by Don Wilcox
“Sure,” said George. He considered. “It’ll look a lot better to the judge and all of us if it doesn’t happen.”
“Exactly,” said Madame Zukor. “That’s why we are depending on you-a man of solid character—to handle this job for us.”
“Well—er—”
“And we know that that secret offer which one of our Venus friends made won’t have any effect whatever on you—three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Huh.”
“This is completely confidential.” Madame Zukor pressed his hand. “One of our wealthy friends was so stirred by my brother’s pleas that he has made this proposition—entirely in secret, you understand.”
“Yes?”
“If Paul Keller should be killed, accidentally or otherwise, while we are attempting to capture him and bring him to justice, a three hundred thousand dollar gift will be made to the person who brings him back dead.”
“Oh?” George almost spilled his tea. “And if he’s brought back alive?”
“No gift.”
“Um . . . I see . . . Curious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed . . . Three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Three hundred thousand . . .” George gulped his tea.
“So I wanted to be sure—very, very sure—that you wouldn’t be influenced in any way by this secret offer. No, I’m sure you won’t be. We can depend on you, Mr. Hurley.”
She squeezed his hand, nodded to him very confidently.
“There, that’s all, Mr. Hurley. If you’ve finished your tea, we’ll go, now . . .”
The following day George went to the space port and spent three hours checking over his sky flivver. Satisfied that everything was in perfect condition, he caught a cab to keep his appointment with Garritt Glasgow.
Glasgow was eventually found at the prison grounds where he was directing the loading of a space cargo boat. As George approached, he heard the savage cries of wingmen.
“Loading them up!” George said to himself. “Packing them off for a trip to the earth. I wonder what the committee would say.”
Glasgow nodded an impersonal greeting to George and went on directing the men who were doing the loading. The wing-men screamed and beat their wings against the bars of their cages. When the crane swung them past some guard or spectator, they would reach out with their claw-like hands as if to gouge someone’s eyes out. No one would doubt, from such pandemonium, that they were mad.
Six cages were loaded onto the ship, ten wingmen to a cage. Among them, George noticed, was the limping little purple-winged female who had been so violently whipped two nights before. And there was a certain big green-winged fellow that the guard had spoken of as “dumb.” The boat had been hired, complete with a crew of three men, and George guessed, from all appearances, that it was about ready for flight.
“The folks at the meeting last night must have come through with good donations,” George ventured.
“They believe in me,” said Glasgow. “You see the advantage of my plan?”
“Not quite.”
“That ship is loaded with explosives as well as wingmen. There are enough bombs to blast the Venus capital building up by the roots.”
“So?”
“So the wingmen will be flown to the earth and released over the head of the Mogo giant. As they fly out they’ll help themselves to the weapons. What they do to the Mogo giant will be purely their own mad business.”
“They’ll do plenty,” said George. “I thought the giant was to be my dish.”
Glasgow said he had thought it over from the long-range view and decided on the wingmen. There was just a chance that in some future year the paths of the earthmen and the Mogo monsters might cross again.
“If that time ever comes,” Glasgow said, “it will be well to be able to say that we earth men never harmed a hair of a giant’s head. The blame will all fall on a group of mad wingmen from Venus.”
It was an ingenious dodge, George thought, and he tried to interpret it generously. But he wondered, what might it do for the relations between the Mogo giants and the planet Venus? He asked George whether this point had been considered.
Glasgow answered with a wink. “When we get a solid grasp on the earth, my boy, we won’t give a damn what happens to Venus.”
Grasp on the earth. There it was again. Whenever George heard that phrase he thought of an octopus trying to wrap its tentacles around the old globe. Well, there was a committee at Banrab. Nothing could go too far wrong as long as the committee survived. And why shouldn’t it survive? Nothing less than a Mogo giant might harm it, and the giant would soon be blown to atoms.
“So the giant is their dish,” George said, as the last cage of wingmen was loaded.
“And Paul Keller is your dish. Yours to bring back for trial, I mean.”
“I understand.”
“My sister talked with you—”
“Yes,” said George. “I can promise you both that I’ll not take advantage of your friend’s offer.”
“But if you should have to kill—in self-defense—or to prevent escape—you understand—”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“Three hundred thousand . . . er . . . have you thought what you’d do with it?”
George frowned. “Well, I suppose I’d donate a part of it to some worthy cause. Something to help the earth re-build.”
“Excellent. The new earth would never forget you. For example, if you gave the money for a home for the new Director of the Earth—whoever it might be . . . mmmm.” Glasgow was looking at the clouds as if seeing bright visions. Then he turned with the air of an executive who held the reins of a new civilization. “You have your orders, Hurley.”
CHAPTER XVII
In the vast thirteen-mile space ship from Mogo, the most important thing in the world was conversation. Gret-O-Gret wanted to talk with his two tiny earth friends. And they, Paul and Katherine Keller, were burning up with human anxiety to converse with him.
“Now he’s beginning to understand . . . No, he’s got us wrong again . . . Don’t hurry him, Paul. Be patient. We mustn’t wear him out . . . For goodness sakes, don’t make him angry at us. He can only learn so fast . . . Let me talk to him awhile, Paul. You’re so—so clumsy.”
Katherine was a veritable dynamo after she had had some food and rest. The conversations had already gone on for hours, and the Mogo giant showed no signs of fatiguing. He was learning much, much faster than Paul had dared hope.
“He won’t get angry,” Paul said. “He knows we’re experimenting under difficulties. He’ll play ball with us, don’t worry.”
Yes, Paul was confident of that. One sure bit of communication had already made the ground beneath their feet as solid as Jupiter. The secret of that exchange was like a warm glow in Paul’s heart, and all of Katherine’s scolding couldn’t chill it.
“You rest a while,” Katherine said. “I’ll carry on.”
And so it went for hours. Gestures. Charts. Pictures. Words! The magic of the spoken word!
An amplifying system had been rigged up so that they no longer had to shout to be heard. Their merest whisper carried into the cavernous brown ears of Gret-O-Gret’s head. And he, in turn, gave back his funny, breathy sounds—soft whispery imitations of their words.
Hours of practice. The giant’s understanding was like a spark leaping into a flame. More hours of practice. The flame was spreading into a whole brainful of fire. Practice, practice, practice.
It was all so exciting that Garritt Glasgow, thought to be safely imprisoned and comfortable with plenty of food and water, was quite forgotten.
From day to night to day again the practice went on, and the two Kellers worked with all the ingenuity they could command.
Eventually, within the hearing of both of them, Gret-O-Gret repeated the promise that Paul was sure he had understood earlier, to his own secret delight.
“I am your servant, Paul Keller. I am your friend and servant.”
“Why, that’s wonderful,” Katherine finally said, a little breathless. “He seems so eager to do something for you.”
“For both of us,” said Paul.
“But especially you. And I was accusing you of bungling things. Well—”
“I want to help you restore your world.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” Katherine said slowly.
It had dawned upon the Kellers some time before that the earth as they had known it had been destroyed. Paul’s fleeting impressions from the hour of landing, together with their daylight view of exploded hillsides, upthrust river beds, and buried towns, had convinced them that Mox-O-Mox had made good his awful threats. Slowly the awfulness of the earth’s tragedy had struck them. When Gret-O-Gret’s vocabulary rose to the occasion, they learned from his own lips what he had seen on his arrival: a planet in utter ruin. Accordingly, they were deeply moved by the friendly promise, “to help you restore your world.”
“Let’s ask him,” Katherine suggested, “to cruise around the world so we can see how serious the situation is.”
Then it was that Garritt Glasgow was remembered.
“What shall I do with the man who came with you?” the giant asked
“Glasgow is an enemy,” Paul breathed into the microphone. “We must be careful. He is dangerous. He kills. He was the one who—”
And thus Paul was able to explain to Gret-O-Gret for the first time that Glasgow, not Gret-O-Gret, was the one who had killed the two other persons on the ship at the time of its arrival at Mogo.
“Then I did not kill?” The relief in the giant’s voice was wonderful to hear, and the breath of his sigh flooded over the Kellers softly. Again, “What shall I do with him?”
The giant reached across to the other shelf, picked up the cage and brought it over to where they stood. He shook it a little in his great fingers, then held it up to the light.
“Wawwf! GONE!”
Gret’s sudden exclamation blew Paul and Katherine off their feet.
“Gone?” Paul yelled. “Where?”
“GONE!”
It was a curious search. There was little that the Kellers could do other than watch. Gret quickly closed the airlocks of his ship and went to work with the special little brush-like instrument he had once used to extricate Glasgow from his clothes.
“The de-louser again,” Paul observed. “A de-snaker might do better.”
“I don’t understand it,” Katherine said. “The screen around Glasgow’s cage has been cut with a ray gun. He’s had help from someone.”
“Oh-oh. So that’s it! By this time he’s telling the earth people fancy tales about our expedition. I’d bet my pistol on that!”
“Save that pistol, Paul. You’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER XVIII
In the days that followed, the Kellers and their Mogo servant searched diligently for the missing prisoner.
They worked on several theories. They searched intensively within walking distance of the ship. They examined the ruins of the nearest towns thinking that the culprit might have found an automobile in working condition and made tracks over the rugged landscape. Most of all, they watched the skies. If any plane or space ship had appeared, the thirteen-mile Mogo boat would have risen to pursue.
Unsuccessfully the search went on. They used the Mogo boat a part of the time, skimming slowly over the scorched and blasted land. They would return, like homing pigeons, to their midcontinent station where Gret-O-Gret had originally unloaded his box of food and supplies. The gleaming white surface of that unopened box became the landmark that they sought at sunset after a day of journeying.
Eventually their earlier eagerness to overtake Garritt Glasgow declined. Katherine guessed that he might have been led off into the scorched wilderness by some crazed person who had somehow escaped the explosions. Paul held to the theory that a plane or space ship might have whisked him away.
But why? Why Glasgow and not the Kellers?
Their curiosity faded as they became much more concerned about the state of the earth as a whole.
“Let me help you set your cities upright,” Gret-O-Gret would say.
His offers were tantalizing. The sad fact was, there were no populations left to occupy the cities, whether upright or upside down. Ruins, ruins, everywhere. Ruins and death.
“Mox-O-Mox should be made to see what he has done,” the giant would whisper when his mood dropped to its lowest point.
“He might be made to see, but he would feel nothing,” Paul declared. “Our plight would impress him no more than a million dead insects.”
“Mox-O-Mox should be punished,” Gret said. “The courts of Mogo would punish him if they knew.”
“Would they?” But Paul shook his head. That would do no good. The damage was already done. Besides, it seemed doubtful whether the courts of Mogo would ever bother to look into the rights of such tiny people. “No, I don’t think they will ever punish Mox-O-Mox. Nature is always on the side of the giants, you know. The little fellow must look out for himself or he’ll get stepped on.”
Gret-O-Gret looked down from his height with a questioning smile. Maybe he thought Paul was being unnecessarily bitter. Gret never stepped on the little fellow.
“Do not be afraid, Paul,” Gret said softly. “I will not step on you.”
They had found an undamaged auto-mobile among the wreckage of a town and had made a sound truck of it. This proved to be the handiest means of surveying the damages along the surface of the earth. They were able to keep pace with Gret-O-Gret as long as he walked slowly, and his ankle-ears were so sensitive that Paul felt completely safe from his step. Occasionally one of the great pyramid-like feet would seem about to descend upon them. But Paul would touch the horn and sometimes Katherine would screech through the loud speaker, “Watch it, Gret!” and that would be sufficient. The mountainous foot would hover motionless overhead until the car had moved out of danger.
The short sections of unbroken highway were like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A long and uninterrupted car ride was impossible. Gret-O-Gret would often scrape the debris off a stretch of road with the edge of his open hand. Swift and effortless. Katherine began to appreciate the meaning of his offer to restore the earth. When they came to places where no trace of pavement was to be found, Gret would simply pick up the car and passengers and carry them on until they asked to be set down again.
“He does it so easy,” Katherine said. “But have you noticed anything strange?”
“You mean his breathing?” Paul asked.
Sometimes Gret would stop, breathing slowly if not painfully, and the survey of the ruined earth would come to a dead stop. Though the giant would be conversing pleasantly a few minutes later, Paul began to fear that the earth’s climate did not agree with him.
“It might be the atmosphere,” Katherine suggested. “The air is thinner up around his head. A mile of elevation makes a lot of difference.”
This seemed a reasonable guess. Paul noticed that after such moments of sickness Gret would come down to the surface and rest on his elbows, ostensibly to examine some bit of the earth’s ruins for himself. Then he would breathe more easily.
“Yes, the heavier air along the surface is drawing him down,” Paul concluded.
“I think he likes to come down and play with our toys,” Katherine observed.
They stopped their car when they came to an underpass that had been clogged with rocks. There were railroad tracks overhead, and the railway viaduct had been tilted. Just to amuse Gret, they climbed up to the tracks and released a freight car from the end of a half-buried train. Gret watched the car coast down across
the river. He smiled down at the sight. Then, before the car could run off the broken track he reached down and carefully tilted the whole viaduct the other way. The car came coasting back toward Paul and Katherine, and they made tracks down the embankment. But as usual, the giant played safe. He lifted the car off the tracks before it could tumble down, set it in a mud puddle, and motioned to his playmates to come on—they were holding up the party.
“Whimsical, isn’t he?” Katherine observed. “I don’t think he feels very strongly about rebuilding all this mess. It’s just play to him.”
“It would take thousands of giants, working day and night the rest of their lives, to rebuild this continent,” Paul commented philosophically. “When you stop to consider, our own race of men, working in organized groups, have been giants themselves, in a sense. When you stop to realize what they’ve accomplished in this land—”
“And finally it all comes to this—in the wink of an eye.”
“It comes to this,” Paul echoed.
“If they came to life, would they blame the Paul Keller expedition for all this ruin?” Katherine could get a bad case of the glooms easily during these blue days. Paul tried to console here.
“The wonder is,” he said, “that something like this never happened to the earth before. The universe must contain innumerable forces of destruction as deadly as Mox-O-Mox’s evil whims. It’s a matter of chance where they’ll strike.”
“Do you think Gret has any serious thought of bringing Mox to justice?”
“I wonder.”
Their philosophies were interrupted by an intruder from the skies.
Gret-O-Gret stood tense, the low hum of the ship having put him on his guard. His ankle-ears helped him find the exact direction of any approaching sky planes before it came in sight. He was already pointing toward it when the Kellers caught the first hint of its approach.
“Friend, I hope,” Paul said. “It’s coming straight toward Gret’s head.”
Gret’s form towering up into the clouds, would be an easy target if it were an enemy, Katherine observed. Paul nodded. He was recalling that the first sight of a Mogo giant was a shock to anyone. Then—