by Don Wilcox
“I’m sorry you had to come at your own expense,” Bronson Black said, rejoining the group. “The committee has practically dissolved for lack of funds.”
“Here’s our car,” said John Kandenfield. “Let’s get off our feet.”
By the time they reached the Warwick Hotel, headquarters for the planning committee, Ben Gleed had had his first look at the bombed city. Its present condition was not so deplorable as to render a newcomer hopeless over its prospects. It varied greatly from one section to another. Some quarters showed scarcely any signs of ruin, but the buildings sagged with age. Some blocks were as smooth and bare as tennis courts, others were piled high with broken stones or gashed with rubble-filled basements. Plentiful were the black ribs of fire-ravished buildings.
The work of clearing ground was going on everywhere, but there was little building. No use to build until the powers-that-be came forth with their plan.
But the sights that Ben Gleed found most striking were the traffic streams of new auto-houses and cars with trailers. Wide parkways and houseless blocks were filled with these small, bright mobile houses. It looked as though London was temporarily living on wheels.
“Where did they all come from?” Ben Gleed asked.
“America,” said Edwin Estep, leading the way into the conference room.
“News to me,” said Gleed. “Aren’t they expensive?”
“The auto-houses come in three standard patterns, and the mass production, together with flat packing for shipment, help cut the cost. As for the house trailers,” Estep added, “we’re been buying them from America since before the war.”
“On credit,” the R.A.F. hero amended. “Where your corporations find so much unlimited credit for us is a mystery to me. I’ll be glad when we get back to business in a new underground city.”
Ben Gleed felt the strong glare of the slow-blinking owl-eyed man at the desk labelled EXECUTIVE SECRETARY. Estep offered an introduction.
“I’ve read about your wonderful Super City,” said Vernon Webb, removing his large spectacles and nodding with conspicuous dignity. His voice was satin-smooth.
“Mr. Webb came to us recently,” Estep explained, “at the high recommendation of England’s recent conclave of financiers. You’ll find him ready to serve you during your stay, Mr. Gleed. Even your business and personal correspondence you may handle through him if you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Gleed. After further conversation the young city manager began to size up London’s planning dilemma. The committee had thinned down to Estep, Kandenfield, and Black—three deadly enemies as to planning theories, who were forced by the clamoring pressures of the citizens to sit tight and face each other. They had no secrets from each other, and apparently none from Vernon Webb, who listened with owl-eyed interest to every word that was spoken.
“For my part, Gleed,” said Estep, “we could dump this whole damned deadlock in your lap if we could only afford to pay you.”
“Forget the pay. Americans don’t mind lending a hand after all you’ve been through over here,” said Gleed. “The important thing is that the right choice be made. The plan that goes into concrete and steel can’t be changed from season to season like a suit of clothes. It will stamp a pattern of living on Londoners for generations. You don’t want it to be a backward pattern.”
“What do you suggest, in view of the likelihood of wars to come?” the R.A.F. hero asked.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll browse among your blueprints and models a few days,” said Gleed, “and listen in on your committee sessions and see how you’re getting along.”
“We aren’t,” sighed Kandenfield. “Anyone want a drink?”
The minute that Ben Gleed and the three committeemen departed, Vernon Webb caught up a telephone, dictated a cablegram to a code name in the United States.
“Business is fine,” the message went. “However B. G. has arrived. Cable instructions.”
The reply was delivered to Webb at his auto-house the following evening.
“Let the O. C.—S. C. war be fought in England. Knife B. G.”
In the days that followed, any observer who had taken the trouble to watch the owlish eyes of Vernon Webb would have been struck by the close scrutiny exercised upon Ben Gleed. Every man, the executive secretary may have reasoned, leaves himself open to a backstab occasionally. Vernon Webb was waiting.
Before the end of the week Ben Gleed knew that one big reason the New London Plan had bogged down was that the three committemen weren’t digging in. If there was anything the systematic Gleed resented it was procrastination. But consider the records of Estep, Kandenfield and Black:
In three days the vigorous little Estep hopped back and forth over England to make no less than eight political speeches. Whenever he heard that some disgruntled aristocrat had let go a tirade against the new post-war democracy, Estep couldn’t sit still. He was all sparks and dynamite and he had to explode.
How did Estep know about these bloomin’ aristocrats that needed slapping down?
Through Vernon Webb, the efficient executive secretary, who thumbtacked newsclippings on his bulletin board.
John Kandenfield’s days ran to idleness because of intemperate drink habits.
Why was Kandenfield drinking more these days?
Because the efficient executive secretary had quickly discovered the erstwhile lord’s tastes in fine liquors and kept an abundant supply near his desk. Bronson Black was continually magnetized away from the conference room by the excitement of victory celebrations. His appearance at parades, memorial services, and cornerstone dedications was always in order. The people adored their war heroes, and a hero’s first duty to himself, as Bronson Black often remarked, was to keep his reputation alive.
How did Black know about all of these affairs?
The efficient Mr. Webb kept an ear to the ground. He even managed to angle invitations for the air ace—tactfully, of course.
Ben Gleed, pondering these things, marvelled at Mr. Webb’s thoroughness in taking care of affairs that didn’t matter. But Gleed was in no position to recommend a staff shake-up.
However, it was not many days before the impetuous young city manager became so thoroughly fed up with this state of affairs that he decided to appeal to the London public. Ever since his arrival the newspapers and radios had pressed him for a statement. Since the three committeemen were too much preoccupied to listen to his counsel, perhaps a sharp radio speech would act as a shot in the arm.
The radio talk was scheduled for eight o’clock on a Monday evening. The efficient Mr. Webb took care of all the details.
“How many radios are there in England, Mr. Webb?” Ben Gleed asked.
“One to every eleven and a half persons,” said Webb after a few solemn blinks.
“That sounds high for a country that’s just come through a devastating war.”
“Quite high, Mr. Gleed. You see, all of these new wheeled houses being shipped in from America are equipped with radios.”
“Um-m-m. What American company, Mr. Webb, is supplying all of these new wheels for England to live on?”
“I believe that information, sir, is not being divulged to the public—”
“And the gas and oil—”
“No information seems to be available on that score, Mr. Gleed.”
“Um-m-m. Strange I haven’t run across any financial reports—”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Never mind,” said Gleed, and went to work on his speech. By noon he laid the draft on Vernon Webb’s desk for typing. This was Saturday. He ambled down to the Warwick lobby, rented a new auto-house for a weekend drive. He was curious to know more of this new restless, rolling, post-war population of England, and curious to see the new mobile cafes, hospitals, filling stations, and grocery stores that were said to be on the road.
Sunday evening, driving back toward London along the Cardiff highway, Gleed came upon a frightful accident An old automobile swung off the
road, probably as a result of a low tire, and crashed down a treacherous rocky embankment.
The family of five were all dead, their bodies badly lacerated.
Other vehicles quickly gathered at the spot, an ambulance was hailed, the bodies were taken back to Cardiff, and Ben Gleed went on his way.
When Ben Gleed had walked out of the conference room at noon the previous day, the New London planners’ headquarters were left solely to Mr. Webb, who fairly pounced upon the manuscript of Gleed’s radio speech.
Webb read it three times without seeing a thing. Then his bulbous eyes began to float fondly over the open paragraphs. At once he was perspiring with a strange eagerness.
Gleed’s speech began:
“I did not come to England with the expectation of frightening you. But something I have seen since my arrival has shocked me deeply. It would not be fair of me to leave you in ignorance of this new danger that threatens you. I must tell you the worst.
“Citizens of London, there is a bestial fiend abroad in England, feeding fat upon people who fail to get into motion. That fiend is DELAY! . . .”
The planners’ headquarters were cleared early Monday afternoon. The three committeemen, absorbed in their own affairs, had not found time to accept Gleed’s invitation to preview his speech. They would listen in at eight.
After they were gone, Mr. Webb announced to Gleed that all arrangements were ready. A microphone had been installed in Gleed’s own suite on the Warwick’s fifth floor, so that the radio statement could be delivered in complete comfort.
“I didn’t request complete comfort,” Gleed snapped, eyeing the executive secretary suspiciously.
“No offense, I hope,” said Webb suavely. “If you prefer some other arrangement—”
“Let it go,” said Gleed, his suspicions easing. “I’ll speak from my suite.”
“The buzzer will signal you to come in,” said Webb.
“Okay. I’ll go over this script to time it to my allotted fifteen minutes.” Gleed took the stairs up to fifth.
Vernon Webb, again in full possession of the planning offices, made swift use of his time. He phoned the newspapers, got six of them on the wire at once, talked to them like a machine-gun.
“I can’t tell it to you. Don’t release a thing till Ben Gleed’s speech. He’ll break the news. He’s seen it. But he won’t say much. It’s too gruesome—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the newsmen shouted over the wires.
“All I can say is, watch your murders. Watch your accidents. Keep on the lookout for any strange stories about monsters.”
“Monsters?”
“From all I can get out of him, it was a misshapen creature—a man-eater—a fiend that slips up on people when they’re standing or sitting still—not when they’re moving or riding—”
The newsmen snorted and grumbled. What was this, some madman’s hoax?
“You don’t think Ben Gleed came over here to make a fool of himself, do you? He’s seen it, I tell you.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Follow up your strange murders and accidents. That’s all I can tell you.”
By eight o’clock that evening the English news industry was virtually on fire with waiting for a big sensational story to break.
“My friends of England,” said Ben Gleed into the microphone, “it is a privilege to speak to such a valiant people as you have again proved yourselves to be. I have only a few words to say . . .
“I did not come to England with the expectation of frightening you. But something I have seen . . .”
Into a million radios went the clear, cool words of Ben Gleed. Even the veteran orator Estep, cruising along in his new auto-house, admired the pace and strength of the young man’s words. A good speech was, to Estep, rarer than good food and wine. He turned into an auto park, cut off his engine, gave his full attention to his radio.
The whole parkful of auto-houses, Estep noted with satisfaction, were bringing in the same station.
I must tell you the worst . . .
Edwin Estep scowled. What was this going to be, an expose?
Citizens of London, there is a bestial fiend abroad in England, feeding fat upon people who fail to get into motion!
There was a sharp click, then a new voice sounded.
Ladies and gentlemen, this brief statement came to you direct from the lips of Ben Gleed. Mr. Gleed refuses to describe the hideous man-killing monster in further detail. He hopes that this word of warning will save many lives that might otherwise be brutally victimized. Listen to your regular newscasts for further developments. And remember Mr. Gleed’s words, the bestial fiend feeds only upon people who are not in motion. If you are moving or riding you have no cause to fear.
“What in the name of the streamlined devil!” Edwin Estep sputtered. “That didn’t make sense. Someone cut Gleed off before he was started.”
But no one was listening to the irate little orator’s ravings. Everyone in the neighborhood of the auto park was looking out for himself. Indeed, the same thing was true of people far and wide across England. It isn’t a pleasant surprise to be told that a weird, flesh-hungry monstrosity might be entering your autohouse or slipping out from under your bed.
All at once the radio newscaster unleashed a volley of terrorizing news all over the country.
Don’t be alarmed, they continually warned. Just be on the alert. There was very little detail as yet, they insisted, though a mysterious murder in the Manchester brickyards, and two other unaccountable killings within thirty miles of Manchester looked very bad indeed. And there was an automobile accident on the Cardiff road yesterday in which all five occupants of the car were horribly and mysteriously lacerated. This and other strange accidents were being investigated. A fuller description of the monster would be broadcast as soon as possible.
In the meantime, the newscasters concluded, keep on the alert and keep moving.
“Monster, my eye!” little Edwin Estep snarled. He started his motor, whipped his auto-house out of the park onto the highway, made for the nearest roadside telephone. For the next thirty minutes he tried to find out who had cut into Ben Gleed’s speech. The broadcasting companies relayed his calls from one official to another, but the radio offices were being suddenly deluged with telephone calls and Estep failed to get the desired information.
“It had all the earmarks of a frame-up,” Estep growled to himself.
“I agree,” said a familiar voice back of him. He turned to see Bronson Black following him out of the roadside station. Bronson Black was fighting mad. “I’ll know that voice if I ever hear it again, and believe me, I’ll choke it off.”
“Who in the name of the streamlined devil would do such a thing?” Estep ranted. “Gleed’s here as a friend. He has no enemies in England. But some lowdown snake’s belly gave his speech a chop and a twist and turned it into a fiend scare. If I—”
“Look!” Bronson Black gasped. “What?”
“That traffic jam. Everybody’s on the move. They fell for it. If they keep moving the monster won’t get them—remember?”
For the next fifteen minutes the two men stood watching the streams of mobile living quarters flow and jam at the highway intersection.
Finally Bronson Black said, “I won’t make that date tonight with this traffic. I’d better call her.”
Estep guessed that the traffic might get worse instead of better as the night went on, so he got into the swim. Black tried to call his girl-friend, but by this time telephone service was out of the question. Telephone girls weren’t immune to the mania of “getting into motion.”
On Tuesday the tempo of the roving mania had quickened. On his way to the Warwick, Estep saw few persons who were not in motion. The streams of traffic had grown heavier, street loafers ambled along instead of standing still, bank tellers paced in their cages, the Warwick lobby’s chairs were empty.
In the conference room Estep found Bronson Black champing angri
ly on a pipestem.
“Whoever started this damned terror ought to hang,” the R.A.F. veteran growled. “The gal-friend is probably sore as hell at me because I couldn’t make it last night. Tonight I’m tied up again.”
“I hope she wasn’t taken in on this fiend hoax,” said Estep.
“Hard to tell,” said Black. “All my friends claim it’s nothing but a cheap joke to them, but I notice they keep on the move. It’s taken the country by storm . . . Kandenfield won’t be in this morning.”
“Don’t tell me he’s bought an autohouse and gone on the road.”
“No, he’s got a boy driving him around in circles in his old black carriage. I stopped by his country home to pick him up, but the boy said he was asleep on the back cushion half buried under bottles, and the lad’s orders were to keep moving.”
“Ye gods! What kind of contagious disease—Estep broke off, glowering first at Bronson Black, then at Vernon Webb. Estep’s black mustaches twitched, something which happened only at the rare moments when the orator found himself in doubt. “Hell, you don’t suppose there is a—a devilsh monstrosity—”
Vernon Webb put in a telling punch. “The morning papers carry a very gruesome story, Mr. Estep. The Williamson family that met death on the Cardiff road were partly consumed—”
“Buncombe!” the war hero growled. “If this rot doesn’t clear up in a couple days I’ll get a plane and comb England from end to end just to prove—”
“Then you’re admitting this fiend is a possibility,” Estep said sharply.
“I’m admitting nothing. Ben Gleed has been duped.”
The owl-eyed executive secretary cleared his throat. “The morning papers have pieced together the Williamson tragedy. The first man who stopped at the scene is believed to have been Ben Gleed. If so, he had a chance to see with his own eyes the bestial fiend—”
“Where is Gleed? Let’s get to the bottom of this thing.”
