“What does this mean, Professor Owens?” the puzzled Premier asked the Chemistry teacher. “What kind of things are these? They cannot fight. They have no weapons, no brains, no blood. All they know is how to grow and move forward. Evidently they come from Moronia, but for what reason. Is it a declaration of war?”
The old Professor answered to the best of his ability and what he said was surprisingly near the truth.
“They are just Yeast Men, Your Excellency. I have examined them in every way, chemically and microscopically and they are just peculiarly shaped masses of dough animated by some very active yeast. Their movements resemble dough overflowing a pan. I do not know what they mean but I do know what they are. I have had one cut up and baked in loaves and it tastes like a fairly good kind of whole wheat bread.”
Here the Chief-of-Staff interrupted.
“Of course we could consider it as a declaration of war and attack, but what would be the influence on the world’s opinion of us? Reporters would rush in from the Paris and London papers. They would make us a laughing stock of the universe. What could we say? That we were afraid of lumps of yeast? That we were using our artillery on potential loaves of bread? So far, these creatures have not committed a single deprivation. No lives have been lost, not a house burned, not a single pig or chicken killed. Think what a reporter from an American paper would do to us if he had a chance to write it up? How he would describe our infantry pouring bullets into dough, our brave cavalry men cutting the heads off of bread men? Far better would it be to take them as fast as we can and distribute them among all of our people and let them make bread with them. That would be a joke. The Eupenian nation being fed at the expense of the very enemy who hates them so.”
“I believe you are right!” answered the Premier. “There is certainly nothing in such creatures to be afraid of, though their number seems to be increasing hourly. It was all well enough for the ignorant peasants to run in terror from their farms, but the city folk will look on it as a great joke—especially if we use the proper kind of propaganda. Suppose we go back at once to the capitol and prepare a statement for the press.”
The next edition of The Staatsbote, the leading afternoon paper in Eupenia, ran the following news item on the front page:
HAVE YOU A LITTLE YEAST MAN IN YOUR HOME? IF NOT, WHY NOT?
All citizens are urged to at once provide their homes with one or more Yeast Men. These peculiar creatures are very harmless and the Department of Chemical Research assures us that they make a very fair quality of bread. They come in all sizes. When little, your children can play with them as dolls; when full sized, they can reduce the High Cost of Living.
All citizens having automobiles are commanded to go into the country regions and bring to their homes as many of these Yeast Men as they can accommodate. Bring extra ones for your poorer neighbor.
Army trucks will make regular trips to bring these Yeast Men to the Capitol. After they are paraded through the streets they will be distributed to all families not yet provided.
This item was published on the afternoon of the second day. All that afternoon and evening thousands of Yeast Men were brought into the towns and cities of Eupenia in private automobiles and army trucks. The Premier, quick to act for his personal advantage issued an order canceling all contracts for flour and directing that the army be supplied with bread baked from the dough creatures. Each company in the army was directed to forage for its own supply and to keep them in their tents till they were needed for baking bread.
The next morning, which was the beginning of the third day of the Moronian offensive, thousands of the Yeast Men were exhibited in parade through the streets of the Eupenian capital, each one in charge of a soldier. The citizens laughed till they cried at the comical spectacle, and slapped each other on the back as they pointed out “the only kind of soldiers Moronia could attack with.” Within a few hours it became quite the fashion to have your own personal Yeast Man. Children walked around leading their little dough pets. High School pupils painted theirs with the class colors and numerals. These things could be led and guided. Herr Schmidt, Honorable President of the Ancient Order of Eupenian Cab Drivers, made a harness for a pair and had them draw a light buggy through the streets, with his grandson for driver.
That third day was a fete day for all Eupenia. The Premier, however, had gone to unnecessary labor to bring the Yeast Men into the city. By noon they were beginning to arrive of their own accord, by the hundreds of thousands: by afternoon the streets were crowded with them. Instead of being a joke, this thing was becoming a problem. They were gathered into the parks, thrown into the cellars, herded out into the country, but still they came in increasing numbers. Every house had one or more: not a basement but was filled with a reserve supply; the barracks and tents of the army were overrun. The morning paper estimated that there was enough dough to provide bread for half a year. The problem now was not how to get them into the city but how to get them out and keep them out. In spite of Premier Plautz’ reassurance in the afternoon paper and definite orders for the army to advance on the next day, the entire populace was beginning to be worried.
Their chief anxiety arose because of the fact that they could not understand or comprehend the situation.
Then, just towards evening, the Yeast Men began to die. Not all at once, but in increasing numbers. And twilight advanced to add darkness to the horror. Then they died by thousands and hundreds of thousands all over Eupenia. It was bad enough in the country districts where here and there the pools of end-slime dotted the woods and the meadows; but in the cities, especially in the Capital, the immediate result was a panic. In hut and palace, home and barracks, life was no longer possible on account of these thousands of puddles of nausea-producing slime. The houses were filled with it. The streets were filled with it. The only living things that were unaffected were the Yeast Men waiting for their turn to die. With sightless faces they shuffled along the streets passing unconcerned through the decayed bodies of their brothers with apparently only one idea—to keep moving till death came to enable them to add their bit to the defense of their country.
The people fled. Sick and sweating, pale-faced and gasping, incapacitated and vomiting, they ran from the terror. The army fled, cursing the Premier for thinking to feed them on such putrid offal. Nothing could hold them, or restore discipline. And around Moronia was a widening, desolate, deserted ring in which there was no living thing.
The people fled to the border. The neighboring Kingdoms, however, friendly as they were to Eupenia, thought of their own safety. In this strange vomiting, in the tales of delirium told by the first refugees, they thought they saw symptoms of a new and deadly contagious disease and at once threw a line of bayonets along their borders and forbade emigration from the stricken land.
Eupenia deserted her Capital without shedding a drop of blood.
Premier Plautz, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his own personal vomiting, to consider the matter, called a meeting of his Staff and ordered the advance to begin against the enemy. This, he said, was only a new method of conducting war. Were they to be conquered by smells or inert lumps of yeast? Let the artillery blow them to pieces. Let the cavalry cut them to pieces. The infantry could build fires and burn them. A faithful remnant of the once proud army attempted to follow out his orders but no soldier, however brave, can continually fight on an empty stomach, and no officer, however capable, can give orders while constantly vomiting. The army, from the General-in-Chief down to the privates, were continually sick with the sickness of Jonah’s Whale.
The whole resistance was hopeless. The Yeast Men arrived day after day in increasing numbers and they could not be killed. They could be mutilated, dissevered, decapitated, but each piece lived and moved onwards.
Efforts at their destruction only added to the horror, and put the finishing touch to the destruction of morale.
What use cutting a thing to pieces when each piece kept on living and advancing? H
ow could an enemy be killed when it could not bleed?
Eupenia was hysterical.
On the sixth day, the army revolted, killed Premier Plautz and declared the Kingdom a Republic.
Immediately they sued for peace by radio. Moronia suspected a trap and refused to grant an armistice. Her guns continued the deadly shower. Finally, on the tenth day of the unequal struggle, peace was declared.
Afterwards, the world blamed Moronia for not granting an immediate armistice, but it is only fair to her to say that she did not know the full horror of the war at the time and never did realize it as the Eupenians did. She was anxious enough for peace, but she wanted a peace that would be permanent.
But Eupenia not only wanted peace, she wanted help to rid her of the millions of tons of terrible end-slime. Mr. Billings was called in for advice. He laughed at the question.
“The smell only lasts for ten days,” he said, “and then dies out and the slime simply becomes a highly concentrated manure, more rich than any commercial fertilizer that we have yet discovered. The fields of Eupenia will be the more fertile because of this manure. Tell the farmers to be patient and hopeful. They will have fine crops next year. The city people can shovel it up for their window boxes: it will grow wonderful violets.”
Later on, at the close of the Peace Festival, Mr. Billings was decorated. The little old King, Rudolph Hubelaire, put his one arm around the inventor and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he pinned the decoration of the Golden Moronian Eagle on him, while the people cheered.
“I want to raise your salary,” said the King.
“The only rays I am interested in,” replied the inventor, who had not been paying much attention to what the King was saying, “are the light-and energy-rays. I have another idea about them which I think I can work out if you will let me have some money for my experimentation.”
“You can have all the money you want!” was the King’s eager answer. “But tell me one thing. What made those Yeast Men grow and move the way they did?”
“It was like this, Your Majesty. They were just yeast cells but they were filled with a special dynamic energy, a very special form of energy. I could tell you all about it, but I am afraid that it would be hard for you to follow my technical explanation.”
“I know I couldn’t,” laughed the King. “I wish you could put that kind of energy into my people. We could win the commerce of the world. But I suppose you can do things with yeast that you cannot do with human beings. Now let us go to the banquet. The people are anxious to hear you.”
And Mr. Billings of the United States of America said to Rudolph Hubelaire, King of Moronia: “I am not very good at speechifying.”
THE RAT RACKET
Originally published in Amazing Stories, April 1956.
Richard Moyer, senior partner of the firm of Moyer & Perkins, read that letter over twice before he called in the man who had helped him make the importing of high grade groceries from England a most profitable business for over twenty years.
He simply handed the letter over to Paul Perkins without a word of explanation. The latter read it through and handed it back in equal silence, but the hand that held the letter trembled.
“Just another racket,” exclaimed Moyer, finally.
“Looks like it. I suppose we were foolish to start in paying for protection. First our trucks were threatened; then the new building; after that our best customers were bombed, and we had to pay to protect them. Your son was kidnapped—and the police! They even went so far as to advise that we keep on paying—and now this letter! We might as well close out the business. All our profits go toward supporting a gang of criminals who have muscled into every type of American industry.”
“On the face of it the letter looks innocent enough,” sighed Perkins, as he picked it up and gave it another reading. “Simply says that the rat menace is increasing, cites several business houses where the rodents have done a great deal of damage, and offers to give our warehouses complete protection for five thousand a week. You could show that letter to a hundred police officials and they would laugh at your fears. But I am not laughing. Because that letter was written on the same damaged typewriter that the other letters were written on and those gangsters have not failed to make any of their threats good.”
“Suppose we pretend that they are honest, and answer their letter and send them a check for the first week’s protection?”
“They will laugh at you and send back the check.”
“They may, at that. Then we will give them the cash. In either case, it will give us time to think. I feel that they are only experimenting with us. They are after larger game than five thousand a week. We shall see and hear more of this rat business in a while. Write to them and tell them that we will pay the cash, and put the entire matter in the hands of the Chamber of Commerce. If it does not act soon, the entire city will be in the hands of the gangsters.”
The complaint of Moyer & Perkins was only one of a dozen similar ones which reached the Chamber of Commerce that day. In a secluded room of the Manufacturers’ Club a dozen wealthy men met day after day, hearing and weighing evidence against a hundred forms of racketeering which was rapidly becoming a terrible and powerful enemy to the varied industries of the Metropolis. Practically every business had been threatened and more than one captain of industry blustered openly, but paid his weekly tribute silently in order to protect his business, family, and home.
Up to this time the usual weapon had been the strong arm man and the bomb. While these were bad enough, they were at least understood. When it came to rats, it was different. Of course, everybody knew something about rats—that they were supposed to be numerous around the river fronts and warehouses—but on the other hand, rats were seldom seen in daylight, and there were many New Yorkers who never saw one.
Not one of the dozen men had been raised on a farm and none had served in the trenches during the World War. They did not understand rats, so, they hesitated, and finally simply advised the merchants who had received the rat letters to use their own judgement. As a result, some paid tribute and some did not. There is no evidence to show that those who paid were one hundred percent free from rats in their warehouses, but within a week there was ample proof that at least three wholesale groceries and one laundry had been invaded overnight by rats in sufficient quantity to cause thousands of dollars’ worth of damages. Moyer & Perkins heard the news and decided to pay another five thousand.
The Defense Committee of the Chamber of Commerce was called to an extra meeting at the El Dorado Hotel. The owner of the hotel was one of the Committee, a man who, so far, had taken a very inactive part in its transactions. He did not waste time in giving the reason for the special meeting.
“I was called on the telephone this morning,” he explained. “The person at the other end wanted to protect my hotel from rats for the small compensation of twenty-five thousand dollars a week. He referred casually to the three warehouses and one laundry that had been wrecked last week. Right at the present time I have, on an average, twelve hundred guests a night. They are here to be entertained, not to be frightened by rats. But here is the point. If I yield, every other hotel in the city will be placed in a similar position. Three hundred thousand strangers are in the city every day. Suppose that ten hotels were overrun with rats in one week and the fact was circulated in the press? What would that cost the city?”
“Better pay it,” growled one of the men. He happened to own a hotel. He knew how temperamental was the pleasure-seeking stranger. Singularly, that advice was the only brand given by the rest of the Committee. They seemed strangely unable to offer any remedy except to keep on paying and in every way possible bar unpleasant news from the newspapers.
Inside of next month, fifty-five hotels were paying a weekly tax to the rat racketeers. One small hotel refused, and was at once deluged with an army of rats which drove out guests and employees, killed one old scrub woman and severely injured twenty of the cooks, waiters and port
ers who received the brunt of the rodent onslaught.
Moyer & Perkins were still paying the five thousand a week when, to their surprise, a visitor dropped into their office and casually suggested that they sell him their business.
“It used to be a good business,” explained Moyer.
“It still is,” interrupted Perkins. “What my partner means is this. We have our share of trade, but the overhead has become so heavy that we have not been able to make any money lately.”
“That is what I understand,” commented the stranger. “In fact, I was sent here by the Chamber of Commerce. They told me you had been paying money for rat protection. That is about the only reason I want to buy your business. Your business is supposed to be worth about two hundred thousand and your real estate as much more. Suppose I give you half a million and advise you to keep quiet about the sale?”
“You mean carry on the business under the old name?” asked Moyer, looking at the prospective buyer earnestly.
“Something like that.”
The Englishman shook his head.
“Not and remain in this country! They kidnapped my son. No telling what they will do next, if the policies of the firm are changed. Anything that is done we shall be blamed for, no matter who really owns the business.”
“Then, you and your partner take a vacation in Europe. You can afford it. All I am asking for is an exact account of your transactions with these racketeers, so I can have something to work on.”
“May I ask what you want to do with the business?” interrogated the Junior Partner, Perkins.
“Certainly. I intend to use it as one of my experimental laboratories for the study of a mammal, known as the Mus Norvegicus, called, in common English, the brown rat. He is supposed to have originated from the Mus Humiliatus of Central Asia. Now will you gentlemen take the half million?”
The Twelfth Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK™: David H. Keller, M.D. Page 14