Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “This looks like the end,” he said grimly. “We had to go, but I hate to give Von Herrman the satisfaction of doing the job.” He looked down at the silver-haired girl in his arms and smiled. “It would have been wonderful,” he said huskily. “But nobody gets everything so I guess we don’t have any kicks.”

  The structures of Atlantis were trembling and shaking, and the mighty forces beneath the ocean were growling an ominous warning.

  Brick kissed the girl in his arms good-bye. Her lips were on his, poignantly sweet, when Zoru cried out behind them. Before Brick could turn it happened.

  The ancient volcano of Atlantis erupted!

  A BLINDING sheet of flame and steam and lava roared upward engulfing the crumbling towers and structures of Atlantis in its fiery maw. The water boiled angrily with the heat.

  Brick saw Atlantis crumbling and disappearing before him, as it sank into the immense crater of the volcano on which it had rested.

  He saw also, in the indescribable scene of vast convulsion, the destruction of Captain Von Herrman’s submarine. It had been directly above Atlantis when the eruption occurred. And like a chip in a whirlpool, it had been sucked out of sight as the ocean rushed in to quench and fill the volcano forever.

  That was all he saw. For a minor upheaval tossed the Crawler to its side, and then like the slap of a giant paw, hurled it upward.

  For a dazed chaotic interval there was nothing but wild motion, boiling currents and the noise of the volcano around them. How long it lasted was impossible to tell. It was like some horrible nightmare, without beginning or end.

  As the Crawler tossed through the heaving water, Brick managed to get an arm around Leolo and pull her close to him. Her body in his arms seemed the only real thing in a frenzied world of unreality.

  He was still holding her tightly to his breast when the erratic movements of the Crawler were replaced by an even rocking, and the noise of the volcano, and the hiss of the boiling currents had faded away.

  Reasoning was beyond him, but when he heard the metallic sound of the opening hatch he climbed to his feet, pulling Leolo with him. Zoru stood at the open hatchway and sunlight was breaking on his face.

  Brick stumbled to his side. His arm was about Leolo and his heart was too full for words to express what he felt.

  “Miraculous,” breathed Zoru. “Miraculous deliverance!”

  Looking out the hatch Brick saw a mighty cloud of smoke disappearing over the rim of the horizon. The convoy! From the Arsenal of Democracy blood for the veins of the British empire was flowing—safely still.

  And then Brick saw an American destroyer standing against the cobalt sky, driving toward them. Above her the Stars and Stripes rippled in a stiff breeze. The sight brought a lump of pride to his throat.

  He caught Zoru’s hand in a strong clasp and his arm tightened about Leolo’s shoulders. Zoru returned the pressure with his hand and Leolo smiled up at him, her eyes telling him the answers to questions he would ask later.

  Then they turned and waited for the destroyer.

  [1] When the Lease-lend bill was passed by Congress, it was the opinion of many statesmen and correspondents that it would eventually mean United States navy convoying of the materials to be shipped to Britain. As it turned out, this was what happened, and U.S. ships took up patrol duty far into the Atlantic, and cooperated with British ships in warning of the presence of raiders. No actual fighting, or shooting was the result, except one instance reported by Secretary Knox, of a destroyer dropping depth bombs during rescue work.

  [2] This is the accepted method of convoying. Subs usually lie in wait, motors silent, or come up from the rear, or flank a convoy. Thus, the “ears” of the destroyers must detect them before they get within striking distance, and chase them away or sink them with depth bombs. This is possible because of their great speed.

  [3] This is the case when destroyers go on a hunt for submarines, but in a convoy, the menace to an undersea boat is less, because the sub can, and does, submerge and lie quiescent until the convoy and destroyers are past. Then it can resume its voyage. However, when a sub is picked up by a convoy boat, its location can very swiftly be plotted, and by sweeping back and forth over the area, dropping depth charges, it is quite possible that the sub is doomed. A depth charge does not have to hit a submarine, but merely explode nearby. The concussion in the water does the rest.

  [4] Shortly after the Lend-lease program got underway, British officials revealed to American officials the real truth of losses in the Atlantic. For a time, debate was hot in the Senate, because it was claimed Britain was “angling” for actual convoys and the losses were not true.

  [5] Early in 1941 it was reported that the Nazis were preparing a vast submarine campaign, and were constructing hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of undersea boats. For a time, Germany launched its entire submarine fleet at convoys off Scotland, and in the North Sea, and off Gibraltar, and losses were terrible. Yet, these were the giant subs of the Nazi fleet, and they were soon recalled. When the British heard of the pocket-subs, with their meager cruising radius, they scoffed, because it was obvious that they were only coastal craft, and could constitute no menace in the Atlantic. But they did not suspect that these craft were intended for a base far at sea, and under it!

  [6] Plato places the final destruction of Atlantis about 9,000 B.C. The submergence was gradual, and it was known to the scientists of Atlantis that it was coming. However, the last submergence was cataclysmic, and volcanic action accompanied it. It is believed that the Mediterranean Basin was flooded when Atlantis sank.

  [7] The sealed halls of Atlantis were not all undamaged by the earthquakes, and many of them filled with water. It was these that the Nazi engineers pumped dry and repaired for use as bases for the pocket-submarine fleet. The ingenuity of the German engineer is well-known, but it must have been a tremendous task to empty those vast halls, construct locks and entrances for the submarines, and maintain a sufficient air pressure to care for all the wants of the base.

  [8] Had the Nazis, when they originally began work on. the Atlantis base, gone beyond this bronze door, they might have saved a lot of time and labor, since the halls beyond were not flooded. Fortunately they did not, or 1941 might have seen disaster for Britain in the Atlantic.

  [9] Early in August, 1941, Franklin D. Roosevelt, president of the United States, and Winston Churchill, prime minister of Britain, met in their history-making rendezvous in the Atlantic for a peace conference which resulted in the famous “Eight Points.” Later it was divulged that Aid to Britain was a chief topic of discussion, and the vast convoy that was slated for destruction by Von Herrman’s murderous submarine fleet, was planned and the combined might of the British and American navies was scheduled for the convoy. Upon this one convoy the fate of the war hung, all unknown by the two famous men. If it had been destroyed, and the British and American main fleets wiped out, the war would have been Hitler’s. American public opinion, at the time of the conference, would have been against this “pooling” of the great fleets, but as events turned out late in 1941, the opportunity was presented to turn suspense into certain victory.

  [10] Late in Atlantis’ last days, much of it being submerged, it became necessary to depend to greater and greater extent on the foodstuffs of the sea for existence. Therefore, fishing became an important factor for continued existence, and new methods were devised. The hydrogen gun was invented, and worked on a principle of breaking down the water into its component gases. Fish, caught in the huge bubbles, suffered an expansion of their gills and consequent shock that stunned them upon emergence into water again. They then floated to the surface and were easily captured. The principle of this breaking down of water into its gases is a simple one, being simply a matter of electrolysis. Two electrodes, giving off a current, as in a battery, cause the action to take place. Hydrogen and oxygen are the two major gases in the makeup of water, and both are equally able to knock a fish out of action.

  [11] Vo
lcanic action on the ocean floor is common, and the waters do not quench the fires without completion of the action. Therefore, it is certain that volcanic craters exist on the ocean floor just as they do on land. In an undersea eruption, the danger of earthquake is much greater, since water instantly rushes into any opening, and causes a terrific explosion. Most of the violent quakes of history have been due to entrance of sea water into a live crater. Krakatoa was such a crater, and its explosion was so loud it was heard half-way around the earth.

  [12] Here it is obvious what the true nature of Zoru’s weapon really is. Originally the fish-gun broke the water down into its component gases, but the hydrogen alone was used to stun the fish. Now, Zoru has adapted the gun so that his bubbles contain both hydrogen and oxygen, mixed, in huge quantity. Any high school student of chemistry can explain what happens to these two gases, when mingled and ignited. A terrible explosion of great power is possible through use of them.

  Zoru here forms the bubbles electrolytically, then shoots a pellet of sodium at them. The result is a natural phenomenon. Sodium bursts into flame on contact with water, and the flame, in turn, entering the bubble, instantly sets off this potential “bomb” and the resultant explosion is sufficient to shatter everything for many yards around.

  The effectiveness of Zoru’s gun, in comparison to the depth bomb, is perhaps twenty-five times that of the explosive charge contained in the Navy’s potent “cans.”

  Operated as it was, from the ocean floor, directly beneath the submarines, its effectiveness was hideously thorough. Once the bubble, flashing up to the surface, reached the proximity of the overhead submarine, it was set off, and the submarine was crushed like an eggshell by countless tons of pressure against its hull as dense water was hurled irresistibly away from the “bomb.”

  Even on the surface, four-hundred feet above, according to accounts later made by Navy officials, giant ships were tossed about like corks, and in one instance, a destroyer was sunk when its bottom was stove in.

  [13] Perhaps Von Herrman, at that moment, was the only man in the Nazi regime who knew that the fate of the Reich was sealed, that Germany had lost the Battle of the Atlantic, and the war itself. For from that day on, the tide turned against Germany, and with the flood of arms pouring to Britain, and to embattled Russia, the offensive changed sides.

  With the destruction of the Atlantis submarine base, America’s navy took over the Azores, Dakar, and joined forces with Britain at Singapore.

  Within four months, Africa was in Allied hands, and Hitler had been driven from Iran. Harassed by furious Russian armies, released from the Eastern front with the submission of Japan, who never intended to fight, his army of the east disintegrated, and fell apart, a victim of Russia’s vastness, coupled with her new armed might.

  American Expeditionary Forces, and a British army, landing in Portugal, stormed through Spain and drove deep into France, aided by revived sons of the tricolor. Revolt flared all over Europe, and the war came to a sudden, stunning, abrupt halt with the assassination of Hitler at Berchtesgaden by Goebbels, and that worthy’s suicide when trapped by members of Hitler’s personal guard.

  History will show, when all the facts are known, that the mightiest conqueror of all times met his end because of a grim battle four-hundred feet beneath the tossing Atlantic. After American aid was assured, unhindered, Hitler’s power expended itself on the impossible task of waging a three-front war.

  AL ADDIN AND THE INFRA-RED LAMP

  First published in the November 1941 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Albert got himself into a grand mess when he rubbed this strange lamp and a real genie answered!

  CHAPTER I

  “HI, EVERYBODY!”

  With easy nonchalance, Albert Addin strolled casually through lounge of the Tennis and Topper Club, ignoring the fact that nobody bothered to answer his greeting. Finally, he paused before the grill of the mail desk. There, a frosty-eyed clerk gave him his morning mail and a look that clearly said:

  “Why don’t you pay up your dues?” Undisturbed by this official coldness, Albert pocketed his mail and made his way back to the lounge where he sank into an overstuffed leather armchair. Comfortably entrenched against any sudden shock, young Mr. Addin turned his attention to opening his daily communications.

  A nasty dun letter from his tailor made Albert wince a bit regretfully as he dropped it, half-read, into a wastebasket beside him. Another, and equally nasty, note from the gentlemen who had been silly enough to finance his sleek yellow roadster, comprised the contents of the second epistle he opened.

  Albert shuddered slightly as he dropped the second letter into the deep-bellied ash tray beside his chair. The third letter caused him to frown. It was a brief and coldly legal notice from the bank, stating quite heartlessly that there would be no more annuity checks for another three months—due to the fact that he had overdrawn that far in advance.

  His fourth communication was a telegram. Thoughtfully, Albert turned it over in his hands a bit before opening it, scarcely daring to hope that a rich uncle might have died somewhere. Then, deciding morosely that he didn’t have any relatives who’d be decent enough to help him out by dying, he sighed and opened the telegram.

  MOMENT IS RIPE. FATHER IN FINE MOOD. AUNT ANNABELLE ALMOST PLEASANT. YOU ARE TO COME UP TO MASTIFF MANOR FOR THE WEEKEND. BE PREPARED TO MAKE YOUR BEST IMPRESSION ON THEM, DEAREST, AND ALL WILL GO WELL. LOADS OF LOVE.

  MARGOT.

  Albert Addin read these lines and took a deep breath. Then he re-read them. No, there was no mistake. Incredible though it seemed, the telegram said what it said. The furrows of worry smoothed from his brow and a bland, almost beamish smile wreathed his features. A far-away, vacant glint of tenderness came into his gray eyes. This was from Margot. This was from the girl he loved, the girl he desired to marry, the girl whose father was worth, roughly, a million of the crinkly green stuff.

  “Somehow, Margot has brought him around,” Albert told himself happily. “Somehow, she’s worked the old bear into a state where he’d actually be willing to consider his daughter marrying me!”

  And then, reflectively, “And even Aunt Annabelle isn’t in an axe-swinging mood!”

  ALBERT ADDIN felt like singing, but because of the rules of quiet established for the benefit of the patriarch members of the Tennis and Topper Club, he confined his joy to humming a strain from that classic “Beat Me Bertha With a Scrub Stick Sizzle Bar.”

  For this looked like the omen of victory in his long battle for the hand of Margot Mastiff: A long and bloody battle which had been made almost impossible because of Margot’s father, Major Mastiff, and her acid-hearted Aunt Annabelle—both of whom heartily detested the very sight of Albert.

  Once, almost a year ago, Albert reflected, he hadn’t been in disfavor with Margot’s relatives. That was when his courtship of the fair Margot had been in its primary stage. That was when he had been cordially invited to spend a weekend at Mastiff Manor.

  Albert felt a deep twinge of remorse as he remembered that weekend, now. He had brought his candid camera along with him—the love he held for cameras amounted to a craze with Albert—and had made himself the hit of the weekend taking pictures of all the assembled guests. Major Mastiff had beamed into his lens, Aunt Annabelle had even consented to pose, and Albert had had a merry time dashing about and clicking his shutter.

  Everything had been rosy, and his courtship had never looked more favorable. Albert left Mastiff Manor that Sunday with high hopes of an early marriage. But then his plans hit a sudden snag.

  Albert developed the pictures he’d taken. The developed prints showed all too clearly that Albert Addin was a rotten photographer. The shots of the guests were fuzzy, odd-shaped, monstrous, and accidentally screamingly funny. Albert determined to burn them, to make up some plausable excuse for not shooting the prints along to the guests.

  But before Albert was able to burn them, they were seen, and howled at, by a friend of his who had dro
pped in for a drink. The friend was the editor of that nasty little picture magazine, Gaze. It seemed that the editor of Gaze wanted to publish the pictures in his humor section. It seemed that Albert was—as usual—broke. It also seemed that the offer made by Albert’s pal editor for the pictures was tempting—too tempting for the pecunious Albert to resist.

  The snapshots appeared in Gaze.

  The nation laughed uproariously. Major Mastiff had a stroke. Margot was almost prompted to give Albert the gate. Aunt Annabelle tried to bring suit against the “sniveling young upstart.” Albert was banned from Mastiff Manor, and from that day forward was forced to conduct his courtship of Margot on the sly.

  Until now.

  “A master diplomat, Margot,” Albert sighed happily. “A veritable genius at pouring oil on troubled waters!” And then he shook his head in admiration at the tremendous bit of soothing-over which his fiancée had accomplished since his banishment.

  Albert felt warm inside, and very happy indeed. He could even gaze down at the crumpled dun letters in the wastebasket beside him and beam cheerfully. For bills were no longer of any consequence, now that his courtship troubles were straightened out. For after all, the girl he was soon to marry had a filthy-rich father, didn’t she?

  So Albert rose happily, making his way across the lounge to the elevators, conscious that he had never loved Margot Mastiff more than at this moment. As the elevator took him up to his rooms, he broke forth into a light rendition of the second verse of “Mamma Your High-Falutin’ Baby’s Gone To Texas On a Jive Bar For a Break Bath.”

  HIS bags were on the bed and almost packed, half an hour later, for Albert wasn’t going to waste any time in catching the swiftest train for Mastiff Manor. Glancing swiftly at his watch, Albert closed his bags and reached for his hat and coat. Then, for an instant, he hesitated, his glance going to his bathroom door a few steps away.