Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “Believe me, boy,” he said earnestly, “I know what I am talking about. If we disregard our duty, a wholesale tragedy will take place tonight that will haunt our sleep for the rest of our lives.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt that Professor Stiles was speaking the truth. There was no doubting the desperate earnestness in his eyes, in his grip on my shoulder. Imbued with some of the excitement that gripped him, I rose to my feet and grabbed his hand.

  “I’m with you,” I said. “But how the devil are we going to stop them from blowing Hades out of the Senate. We’re in durance vile for the duration, if you ask me.”

  The Professor bit his lips and sank wearily on to the cot. “I told the police of the danger,” he said bitterly, “but they ridiculed me. They regard my story as a fanciful dream. They’re holding me now pending an investigation into the explosion at the college today. Don’t the fools realize that by that time it will be too late.”

  “What time is it?” I asked suddenly. “It’s late afternoon,” he muttered, after a glance at his watch. “If we are going to do anything it will have to be done in the next few hours. After that it will be too late.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said worriedly.

  I LOOKED desperately out of the barred window and I noticed that it had started to rain. Not a mild summer shower, but a drenching torrent that hissed past the window with the whisper of a ten foot whip. It was an electrical storm. Great vivid bolts of lightning ripped bright gashes in the overcast skies and the menacing rumble of thunder had become a constant reverberating crescendo of crashing noise.

  Why the rumble of thunder should have reminded me of my city editor I don’t know, but it did. I turned to Professor Stiles and patted him on the shoulder.

  “We’ve got one chance,” I said. “I haven’t talked to my boss yet. Maybe he can spring us. If he thinks there’s a story in it, he’ll make the try anyway.”

  The Professor looked up with a gleam of hope in his eyes.

  “We’ve got to get out of here, remember that,” he said huskily. “The lives of hundreds of people depend on it. More important than that is the fact that the successful foreign policy of the United States may depend on our efforts tonight.”

  It was a heavy weight to have on your shoulders and no fooling about that. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers.

  Then I yelled for the guards. When they arrived I asked them to take me to the Chief. At first they grumbled but the fact that I was a newsboy made a difference. Finally they led me out of the cell and down a long corridor and through a few more rooms and eventually into the august presence of Chief Brannigan, himself.

  Brannigan was a big red-faced mick whose folks came from the same part of Ireland as mine did. I had used this as talking point before, but I was afraid I had worn it pretty thin.

  “Brannigan,” I said, “as one Kerryman to another I’m askin’ you to let me use the phone for just one call.”

  “As one Kerryman to another,”

  Brannigan snapped back, “I’m saying no. Do you understand? No!”

  He finally relented though after a few more precious minutes of argument and I grabbed the phone and dialed the Chief.

  After a few more interminable seconds his voice rasped over the wire. “City desk. Carson, speaking.”

  “This is Delaney,” I said.

  Then I held the phone away from my ear for the next two minutes until the sizzling tirade of profanity and invective died away.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, when I had a chance. “I’ve got the biggest story of the year right in my mitt. You’ve got to spring me, Chief, you just gotta.”

  “Spring you?” he laughed nastily. “Why should I? I’ve been reading about your exploits of this morning in every paper but mine. If you have to turn fifth-columnist you might give your own paper the first beat on the story.”

  “Now look, Chief,” I yelled desperately, “you know I’m no fifth columnist. The real story on that explosion hasn’t broken yet. And it won’t break until you get me out of this louse cage and let me get to work on it.”

  I took a desperate chance then and hung up. I knew that the only way to get Carson to get into action was to convince him I had something really hot. I did have, but nothing I could tell him about on the phone. If I had started raving about the hammer of Thor, he would have been the first to start the collection for the straight jacket.

  I WENT back to my cell then and started pacing. The sweat was standing out on me like bullets as the minutes ticked and it began to grow dark. With the darkness the storm seemed to increase its fury. Bolt after bolt of hot orange lightning streaked through the sky and the roar of the thunder sounded like an angry volcano. I looked from my watch to the taut silent figure of the Professor and back to my watch again.

  At eight o’clock he shook his head in a beaten, despairing gesture.

  “It’s too late now,” he whispered wearily. “We’ve tried, but we’ve failed.”

  I was about to agree with him when I heard the brisk steps of the guards moving down the hall. I held my breath in an agony of uncertainty until they stopped in front of my cell.

  “Delaney?” one of them snapped the question.

  “That’s me,” I gulped.

  “You’ve been granted bail,” he said, “and it’s been paid by the Standard. You are now at liberty.”

  Before he had gotten half way through the sentence I was crawling into my coat.

  “Don’t worry, Professor,” I yelled jubilantly. “I’ll take care of things.”

  He gripped my arm fervently.

  “God bless you, my boy,” he said hoarsely. “Remember how much is depending on you.”

  I didn’t wait for any more farewells. I dashed out of the cell and down the corridor. Twenty seconds later I was standing in the bucket-like rain signaling frantically for a cab. The fury of the summer storm was absolutely awe-inspiring. Thunder and lightning and wind and rain all joined together to form a symphony of spectacular, angry noise and color.

  By the time I got a cab I was drenched to the skin.

  “Capitol,” I snapped to the driver. “There’s five bucks in it for you if you forget the speed laws.”

  He grinned back at me and winked. Then the car shot forward as if it had been ejected from a catapult. At a dizzying pace we shot through the maze of circular streets that have been laid out to confuse the weary traveler, and finally we roared down Constitution Avenue with the brilliantly lighted dome of the Capitol as a beacon light to guide us.

  The storm was growing in intensity. Long flashing swords of lightning were stabbing at the dome of the capital, itself. We slithered to a stop in front of the Senate and I crawled out, paid the driver and dashed inside.

  I got past the coppers with my press cards, but when I got to the doors that led to the floor of the Senate I was stumped. They were marked NO ADMITTANCE and they meant just that. The guard saw me coming and held up his hand.

  I realized that the time had come for drastic action. With the fate of the U.S. Senate hanging on my action I couldn’t afford to be squeamish. I thought of the hammer of Thor descending on the chairman’s table, and the realization of what would happen gave me all the incentive I needed. I smiled at the guard. A pleasant, kindly, deceptive smile. Then I swung my fist up from my hip and batted him into land of kingdom come with the sweetest right hook I’ve thrown in all my life.

  He fell to the floor and I heard a yell behind me, but then I was through the swinging doors, and into the Senatorial chambers.

  MY entrance caused something in the nature of a turmoil. Senators craned their necks to get a look at the sudden disturbance, but my eyes were glued to the tall, scholarly figure of the Vice-President of the United States. He was standing behind his table and it was obvious that he had just finished a speech of acceptance to the Ussarian representative who was backing away before him. His arm was raised in the air, and with a chill of horror, I recognized the gavel h
e held in his hand as the one presented to him by the Ussarian[*] legation.

  The gavel that was actually the thunderous hammer of Thor!

  “Stop” I yelled. “Don’t use that gavel. It’s dangerous!”

  Almost instantly bedlam reigned. In the noise and confusion I forced myself to the front of the Senate.

  “Please listen to me,” I yelled over the noise. “The gavel which has just been presented to the Vice-President is dangerous and unfit to use. If it is used it might cause the death of every person in this room.”

  “This is an outrage,” the Ussarian ambassador cried haughtily. “It is an insult, a reflection on the good wishes and integrity of the mighty nation which it is my privilege to represent.”

  “It’s not a reflection on the nation,” I shouted, “but a reflection of the nation. It’s a reflection of its duplicity, its hypocrisy and its complete lack of honor and decency.”

  I was blowing my top, but I didn’t care. These things were in my system and it was a pleasure to get them out.

  There was a clamorous roar in the Senate hall now, but over it the voice of the Ussarian ambassador carried.

  “If there is any doubt,” he cried impressively, “let us inspect the gavel. Let us pass it around to various Senators and let them decide if it is dangerous.”

  There was a murmur of assent at this, and the Ussarian ambassador stepped forward to receive the goodwill gavel from the hands of the Vice-President.

  It was a bad moment for me. I knew that the gavel looked perfectly harmless and I knew that no one could suspect from its appearance that it was a potential agent of destruction. Then, too, I was beginning to think rationally again.

  I was wondering if maybe this business about Thor’s thunder hammer was just a wild dream concocted by a deranged Professor. I would certainly be in an unenviable spot if that were the case.

  Above the excited comment and hubbub I could hear the storm raging outside the building. It was almost as if all its fury had concentrated itself above the roof of the Senate chambers. Peal after peal of thunder cracked in the sky and the entire heavens above the capitol were glaringly illumined by the furious play of the lightning.

  The Ussarian ambassador, smiling confidently, was taking the gavel now from the hands of the Vice-President.

  “We will examine it carefully,” he was saying, “then we will deal with this madman who accuses the great nation of Ussar of—”

  He was holding the hammer lightly in his hands as he spoke, but he never completed the sentence. For at that exact instant an amazing thing happened. From the ceiling of the Senatorial chambers a magnificent, brilliant flashing ball of fire appeared. It hung suspended for an instant and then it lengthened into a sword-like bolt of lightning and flashed downward toward the horror-stricken figure of the Ussarian ambassador. He screamed once, a mad tortured scream that was torn from the bottom of his soul. Then he crashed to the floor.

  Senate was a mad house. I was one of the first to reach the side of the stricken ambassador. A glance and I knew he was dead. His entire face and one side of his body were charred black. Somehow I had expected that and I was not particularly concerned. What I wanted to see was the hammer of Thor. The ambassador had been holding it in his hand when he was struck and it shouldn’t be far from him.

  I looked around carefully for a few seconds, but I could see no sign of it. Police were swarming into the chambers and my brief hour of liberty was over once again. Things happened so fast then that I’m not sure of all of it.

  I was thrown into the jug and the paper got me out along with the Professor.

  I wrote the story and got a raise.

  Some of the Senators are convinced to this day that there was nothing wrong with the good-will gavel. Others are not sure. But anyway if it was the hammer of Thor the mighty thunder-god must have reclaimed his own for it has never been seen to this day.

  Just one more thing. To those who are skeptical about the whole affair I can only offer this one very peculiar fact. The weather bureau records show that during the day the hammer of Thor was in Washington there was more electrical activity and thunder than ever before recorded. Here’s the funny thing. In spite of this unprecedented activity the only other building actually hit was the Ussarian legation and the only casualties reported were the three Ussarian representatives who were killed in the same blast.

  You can’t fool with that guy, Thor, huh? Nor with his hammer!

  [*] Obviously the Ussarian delegate who presented the hammer of Thor, anticipating the usual procedure of the Senate, did not expect the Vice-President to use the hammer before he was forced to make his departure. This was to have been a special, closed session of the Senate, and no foreigners would have been allowed at the actual proceedings. Thus, it is probable that his intention in backing away was to get out of range of the full devastation of the hammer when it should fall.

  It is well known that in the dictator countries, the life of the individual is placed secondary to the country, and it is also possible that, although using as much caution as possible, the delegate was willing to face certain death to attain consummation of the plot against the Senate.

  CONVOY TO ATLANTIS

  First published in the November 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.

  Beneath the waves of the Atlantic lay a great menace to America—hundreds of Nazi submarines based in an incredible undersea city!

  CHAPTER I

  The Incident

  THE INCIDENT WHICH THE entire world had been anticipating for months finally occurred at nine-fifteen on the evening of September twenty-second.

  It was a warm night and the air was still. The long slow swells of the North Atlantic moved as silently and heavily as molten lead. Everything was calm and quiet and peaceful.

  One minute before it happened—at nine-fourteen to be exact—Brick Harrington, United States seaman, first class, sauntered to the side of the American convoy ship, Vulcan, and rested his arms on the rail. Glancing down at the frothing waves formed by the swiftly cutting prow of the boat, he yawned sleepily.

  He was a tall young man with heavily muscled shoulders and quiet, level gray eyes. A thick unruly thatch of red hair topped his six-foot frame, accounting for his nickname, Brick.

  His features were clean cut, almost harsh in their angularity, but they were relieved by the humorous twist of his lips and the pleasant glint in his eyes. That glint, however, could on occasion freeze to the color of chilled steel on a frosty morning. Summed up, he was what he looked: an American seaman, tough and efficient and about as dangerous to hit as dynamite.

  Still yawning, he turned from the rail, just as a wiry little man popped from a companion-way behind him and trotted over to him.

  “It’s time you turned in,” the little man snapped wrathfully. “You glorified deck swabbers are all alike. Think you’re too tough to need an hour of sleep in twenty-four. You can’t do it, I say. You can’t do it. Now get down to your bunk before I forget my age and good sense and larrup you across the stern with an anchor chain!”

  Brick grinned good-naturedly. Pop Carter’s bark was infinitely worse than his bite. Although only a seaman, first class, he didn’t let that stop him from fussing over, and worrying about, every man on board the Vulcan. For twenty years Pop had pounded decks from one end of the world to another, and his red, monkey-like features had faced salty breezes and gales in all the seven oceans. A better indication of the man, than his nagging fretful mannerisms, were the two sparks of humor that sparked deep in his sea-blue eyes and occasionally prompted an unwilling smile to his leathery cheeks

  Brick liked the peppery little man a lot, but he could seldom resist the opportunity to wave a red flag before his quick and highly volatile temper. He wiped the grin from his face and looked gravely at the little man.

  “Okay, Pop,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’ll get below. But I just had to take a last look to see for myself that there weren’t any subs nosing up alongside to steal ou
r life preservers. Now that I know things are clear I’ll sleep a lot easier.”

  “Dang it,” Pop snorted explosively, “you’re goin’ to push me too far one of these times, Brick, and I’m goin’ to teach you some manners with a belayin’ pin. You know as well as me that there ain’t a sub within a hundred miles of here.”

  “Sure,” Brick grinned. “I know it. But up till now you’ve been swearing that we were practically sailing over their backs. I just wanted to hear you admit that things aren’t as bad as all that.”

  “Oh did you?” the little seaman boiled. “Well if you ain’t in your bunk inside ten seconds I’ll make you wish you’d never been born with that lop-sided sense of humor of yours.”

  “You win,” Brick laughed. “You’ve got me scared to bits, Pop. What time is it now?”

  “I don’t know what difference it makes,” Pop grunted, fishing his watch from his pocket, “but it’s exactly nine fifteen.”

  IT HAPPENED then! The incident which Statesmen and Correspondents had been prophesying for weeks became a fact at that instant, as the ugly speeding snout of a six thousand pound torpedo smashed into the armored hull of the U.S. convoy boat, Vulcan![1]

  It was determined later, by Navy officials, that the explosion of the ship’s magazine chambers occurred almost simultaneously with the impact of the torpedo!

  Because of the blackness of the night the starboard lookout had not seen the deadly streak of churning white heading directly for the ship. The torpedo had scored a hit—a fatal hit—at exactly nine-fifteen.

  Brick had been turning to the companionway when the projectile smashed into the amored side of the ship jarring it like the impact of a mighty fist. There was not time to think; no time to reason. A hoarse scream sounded for an instant over the sudden tumult that swept the ship, and then two explosions roared into the night’s silence smothering the ship with a blanket of incredible sound.

  Brick was thrown to the deck by the torpedo’s impact.