“Quite,” Lady Asquith affirmed. “I’d rather be struck dead than tend another of these wretched American productions. May the fates deliver me.”
At that very moment there was a deafening roar, as all the world seemed to explode before them. The night suddenly burned with a sullen light, and the pavement beneath their feet shuddered. In the trembling silence that followed, Lady Asquith, under the terrifying impression that the fates were doing their best to oblige her in her wish to be separated from the American theatre, emitted a small cry and promptly fell into a swoon at her husband’s feet. Lord Asquith gazed down at his fallen lady with sad perplexity.
“Oh, dear!” he said. Then he shrugged. “But I suppose you really did bring it on yourself, old girl.” Then suddenly struck with a horrifying thought, he glanced quickly in the direction of the monument in the square. He started back with a cough of horror.
“Lord above!” he cried.
Across the square, though the night elsewhere was starkly clear, the monument had become engulfed in heavy mist. Even as Lord Asquith watched, the fog seemed to disappear, but in a most peculiar manner. It was as though the vapors were being absorbed into the marble of the monument itself. And then, staggeringly, the entire structure began almost imperceptibly to rise.
“Gad!” his lordship gasped. “The old bloater’s setting sail!” He removed his glasses and wiped them quickly. “And taking his monument with him! Coo!” He started sharply as a hand fell to his arm.
“Hallo!”
He whirled about to find a pallideyed, slightly vaporish little man staring down at Lady Asquith with baffled concern.
“She just resting?” he inquired thickly, “or did somebody hit her?”
His lordship glanced clown at his wife. “She’s been struck dead by the fates,” he explained pleasantly. “She rather asked for it, you know.”
The small man gazed on Lord Asquith with beaming admiration. “That’s what I like about you English,” he said. “You cover your emotions so well. How do you do it?”
But Lord Asquith didn’t answer. Suddenly he was too busy giving vent to an emotion that wasn’t even thinly veiled, let alone covered. As he caught sight of the monument pulling away from the earth and bobbing upward like a cork in water, he reached to the street lamp for support.
“Look at that thing leap about!” he gasped.
The little man looked and joined his lordship at the lamp.
“Gord!” he groaned, closing his eyes tightly. “I’ve had a snootfull in my day, but never anything like this!”
BY THIS TIME, others along the street had begun to recover sufficiently from the shock of the explosion to notice that something terribly strange was going on in the vicinity of the Whittle monument. A chorused cry of stunned surprise moved, in chain reaction, along the street and rose to a babble of hysteria.
In this rising tide of excitement, a taxi driver, unaware that he had gotten himself caught in anything more than an after theatre jam, directed his vehicle into the square, proceeded to the center, then glanced out the window to signal for a turn around the monument. He glanced, looked away, then glanced again. He shoved the whole upper portion of his body out the window and stared with blinking incredulity at the rising monument. He forgot completely about the taxi and the lady passenger in the back.
A greater scream rose through the crowd as the taxi toured complacently across the square, over the sidewalk, and lodged itself crashingly in the aquarium fitted window of a seafood restaurant. The driver remained oblivious to all but the uprooted monument, even as the windshield gave way before a deluge of salt water and flopping fish. Not so, however, his passenger who suddenly found herself staring nose to nose with a gimlet-eyed mackerel, who was peering up at her rather evilly from inside the front of her dress.
With a scream that echoed to the very heavens, the lady hurled back the door of the taxi and leaped to the sidewalk. There, before an enchanted group of onlookers, she began to clutch at herself with all the mad frenzy of a native dancer engaged in ceremonial rites dedicated to the god of human fertility. Reaching low within her dress, she withdrew the floundering fish and hurled it from her with a vengeance.
The fish looped high through the air and landed neatly on the thin chest of the still unconscious Lady Asquith. Her ladyship, however, had apparently been lying at her husband’s feet, just waiting for a fish to take to her bosom. No sooner did the mackerel arrive, than she made a small whimpering sound and sat up. The fish dropped soggily to her lap. Her ladyship looked down at the fish, and it in turn looked up at her. Then with an exchange of horrified shudders, fish and lady simultaneously flopped over to their sides and lay inert.
Through the babbling crowd, two officers arrived on the scene in a manner of great haste. Running to the front of the crowd, they stopped; observed the rising monument with a start, and exchanged looks of complete confusion.
“Lord a’mighty!” the first cop exclaimed. “The thing’s gone and pulled itself up by the roots!”
“I can’t look,” the second cop said, turning away. “It fair makes my skin crawl!”
“What can we do? We ought to take steps.”
“There’s a good idea,” the second cop said fervently. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s run.”
“In front of all these people?”
“We could pretend we were after somebody, and just happened by this way.”
The first cop nodded. “That’s what we’ll do! Draw your gun!”
Assuming expressions of great heroism, the two drew their pistols and brandished them frantically over their heads.
“Stop thief!” they yelled in chorus, and ran frantically through the crowd and away into the night.
AND SO, the sensational affair of the Whittle monument found its beginnings. An hour later, the news had traveled to the far corners of the earth. Teletypes rattled, and cables hummed. The nation’s thinkers quitted their beds in the early hours of the morning to apprise the land of their thoughts on the matter.
The morning paper, which Gerald brought back to the old house from a nearby village, presented a fair cross section of world opinion on the incident. Only Russia had no thoughts to vouchsafe on the question of buoyant monuments.
“There is more to this matter than the mere loss of a valued landmark,” Gerald read aloud. “This may be the insult direct to every red blooded American, the final jab at his pride and sense of independence. For a long time our enemies have done everything possible to discredit our American heroes, and it would appear now that they are even willing to go to the extreme of removing their monuments. That they have chosen to employ a hideous secret weapon to accomplish this monstrous end, clearly indicates an intention to spread fear and panic throughout the nation. When the UN meets tomorrow...”
“You see?” Marc said unhappily. “You see? This thing could easily touch off a war. You fools!”
Gerald’s smile, as he put down the paper, was mindful of an actor reading his notices after a successful opening night.
“We’ve done it at last!” he sighed.
“I always knew we would,” Cecil said complacently. “Wait ’til tonight.”
Ecstatically the two got up and left, intent on the preparations for the coming disaster.
“Those two haven’t got a decent impulse to split between them,” Toffee said.
“And I invented this thing!” Marc said wretchedly. “I’m as guilty as if I were bombing the city myself. I wish I were dead!”
“You will be,” Toffee said, “if something doesn’t happen. I heard them talking last night. They’ve decided not to give you any food today. After they’ve fired the bomb, they’re going to let you float off into space with everything else.” She closed her eyes against the thought. “We’ve got to get out of here and stop this thing.” She looked at Marc imploringly. “Can’t you go to sleep?”
“They’ve been giving me all those powders.”
“If only that supernatural serpen
t would just show himself,” Toffee said. “I’m sure we could talk George into something if we just had the chance and enough time.”
After that they fell silent, lost in a mood of black desolation. Outside the sky failed to produce the full promise of day; the grey dawn lingered and became a dark storm color. Gerald left his work long enough to throw the levers that closed the metal coverings over the turrets. A moment later rain could be heard splattering against them. The tangled shadows of the fantastic equipment grew darker and more formidable under the glare of the overhead worklights. Toffee looked at Marc, and for the first time the dullness of true despair was in her green eyes.
“We’ve got to get out of here, Marc,” she said. “We’ve got to!”
“But how?”
“We could try to get our chains loose. Our fingers are free, at least. If we moved close enough together... We’ve got to try.”
Marc glanced without hope at the tangles of chain that imprisoned them. “I suppose so,” he murmured. Slowly, careful lest he upset himself, he began working his chair toward Toffee. Slowly he inched forward.
IT WAS nearly a half an hour before they were close enough. Marc strained his hand forward and began fumbling with the chains at Toffee’s wrists. It was difficult work, but he kept at it. At the end of several minutes, however, his hands were stiff with pain, and he had to rest.
“I can’t even see what I’m doing,” he said.
“Let me try loosening yours while you rest,” Toffee said with determination. “We’ll take turns.”
The hours wore on without result. There was no interruption from the Blemishes, however. The brothers were far too absorbed in their preparations for destruction to pay any attention to their captives. They did not bring food.
“I’m beginning to feel hungry.” Marc said.
“This is no time to think of your stomach,” Toffee said.
“It’s not my stomach,” Marc said. “I just hope I don’t start floating away from you. It could happen, you know.” He glanced at her chains. “Do you feel any slack around your wrists at all?”
“Not yet,” Toffee said. “Keep trying.”
The rain outside continued with a steady monotony and grew louder. It was impossible to judge the passage of time. Hours dragged by, enough, it seemed, to round out several days. Toffee and Marc continued their efforts with the chains, but with a growing sense of futility.
“It’s no use,” Marc said. “My fingers are raw.”
“We’ve got to keep trying,” Toffee said.
Then suddenly they both were quiet as the sound of nearby yawning interrupted the stillness. It had the thoughtless, indolent tone of George about it. They turned expectant eyes toward the scaffolding.
Slowly, George faded into view, materializing himself with slow luxury. He yawned a second time and stretched his arms above his head. Then he glanced in their direction and waved with airy insolence.
“That’s a clubby picture you two make,” he commented. “Spending your last hours in romantic rapture.”
“Louse!” Toffee said. “I’d like to see you spend yours in intolerable agony.”
“How can you bear me such ill will?” George asked innocently. “Didn’t I let you loose last night?”
“Stop lolling around,” Toffee said, “and come down here.”
“Sure,” George said, and drifted blithely down to the floor. “Something on your mind?”
“Yes,” Toffee said. “Murder!”
“George!” Marc said. “You’ve got to help us. Regardless of your personal feelings ... or lack of them ... you can’t...”
George shrugged with great indifference. “What difference does it make to me if they blow up the city?” he asked. “The High Council will be recalling me at any moment now. Let the city go or stay, I won’t be around to see it.”
“How do you kill a ghost?” Toffee murmured.
MARC GLANCED in the direction of the Blemishes. It was evident that their labors were nearly at an end. The rain was beating in a steady roar, high on the roof above them. There couldn’t be too much time left. He turned decisively toward George.
“George!” he said. “I’ll make you a proposition. What you want is to get rid of me forever, isn’t it? So you can stay on earth?”
“That’s the idea,” George admitted.
“Then listen to me,” Marc said, his voice level. “You have no special liking for Cecil and Gerald, so it shouldn’t matter to you if they get hurt.” He cleared his throat. “If you’ll just turn me loose and give me a chance to stop them, I’ll let you send me off in the catapult.”
“Marc!” Toffee cried. She turned to George. “Don’t listen to...”
“Whether I win or lose, George,” Marc said.
“You can’t!” Toffee cried. “That’s suicide!”
“Not exactly,” Marc said. “If he doesn’t finish me off, they will.” He turned back to George. “You’ll be sure of getting rid of me. And the city will be saved.”
“Well,” George hesitated. “I don’t know...”
“Hurry,” Marc said. “You’ve got to do it. They’re loading the bomb right now. This is your chance to do something decent for once.”
George closed his eyes thoughtfully and rocked back on his heels. There was a moment of tense silence as he swayed forward. “Okay!” he said. “It’s a deal. Not that I have any particular feeling one way or another about this city of yours. Actually, I’m only doing it as a personal favor to you. After all, I can understand why you don’t want to move on to the next world to make room for someone else. It takes time to get adjusted to the idea that...”
“Stop orating,” Toffee put in harshly. “If you’re going to let us loose, you ghoul, then do it.”
“Hurry, George!” Marc said.
Happily George went about the business of releasing first Marc, and then Toffee.
“Now don’t try any funny stuff,” he said to Marc. “Remember you made a bargain.”
“I won’t,” Marc promised gravely.
“Good!” George said. “I’ve been dying to use that catapult anyway.” He chuckled softly. “You’ll die when I do. Isn’t that funny?”
“Screaming,” Toffee said, and followed Marc as he moved swiftly into the shadows.
They crept quietly forward to a position behind an enormous dynamo. Marc stopped and peered around. A few yards away, the Blemishes toiled with the enormous bomb, adjusting it to the catapult, getting it ready to be fired. They paused briefly in their activities.
“Is it time yet?” Gerald asked excitedly.
Cecil consulted his watch. “A quarter after eight,” he said. “Just fifteen minutes to go.”
“I can’t wait,” Gerald said.
Toffee moved closer to Marc and put her hand on his arm.
“You aren’t really going through with that deal, are you?” she asked. “With George, I mean?”
“I don’t see how I can avoid it,” Marc said. He nodded over his shoulder toward George, who was watching them from a close distance. “He isn’t letting me out of his sight for a second. I’m so weak now from lack of sleep and food, I may not even be able to handle those two out there. Then too, if it weren’t for George, we’d still be helpless.”
“There must be some way out of all this,” Toffee said miserably.
MARC TURNED to her for a moment, his eyes clinging worriedly to hers. “I only hate doing this to you,” he said. “I know you’ll go when I do, and I can’t really believe you aren’t completely real any more. Sometimes, I feel that I’ve known you for years and years.”
“You have,” Toffee said softly. “You have.” Then, boosting herself to the tips of her toes, she reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “It’s all right. Do what you have to. I’ll help if I can.”
“I’m sorry,” Marc said.
They waited a bit longer. Marc glanced around for a weapon and found the length of pipe Toffee had given him the night before. He picked it
up and moved cautiously to the edge of the dynamo. The rain sounded ragingly against the metal coverings over the turrets. He watched the demented brothers until their backs were turned toward him, then sprang forward.
The moments that followed were covered with noisy confusion. At Marc’s first movement, the brothers left their work with a cry of dismay. Cecil whirled about, a heavy wrench in his hand. He raised it menacingly and Marc ran toward him. Toffee ran toward Gerald, but her value as a combatant was negligible. Gerald quickly shoved her aside and, as she fell to the floor, ran to the aid of his brother. It was just as Marc raised the pipe over Cecil’s head that Gerald, in a headlong dash, butted him squarely and brutally in the pit of the stomach and sent him doubling forward in a convulsion of agony. Cecil was quick to seize the opportunity to use his wrench. He swung it upward and brought it down with savage strength. But the blow was inaccurate. It missed Marc’s head and crashed dully into his shoulder. With a cry of pain, Marc twisted to one side and fell to the floor. He lay inert as though the blow had paralyzed him.
Toffee, from her position, had a jumbled impression of Gerald running in another direction, toward a table upon which lay two guns. He was going to kill Marc! She jumped quickly to her feet and ran unknowingly to the switch panel on the wall. Something had to be done! She began pulling switches with frenzied swiftness. It was as her hand pressed frantically on the fourth one, that everything was suddenly plunged into blackness. For a moment she leaned against the panel, weak with relief.
There was stark silence in the old house for a brief moment, and then the darkness was filled with sound; curses, a dull dragging, the clang of equipment being tumbled over. Toffee waited breathlessly, then moved forward to the place where Marc had fallen. She felt in the darkness for him, but he wasn’t there.
“Marc!” she called.
But her voice was drowned out by the sudden loud rumblings of machinery. Then a great blast of cold air swept through the building, and Toffee felt a dampness on her face. She turned and looked upward. The turret at the top of the large catapult had been opened! Even as she looked, a flash of lightning squirmed through the sky and illuminated the entire building. Toffee caught a glimpse of George, lifting Marc into the cartridge on the catapult.
The Complete Adventures of Toffee Page 50