The events that shook the world on that fateful day of November 20th meant nothing to Charles Doolittle. No echoes of their shattering importance entered the monotony of his cell. His arrest and violent incarceration bewildered him. What had he done; what sin against society had he committed? He racked his brains for the answer. He asked the fumbling jailer who slid food between the bars and withdrew. But the man was stone-deaf. His sleep was uneasy, made terrible with nightmares involving Maria, drowned, bloated bodies and a sharp-bladed guillotine.
In the morning the cell next to him burst into furious life. It was a woman obviously, but a woman with a command of picturesque, vitriolic language that held Doolittle at once gasping and semi-admiring. Alison La Rue had reverted to Alice Jones, daughter of a longshoreman, and was telling the world about it.
Doolittle coughed hesitantly. It seemed to him that the woman was becoming a bit too descriptive in her delineations of her persecutors. The monologue ended abruptly.
“Who’s there?” she demanded quickly.
“Only Charles Doolittle,” he answered meekly.
“And who in blazes is Charles Doolittle?”
He coughed. “A criminal, I’m afraid.”
“Oh!” She was disgusted. The inmate of a cell would hardly be in a position to help her get out. Then feminine curiosity got the better of her.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Then why are you here?”
“The police came and took me last night. Wouldn’t tell me why.”
“Sa-ay, that sounds like my story. Only they had to bring the commish to pull me in. There’s something screwy about this. I yell for my lawyer and nobody gives me a tumble. The guy what brings the tripe they call food can’t hear a thing. Don’t seem to be any one else in this jail. I’m going to yell again. I know my rights.”
The cavernous steel walls echoed with her screams, but frightening quiet followed close on the last rumble. No one came. She did not try it again. They talked in low, hushed tones—the little, inoffensive bank clerk and the gorgeous, preening creature in the next cell. As the shadows lengthened in the gloomy corridor, a certain intimacy had been established between them, these two ill-assorted companions in misfortune. The deaf, nearsighted jailer came on ghostly feet with their apology for a supper, withdrew like a wraith. This time they ate; hunger spread its mantle of illusion over the coarse fare. That night sleep was sound.
On the morning of the 21st, Jordan, installed in triumph in Washington, thought of his captives. He called in Hollis.
“Wire New York,” he ordered. “Have Moran bind and gag them thoroughly, and ship them here in a separate closed train. Impress on headquarters that in no circumstance is any one to approach them, except Moran. I’m sending the key by plane. Any word from Marshall?”
“No, chief.”
Jordan’s face darkened. “The double-crossing rat! Order a squad up to the Bronx to trail him. No; don’t do that. If Marshall’s actually double crossing, he’ll make them his puppets. I told him too damn much. Just as soon as I clear up things here, I’ll go to New York myself.”
It turned out to be unnecessary, however. New York was coming to Washington.
At ten o’clock on the morning of the 22nd, Moran entered the cell of Doolittle and proceeded to bind him expertly, thrusting a gag into terrified jaws.
Alison was harder. She bit and fought and scratched and screamed. Moran’s face, by the time he was finished, was scored with deep, raking slashes. A closed, windowless prison van backed to the gates; two silent, trussed figures were thrust inside. The police van sped to Pennsylvania Station where a special train was waiting. The prisoners were bundled into a private car, still in silence, the door locked from the inside by Moran, the only other occupant.
The train snorted several times and hummed through the tunnel. It devoured the long, shining rails to Washington. Moran sat and glared malevolently at his captives, nursing his wounded face.
This side of Wilmington, something happened. The torn-up tracks had been repaired, but some one had been careless. Several spikes were loose in their sockets, had wabbled more and more with each vibrating train.
As the special hit the weakened spot, two spikes snapped, the rails spread wide, and the fast-roaring train went plowing its way through still-bloodied fields. The engineer and fireman were instantly killed; the little group of Bluebands in the first car were ground into the very fabric of the telescoped shell.
The second car, containing Moran and the prisoners, dug itself into the ground, and burst into flames. There were several farmhouses some distance away, whose occupants, frightened away at the first mobilization of the opposing armies, had timidly returned the night before.
“Glory be!” said the grizzled farmer to his thin-lipped wife. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. Git some hot coffee an’ blankets ready. Maybe some un’s alive out there.”
He grabbed tools and rushed to the flaming wreck. The first car he saw at once was hopeless. The fire in the second was gathering headway. With pick and crowbar he smashed several windows of the overturned car. He crawled in, gasping in the hot atmosphere. Tongues of fire lashed out at him.
In one corner lay a man, his head lolling. The angle was such as could only mean a broken neck. Near where he stood, however, lay two figures, bundled and silent. Exerting all his strength, he dragged them out, went back for the third. It was too late; a blast of flame swept through the car as though it were a chimney, driving him back with singed beard.
His neighbor came running up, breathless with excitement. “Lord, Tom, sure is a mess! Save any one?”
Tom wiped his blackened face, coughed the smoke out of his lungs. “Only these two; others all dead, I reck’n.”
The neighbor gasped. “By crickety; they’re all trussed up.”
Tom stared. “So they be. I never noticed. Here, give a hand, Bill.”
He knelt at Alison’s side, whipped out a stout jackknife, and sawed at her bonds. Bill worked on Doolittle.
That evening the two escaped prisoners from the train wreck were able to take an interest in their surroundings once more. Fortunately their injuries were not severe; it had been the smoke that had knocked them out more than anything else. From the kind-hearted inhabitants of the farmhouse, who, incidentally, bowed to their slightest demands, they learned the story of the incredible events of the preceding two days, of Jordan and his spectacular coup against the country.
They reacted in different ways. Alison hated the man and at the same time he piqued her interest. A vague notion formulated in her mind; to proceed to Washington and pit her charms against the new dictator. If she could enmesh him with her fascinations, it would be revenge enough for the treatment he had meted out to her, and—wife of the dictator of the United States sounded sweet in her ears.
As for Doolittle, he had but one ruling thought. He wanted to get back to Maria and to his secure little niche in the bank and his petty circle of friends. The events of the past several days bewildered—more, they frightened him. But he realized that the way back to New York was blocked. Washington was close at hand, and connections might be easier to make from there. Accordingly it was determined that they would sleep at the farmhouse and proceed the following morning.
VIII.
Craig Wentworth awoke with a splitting headache. The world whirled around with tremendous velocity, and his head went with it. At length the dizzying circle slowed down sufficiently for him to see that he was propped against the wall in a strange room, and his arms and legs felt terribly cramped. There was good reason for this—they were tightly bound—and also for the dry, stuffy sensation in his mouth. There was a gag rammed into it.
His head rolled weakly. On one side of him, stiff and silent, a huge welt across his forehead, was Dr. Knopf, propped at a precarious angle. On the other, Margaret Simmons, pale and drawn, was watching him with terrible anxiety. Both w
ere bound, but not gagged.
Wentworth blinked and looked at the others in the room. Anthony Marshall sat in the only chair in the room, his legs crossed, and smoked a long cigarette delicately through a still longer holder. A dozen Bluebands were like so many statues along the walls, blank-staring, rifles grounded in front of them.
“Came out of it finally, Wentworth, eh?” Tony observed comfortably.
Wentworth made helpless motions with his head.
Margaret was about to burst out into passionate speech, but Wentworth sent a silent warning look across to her. She understood and held her tongue. It would not do to warn Marshall that she, too, was possessed of the power.
“All right, men,” said Marshall. “Go into the other room, close the door and wait for me. In no circumstances are you to do anything else, d’you understand?”
The Bluebands nodded silently and clumped out. Tony made sure the door was secure, and came over to Wentworth.
Margaret cried out: “Don’t hurt him!”
Knopf sat silent and rigid—a compound of hurt head and the will of Marshall.
Tony grinned and removed the gag from Wentworth’s mouth.
“The lady takes a deep interest in you, eh, Wentworth?”
Margaret went fiery red and said no more. Wentworth, manlike, was startled. Vague, not unpleasant, thoughts scurried through his mind, but the sight of Tony in front of him forced him back to the more vital issues. He spat the cloying taste of the wadding out of his mouth.
“I see,” he said bitterly, “you’ve joined up with Jordan.”
“Well,” Marshall looked at the ash on his cigarette with critical eye, “that’s better than being made into an imbecile, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
Tony stubbed out his cigarette, and lighted another before replying. “You ought to know. It was your idea in the first place.”
“Oh!” Wentworth saw it now. “So that’s what Jordan told you.”
Marshall leaned forward. “Isn’t it so?”
“A trifle distorted,” Wentworth told him calmly. “I simply realized that a few of us had become involved with a most dangerous power—a power that you can already see has led to disastrous consequences, and will lead to much worse before long. The operation I suggested, I have been assured by competent medical authority, is a simple one. It will remove the fatal gift without the slightest harm to all our normal functions. I shall submit to the operation voluntarily.”
Tony Marshall’s eyes glittered. “Listen to me, Wentworth.” His voice was hard. “I don’t intend being operated on, no matter how safe or simple it may be. In the first place I don’t like operations. In the second, this gift, or whatever it is, pleases me immensely. I lived by my wits long enough, and I’ve had enough of that. I like money, I like pretty girls, I like food and wine and fine clothes and all the luxuries that are now at my command. I’m not young any more, and I’m not that big enough of a fool to think that a beautiful girl will love me for myself alone. No, sir, just forget that part of it. I’m not giving up.”
“You’ve teamed up with Jordan,” said Craig. “You think he will share with you?”
Tony chuckled. “I don’t. He must take me for a sucker. Of course I pretended I’d play along with him. I had to; he had me at his mercy. But now—I have my own ideas.”
He leaned back in his chair, let the smoke dribble out of his mouth.
“I’ll make you an offer,” he said suddenly. “I can tell a straight chap when I see him. Play along with me, give me your word of honor you’ll obey me, and I’ll release you. Together we could wipe out Jordan, and take his place.”
Wentworth shook his head. “Sorry! The only way I’ll play will be to get rid of this menace from the world. That means—”
Tony said regretfully: “Too bad! I’ll go ahead on my own, then. As for you, think it over. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. If you’re still stubborn, I’ll have to get rid of you.”
Wentworth looked at him with steady eyes. “At least release my two friends,” he said. “They are harmless.”
“No can do. They know too much. What goes for you, goes for them. So think hard.”
He got up, shoved the gag back in his prisoner’s mouth.
“I’ve got things to do. In the meantime, don’t try to escape. The troops have orders to shoot at the slightest movement. I have them under my personal control. And your gag will hold.”
He went quickly out of the room, and the Bluebands filed in, taking their stations with rigid faces. The door slammed.
Margaret whispered eagerly: “Shall I order them now?”
Wentworth shook his head. Marshall was still around, possibly. Dr. Knopf opened his eyes and groaned.
“Oh, my head! Where—where are we?”
Margaret said softly across Wentworth: “Take it easy, doctor. You’ll be all right soon.”
The Bluebands rested on the rifles, silent, blank-faced. The minutes crawled with leaden feet.
At last Wentworth thought it was safe to act. He nodded, once.
Margaret spoke: “Men,” she said sharply, “untie the three of us, at once.”
A wind ruffled through a dozen minds, cleansing them of old compulsions, overlaying new and therefore more powerful influences.
They jerked under the impact of her will, moved like automatons. Rifles clattered to the floor, clumsy fingers fumbled at knots. In a few minutes they were free, stamping to regain cramped circulation.
Margaret indicated the men, stiff at attention.
“What shall we do with them?”
“Go home!” commanded Wentworth. “Forget everything about this affair.”
As one, the dozen wheeled and clumped heavily out of the room.
The three followed. Marshall was nowhere in sight, and the Bluebands were streaming out of the front door. They were in the front of a vacant store.
“We’ve got to get back to the laboratory,” said Wentworth.
The street was deserted. All New York remained locked up in their houses, frightened, until the compelling broadcast forced them out into the open.
The street sign on the corner said Zerega Avenue. That meant they were about five miles away from the laboratory on Southern Boulevard.
Dr. Knopf groaned. “We’ll have to walk. And I have lumbago.”
“The trouble with doctors is that there are too many taxis in New York. Walk! It will do you good.”
They walked. On Tremont Avenue fortune favored them. An automobile parked at the curb had the ignition key in the lock. A minute later they were hurtling through ominously silent, deserted thoroughfares.
Wentworth dived into his laboratory with a hammering heart. He feared the worst; yet the realization struck him like a physical blow. The place had been seemingly left untouched, but the precious apparatus was gone. They searched frantically, overturning equipment in their mad haste, but there was no sign of it.
“Now what,” asked Dr. Knopf, “could Marshall have wanted with that? He didn’t know what it was for.”
“He’s no fool,” said Wentworth in bitter tones. “He knew I was working on something here, and the instrument surely looked mysterious enough.”
Margaret cried suddenly: “Suppose he uses it.”
A shocked silence followed. Each tried to visualize what would happen.
Then Wentworth laughed shakily. “He wouldn’t know what it was all about. Besides, it wasn’t finished.”
Dr. Knopf said coldly: “He has the power to command the advice and services of the greatest physicists and neurologists.”
“We’ll have to stop him before he gets to them, then,” said Wentworth with determination.
“How about Jordan?” asked Margaret.
“Heaven only knows what’s happened so far. It’s getting complicated, this mess.”
There was a radio in the corner. Wentworth tuned in, twisting the dial from station to station.
It was dead.
“Come on!” he said. “We’ve got to find out things.”
They went out into the silent street. An old-fashioned apartment house reared its plebeian head across the street. The shadows were lengthening; it was late.
They pounded up the worn stone steps, Wentworth in the lead. He paused at the first convenient door, knocked peremptorily. Feet shuffled inside, but the door remained closed.
“Open!” he shouted.
Some one within, moved by blind compulsion, came to the door, fumbled at the chain. The door opened slowly, revealing the rigid face of a young slattern of a woman, dressed in a dirty kimono. They pushed in.
Margaret did the speaking. “Tell us what has happened to-day.”
The woman spoke with an effort; her voice was trembling, and her reddened eyes showed traces of recent tears.
“It’s been terrible,” she said slowly. “Jim—he’s my husband—he’s a policeman—has been acting queer for days. This morning he got up early, picked up a rifle he came home with yesterday, and starts to go out. This was his day off. He had the strangest, queerest look, and he didn’t even kiss me. I was scared. I talked to him; he didn’t answer; just looked at me with a sort of blank face and walks out.
“I run to the window, and the street is full of men, all with guns, all marching. Then some one comes tearing through the street in a police car, shouting to every one to stay indoors all day; not to move out. Mr. Flynn, the neighbor next door—he’s a night watchman—said he saw all the police with guns pouring into Penn Station. It was a miracle, he said, how he managed to get home. D’you know anything, lady?” She was crying now.
“No more than you do.” Margaret patted her heaving shoulders.
“Nothing on the radio, either,” she sobbed. “I left it open all day. They always tell you what’s goin’ on in the world, but to-day—”
The cabinet in the corner began to hum. The sound took on strength; the hum became a confused, blurred noise.
Wentworth made the distance in two long strides, twirled the dials to tune more sharply. The blur cleared into a voice. It was Jordan, broadcasting to the country on all networks from Washington.
Four Astounding Novellas Page 16
