by Earl
Dr. Strato smiled.
“I told you I would be here, Sir Charles!” he said mockingly. “Even without paying the million dollars!” Then, before they could think or act, Dr. Strato had moved off into the press of the crowd. A moment later he appeared on the speakers’ platform, before the battery of microphones and incinoscopes.
A speaker had just finished eulogizing Transport Corporation for giving to the world the great Subatlantic Tube.
Hale was there before any one thought to stop him. He spoke, electrifying the vast world audience.
“The true story of the Subatlantic Tube is not known! On New Century’s Eve of two thousand, the project was started by a company under Richard Hale, whose father. Burton Hale, had conceived the plans. Shortly after, through trickery, Transport Corporation took over the project. Richard Hale was sentenced to prison on the false charge of plotting treason. Five men schemed this. Four of them are here now!” Dr. Strato stared down at the Four accusingly.
“Let’s get closer to the platform,” Gordy hissed to his companions. “We can rush up and make sure he doesn’t get away. Dr. Strato has made a mistake this time. He doesn’t know he won’t get out of this alive! Give the signal, von Grenfeld!”
Hale had gone on with his denunciation, for all the world to hear.
“The Four are present now, the Four who plot world rule. Sir Charles Paxton, Peter Asquith, Ivan von Grenfeld and Dr. Emanuel Gordy. Four human freaks, both mentally and physically. Look at them! Paxton has the Golden Touch because he worshipped Mammon. Asquith has bloody hands which he can never wash free of the taint of treachery. Von Grenfeld is as small in stature as he is in mentality. And Gordy is exposed to the eyes of the world as the repulsive being he is—”
PANDEMONIUM broke loose in the tunnel under the Atlantic. At von Grenfeld’s signal, the disguised Syndicate troopers pulled guns from their pockets and herded the crowd aside. One shot rang out. One policeman fell. The rest were taken by surprise, with no chance to resist. The radio-operators and ike-men were pushed away from their apparatus, and the instruments turned off. In hardly more than a minute, the Syndicate troopers had complete control of the situation.
Stung and raging at Hale’s words, the Four had leaped up the steps of the platform. Here within reach was the man who had visited them with scientific blights, who had given them sleepless nights and tortured days, who had all but disrupted their chance at world power. They came at their Nemesis with clutching hands. And the fool stood there, not realizing they would kill him on the spot with their own hands. Then their troopers would move on to victory. . . .
Dr. Strato stood there smiling, waiting for them. How could he be so utterly unconcerned?
The Four’s eager, vengeful hands clutched at Dr. Strato—but clutched only empty air! Von Grenfeld, in the lead, rammed his fist forward, nearly fell headlong when he met no resistance. Paxton distinctly saw his golden-glowing hands go around an intangible neck, but they met themselves. Asquith, true to his nature, had come up from behind, grasping the figure around the middle. But he found his arms hugging themselves. Gordy, more observantly, passed his hand through a non-existent arm and saw his fingers clearly beyond.
The Four stepped back, frustrated rage choking them.
“He isn’t there!” gasped Paxton.
The figure of Dr. Strato continued to smile at them derisively. It was seemingly solid, seemingly real. The Four felt again the chill of the Unknown. From their close range, they could see now that it shimmered and looked vaguely insubstantial.
“No, I am not here, in the flesh,” the figure explained to them. “Jonathan Mausser shot five times at me point-blank. He did not harm me. And at the last, before he died, he realized who I was.”
Dr. Strato’s eyes flashed.
“It is time now for you Four to know, here in the completed Sub-atlantic Tube.” The voice changed, dropping the precise accent of Dr. Strato. The tone became fuller, more natural. “Look at me! Look at me closely!”
As with Mausser, Dr. Strato removed his tortoise-shelled glasses, then a false mustache, exposing his upper lip newly shaven.
The Four stared, recognizing now the haunting familiarity of the face.
They stood stricken. It was a strange tableau under the Atlantic Ocean. Their minds leaped back to a stunning revelation. And then the figure tore open its shirt front, to reveal the glowing numbers tattooed there. Y-1418. It was like lightning striking.
Peter Asquith gaped at his blood-dyed hands in sudden understanding.
Paxton recoiled a step. Von Grenfeld gave a startled oath. Gordy bit an invisible lip and a drop of red blood trickled down his chin. But none of them blurted the name that burned in their brains. Another voice had to give name to the horror.
“Dick! Dick Hale!”
CHAPTER XIX
A Mile Below
IT was a high-pitched voice from somewhere in the crowd. A feminine figure broke from the guarding troopers and flew up the steps toward him. Laura Asquith threw her arms around him wildly, but found him no more tangible than the others had. She reeled back with a choked sob. The image of Hale looked at her coldly.
“Richard Hale!” gasped von Grenfeld finally. “But you were killed, trying to escape Strato-prison, two years ago—”
“Richard Hale,” Asquith half moaned. “Back from the dead!”
“It’s the ghost of Richard Hale,” croaked Paxton uncertainly, not knowing whether to believe himself or not.
It was the supreme moment. Hale drank of it to the full. In the startled reactions of the Four—in their dazed faces, their shocked nerves, their whirling minds—his revenge was completed. And the setting was appropriate, here in the mid-spot of the finished Subatlantic Tube. The world should be acclaiming the name of Hale, father and son, for the wonder. The Five had robbed him of that. But now he was robbing them, in turn, of their most cherished dream.
Gordy recovered first from the shock of the revelation.
“Of course not!” he snapped, answering Paxton. “It’s merely a three-dimensional image, cast somehow from a distance.”
“Naturally,” agreed Hale’s image. “I’m safe in my laboratory. As for Strato-prison, I succeeded in escaping, the only one to do so. My single thought up there, for three years, was revenge, and the downfall of the Five. Both are accomplished. If you will surrender your persons to me, I will undo what I’ve done to you physically. After that you will be tried by due process of law for treason. If you plead guilty, you may escape sentence in Strato-prison!”
“Surrender?” Gordy waved his arm in a grand sweep. “I’m in control here. My troopers will ride into New Washington in a few hours.”
“It won’t succeed,” Hale returned quietly. “If you go on sacrificing human life, I will withdraw my offer. Your afflictions will remain, and all your pathetic science will not find the antidotes. All your life you, Dr. Gordy, will recoil from your mirror image. Von Grenfeld will wear clothes cut to a boy’s size. Asquith’s marked hands will haunt him. And Paxton’s false gold will mock him. All your lives!”
“No, I couldn’t stand it!” came a hoarse shout from Paxton. “Any thing to get rid of this damnable curse in my hands!” He appealed to the others. “We’re through. Hale has beaten us.”
“Paxton, I warn you.”
Gordy had drawn a pistol, his face set dangerously. The moment was tense. Nerves were cracking. Wildeyed, Paxton yelled on.
“I won’t go through life this way with the shine of gold in my eyes. Every mouthful of food, everything I touch. I won’t. Hale, I surrender to you. Where are you?”
A shot rang out, echoing hollowly down the giant tunnel. Paxton’s voice ended in a death-gasp, as the energy charge destroyed his brain. His body thudded to the platform.
SWINGING on his two remaining companions, Gordy’s cold, implacable eyes warned them the ruthless act would be repeated if they showed any sign of weakening. Asquith and von Grenfeld nodded dumbly, to show their acceptance of the
deed.
The crowd around shuddered, seeing in the act the future type of rule to be expected under Gordy. The Syndicate troopers, trained in a tradition of violence did not relax their vigilance. For a moment the crowd seemed about to break in rising hysteria and rage. But something interrupted.
Down the endless length of the Tube sounded the hollow rumble of a rocket train. It appeared from the direction of Europe and hurtled past with a hissing roar. It was the first trainload of armed Syndicate troopers, bound for the New York terminal. The crowd relaxed, realizing its helplessness.
Gordy turned back triumphantly to Hale’s image.
“There’s my answer!” he said fiercely. “We have a million men. They will storm through the small forces of the standing army. If the terminal is blasted down, in desperation, we have AP-excavators with which to dig through. We can’t be stopped!”
Hale’s image had not spoken a word, watching the death of Paxton. Now its glance clashed with that of Gordy.
“You will gain nothing.”
Then the image faded.
Back in his laboratory Hale waited calmly.
His laboratory, the one they had scoured the vicinity for, was located in the lobby of the New York terminal, a mile below ground. Hale had known it would be the last place they would think of looking. Months before he had rented a space among a horseshoe of shops, directly facing the end of the tunnel. In effect, he commanded the exit.
With cannon they would be able to rake every inch of the shops. But first they had to bring the cannon up. One man, with the proper instrument, could hold off an army, and Hale had the proper instrument. With what he knew of the terminal, he had picked the most strategic spot in what promised to be one of the queerest military engagements in history.
He made no attempt to reveal himself or his plans to the Government.
They were duly alarmed over the past week’s happenings—in the stock exchange, the writing in the sky, and the ominous blinking out of the televized scene in the Tube. They were rushing troops down. They would fight in their way, Hale in his.
Hale looked out over a hundred yards of marble flooring that stretched from the shops to the beginning of the arched tunnel. He could look a hundred yards into the tunnel, before its downgrade cut off his vision.
Hale waited tensely, but it was not till seven hours later that he saw the massing of troops, after several rocket trains had hurtled back and forth from Europe, bringing up the main army. It was the quickest transfer of an army in history, made possible by the connecting Tube under the ocean.
That had been Gordy’s chief threat all the while, in his aim to power. They could strike at the seat of World Government with paralyzing rapidity. The million Syndicate troopers were an overwhelmingly superior military force in a world that had been almost completely disarmed, under its federation laws, for twenty-five years.
Suddenly the attack began. Troopers disembarked from the mouth of the tunnel. . . .
The battle was on!
THE first few went down under a withering gunfire of AP-blasts from the Government defenders. But those behind, well trained for these special conditions were quickly setting up sandbag emplacements. From behind these, gunners poured back blistering charges. Small cannon, the largest known since disarmament, were being wheeled up. Soon, under a protective barrage, sorties of Syndicate soldiers would scurry forth and capture strategic posts.
All this went on a mile underground, within a giant steel-and-concrete pit. The hollow thunder of the first few shots beat through the confined space. It was the beginning of a small-scale war that earlier times would have laughed at. But a world hung in the balance.
“It will be so simple!” exulted von Grenfeld to his two companions. He was directing operations from the rear. “Our men will quickly—” He stopped.
The barrage of increasing battle roars had abruptly ceased. Startled, the three men raised their heads to look beyond the upcurve of the tunnel. They saw a strange sight.
The Syndicate men who had just been scurrying out of the tunnel mouth swayed on their feet, then sprawled over, the marble floor. They had not been touched by gunfire. The men piling sandbags let their burdens drop, and quietly crumpled up. Those operating machine guns and grenade-catapults leaned against the silent weapons, arms hanging. The cannon scraped to a stop as the men pulling them dropped limply.
And for a hundred yards back, thousands of uniformed troopers toppled over as though a mysterious wind had blown them down. Nothing was visible. Nothing gave a sign. But in one moment something had stopped the attack, like turning off a light!
“Have they all been killed?” gasped von Grenfeld stupidly.
“They look like they fell asleep!” breathed Asquith. He shrugged, as though expecting it. “Dr. Strato again—Richard Hale!”
And as if he had conjured him up, the image of Hale materialized beside them, his expression stony.
“I said I’d stop you,” he stated quietly. “My laboratory commands the exit. My sleep ray, or anesthetic beam, covers the entire area. You can never win through, even with a million men. If you send more forward into range of the ray, they will pile up and eventually choke the tunnel. And all your powerful armament is useless, with sleeping men behind them.
“Now that this quick stalemate has reached, I’ll contact the Government.
I have a duplicate anesthetic ray projector ready to be flown across to Europe. The European terminal will be also sprayed with the ray. Thus you are bottled up!”
Hale smiled grimly. It was soul-satisfying to have his enemies and their army trapped in the Subatlantic Tube they had wrested from him.
“In behalf of the World Government, I serve you this ultimatum. Your troops are to drop arms and come out, to be taken into custody. You Three surrender personally to me! When you are ready contact me by radio.”
The image vanished.
The Three exchanged stunned glances. Richard Hale had thrown an invisible net over them, as they once had over him.
“Bottled up!” muttered Asquith, shuddering as though the walls were closing about him. “We’re done!”
“They can’t fly the other sleep projector across and set it up in less than five hours,” observed von Grenfeld. “In that time we can get some of our troops out. The Tube train is faster than strato-ships. Perhaps a hundred thousand—”
“What good would that be?” snapped Gordy. “The Government-troops in Europe could defeat that force!”
They avoided one another’s eyes. One thing only loomed—personal surrender to the lone man who had crushed their power.
FIVE hours later, Hale’s radio signal buzzed at fifteen hundred megacyles, waking him. He had wearily taken a nap, after the vigilance of long hours. He snapped the switch eagerly.
Dr. Gordy’s voice sounded dry and defeated.
“You have won, Hale. Turn off your sleep ray. The Three of us will come out of the tunnel mouth, alone, in surrender.”
Hale felt the giddiness of triumph, but steadied himself.
“Don’t try trickery of any sort, Gordy,” he returned. “I’ll lift the sleep ray, but I’ll have my hands on the switch. You don’t know which shop facing the tunnel mouth is mine. It would take a complete barrage to hit the right one. At the first shot, I’ll turn on the sleep ray again.”
Hale moved his hand to the spy ray controls.
“No, Hale, we won’t try anything.” Gordy’s voice was low, enervated. It lifted slightly. “Laura Asquith is coming along to settle your suspicions. There is one thing you deserve to know about her. She was not told the truth at the trial five years ago. She testified against you in the belief that you were guilty. She was convinced by our lies.”
“What!”
Hale roared the word. His blood was suddenly pounding in furious joy. His whole universe turned over. Though the Sun was hidden a mile above, it seemed to shine all around him now.
“She still loves you, Hale. Somehow, it gives me a strange pleas
ure to reveal this.”
“I’m lifting the sleep ray immediately,” Hale returned. “Come forward out of the tunnel. But remember—just you Three and Laura.”
Trembling, Hale opened the anesthetic ray switch, disconnecting the projector from its powerful AP-motor. But he kept his hand on the switch and peered out alertly over the marble floor to the tunnel mouth.
All went as it should. The sleeping forms there sat up, bewildered, and then walked back at commands relayed from the Three. Looking down the tunnel, Hale saw the awakened ranks of the troopers parting to let the Three pass through. The Three—and Laura.
They emerged from the tunnel mouth, came across the marble floor, four tiny figures under the arched immensity of the terminal lobby. Laura was in the lead. She hastened forward suddenly, calling his name.
Hale ran out to meet her.
It no longer meant anything to him that the Three remaining of the Five were surrendering to him in person. The rewards of revenge were a bitter draft, as he had come to know. But Laura, returning to him after harsh fate had kept them apart for five years—that was the true beginning of his Tomorrow.
It was not till he had come close to her that Hale noticed how white and strained her face was. He crushed her to him, murmuring. She struggled wildly, broke free.
“Didn’t you hear?” she shrilled. “Didn’t you hear what I was saying as I came—”
SHE had been shouting, Hale remembered, but he had not distinguished the words above the pounding of his pulse.
“I didn’t hear anything, darling,” he sang. “I only knew that you were coming.”
“But there’s danger,” the girl moaned. “They’re at the guns!”
Hale started. “They won’t shoot. The Three are between us and the line of fire—”
“It was a trick!” the girl shot back. “Images! The Three—look!”
Hale swung his eyes about. There was no other figure on the marble floor. The forms of the Three, who had been fifty feet behind Laura, were gone.