E.E. 'Doc' Smith SF Gateway Omnibus: The Skylark of Space, Skylark Three, Skylark of Valeron, Skylark DuQuesne

by E. E. 'Doc' Smith

  Their observations were interrupted by the arrival of the shock wave. They were hurled violently backward, stumbling and falling flat. When they could again keep their feet, both stared silently at the tremendous mushroom-shaped cloud which was hurling itself upward at an appalling pace and spreading itself outward almost as fast.

  Crane examined Geiger and scintillometer, reporting that both had continued to register only background radiation throughout the test. Seaton made observations and used his slide rule.

  ‘Can’t do much from here, right under it, but the probable minimum is ninety-seven thousand feet and it’s still boiling upward. I … will … be … tee … totally … jiggered.’

  Both men stood for minutes awed into silence by the incredible forces they had loosed. Then Seaton made the understatement of his long life.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll shoot a Mark Ten around here.’

  ‘Haven’t you done anything yet?’ Brookings demanded.

  ‘I can’t help it, Mr Brookings,’ Perkins replied. ‘Prescott’s men are hard to do business with.’

  ‘I know that, but surely one of them can be reached.’

  ‘Not at ten, and that was your limit. Twenty-five or no dice.’

  Brookings drummed fingers on desk. ‘Well … if we have to …’ and wrote out an order on the cashier for twenty-five thousand dollars in small-to-medium bills. ‘I’ll see you at the cafe, tomorrow at four o’clock.’

  The place referred to was the Perkins Café, a restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was the favorite eating-place of the diplomatic, political, financial, and social élite of Washington, none of whom even suspected that it had been designed and was being maintained by the world-girdling World Steel Corporation as the hub and center of its world-girdling nefarious activities.

  At four o’clock on the following day Brookings was ushered into Perkins’ private office.

  ‘Blast it, Perkins, can’t you do anything?’ he demanded.

  ‘It just couldn’t be helped,’ Perkins replied doggedly. ‘Everything was figured to the second, but the Jap smelled a rat or something and jumped us. I managed to get away, but he laid Tony out cold. But don’t worry – I sent Silk Humphrey and a couple of the boys out to get him. Told him to report at four oh eight. Any second now.’

  In less than a minute Perkins’ communicator buzzed.

  ‘This is the dick, not Silk,’ it said, in its tiny, tinny voice. ‘He’s dead. So are the two goons. That Jap, he’s chain lightning on greased wheels, got all three of them. Anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No. Your job’s done.’ Perkins closed the switch, fusing the spy’s communicator into a blob of metal; and Brookings called DuQuesne.

  ‘Can you come to my office, or are you bugged?’

  ‘Yes, to both. Bugged from stem to gudgeon, Prescott men in front, back, on the sides, and up in the trees. I’ll be right over.’

  ‘But wait …!’

  ‘Relax. D’you think they can outsmart me? I know more about bugging – and de-bugging – than Prescott and his dicks ever will learn.’

  In Brookings’ office DuQuesne told, with saturnine amusement, of the devices he had rigged to misinform the private eyes. He listened to Brookings’ recital of failure.

  Then he said, ‘I knew you’d louse it up, so I’ve been making some plans of my own. One thing, though, I want limpidly clear. From now on I give the orders. Right?

  ‘Get me a helicopter just like Crane’s. Get a hophead six feet tall that weighs about a hundred and sixty pounds. Give him a three-hour jolt. Have them at the field two hours from now.’

  ‘Can do.’

  DuQuesne was at the field on time. So were the flying machine and the unconscious man. Both were exactly what he had ordered. He took off, climbed swiftly, made a wide circle to the west and north.

  Shiro and the two guards, hearing the roar of engines, looked up and saw what they supposed to be Crane’s helicopter coming down in a vertical drop. Slowing at the last possible second, it taxied up the field toward them. A man, recognizable as Seaton by his suit and physique, stood up, shouted hoarsely, pointed to the lean, still form beside him, beckoned frantically with both arms, then slumped down, completely inert.

  All three rushed up to help.

  There were three silenced reports and three men dropped.

  DuQuesne leaped lightly out of the ’copter and scanned the three bodies. The two guards were dead, but Shiro, to his chagrin, showed faint signs of life. But very faint – he wouldn’t live long.

  He put on gloves, went into the house, blew the safe and rifled it. He found the vial of solution, but could find neither the larger bottle nor any reference to it. He then searched the house, from attic to basement. He found the vault, carefully concealed though its steel door was; but even he could do nothing about that. Nor was there any need, he decided, as he stood staring at it, the only change in his expression being a slight narrowing of the eyes in concentrated thought. The bulk of that solution was probably in the heaviest, deepest, safest vault in the country.

  He returned to the helicopter. In a short time he was back in his own room, poring over blueprints and notebooks.

  Coming in in the dusk, Crane and Seaton both began to worry when they saw that their landing lights were not burning. They made a bumpy landing and hurried toward the house. They heard a faint moan and turned, Seaton whipping out his flashlight with one hand his automatic with the other. He hastily replaced the weapon and bent over Shiro, a touch having assured him that the other two were beyond help. They picked Shiro up and carried him into his own room. While Seaton applied first-aid treatment to the ghastly wound in Shiro’s head, Crane called a surgeon, the coroner, the police, and finally Prescott, with whom he held a long conversation.

  Having done all they could for the injured man, they stood by his bedside, their anger all the more deadly for being silent. Seaton stood with every muscle tense. His right hand, white-knuckled, gripped the butt of his pistol, while under his left the heavy brass rail of the bed began slowly to bend. Crane stood impassive, but his face white and every feature hard as marble. Seaton was the first to speak.

  ‘Mart,’ he gritted, husky with fury, ‘a man who could leave another man dying like that ain’t a man at all – he’s a thing. I’ll shoot him with the biggest charge we’ve got … No, I won’t, either, I’ll take him apart with my bare hands.’

  ‘We’ll find him, Dick.’ Crane’s voice was low, level, deadly. ‘That is one thing money can do.’

  The tension was relieved by the arrival of the surgeon and nurses, who set to work with the deftness and precision of their highly-specialized crafts. After a time the doctor turned to Crane.

  ‘Merely a scalp wound, Mr Crane. He should be up in a few days.’

  The police, Prescott, and the coroner arrived in that order. There was a great deal of bustling, stirring about, and investigating, some of which was profitable. There were many guesses and a few sound deductions.

  And Crane offered a reward of one million tax-paid dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer.

  IX

  Prescott, after a sleepless night, joined Crane and Seaton at breakfast.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Crane asked.

  ‘Very little, at present. Whoever did it had exactly detailed knowledge of your movements.’

  ‘Check. And you know what that means. The third guard, the one that escaped.’

  ‘Yes.’ The great detective’s face grew grim. ‘The trouble will be proving it on him.’

  ‘Second, he was your size and build, Seaton; close enough to fool Shiro, and that would have to be ungodly close.’

  ‘DuQuesne. For all the tea in China, it was DuQuesne.’

  ‘Third, he was an expert safecracker, and that alone lets DuQuesne out. That’s just as much of a specialty as yours is, and he did a beautiful job on that safe – really beautiful.’

  ‘I still won’t buy it,’ Seato
n insisted. ‘Don’t forget that DuQuesne’s a living encyclopedia and as much smarter than any yegg as I am than that tomcat over there. He could study safe-blowing fifteen minutes and be top man in the field; and he’s got guts enough to supply a regiment.’

  ‘Fourth, it couldn’t have been DuQuesne. Everything out there is bugged and we’ve had him under continuous observation. I know exactly where he has been, every minute.’

  ‘You think you do,’ Seaton corrected. ‘He knows more about electricity than the guy who invented it. I’m going to ask you a question. Have you ever got a man into his house?’

  ‘Well … no, not exactly … but that isn’t necessary, these days.’

  ‘It might be, in this case. But don’t try it. Unless I’m wronger than wrong, you won’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Prescott agreed. ‘But you’re softening me up for something, Seaton. What is it?’

  ‘This.’ Seaton placed an object-compass on the table. ‘I set this on him late last night, and he didn’t leave his house all night – which may or may not mean a thing. That end of that needle will point at him from now on, wherever he goes and whatever comes between, and as far as I know – and I bashfully admit that I know all that’s known about the thing – it can’t be de-bugged. If you want to really know where DuQuesne is, take this and watch it. Top secret, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be glad to … but how on Earth can a thing like that work?’

  After an explanation that left the common-sense-minded detective as much in the dark as before, Prescott left.

  Late that evening, he joined his men at DuQuesne’s house. Everything was quiet. The scientist was in his study; the speakers registered the usual faint sounds of a man absorbed in work. But after a time, and while a speaker emitted the noise of rustling papers, the needle began to move slowly – downward. Simultaneously, the shadow of his unmistakable profile was thrown upon the window shade as he apparently crossed the room.

  ‘Can’t you hear him walk?’ Prescott demanded.

  ‘No. Heavy rugs – and for such a big man, he walks very lightly.’

  Prescott watched the needle in amazement as it dipped deeper and deeper; straight down and then behind him; as though DuQuesne had actually walked right under him! He did not quite know whether to believe it or not, nevertheless, he followed the pointing needle. It led him beside Park Road, down the hill, straight toward the long bridge which forms one entrance to Rock Creek Park. Prescott left the road and hid behind a clump of shrubbery.

  The bridge trembled under the passage of a high-speed automobile, which slowed down abruptly. DuQuesne, carrying a roll of papers, scrambled up from beneath the bridge and boarded it, whereupon it resumed speed. It was of a popular make and color; and its license plates were so smeared with dirt that not even their color could be seen. The needle now pointed steadily at the distant car.

  Prescott ran back to his men.

  ‘Get your car,’ he told one of them. ‘I’ll tell you where to drive as we go.’

  In the automobile, Prescott issued instructions by means of surreptitious glances at the compass concealed in his hand. The destination proved to be the residence of Brookings, the general manager of World Steel. Prescott told his operative to park the car somewhere and stand by; he himself settled down on watch.

  After four hours a small car bearing a license number of a distant state – which was found later to be unknown to the authorities of that state – drove up; and the hidden watchers saw DuQuesne, without the papers, step into it. Knowing now what to expect, the detectives drove at high speed to the Park Road bridge and concealed themselves.

  The car came up to the bridge and stopped. DuQuesne got out of it – it was too dark to recognize him by eye, but the needle pointed straight at him – and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. He stood, a dark outline against the gray abutment. He lifted one hand above his head; a black rectangle engulfed his outline; the abutment became again a solid gray.

  With his flashlight Prescott traced the almost imperceptible crack of the hidden door, and found the concealed button which DuQuesne had pressed. He did not press the button, but, deep in thought, went home to get a few hours of sleep before reporting to Crane next morning.

  Both men were waiting when he appeared. Shiro, with a heavily-bandaged head, had insisted that he was perfectly able to work, and was ceremoniously ordering out of the kitchen the man who had been hired to take his place.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, your compass did the trick,’ and Prescott reported in full.

  ‘I’d like to beat him to death with a club,’ Seaton said, savagely. ‘The chair’s too good for him.’

  ‘Not that he is in much danger of the chair.’ Crane’s expression was wry.

  ‘Why, we know he did it! Surely we can prove it?’

  ‘Knowing a thing and proving it to a jury are two entirely different breeds of cats. We haven’t a shred of evidence. If we asked for an indictment we’d be laughed out of court. Check, Mr Crane?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘I’ve bucked Steel before. They account for half my business, and for ninety-nine percent of my failures. The same thing goes for all the other agencies in town. The cops have hit them time after time with everything they’ve got, and simply bounced. So has the F.B.I. All any of us has been able to get is an occasional small fish.’

  ‘You think it’s hopeless, then?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ll keep on working, on my own. I owe them something for killing my men, as well as for other favors they’ve done me in the past. But I don’t believe in holding out false hopes.’

  ‘Optimistic cuss, ain’t he?’ Seaton remarked as Prescott went out.

  ‘He has cause to be, Dick. Report has it that they use murder, arson, and anything else useful in getting what they want; but they have not been caught yet.’

  ‘Well, now that we know, we’re in the clear. They can’t possibly get a monopoly—’

  ‘No? You aren’t getting the point. If we should both happen to die – accidentally, of course – then what?’

  ‘They couldn’t get away with it, Mart; you’re too big. I’m small fry, but you are M. Reynolds Crane.’

  ‘No good, Dick; no good at all. Jets still crash; and so, occasionally, do egg-beaters. Worse – it does not seem to have occurred to you that World Steel is making the heavy forgings and plates for the Skylark.’

  ‘Hades’– brazen – bells!’ Seaton was dumbfounded. ‘And what – if anything – can we do about that?’

  ‘Very little, until after the parts get here, beyond investigating independent sources of supply.’

  DuQuesne and Brookings met in the Perkins Café.

  ‘How did your independent engineers like the power plant?’

  ‘The report was very favorable, doctor. The stuff is all you said it was. But until we get the rest of the solution – by the way, how is the search for more X progressing?’

  ‘Just as I told you it would – flat zero. X can’t exist naturally on any planet having any significant amount of copper. Either the copper will go or the planet will, or both. Seaton’s X was meteoric. It was all in one lot of platinum; and probably that one X meteor was all there ever was. However, the boys are still looking, just in case.’

  ‘Well, we’d have to get Seaton’s, some day, anyway. Have you decided how to get it?’

  ‘No. That solution is in the safest safe-deposit vault in the world, probably in Crane’s name, and both keys to that box are in another one, and so on, ad infinitum. He’s got to get it himself, and willingly. Not that it’d be any easier to force Seaton; but can you imagine anything strong enough to make M. Reynolds cave in now?’

  ‘I can’t say that I can … no. But you remarked once that your forte is direct action. How about talking with Perkins … no, he flopped on three tries.’

  ‘Yes, call him in. It’s on execution he’s weak, not planning. I’m not.’

  Perkins was called in, and studied the proble
m for many minutes. Finally he said, ‘There’s only one way. We’ll have to get a handle …’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ DuQuesne snapped. ‘You can’t get a thing on either of them – not even a frame!’

  ‘You misunderstand, doctor. You can get a handle on any man living, if you know enough about him. Not necessarily in his past; present or future is oftentimes better. Money … power … position … fame … women – have you considered women in this case?’

  ‘Women, bah!’ DuQuesne snorted. ‘Crane’s been chased so long he’s woman-proof, and Seaton is worse. He’s engaged to Dorothy Vaneman, so he’s stone blind.’

  ‘Better and better. There’s your perfect handle, gentlemen; not only to the solution, but to everything else you want after Seaton and Crane have been taken out of circulation.’

  Brookings and DuQuesne looked at each other in perplexity. Then DuQuesne said, ‘All right, Perkins, after the way I popped off I’m perfectly willing to let you have a triumph. Draw us a sketch.’

  ‘Build a spaceship from Seaton’s own plans and carry her off in it. Take her up out of sight – of course you’ll have to have plenty of witnesses that it was a spaceship and that it did go straight up out of sight – then hide her in one of our places – say with the Spencer girl – then tell Seaton and Crane she’s on Mars and will stay there till she rots if they don’t come across. They’ll wilt – and they wouldn’t dare take a story like that to the cops. Any holes in that?’

  ‘Not that I can see at the moment …’ Brookings drummed his fingers abstractedly on the desk. ‘Would it make any difference if they chased us in their ship – in the condition it will be in?’

  ‘Not a bit,’ DuQuesne declared. ‘All the better – they’ll be gone, and in a wreck that will be so self-explanatory that nobody would think of making a metallurgical post-mortem.’

  ‘That’s true. Who’s going to drive the ship?’

  ‘I am,’ DuQuesne said. ‘I’ll need help, though. One man from the inner circle. You or Perkins. Perkins, I’d say.’