My Best Science Fiction Story

by Leo Margulies

  Eagerly Hannibal grasped the offered hand. Swiftly Pop yanked Hannibal close to him and gave him an expert frisk. The cigarette case leaped out of Hannibal’s pocket. Pop looked at it with satisfaction.

  “I wonder,” said Hannibal, distrait, “how that got there?”

  “So do I,” said Pop. “And now if I could inspect your trains again—”

  “Well … yes. All right. Just come this way.” And he stepped through the door.

  Pop was so close behind him that he almost got cut in half when the door slammed shut. There was the rumble of a shot bolt and Pop’s weight against the door had no effect at all. He swore and dashed for the hall. Another door slammed there. Pop stood glaring through the walls at Hannibal. Then he got another idea and rushed outside to take a tour of the house. But there was nothing to be seen.

  For two hours Pop prowled in the garden. But the night was cold and Pop was hungry and, at last, he had to be content with his victory in recovering his case. He went off up the road in the direction of the station.

  Grumbling to himself, he stood on the platform, waiting for a train to carry him back to New York. He could swear that there was some connection between the forest, the miniature car, the trains and the vanished buildings.

  “Dja hear about them things disappearin’ in N’York?” said a loafer.

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  “Awful, ain’t it?” said the loafer.

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  “It’s them Nazis,” said the loafer.

  Pop took out his cigarette case. It still contained several cigarettes so, evidently, Hannibal did not smoke. Pop lit up. He was about to replace the case when he wondered if any harm had come to it. He pressed the music button. No sound came forth.

  “Damn him,” said Pop. “Broke it.” Well, he could have it fixed. Hannibal, the loon, had probably worn it out.

  The train came at last and Pop settled himself for a doze. He could think best when he dozed. But his neighbor wasn’t sleepy.

  “Ain’t that awful what them Reds did in New York? I hear that people are runnin’ around trying to lynch all the Reds they know about. ’Course some don’t believe it was the Reds, and I hear tell the churches is full of people prayin’. I’m goin’ in to see for myself, but I’m tellin’ you, you won’t catch me walkin’ into no buildings.”

  “Yeah,” said Pop.

  The train lippety-clicked endlessly, saying the same thing over and over: “Pop’s through, Pop’s through, Pop’s through.”

  About eight he wandered out of the station to straggle haphazardly uptown. He was trying to tell himself that he was glad he was through. No more chasing fire engines for him. What a hell of a life it was. Never any regular sleep, always on the go, living from story to story. Well! Now he could settle down and rest awhile. Yes, that was the ticket. Just rest. There was that farm his sister had left him. He’d go up there in the morning. Place probably all falling to pieces but it would be quiet. Yes, a helluva life for a man. He’d followed the news for years and now all the stories he had covered were lumped into one chunk of forgetfulness—and he was as stale as yesterday’s newspaper. What had it ever gotten him? Just headaches.

  Shuffling along, head down, hands deep in his jacket pockets, he coursed his way to Eighth Avenue. From far off came a thin scream of a police siren. Pop stopped, instantly alert. The clang of engines followed, swooping down a side street near him. He raced up to the corner and watched the trucks and police cars stream by full blast. He whirled to a taxi and then paused, uncertain. Gradually he lost his excitement until he was again slumped listlessly. Far off the police sirens and bells dwindled and faded into the surflike mutter of the city.

  “Taxi, buddy?”

  Pop glanced toward the hack driver. He slowly shook his head and pulled out his cigarette case. He lighted up and puffed disconsolately. A saloon was nearby and he wandered into it to place a foot on the rail.

  “Rye. Straight,” said Pop.

  The British-looking barkeep pushed out a glass and filled it with an expert twist of his wrist. Pop downed the drink and stood there for a while staring morosely at his reflection in the mirror behind the pyramided wares.

  “Fill it up,” said Pop.

  The barkeep did as bidden. “Ain’t that awful about them buildings and all?” he said the while. “The wickedness of this city is what brought it on. Just yesterday I says to a gent in here, I says, ‘A town as sinful as this—’”

  Pop took out his cigarette case. “Yeah.”

  “‘A town as sinful as this cannot meet but one fate in the mighty wrath—’”

  SWOOssssh!

  Pop was jarred out of his wits.

  The whole bar had vanished!

  The whole bar, complete with tender!

  The mirrors were still there, but that was all!

  A drunk who had been sitting at a side table looked unblinkingly in the direction of the phenomenon and then, with great exactness, lifted his glass and spilled the contents on the floor. Unsteadily he navigated to the street.

  Pop’s news-keen mind examined all the possibilities in sight. Was it possible that someone had come in that door and done this? Had Hannibal followed him?

  Absently he started to pay for his drink, coming to himself only when he saw for certain that he no longer leaned on the bar. He looked at the floor where the planks were patterned as the bar had stood. And then Pop received another shock.

  There was the bar!

  About an inch long!

  Almost lost in a crack between the flooring!

  Hastily he picked it up, afraid of hurting it. He could barely make out the bartender who did not seem to be moving. Pop put the thing in a small cardboard box he found in the refuse and then stowed it carefully in his pocket.

  This opened up a wide range of thought and he needed air in which to think. He went out into the street.

  Why was he so certain that it was Hannibal? He understood nothing of that man’s plans and certainly there were thousands of swallowtail coats in New York City. But still—

  This bar had dwindled in size. Was it not possible, then, that the buildings had done likewise? And if they had, mightn’t they still be there? He mulled this for a long time, standing at the curb, occasionally hearing the wonder of a would-be customer in the saloon.

  “Taxi?” persisted the driver.

  “Yeah,” said Pop. But before he got in, his abstraction led him to take out his cigarette case and light up. Then he entered the cab. “I want to go to the place Grand Central Station was.”

  “Okay, buddy,” said the cabby.

  He pondered profoundly as he waited for lights, and when the driver let him out near the police cordon which had been placed around the hole, he thought he had a glimmering of the meaning behind this series of events.

  He paid and strolled along the line.

  “Awful, ain’t it?” said another spectator.

  “Yeah,” said Pop. He edged up to an officer. “I’m from the World-Journal. I want to examine that hole from the bottom.”

  “Sorry. Can’t be done. I got strict orders.”

  A few minutes later, Pop was wandering about the hole. The street lights were sufficient for his inspection and, very minutely, he covered every inch of the ground. Then, finding nothing, he again risked bunions by doing it all over, again without result. He got out and walked away toward the site of the Empire State.

  On the way he paused and bought some cigarettes, filling his case. When he had finished he wandered on down the avenue.

  But his inspection of the hole where the Empire State had stood left him once more without clue. He was very weary and muddy when he had finished, for it was difficult walking.

  He stood once more at the curb, determined to make his inspection complete.

  “Taxi?”

  Pop took out his case and started to extract a cigarette.

  “Tax—”

  SWOOssssh!

  And the cab folded
into itself with such rapidity that Pop’s eye could not follow.

  Pop trembled.

  He shut his eyes and counted to ten.

  When he opened them the cab was still gone.

  Then he looked more closely at the pavement and stooped down. Here was the cab, a little less than an inch long and proportionate in the other two dimensions.

  Pop put it in his cardboard box.

  But nobody was near him. Evidently no one had seen this happen to the cab. And if Hannibal had sneaked up and caused it, there had been neither sign nor sound of his approach.

  Maybe—maybe Hannibal wasn’t guilty.

  Maybe New York would keep right on disappearing!

  To keep his sanity Pop vowed to complete his inspection. He moved to the next cab in the line in which the driver was dozing. The cabby woke with a start and reached automatically back for the door.

  “I want to go to Pennsylvania Station,” said Pop. And then, finding he still held the cigarette case in his hand, again opened it to take out another cigarette.

  SWOOssssh!

  And this second cab was gone!

  Pop began to tremble violently. His heart was beating somewhere near his tonsils. With a quick glance around he reached down and picked up the cab and slid it into his box.

  “Hey, you,” said a loitering cop. “What you doin’?”

  “Pi … pickin’ snipes,” said Pop hurriedly.

  “Well, get along.”

  Pop got without further waiting. It was quite clear to him now who was doing this. Himself! The cigarette case! Hadn’t it jerked a little whenever these things had gone?

  And wasn’t he guilty of murder if these drivers and the bartender were dead?

  When he was on a dark street he surreptitiously inspected the case by the faint glow of a shop window.

  But there wasn’t anything unusual about it. Pop looked around and found a trash can. If this case was doing it, it certainly could make this trash can dwindle. Pop pushed the opening button. Nothing happened. He pushed the music button. Again nothing happened.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he was wrong about this. It wasn’t his cigarette case, after all. Somebody was following him, that was it. Somebody was sneaking up and doing these things to him. Well! He’d walk around and keep close watch and maybe it would happen once more. When his attention was distracted by the case, this other person— Sure, that was the answer.

  Pop, feeling better, walked on to the next avenue. He took his stand on the corner near a large apartment house. This was fair game. And when the other person came near, he would take out his case and then, bow! grab the malefactor and drag him back to the paper for interview.

  In a few minutes a fellow in very somber clothes came near. Pop took out his cigarette case and started to open it.

  SWOssssh!

  And the apartment building was gone!

  Pop was shaken up by the vibration of its going but he did not lose his presence of mind. He snatched the bystander and bore him to earth.

  The full light of the street lamp shone down.

  He had captured a minister of the gospel!

  Very swiftly Pop got away from there, leaving the minister staring after him and then, seeing the hole where a building had been, praying.

  By a circuitous route, Pop came back to the hole. He almost broke a leg getting down into it, so steep were the sides. But he forgot that when he found the tiny thing which had been a building. It looked like a perfect model, about five inches high. Pop, hearing a crowd gather on the street, got out of there, stuffing the building in his pocket. There was a sting to the object which was very uncomfortable.

  He almost broke a leg getting down into it, so steep were the sides. But he forgot that when he found the tiny thing which had been a building. It looked like a perfect model, about five inches high.

  All Pop’s fine ideas had gone glimmering now. It was the case. It had to be. And to test it out he had probably slain hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. But his news sense was soon uppermost again.

  At a safe distance from the site he again inspected the case. He pressed first one button and then the other and still nothing happened. It shook his orderly process of thought. He went on his way, case in hand, and found himself in a commercial street where great drays were parked. He went on. Before him was the waterfront.

  A packing case stood upon a wharf. Pop chose it for a test and stood there for some time, pushing the case’s buttons. But the packing case stayed very stubbornly where it was.

  And then, quite by accident, Pop pushed both buttons at once!

  SWOOssssh!

  The liner which had been at the pier abruptly vanished!

  There was a snap as the after lines went. There was a small tidal wave as the seas came together.

  Pop had missed his aim!

  He had gotten over being stunned by now. His first thought was to snatch the hawser which had not parted. He hauled it swiftly in. The ship was barely attached to the line. Very carefully Pop looked at the tiny boat, perfect in all details, but less than three inches long. He looked hurriedly about and shoved it into his pocket.

  A steward was running in circles on the dock, yelling, “They’ve stole it! They’ve stole it! Help, murder, police! They’ve stole it!”

  That “murder” set badly with Pop. He got out of there.

  Ten minutes later he was in a phone booth. The night editor’s voice boomed over the wire.

  “Joe, this is Pop. Look, I’ve got a bar, two taxis, an apartment building and an ocean liner in my pocket. Stand by for an extra about midnight.”

  “You—huh? Sleep it off, Pop. And drink one for me.”

  “No, no, no!” cried Pop.

  But the wire was dead.

  Pop walked out of the booth, turned around and walked into it again. He dropped his nickel and began a series of calls to locate his man.

  “World-Journal,” said Pop at last. “I want Barstow of Pennsylvania Railroad.”

  “This is Barstow. But I’ve given out statements until I’m hoarse. Call me tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be at the World-Journal in two hours if you want your station back.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” repeated the voice. “And lay off the stuff. It ain’t good for you.” There was a click.

  Pop sighed very deeply.

  So they wouldn’t believe him, huh? Well, he’d show ’em! He’d show ’em!

  And he loped for the station.

  Chapter Five

  I won’t,” said Hannibal, definite for the first time in his life.

  They sat in Caulborn’s office and the clock said ten. Caulborn had not yet come in.

  Hannibal Pertwee showed signs of having been mauled a bit. And even now he tried to make a break for the door. Pop tripped him and set him back on the chair.

  “It’s no use,” said Hannibal. “I won’t tell you or anybody else. After what they did to me, why should I do anything for them?”

  In the center of the room sat a gunnysack. Carefully wrapped up within it were some items Pop had found occupying the vacant spaces in the vicinity of “New York” on Hannibal Pertwee’s toy railway system.

  “I’ll have you for burglary,” said Hannibal. “You can’t prove anything at all. What if I do have some models of buildings? Can’t I make models of what I please? And they’re just models. You’ll see!”

  “What about those people you can see in them?” said Pop.

  “They’re not moving. Can’t I make people in model form, too?”

  Pop was alternating warm and chill, for he knew he was dabbling in very serious matters. Anxiously he looked at the clock. As though by that signal, Caulborn came in.

  Caulborn had had a drink too many the evening before and he was in no condition to see Pop.

  “What? You here again?”

  “That’s right,” said Pop. “And I have—”

  “There’s no use begging for that job. We don’t need anybody. Get out or I’l
l have you thrown out.” And he reached across the desk for his phone.

  Pop’s handy feet sent Caulborn sprawling. Pop instead pushed the button.

  “Send in Mr. Graw,” said Pop, calling for the publisher.

  “I’ll blacklist you!” cried Caulborn. “You’ll never work on another paper!”

  “I’ll take my chances,” said Pop.

  Mr. Graw, very portly, stepped in. He saw Pop and scowled. Caulborn was dusting off his pants in protest.

  “What’s this?” said Mr. Graw.

  “He won’t get out,” said Caulborn. “He sent for you. I didn’t.”

  “Well, of all the cheek!”

  Pop squared off. “Now listen, you two. I been in this business a long time. And I know what a story is worth. You’re losing money and you need circulation. Well, the way to get circulation is to get stories. Now!”

  “I won’t,” said Hannibal.

  On the table Pop laid out the four objects from the gunnysack: the Pennsylvania Station, Grand Central, Grant’s Tomb and the Empire State. Then from his jacket he took the bar, the two taxis, the apartment house and the steamship.

  “I won’t!” cried Hannibal, attempting another break. Once more Pop pushed him back to the chair.

  “What are these?” said Mr. Graw.

  “Just what you see. The missing buildings,” said Pop.

  “Preposterous! If you have gone to all this trouble just to make some foolish story—”

  Pop cut Mr. Graw’s speech in half. “I’ve gone to plenty of trouble, but not to have anything made. These are the real thing.”

  “Rot,” said Caulborn.

  “I won’t!” said Hannibal.

  “Well, in that case,” said Pop, “I’ll make you a proposition. If I restore these to their proper places, can I have my job back—permanently?”

  “Humph,” said Mr. Graw. “If you can put back what this city has lost, I’ll give you your job back. Yes. But why waste our time—”

  “Then call Mr. Barstow of the Pennsylvania Railroad,” said Pop. “You get him over here on the double and I’ll put the buildings back.”

  “But how—”

  Again Pop cut Mr. Graw down. “Just call, that’s all. You can’t afford to run the risk of losing this chance.”