The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 28
Leamington's tired, anxious features grew into the tiny visor, relaxed as he listened to Graham's hastily detailed information. Disconnecting, Bill Graham turned to Dr. Curtis.
"The meeting is a scientific one, to be held at nine o'clock this evening in the basement of National Guarantors Building, on Water Street. I'd like to take you along."
"I'll be ready at eight thirty," she promised.
PROFESSOR Chadwich was already in the middle of his speech when Bill Graham, Harmony Curtis, and Art Wohl moved quietly down the center aisle, took their seats. The basement was full, the audience silent, attentive.
At one end of the front row, Colonel Leamington twisted around in his seat, attracted Graham's attention, jerked an indicative thumb toward a large cabinet standing guard by the only door. Graham nodded understandingly.
A rolled newspaper in one hand, the other left free for his frequent gestures, Professor Chadwick was saying, "For a couple of months the Herald-Tribune has been giving us data, and still hasn't printed half of what is available. The amount of material is so enormous that one cannot help but marvel at the manner in which the Vitons were able to operate with complete confidence in humanity's lack of suspicion. To them we must have seemed witless beyond words.
"The method of 'explaining' their own errors, mistakes, and omissions by insinuating superstitious notions to account for them, backing up those notions by the performing of so-called miracles when required, and the production of poltergeist and other spiritualistic phenomena when asked for, does credit to the hellish ingenuity of these creatures whom we have called Vitons."
"Hear, hear!" responded a few voices. "But, as the Herald-Tribune has indicated, our gullibility is less understandable when we consider that at various times Vitons were actually seen by people fortunate enough to have been born with sight far wider than the average person's. I have here data reporting things we now know to be Vitons frequenting the Fraser River district of British Columbia early in 1938, while a British United Press report dated July 21, 1938, says that the huge forest fires then ravaging the Pacific coast of North America were caused by something described as 'dry lightning', admitted to be unique phenomena.
"In 1935, in the Madras Presidency of India, was reported an esoteric sect of floating-ball worshipers, who apparently could see the objects of their devotions, although they were invisible to nonbelievers.
"The Los Angeles Examiner, of mid-June, 1938, reports a case parallel to that of the late Professor Mayo. Headed: FAMOUS ASTRONOMER LEAPS TO DEATH, it stated that Dr. William Wallace Campbell, president emeritus of the University of California, had met his end by flinging himself from the window of his third-floor flat. His son ascribed his father's act to fear of going blind. I, personally, feel sure that any fear he may have had was connected with his sight, but not quite in the manner then believed."
Disregarding the murmurs of agreement that came from his audience, Professor Chadwick said, "Believe it or not, but one man's extra-sensory perception, or else his wide-sightedness, was so well developed that he was able to paint an excellent picture showing several Vitons floating over a nightmarish landscape, and, as if he somehow sensed their predatory character, he included a hawk in the scene. That picture is Mr. Paul Nash's 'Landscape of a Dream', first exhibited in 1938, and now in the Tate Gallery, in England."
Turning his eyes toward Graham, the speaker declared, "All the evidence we have been able to gather shows that the Vitons are composed of energy in a form not only compact and balanced, but so peculiar that our spectroscopic tests are worthless. They are not made of matter in the sense that we accept matter. It seems to me the only possible weapon we can bring against them is some form of energy such as a radiation that will have a heterodyning effect, something that will interfere with the Vitons' natural vibrations. The discovery made only today by Mr. Graham, of the Intelligence Service, confirms my theory."
Raising his hand and beckoning to Graham, he concluded, "I shall now ask Mr. Graham to give you the valuable information he has obtained, and hope that he will be able to assist us still further with some useful suggestions.
IN A STRONG, steady voice, Graham addressed his audience, recounted his experience of that afternoon.
"It is imperative," he told them, "that we should immediately undertake research work in short waves projected on the radio-beam system, and determine what particular frequencies—if any—are fatal to Vitons. In my opinion it is desirable that we set up a suitable laboratory in some faraway, unfrequented spot distant from the seat of war for our evidence is that Vitons congregate where humanity swarms most thickly, and may rarely, if ever visit uninhabited regions."
"I agree. It is an excellent idea." Leamington stood up, his tall form towering above his seated neighbors. "We have found out that the Vitons' numerical strength is somewhere between one twentieth and one thirtieth that of the human race, and it is a safe bet that the great majority of them hang around fruitful sources of human and animal energy. A laboratory hidden in a desert, a locality sparse in nervous fodder, might remain unobserved and undisturbed for years."
There came a loud buzz of approval from his listeners as Leamington sat down. People felt that at last humanity was getting somewhere, doing something to rid itself once and for all of the burden of the centuries.
Already the speaker had in mind a suitable locality for the establishing of what he hoped would prove to be the first anti-Viton arsenal. The Secret Service chief bestowed a fatherly smile upon his protégé still standing on the platform. Instinctively, he knew that the plan would go through, and that Graham was destined to play a praiseworthy part, a part in keeping with the magnificent tradition of America's never seen but ever active service.
"It is of little avail," Graham went on, "to battle the Yellows without also attempting to subdue their strange overlords. To wipe out the luminosities is to remove the source of our enemies' delusions, and bring them back to their senses. Let us take immediate action by giving our solitary clue to the world."
"Why not organize our native scientists, and get them on the job?" inquired a voice.
"We shall do that, you may rest assured," Graham responded. "But as we know to our cost, a thousand widely separated experimenters are safer than a thousand in a bunch. Let the entire white world set to work, and nothing—visible or invisible—can prevent our ultimate triumph!"
They roared their agreement as he stared at the distant cabinet still standing guard over the only door. The memory of Beach was a pain within the mind that held other and equally tragic memories—the rag-doll appearance of Professor Mayo's broken body; the sheer abandon with which Dakin had plunged to his sickening end; the horrid concentration in the eyes of the man with an imaginary dog in his belly; the great black banner which had been unfurled above a tortured city.
Not much use damping their spirits in this rare moment of optimism. All the same, it was as clear as daylight that short wave research could be a move in only one of two directions—the right one, or the wrong one. Wrongness meant slavery forever. And the first indication of rightness would be the prompt and heartless slaughter of experimenters within reach of success.
There was murder in prospect, murder of every valuable intellect in the front-line trenches of this eerie campaign. It was a dreadful certainty that Graham had not the heart to mention. As the audience fell silent, he left the platform. The silence was broken by a familiar sound.
A high-pitched scream passed directly overhead. Away it went, its note shrill enough to penetrate even to this deep basement. Then, while anxious listeners sat in strained attitudes, a far-away roar came in muffled tones to their ears, and the floor shuddered as if to a minor earthquake. Silence returned for a moment, only to be ended by the dull rumble of heavy vehicles rushing along the outer street, thundering toward the new area of wreckage, blood and tears.
SANGSTER was worried, and made no attempt to conceal the fact. He sat behind his desk in the office of the department of special finance, in Bank of Manhattan, watched Graham, Wohl and Leamington, but spoke to none of them in particular.
"It's twelve days since the international broadcast giving a line to everybody from hams to radio manufacturers," he argued. "Was there any interference with that general call? There was not! Did one radio station get picked up and thrown around? No! I say that if short-wave research was a menace to the Vitons, they'd have played hell to prevent it. They'd have listed the radio experts, and had a pogrom. They took no notice. So far as they were concerned, we might have been scheming to wipe them out by muttering a magic word. Ergo, we're on the wrong track!"
"Which may be exactly what they want us to think," said Graham easily.
"Eh?" Sangster's jaw dropped with suddenness that brought grins to the others' faces.
"Your views are proof that their disinterest ought to be our discouragement." Strolling to the window, Graham regarded the battered vista of New York. "I said 'ought'. I'm suspicious of their nonchalance. The damned things know more of human psychology than experts like Jurgens have ever learned."
"All right, all right!" Mopping his brow, Sangster ruffled some papers on his desk, extracted a sheet, held it up. "Here's a report from the Electra Radio Corporation. They say short waves stink. They've thrown at passing luminosities every frequency their plant can concoct, and the spheres merely ducked out as if they'd met a bad smell. Bob Treleaven, their leading expert, says he's beginning to believe that the cursed things really do sense certain frequencies as their equivalent to odors." He tapped the paper with an accusatory finger. "So where do we go from here?"
" 'They also serve who only stand and wait,' " quoted Graham.
"Very well. We'll wait." Tilting back in his chair, the bothered Sangster assumed the expression of one whose patience is everlasting. "I've tremendous faith in you, Bill, but it's my department's money that is being poured into much of this research. It'd sure relieve my mind to know what we're waiting for."
"For some experimenter to succeed in frizzling a Viton," Graham told him. His lean, leathery face became grim. "And although I hate like hell to say it, I think we're waiting for a corpse."
"That's what has got me uneasy," Leamington's voice chipped in, his tone low, serious. "These infernal orbs are frequently peering into minds. Some day, they'll examine yours, Bill. They'll realize they've found the ace, and you'll be deader than a slab of granite when we find you."
"We've all got to take chances," said Graham imperturbably. "Look!"
The quartet stood behind the window, stared out, saw a broad arc of fire that had been born in the sky; a colossal bow wrought from the flames of hell. It swooped from west to east, fell in a swift curve, vanished. There came an awful crash that shook the heavens.
Four second later, the Liberty Building leaned over slowly, ever so slowly, lowering itself with the mighty reluctance of a stricken mammoth. It reached a crazy angle, seemed to pause, its millions of tons a terrible menace to the area it was about to devastate.
Then, as if a hand had reached from nothingness and administered the final, fateful push, the enormous pile fell faster, its once beautiful column splitting in three places. The noise of its landing was a bellow from the maw of original chaos.
Ground rumbled and rolled in long, trembling waves of plasmic agitation. A vast, swirling cloud of pulverized silicate crept sluggishly upward.
A veritable horde of spheres, blue, tense, eager, hungry, dropped from immense heights, streaked inward from all directions, their paths direct lines concentrated upon this latest fount of agony.
"One rocket shell!" breathed Leamington. "God, what a size it must have been!"
"Another Viton improvement," opined Graham bitterly. "Another advantage given to their Yellow dupes."
A TELEPHONE whirred with suddenness that plucked at their already taut nerves. Sangster answered impressed the amplifier button.
"Sangster," rattled the phone in sharp, metallic accents, "I've just been called by Padilla on the radio beam from Buenos Aires. He's got something; He says ... he says ... Sangster ... oh!"
Alarmed by Sangster's wildly protruding eyes and ghastly complexion, Graham leaped to his side, looked at the hesitant instrument's visor. He was just in time to see a face sink away from the tiny screen. It was a vague face, made indistinct by a weird, glowing haze, but its shadowy features conveyed a message of ineffable terror before it shrank from sight.
"Bob Treleaven," whispered Sangster. "It was Bob." He stood like one stunned. "They got him!"
Taking no notice, Bill Graham hammered at the telephone, raised the operator. He danced with impatience while the exchange tried to get a response from the other end. None could be obtained, neither on the open line, nor on alternative lines.
"Give me Radio Beam Service," he snapped. "Government business—hurry!" He turned to the white-faced Sangster. "Where's Electra's place?"
"Bridgeport, Connecticut."
"Beam Service?" Graham held his lips near to the mouthpiece. "A recent call has been made from Buenos Aires to Bridgeport, Connecticut, probably relayed through Barranquilla. Trace it, and connect me with the caller." Still clinging to the phone, he beckoned to Wohl.
"Get the other phone, Art. Call Bridgeport's police headquarters, tell them to get out to the Electra plant, and keep whatever they find for us. Then beat it down and have the car ready. I'll be one jump behind you."
"Right!" With a grunt of eagerness, Wohl snatched up the other instrument, jabbered into it hurriedly. Then he was gone.
Graham's call got through, he talked for some time, his face growing more and more serious, his jaw muscles lumping while he listened to the faraway speaker. He finished, made a second call, a shorter one this time.
"Padilla is dead," he told his companions. "The relay operator at Barranquilla is also dead. He must have listened in. The knowledge he gained has cost him his life." He made for the door. "A thousand to one Treleaven is just as dead as the others."
"Well, you've got your corpse," commented Leamington, with complete lack of emotion.
His remark came too late, for Graham was already outside the door, and dashing down the passage toward the levitator shafts. There was something retributory in the investigator's headlong pace, and a hard gleam lay behind that other gleam filling his wide-sighted eyes.
Air sighed in the bowels of the building as Graham's disk fled down at reckless pace, bearing him toward street level and the waiting gyrocar. He reached bottom, sprang out, his nostrils distended like those of a wolf which has found the scent and is racing to the kill.
Chapter Nine
THE ELECTRA Radio Corporation's small but well equipped laboratory was meticulous in its orderliness, nothing being out of place, nothing to mar its complete tidiness save the body flopped beneath the dangling telephone receiver.
A burly police sergeant said, "It's exactly as we found it. All we've done is to make a stereoscopic record of the cadaver."
Bill Graham nodded approvingly, bent, turned the body over. He was not repelled by the look of horror which vicious, glowing death had stamped upon the corpse's features. With deft speed, he frisked the dead man, placed the contents of the pockets on an adjacent table, examined them with shrewd attention.
"Useless," he commented disgustedly. "They don't tell me a thing." He moved his gaze to a small, dapper man fidgeting miserably beside a police officer. "So you were Treleaven's assistant? What can you tell me?"
"Bob got a call from Padilla," babbled the small man, his frightened eyes flickering from his questioner to the object on the floor. His manicured fingers nervously petted a neatly trimmed mustache.
"We know that! Who's Padilla?"
"A valuable business connection, and a personal friend of Bob Treleaven's." He buttoned his jacket, unbuttoned it, then returned to the mustache, "He's the patentee of the thermostatic amplifier, a self-cooling radio tube which we manufacture under his license."
"Go ahead," Graham encouraged.
"Bob got this call, became very excited, said he'd spread the news around so's it couldn't be stopped. He didn't mention what the news was."
"And then?"
"He went into the lab to ring up somebody. Five minutes later a gang of luminosities whizzed into the plant. They've been hanging around for days. Everybody ran for dear life excepting three clerks on the top floor."
"Why didn't they run?" asked Graham.
"They haven't yet received eye treatment. They couldn't see what was happening."
"I understand."
"We came back after the luminosities had left, and we found Bob dead beneath the phone." Another jittery fumble at the mustache, and another frightened flickering between the questioner and the corpse.
"You say that luminosities have been hanging around for days," put in Wohl. "Did they ever grab an employee, and pry into his mind?"
"Four." The small man grew more nervous than ever. "They picked on four. They got one yesterday, and he went insane. They dropped on him outside the gates, and left him a gibbering idiot."
"Well, there wasn't any about when we arrived," remarked Wohl.
"Very likely they're satisfied that this blow has prevented the plant from becoming a possible source of danger for the time being." Graham could not restrain a smile as he noted how the jumpiness of the little man contrasted with the phlegmatic air of surrounding police officers. "They'll come back."
HE DISMISSED the witness and other waiting employees of the radio plant. With Wohl's help, he searched the laboratory for scratch pads, notes, or any seemingly insignificant piece of paper that might be around, his mind recalling the cryptic clues left behind by other and earlier martyrs.
Their search was in vain. One fact, and one only, was at their disposal—that Bob Treleaven was very, very dead.
"This is hell!" groaned Wohl despairingly. "Not a lead. Not one miserable little lead. We're sunk!"
