Mark Oliver looked up and focused his eyes on Linkman.
“I wish a drink of water,” he said slowly and clearly.
“Sorry, I haven’t time.” Linkman laughed at his own humor.
“Give me a drink. Then let me out of here.”
Linkman’s laugh reverberated throughout the tiny room.
Oliver forced himself to concentrate. He licked his bruised lips with a swollen tongue. It was hard to talk.
“You are really going through with this madness?”
“Certainly.”
Oliver closed his eyes, then forced them open.
“I have made a mistake in you,” he said thickly. “A great mistake.”
“You are all such fools,” Linkman said casually.
“Not . . . not such as you. You . . . will always fail.”
“Even now?” chuckled Linkman.
“You will do something . . . make some mistake . . . your kind doesn’t know—” Oliver fainted. He did not feel it as Linkman kicked him before he went out.
“I wish, general,” Blake, Director of Police, said irritably, “you would stop that confounded pacing!”
General McClernand took two steps to the facsimile receiver, then three to the electrofile, then two back to the director’s desk. He bent over Blake’s desk and thrust out his lower lip.
“Then do something!” he bellowed.
Blake ran a hand through his gray hair.
“General,” he said patiently, “will you either shut up or give me some evidence?”
He gestured toward Hastings, who was manipulating a file separator.
“His report on the discharged workmen is the only concrete, factual bit of knowledge anybody has given me in the whole affair! Anything new, son?”
Hastings shrugged.
“Not yet, sir.”
The director beat his palm with a hard fist.
“That’s it, General Mac. I have nothing to go on!”
McClernand shoved a pipe in his mouth and bit hard. The bowl came loose in his hand. He hurled the wreckage to the floor.
“You . . . you’re just like the rest—soft! You can’t do anything!”
Blake cursed.
“I put a secret operative on Linkman. Against the law, of course, but you asked me to. The man disappeared before turning in a single report. Hastings has dug up enough information to bring before Mr. Oliver. But Mr. Oliver disappears. So—again on your say-so—I sent two Civil Guards to search Linkman’s factory. They couldn’t find a thing!
He leaned back in his chair and scowled at McClernand.
“The whole thing rests upon your personal dislike of Dr. Linkman. A dislike completely unsupported by factual evidence!”
Humph! Do you like him?”
No. I served on your staff—remember?” He grinned wryly. “But damn it, General Mac, we made these laws and we’ve got to obey them!”
Hastings stopped feeding cards into the separator.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he ventured, “speaking outside the law, now, I think we are right in suspecting Dr. Linkman. My investigations have convinced me that his behavior mold is too set, his basic inclinations too well directed, to ever admit the possibility of fundamental change in his character.”
“Which means, Mac,” came a tired voice from the doorway, “that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Just as you said.”
The three turned as though on a single axis.
Oliver leaned against the door jamb. His battered lips tried to grin as they rushed to him. McClernand reached him first.
“Where you hurt?” he growled.
Hastings pushed a chair forward.
“I’m all right,” Oliver said. “Some brandy, Blake, if you please. Round up all the men you can. Mac, call out the whole Civil Guard. We’re going over to Zellerkraft—in a hurry!”
“So it was Linkman!” cried the general.
“Yes.” Oliver stood up. His eyes were clear again. “Prepare for a shock, gentlemen. Linkman’s crippled brother has designed a rocket ship for interplanetary travel. Linkman has built the ship in his factory!”
They stared.
“Yes, it’s true.” Oliver rubbed his aching head. “Linkman plans to conquer another planet.”
Hastings nodded.
“Part of his proper pattern,” he said.
Blake clicked off the phone he’d been using.
“Car’s ready for us.” He smiled vaguely. “I don’t believe this, chief, but I’m at your orders.”
“I don’t believe it, either,” said McClernand. It’s true. I’ve seen it. I called at Linkman’s office—just after he’d finished killing a man—”
“My man.” Blake’s voice was quiet. “Let’s go.”
“Not Oliver,” grunted McClernand.
Oliver took a shaky step toward the door. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I’m going. This is partly my fault—and wholly our fault. I imagine our engineers laughed at the crippled boy when he submitted his designs.”
He took another, firmer step.
“I can make it. No arguments, Mac. Remember, I rank you.”
Their car spiraled up to a traffic-tree span and shot along toward the factory.
“Just what did happen to you?” asked Blake,
“They held me prisoner in an abandoned lower level of the plant,” Oliver answered. “The ship’s there. I think, somehow, it will work.”
“To think they should have invented it,” murmured Hastings.
“No.” Oliver leaned out of the car window and took a deep breath of the night air. “The boy is one of us. He thought he was building it for us—to prove it could be done, you know. Today, his brother told him the truth. Tonight, he helped me get away.”
“Here we are,” said Blake. “There’s a car of Guards!”
McClernand peered over the side.
“Take the main ramp off the span,” he said. “I see some people out on their testing field.”
“They can’t be starting already!” cried Oliver. “Hurry, Blake!”
They piled out of the car before it was fully stopped. Blake gave a low whistle and the Guards came running up. The great gate was locked, but a flamer blasted it. They surged through and rushed toward the building.
“Wait!” called Blake. “What’s that on the ground?”
“No lights, now,” ordered McClernand.
“I can see,” grunted Oliver. “It’s young Linkman.”
Despite the pain in his ribs he knelt by the prone figure. The cripple lifted his head a little.
“Director!” he cried weakly. “Josef forced me to tell . . . I helped you . . . then he shot me. They are taking my ship . . . auxiliary motor only until they . . . they—”
The twisted body collapsed. Oliver reached forward and touched the big head. Then he rose to his feet.
“Come on,” he said.
There was a throbbing roar from the other side of the building. The gleaming snout of the rocketship raised itself slowly above the roofline. They ran around the side of the building to the testing field. But they were too late.
“Fire, damn it!” bellowed McClernand.
The Guards gave a ragged volley. They could not miss, but the small shells exploded harmlessly against the sides of the ship.
“After all, they built it to ward off meteors,” said Oliver.
“Some of you phone Aerial Defense,” barked McClernand. “Blake, have a man get through to Grauheim Field and have every ship go up.”
“Go ahead,” Oliver said, “but we’ll never catch them. Once they get high enough for rockets—”
“Then to the devil with them!” snarled McClernand.
Oliver watched the ship lunge skyward, auxiliary props making a furious drone.
“No,” he said. “Don’t you see, Mac, they’ll be back!”
“Bah, they’ll never make it!”
“Yes, they will. Look what Linkman himself has done. They’ll make it—unless we stop them again.”
>
They stared at each other, each with eyes that saw something other than the man before him. A sky filled with wheeling, diving planes, raining bombs on this white, immaculate city they had helped build. This, and all other cities, smashed by tanks, scarred with bombs beyond the recognition of peaceful eyes.
Oliver turned away slowly and his eye caught the row of new planes. Linkman had not bothered to cover them against the dew. He stared at them. Mail planes, standing sleek and trim, lined up for an initial test. Something clicked in his mind. He looked over his shoulder at the giant rocketship, then ran toward the planes.
“Hey!” yelled McClernand.
He took a step, then broke into a run. But he was old. Oliver reached a plane, slid open a port and jumped in. The elevator motor roared and the plane shot up.
McClernand stopped, panting. Blake and Hastings came alongside him and stared skyward.
“What’s he going to do?” asked Blake, although he knew.
“Ram it, of course.” Hastings’ voice was as expressionless as ever. “Only way to stop it, you know.”
The plane’s drive turned over, then roared into life. It seemed to leap forward in the air. A Guard came out of the plant office, stopped short and looked up. Searchlights went on over the city, picked out the rocketship easily. The plane, tiny now, sped after it.
They saw the plane go high, above the ship, and poise there.
Then it dived.
For one moment they saw it on its way. Then the two met with a faint crash. The rocketship staggered and the smashed plane fell off, toward the earth. The big ship nosed down, seemed to recover, then, with an awful roar, it exploded.
The watchers turned away.
It was the unemotional Hastings who pronounced Oliver’s, epitaph.
“Now,” he said, “we must build one.”
THE END.
EVERYONE at the bar looked at his drink as Montrose passed by. He peered eagerly for a receptive face. When he reached the end of the bar, Montrose knew it was the brush-off. He stopped then, uncertain, wondering whether to go back to the street or try among the tables in the rear.
Callaghan, the bartender, saw him standing there. Cal’s broad, Irish face softened a little. He put his hands flat on the bar and leaned over it.
“If it’s a drink ye’re wantin’, Monty,” he croaked, “I’ll give ye wan—and no more.”
Montrose managed a wry grin.
“I need more than a drink, Cal. But thanks, anyway.” He caught sight of Jack Rann, sitting alone at a table in the corner. “I—I have to see Rann.”
“Whatever ye need, he won’t give it to ye.” Callaghan’s voice was bitter, but low.
Montrose squared his broad shoulders and strode to the table in the corner. Behind him, a juke box blared above a rumble of conversation, but he didn’t hear it.
Jack Rann looked up as Montrose stood over him.
“ ’Lo, chum.” The little man’s voice was flat. He did not ask Montrose to sit down.
“Hello, Jack. Look, I want to talk to you.”
“I’m expecting company, chum.”
“It’ll only take a minute, Jack. Listen.”
Montrose paused. When Rann made no move, Montrose pulled out a chair and sat down. He stared across the scarred table-top at the thin face, trying not to hate the evil little man.
Jack Rann gave him a slow stare that took in the frayed collar, the wrinkled tie, unpressed suit.
“Yeah, I know.” Montrose’s mouth twisted. “I look like a tramp.”
“Chum, you are a tramp.”
“Maybe. Everybody isn’t as lucky as you, Jack. Most people have their ups and downs. Right now, I’m down.”
Rann shrugged. He sipped slowly at his drink.
“This is what I wanted to see you about. I’ve got a terrific tip on a hundred-to-one shot.”
Rann’s laugh grated through the smoky air. Two men at the bar turned their heads sharply toward the noise, then looked quickly back at their drinks. Rann’s laugh was a rare—and unpleasant, thing.
“Save your breath, Monty,” Rann said. “This hot tip—you want to borrow the dough from me for a bet.”
“Yes. But this is my chance! It may sound screwy—but I’ve got a real hunch! I know that horse is going to win!” He gripped the table’s edge with both hands as he leaned forward. “Lend me a hundred bucks, Jack and I’ll give you half the take. Five grand!”
“Scram, chum.”
Montrose leaned forward still. Inwardly, he writhed at the sight of the gloating face before him. He hated himself for asking Rann for the money.
But he had to. He knew the horse would win and he had to bet on it. “It’s a cinch, Jack!”
Rann shook his head slowly, tantalizingly. His slate eyes showed a brief flash of mirth, were cold again.
“I’ve done you favors, Jack. A hundred bucks isn’t much.”
“It is to me. That’s why I’ve got a hundred.
MONTROSE leaned back in his chair, expelling his pent-up breath in a deep sigh. He stared down at his hands, disgusted at the grime beneath his nails. Five thousand dollars would pay for a lot of manicures.
He peered up at Rann.
“You don’t know where I could get it?”
The little gambler started to shake his head, then stopped. He laughed, showing all his teeth.
“Why Monty, I think I do. That is, if you really want the dough.”
He laughed again, enjoying the mad hope in Montrose’s face.
“Of course I want it.”
“Well, then, sell your body. It’s not worth much, but you’ll get a hundred for it.”
“What!”
“Sell your body, I said. To a hospital.”
“You little—!” Montrose pulled himself out of his chair. “Sell my body! What kind of malarkey is that!” Montrose knew then he had had enough. He was still man enough to step on a rat. He drew back his fist.
“All right, dope,” Rann snapped. “I’m trying to give you a tip.” Ignoring the threatening fist, he took out a cigarette case, selected one and lit it. “Any big hospital will buy your body. You just sign a paper, so your body’s theirs when you die, and they give you a hundred bucks.”
He grinned maliciously.
“They cut it up, of course, but what do you care?”
“You’re not fooling me?”
“Seems to me there’s a hospital over on Maple Street. It won’t cost you anything to find out.”
THERE was a dim light over the entrance. Montrose opened a gate that clanked a little and walked softly toward the door. It didn’t look like a very big hospital and a heavy silence seemed to brood over it. Above him, on the fourth floor, a single window showed light.
Why the light, Montrose wondered. Was some poor devil dying? Or was it the surgery? Montrose had a momentary vision of men around a table, cutting, cutting.
He shuddered.
He could see his own body, stiff in death, but robbed of death’s dignity.
“Damn it!” he muttered. “I can’t do this!”
Montrose stopped.
But within him a voice snickered, what’s the difference between that and the potter’s field?
There wasn’t any, of course. And Rann was probably lying. Probably . . .
Montrose ran up the steps and pushed through the doors.
The hall was dim to the point of blackness. Behind the receptionist’s curved counter was a switchboard. Above this, a single lamp was the hall’s sole light. A man in a white coat sat at the board, dozing over a magazine.
Montrose edged up to him. The orderly looked up sleepily.
“Yes.”
“I—I . . .”
Montrose’s throat went suddenly dry. He was overcome with an acute embarrassment.
“Yes? Are you ill?”
“Oh, no! Not at all! Not at all!”
It occurred to him that his value might be lessened if they didn’t think him perfectly sound.
�
�No,” he said again, “I’m okay. Never been sick a day in my life!”
The orderly frowned.
“Well, then . . .?”
“I—well, I want to sell my body.”
The orderly was wide awake now. He blinked at Montrose, then sniffed loudly.
“I’m not drunk!” Montrose exclaimed. “I just want to sell the hospital my body to use after I’m dead. To experiment on.”
He sighed. It was over. Now, in a few minutes, he’d have the money. But the orderly was grinning.
“Gosh, I suppose they still do that, once in a while,” he chuckled. “There’s no law against it. And I suppose a big, public hospital can always use a cadaver. But not us.”
“Not you!”
“Nope. Didn’t you read the sign? We just handle mental cases. We’re a private outfit.”
“I see.”
The inescapable odor of hospital hung on the air; the pungent blend of drugs, medicines and sickness. It fogged Montrose’s mind. There was a hazy, inner vision, of a horse galloping across the finish line—without even a dime of Montrose money on it. And there was Rann’s face, leering his secret smile. Montrose hated Rann, then. And, no matter what later happened, the hatred never completely left him.
Still in the fog, he didn’t hear a door open down the hall, or the sound of quiet, but assured footsteps approaching.
“Oh, good evening, Dr. Aloysio,” the orderly’s voice was respectful. “I didn’t know you were still here, sir.”
“Yes. A knotty problem of research.”
“Research!”
The word snapped Montrose’s consciousness into the clear. He turned toward the doctor.
“Ah, yes.”
MONTROSE saw a long, dark face, smooth shaven; deep-set eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. A forehead that swooped in a pale, high dome before it met black hair.
“Well, look . . .”
The eyes behind the glasses confused him. His voice faltered to a stop.
“I told you!” cried the orderly. “Don’t bother the doctor!”
Dr. Aloysio’s smile was benign.
“Is there something I can do?” he murmured.
“Oh, no, sir!” exclaimed the orderly. “This man had the idea that we’d buy his body. I told him we wouldn’t and referred him to General!”
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 3