CHAPTER I.
THE BIRTH OF AN IDEA.
Sunk far back in the huge leather cushions of his morris chair, oldIsaac Flint was thinking, thinking hard. Between narrowed lids, hishard, gray eyes were blinking at the morning sunlight that poured intohis private office, high up in the great building he had reared on WallStreet. From his thin lips now and then issued a coil of smoke from thecostly cigar he was consuming. His bony legs were crossed, and one foottwitched impatiently. Now and again he tugged at his white mustache. Afrown creased his hard brow; and, as he pondered, something of theglitter of a snake seemed reflected in his pupils.
"Not enough," he muttered, harshly. "It's not enough--there must bemore, more, more! Some way must be found. Must be, and shall be!"
The sunlight of early spring, glad and warm over Manhattan, brought nomessage of cheer to the Billionaire. It bore no news of peace and joy tohim. Its very brightness, as it flooded the metropolis and mellowed hisluxurious inner office, seemed to offend the master of the world. Andpresently he arose, walked to the window and made as though to lowerthe shade. But for a moment he delayed this action. Standing there atthe window, he peered out. Far below him, the restless, swarming life ofthe huge city crept and grovelled. Insects that were men and womencrowded the clefts that were streets. Long lines of cars, toy-like,crept along the "L" structures. As far as the eye could reach, tuftedplumes of smoke and steam wafted away on the April breeze. The EastRiver glistened in the sunlight, its bosom vexed by myriad craft, byocean liners, by tugs and barges, by grim warships, by sailing-vessels,whose canvas gleamed, by snow-white fruitboats from the tropics, byhulls from every port. Over the bridges, long slow lines of trafficcrawled. And, far beyond to the dim horizon, stretched out the hives ofmen, till the blue depths of distance swallowed all in haze.
And as Flint gazed on this marvel, all created and maintained by humantoil, by sweat and skill and tireless patience of the workers, a hardsmile curved his lips.
"All mine, more or less," said he to himself, puffing deep on his cigar."All yielding tribute to me, even as the mines and mills and factories Icannot see yield tribute! Even as the oil-wells, the pipe-lines, therailroads and the subways yield--even as the whole world yields it. Allthis labor, all this busy strife, I have a hand in. The millions eat anddrink and buy and sell; and I take toll of it--yet it is not enough. Ihold them in my hand, yet the hand cannot close, completely. And untilit does, it is not enough! No, not enough for me!"
He pondered a moment, standing there musing at the window, surveying"all the wonders of the earth" that in its fulness, in that year ofgrace, 1921, bore tribute to him who toiled not, neither spun; andthough he smiled, the smile was bitter.
"Not enough, yet," he reflected. "And how--how shall I close my grip?How shall I master all this, absolutely and completely, till it be minein truth? Through light? The mob can do with less, if I squeeze toohard! Through food? They can economize! Transportation? No, the trafficwill bear only a certain load! How, then? What is it they all must have,or die, that I can control? What universal need, vital to rich and pooralike? To great and small? What absolute necessity which shall make myrivals in the Game as much my vassals as the meanest slave in my steelmills? What can it be? For power I must have! Like Caesar, who preferredto be first in the smallest village, rather than be second at Rome, Ican and will have no competitor. I must rule _all_, or the game isworthless! But how?"
Almost as in answer to his mental question, a sudden gust of air swayedthe curtain and brushed it against his face. And, on the moment,inspiration struck him.
"What?" he exclaimed suddenly, his brows wrinkling, a strange and eagerlight burning in his hard eyes. "Eh, what? Can it--could it be possible?My God! If so--if it might be--the world would be my toy, to play withas I like!
"If _that_ could happen, kings and emperors would have to cringe andcrawl to me, like my hordes of serfs all over this broad land. Statesmenand diplomats, president and judges, lawmakers and captains of industry,all would fall into bondage; and for the first time in history one manwould rule the earth, completely and absolutely--_and that man would beIsaac Flint_!"
Staggered by the very immensity of the bold thought, so vast that for amoment he could not realize it in its entirety, the Billionaire fell topacing the floor of his office.
His cigar now hung dead and unnoticed between his thinly cruel lips. Hishands were gripped behind his bent back, as he paced the pricelessShiraz rug, itself having cost the wage of a hundred workmen for ayear's hard, grinding toil. And as he trod, up and down, up and down therich apartments, a slow, grim smile curved his mouth.
"What editor could withstand me, then?" he was thinking. "What clergymancould raise his voice against my rule? Ah! Their 'high principles' theyprate of so eloquently, their crack-brained economics, their rebellionsand their strikes--the dogs!--would soon bow down before _that_ power!Men have starved for stiff-necked opposition's sake, and still may doso--but with my hand at the throat of the world, with the world's verylife-breath in my grip, what then? Submission, or--ha! well, we shallsee, we shall see!"
A subtle change came over his face, which had been growing paler forsome minutes. Impatiently he flung away his cigar, and, turning to hisdesk, opened a drawer, took out a little vial and uncorked it. He shookout two small white tablets, on the big sheet of plate-glass thatcovered the desk, swallowed them eagerly, and replaced the vial in thedesk again. For be it known that, master of the world though Flint was,he too had a master--morphine. Long years he had bowed beneath its whip,the veriest slave of the insidious drug. No three hours could pass,without that dosage. His immense native will power still managed tocontrol the dose and not increase it; but years ago he had abandonedhope of ever diminishing or ceasing it. And now he thought no more of itthan of--well, of breathing.
Breathing! As he stood up again and drew a deep breath, under thereviving influence of the drug, his inspiration once more recurred tohim.
"Breath!" said he. "Breath is life. Without food and drink and shelter,men can live a while. Even without water, for some days. But without_air_--they die inevitably and at once. And if I make the air my own,then I am master of all life!"
And suddenly he burst into a harsh, jangling laugh.
"Air!" he cried exultantly, "An Air Trust! By God in Heaven, it can be!It shall be!--it must!"
His mind, somewhat sluggish before he had taken the morphine, now wasworking clearly and accurately again, with that fateful and undeviatingprecision which had made him master of billions of dollars and uncountedmillions of human lives; which had woven his network of possession allover the United States, Europe and Asia and even Africa; which haddrawn, as into a spider's web, the world's railroads and steamshiplines, its coal and copper and steel, its oil and grain and beef, itsevery need--save air!
And now, keen on the track of this last great inspiration, theBillionaire strode to his revolving book-case, whirled it round and fromits shelves jerked a thick volume, a smaller book and some pamphlets.
"Let's have some facts!" said he, flinging them upon his desk, andseating himself before it in a costly chair of teak. "Once I get anoutline of the facts and what I want to do, then my subordinates cancarry out my plans. Before all, I must have facts!"
For half an hour he thumbed his references, noting all the salientpoints mentally, without taking a single note; for, so long as the drugstill acted, his brain was an instrument of unsurpassed keenness andaccuracy.
A sinister figure he made, as he sat there poring intently over thetechnical books before him, contrasting strangely with the beauty andthe luxury of the office. On the mantel, over the fireplace of Carraramarble, ticked a Louis XIV clock, the price of which might have savedthe lives of a thousand workingmen's children during the last summer'storment. Gold-woven tapestries from Rouen covered the walls, whereonhung etchings and rare prints. Old Flint's office, indeed, had more theair of an art gallery than a place where grim plots and dealsinnumerable had been put through, lawmakers cor
rupted past counting, andthe destinies of nations bent beneath his corded, lean and nervous hand.And now, as the Billionaire sat there thinking, smiling a smile thatboded no good to the world, the soft spring air that had inspired hisgreat plan still swayed the silken curtains.
Of a sudden, he slammed the big book shut, that he was studying, androse to his feet with a hard laugh--the laugh that had presaged morethan one calamity to mankind. Beneath the sweep of his mustache onecaught the glint of a gold tooth, sharp and unpleasant.
A moment he stood there, keen, eager, dominant, his hands gripping theedge of the desk till the big knuckles whitened. He seemed theembodiment of harsh and unrelenting Power--power over men and things,over their laws and institutions; power which, like Alexander's, soughtonly new worlds to conquer; power which found all metes and bounds toonarrow.
"Power!" he whispered, as though to voice the inner inclining of thepicture. "Life, air, breath--the very breath of the world in myhands--power absolutely, at last!"