Air Trust

  CHAPTER IX.

  DISCHARGED.

  Almost all the following morning, working at his bench in theelectro-chemical laboratories of the great Oakwood Heights plant,Gabriel Armstrong pondered deeply on the problems and responsibilitiesnow opening out before him.

  The finding of that little red-leather note-book, he fully understood,had at one stroke put him in possession of facts more vital to thelabor-movement and the world at large than any which had ever developedsince the very beginning of Capitalism. A Socialist to the backbone,thoroughly class-conscious and dowered with an incisive intellect,Gabriel thrilled at thought that he, by chance, had been chosen as theinstrument through which he felt the final revolution now must work. Andthough he remained outwardly calm, as he bent above his toil, inwardlyhe was aflame. His heart throbbed with an excitement he could scarcecontrol. His brain seemed on fire; his soul pulsed with savage joy andmagnificent inspiration. For he was only four-and-twenty, and the bittergrind of years and toil had not yet worn his spirit down nor quelled theardor of his splendid strength and optimism.

  Working at his routine labor, his mind was not upon it. No, rather itdwelt upon the vast discovery he had made--or seemed to have made--thenight before. Clearly limned before his vision, he still saw the notes,the plans, the calculations he had been able to decipher in theBillionaire's lost note-book--the note-book which now, deep in thepocket of his jumper that hung behind him on a hook against the wall,drew his every thought, as steel draws the compass-needle.

  "Incredible, yet true!" he pondered, as he filed a brass casting for anew-type dynamo. "These men are plotting to strangle the world todeath--to strangle, if they cannot own and rule it! And, what's more, Isee nothing to prevent their doing it. The plan is sound. They have themeans. At this very moment, the whole human race is standing in theshadow of a peril so great, a slavery so imminent, that the most savagewar of conquest ever waged would be a mere skirmish, by comparison!"

  Mechanically he labored on and on, turning the tremendous problem in hisbrain, striving in vain for some solution, some grasp at effectiveopposition. And, as he thought, a kind of dumb hopelessness settled downabout him, tangible almost as a curtain black and heavy.

  "What shall I do?" he muttered to himself. "What can I do, to strikethese devils from their villainous plan of mastery?"

  As yet, he saw nothing clearly. No way seemed open to him. Alone, heknew he could do nothing; yet whither should he turn for help? To rivalcapitalist groups? They would not even listen to him; or, if theylistened and believed, they would only combine with the plotters, orelse, on their own hook, try to emulate them. To the labor movement? Itwould mock him as a chimerical dreamer, despite all his proofs. At best,he might start a few ineffectual strikes, petty and futile, indeed,against this vast, on-moving power. To the Socialists? They, throughtheir press and speakers--in case they should believe him and co-operatewith him--could, indeed, give the matter vast publicity and excitepopular opposition; but, after all, could they abort the plan? He fearedthey could not. The time, he knew, was not yet ripe when Labor, on thepolitical field, could meet and overthrow forces such as these.

  And so, for all his fevered thinking, he got no radical, no practicalsolution of the terrible problem. More and more definitely, as heweighed the pros and cons, the belief was borne in upon him that in thiscase he must appeal to nobody but himself, count on nobody, trust innobody save Gabriel Armstrong.

  "I must play a lone hand game, for a while at least," he concluded, ashe finished his casting and took another. "Later, perhaps, I can enlistmy comrades. But for now, I must watch, wait, work, all alone. Perhaps,armed with this knowledge--invaluable knowledge shared by no one--I canmeet their moves, checkmate their plans and defeat their ends. Perhaps!It will be a battle between one man, obscure and without means, and twomen who hold billions of dollars and unlimited resources in their grasp.A battle unequal in every sense; a battle to the death. But I may win,after all. Every probability is that I shall lose, lose everything, evenmy life. Yet still, there is a chance. By God, I'll take it!"

  The last words, uttered aloud, seemed to spring from his lips as thoughuttered by the very power of invincible determination. A sneer, behindhim, brought him round with a start. His gaze widened, at sight ofHerzog standing there, cold and dangerous looking, with a venomousexpression in those ill-mated eyes of his.

  "Take it, will you?" jibed the scientist. "You thief!"

  Gabriel sprang up so suddenly that his stool clattered over backward onthe red-tiled floor. His big fist clenched and lifted. But Herzog neverflinched.

  "Thief!" he repeated, with an ugly thrust of the jaw. Servile andcrawling to his masters, the man was ever arrogant and harsh with thosebeneath his authority. "I repeat the word. Drop that fist, Armstrong, ifyou know what's good for you. I warn you. Any disturbance, here,and--well, you know what we can do!"

  The electrician paled, slightly. But it was not through cowardice. Rage,passion unspeakable, a sudden and animal hate of this lick-spittle andsupine toady shook him to the heart's core. Yet he managed to controlhimself, not through any personal apprehension, but because of the greatwork he knew still lay before him. At all hazards, come what might, hemust stay on, there, at the Oakwood Heights plant. Nothing, now, mustcome between him and that one supreme labor.

  Thus he controlled himself, with an effort so tremendous that itwrenched his very soul. This trouble, whatever it might be, must not benoised about. Already, up and down the shop, workers were peeringcuriously at him. He must be calm; must pass the insult, smooth thesituation and remain employed there.

  "I--I beg pardon," he managed to articulate, with pale lips thattrembled. He wiped the beaded sweat from his broad forehead. "Excuse me,Mr. Herzog. I--you startled me. What's the trouble? Any complaint tomake? If so, I'm here to listen."

  Herzog's teeth showed in a rat-like grin of malice.

  "Yes, you'll listen, all right enough," he sneered. "I've named you, andthat goes! You're a thief, Armstrong, and this proves it! Look!"

  From behind his back, where he had been holding it, he produced thelittle morocco-covered book. Right in Armstrong's face he shook it, withan oath.

  "Steal, will you?" he jibed. "For it's the same thing--no differencewhether you picked it out of Mr. Flint's pocket or found it on the floorhere, and tried to keep it! Steal, eh? Hold it for some possible reward?You skunk! Lucky you haven't brains enough to make out what's in it!Thought you'd keep it, did you? But you weren't smart enough,Armstrong--no, not quite smart enough for me! After looking the wholeplace over, I thought I'd have a go at a few pockets--and, you see? Oh,you'll have to get up early to beat _me_ at the game you--you thief!"

  With the last word, he raised the book and struck the young man ablistering welt across the face with it.

  Armstrong fell back, against the bench, perfectly livid, with the waleof the blow standing out red and distinct across his cheek. Then he wentpale as death, and staggered as though about to faint.

  "God--God in heaven!" he gasped. "Give me--strength--not to kill thisanimal!"

  A startled look came into Herzog's face. He recognized, at last, thenature of the rage he had awakened. In those twitching fists and thatwhite, writhen face he recognized the signs of passion that might, on asecond's notice, leap to murder. And, shot through with panic, he nowretreated, like the coward he was, though with the sneer still on histhin and cruel lips.

  "Get your time!" he commanded, with crude brutality. "Go, get it atonce. You're lucky to get off so easily. If Flint knew this, you'd landbehind bars. But we want no scenes here. Get your money from Sanderson,and clear out. Your job ended the minute my hand touched that book inyour pocket!"

  Still Armstrong made no reply. Still he remained there, dazed andstricken, pallid as milk, a wild and terrible light in his blue eyes.

  An ugly murmur rose. Two or three of his fellow-workmen had comedrifting down the shop, toward the scene of altercation. Another joinedthem, and another. Not one of them but hat
ed Herzog with a bitteranimosity. And now perhaps, the time was come to pay a score or two.

  But Armstrong, suddenly lifting his head, faced them all, his comrades.His mind, quick-acting, had realized that, now his possession of thebook had been discovered, his chances of discovering anything more, atthe works, had utterly vanished. Even though he should remain, he coulddo nothing there. If he were to act, it must be from the outside, now,following the trend of events, dogging each development, striving inhidden, devious ways--violent ways, perhaps--to pull down this horribleedifice of enslavement ere it should whelm and crush the world.

  So, acting as quickly as he had thought, and now ignoring the man Herzogas though he had never existed, Armstrong faced his fellows.

  "It's all right, boys," said he, quite slowly, his voice seeming tocome from a distance, his tones forced and unnatural. "It's all right,every way. I'm caught with the goods. Don't any of you butt in. Don'tmix with my trouble. For once I'm glad this is a scab shop, otherwisethere might be a strike, here, and worse Hell to pay than there will beotherwise. I'm done. I'll get my time, and quit. But--remember onething, you'll understand some day what this is all about.

  "I'm glad to have worked with you fellows, the past few months. You'reall right, every one of you. Good-bye, and remember--"

  "Here, you men, get back to work!" cried Herzog, suddenly. "Nohand-shaking here, and no speech-making. This man's a sneak-thief andhe's fired, that's all there is to it. Now, get onto your job! The firstman that puts up a complaint about it, can get through, too!"

  For a moment they glowered at him, there in the white-lighted glare ofthe big shop. A fight, even then, was perilously near, but Armstrongaverted it by turning away.

  "I'm done." he repeated. He gathered up a few tools that belonged tohim, personally, gave one look at his comrades, waved a hand at them,and then, followed by Herzog, strode off down the long aisle, toward thedoor.

  "Herzog," said he, calmly and with cold emphasis, "listen to this."

  "Get out! Get your time, I tell you, and go!" repeated the bully. "ToHell with you! Clear out of here!"

  "I'm going," the young man answered. "But before I do, remember this;you grazed death, just now. Well for you, Herzog, almighty well for you,my temper didn't best me. For remember, you struck me and called me'thief'--and that sort of thing can't be forgotten, ever, even thoughwe live a thousand years.

  "Remember, Herzog--not now, but sometime. Remember that oneword--sometime! That's all!"

  With no further speech, and while Herzog still stood there by the shopdoor, sneering at him, Armstrong turned and passed out. A few minuteslater he had been paid off, had packed his knapsack with his fewbelongings, and was outside the big palisade, striding along the hardand glaring road toward the station.

  "I did it," his one overmastering thought was. "Thank heaven, I did it!I held my temper and my tongue, didn't kill that spawn of Hell, andsaved the whole situation. I'm out of a job, true enough, and out of theplant; but after all, I'm free--and I know what's in the wind!

  "There's yet hope. There'll be a way, a way to do this work! What a man_must_ do, he _can_ do!"

  Up came Armstrong's chin, as he walked. His shoulders squared, withstrength and purpose, and his stride swung into the easy machine gaitthat had already carried him so many thousand miles along the hard andbitter highways of the world.

  As he strode away, on the long road toward he knew not what, wordsseemed to form and shape in his strengthened and refortified mind--wordsfor long years forgotten--words that he once had heard at his mother'sknee:

  "_He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city!_"