .” He let his voice trail away.
“Come in my laboratory. I’ll show you.”
Hale led the way. Paxton followed out of sheer curiosity. The laboratory was large, tile lined, apparently equipped for every conceivable type of research.
“Sit down.”
Hale motioned to a chair, then turned to indicate an apparatus on the nearby workbench. A tiny glass vial was suspended a foot over the table-top, held in a clamp. A speck of something glowed slightly in the vial. Hale picked up a strip of white metal and brought it near the vial.
“Watch closely,” he warned.
When the metal strip was within a foot of the vial, it began to change color slightly. Hale moved it steadily closer. At six inches, the metal glowed with a rich yellow color. It sent shafts of golden light darting through the air.
“Gold!” Paxton gasped. “You’ve actually turned it to gold.”
Hale observed him, still wearing the saturnine smile that now came so easily to his lips. When the financier was about to jump up eagerly to handle the miraculously made gold strip, Hale moved it away swiftly.
The strip turned back to its former silvery hue.
“Oh-h-h!” breathed an ululation of disappointment from Paxton.
“Just a trick,” grinned Hale.
“You don’t make gold?” Then, angry with himself for having even entertained the ridiculous thought, Paxton’s voice snapped. “This is all rather pointless.”
“Is it?”
HALE’S hand was behind his back.
It reached to a panel of switches and closed one. A low hum arose. Above Paxton’s head a filament glowed within a concave container of frosted quartz. Its soft, radiation poured down on Paxton’s head.
He had been about to say something more. His mouth remained open for a second, then sagged shut with a deep sigh. His eyes closed. His limp body slumped into the roomy chair
, his head hanging.
Hale looked down at him for a moment. He had gone instantly to sleep under the influence of the anesthetic ray. Dr. Allison, up in Strato-prison, had reasoned that some sort of beam could do the same thing sleep or anesthetics did—short-circuit the conscious brain. Hale had produced the type of ray necessary, a wave of tremendous high-frequency that interfered with the human brain’s nerve currents. It would be a boon to surgery when he revealed it.
Hale’s mask of polite suavity had vanished abruptly. For the first time he let his inner rage take possession of him. Hate burned from his eyes, hatred for this man who, with four others, had mercilessly railroaded him to lifelong exile. Paxton would have to pay for the three years that had been clipped off Hale’s life.
“You like the sight of gold,” Hale murmured to the unhearing man. “You would like the Midas touch.”
He worked rapidly, in accordance with plans long before thought out to the last detail. He wheeled a low taboret over and clamped Paxton’s hands to the surface, palms down. He inserted a fine steel needle with a hypodermic plunger attachment in the flesh of the middle finger of one hand, just above the last joint. He pressed till the needle met bone, and an eighth of an inch deeper, into the bone. Then he pushed the plunger. Compressed air forced a tiny speck of matter to the hollow needle’s end, depositing it in the bone.
The speck has been taken from the glass vial before which a strip of white metal had turned golden. It was a new type of radioactive material, made by Hale, unknown to science at large. It had the peculiar property of giving off a ray that caused yellow fluorescence in all matter within a radius of six inches. Even the air around it glowed faintly yellow. Similar to ultra-violet fluorescence, it was confined solely to the yellow range of the spectrum.
Dr. Allison’s long pondering mind had conceived a whole new chain of radioactive elements. They could be made by carefully controlled bombardments of neutrons into radium. The yellow fluorescing type had interested Hale the most.