He gave me a big-eyed stare. “Why, certainly. Obviously there was no use for it. In the hands of an irresponsible person it could be the source of much wrong doing."
“But — Hell, you could turn it over to the government."
He shook his head.
“All right, then," I persisted. “You could use it yourself. Think of the things you could do. You could start out by cleaning up that mess down at the City Hall. Sit in on the crooked deals and expose them."
He shook his head again. “I am force to regard your viewpoint as naive. Good government grows out of the people, it cannot be handed to them."
“Oh, well," I shrugged. “You’re probably right. Still, think of the fun you could have —" I was thinking about backstage at the Follies.
But he shook his head again. “Uses for amusement only would almost certainly involve some violation of the right of privacy."
I gave up. “Go on with your story, Cuthbert."
“Having determined to try the jest, I made my preparations. They were simple. A water gun suggested itself as the applicator and a hot water bottle served as a source of supply. Earlier today I sought an outlying intersection and experimented. The results exceeded by fondest hopes — there are at least a dozen drivers who regret having jumped the light.
“Then I came down here where the hunting is better. I was just warming up when you apprehended me."
I stood up. “Cuthbert Higgins," I said, “you are a public benefactor. Long may you squirt!"
He was pleased as a kid. “Would you like to try it?"
“Would I! Half a sec while I phone in my story."
His face fell. “Oh dear!" he moaned. “I had forgotten you were connected with the press."
" 'Chained’ is the word, Cuthbert. But don’t give it a thought. I’ll cover you like a grave."
Dobbs was difficult as usual, but I convinced him, gave my story to a rewrite man, along with the license numbers of the cars I had seen sprayed, and rang off.
Cuthbert’s car was a couple of streets away. I wanted to drive, but he managed to convince me that he was sober, in spite of the $6.40 worth of liquor in him, by balancing a pencil by its point. Besides, I really wanted to try the invisibility gadget.
It fit like a knapsack between the shoulders, with a switch on the straps in front. I threw the switch.
It was as dark as the inside of a dog. “Get me out of here, Cuthbert!" I demanded.
He flipped the switch, and came the dawn. “Naturally you were in darkness," he said. “Try these."
“These" were a pair of trick spectacles. “Rectifiers," he explained. “The shield bypasses visible light but not ultra-violet. With these you can see by ultra-violet."
“I get it," I announced, feeling smug." 'Black light.’ I’ve read about it."
“Not exactly," he said. “but that will do. Try them."
I did. They worked. No color, black-and-white like a movie peep show, but I could see with the shield up.
From then on it was “Tallyho!" and “Yoicks! Yoicks!" More fun than a Legion Convention. We penalized everything from cutting in and out to jaywalking. But a guy had to be doing something actually stupid and dangerous before we court-martialed him.
All but one. We got a horn-tooter behind us at a signal change. One of those lugs who wants the driver ahead to jump the lights so he can hurry on about his all-important business. You’ve met 'em.
Well, when this item pulled in behind us and started his serenade, I glanced at Cuthbert. “It’s a moot point," he said, “but I think there is justification."
I slipped out of the car and sprayed him just as he was leaning out to cuss Cuthbert. So I sprayed the upholstery too, just to teach him not to use naughty words.
But the high point of the day was a motorcycle cop. He had a meek little citizen backed up to the curb and was bawling the bejasus out of him for a little technicality not actually dangerous — failing to signal a righthand turn on a clear street.
I gave the overgrown ape a liberal dose, not neglecting his pretty uniform and his shy motorcycle.
The Graphic played it big: “STENCH STALKS STREETS; POLICE PUZZLED" and “WAR WAGED ON DANGEROUS DRIVERS." The other papers copied in the later editions — all except the Tide. The Tide waited to the final, then let forth a blast that would curl your teeth, demanding immediate apprehension of “the lawless terror prowling the city streets." Poor old Cuthbert was made out to be something between Jack the Ripper and Dracula, with a dash of Nero.
When I looked over the list of victims in the Graphic, I understood. On it was Felix Harris, owner-publisher of the Tide.
Felix Harris arrived in this town riding the rods. He got a job on the Tide, married the boss’s daughter, and has looked down on the common peepul ever since. He owns a pew in the right church, chairmans all the stuffed-shirt committees, and takes his cut on every racket in town. And he and his fatheaded son are notoriously bad drivers.
But heaven help the cop silly enough to give one of them a ticket!
I could smell trouble, but saw no way for Cuthbert to be nabbed, if we were cautious. Dobbs kept me on the story; Cuthbert and I spent four colossal days, taking turns driving and squirting the stinkum.
Then I got a call from the jailhouse; Cuthbert is on ice.
They had gotten him through me — seems I had been tailed for three days. They had nothing against him but suspicion, but a dick had snooped around his house and had smelled him cooking up a fresh batch of stink juice. They nabbed him.
I ducked out to see a lawyer pal of mine. He thought it was a cinch for habeas corpus, but he was mistaken. There wasn’t a judge in town who would issue a writ — we knew the squeeze was on. And Cuthbert was booked for everything from malicious mischief to criminal syndicalism. Maximum bail on each offense. total seventy thousand dollars!
The paper would go bail for a story. I knew — but not that much.
Cuthbert was unperturbed, though I did my best to explain what a jam he was in. “I know I have a loyal friend in you," he said, talking soft so the turnkey would not hear. “Can you go to my home and get the invisibility apparatus?"
“What?" I almost shouted. Then I lowered my voice in a hurry. “Didn’t they grab it?"
“I think not, else they would have questioned me about it."
It was there when I looked for it, right where we always hid it. I locked it into the trunk of my car and started back downtown, thinking that I would have Cuthbert out of clink with its help in less time than it takes to buy a hat. When it suddenly occurs to me that I have no way to use it.
Here was the hitch: If I carried it down to the jail, they would never let me hand it to him. If I wore it in, invisible myself, how would I get to his cell with it? Supposing I managed to take advantage of doors as they were opened to get into the cell blocks, and managed to find his cell — another unlikely point — how would I get out after slipping him the gear? I’d be left in the cell myself. I was already connected with the case; I had a dirty suspicion that they would throw away the key and pipe me fresh air and sunlight on alternate Wednesdays.
I pulled up to the curb.
A half hour later I had a headache and a plan, but it called for an accomplice. The plan, I mean. The headache I could manage alone.
There is a little actress, name o’ Dorothy Dardou, with whom I’ve had many a swell time. There isn’t a mean streak in her — however, she would blow up the County Courthouse if it appealed to her imagination. I phoned her, found she was in, told her to stay that way, and drove over.
I brought her up to date and then broke my plan, “You see, Dotty," I told her, trying to make it both reasonable and intriguing, “all you do is wear the shield and follow me. I do all the explaining. When we get to his cell, you slip him the shield, and out he walks, a free man."
“Leaving Dorothy in the Bastille," she adds coldly. “Had you thought of that, Cleve — or didn’t it seem to matter?"
“Yes, darling," I sai
d, “but that is the whole point in you doing it instead of me. You aren’t connected with the case, they’ve got no excuse to hold you, they don’t dare sweat you, and the whole thing is a mystery. Think of the publicity."
She did not answer right away; I could see the idea had taken hold. I relaxed.
Presently she said, “I’d better dress my smartest for this. The nearer I come to looking Junior League, the better I can put over the part."
We got her fur coat out of hock, which I charged to expense account, and I showed her how to use the gear. It all worked per plan, except that Dorothy sneezed in the elevator going up to the cell blocks and I had to cover with some fast pantomime.
Cuthbert was stuffy about it, but I convinced him that no other caper would work, and he gave in. I left them to work it out.
I had to get the details from Cuthbert later. “She is an intelligent and charming young lady," he opined, “as well as courageous."
“You’re cooking with gas, Cuthbert."
“Assuredly. We had a most interesting conversation during the two hours we allowed you to establish an alibi. At the end of that time, she took off the pack, permitted me to assume it, and gave vent to the most startling outcry it has ever been my privilege to hear. The turnkey came most immediately. When he found my cubicle occupied by a beautiful young lady, his face was a study in conflicting emotions. He felt unequal to the situation and hurriedly fetched the jailer.
“Miss Barbou gave that worthy no time to think. She demanded to be released at once, and met his request for an explanation by demanding one of him. When the jailer, sweating copiously, opened the door for her, I slipped out in the confusion.
“She was not content to let well enough alone, but demanded to be taken to the Chief of Police at once. Having no choice in the matter of doors, I perforce, followed along. There were gentlemen of the press there —"
“My work," I stuck in.
“Excellent. She distressed the chief very much by propounding the theory that she had been drugged and kidnapped by his own men."
“Good girl! Did the boys get pictures?"
“In quantity."
We hid Cuthbert, for the time being, with an aunt of mine, since he obviously could not stay at his place nor mine. The Tide was still howling for his blood. I wrote an opus for the Graphic which suggested, in a nice way of course, that he had been done away with in jail, and that the Dotty incident had been framed to cover it up.
I told Cuthbert to keep indoors, and in particular not to play with his squirt gun as it would queer my “foul play" story. This irked him. He wanted especially to draw a bead on the judge of the traffic court, as I had inadvertently let him in on how the old fraud fixed tickets for the “right" people. Cuthbert’s indignation you wouldn’t believe. How a man could reach his age and still be that naive I don’t see.
He sputtered about “equality before the law" and such matters. I had to calm him down and exact promises.
He didn’t keep the promises very well. I have to piece this part of the yarn together as I did not see all of it. It seems he was taking a walk, in the shield of course, which wasn’t so bad, but carrying his squirt gun, which was strictly against contract.
He had just crossed the intersection of two boulevards, when a big sedan, doing about sixty, goes through against the signals. It just misses two cars going with the lights, and one of them climbs the curb and crashes him into a store window.
This is too much for Cuthbert. He steps off the curb, takes careful aim, and gets the driver of the sedan right in the eye. Then he jumps back, for they almost run him down. Filled with remorse, he went down to see if he could help. As he does, four men pile out of the car. One of them is wiping his eyes, two of them are carrying guns, and one is lugging a small child.
“I felt instinctively," Cuthbert tells me later, “that they were malefactors of some sort. So I shouted for them to put up their hands, meanwhile brandishing my water pistol."
I arrived on the scene right after this, in a police squad car. I had been at the station when the call came in and went along to cover it. For it’s a kidnapping and a big one — old Felix Harris’s grandson and probably the only person in the world he really cares about.
We find a curious scene. One of the kidnappers is down, shot in the leg by Cuthbert with one of their own gats, two of them are wiping eyes and moaning, and one is very quiet. The kid is sitting on the grass, crying.
When Cuthbert sees us, he crumples up at the knees.
Cuthbert is not only a hero; the charges against him are quietly dropped. The secret of the shield is safe, as the police car ran over it there in the gutter, and crushed it beyond recognition. The boys are puzzled as to how he can have spread so much skunk juice with the entire town looking for him, and question him not a little before they let him go but he has an answer ready. “I’m naturally inconspicuous," he told them. “Nobody ever notices me. You just didn’t see me."
Which was true, as far as it went.
I groaned so over the destruction of the shield that Cuthbert promised to build me a new one for my birthday. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve got some plans of my own.
Goldfish Bowl
Astounding Science Fiction, March 1942 as by Anson MacDonald
On the horizon lay the immobile cloud which capped the incredible waterspouts known as the Pillars of Hawaii.
Captain Blake lowered his binoculars. “There they stand, gentlemen."
In addition to the naval personnel of the watch, the bridge of the hydrographic survey ship U. S. S. Mahan held two civilians; the captain’s words were addressed to them. The elder and smaller of the pair peered intently through a spyglass he had borrowed from the quartermaster. “I can’t make them out," he complained.
“Here — try my glasses, doctor," Blake suggested, passing over his binoculars. He turned to the officer of the deck and added, “Have the forward range finder manned, if you please, Mr. Mott." Lieutenant Mott caught the eye of the bos’n’s mate of the watch, listening from a discreet distance, and jerked a thumb upward. The petty officer stepped to the microphone, piped a shrill stand-by, and the metallic voice of the loudspeaker filled the ship, drowning out the next words of the captain: “Raaaaange one! Maaaaaaaan and cast loose!"
“I asked," the captain repeated, “if that was any better."
“I think I see them," Jacobson Graves acknowledged. “Two dark vertical stripes, from the cloud to the horizon."
“That’s it."
The other civilian, Bill Eisenberg, had taken the telescope when Graves had surrendered it for the binoculars. “I got 'em too," he announced. “There’s nothing wrong with this 'scope, Doc. But they don’t look as big as I had expected," he admitted.
“They are still beyond the horizon," Blake explained. “You see only the upper segments. But they stand just under eleven thousand feet from water line to cloud — if they are still running true to form."
Graves looked up quickly. “Why the mental reservation? Haven’t they been?"
Captain Blake shrugged. “Sure. Right on the nose. But they ought not to be there at all — four months ago they did not exist. How do I know what they will be doing today — or tomorrow?"
Graves nodded. “I see your point — and agree with it. Can we estimate their height from the distance?"
“I’ll see." Blake stuck his head into the charthouse. “Any reading, Archie?"
“Just a second, captain." The navigator stuck his face against a voice tube and called out, “Range!"
A muffled voice replied, “Range one — no reading."
“Something greater than twenty miles," Blake told Graves cheerfully. “You’ll have to wait, doctor."
Lieutenant Mott directed the quartermaster to make three bells; the captain left the bridge, leaving word that he was to be informed when the ship approached the critical limit of three miles from the Pillars. Somewhat reluctantly, Graves and Eisenberg followed him down; they had barely time enough to d
ress before dining with the captain.
Captain Blake’s manners were old-fashioned; he did not permit the conversation to turn to shop talk until the dinner had reached the coffee and cigars stage. “Well, gentlemen," he began, as he lit up, “just what is it you propose to do?
“Didn’t the Navy Department tell you?" Graves asked with a quick look.
“Not much. I have had one letter, directing me to place my ship and command at your disposal for research concerning the Pillars, and a dispatch two days ago telling me to take you aboard this morning. No details."
Graves looked nervously at Eisenberg, then back to the captain. He cleared his throat. “Uh — we propose, captain, to go up the Kanaka column and down the Wahini."
Blake gave him a sharp look, started to speak, reconsidered, and started again. “Doctor — you’ll forgive me, I hope; I don’t mean to be rude — but that sounds utterly crazy. A fancy way to commit suicide."
“It may be a little dangerous —"
“Hummph!"
“— but we have the means to accomplish it, if, as we believe to be true, the Kanaka column supplies the water which becomes the Wahini column on the return trip." He outlined the method. He and Eisenberg totaled between them nearly twenty-five years of bathysphere experience, eight for Eisenberg, seventeen for himself. They had brought aboard the Mahan, at present in an uncouth crate on the fantail, a modified bathysphere. Externally it was a bathysphere with its anchor weights removed; internally it much more nearly resembled some of the complicated barrels in which foolhardy exhibitionists have essayed the spectacular, useless trip over Niagara Falls. It would supply air, stuffy but breathable, for forty-eight hours; it held water and concentrated food for at least that period; there were even rude but adequate sanitary arrangements.
But its principal feature was an anti-shock harness, a glorified corset, a strait jacket, in which a man could hang suspended clear of the walls by means of a network of Gideon cord and steel springs. In it, a man might reasonably hope to survive most violent pummeling. He could perhaps be shot from a cannon, bounced down a hillside, subjected to the sadistic mercy of a baggage smasher, and still survive with bones intact and viscera unruptured.
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