The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  She sped the other way. She reached the lobby. It was in turmoil. People were rushing with bag and baggage for the street exits. The underground streets were jamming with cars and buses. A stampede of Shifters bound for Oil Plains—her chance to shake the Interplanetary Lines at last.

  She was on the heels of the outpouring crowd. She had almost reached the street door when a new voice roared through the loud speakers.

  “E-E-E-MERGENCY BROADCAST! E-E-E-MERGENCY BROADCAST! The giant radio at Oil Plains is not working. Everyone who enters it is killed instantly Our earlier announcement was a mistake. You are warned to go to Mars only by space ships!”

  “Sheebler!” Vivian gasped. “It’s trickery.”

  As the announcement sounded over and over, the angry mob halted, groaned with anger, turned and surged back into Interplanetary headquarters. The tide swept Vivian back into the lobby. A hand clutched her wrist. She looked up into the grinning visage of Clayface.

  “Hi, Baby. Where you goin’ so fast? Not runnin’ away by any chance? Cause if the big boss don’t want you, I’ve got a space ship waitin’. But I’m thinkin’ he wants you. Le’s go see.”

  CHAPTER V

  Migration to Mars

  The hum of magnificent generators sounded over the countryside. Their song had begun, never to cease until the moon should crash down to remold the earth. Back of the spinning turbines was half a year’s fuel supply moving to its destination automatically.

  The power age had never witnessed a spectacle so colossal as this before. Within the vortex of converging tracks the giant transmitters loomed like a symmetrical mountain. Billions of glittering points bristled over its rounded surface. Somewhere in unseen depths, the magic of matter disintegration was taking place. Through the blue aura above, channelized radio waves sped on their way.

  Across fifty million miles of space another giant instrument of kindred sensitivity zoomed with a song of matter synthesis. From Oil Plains, Earth, to Buchanan, Mars—four and one-half minutes. From life to disintegration to radio waves to reintegration to life—all in a moment of oblivion! It seemed incredible—almost as incredible as the telephone once had been.

  As one convincing report after another was communicated back from the newly-arrived on Mars, thousands of people rushed boldly through the ramps and into the open cars. Others hung back; some were afraid, some were fascinated by the terrific exhibition of power before their eyes, many were bewildered by the realization that at last they were leaving the Earth forever. And there were those who had no intention of leaving; the predictions of the coming catastrophe meant nothing to them, for they were victims of moon fever, a strange romantic malady induced by the spectacular splendor of the hovering moon.

  The day after the first rush of stampeders had stormed off to Mars, the great organized migration began in full force. Loud speakers had assured the waiting masses that the machine would handle passengers at the unbelievable speed of fifty million a day. Skeptics laughed, but eye-witnesses who had reviewed the grand facilities for loading did not doubt it.

  Twelve tracks built to the stupendous gauge of two hundred feet led in from twelve angles, tangents to the vortex of tracks that spiralled about the transmitter. The odd-shaped cars were simply rolling floors with high backs. They eased along the miles of loading docks like so many magnified park benches, moving forward so slowly that a column of passengers could march onto them through the open ends or automobiles could drive on.

  The loaded cars moved independently. As they converged from all directions at the spiralled vortex, they sped up—faster—faster. The roller coaster effect caused constant screaming and shouting of passengers at the point where the cars raced down the incline.

  One car every second was caught up like a mammoth lug to ride over the gigantic drum that hummed with high speed. One car every second flew through the detection area of the transmitter, then coasted forth on its return journey—empty.

  The reverse of this process was taking place simultaneously fifty million miles away. Under artificially controlled gravitational and atmospheric conditions the cars rolled forth loaded down with amazed and terrified migrants. On they came by the thousands; dazed, scared, mystified; some screaming and fainting, but none injured.

  The engineers of two planets thrilled to their triumph, thanked their luck that they had lived in the age of this wonderful invention, planned and schemed for its future possibilities. The visionary Buchanan raved like a drunken prince. Victory! The race against time was won!

  Strangely, the one person whose genius had done most to drive the construction of the giant radio was not gloating with his fellows. He was donning coat and hat, counting the minutes it would take him to drive to Interplanetary Headquarters.

  These past weeks of slave-driving labor had been unbroken by any word from Vivian. His friends on Mars had failed to get any trace of her. He must storm Sheebler’s fortress. Only the pressure of millions of families who had pinned their faith on him had prevented his doing so before. He would not delay another minute. If that damned Sheebler had refused to let her quit her job—

  He darted down the long hallway toward his car. Suddenly he heard a strange sound—a low buzz—under the hum of the generators. He stopped, dismayed, thinking of Professor Buchanan’s oft-quoted phrase, “No machine is perfect.”

  He started on but was stopped again, this time by a call over the loud speakers.

  “Lattimer wanted in department twenty-seven immediately. Emergency. Technical difficulties. Lattimer wanted immediately. Department twenty-seven.”

  Why couldn’t he have been deaf at that moment? He swore to himself. Why did every technical difficulty demand his attention? Weren’t there other engineers who could keep this machine going? He whirled about and rushed to answer the emergency. Other things would have to wait, for he was an indispensable part of this machine.

  Days and nights of ceaseless supervision. Into the shadow of the deadline.

  The two hundred and thirty-ninth day after Buchanan’s famous declaration found the white haired professor speeding back from the Rocky Mountain Observatory toward Oil Plains. A microphone was before his lips.

  “Tomorrow,” he repeated over and over. “Tomorrow is the day. Come to Oil Plains and board a radio transit car at once. Tomorrow the giant radio will be destroyed. The moon will break within the next few hours. The crash will come sometime tomorrow. Tomorrow . . .”

  Radio warnings shot across the continent. The camps surrounding Oil Plains during the preceding weeks were gone now. Last minute migrations from foreign lands had come and gone. Straggling parties were still dribbling in from all corners of the earth. How many thousands or millions of persons yet remained scattered over the face of the globe powerless to cope with the coming catastrophe, no one would ever know.

  A few hundred people still lingered at the radio and space-ship centers—people who, like Ray Lattimer, had been kept busy up to the eleventh hour.

  “All services will cease at midnight tonight,” came the emergency broadcast. “No radio broadcasts after midnight tonight, no telephones, no buses or trains. If you plan to drive to Oil Plains be sure your fuel needs are taken care of at once, for no services will be available after midnight tonight. Lights may go off any time after midnight. You are advised to go to Oil Plains at once . . .”

  Midnight found Ray Lattimer at the radio telegraph catching a last minute message. All of his feverish efforts to locate Vivian had been fruitless. He had been virtually tied to the giant transmitter. Several of his friends, realizing his predicament, had offered to help. They had promised, on departing for Mars, to find her at any cost. One after another had reported no success. Now a last minute message from a friend told the story:

  “Have learned from space pilots that Vivian is still on earth in private employ of Sheebler.”

  Ray dropped the instruments, flew out of the room, sprinted for his high powered motor car. Though untouched for weeks, it was ready for instant a
ction. Into the streets it shot—across the underground highways—up onto the surface. No use fighting the final rush of traffic pouring in from Interplanetary. Better to take a chance on the meteorites. He would do the fifty mile surface stretch in a few minutes.

  Even on this little used highway the eleventh hour traffic was active. For the first few miles he saw lights along the loading docks. Here was the outer end of one of the twelve tracks, where the chain of radio transit cars rose to the surface and began the slow drift back to the giant transmitter. How long would all these wheels keep turning without his supervision? He wondered. The engineers had all gone now. It was up to the automatic controls to carry on until the shattering blow of the moon came.

  Under the light of that sullen orange sky monster, Ray could see a few trucks and cars, and here and there a person loaded down with luggage, boarding the open cars. If he could find Vivian, he would come back this way, drive onto a car, and wait. If he could find Vivian—

  His heart was sick. How had this fatal thing slipped up on him? He had been so hypnotized by the swift succession of demands upon him, so fatigued from the endless rush, that he had lost touch with his own personal life. Would Vivian still be alive? Would she still be—his?

  As he held the car wide open a curious sensation came to him. The moonlight over the landscape had flickered. Instinctively his eyes flashed upward to the gorgeously shaded ball that filled the whole eastern sky. Its upper edge was eclipsed by the earth. By morning it would be directly overhead, he reflected—if morning came.

  Another flicker, and with a thrill of terror, for Ray’s eyes caught the spread of a new fissure. Then another. Gradually a vast section ripped from the swollen face, shook free, and appeared to be floating outward toward the earth. Man’s moments on his home planet were numbered.

  Ray dodged an oncoming truck and whizzed on toward Interplanetary.

  The lights still burned at Interplanetary Headquarters. Deep in the catacombs below the hotel Sheebler had stopped dead in his tracks before the moonometer. He stood as if frozen, his eyes glassy, his lips quivering. In the deathly silence of the room the instrument was shrieking danger.

  For minutes the unnerved man was paralyzed. His mad will refused to believe that the long dreaded moment was at hand. None of the emergency broadcasts of recent days had reached his ears. They angered him so, they were so demoralizing to his trade, so insulting to his own theories that he had thrown the switches.

  Fighting out of his nightmare of fear, whipping his terror-stricken body into action, he dashed through the passageways that led to his treasury. A gleam returned to his eyes as he surveyed the stacks of metal boxes.

  He glanced at his watch. Only a little after midnight. Good. There would be time.

  He snapped a switch. A conveyor belt along the floor began to roll. He snapped it off, satisfied. It would enable him to load his treasury into a space ship in half an hour. Then he would be off. The only space ship in port was scheduled to leave at daybreak. He would load it and go at once. Passengers and crew be damned. No need to tell anyone his plans; no one except the pilot. Keep a gun on him. That would be easy. Clayface had worked it for weeks.

  Clayface—yes, he would come in handy too. Sheebler would put him down here in the vault to feed these cases onto the conveyor belt. When the last box rolled into the ship’s hold, Clayface would be through. He could stay on earth to greet the moon. By that time Sheebler would have a nice start for Mars with no one but the pilot and the treasure chests for company—

  CHAPTER VI

  The Moon Breaks Up

  His thoughts broke. The muffled sobs of a girl’s voice sounded dimly through the hollow passageway. That Carruth girl. Damned little tiger. He’d never been able to get his hands on her. There was too much space in this hotel, now that everyone was deserting. She was as elusive as a wild bird. But she hadn’t escaped—he had seen to that. Maybe these weeks behind a locked door had tamed her a little.

  She was in terror. Even before he had the door unlocked she was pleading with him to take her to Oil Plains. She had counted the days. She knew the Earth’s doom was at hand.

  She backed away from the door as her captor flung it open.

  “Come out,” he said. She obeyed. He directed her toward the vault. She stopped at the doorway of the treasury, saw the cases piled high, and wondered if ever in the world so much wealth had been stored in one place.

  “In a few minutes I’m taking it to Mars,” he said, and noticing her surprise, added “No one knows it but you. I’m telling you because you’re going with me.”

  Instinctively she drew back. He advanced, seized her wrist. “I tell you you’re going with me!” he rasped through clenched teeth. His insane glare was upon her. Terrorized, she slowly nodded her assent.

  Then footsteps thudded through the hallway, and a hulky uniformed man strode into view. Clayface.

  “Well?” Sheebler roared. Then, as his thoughts whirled, his manner changed. “I was just going to send for you, Clayface. I want to see you.”

  The guard strode up to his superior. The usual grin on his face was missing. In its place was the fright of a child.

  “Have you seen the moon?” he gasped.

  Sheebler eyed him fiercely. “What’s the matter?”

  “They sent me in to tell you we’re going,” he rattled, “and you can come if you want to. And you, Baby,” turning to Vivian, “I came to get you. We’re set to go off in five minutes—”

  “You’re what—?” Sheebler shrieked. “You can’t take off till daybreak.”

  “Yeah?” smiled Clayface. “The instruments are set, and it won’t be five minutes. Your workers are all aboard and they aren’t earin’ whether you come or not—”

  “Why the damned—who told them they could leave? I’ll—” He reached for his revolver.

  “You won’t get anywhere with that. They’re loaded up and they’re goin’. And so am I. Come on, Baby,” he caught Vivian’s hand and started.

  “Wait a minute!” Sheebler commanded. “Help me get these boxes aboard. We’ve got to take them to Mars.” He snapped on the switch and set the conveyor belt into motion as he barked orders frantically, holding a gun on the two of them.

  Clayface did not move. He stood in wonderment as his surprised eyes floated over the piles of metal cases. “Gollies,” he said dreamily, “is all of that money?”

  Sheebler stiffened. “Get at it, I tell you!” He flourished the revolver frantically.

  Clayface shook off his dazed expression. “No time for that. We’re weighted down now. Come on!” Disregarding the maniacal gleam in Sheebler’s eyes, Clayface tightened his grip on Vivian’s hand, ready to start back down the passageway.

  “Stop or you’ll die in your tracks,” Sheebler barked.

  The uniformed man turned about carelessly as if reluctant to obey orders, grunting, “Hell, have it your own way.” Starting toward the cases, he suddenly crowded his threatener onto the conveyor belt. Sheebler’s feet shot out from under him. Clayface and the girl were through the door and into the maze of catacombs.

  Sheebler leaped to his feet. He swung the vault door behind him; it would lock automatically. Gun in hand, he ran in the direction of the retreating footsteps.

  His treasure, the ruling passion of his life, had been revealed before the eyes of two persons. They would not live to tell about it, no matter what happened to it—or to the earth, the moon, the stars, or himself.

  He knew the shortcuts through these catacombs. His errand would require only a minute’s time and two bullets. There would still be time to board the space ship.

  Ray Lattimer, chasing from one vacant hallway to another, at last caught the sounds of voices. He bounded through the catacombs toward the clatter of footsteps. As he cut through a dark passageway toward a lighted corridor, the concussion of a shot shook the air. A large uniformed figure slumped on the floor ahead of him.

  That scream was Vivian’s! Her running form passed befor
e him.

  Back of her came the mad-eyed Sheebler, leveling a gun at her.

  Ray’s hand gripped an automatic.

  Crack!

  Sheebler’s weapon jumped out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The furious maniac leaped at Ray; he would have flown at a speeding locomotive. Ray’s second shot went wild as he went down under the impact of the madman. His automatic bounded out of his hand as he struck the floor.

  Vivian’s scream stopped short at the realization that this was Ray. Where he had come from, how he had known of her peril she had no time to question. Her eyes fell on the nearest revolver. She started for it, stepping over the dying uniformed creature that blocked the narrow corridor.

  She could not get through. The two fighting demons rolled and bounced back and forth between the walls in terrific combat.

  Then suddenly the rain of blows ceased. Ray stood half crouched, breathing heavily, his bleeding knuckles at his mouth. The glassy eyed Sheebler lay on his back, his hands cupped upward.

  Ray picked up both weapons.

  The trembling girl clutched him half in fear, half in joy. Ray kissed her eyes, now flooding with tears—her lips, now smiling. She clung to him.

  Sheebler breathed huskily. His swollen eyes narrowed; his murderous face was tense. Ray studied him sharply. The prone man made no effort to move, but Ray’s hand tightened on a revolver.

  “You’ve come to an end,” he said.

  Vivian restrained him. “It isn’t necessary. After the millions of lives you’ve saved, Ray—”

  “I can afford to lose this one. After all—”

  “If you’re thinking of Lane—”

  “I’m thinking of you.”

  “I haven’t been harmed, Ray. I’m just a little frightened. But if you hadn’t come when you did—”