by Don Wilcox
She dropped the card—and his arm bones flashed to catch it up before it struck the steps.
“You couldn’t possibly have any use for it, Miss Barnes. I’ll take it. Thank you. Good day.”
Sally, bless her heart, fainted right in my arms. Darned sweet of her They couldn’t take that moment away from me, even though Leon King and another boy friend did arrive a minute latter to lead her away from me. Away, as I was fully convinced, forever.
CHAPTER XXII
New Year’s Murder
The assassination of Verle Marble, the venerable Executive Secretary of the federal government, was one of the boldest and most dastardly crimes in the history of the world.
I saw that murder happen. Millions of people saw it. Television carried it to the eyes of the world at the very second it happened. And yet no one but the murderer himself knew what was taking place.
It happened during the first hour of the year 2101 while the New Year’s Eve parties were at their height the country over. No party was receiving so much attention as that of the Goldfish, who were celebrating in the Orchid Room of the Glass Capitol.
I was paying very slight attention to the broadcast until an announcer remarked that a secret service official had just fallen asleep at his post in the midst of the mad gaiety and music and chasing about of hilarious big shots and shotesses in masquerade.
When a secret service officer falls asleep at a party there’s something wrong.
The next ominous sign was the passing chatter that there was some bad drink being served. But this talk caused no alarm at the time. The orchestra was putting on a hot show that was attracting everyone’s attention and the announcer turned our vision toward the stage. A clarinet player and a comedian with a live pig in his arms were standing in front of the orchestra having a contest to see which one could produce the loudest squeal.
I laid my book aside. (I had been passing a lonely New Year’s Eve in my own room, turning through a volume by a spaceship engineer, an expert theorist on possible invasions from other planets.) Now I turned my full attention to this party. The nation’s great were thronged around the stage, and near the rear of the crowd with his back toward the televisor stood the Honorable Verle Marble.
The trained pig was winning the loudest applause, but the torture-meter indicated that the clarinet was making the worst noise. The contest went into the third chorus and then it happened.
A very rotund clown dressed in a black suit and cap and a white clown mask, and obviously stuffed with all the pillows his suit would hold, drifted into the scene from the left and skirted along the outer edge of the crowd. As later investigations proved, this disguised person had not been seen before by anyone.
At this moment Verle Marble turned, Somewhat disturbed to notice that a second secret service officer had grown so drowsy he was being led off to one side by a friend.
Then our masked clown gave Marble a friendly slap on the arm. For an interval of five or six seconds these two might be seen exchanging unequal greetings. Marble’s heavy eyebrows lifted questioningly; he didn’t know who the clown was—but there was the offer of a handshake and Marble took it.
When the clown shuffled out of the scene and Verle Marble stood in his tracks clutching his hand as if it pained him. The television announcer rushed over to him and seemed to be asking if anything was wrong. You couldn’t hear a word against that orchestra tumult. The clarinetist had gone wild and the squealing pig had given up.
The contest ended, the crowd cheered and began to unpack from its sardine formation around the stage, and then people began to take notice of Marble.
He was clutching his arm in pain, his knees were letting him down, he was sinking to the floor.
As millions of television spectators like myself must have noticed, Marble’s old enemy Wurzelle crowded in, saw what was happening, suddenly lost his boisterous laugh, and lent a hand to keep Marble from falling to the floor.
The announcer fought his way back to his television receptor and tried to follow up this amazing occurrence. But the mad confusion that followed revealed little.
Fifteen minutes later the news became more coherent. The world learned that officers were on the trail of a mystery man who had just played clown at the government party. We learned that that trail led to the southwest toward the old tungsten mines—the new Necropolis, as it was now being called.
A few minutes later the shocking news came through: Verle Marble was dead—dead from a potent poison that had entered his bloodstream through his hand and arm.
No man was ever apprehended for that crime. SABA offered the protection of a master stroke of falsehood, as I shall relate presently.
The officers who gave chase to a fleeing suspect made their failure public an hour later. They had missed their man. They declared that he had escaped the city in an autoplane and had flown straight into the open mouth of one of the old mines.
In other words, the assassin had escaped, so they declared, into the realm of Temporary Death.
It was an ingenious way out. No one could disprove the story. The ruins of the autoplane might be lying in a heap somewhere inside the mine, but no one was going to walk in and see; for it had been proved that the forces of melting still operated at the Necropolis gates.
Somebody had lied. The assassin didn’t make his escape in this way, I know. A certain skeleton told me. You see Lord Temp happened to be riding around the gateways to the Necropolis and later he assured me that no one had come around to accept the blessings of temporary death that night.
The assassination of a great and noble man takes some of the heart and soul out of a nation, and makes its good people hold tighter to whatever they love and respect. When Prescott Barnes and Sally flew back to attend Marble’s funeral rites there was much agitation among right-thinking people in favor of turning the reins of the nation over to Barnes.
“Not at this time,” Barnes replied to the press. “As long as a secret society has a chokehold on the country I wouldn’t have a chance. But if I live long enough I hope to explode SABA to atoms. I’ll be absent from the Glass Capitol for a year or more studying in Europe.”
“Studying what?” the reporters asked.
“Two very important subjects,” the Honorable Barnes told them. “First, the fakery and crimes of SABA. Second, what can be done to prepare America for the return of fifty million citizens?”
With that brief hint of his future plans Barnes flew back to Europe and Sally went with him.
Occasional newspaper accounts told of their comings and goings, and I read every scrap eagerly. Prescott Barnes didn’t know it but he wasn’t through with me. If he was going to explode SABA to atoms there were certain things I could do to help anonymously.
The newspapers told of his rejoining “the brilliant young politician,” Leon King, who had not returned for the recent state funeral. There were stories of Leon King’s debut as a young American lecturer, of his accompanying Sally Barnes to a national celebration in Spain, of the threats which Barnes received from SABA-paid thugs in Italy.
Next came a pointed story that Leon King had made a speech expressing a tolerance toward SABA. Observers noted that he might be drawing away from the influence of Prescott Barnes.
Why the split? “Because there are SABA thugs in Italy,” one sarcastic editorial jibed. “Leon King may be traveling on the Honorable Barnes’ money. He may have risen to prominence through Barnes’ influence. He may be planning to marry Barnes’ daughter. But if there are beatings in store for the enemies of SABA, young Mr. King would like it known that he is independent of Barnes’ political and moral convictions.”
The world held its breath when Prescott Barnes and daughter were reported to be visiting in Egypt. What would happen if they met Gravelli Vetto there? Yes, Vetto was still sojourning in Egypt. He had gone there just two weeks before the close of the year.
On that memorable New Year’s Eve of Verle Marble’s assassination it was believed that Gravel
li Vetto could not be reached with the shocking news because he had taken himself into a deep tomb full of hieroglyphics, deciphering mysteries of the early SABA prophets.
Then Prescott Barnes and Sally were back in Italy again, and the newspaper anticipations of a meeting of enemies in Egypt never came.
The headline that did come from Egypt was as transparent as Vetto’s claim to genius. The instant I read it I knew it was of Vetto’s own making:
“MARBLE’S FATE FORECAST BY SABA, FIVE CENTURIES AGO.”
Yes, indeed! The Egyptian members of SABA who died five centuries ago knew all about the coming of Temporary Death. They had written in timeless hieroglyphics the dire prophecy. The first nation to be visited by Temporary Death would sacrifice its leader to Permanent Death.
“These events were inevitable,” Gravelli Vetto wrote back to America. “I am duty bound to warn the men of the government that the murderer of Verle Marble must not be sought out and punished. Whoever did the deed, he was but fulfilling the ancient prophecy. “SABA sees all, believes all.
“The reason for this seemingly cruel assassination may never be revealed, but SABA knows it was necessary.” Necessary! That was a bitter laugh. The reason for the cruel assassination became apparent within a month: In a special election the Honorable Wurzelle got himself elected to the office of Executive Secretary.
Vetto rocketed back to America to officiate at a showy SABA reception and dinner, 500 redbacks a plate.
The irony of it. With one hand SABA had sanctioned the murder of the common man’s best friend. With the other it had ushered the common man’s worst enemy into the position of highest power and placed its blessing upon him.
“Thieves of a feather flock together,” I growled, talking these matters over with my red-robed friend.
“But not so cozy as you’d think,” said Lord Temp. “You should hear them scrapping over the incoming millions. Take it from an old-time eavesdropper, they’re heading for a break.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Scouts in the Sky
“To those anonymous contributors who have been sending material to my father to aid the fight against SABA, our sincerest thanks. Sally Barnes. Vienna.”
It was a small item in the personals column but to my hungry soul it weighed more than the biggest headlines of the week. Yes, more than all the headlines from the assassination of Verle Marble to the first hint of an impending invasion of Martians.
The message assured me that what I was doing for Prescott Barnes was being appreciated. That’s all I wanted to know.
He and Sally needn’t know that I was the one doing it. Ostensibly I had played my hand with them and lost. But as long as I remained anonymous I could still express my feelings in this one little service: sending letters full of inside information on their enemies.
I didn’t lack for information. Lord Temp was making a game of eavesdropping these weeks, having a wonderful time listening to his two credit usurpers divide the spoils of Temporary Death between them and hatch up new plans for hoaxing the public.
I couldn’t be quite so gleeful about it. I was never certain just what Lord Temp was made of or what the limits of his powers might be. Suppose someone should decide to melt him down. Would they find him made of tough fiber? Or was he exactly what he appeared to be, a few pounds of dry chemicals plus a liberal quantity of conversational steam?
I knew he didn’t care to walk into the path of a ray gun. Beyond this I had little or no measure of his limitations. But I didn’t feel happy about the chances he took. He was just about the only friend I had left.
What of Bobby Hammock? Well, that young venturer into realms of temporary death simply was not himself.
My letters to him had come back unopened. It looked as if I had not befriended him, but only his family, in bringing him back.
One day I met him on the street.
He greeted me quietly and we stepped into a sandwich shop.
“I’ve burned all my bridges, Jim,” he said, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. “No, I’m not working anywhere. Haven’t quite settled down yet . . . How do I spend my time? Just roaming around, thinking what a funny world it is with everybody gone. Sometimes I walk out to the old jungle grounds.”
“Not everybody’s gone, Bobby,” I said, trying to bring a little good cheer to the surface. “You know there are still millions of the world’s finest. There’s your father—and Sally—”
“They thanked you for bringing me back, didn’t they, Jim? . . . It was mighty decent of you, for their sakes.”
“Look here, Bobby,” I said, half angered by what I took to be a resentful attitude. “If you’re a fish out of water—but I know what’s your trouble. I should have rescued your pretty blonde, too. Well, the Lord of Temporary Death clamped down on me.”
“I’m not complaining,” said Bobby. “Maybe everything’s for the best.”
“Huh? You two didn’t quarrel, did you?”
“Quarrel? No, no, no. Everything was all right when I left.”
“Tell me what it was like.”
“I can’t tell you anything.”
“Was there any torture?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Did you get turned into animals—eagles or bats or something?”
“What an outlandish idea, Jim Flinders. There were fifty million of us. Don’t you think your Lord Temp got past his silly experimenting before he started in on that number?”
“You’re dissatisfied to be out, Bobby.” I emphasized my challenge by tapping the table to each word. “Why don’t you walk straight back to the mine door and melt yourself over?”
“After all the trouble you had getting me out? After all the fuss my father and sister made? After that field day the reporters had ballyhooing over my return?”
“Reporters and the rest of us be damned. If you want to go back I’ll promise you we won’t interfere again.” A funny look came into Bobby Hammock Barnes’ eyes—just a hint of the old snap and sparkle. Instantly he suppressed it in favor of the chill deadpan.
But I followed through and crowded him into a corner, conversationally speaking, and made him give. Not much but a little.
“Sorry, Jim, I just can’t talk to you,” he said. “I’ve burned all my bridges just because I don’t dare talk with anyone. I’m walking dynamite . . . I’ll go now. Some day I’ll call you.”
“I’ll count on it, Bobby. Don’t forget.”
“One thing more, Jim. Have you any news from Sally? . . . No? You don’t know whether she’s married?”
“The last news I saw, she and Leon King were taking in a concert in Vienna. Leon was scheduled up for some lectures on the hidden truths of SABA.”
“So he’s flopping!” Bobby snorted. “One of these days you’ll hear that I’ve gone SABA too.” And with a curious laugh Bobby Hammock strode away.
Week after week I combed the newspapers for news of Sally or her father. And there were a few other matters I continually sifted out: The implied evils of SABA. The scientific news on any and all types of rocket ships. Theorists of space travel following in the wake of one eccentric J. Collier Gleidermann of 1950.
Have I mentioned that there were occasional reports about the possibilities of Martian visitors? Americans had been talking of such things for longer than I could remember. But now that rocket ships were used for continent-to-continent hops, the world was convinced that space travel would come.
There were unidentified ships in the sky on three or four different dates before the anniversary of the murder of Verle Marble.
Telescopic photographs did not reveal much detail, but authorities agreed that such ships had never been seen before. The nations grew uneasy and sent messenger ships to try to make contact; but the visitors lost them high above the stratosphere. It was assumed that these newcomers had chased back to Mars, or possibly Venus.
“They may have achieved their purpose.” Such unsatisfactory comments from the authorities of international ro
cket lines were supposed to content the public. “They may be surveying the solar system for scientific purposes.”
Soon after the new year a telescopic photograph of five ships thirty-five miles above Moscow revealed a curious doughnut design with flaps for air locomotion.
In February these errant space birds were seen above central United States. From then on no other country reported any further sight of them. If any nation had cause to be alarmed it was America.
We should have been in a panic of fear. But the easy life in this country had buried our imaginations in soft cushions. Wurzelle and his government had made the country believe everything was perfect. Nothing must be changed or disturbed. The automatic machinery would keep us going. All we had to do was keep repairing or replacing our machines. We had reached the goal of all of man’s centuries of climbing.
And in supreme ignorance or stubborn blindness Wurzelle led the country to believe that our legal safeguards of peace were so tight that we could never be molested by any enemy.
Now came the thundered warning from across the seas: “If America should be attacked by other-world invaders, how can she fight back?
“Where will she find the strength to defend herself?”
That challenging thunder came from Prescott Barnes. He followed through with a charge that shook the ground beneath every American’s feet.
“OUR STRENGTH HAS FLOWN. We have sent it into Temporary Death. If an attack upon us is now in the making our only hope is to delay that attack until our fifty million return.
“Within two months our population may march back to us from the chambers of their two-year rest.
“On the other hand, they MAY NEVER RETURN.
“But if they do—have we made ready to receive them? Has the Wurzelle government so much as turned a finger to prepare the country for their return? No! It would seem that Wurzelle expects them to pick up their old life in the cardboard jungles.
“Listen to me, America. This is no idle vision. Enemies CAN pounce upon us, for we are defenseless.
