“Hey, you,” said a loitering cop. “What you doin’?”
“Pi . . . pickin’ snipes,” said Pop hurriedly.
“Well, get along.”
Pop got without further waiting. It was quite clear to him now who was doing this. Himself! The cigarette case! Hadn’t it jerked a little whenever these things had gone?
And wasn’t he guilty of murder if these drivers and the bartender were dead?
When he was on a dark street he surreptitiously inspected the case by the faint glow of a shop window.
But there wasn’t anything unusual about it. Pop looked around and found a trash can. If this case was doing it, it certainly could make this trash can dwindle. Pop pushed the opening button. Nothing happened. He pushed the music button. Again nothing happened.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he was wrong about this. It wasn’t his cigarette case, after all. Somebody was following him, that was it. Somebody was sneaking up and doing these things to him. Well! He’d walk around and keep close watch and maybe it would happen once more. When his attention was distracted by the case, this other person— Sure, that was the answer.
Pop, feeling better, walked on to the next avenue. He took his stand on the corner near a large apartment house. This was fair game. And when the other person came near, he would take out his case and then, bow! grab the malefactor and drag him back to the paper for interview.
In a few minutes a fellow in very somber clothes came near. Pop took out his cigarette case and started to open it.
SWOssssh!
And the apartment building was gone!
Pop was shaken up by the vibration of its going but he did not lose his presence of mind. He snatched the bystander and bore him to earth.
The full light of the street lamp shone down.
He had captured a minister of the gospel!
Very swiftly Pop got away from there, leaving the minister staring after him and then, seeing the hole where a building had been, praying.
By a circuitous route, Pop came back to the hole. He almost broke a leg getting down into it, so steep were the sides. But he forgot that when he found the tiny thing which had been a building. It looked like a perfect model, about five inches high. Pop, hearing a crowd gather on the street, got out of there, stuffing the building in his pocket. There was a sting to the object which was very uncomfortable.
He almost broke a leg getting down into it, so steep were the sides. But he forgot that when he found the tiny thing which had been a building. It looked like a perfect model, about five inches high.
All Pop’s fine ideas had gone glimmering now. It was the case. It had to be. And to test it out he had probably slain hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. But his news sense was soon uppermost again.
At a safe distance from the site he again inspected the case. He pressed first one button and then the other and still nothing happened. It shook his orderly process of thought. He went on his way, case in hand, and found himself in a commercial street where great drays were parked. He went on. Before him was the waterfront.
A packing case stood upon a wharf. Pop chose it for a test and stood there for some time, pushing the case’s buttons. But the packing case stayed very stubbornly where it was.
And then, quite by accident, Pop pushed both buttons at once!
SWOOssssh!
The liner which had been at the pier abruptly vanished!
There was a snap as the after lines went. There was a small tidal wave as the seas came together.
Pop had missed his aim!
He had gotten over being stunned by now. His first thought was to snatch the hawser which had not parted. He hauled it swiftly in. The ship was barely attached to the line. Very carefully Pop looked at the tiny boat, perfect in all details, but less than three inches long. He looked hurriedly about and shoved it into his pocket.
A steward was running in circles on the dock, yelling, “They’ve stole it! They’ve stole it! Help, murder, police! They’ve stole it!”
That “murder” set badly with Pop. He got out of there.
Ten minutes later he was in a phone booth. The night editor’s voice boomed over the wire.
“Joe, this is Pop. Look, I’ve got a bar, two taxis, an apartment building and an ocean liner in my pocket. Stand by for an extra about midnight.”
“You—huh? Sleep it off, Pop. And drink one for me.”
“No, no, no!” cried Pop.
But the wire was dead.
Pop walked out of the booth, turned around and walked into it again. He dropped his nickel and began a series of calls to locate his man.
“World-Journal,” said Pop at last. “I want Barstow of Pennsylvania Railroad.”
“This is Barstow. But I’ve given out statements until I’m hoarse. Call me tomorrow.”
“You’ll be at the World-Journal in two hours if you want your station back.”
“Call me tomorrow,” repeated the voice. “And lay off the stuff. It ain’t good for you.” There was a click.
Pop sighed very deeply.
So they wouldn’t believe him, huh? Well, he’d show ’em! He’d show ’em!
And he loped for the station.
Chapter Five
I won’t,” said Hannibal, definite for the first time in his life.
They sat in Caulborn’s office and the clock said ten. Caulborn had not yet come in.
Hannibal Pertwee showed signs of having been mauled a bit. And even now he tried to make a break for the door. Pop tripped him and set him back on the chair.
“It’s no use,” said Hannibal. “I won’t tell you or anybody else. After what they did to me, why should I do anything for them?”
In the center of the room sat a gunnysack. Carefully wrapped up within it were some items Pop had found occupying the vacant spaces in the vicinity of “New York” on Hannibal Pertwee’s toy railway system.
“I’ll have you for burglary,” said Hannibal. “You can’t prove anything at all. What if I do have some models of buildings? Can’t I make models of what I please? And they’re just models. You’ll see!”
“What about those people you can see in them?” said Pop.
“They’re not moving. Can’t I make people in model form, too?”
Pop was alternating warm and chill, for he knew he was dabbling in very serious matters. Anxiously he looked at the clock. As though by that signal, Caulborn came in.
Caulborn had had a drink too many the evening before and he was in no condition to see Pop.
“What? You here again?”
“That’s right,” said Pop. “And I have—”
“There’s no use begging for that job. We don’t need anybody. Get out or I’ll have you thrown out.” And he reached across the desk for his phone.
Pop’s handy feet sent Caulborn sprawling. Pop instead pushed the button.
“Send in Mr. Graw,” said Pop, calling for the publisher.
“I’ll blacklist you!” cried Caulborn. “You’ll never work on another paper!”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Pop.
Mr. Graw, very portly, stepped in. He saw Pop and scowled. Caulborn was dusting off his pants in protest.
“What’s this?” said Mr. Graw.
“He won’t get out,” said Caulborn. “He sent for you. I didn’t.”
“Well, of all the cheek!”
Pop squared off. “Now listen, you two. I been in this business a long time. And I know what a story is worth. You’re losing money and you need circulation. Well, the way to get circulation is to get stories. Now!”
“I won’t,” said Hannibal.
On the table Pop laid out the four objects from the gunnysack: the Pennsylvania Station, Grand Central, Grant’s Tomb and the Empi
re State. Then from his jacket he took the bar, the two taxis, the apartment house and the steamship.
“I won’t!” cried Hannibal, attempting another break. Once more Pop pushed him back to the chair.
“What are these?” said Mr. Graw.
“Just what you see. The missing buildings,” said Pop.
“Preposterous! If you have gone to all this trouble just to make some foolish story—”
Pop cut Mr. Graw’s speech in half. “I’ve gone to plenty of trouble, but not to have anything made. These are the real thing.”
“Rot,” said Caulborn.
“I won’t!” said Hannibal.
“Well, in that case,” said Pop, “I’ll make you a proposition. If I restore these to their proper places, can I have my job back—permanently?”
“Humph,” said Mr. Graw. “If you can put back what this city has lost, I’ll give you your job back. Yes. But why waste our time—”
“Then call Mr. Barstow of the Pennsylvania Railroad,” said Pop. “You get him over here on the double and I’ll put the buildings back.”
“But how—”
Again Pop cut Mr. Graw down. “Just call, that’s all. You can’t afford to run the risk of losing this chance.”
“If you’re talking nonsense—” growled Mr. Graw. But he put through the call.
Caulborn was licking his lips in anticipation of what he would have done to Pop. What Caulborn had suffered in loss of pride yesterday could all be made up today. He’d show Graw!
It was an uncomfortable wait, while Hannibal protested at intervals and Caulborn rubbed his hands. But at last Mr. Barstow, in a sweat, came loping in.
“You called me, Graw? By God, I hope you’ve got news.”
Graw pointed at Pop. “This idiot claims to have your station. He says this is it.”
Barstow snatched up the “model” of Pennsylvania. It stung his hands and he put it back. He turned to Pop. “Is this a joke? That’s a perfect replica, certainly, but—”
“Look,” said Pop, “this is Hannibal Pertwee, probably the smartest scientist since Moses.”
“Oh, you,” said Barstow.
“So you know him,” said Pop.
“He used to bother us quite a bit,” said Barstow. “What is it now?”
“Ah, we get somewhere,” said Pop. “Barstow, if this gentleman replaces your Pennsylvania Station and these other objects, will you make a contract with him?”
“About his ideas on freight?” said Barstow. “I don’t know which is the craziest statement, that you’ll restore the buildings, or that anything he can think up will affect our freight. But go ahead.”
Pop yanked out a slip of paper. “I typed this. Sign it.”
Smiling indulgently, Barstow signed the agreement. Graw and Caulborn shrugged and witnessed it with their names.
“All right,” said Pop to Hannibal. “This is what you used to be begging for. You’ve got it now. Go ahead.”
And indeed Hannibal Pertwee had undergone a change. All trace of sullenness was gone from his face, replaced by growing hope. “You mean,” he said to Barstow, “that you’ll really consider my propositions? That you may utilize my findings?”
“I’ve said so in this paper,” said Barstow impatiently.
Hannibal rubbed his hands. “Well, you see, gentlemen, my idea was to reduce freight in size so that it could be shipped easily. And so I analyzed the possibilities of infinite acceleration—”
“Spare the lecture,” said Pop. “Get busy. They won’t understand anything but action.”
“Ah, yes. Action. May I have the cigarette case?”
Pop handed it over.
“You see, you turn it upside down and—”
“Wait!” cried Pop. “My God, you almost made them come back in here. You want to kill all of us?” Hastily he hauled Hannibal outside, taking the bar and a taxicab with him.
“Now,” said Pop, setting them down in a cleared space.
Hannibal caressed the case. “It was very ingenious, I thought. I had been waiting for this very thing. Apparatus would have been noticed, you see, but this was perfect. One can stand on the edge of a crowd and press the buttons, both together, and the atomic bubble within is set into nearly infinite acceleration. It spins out and engulfs the first whole object it embraces and sets it spinning in four dimensions. Of course, as the object spins at a certain speed, it is accordingly reduced in size. Einstein—”
“Just push the buttons,” said Pop.
“Oh, of course. You see, to stop the object from spinning we have merely to engulf it with an atomic bubble spinning in four dimensions, all opposite to the first—”
“The buttons,” said Pop.
Hannibal turned the case around so that it would open down. He pointed it in the general direction of the tiny taxi.
“It compresses time as well as space,” continued Hannibal. “I just release the bubble—”
swoooOOSH!
The taxi increased in size like a swiftly inflated balloon. The tick-tick-tick of its engine was loud in the room. The cabby finished opening the door and then turned to where he had last seen Pop.
“What address, buddy?” and then he saw his surroundings. He stared, gulped, looked at the ring of reporters and office men and hastily shut off his engine, shaking his head as though punch-drunk.
“Now the bar,” said Pop.
Hannibal pushed the buttons again and, suddenly—
swoooOOSH!
The bar was there, full size.
The British bartender finished filling the glass with an expert twist of his wrist. “And I says, ‘A sinful city like this will sooner or later—’” He had been turning to put away the bottle. But now he found no mirrors, only the reaches of the city room. His British calm almost deserted him.
Pop handed the drink to the cabby who instantly tossed it down.
“Now we better not have a bar in this place,” said Pop, “if I know reporters. Cabby, you and the barkeep step back here out of the way. Do your stuff, Hannibal.”
SWOssssh!
Click, click.
SWOssssh!
And both bar and taxi were toy-sized instantly. The cabby began to wail a protest, but Pop shoved the tiny car into his hands.
“We’ll make it grow up shortly,” said Pop. “Down in the street. Frankie! You and Lawson get some cameras. Freeman, you call the mayor and tell him to gather round for the fun. Sweeney, you write up an extra lead, telling the city all is well. I’ll knock out the story on this—”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” said Graw.
“Huh?” said Pop. “But you said, in front of witnesses—”
“I don’t care what I said. I’ve suddenly got an idea. Who got out those extras so fast yesterday?”
“Pop did!” yelled Sweeney, instantly joined by a chorus.
Graw turned to Caulborn. “At first I believed you. But when I got to thinking it over after I found out how fast they really had come—”
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” said Pop. “He’s just a little young.”
“Pop,” said Graw, “you can’t have his job.”
“Well, I didn’t say—”
“Pop,” said Graw, “I’ve got a better spot for you than that. You’re managing editor. Maybe you can make this son-in-law of mine amount to something if you train him right.”
“Mana . . . managing editor?” gaped Pop.
“I’m going to slip out of the job,” said Graw. “I need rest. And so, Mr. Managing Editor, I leave you to your editions.”
The roof-raising cheer which went up from half a hundred throats about them made Pop turn lobster-color. Savagely he faced around.
“Well?” said Pop. “What are you waiting for? W
e got an extra edition to get out and that means work. Hannibal, you trot along with Frankie and Lawson. They’ll help you put them buildings back. And listen, Frankie, don’t miss any shots.” Hastily he scribbled out the addresses where ship and taxi belonged and then shooed them on their way.
Pop took up the package he had left at the switchboard. He went into the office marked “Managing Editor” and laid his belongings on the desk. He shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and reached for the phone.
“Copy boy!” he shouted.
“Okay, Pop.”
Battle of Wizards
Battle of Wizards
THE humans were outnumbered and the council was grave. No one had asked them here to this dark valley on the galaxy’s rim. No one had pleaded for their arts. They had come and nothing short of miracles would let them stay.
The Mineralogy Service wanted Deltoid. Their chief had reported to the Galactic Council that Deltoid contained an almost unlimited supply of catalyst crystals in a natural state, a fact which would reduce the cost of freighter fuel manufacture by two-thirds. No one had argued with the need. The Galactic Council had sent for the Navy and had told the Navy to “safeguard” a mining expedition to Deltoid. The Navy had refused. A shot fired in the presence of catalyst crystals would wipe out the planet and therefore the project.
An order, then, had wandered through dusty corridors to a small, forsaken office in the Military Defense Building of the capital to lie amongst fly-specked papers on a scratched desk. A bored chief of section had given it to Angus McBane and Angus had offered a few faint suggestions about overdue leave. But the leave was two standard years late anyway and Angus took the smudged sheet to supply. The office of Civil Affairs did not rate very high and what he got was third- and fourth-hand.
They loaded the Argus 48 with five months’ supplies, put aboard thirty marines and eighteen sailors who had been found a disgrace to the service and gave the ship routine clearance.
Rusted and dented amid the fine shining vessels of the important classifications, the Argus 48 lay for twelve standard hours after release patching up a starboard port which had connected with a meteor and then fifteen more trying to get circulation into the jet cooling system. There was some raillery from the mechanics of the government base: the Argus 48 was sailing under a CA and couldn’t expect anything more.