by Don Wilcox
We lay low and watched this throng gather closer to the car. I recalled the story of the careless driver. The newspapers had given it a short feature as one of the uncanny mysteries of nature! The poor fellow had no more than got in a well-placed last word at some scolding old aunts—something to the effect that they’d be sorry after he was gone—when suddenly he melted away, utterly and completely, from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes. He was gone, that was all there was to it. There was nothing left but empty clothes.
The story had created a sensation; a few similar occurrences of recent months were at once brought to light, including that of the custodian of a building in Cincinnati. But in general the public took all such stories with a liberal helping of salt.
All this came back to me with decided vividness as I watched the scene that now progressed before my eyes in the light of the highway floods.
“If you doubt that we’re about to witness a battle,” Lord Temp volunteered, “there are a dozen swift action spherical tanks hidden in an old irrigation ditch a few yards down the road. Lurking back of them are a thousand infantry. They’re going to nip the hunger march in the bud.”
At the moment I couldn’t see any tanks or infantry. What I saw was Bobby Hammock in trouble. The parade of hunger marchers came on like stampeding cattle. There wasn’t a chance he could stop them. Already they were bumping past him rough shod.
Then someone swung a club and Bobby Hammock barely dodged the blow. I gasped.
“Get him out of there, Lord Temp!
He hasn’t a chance!”
Maybe the skeleton didn’t hear me. He was bending forward eagerly like a gambler at the races who knows he can’t lose. This was pie for him.
“Lord Temp!” I cried. “They’re making her take the banner. Stop them!”
I leaped up intending to dash to the rescue. But Lord Temp smacked me down with his electrical hand. I fell in the edge of the thicket. There I remained on hands and knees watching the awfulness that took place only thirty yards away.
That giant called Hefty the Ramrod was waving his mob on as if he were some mighty conqueror. But his false bravery was revealed in his stunt of forcing the starry-eyed blonde to take the banner and march ahead of everyone.
“She didn’t want this parade!” I hissed to Lord Temp.
“She’s got it now,” he grinned. “She walked right into it.”
Under the amber highway lights you could see her look of terror as she turned back crying for Bobby. The clubs had fallen on Bobby and he was being trampled underfoot.
The Public Service Minister was still scrapping, running backward before the oncoming mob trying to wave them to a stop. He must have been realizing in that awful moment how tough a job it would be to organize such men for a full fledged revolution.
All at once the dozen tanks rolled up out of the blackness on the other side of the road. A deafening amplifier shouted at the gang to stop dead in their tracks.
“Halt! . . . Halt! . . . Stop in your tracks every one of you in the name of the law. Stop or we’ll SHOOT!”
Hefty’s arms flew up in fright. He released his club and scurried to one side, still shouting commands to the others to keep marching.
Then the guns made good their threat. A blaze of fire shot out from the tank artillery.
This I saw, for my eyes were on the right level to be certain: The gunfire all went over the heads of the crowd. If there had been infantry fire I couldn’t have been sure; but as later investigation proved, there was no fire from the infantry, only from the tanks.
It was a fire calculated to scare the mob to death and it did all of that and more.
Exactly what did happen, in addition to the fire of tank artillery was that my companion waved his right arm with the points of those deadly electrical finger-bones leveled at the front of the chaotic mob. Fifteen or twenty of the figures melted away.
Under those lights you might have thought they were being cut down by bullets, but I knew otherwise.
The gunfire stopped instantly, and part of the panicky mob stopped. Hefty and others were waving flags of truce. Their abortive revolution was over.
Lord Temp and I stayed in hiding to watch the officers from the militia advance and count their casualties. We could hear them arguing over how it had happened, and the way they were blaming each other and swearing and ranting you’d have thought there would be some pistol shots next.
“Seventeen of ’em blown galley-west,” someone said bitterly, kicking around among the collapsing clothes. “One of ’em’s a girl.”
“And none of ’em is that trouble-making Hefty that brewed all this trouble. Wait a minute, here. Where’s the bodies? These rag bags are empty.”
“Yeah, no need for ambulances. Baskets instead. Let’s gather ’em up and lay ’em on Wurzelle’s doorstep. He’s the Council member that put us up to it.”
“He didn’t tell us to blow ’em to hell,” said some staunch Wurzelle defender. “All he said was, scare the pants off ’em.”
“We’ll courtmartial the gunners.”
“They couldn’t have done this. I saw their fire go over. And you can’t show me a mark of any kind on this—”
“Hell, what goes on here? There’s only half a corpse here an’ it’s slipping outa my hands, melting away into nothing, by heaven.”
Lord Temp touched me on the arm. “Out of your paralysis, friend. Our chariot waits.”
He must have picked me up and dropped me in. I don’t think I had it in me to move under my own power.
CHAPTER XIV
We Bet on Vetto
Scientists and newspapers alike were outdoing themselves to explain the mystery of melting persons, and no longer was there any doubt on the part of the public that they did melt.
Where the searchers for truth failed, the charlatans and fakirs flourished. All at once it was rumored around that the SABA cult was doing a judgment-day business.
From everywhere came the inquiries of the people. Telephone operators couldn’t keep up with the calls, the mail trucks to SABA branch offices all over the country were said to be overloaded.
If some mysterious melting process could act upon us without warning, we the terrorized people demanded to know what it meant. If the doctors couldn’t tell us we must turn to the mystics (who—as Sally Barnes had noted—falsely invoked the name of science).
And what did the high and mighty leader of the SABA tell the people? Nothing.
He gave them a monstrous big promise, however. He was going to tell them as soon as the time was ripe. And when the time was ripe he would tell everyone once, and once only, and those who were not members at that time would never be allowed to hear from his lips at any later date the true explanation for the phenomena that mystified everyone on the continent.
And so the membership of SABA increased by thirty-five percent in a single week, and additional percentages in the three exciting weeks that followed. And eventually it had enrolled a membership believed to exceed one person out of every four in the country.
Many of these members were from the downtrodden and underfed millions. It was they who advertised to each other that SABA promised there would be solace for everyone.
Well, Lord Temp watched this SABA business and was attracted.
“What would a fakir like that do,” the skeleton said to me, grinding his teeth with happy inspiration, “if he suddenly fell heir to a genuine hunk of magic?”
“He wouldn’t go broke,” I said.
“Gird up your loins, Flinders. You’re about to swing a big deal. This SABA octopus has arms all over the nation with tentacles all ready to go to work for us. This will be easier on you than circulating my cards.”
“What wouldn’t?” I said, for as a colporteur I had proved a complete flop. That deal with the Public Service Minister had given me a permanent chill.
So I went to the SABA mansion to see the noted leader of the SABA, Gravelli Vetto.
He was a mounta
inous man who took command of you from the moment you met him, in a politely overbearing way.
He reminded you of a big brown ox, well curried and perfumed and adorned with a dress suit and a slick coat of impeccable manners.
There was no point in my trying to say anything for I couldn’t get a word in between commas. He had just enough resemblance to Mussolini to remind me to beware of stabs in the back. And while he talked I kept thinking of a fine little Italian pal of mine, a newsboy for the Zephyr, who used to hate Mussolini’s heart like poison.
Well, by the time this unctuous ox got around to asking me what line of forecasts I wanted to purchase I was already sure that Lord Temp had made an awful mistake sending me here. But orders are orders.
“First I ask my customers what they think they want,” he was saying, drilling me with his eyes and tossing his head back and glinting as if he saw right through me. “Second, I ask them what they really want. Third, I tell them it’s no use hiding anything from me, I know their thoughts run still deeper. So out with it, Mr. Flinders. Let us draw back the curtains.”
Real curtains back of him parted, and our little section of the floor slid back like an orchestra platform in a twentieth century stage show and as the curtains swished we glided back through them, one after another, into a tower.
“Into the secrets of our mind,” he said. “Into the deep purple secrets of our mind. Now. We are stopped. Tell me all. I’ll sell you whatever knowledge you need.”
“I didn’t come to buy.”
“You must have. Everyone comes to me to buy my wisdom.”
“I came here to sell you some.”
“Sell me? Erg. So that’s it.” Swish. The series of curtains broke open and our mobile floor rolled us right back to the front conference room.
This I took to symbolize Gravelli Vetto’s sales’ resistance. Or perhaps he was closing the secrets of his mind. His face tightened and he gave me the cold eye.
“What’s your game?”
“I represent the Lord of Temporary Death.”
“Never heard of him. What’s his racket?”
“He deals out a sort of death to people—only not permanent death.”
“How much a head?”
“Nothing. He does it for charity.”
“A racket like that is doomed from the start. I don’t see his angle.”
“You wouldn’t understand, maybe. But he thinks you can make money out of it if you want to work with him.”
“So?” Gravelli Vetto’s eyes brightened. “Come back. Let’s talk this thing over.”
Back through the draperies we swept again and came to a stop in the velvet purple enclosure, the tower-like room with windows and purple lights near the lofty ceiling. This, I knew, must be the source of the purple light I had often observed when sailing over this mansion in a chariot.
“You could do well with our racket, I’m sure, Mr. Vetto,” I said. “Unfortunately you’ll have to be a second lieutenant.”
“Go on. What’s the secret?” From ambition in his eyes you could see he figured he’d be the head of the corporation in a couple of weeks or so. “Go on, Mr. Flinders.”
“You’ve been promising the people some explanations on a certain phenomenon of terror. Do you have your answer ready?”
“And what makes you think I don’t?”
“Because the Lord of Temporary Death hasn’t told you. He’s the only one that knows how he does it.”
The big ox began bellowing as if he’d suddenly sat on barbs of painful suspicions.
“You’ve cooked up a scheme to get something out of me. I don’t trust you.”
“I represent the Lord of Temporary Death. He sent me in here. If you’re smart you’ll invite him in for a conference.”
“Please cease to make these insulting references to my intelligence. I’ll warn you I’m the cleverest soothsayer in the business and I can be cruel. If this upstart who calls himself the Lord of Temporary Death is trying to whip up a new racket, he’d better ask my permission.”
“Shall I tell him that?”
“Certainly.”
I eyed the big ox of a charlatan steadily. “You—you want me to carry that insult back to him—lay you open to his wrath—”
“I spit on his wrath—”
I gave a low whistle. “Mr. Vetto, you’re tampering with temporary death.”
“Bah! Whatever this fakir’s game, he couldn’t touch me . . . Oooogh! Whooo . . . arrre . . . youuuu?” Gravelli Vetto’s huge eyes were staring at something back of me. His lower lip quivered.
In the familiar rattling voice came the stinging bitter words that made this swarthy mountain of a man turn as gray as marble.
“I ammm the Lorrrd of Temmmmpo-rarrry Deathhhh!”
The red robe whirled past me with a swish that caused a weird rustling of the purple draperies. Lord Temp stood there, tall and impressive, his teeth gleaming out of his polished yellow skull.
“Shake hands?” said Lord Temp with an evil smile, and the sparks crackled from his fingers as he extended his arm.
Gravelli Vetto didn’t shake. He sank down on the floor like a deflating balloon, and his eyes were spinning.
“That’s right,” said Lord Temp. “Sit down and think it over. My lieutenant will stay and explain the matter. Remember you don’t have a monopoly on the world’s evil doings. I, the Lord of Temporary Death, am not as new at this game as you think. You claim SABA is thousands of years old. My lieutenant knows better than that.”
“Right,” I said. “Back in my century it didn’t exist.”
“As for myself,” Lord Temp concluded, “I’ve bided my time for ages.” Then to me, “Carry on, Flinders.” And with that the lordly skeleton turned to the draperies, swung up to the tower window as gracefully as any spider monkey, and disappeared. His farewell gesture threw a shower of sparks that knocked Vetto back to the floor; and for an hour afterward the ashen-faced charlatan thought a meteor shower had his number.
CHAPTER XV
Movies from the Past
Well, I succeeded in getting Gravelli Vetto lined up and I was amazed at the way he went to work. I never saw such a splendid proof of the workings of that brightest of all the charms of the good old capitalistic system, private initiative.
Not that Gravelli Vetto wasn’t doing pretty well before we came along. His SABA was already scooping in handsome millions. But with this boost from Lord Temp he climbed straight into the multi-million brackets.
It was interesting to see how Gravelli changed his advertising. It reminded me of Hollywood in the old days when every film was announced as the most gigantic, stupendous, colossal spectacle ever produced—and the ad writers would be bankrupt for words when a greater-than-the-innumerable-world’s-greatest films came along.
Gravelli Vetto’s claims had already hit the zenith. He would positively reveal anything and everything to anybody who would place the necessary cash on the line and become a member of SABA. But now—well, he actually had something and in effect he roared and bellowed until his poor throat was hoarse.
I was fortunate enough to receive from Lord Temp an eye-witness account of the conference in which Gravelli Vetto led one of the biggest big shots of the nation back into the purple draperies.
This Wurzelle was one of the “Goldfish”—a member of the Council of Twelve who ran the country. He was a crude, blustery man with hair like yellow pine slivers and fists like sledge hammers. I knew from his political record that he was a human dynamo crossed with a buzz saw, cousin to a steam-whistle, half-brother to a jackass.
Wurzelle was the leader of the fight against Verle Marble. He would have none of Marble’s reforms to put the underfed back on their feet. He’d much rather see them knocked back on their ears or some other part of their undernourished anatomies.
“I’m a busy man,” Wurzelle had snarled at Gravelli Vetto. “Gimme the gist of your information and be quick about it.”
“Your Honor,” and you can im
agine that diabolical old myistic doing a scornful Mussolini with his jaw, “you must endorse the whole of SABA or none of it. If you are willing to see all and believe all—”
“All right, but keep my name out of your devilish ads. I got enough scraps on my hands smackin’ down these half-baked revolutions.”
“I am the possessor of information which will relieve you of all worry. See all, believe all.”
“See all, believe all,” Wurzelle had mocked. “Where’s your crystal sphere, or do you use tea leaves?”
“We shall turn off all the lights except the purple glow overhead . . . There. Now I shall retire behind this curtain and speak to you out of a trance. Stay—listen . . .”
From Lord Temp’s hiding place above the draperies he had watched the two scheming faces as these men tossed the fate of fifty million people back and forth like a bean bag.
“I don’t know where you got it,” Wurzelle had finally said. “But this new power of yours is the damndest thing I ever saw. It makes us government goldfish nothing but a swarm of flies. Whoever you stole it from, don’t let it slip out of your hands. You and I are about to make history.”
“And money,” Vetto had added.
All of which Lord Temp related to me with a shrug of his clavicles. He had no love for these big-shot shysters, but at any rate his big plan was at last in high gear.
I loved Sally Barnes for the way she comforted Bobby Hammock after that awful tragedy on the highway.
Poor Bobby, he looked at least ten years older when he came in to see me the following week. He was a changed man, and the warm humor in his youthful face had turned to a cold fire. His starry-eyed blonde was gone, a victim of ruthlessness and terror.
“The job? Thanks, I thought you’d remember me, Flinders. I’ll need something to do while I gather myself together.”
We worked along for several weeks. I left most of the original task of Prescott Barnes’ family research to him. The mysteries of Sally’s grandmother’s manuscripts were my own little oyster. I may add that I permitted myself the luxury of a few more theater dates and afternoon coffee sessions with Sally (whenever I could throw that persistent Leon King off the track) not to mention joyrides over the mountains to take in the better sunsets.
