Four Astounding Novellas

by Nat Schachner

  “The darlings,” she thought. “Reason and patience have finally worked. They have come to understand.”

  She did not know that outside, released from the surprising compulsion of her will, the little brats were the despair of the neighborhood.

  Margaret walked slowly along West 72nd Street. She was on her way home. A man came rapidly out of an imposing apartment house. His clothes were baggy, and his stride rapid. His eyes literally flamed ahead. They caught hers, seemed to pass right through.

  Her knees shook a bit. She knew suddenly, with awful clarity, that she wanted this man, wanted him badly, more than anything she had ever wanted in her whole hitherto uneventful life.

  So intense was her sudden love that Craig Wentworth, who should have proved entirely immune, felt the shock of it pass like a wave through his brain. He stopped short, stared at this strange young woman who had affected him so peculiarly.

  Margaret Simmons saw what she had done, felt the impact of that seemingly rude stare, and was lost in shame. With lowered eyes she walked quickly past, submerged herself in the crowd of afternoon pedestrians. She did not stop hurrying until she had reached the furnished room that was her home. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed.

  Wentworth did not awake from the shock until it was too late. He started to walk fast after her, but she had already disappeared. He was positive that this casual passer-by was another of those who had been chosen for the strange experiment. “Good Lord!” he groaned. “How many more of them are there?”

  Yet, somehow, his spirits were strangely lightened. There was no feeling of menace about this girl as there had been about the others. There was something warming about the impact of her personality.

  He went on his way, evolving plans.

  IV.

  Alfred Jordan fingered the card in his hands. Neatly engraved on it was “Craig Wentworth”—nothing else. “I don’t know the man,” he said, “and I’m busy.”

  The secretary was oddly ill at ease. “But,” he protested, “he said that—”

  “I don’t care what he said; I won’t see him.”

  “I rather think you will,” a quiet voice answered. Wentworth had come into the inner office unobserved.

  The black blood stormed over the police commissioner’s face. “What the devil do you mean by forcing your way in like that? Get out and stay out! Hollis!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Show him out. Throw him out if he won’t go quietly.”

  “You of course won’t do anything of the kind,” Wentworth observed equably.

  The secretary wavered in despair between the clash of wills. There was nothing he could do, so he did the next best thing. He hurried from the room.

  His chief, the police commissioner, stared after him in shocked wonder. It was the first time that any one had dared to disobey him.

  The realization of his power had come upon him slowly. Dazed as he was by his sudden accession to high office, the wheels had been greased all the way. Veteran inspectors, boiling with anger at this political upstart, came into his presence and went away meek as lambs, mere yes-men. The newspapers had raised a great to-do, but not for long. Cynical reporters came, interviewed with previous tongue in cheek, went back to write glowing articles.

  Jordan was gradually sensing his power, deliberately exerting his will. He invited the high and mighty managing editors themselves to a conference. The next day every metropolitan newspaper experienced a change of heart; Alfred Jordan was God’s own gift to the police situation—the greatest—blah—blah—

  The mayor himself, waking up with a headache the day after the appointment, was aghast at himself. One interview, however, in which he had intended laying down the law, found him as meek and acquiescent as the rest.

  As for the rank and file of the force, that is, every policeman who came under the personal impact of his will, they were obedient automatons.

  He was fully aware by now of his peculiar gift. Just what it meant scientifically, he neither knew nor cared. He had a definite vision of himself as a second Mohammed, a new Alexander, a greater Mussolini or Hitler. His ambition vaulted. The police commissionership already seemed petty. Mayor was better, governor even; yes, the very presidency itself. And why stop there, he had already asked himself? Alfred Jordan the First, Dictator of the World! Dazzling fantasy!

  Yet he was shrewd enough to realize the limitations of his influence. Already he had had evidence of it. Personal definite imposition of will was required. He must work slowly, step by step. But within those limits there had been no disobedience. Now—

  “You are surprised, eh, Jordan?” said this most surprising intruder, seating himself calmly in the comfortable armchair next the official desk. “It’s the first time you’ve been crossed since the morning of October 26th.”

  The police commissioner jumped to his feet, gripped the desk top hard with straining fingers.

  “How did you know—”

  “I know everything,” Wentworth told him. “I know for example that you slept more heavily than usual the night of the 25th, that you awoke with a strange headache, that, contrary to common report, you had nothing on Halloran. You asked for the job and you got it, even as you’ve demanded other things since, and achieved every one. Already you’re dreaming grandiose dreams.”

  Jordan sank limply back into his chair. This was impossible! The man was uncanny. He forced himself to will, with gritted teeth.

  “Go out; go out; go out!”

  But the stranger sat on, wholly at ease.

  “It doesn’t work,” he remarked. “You see, I am immune to your willing. I possess the same powers that you have.”

  Jordan’s brain whirled. “You mean—” he gasped.

  Wentworth leaned forward. “Exactly what I said. There are others, too. We are not the only ones.”

  “Who are they?” Jordan asked quickly.

  Wentworth saw his blunder at once. “That,” he said, “I won’t tell you. But I have a proposition to make. Yours is a dangerous gift, one that eventually will spell disaster not only to ourselves as individuals, but to the world. Nature knew what she was doing when she withheld it from us. We are finite human beings, with a confused medley of emotions and desires. Not all of them are good; many are harmful. Give it up, Jordan, for your own good, for the good of the race. I agree to do the same; we shall persuade, use force if necessary, to compel the others.”

  He was pleading, desperately in earnest, trying to make this man see the light before it was too late.

  Jordan sat and thought it over. The man was crazy to think he would give up such tremendous power. Let the fool do so for himself, if he desired; more, find ways of compelling him, even as he suggested. The thought of murder flitted casually through the mind of the police commissioner. But there were the others. Who were they?

  Wentworth waited a decent interval. “Well,” he asked.

  “It sounds reasonable,” Jordan admitted blandly. “Who are the others?”

  Wentworth shook his head. “I’ll tell you that,” he said, “when you have agreed; when the others have agreed, too.”

  Jordan rose, shook hands cordially. “All right,” he said. “Get the others’ consent, and come back. I’ll see you then.”

  Wentworth walked out of headquarters, knowing he had been defeated in the first move. More, he had blundered.

  Jordan lifted the telephone. “Hello, Saunders! Man just went out, name of Craig Wentworth. Big fellow, baggy clothes, dark-haired, wearing a light-gray topcoat. Tail him; don’t let him shake you an instant. Report frequently. Hop to it.”

  Alfred Jordan sat back, rubbed his hands. He was over his first shock. He even smiled.

  The smile, however, was erased that same evening, when Saunders called up the commissioner’s new duplex apartment on Park Avenue—he had willed several millionaires during the past week to part with amounts totaling half a million.

  The detective w
as panicky. “I lost him, chief. Honest, I was on the job every second. I don’t know how he done it.”

  Jordan fairly screamed into the mouthpiece. “You lost him, you dumb cop! Didn’t I tell you—”

  “Sure you did, chief. I tailed him to his place on Fifty-ninth. It’s some kind of a laboratory. I saw him go in, ’n lock the door. I spoke to the elevator boy; there was only one exit from the building, so I waited downstairs. Didn’t want him to get wise to me. I hung around all afternoon, an’ he didn’t come down. I swear it. I went up again, and it was dark inside. I let myself in with a skeleton key; an’ he was gone. The elevator boy swears he didn’t take him down.”

  “You blithering fool!” Jordan yelled. “He knew you were tailing him; changed his clothes in the laboratory, fixed himself up a disguise, and walked out right under your ugly nose. You get out and find him—you understand? I don’t care how long it takes you, but you’ve got to get him, and don’t come back till you do.”

  Alfred Jordan was right. Craig Wentworth, regretting his impulsive trip to the police commissioner, had suspected that things were about to happen. So he kept a weather eye open and had no difficulty in spotting the man who dogged his trail.

  Once in his laboratory, he called Dr. Knopf, explained the situation hurriedly. The neurologist clucked his tongue, and said:

  “Be careful, Craig! A man like Jordan won’t give up easily.”

  “I’m going to disappear,” said Wentworth grimly, “and work under cover. You’ll have to be my headquarters hereafter; I’ll keep in touch with you.”

  “Be glad to help,” Dr. Knopf said heartily. “And don’t go making any more fool blunders like that.”

  Yet that was just what Wentworth did, that same evening.

  He switched to an old pair of Overalls he found discarded in a closet, smudged his face with honest soot, dumped certain instruments and tools he needed into a battered old hand bag, hunched his shoulders, and slouched out past the cigar-decorated man who lounged in the entrance hall.

  He entered Dr. Knopf’s offices through the servants’ entrance, changed to more fitting clothes. Then he hunted for a quiet room in the rows of brownstone houses on the side streets, where not too many questions are asked, found one that fitted his modest purse, and was soon installed. Not for a moment did the thought enter his head that he could easily command unlimited wealth by mere demand from any and sundry.

  It was about nine when Wentworth had finished. The evening was mild, and he thought the fresh air would be good after the turmoil of the day. The feeling that an extra-human instrument was lodged in his brain was uncomfortable, though there was no actual physical sensation. He seemed to hear it ticking, ticking away, interminably.

  He walked briskly, absorbed, planning, when he was brought up short by a collision with a young woman hurrying in the opposite direction, equally absorbed.

  “Oh!” she cried, and would have fallen if he had not put out a steadying hand.

  Recognition was simultaneous. Margaret Simmons colored, and tried to escape. The touch of his hand awoke unaccustomed reactions.

  Craig Wentworth grunted. Fate was playing right into his hands.

  “You are the girl who passed me on Seventy-second this afternoon,” he said severely.

  She tried vainly to extricate herself from his still-held grip.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said faintly. Her knees were weak. “Please let me go.”

  He grinned suddenly, released his hold. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would like to talk to you—somewhere where we wouldn’t be disturbed. Don’t misunderstand me; I have no ulterior designs. It is important—for both of us.”

  She hesitated—proof positive to him of his former suspicions—and became suddenly reckless.

  “Very well,” she said simply, not a hint of inner, seething emotions showing on her placid face. “There is a little restaurant, near Amsterdam, where at this hour we’ll be all alone.”

  In the restaurant, securely ensconced in a private alcove, they busied themselves in silence with their coffee and pie. All the while, Craig issued mental order after order—small things, like picking up a certain spoon at a certain moment—with no ascertainable effect.

  Therefore, when the plates had been pushed away, and cigarettes lighted, he had no hesitation in talking. Thus he did the very thing that had led to such untoward results with Jordan. Why he did it, he did not know, unless it was that the girl invited confidence; that she was so totally different from the newly appointed police commissioner.

  He told her the story from beginning to end, withholding nothing. Margaret listened quietly, hardly interrupting. Slow pallor spread over her face as realization forced its way of the strange thing within her brain, of the terrible power she now possessed, together with this big man with the compelling eyes, with others of whom she had barely heard.

  “So you see, Miss Simmons, the position we are in,” he concluded.

  “My first name is Margaret,” she told him.

  He smiled. “Quite right, Margaret. Mine is Craig,” and he continued: “It is a terrible responsibility. I have to watch myself carefully. I’m afraid even to think. The least desire on my part, and it is instantly gratified—that is, of course, if its fulfillment can be brought about by the person to whom it is addressed.”

  The panic went slowly out of her. Womanlike, she addressed the problem to her own life.

  She, to whom the whole world was now a gigantic oyster, from which she could extract whatever she pleased, had no thoughts of wealth, of adulation, of power over mortal lives. Love was the only thing she craved, with all a woman’s ardor. She could command love now, it was true, make slaves of all men by virtue of the power within her. All, that is, except the one man on whom her affections had irrevocably centered. He, of all the world, alone was immune to her will. There he sat, with composed features, conversing with her as with a comrade, but without a spark of warmth, of tenderness, in his voice.

  What tremendous irony! What a cosmic jest! The taste of dust and ashes and sackcloth was in her mouth. She laughed bitterly, suddenly.

  He looked up in surprise. He had been talking on and on, and she had not been listening.

  “You’re quite right, Craig,” she said hurriedly. “Such godlike power is not for mortals. We would only destroy ourselves, and the world, with its exercise. It means nothing to me; I don’t want it. Take me, please, to your Dr. Knopf. I am willing to submit at once to his operation, to remove this fatal gift that has been thrust on us. Take me at once.”

  Wentworth, a mere male, could not of course have followed the tortuous processes of her thought. He was surprised, rather than victorious.

  “It isn’t as easy as all that,” he said, somewhat startled. “If there were only the two of us, the matter would be comparatively simple. But there are others. I know now of four; there may be more. We shall need our powers. Without such aid we should be helpless against the others. Until we can fight this thing through, until we are certain every one at present so endowed has lost the gift, voluntarily or involuntarily, we must hold on. May I count on you?”

  She extended her hand frankly. They shook hands. There was no need for words.

  V.

  Within the week things began to happen at an increasingly accelerated pace. In the first place, each of the six chosen persons was in varying degrees aware of his new gift. And each was using it in accordance with the inherent laws of his own nature, as irrevocable as those of the Medes and the Persians.

  He from Procyon moved invisibly over the terrestrial scene, watching. The idea, he thought, had been an excellent one.

  Charles Doolittle faced his wife with fear and visions of retribution. But she was too weak to do anything but glare. And glaring from a reclining position in a hospital bed is a singularly ineffective procedure.

  By the time she was back in their two-room apartment, and the glare was in good working or
der again, Charles, the meek, the henpecked, had by a number of incidents, discovered the secret of his success. The slightest argumentative word from Maria, and he started significantly:

  “Go jump—”

  That was sufficient. Maria remembered the feel of gallons of city water and subsided quickly. More, she began to thrill strangely to her new meekness—it was at once a novel and satisfactory sensation. Her husband took on added glories; love, sniffed at for years, once more flooded her heart.

  She actually boasted of his strange control to the neighbors, and thus it came to the attention of Jordan, police commissioner of New York. For Jordan was searching diligently for all such instances.

  The dragnet he had put out for Craig Wentworth had proved fruitless. The man seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Saunders, the detective, was picked up three days later by an ambulance. He was in a state of collapse, footsore, blind with fatigue, starving, the mere shadow of a husky New York cop. The irascible command of the chief had been literally obeyed, as in the nature of things it must.

  Alfred Jordan, not finding Wentworth, was compelled to hasten his plans. At the same time he conducted a relentless search for the others. Maria’s boastings were gossiped of to the neighborhood cop, and ultimately reached the chief. By the end of the second week Jordan was informed as to five of the six. Only Margaret Simmons was unknown, and Wentworth, of course, was out of sight.

  Meanwhile Alison La Rue had once more blossomed into stardom. The show reopened in two days—Cary was like a puppet—and this time the scattering audience, under the impact of her will, almost tore the house down with frantic delight. Friend told friend, second-line critics those of the first rank, who thereupon attended the next performance, and went out—conquered. She rode the crest high, wide, and handsome.