My Best Science Fiction Story

by Leo Margulies

“The Empire State Building,” said Patrolman O’Rourke.

  Chapter One

  NO one knew why he was called Pop unless it was that he had sired the newspaper business. For the first few hundred years, it appeared, he had been a senior reporter, going calmly about his business of reporting wholesale disaster, but during the past month something truly devastating had occurred. Muttering noises sounded in the ranks.

  Long overdue for the job of city editor, lately vacated via the undertaker, Pop had been demoted instead of promoted. Ordinarily Pop was not a bitter man. He had seen too many cataclysms fade into the staleness of yesterday’s paper. He had obit-ed too large a legion of generals, saints and coal heavers to expect anything from life but its eventual absence. But there were limits.

  When Leonard Caulborn, whose diapers Pop had changed, had been elevated to city editor over Pop’s decaying head, Pop chose to attempt the dissolution of Gaul in the manufactures of Kentucky. But even the latter has a habit of wearing away and leaving the former friend a mortal enemy. Thus it was, when the copy boy came for him, that Pop swore at the distilleries as he arose and looked about on the floor where he supposed his head must have rolled.

  “Mr. Caulborn said he hada seeyuh rightaway,” said the copy boy.

  Pop limped toward the office, filled with resentment.

  Leonard Caulborn was a wise young man. Even though he had no real knowledge of the newspaper business, people still insisted he was wise. Hadn’t he married the publisher’s daughter? And if the paper didn’t make as much as it should, didn’t the publisher have plenty of stockholders who could take the losses and never feel them—much, anyway.

  Young and self-made and officious if not efficient, Caulborn greeted Pop not at all, but let him stand before the desk a few minutes.

  Pop finally picked up a basket and dropped it a couple inches, making Caulborn look up.

  “You sent for me?” said Pop.

  “I sent for you— Oh, yes, I remember now. Pending your retirement you’ve been put on the copy desk.”

  “My what?” cried Pop.

  “Your retirement. We are retiring all employees over fifty. We need new people and new ideas here.”

  “Retirement?” Pop was still gaping. “When? How?”

  “Effective day after tomorrow, Pop, you are no longer with this paper. Our present Social Security policy—”

  “Will pay me off about twenty bucks complete,” said Pop. “But to hell with that. I brought this paper into the world and it’s going to take me out. You can’t do this to me!”

  “I have orders—”

  “You are issuing the orders these days,” said Pop. “What are you going to do for copy when you lose all your men that know the ropes?”

  “We’ll get along,” said Caulborn. “That will be all.”

  “No, it won’t either,” said Pop. “I’m staying as reporter.”

  “All right. You’re staying as reporter then. It’s only two days.”

  “And you’re going to give me assignments,” said Pop.

  Caulborn smiled wearily, evidently thinking it best to cajole the old coot. “All right, here’s an article I clipped a couple months ago. Get a story on it.”

  When Caulborn had fished up the magazine out of his rubble-covered desk he tossed it to Pop like a citizen paying a panhandler.

  Pop wanted to throw it back, for he saw at a glance that it was merely a stick, a rehash of some speech made a long while ago to some physics society. But he had gained ground so far. He wouldn’t lose it. He backed out.

  Muttering to himself he crossed to his own desk, wading through the rush and clamor of the city room. It was plain to him that he had to make the most of what he had. It was unlikely that he’d get another chance.

  “I’ll show ’em,” he growled. “Call me a has-been. Well! Think I can’t make a story out of nothing, does he? Why, I’ll get such a story that he’ll have to keep me on. And promote me. And raise my pay. Throw me into the gutter, will they?”

  He sat down in his chair and scanned the article. It began quite lucidly with the statement that Hannibal Pertwee had made this address before the assembled physicists of the country. Pop, growing cold the while, tried to wade through said address. When he came out at the end with a spinning head he saw that Hannibal Pertwee’s theories were not supported by anybody but Hannibal Pertwee. All other information, even to Pop, was so much polysyllabic nonsense. Something about transportation of freight. He gathered that much. Some new way to help civilization. But just how, the article did not tell—Pop, at least.

  Suddenly Pop felt very old and very tired. At fifty-three he had ten thousand bylines behind him. He had built the World-Journal to its present importance. He loved the paper and now it was going to hell in the hands of an incompetent, and they were letting him off at a station halfway between nowhere and anywhere. And the only way he had of stopping them was an impossible article by some crackbrain on the transportation of freight.

  He sighed and, between two shaking hands, nursed an aching head.

  Chapter Two

  A pavement-pounding reporter is apt to find the turf trying—and so it was with Pop. Plodding through the dismal dusk of Jersey, he began to wish that he had never heard the name of Hannibal Pertwee. Only the urgency of his desire to keep going had brought him thus far along the lonely roads. Grimly, if weakly, he at last arrived at a gate to which a Jerseyite had directed him.

  With a moan of relief he leaned against a wire-mesh fence and breathed himself to normalcy. It wasn’t that he was getting old. Of course not! It was just that he should have worn more comfortable shoes.

  He looked more observantly about him and became interested. Through this factory fence he could see a house, not much bigger than an architect’s model, built with exactness which would have been painful to a more aesthetic eye than Pop’s.

  The fence itself next caught his interest. He fingered the steel mesh with wonder. At the top the poles bent out to support three strands of savage-looking barbed wire. Pop stepped back and was instantly smitten by a sign which shouted:

  1,000,000 VOLTS

  BEWARE!

  Pop felt a breeze chill him as he stared at his fingers. But they were still there and he was encouraged. Moving toward the gate he found other signs:

  BEWARE OF THE LIONS!

  Pop searched anxiously for them and, so doing, found a third:

  AREA MINED!

  And:

  TRESPASSERS BURIED

  FREE OF CHARGE!

  Uncertain now, Pop again stared at the tiny house. It began to remind him of a picture he had seen of Arizona’s gas chamber.

  But, setting his jaw to measure up to the threats around him, he sought the bell, avoiding the sign which said:

  GAS TRAPS

  And the one which roared:

  DEATH RAYS

  KEEP OUT!

  He almost leaped out of his body when a voice before him growled: “What is your business?”

  Pop stared. He backed up. He turned. Suspiciously he eyed the emptiness.

  At last, rapidly, he said, “I want to see Hannibal Pertwee. I am a reporter from the New York World-Journal.”

  There was a click and a square of light glowed in a panel. For seconds nothing further happened and then, very slowly, the gate swung inward.

  Boldly—outwardly, at least—Pop marched through. Behind him the gate clicked. He whirled. A little tongue of lightning went licking its chops around the latch.

  It took Pop some time to permanently swallow his dinner. He glared around him but the strange change in the atmosphere soon registered upon his greedy senses.

  Here the walk was only a foot wide, bordered by dwarf plants. What Pop had thought to be shrubbery was actually a forest of perfect trees, all less than a yard tall but with the proportions of giants. Here, too, were benches like doll furniture and a miniature fountain which tinkled in high key. Sundials, summerhouses, bridges and flowers—all were tiny, perfect spec
imens. Even the fish in the small ponds were nearly microscopic.

  Pop approached the house warily as though it might bite. When he stood upon the porch, stooping a little to miss the roof, the door opened.

  Standing there was a man not five feet tall, whose face was a study of mildness and apology. His eyes were an indefinite blue and what remained of his hair was an indefinite gray. He was dressed in a swallowtail coat and striped pants and wing collar, with a tiny diamond horseshoe in his tie. Nervously he peered at Pop.

  “You are Mr. Brewhauer from the Scientific Investigator?”

  “No. I’m from the New York World-Journal.”

  “Ah.”

  “I came,” said Pop, “to get a story on this lecture you handed out a couple months ago.”

  “Ah.”

  “If you could just give me a few facts, I should be very glad to give you a decent break.”

  “Oh, yes! Certainly. You must see my garden!”

  “I’ve just seen it,” said Pop.

  “Isn’t it beautiful? Not a bit like any other garden you ever surveyed.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Such wholesome originality and such gigantic trees.”

  “Huh?”

  “Why, over a thousand feet tall, some of them. Of course, trees don’t ordinarily grow to a thousand feet. The tallest tree in the world is much less than that. Of course, the Aldrich Deep is 30,930, but then no trees grow in the ocean. There, now! Isn’t the garden remarkable? I’m so sorry to walk you all over the place this way, but I have recently given my cars to charity.”

  “Hey,” said Pop. “Wait. We haven’t been anywhere.”

  “No, indeed not. My garden is only a small portion of what I have yet to show you. Please come in.”

  Pop followed him into the house, almost knocking off his hat on the ceiling. The house was furnished in somewhat garish fashion and, here again, everything was less than half its normal size, even to the oil paintings on the walls and the grand piano.

  “Please be seated,” said Hannibal Pertwee.

  Somehow Pop squeezed himself into a chair. There was a tingling sensation as though he was receiving a rather constant shock. But he paid it no heed. Determined to get a story, he casually got out his cigarette case and offered Hannibal a smoke.

  The little man started to refuse and then noticed the case. “What an unusual design!”

  “Yeah,” said Pop, and pressed the music button. “The Sidewalks of New York” tinkled through the room.

  “Fascinating,” said Hannibal. “What delicate mechanism! You know, I’ve made several rather small things myself. Here is a copy of the Bible which I printed.” And in Pop’s hand he laid the merest speck of a book.

  Pop peered at it and somehow managed to open it. Yes, each page appeared to be perfectly printed. There was a slight tingling which made him scratch his palm after he had handed the volume back.

  “And here is a car,” said Hannibal, “which I spent much time constructing. The engine is quite perfect.” And thereupon he took the inch-long object and poked into it with a toothpick. There was a resultant purr.

  “And here is a car,” said Hannibal, “which I spent much time constructing. The engine is quite perfect.” And thereupon he took the inch-long object and poked into it with a toothpick.

  “It runs,” said Pop, startled.

  “Of course. It should get about a hundred thousand miles to the gallon. Therefore, if a car would make the trip and if it could carry enough gas, then it could go to the moon. The moon is only 238,857 miles from Earth, you know.” And he smiled confidently. He had forgotten about the car and it started up and ran off his hand. Pop made a valiant stab for it and missed. Hannibal picked it up and put it away.

  “Now I must show you around,” said Hannibal. “Usually I start with the garden—”

  “We’ve seen that,” said Pop.

  “Seen what?”

  “The garden.”

  “Why,” said Hannibal, “I said nothing about a garden, did I? I wish to show you my trains.”

  “Trains?”

  “Have you ever played with trains?”

  “Well—I can’t say as I have. You see, Mr. Pertwee, I came about that lecture. If you could tell me what it is about—”

  “Lecture?”

  “That you made before the physics society. Something about moving freight.”

  “Oh! ‘The Pertwee Elucidation of the Simplification of Transportational Facilities as Applying to the Freight Problems of the United States.’ You mean that?”

  “Yes. That’s it!”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Pertwee does not refer to the subject now.”

  “Mr.— Wait, aren’t you Mr. Pertwee?”

  “Yes, indeed. Now about my trains—”

  “Just some comment or other,” pleaded Pop. “I couldn’t understand just what it was all about.”

  “There’s nothing half so lovely as a train,” said Mr. Pertwee, almost firmly.

  Pop took out his case and lighted a cigarette.

  “Would you mind pressing that button again?” said Pertwee.

  Once more the worn mechanism tinkled out its music. When it had done, Hannibal took the case and inspected it anew with great attention.

  “You said something about trains,” said Pop.

  “Pardon?”

  Pop took back his case and put it firmly away. “You spoke of trains. There may be a story there.”

  “Oh, there is, there is,” said Hannibal. “But I don’t talk about it, you know. Not with strangers. Of course you are not a stranger, are you?”

  “Oh, no, indeed,” said Pop, mystified because he could see no bottle about. “But let’s get on to the trains.”

  Hannibal bounced eagerly up and led his caller through the house, pausing now and then to show other instances of things done very small.

  Finally they reached the train room and here Pop stopped short in amazement. For here, spread out at their feet, were seemingly miles of track leading off in a bewildering tangle of routes.

  “My trains,” said Hannibal, caressingly.

  Pop just kept staring. There were toy stations and semaphores and miniature rivers and roads and underpasses and sidings and switches. And on the tracks stood a whole fleet of freight cars in a yard. Engines stood about, ready to do the switching. The roundhouses were crammed with rolling stock and, in short, nearly every type of equipment used was represented here.

  Hannibal was already down on his knees at a switchboard. He grabbed up a top hat and plonked it on his head and then beamed at Pop.

  “Cargo of strawberries for Chicago,” said Hannibal. He threw half a dozen switches. The engines in the freight yard came to life and began to charge and puff and bang into cars, making up a train without any touch from the operator except on the control board.

  “That bare space away over there is Chicago,” said Hannibal.

  Pop saw then that this room was vast enough to contain a replica of the United States and realized with a start that these tracks were, each one, a counterpart of an actual railroad line. Here were all the railway routes in the United States spreading over a third of an acre!

  “This is New York,” said Hannibal, indicating another bare space. “Only, of course, there isn’t anything there yet. Now here we go!”

  The freight, made up, began to move along the track faster and faster. It whistled for the crossings and rumbled over the rivers and stepped into a siding for a fast freight to go by, took on water and finally roared into the yard beside the bare space which was Chicago. Here it was broken up and other engines began to reform it.

  In the space of two hours, Pop watched freight being shunted all over the United States. He was excited about it, for he had never had a chance to play with trains as a boy and now it seemed quite logical that they should interest him as a man.

  Finally Hannibal brought the cars back to the New York yard and broke up the last train. With a sigh he took off his hat and s
tood up, smiling apologetically.

  “You must go now,” said Hannibal.

  “Look,” said Pop. “Just give me some kind of an idea of what you were talking about in that article so I can mention it in the paper.”

  “Well—”

  “I’ll do you some good,” said Pop.

  “Do you understand anything about infinite acceleration?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Or the fourth dimension?”

  “Wellllllllll …”

  “Or Einstein’s mathematics?”

  “No.”

  “Then,” said Hannibal, “I don’t think I can explain. They would not believe me.” And he laughed softly. “So, you see, you wouldn’t either. Good night.”

  And Pop presently found himself outside the gate, confronted once more with the long walk to the station and the long ride back to New York.

  A fine job he’d done. No story.

  Still— Say! Those trains would make a swell yarn. A batty little scientist playing with toy railroads— Sure. He’d do it. Play it on the human-interest side. Great minds at leisure. Scientist amuses self with most complete model road in the world— Yes, that was it. Might do something with that.

  But he’d never get far with it.

  Trudging along he reached for his cigarette case. He fumbled in other pockets. Alarm began to grow on him. He couldn’t find it! More slowly he repeated the search.

  Hurriedly then he tore back to the gate and shouted at the house. But the only reply he got was printed on the sign:

  TRESPASSERS BURIED

  FREE OF CHARGE!

  Chapter Three

  POP, it might be said, was just a little proud of having turned out a presentable story where no story had been before. And, feeling the need of a little praise, he finished off his story the following morning and took it to Caulborn personally.

  Caulborn, in a lather of activity which amounted to keeping half the staff enraged, pushed up his eyeshade—which he wore for show—and stared at Pop with calculated coldness.

  “Well?”

  “That story you sent me out on,” said Pop, putting the sheets on Caulborn’s desk. “You didn’t think there was any story there. And you were right as far as news was concerned. But human interest—”