The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  Russ chuckled and put the machine back on the table. He gestured toward it.

  "It maintains a tiny field similar to our television field," he explained. "But it's modified along a special derivation with a magnetic result. It can follow and find the original mass of any metallic substance it may contain."

  "Clever," commented Greg.

  Russ lit his pipe, puffed comfortably. "We needed something like that."

  The red light on the board snapped on and blinked. Russ reached out and slammed home the lever, twirled dials. It was only another passenger ship. They relaxed, but not too much.

  I WONDER what he's up to," said Russ.

  Stutsman's car had stopped in the dock section of New York. Crumbling, rotting piers and old tumbledown warehouses, deserted and unused since the last ship sailed the ocean before giving way to air commerce, loomed darkly, like grim ghosts, in the darkness.

  Stutsman had gotten out of the car and said: "Wait here."

  "Yes, sir," said the voice of the driver.

  Stutsman strode away, down a dark street. The televisor kept pace with him and on the screen he could be seen as a darker shape moving among the shadows of that old, almost forgotten section of the Solar System's greatest city.

  Another shadow detached itself from the darkness of the street, shuffled toward Stutsman.

  "Sir," said a whining voice, "I haven't eaten..."

  There was a swift movement as Stutsman's stick lashed out, a thud as it connected with the second shadow's head. The shadow crumpled on the pavement. Stutsman strode on.

  Greg sucked in his breath. "He isn't very sociable tonight."

  Stutsman ducked into an alley where even deeper darkness lay. Russ, with a delicate adjustment, slid the televisor along, closer to Stutsman, determined not to lose sight of him for an instant.

  The man suddenly turned into a doorway so black that nothing could be seen. Sounds of sharp, impatient rappings came out of the screen as Stutsman struck the door with his stick.

  Brilliant illumination sprang out over the doorway, but Stutsman seemed not to see it, went on knocking. The colors on the screen were peculiarly distorted.

  "Ultra-violet," grunted Greg. "Whoever he's calling on wants to have a good look before letting anybody in."

  The door creaked open and a shaft of normal light spewed out into the street, turning its murkiness to pallid yellow.

  Stutsman stepped inside.

  The man at the door jerked his head. "Back room," he said.

  * * *

  The televisor slid through the door into the lighted room behind Stutsman. Dust lay thick on the woodwork and floors. Patches of plaster had broken away. Furrows zig-zagged across the floor, marking the path of heavy boxes or furniture which had been pushed along in utter disdain of the flooring. Cheap wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls, streaked with water from some broken pipe.

  But the back room was a startling contrast to the first. Rich, comfortable furniture filled it. The floor was covered with a steel-cloth rug and steel-cloth hangings, colorfully painted, hid the walls.

  A man sat under a lamp, reading a newspaper. He rose to his feet, like the sudden uncoiling of springs.

  Russ gasped. That face was one of the best known faces in the entire Solar System. A ratlike face, with cruel cunning printed on it that had been on front pages and TV screens often, but never for pay.

  "Scorio!" whispered Russ.

  Greg nodded and his lips were drawn tight.

  "Stutsman," said Scorio, surprised. "You're the last person in the world I was expecting. Come in. Have a chair. Make yourself comfortable."

  Stutsman snorted. "This isn't a social call."

  "I didn't figure it was," replied, the gangster, "but sit down anyway."

  Gingerly Stutsman sat down on the edge of a chair, hunched forward. Scorio resumed his seat and waited.

  "I have a job for you," Stutsman announced bluntly.

  "Fine. It isn't often you have one for me. Three-four years ago, wasn't it?"

  "We may be watched," warned Stutsman.

  The mobster started from his chair, his eyes darting about the room.

  Stutsman grunted disgustedly. "If we're watched, there isn't anything we can do about it."

  "We can't, huh?" snarled the gangster. "Why not?"

  "Because the watcher is on the West Coast. We can't reach him. If he's watching, he can see every move we make, hear every word we say."

  "Who is it?"

  "GREG Manning or Russ Page," said Stutsman. "You've heard of them?"

  "Sure. I heard of them."

  "They have a new kind of television," said Stutsman. "They can see and hear everything that's happening on Earth, perhaps in all the Solar System. But I don't think they're watching us now. Craven has a machine that can detect their televisor. It registers certain field effects they use. They weren't watching when I left Craven's laboratory just a few minutes ago. They may have picked me up since, but I don't think so."

  "So Craven has made a detector," said Greg calmly. "He can tell when we're watching now."

  "He's a clever cuss," agreed Russ.

  "Take a look at that machine now." urged Scorio. "See if they're watching. You shouldn't have come here. You should have let me know and I would have met you some place. I can't have people knowing where my hide-out is." "Quiet down," snapped Stutsman. "I haven't got the machine. It weighs half a ton."

  Scorio sank deeper into his chair, worried. "Do you want to take a chance and talk business?"

  "Certainly. That's why I'm here. This is the proposition. Manning and Page are working in a laboratory out on the West Coast, in the mountains. I'll give you the exact location later. They have some papers we want. We wouldn't mind if something happened to the laboratory. It might, for example blow up. But we want the papers first."

  * * *

  Scorio said nothing. His face was quiet and cunning.

  "Give me the papers," said Stutsman, "and I'll see that you get to any planet you want to. And I'll give you two hundred thousand in Interplanetary Credit certificates. Give me proof that the laboratory blew up or melted down or something else happened to it and I'll boost the figure to five hundred thousand."

  Scorio did not move a muscle as he asked: "Why don't you have some of your own mob do this job?"

  "Because I can't be connected with it in any way," said Stutsman. "If you slip up and something happens, I won't be able to do a thing for you. That's why the price is high."

  The gangster's eyes slitted. "If the papers are worth that much to you, why wouldn't they be worth as much to me?"

  "They wouldn't be worth a dime to you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you couldn't read them." said Stutsman.

  "I can read," retorted the gangster.

  "Not the kind of language on those papers. There aren't more than two dozen people in the Solar System who could read it, perhaps a dozen who could understand it, maybe half a dozen who could follow the directions in the papers." He leaned forward and jabbed a forefinger at the gangster. "And there are only two people in the System who could write it."

  "What the hell kind of a language is it that only two dozen people could read?"

  "It isn't a language, really. It's mathematics."

  "Oh, arithmetic."

  "No." Stutsman said. "Mathematics. You see? You don't even know the difference between the two so what good would the papers do you?"

  Scorio nodded. "Yeah, you're right."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Paris-Berlin express thundered through the night, a gigantic ship that rode high above the Earth. Far below one could see the dim lights of eastern Europe.

  Harry Wilson pressed his face against the window, staring down. There was nothing to see but the tiny lights. They were alone, he and the other occupants of the ship... alone in the dark world that surrounded them.

  But Wilson sensed some other presence in the ship, someone besides the pilot and his mechanic
s up ahead, the hostess and the three stodgy traveling men who were his fellow passengers.

  Wilson's hair ruffled at the base of his skull, tingling with an unknown fear that left him shaken.

  A voice whispered in his ear: "Harry Wilson. So you are running away!"

  Just a tiny voice that seemed hardly a voice at all, it seemed at once to come from far away and yet from very near. The voice, with an edge of coldness on it, was one he never would forget. He cowered in his seat, whimpering.

  The voice came again: "Didn't I tell you that you couldn't run away? That no matter where you went, I'd find you?"

  "Go away," Wilson whispered huskily. "Leave me alone. Haven't you hounded me enough?"

  "No," answered the voice, "not enough. Not yet. You sold us out. You warned Chambers about our energy and now Chambers is sending men to kill us. But they won't succeed, Wilson."

  "You can't hurt me," said Wilson defiantly. "You can't do anything but talk to me. You're trying to drive me mad, but you can't. I won't let you. I'm not going to pay any more attention to you."

  The whisper chuckled.

  "You can't," argued Wilson wildly. "All you can do is talk to me. You've never done anything but that. You drove me out of New York and out of London and now you're driving me out of Paris. But Berlin is as far as I will go. I won't listen to you any more."

  "Wilson," whispered the voice, "look inside your bag. The bag, Wilson, where you are carrying that money. That stack of credit certificates. Almost eleven thousand dollars, what is left of the twenty thousand Chambers paid you."

  With a wild cry Wilson clawed at his bag, snapped it open, pawed through it.

  The credit certificates were gone!

  "You took my money," he shrieked. "You took everything I had. I haven't got a cent. Nothing except a few dollars in my pocket."

  "You haven't got that either, Wilson," whispered the voice.

  There was a sound of ripping cloth as something like a great, powerful hand flung aside Wilson's coat, tore away the inside pocket. There was a brief flash of a wallet and a bundle of papers, which vanished.

  The hostess was hurrying toward him.

  "Is there something wrong?"

  "They took..." Wilson began and stopped.

  What could he tell her? Could he say that a man half way across the world had robbed him?

  The three traveling men were looking at him.

  "I'm sorry, miss," he stammered. "I really am. I fell asleep and dreamed."

  He sat down again, shaken. Shivering, he huddled back into the corner of his seat. His hands explored the torn coat pocket. He was stranded, high in the air, somewhere between Paris and Berlin... stranded without money, without a passport, with nothing but the clothes he wore and the few personal effects in his bag.

  Fighting to calm himself, he tried to reason out his plight. The plane was entering the Central European Federation and that, definitely, was no place to be without a passport or without visible means of support. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind. They might think he was a spy. He might be cited for illegal entry. He might be framed by secret police.

  Terror perched on his shoulder and whispered to him. He shivered violently and drew farther back into the corner of the seat. He clasped his hands, beat them against his huddled knees.

  He would cable friends back in America and have them identify him and vouch for his character. He would borrow some money from them, just enough to get back to America. But whom would he cable? And with aching bitterness in his breast. Harry Wilson came face to face with the horrible realization that nowhere in the world, nowhere in the Solar System, was there a single person who was his friend. There was no one to help him.

  He bowed his head in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders jerking spasmodically, the sobs racking his body.

  The traveling men stared at him unable to understand. The hostess looked briskly helpless. Wilson knew he looked like a scared fool and he didn't care.

  He was scared.

  * * *

  Gregory Manning riffled the sheaf of credit certificates, the wallet, the passport and pile of other papers that lay upon the desk in front of him.

  "That closes one little incident," he said grimly. "That takes care of our friend Wilson."

  "Maybe you were a bit too harsh with him, Greg," suggested Russell Page.

  Greg shook his head. "He was a traitor, the lowest thing alive. He sold the confidence we placed in him. He traded something that was not his to trade. He did it for money and now I've taken that money from him."

  He shoved the pile of certificates to one side.

  "Now I've got this stuff," he said "I don't know what to do with it. We don't want to keep it."

  "Why not send it to Chambers?" suggested Russ. "He will find the passport and the money on his desk in the morning. Give him something to think about tomorrow."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Scorio snarled at the four men: "I want you to get the thing done right. I don't want bungling. Understand?"

  The bulky, flat-faced man with the scar across his cheek shuffled uneasily. "We went over it a dozen times. We know just what to do."

  He grinned at Scorio, but the grin was lopsided, more like a sneering grimace. At one time the man had failed to side-step a heat ray and it had left a neat red line drawn across the right cheek, nipped the end of the ear.

  "All right, Pete," said Scorio, glaring at the man, "your job is the heavy work, so just keep your mind on it. You've got the two heaters and the kit."

  Pete grinned lopsidedly again. "Yeah, my own kit. I can open anything hollow with this rig."

  "You got a real job tonight," snarled Scorio. "Two doors and a safe. Sure you can do it?"

  "Just leave it to me," Pete growled.

  "Chizzy, you're to pilot," Scorio snapped. "Know the coordinates?"

  "Sure," said Chizzy, "know them by heart. Do it with my eyes shut."

  "Keep your eyes open. We can't have anything go wrong. This is too important. You swoop in at top speed and land on the roof. Stand by the controls and keep a hand on the big heater just in case of trouble. Pete, Max and Reg will go to the lockdoor. Reg will stay there with the buzzer and three drums of ammunition."

  He whirled on Reg. "You got that ammunition?"

  Reg nodded emphatically. "Four drums of it," he said. "One solid round in the gun. Another drum of solid and two explosive."

  "There's a thousand rounds in each drum," snapped Scorio, "but they last only a minute, so do your firing in bursts."

  "I ain't handled buzzers all these years without knowing something about them."

  "There's only two men there," said Scorio, "and they'll probably be asleep. Come down with your motor dead. The lab roof is thick and the plane landing on those thick tires won't wake them. But be on your guard all the time. Pete and Max will go through the lockdoor into the laboratory and open the safe. Dump all the papers and money and whatever else you find into the bags and then get out fast. Hop into the plane and take off. When you're clear of the building, turn the heaters on it. I want it melted down and the men and stuff inside with it. Don't leave even a button unmelted. Get it?"

  "SURE, chief," said Pete. He dusted his hands together.

  "Now get going. Beat it."

  The four men turned and filed out of the room, through the door leading to the tumbledown warehouse where was hidden the streamlined metal ship. Swiftly they entered it and the ship nosed gently upward, blasting out through a broken, frameless sky-light, climbing up and up, over the gleaming spires of New York.

  Back in the room hung with steel-cloth curtains, alone, Scorio lit a cigarette and chuckled. "They won't have a chance," he said.

  "Who won't?" asked a tiny voice from almost in front of him.

  "Why, Manning and Page..." said Scorio. and then stopped. The fire of the match burned down and scorched his fingers. He dropped it. "Who asked that?" he roared.

  "I did," said the piping voice.

 
Scorio looked down. A three-inch man sat on a matchbox on the desk!

  "Who are you?" the gangster shouted.

  "I'm Manning," said the little man. "The one you're going to kill. Don't you remember?" "Damn you!" shrieked Scorio. His hand flipped open a drawer and pulled out a flame pistol. The muzzle of the pistol came up and blasted. Screwed down to its smallest diameter, the gun's aim was deadly. A straight lance of flame, no bigger than a pencil, streamed out, engulfed the little man, bored into the table top. The box of matches exploded with a gush of red that was a dull flash against the blue blaze of the gun.

  But the figure of the man stood within the flame! Stood there and waved an arm at Scorio. The piping voice came out of the heart of the gun's breath.

  "Maybe I'd better get a bit smaller. Make me harder to hit. More sport that way."

  * * *

  Scorio's finger lifted from the trigger. The flame snapped off. Laboriously climbing out of the still smoking furrow left in the oaken table top was Greg Manning, not more than an inch tall now.

  The gangster laid the gun on the table, stepped closer, warily. With the palm of a mighty hand he swatted viciously at the little figure.

  "I got you now!"

  But the figure seemed to ooze upright between his fingers, calmly stepped off his hand onto the table. And now it began to grow.

  Watching it, Scorio saw it grow to six inches and there it stopped.

  "What are you?" he breathed.

  "I told you," said the little image. "I'm Gregory Manning. The man you set out to kill. I've watched every move you've made and known everything you planned."

  "But that isn't possible," protested Scorio. "You're out on the West Coast. This is some trick. I'm just seeing things."

  "You aren't seeing anything imaginary. I'm really here, in this room with you. I could lift my finger and kill you if I wished... and maybe I should."

  Scorio stepped back a pace.

  "But I'm not going to," said Manning. "I have something better saved for you. Something more appropriate."

  "You can't touch me!"