Perkin emptied the bag in his large felt hat. He ran the coins first through one hand and then the other.
“Four bags more?” he asked.
“Four more right now and five thousand a year as long as you live.”
“I’ll make my mark. I would even let you all kill that ‘air old cow fer four bags more.”
“Good! Now this afternoon a plane will fly over your land. It will drop apiece of iron on your house. Then you get mad and start lawing. We’ll have lawyers waiting for you in Tiptonville, and we’ll wait for you there. Now don’t forget. Just as soon as the house is hit, you come to the county-seat.”
They handed him the four remaining bags of gold, shook hands, and in a few minutes were off in the plane. Peter Perkin looked at the gold. Had it not been for those bags of yellow metal, he would have thought that he was dreaming.
“Gosh!” he yelled. “Who’d have thunk it? Five thousand fer the old chimney and a few shingles! Wish Ma had lived longer. We all would had a big time.”
Still dazed, he cooked his dinner, and picking his teeth with a straw, resumed his seat in the cane-bottomed chair, tilted against the house. As the sun went around, he moved his chair to keep in the shade. About three in the afternoon he saw a plane in the sky. It came nearer.
Then, without warning pieces of iron fell from the sky. One nearly hit him. Leaping into the air, he yelled and ran for the first time in his life. Turning, he saw that the chimney had been struck and the plaster was filling the air with a fine dust. He shook his fist at the plane.
“Gol dern yer!” he yelled. “I’ll learn ye ter trespass on my air!”
He rode to town as fast as the old mule could carry him. He was met front of the Court House by the men who had called on him that morning.
A stranger walked up to him saying, “Are you Mr. Perkin? I’m so sorry I injured your home. I was flying over and some of the machinery fell off.”
Perkin shook his fist in the aviator’s face.
“I’ll larn yer ter trespass, Gol dern yer! I’ll go lawing yer.”
A third man joined in. “Certainly, Mr. Perkin. That’s the way to talk, and we’ll be glad to represent you in the lawsuit.”
In this way the celebrated suit of Perkin vs. Vanderpool started. Vanderpool lost the first suit and carried it to a higher court. From that it went before the highest tribunal of the State of Tennessee. Expensive legal talent was employed on both sides. Oratory flowed like water. The attention of the city newspapers was attracted. Extensive articles were written about the Tennessee patriot, the poor old man who had been so seriously injured and who was so bravely fighting for his rights.
At last the case reached the Supreme Court. In a singular manner it was given precedence over thousands of other cases. It was felt that a new principle in equity was at stake. A man could own the land and the metals, oil or gas under the land. Could he own the air above? The Supreme Court decided that he could and that trespassing upon that air was as serious an offense as trespassing upon the land under the air.
For a few months Peter Perkin remained in the limelight of the nation. He even had a brand of five-cent cigars named after him. He was paid for writing testimonials concerning his use of cure-alls for halitosis, dandruff, and athlete’s foot. He visited New York, where he had his hair cut in a barber shop and his eye teeth cut in a night club. At last his sponsors prevailed on him to return to the quieter life, six miles from Tiptonville. He had been accustomed to drinking two quarts of pure Tennessee moonshine every day without any apparent harm, but the last three fingers of New York double-distilled three-X dope was too much, and he curled up and died on the train before it reached Trenton.
And that was the part Peter Perkin played in the great national drama. It might have easily been any other man, but it just happened to be the man who lived six miles from Tiptonville. This was the first time the town had ever made the front page of a New York paper. It was also the last.
All the large cities of the United States were head over heels in debt. Some tried to pay the interest on this debt by increasing taxes. Others simply issued new’ bonds. The urban debts were like a snowball, rolling downhill. Of course, everybody wanted to live in the city; so, all were willing to pay taxes, no matter how confiscatory, yet, at the same time, more than one person wondered where it was going to end, and more than one great store and wealthy bank increased the number of private watchmen, as well as the thickness of the protecting iron bars.
Samuel Smith went to New York City first. He thought that if he could convince the political forces of that city to see things his way, it would be easy with Chicago and Philadelphia. He didn’t ask for a meeting of the official representatives of the city of New York. All he asked for was a short conversation with the leaders of the Republican and Democratic parties.
What he said was this, “Give me a franchise controlling all air traffic and travel over your city, and I’ll pay your municipal debt.”
“What with?” growled the leader of Tammany. He tried to be calm, but he had bit his cigar in two from excitement and then swallowed the near end, and his face, always rugged, was now slightly purple.
“Any way you wish,” replied Smith. “Probably some of it in gold and greenbacks. The rest in certified checks.”
“You mean you’ll buy up the entire debt?” asked the Republican leader. “Just for a franchise?”
“That’s what I mean.”
By this time the Tammany Chief had swallowed the butt. He laughed as he took charge of the meeting.
“Sure we’ll do it, Smith. No argument. Why, boys, think of it. The men right in this room own over half the city bonds. We’ll pay them all off. Think of what we can do on the stock market with the use of over eight hundred million. And we can start right in building more things, like apartment houses and office buildings. All you folks want is the air? We should worry about that. Can’t stop us breathing, can you? I suppose you want to tax the people who use it in some way? Go ahead, you tax them above and we’ll tax them below, and between us, we’ll milk them dry.”
Everyone was in favor of the plan. All except one man. He held out. It seemed that he wanted a twenty million dollar library for Brooklyn. The Chief turned on him. “What do you want a big building like that for? Nobody reads over in Brooklyn anymore. You couldn’t buy books enough to fill a place of that size.”
“Who said anything about building a place for books? I want to build a building and I might as well call it a library as anything.”
“All right. You get your twenty million for the library. But don’t put up one of those barns of a place.”
“Forget it, Murphy. By the time I get my share of the twenty million you’ll have to use a microscope to find the place.”
Something like this happened in all the cities, one after the other. The municipal debts were paid. Taxes were to be lowered, living conditions cheapened. In some way these important parts of the program were overlooked. Of course, all the old bonds were paid, but at once new bonds were issued. Everybody was working, everybody was making money and spending it. The purchasers of the franchises made no use of them. All who could afford it spent their leisure in the air; and those who could not afford it spent their spare time in the same way.
Then Smith and his friends started to buy little farms. These farms did not cost much. Each farm bordered on two other farms, and when the purchasing ended, all the great cities were connected by a little chain of farm land all belonging to Smith and his friends.
They were ready now to collect. For some years they had been putting time, money, and energy into their plan. Now they were going to put the screws on, tighten up. The common people were going to know who was in charge of the United States and were going to like it. They were going to like it or die.
Freilausen, the head of United Motors, Jenkins, president of the Food Stuff Companies of the nation, and Samuel Smith, financier, between them owned practically a controlling interest in every busi
ness in the nation. They employed over thirty-five percent of the wage-earners of the land. Their sense of caution had so far prevented them from openly taking control of the rest of the workers. Now the time had come for action. Their plan was simple.
All their companies were gathered together under one name, The United Financing Company of North America—the U.F.C. for short. All subsidiary companies were given their share of stock. On the first of June, 1950, they simply announced that from that date on all of their workers would be paid in company script, redeemable in any U.F.C. store, and in addition, would be given the right to use the air, either in a private or in an U.F.C. plane. The money of the United States was no longer to be used, either as wages or as a medium of purchase.
Large announcements appeared in the daily press of all large cities. Any store bearing the U.F.C. sign would accept only U.F.C. paper in exchange for what it had to sell. Anyone wanting work could become a worker for some U.F.C. firm. No one was to use the air without paying a U.F.C. tax or being a worker of the U.F.C.
Within a week eighty percent of the workers in the United States were wearing a badge on their left arm, showing that they were under the employ of this gigantic company. The rest of the workers were idle. That was worse, they were starving. It was impossible for them to buy the necessities of life. No matter how much money they had, they could not buy a loaf of bread or a pint of milk without a U.F.C. paper to give exchange.
The air situation was simpler than had been expected. Gasoline and could be bought only from U.F.C. stations. If you could show that you worked for the company, you had no trouble in buying good gas cheap. But if you didn’t work for the company, you had to pay in gold, and in addition, pay a heavy tax per gallon for the use of the air. And even after you had the tank filled at an unreasonable cost, you found, when you were five thousand feet above land, that part of the gas was water.
More than one person brought suit against the U.F.C. But in every case it was determined by all the courts that the giant finance company was strictly within the letter of the law. None need work for them unless he wanted to. They had a right to sell to those they wished to sell to. If they wanted to pay and collect in company script, they could, and there was ample proof that they owned the air above the cities as well as the air above all the farms they had purchased.
The rest of the year passed, and the year of 1991 started. The people were not happy, though they didn’t know just what was the matter. Several times they had asked for higher wages and in every case their request was granted, but they only received more script. When they went to pay their rent and buy the necessities of life, they found that all along the line there had been a slight increase in the cost of living so that they were just where they were before they had had their wages increased.
And the quality of clothes they could buy, the kind and quality of food was gradually growing poorer. They were not living as comfortably. Their houses were not heated as well, and they were undernourished. They went up in the air, but for more than one reason felt that they did not own that air. Someone was making money. Somebody must be making money, but who it was could hardly be determined by the common people. All they knew was that Samuel Smith was going to be the candidate for President of the United States at the next election and so far there was no chance of there being a second candidate.
There was some discontent and some rioting, but not once were Guards of the states or the national army called upon to produce order.
No, indeed! The private police of the U.F.C. did all that was necessary and after the riot was quelled, the hospitals of the U.F.C. cared for the injured, and the undertakers of the U.F.C. buried the dead.
Gold, as a medium, was still being used in foreign exchange. For the trade with the other countries of the world was now brisk. Production in the United States was costing less and less as the months rolled by, raw material was cheaper than in any place in the world. A finished product could be laid down in Paris or London for less than the production cost there. The U.F.C. was gradually gathering the cream of foreign commerce, in spite of high import tariffs which these countries placed. The statement was openly made in Parliament that labor in the United States was simply slave labor, but that statement never reached the United States. The U.F.C. controlled all the newspapers.
* * * *
William Jordan was not happy.
He, better than any other worker, realized just what was happening in the United States. From the time at which he had been an unhappy and an uncomfortable listener to the conversation between Smith, Freilausen, and Jenkins he had the unhappy thought that he might have done something to prevent the U.F.C. from obtaining a stranglehold on the workers of the United States. He was just a clerk, one of thousands of similar clerks, but he had a profound love for his country.
As a boy he had been told by his grandfather that the finest thing that a man could make out of himself was to become an American patriot. As a very young man he had thought of serving his country in some way. He worshipped Washington, revered Lincoln, and idealized Roosevelt. In some way he hoped to be an American worthy of these leaders.
It was hard to be patriotic in a great city. It was still harder to hold high ideals while working for the U.F.C. There was no inspiration and there was no future there. You worked as hard as one could, and all you received in return was an existence. Wage earners were promised an old-age pension and steady employment but they had to pay for all of it in drops of blood. Even the amusements were owned by the U.F.C. The workers saw in the shows and in the movies what the U.F.C. wanted them to see. They had to read the U.F.C. newspapers.
Accident had placed Jordan under the chair from which Samuel Smith had addressed his two associates. A similar accident made it possible to be kind to an old man who would have fallen into the street had not Jordan grabbed him. The old man was profuse in his thanks. He even went so far as to ask Jordan to come and spend the evening with him—and bring Mrs. Jordan, if there were one. Second thought changed the invitation so that it included a seven o’clock supper.
Mrs. Jordan did not want to go. Her clothes were rather shabby and it took all that the two of them made in script to pay the rent and buy the actual necessities of life. They still had their airplane, but the trips that they made in it were further and further apart. She did not want to go.
“Even in my best clothes I look a fright,” she complained.
“Don’t worry about that,” Jordan replied. “This old man is just as common as an old shoe, and I bet he’ll be just as easy to talk to. He wants us to take supper with him, and why not? Might mean something in the end. At least, he’s the first man I’ve seen for a long time without one of these damn badges on his arm.”
Even with an early start, it was after seven before they found the old man’s apartment. It was down in Wall Street, and looked more like an office than a home, at least, from the outside; but, once inside, Mr. and Mrs. Jordan gasped in astonished surprise. It was one of the most comfortable apartments they had ever seen. And the food!
Jordan ate and ate. At last he had to stop.
“You’ll have to pardon me, Mr. Turner, but it has been a long time since I had a real meal like this one. I didn’t know there was any more apple pie in the world. When I was a little boy I used to visit my grandfather, down on the farm, and my grandmother and the hired girl used to make meals something like this.”
“It’s different,” admitted his wife, “from what we eat every day. Somehow, our regular food doesn’t satisfy me anymore. I’m glad that my husband saved your life. I wish he would do it more often.”
Coffee was served in the parlor. At last Jordan could no longer contain his curiosity.
“Just what is your business, Mr. Turner?”
“Oh! I hold some stock in the U.F.C., but my chief interest is in being an American patriot. I don’t talk about it much, because there seem to be so few patriots alive.”
“Almost like the pedestrians,” laughed Mrs
. Jordan. When she wanted to she could be almost brilliant in her wise-cracks. Her daily toil, practically a life of drudgery, took much of the enthusiasm out of her conversation, but after that supper she felt like the old girl, the girl she used to be when she was trying to induce William Jordan to marry her.
“That was well said,” laughed Mr. Turner. “Still, there used to be patriots, and I believe that there are some yet, if only I could locate them Something is wrong with our dear nation, and I should like to correct it if only I knew how. As it is, all I can do is to live in the past and dream.”
“Do you really want to know what’s wrong?” asked Jordan.
“I really do.”
“And your being in the U.F.C., I mean a large stockholder, won’t make any difference?”
“Not at all. I had a two hundred million dollar business. It seemed to be the time to let go of it; so, I consented to selling it for so much U.F.C. stock, but beyond collecting my dividends, I know nothing of the company.”
“Then, let me tell you about it. One day I was under a chair and it had a flowing cretonne slip cover. So, no one saw me there, and Samuel Smith, you know Uncle Sam, the man who is going to be the next President—came and sat in that chair and had a long talk with two men by the name of Freilausen and Jenkins, and between the three of them they determined to secure complete dominance over the United States. It seemed that their idea was to make all the workers industrial slaves, and if they became too discontented, to have another war and kill a good many of them off.”
The Twelfth Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK™: David H. Keller, M.D. Page 6