The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  “It’s a bit different, now,” interposed “Tiger,” with an evil smile, still leading his partner along. “Since then I’ve had the—ah—the extreme happiness to become engaged to your daughter, Catherine. New thoughts have entered my mind. I’ve experienced a—a—”

  “You quitter!” burst out Flint. “No, by God! you aren’t going to put this thing over on me. I’ll have no quitter for my son-in-law! Wally, I’m astonished at you. Astonished and disappointed. You’re not yourself, this morning. That eighty-six thousand you dropped last night, has shaken your heart. Come, come, pull together! Where’s your nerve, man? Where’s your nerve?”

  Waldron answered nothing. In silence the partners watched the press of traffic, each busy with his own thoughts, Waldron waiting for Flint to reopen fire on him, and the Billionaire decided to say no more till his associate should make some move. Thus the limousine reached the Staten Island ferry, that glorious monument of municipal ownership wrecked by Tammany grafting. In silence they smoked while the car rolled down the incline and out onto the huge ferry boat. Then, as the crowded craft got under way, a minute later, both men left the car and strolled to the rail to watch the glittering sparkle of the sunlight on the harbor; the teeming commerce of the port; the creeping liners and busy tugs; the towering figure of Liberty, her flameless torch held far aloft in mockery.

  Suddenly Waldron spoke.

  “You can’t do it, I tell you!” said he, waving an eloquent hand toward the sky. “It’s too big, the air is, as I said before. Too damned big! Own coal and copper, if you will, and steel and ships, here; own those buildings back there,” with a gesture at the frowning line of skyscrapers buttressing Manhattan, “but don’t buck the impossible! And incidentally, Flint, don’t misunderstand me, either. When I asked you if we ought to try it, I merely meant, would it be safe? The world, Flint, is a dangerous toy to play with, too hard. The people are perilous baubles, if you step on their corns a bit too often or too heavily. Every Caesar has a Brutus waiting for him somewhere, with a club.

  “Once let the unwashed get an idea into their low brows, and you can’t tell where it may lead them. Even a rat fights, in its last corner. These human rats of ours have been getting a bit nasty of late. True, they swallowed the Limited Franchise Bill, three years ago, with only a little futile protest, so that now we’ve got them politically hamstrung. True, there’s the Dick Military Bill, recently enlarged and perfected, so they can’t move a hand without falling into treason and court-martial. True again, they’ve stood for the Censorship and the National Mounted Police—the Grays—all in the last year. But how much more will they stand, eh? You close your hand on their windpipes, and by God! something may happen even yet, after all!”

  Flint snapped his fingers with contempt.

  “Machine guns!” was all he said.

  “Yes, of course,” answered Waldron. “But there may be life in the old beast yet. They may yet kick the apple cart over—and us with it. You never can tell. And those infernal Socialists, always at it, night and day, never letting up, flinging firebrands into the powder magazine! Sometime there’s going to be one hell of a bang, Flint! And when it comes, suave qui peut! So go slow, old man—go damned slow, that’s all I’ve got to say!”

  “On the contrary,” said Flint, blinking in the golden spring sunshine as he peered out over the swashing brine at a raucous knot of gulls, “on the contrary, Wally, I’m going to push it as fast as the Lord will let me. You can come in, or not, as you see fit—but remember this, no quitter ever gets a daughter of mine! And another thing; we’re in the year 1921, now, not 1910 or 1915. Developments, political and otherwise, have moved swiftly, these few years past. Then, there might have been trouble. To-day, there can’t be. We’ve got things cinched too tight for that!

  “Ten years ago, they might have had our blood, the people might, or given us a hemp-tea party in Wall Street. today, all’s safe. Come, be a man and grip your courage! We can put the initial stages through in absolute secrecy—and then, once we get our clutch on the world’s breath, what have we to fear?”

  “Go slow, Flint!”

  “Nonsense! Oxygen is life itself. There’s no substitute. Vitiate the air by removing even 10 per cent. of it, and the world will lick our boots for a chance to breathe! Everybody’s got to have oxygen, all the way from kings and emperors down to the toiling cattle, the Henry Dubbs, as I believe they’re commonly called in vulgar speech. Shut off the air, and ‘the captains and the kings’ will run to heel like the rabble itself. Run to heel, and pay for the privilege of doing it! We’ve got the universities, press, churches, laws, judges, army and navy and everything already in our hands. We’ll be secure enough, no fear!”

  “Shhhhh!” And Waldron nudged the Billionaire with his elbow.

  In his excitement, Flint had permitted his voice to rise, a little. Not far from him, leaning on the rail, a stockily built young fellow in overalls, a cap pulled down firmly over his well-shaped head, was apparently watching the gulls and the passing boats, with eyes no less blue than the bay itself; eyes no less glinting than the sunlight on the waves. He seemed to be paying no heed to anything but what lay before him. But “Tiger” Waldron, possessed of something of the instinct of the beast whose name he bore, subconsciously sensed a peril in his nearness. The man’s ear—if unusually quick—might, just might possibly have caught a word or two meant for no interloper. And at that thought, Waldron once more nudged his partner.

  “Shhh!” he repeated, “Enough. We can finish this, in the limousine.”

  Flint looked at him a moment, in silence, then nodded.

  “Right you are,” said he. And both men climbed back into the closed car.

  “You never can tell what ears are primed for news,” said Waldron. “Better take no chances.”

  “Before long, we can throw away all subterfuge,” the Billionaire replied as he shut the door. “But for now, well, you’re correct. Once our grasp tightens on the windpipe of the world, we’re safe. From our office in Wall Street you and I can play the keys of the world-machine as an organist would finger his instrument. But there must be no leak; no publicity; no suspicion aroused. We’ll play our music pianissimo, Wally, with rare accompaniments to the tune of ‘great public utility, benefit to the public health,’ and all that—the same old game, only on a vastly larger scale.

  “Every modern composer in the field of Big Business knows that score and has played it many times. We will play it on a monstrous pipe organ, with the world’s lungs for bellows and the world’s breath to vibrate our reeds—and all paying tribute, night and day, year after year, all over the world, Wally, all over the world!

  “God! What power shall be ours! What infinite power, such as, since time began, never yet lay in mortal hands! We shall be as gods, Waldron, you and I—and between us, we shall bring the human race wallowing to our feet in helpless bondage, in supreme abandon!”

  The ferry boat, nearing the Staten Island landing, slowed its ponderous screws. The chauffeur flung away his cigarette, drew on his gauntlets and accelerated his engine. Forward the human drove began to press, under the long slave-driven habit of haste, of eagerness to do the masters’ bidding.

  The young mechanic by the rail—he of the overalls and keen blue eyes—turned toward the bows, picked up a canvas bag of tools and stood there waiting with the rest.

  For a moment his glance rested on the limousine and the two half-seen figures within. As it did so, a wanton breeze from off the Island flapped back the lapel of his jumper. In that brief instant one might have seen a button pinned upon his blue flannel shirt—clasped hands, surrounded by the legend: “Workers of the World, Unite!”

  But neither of the plutocrats observed this; nor, had they seen, would they have understood.

  And whether the sturdy toiler had overheard aught of their infernal conspiring—or, having heard it, grasped its dire and criminal significance—who, who in all this weary and toil-burdened world, could say?

&nb
sp; CHAPTER V.

  IN THE LABORATORY.

  Half an hour’s run down Staten Island, along smooth roads lined with sleepy little towns and through sparse woods beyond which sparkled the shining waters of the harbor, brought the two plutocrats to the quiet settlement of Oakwood Heights.

  Now the blasé chauffeur swung the car sharply to the left, past the aviation field, and so came to the wide-scattered settlement—almost a colony—which, hidden behind high, barb-wire-topped fences, carried on the many and complex activities of the partners’ experiment station. Here were the several laboratories where new products were evolved and old ones refined, for Flint’s and Waldron’s greater profit. Here stood a complete electric power plant, for lighting and heating the works, as well as for current to use in the retorts and many powerful machines of the testing works.

  Here, again, were broad proving grounds, for fuel and explosives; and, at one side, stood a low, skylighted group of brick buildings, known as the electro-chemical station. Dormitories and boarding-houses for the small army of employees occupied the eastern end of the enclosure, nearest the sea. Over all, high chimney stacks and the aerials of a mighty wireless plant dominated the entire works. A private railroad spur pierced the western side of the enclosure, for food and coal supplies, as well as for the handling of the numerous imports and exports of this wonderfully complete feudal domain. As the colony lay there basking in the sunshine of early spring, under its drifting streamers of smoke, it seemed an ideal picture of peaceful activities. Here a locomotive puffed, shunting cars; there, a steam-jet flung its plumes of snowy vapor into air; yonder, a steam hammer thundered on a massive anvil. And forges rang, and through open windows hummed sounds of industry.

  And yet, not one of all those sounds but echoed more bitter slavery for men. Not one of all those many activities but boded ill to humanity. For the whole plan and purpose of the place was the devising of still wider forms of human exploitation and enslavement. Its every motive was to serve the greed of Flint and Waldron. Outwardly honest and industrious, it inwardly loomed sinister and terrible, a type and symbol of its masters’ swiftly growing power. Such, in its essence, was the great experiment station of these two men who lusted for dominion over the whole world.

  As the long, glittering car drew up at the main gate of the enclosure, a sharp-eyed watchman peered through a sliding wicket therein. Satisfied by his inspection, he withdrew; and at once the big gate rolled back, smoothly actuated by electricity. The car purred onward, into the enclosure. When the gate had closed noiselessly behind it, the chauffeur ran it down a splendidly paved roadway, swung to the right, past the machine shops, and drew it to a stand in front of the administration building.

  Flint and his partner alighted, and stood for a moment surveying the scene with satisfaction. Then Flint turned to the chauffeur.

  “Put the car in the garage,” he directed. “We may not want it till afternoon.”

  The blasé one touched his cap and nodded, in obedience. Then, as the car withdrew, the partners ascended the broad steps.

  “Good chap, that Herrick,” commented Waldron, casting a glance at the retreating chauffeur. “Quick-witted, and mum. Give me a man who knows how to mind and keep still about it, every time!”

  “Right,” assented Flint. “Obedience is the first of all virtues, and the second is silence. Well, it looks to me as though we had the whole world coming our way, now, along that very same path of virtue. Once we get this air proposition really to working, the world will obey. It will have to! And as for silence, we can manage that, too. The mere turn of a valve, and—!”

  Waldron smiled grimly, as though in derision of what he seemed to think his partner’s chimerical hopes, but made no answer. Together they entered the administration building. Five minutes later, Herzog, their servile experimenter, stood bowing and cringing before them.

  “Got it, Herzog?” demanded Flint, while Waldron lighted still another of those costly cigars—each one worth a good mechanic’s daily wage.

  “Yes, sir, I believe so, sir,” the scientist replied, depreciatingly. “That is, at least, on a small scale. Two weeks was the time you allowed me, sir, but—”

  “I know. You’ve done it in eleven days,” interrupted, the Billionaire. “Very well. I knew you could. You’ll lose nothing by it. So no more of that. Show us what you’ve done. Everything all ready?”

  “Quite ready, sir,” the other answered. “If you’ll be so good as to step into the electro-chemical building?”

  Flint very graciously signified his willingness thus to condescend; and without delay, accompanied by the still incredulous Waldron, and followed by Herzog, he passed out of the administration building, through a covered passage and into the electro-chemical works.

  A variety of strange odors and stranger sounds filled this large brick structure, windowless on every side and lighted only by broad skylights of milky wire-glass—this arrangement being due to the extreme secrecy of many processes here going forward. The partners had no intention that any spying eyes should ever so much as glimpse the work in this department; work involving foods, fuels, power, lighting, almost the entire range of the vast network of exploiting media they had already flung over a tired world.

  “This way, gentlemen,” ventured Herzog, pointing toward a metal door at the left of the main room. He unlocked this, which was guarded by a combination lock, like that of a bank vault, and waited for them to enter; then closed it after them, and made quite sure the metal door was fast.

  A peculiar, pungent smell greeted the partners’ nostrils as they glanced about the inner laboratory. At one side an electric furnace was glowing with graphite crucibles subjected to terrific heat. On the other a dynamo was humming. Before them a broad, tiled bench held a strange assortment of test tubes, retorts and complex apparatus of glass and gleaming metal. The whole was lighted by a strong white light from above, through the milk-hued glass—one of Herzog’s own inventions, by the way; a wonderful, light-intensifying glass, which would bend but not break; an invention which, had he himself profited by it, would have brought him millions, but which the partners had exploited without ever having given him a single penny above his very moderate salary.

  “Is that it?” demanded Flint, a glitter lighting up his morphia-contracted pupils. He jerked his thumb at a complicated nexus of tubes, brass cylinders, coiled wires and glistening retorts which stood at one end of the broad work-bench.

  “That is it, sir,” answered Herzog, apologetically, while “Tiger” Waldron’s hard face hardened even more. “Only an experimental model, you understand, sir, but—”

  “It gets results?” queried Flint sharply. “It produces oxygen and nitrogen on a scale that indicates success, with adequate apparatus?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so, sir. No doubt about it; none whatever.”

  “Good!” exclaimed the Billionaire. “Now show us!”

  “With pleasure, sir. But first, let me explain, a little.”

  “Well, what?” demanded Flint. His partner, meanwhile, had drawn near the apparatus, and was studying it with a most intense concentration. Plain to see, beneath this man’s foppish exterior and affected cynicism, dwelt powerful purposes and keen intelligence.

  “Explain what?” repeated the Billionaire. “As far as details go, I’m not interested. All I want is results. Go ahead, Herzog; start your machine and let me see what it can do.”

  “I will, sir,” acceded the scientist. “But first, with your permission, I’ll point out a few of its main features, and—”

  “Damn the main features!” cried Flint. “Get busy with the demonstration!”

  “Hold on, hold on,” now interrupted Waldron. “Let him discourse, if he wants to. Ever know a scientist who wasn’t primed to the muzzle with expositions? Here, Herzog,” he added, turning to the inventor, “I’ll listen, if nobody else will.”

  Undecided, Herzog smiled nervously. Even Flint had to laugh at his indecision.

  “All rig
ht, go on,” said the Billionaire. “Only for God’s sake, make it brief!”

  Herzog, thus adjured, cleared his throat and blinked uneasily.

  “Oxygen,” he said. “Yes, I can produce it quickly, easily and in large quantities. As a gas, or as a liquid, which can be shipped to any desired point and there transformed into gaseous form. Liquid air can also be produced by this same machine, for refrigerating purposes. You understand, of course, that when liquid air evaporates, it is only the nitrogen that goes back into the atmosphere at 313 degrees below zero. The residue is pure liquid oxygen. In other words, this apparatus will make money as a liquid air plant, and furnish you oxygen as a by-product.

  “It will also turn out nitrogen, for fertilizing purposes. The income from a full-sized machine, on this pattern, from all three sources, should be very large indeed.”

  “Good,” put in Waldron. “And liquid air, for example, would cost how much to produce?”

  “With power-cost at half a cent per H.P. hour, about $2.50 a ton. The oxygen by-product alone will more than pay for that, in purifying and cooling buildings, or used to promote combustion in locomotives and other steam engines. The liquid air itself can be used as a motive power for a certain type of expansion engine, or—”

  “There, there, that’s enough!” interposed Flint, brusquely. “We don’t need any of your advice or suggestions, Herzog. As far as the disposal of the product is concerned, we can take care of that. All we want from you is the assurance that that product can be obtained, easily and cheaply, and in unlimited quantities. Is that the case?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “All right. And can liquid oxygen be easily transported any considerable distance?”