The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  The president of Interplanetary Lines again jumped to his feet, gave his chin a haughty thrust, and addressed the chairman with an air of condescension. “I believe our illustrious speaker mentioned an invention.” The word invention was sure to evoke laughter from those who considered Buchanan a crackpot. “Will the illustrious gentleman please tell us whether this is the same invention he has been prating about for the past ten years?”

  The white-haired man on the stage nodded. “The same one, Mr. Sheebler.”

  “That’s all I want to know,” said Sheebler in a subtle tone. He turned to the audience, whirled a finger near his head as if to say, “Crazy,” and sat down. A hum of ridicule filled the room. Buchanan did not flinch.

  “Ten years on the same invention,” he resumed, “just as Noah spent many years on his Ark. People laughed at Noah—until the floods came.”

  Another questioner rose, a delegate from a foreign land who was puzzled by all these overtones of ridicule. “I wish to know whether any other scientists besides you are working on this invention?”

  “I am proud to answer that for several weeks I have had invaluable assistance from one of the most brilliant young scientists in America, who is present at our meeting tonight. He has asked me not to reveal his name.” The scales dropped from Vivian’s eyes. Hundreds of heads in the audience craned this way and that, wondering who the mysterious assistant might be; but Vivian knew.

  “Ray Lattimer!” she whispered, half in reprimand. “Now I know why you’ve been going around in such a dreamy mood. You’re working on Buchanan’s schemes.”

  “Are you glad to hear it?”

  “I don’t know. I always thought he was crazy.”

  “He may be, but I’ll swear he’s got the most revolutionary machine you ever heard of. They say the telephone and the radio were marvels in their day. But this invention—Listen—”

  Several questioners had clamored for the professor to describe the nature of his invention. He silenced them and gestured to someone off stage who brought in a sizeable chart. It contained a simple diagram of the atom, which every scientist at once recognized.

  “A few centuries ago,” he began, “we learned to transmit sound electrically by constructing delicate mechanisms that were sensitive to the individual sound waves. Later, in television, we learned to transmit light waves electrically, by breaking up the image into tiny clusters of waves. In either case we were successful only because we had learned to deal with tiny units of energy-sound waves and light waves.

  “Our mechanical equipment has come a long way since the perfection of full-color television. We have long been able to take the atom apart and put it back together again.

  “I struck out on the hypothesis that matter itself might be conducted electrically if a sufficiently intricate mechanism could be devised. For all matter, however solid it may feel to the hand, is in the final analysis not solid substance. It is simply energy-filled space.

  “Lest my explanation become unnecessarily complicated, I shall not trouble you with the details of constructing the transmitting and receiving sets, to which my time has been devoted for the past ten years.”

  An impatient interrupter voiced the curiosity of the audience, “What were your results?”

  “My first successful test,” the professor answered “was performed three weeks ago with a few small objects—a key, a paper box, a bar of soap. They were placed on the moving belt which rolls into the transmitter at high speed. At the instant of reaching the area of wave detection they disappeared, reappearing at the same time upon the rolling belt of the receiving set some fifty yards distant.”[*]

  Incredulous whispers and murmurs of wonder passed over the auditorium.

  “We immediately moved the receiving set to the distance of half a mile and tuned it in again at that point. Objects leaped the gap with the speed of light.

  “To prove that our transmission of matter was virtually instantaneous we sent a burning match into the transmitter. It emerged from the receiver still burning. We were uncertain what the effect upon living things might be. We made our first trials with plants and discovered that they jumped through space uninjured. Next we tried a few forms of animal life—a small turtle, later a kitten and a dog. In each case we were successful. As the dog shot into the detection area of the transmitter it was instantaneously dissolved and was reformed at the receiver, half a mile distant.”

  “No!” cried one of Sheebler’s cohorts in a taunting voice. “Bark and all?” It was a cynic’s quip, but the inventor came back with a simple statement of fact.

  “Any simple radio telephone will transmit the bark.”

  The professor continued:

  “Next we increased the distance to twenty-five thousand miles by directing the radio impulses around the earth. After a slight difficulty in tuning, we succeeded in forcing material objects around the earth in one-seventh of a second.” The white haired professor could not restrain his enthusiasm. “Fellow scientists, I am convinced that this application of radio will bring the greatest revolution in transportation the world has ever known.”

  The professor’s sharp eyes saw the gathering storm of disbelief in the faces of the Sheebler faction. No doubt a large share of the scientists before him would think his words incredible. But enemies could not prevent him from bestowing his great boon upon mankind.

  “Finally, my fellow scientists, I beg you to come to my Laboratories at Oil Plains to examine this invention and study the secrets of its mechanism; for who knows but what a giant meteor may crash through our barriers at any moment, putting an end to any of us—and our ideas with us. This invention must not be lost to the world.”

  The applause that followed was greater than the professor had expected. He had apparently aroused great interest, if not faith, in his space-leaping machine.

  Ray Lattimer studied the features of the lovely girl beside him. She was plainly bewildered. This was like magic. One could not believe without seeing. And yet it must be true. For Ray, whom she trusted more than anyone else in the world, had been nodding eagerly at every statement the professor had made.

  Sheebler marched to the stage determined to shake the faith that was gravitating toward the visionary inventor. The stout dark man thrust his heavy chin this way and that as he shouted his powerful venom. At his best he was a master at sarcasm; but the ground had been shaken beneath his feet in the past few minutes, and now his voice revealed the rage that fought within him.

  “How you can sit and listen to such insipid talk is more than I can understand. We have one task before us—to build more space ships and transport more people.” Applause. “And this erratic dreamer would have us stop in the middle of our race for life, to go off on a wild goose chase. If this man who calls himself an inventor because he muddles around in a laboratory (laughter) has actualy performed this impossible black magic, why didn’t he put the machine in his pocket and bring it along to the Conclave and give us a look at it—along with the turtles and puppy dogs?” Laughter and applause.

  The speaker took up a tone of bitterness.

  “Fellow scientists, you are being mocked. We’re living in the last years of the earth. There’s no point in clutching at straws. It’s time to board space ships in a quiet orderly manner, awaiting your turns. If you wish to speed up the procession, then demand that your governments allot more money for my factories. But don’t be hoodwinked into thinking you’ve got only eight more months. The moon will run its course. There’s plenty of time. We scientists are too sane to be deluded by an alarmist—who even tries to tell us that this week the moon will give us bigger and better meteorites. How can anyone have the effrontery to predict—”

  The irate speaker was suddenly drowned out by a roar from the emergency loud speakers.

  “E-e-e-mergency broadcast! E-e-e-mergency broadcast! Everybody under cover! A terrific blast of meteors is falling near the Atlantic! Everybody under cover! Meteor shower! Meteor shower!”

  Co
nfusion ensued. Such general warning signals were rare. The men of science were at once in motion—needlessly, for they were comparatively safe in this well protected pocket deep in the Rocky Mountains. The chairman shouted at them for several minutes before they recovered from their fright and settled back into their seats. At last they quieted.

  Sheebler floundered in an effort to proceed. His words of reassurance sounded flat. He resorted to sarcasm again.

  “This little shower of clods has come just in time to enable our Master Mind to say, T told you so.’ No doubt he will claim this is proof that his prediction for a bad week—”

  “E-e-e-mergency broadcast! E-e-e-mergency broadcast!” boomed the speakers. “The American Capitol has been struck by a huge meteorite, reported to be one of the largest ever known. A terrific loss of life is feared. The damage of the impact extends over hundreds of miles. Not even a crude estimate of the casualties is possible at this time. It is believed that much of the Capitol city has been crushed deep into the earth . . .

  Pandemonium broke loose throughout the auditorium. Ray Lattimer did not wait to see what happened. In his swiftly working mind he had already embarked upon a course of action.

  “I’m leaving you, Vivian. I’ve got to get to the Capitol by the quickest route. I’m taking Buchanan with me. I don’t know how long the earth is going to last, but we’ve got to make a try—get some government money—if there’s any left to get. It’s up to Buchanan and me. We’ve got to build a super-model of the professor’s invention—the most powerful radio the world ever saw.”

  “Here—on earth—to be destroyed?”

  “Here—with a receiver on Mars—to deliver everybody from the great crash. There’s no time to lose, if the professor knows his moon; and I believe he does. So long, Vivian.”

  For a short moment the girl was lost in his feverish embrace. He looked at her intently.

  “Won’t you give up your hostess job when you get back to Mars—and wait for me there?” Ray feared his question was futile, for nothing could shake Vivian from her dangerous profession, it seemed. “Won’t you—after what you’ve learned tonight?”

  The girl thought of the frenzied passengers who depended upon her services. She shook her head.

  “Then take care of yourself. Call me if you need me. I’ll be with Buchanan at Oil Plains. Look out for Sheebler. So long.”

  CHAPTER III

  Sheebler’s Treachery

  At the headquarters of the Interplanetary Lines the following day, Lane Carruth sat impatiently in one of the underground offices where he had been waiting since an early hour. One report after another came in over the emergency speakers on the stunning disaster at the Capitol. Every new bulletin stirred the anxiety that burned within the young pilot. His chance to be of service. His share before it was too late. His honor, for he pictured himself steering a load of passengers safely into the port at Mars.

  Hell-fire. Why wouldn’t they let him start? Even with the thousands of crowding, hysterical people jamming the waiting rooms and crying to go, he must wait until Sheebler came to approve him and assign him to a ship.

  His friends came to see him off, wearied of waiting, bid him bon voyage, and left. At mid-day Vivian found him, gave him the startling news from the Conclave and repeated Ray’s warning before boarding her scheduled ship.

  Finally Sheebler arrived. Lane saw him pass through the offices. Another hour of waiting. At last the young pilot was called.

  He was conveyed directly to a shining new ship that was already loaded with passengers. The great Sheebler himself stood by the entrance and gave him his final instructions before he mounted. The executive’s orders were rapid, incoherent. He would tolerate no questions. He was anxious to get Lane aboard.

  “Get your air chambers closed and get off—and be quick about it.”

  It was the very order he had been living for. The thrill of anxiety was still surging through him as he mounted; but Sheebler’s rough-shod manner stung him. His suspicions rose. His alert eyes caught this detail and that.

  “Octagonal windows in the rear!”

  He darted back through the entrance and leaped down the steps to Sheebler who was cracking orders at the ground crew.

  “You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Sheebler. This is a condemned ship.”

  “It’s a brand new ship,” snapped the executive. “Get back in there. You’re set to go off in four minutes.”

  “No, Mr. Sheebler, you’re wrong. It’s a KPB. It’s condemned.”

  The dark eyes of Damon D. Sheebler lighted with fury. “Shut up, you fool. You’re hired to run that ship.”

  “Then I quit.”

  “You can’t quit. Get up there!”

  “Not in that ship. I tell you—” Bold words for a recruit to hurl at the famed president. Sheebler was in no mood for words. His hand dipped into his coat pocket. Lane felt the point of a revolver against his side. It crowded him. No words were necessary. He moved up into the space ship with Sheebler pressing close against him. He edged into the control room toward the pilot’s seat.

  “Strap yourself in,” Sheebler muttered.

  The white faced lad obeyed, but he had no intention to plunge into space against Ray Lattimer’s advice. Ray, after all, was his greatest hero.

  Instinctively his fist swung into action. It did not land, for a sharp pain cut through his body. The control room muffed the dull bark of the revolver. Lane slumped in his seat. His eyes closed.

  Doors went closed, locks snapped. A few seconds of silence. Then the earth roared and sent forth the great steel bullet whining into space.

  Great meteorites fell that week.

  The largest ever known. Scientists turned to Professor Buchanan and volunteered their services. They were given sections of blue print, told to roll up their sleeves and go to work. Scores of engineers and skilled technicians offered to help.

  Lattimer had been successful in securing an ample grant of cash from the disorganized American treasury, and this contributed to popular confidence. As nations became panic-stricken from the new terrors of hailing meteorites and disorganized conditions, they caught up the rumor that a gigantic machine was being constructed at Oil Plains.

  The inventors at Oil Plains were going to send people and goods through space!—send them to Mars! swiftly—safely—free! That was the story that raced over the continents and stirred the masses of calamity stricken people to hope. Already a small model was working. If only the great one could be completed in time!

  People began to migrate to Professor Buchanan’s corner of the earth. Expeditions were organized by many nations and races. The spark of faith that was struck among the international delegates at the Conclave became wildfire all over the world.

  Ray Lattimer remained the cool, clear thinker at the vortex of a furious whirlpool of activity. Without him the veteran inventor would have been overwhelmed. Together they subdivided the multiplying responsibilities among competent leaders, so that their time was free for the crucial task, that of actual supervision of the construction work.

  A dark problem loomed before them. How could they transport the receiving plant to Mars? It could be moved piece by piece on the space ships—but not if Sheebler knew what was happening, for he was bitterly hostile. Even if they constructed their own space ship for transportation purposes there would be a great danger that it would never reach its destination. Since the catastrophe of the American Capitol violence had grown apace. Sheebler’s tactics were becoming flagrant here on earth; in the space world he would know no limits. Ray let the worry hang fire.

  It was worry enough to hear the loud speakers booming, “E-e-e-mergency broadcast” so frequently. The concentrated workers would stop and listen to the brief report of some new terrifying disaster; then, muttering prayers inwardly that Oil Plains might be spared this growing onslaught of meteorites, would plunge back into their tasks with renewed fervor.

  One radiocast from Mars sent a chill through Ray Lattimer as he s
at in his underground office revising a blue print. The fateful message told of a space ship that had made an unfortunate landing a few miles beyond the Interplanetary field on Mars.

  “The pilot’s name was Lane Carruth,” came the announcer’s voice. “He died a few hours after the crash. By a miracle, no other fatalities occurred.”

  “Lane!” The engineer bit his lips hard as he thought of the youthful, eager pilot. An ugly thing to happen to the lad on his first voyage. It couldn’t have been a faulty landing on Lane’s part; Ray was sure of this, for he knew the lad’s skill. It must have been a faulty ship. Lane must have been too anxious; he must have forgotten the warnings in the enthusiasm of the moment. And now he had paid the price. Ray thrust the blue print aside. He could not work today.

  “Sheebler’s doings!” he swore to himself. When reports of ships missing, ships crashing, ships exploding came in a wave in the next few days, and then sharply ceased—as if a ban had suddenly been placed on such reports—Ray read between the lines and knew that space-boats had become death traps. Sheebler was loading his passengers into anything—just to get their money.

  Vivina’s voice came over the telephone. It was sweet music to Ray. She had a few hours between ships, she said. Could he take time off to see her? Could he! Soon she was safely in his arms.

  Then through her tears she poured out the story of her dead brother.

  “I was with him in his last hours. He told me all that happened. It was Sheebler.”

  “I knew it,” Ray muttered, “That snake assigned him to a condemned ship. But why didn’t Lane remember what we warned him?”

  “He did remember,” Vivian sobbed. “He knew it was a KPB. He resisted. Sheebler forced him on with a gun.”

  “What!”

  “And then—when Lane tried to fight his way out—shot him!”

  “Shot—!” Ray leaped to his feet as the heat of revenge surged through him.