PAST MASTERS

SEVENTY SEVEN

12 May 2022

Produced by Terry Walker

("Pulpmeister")

Contents

1: A Silent Witness / Richard Marsh

2: The People of Pan / Henry S Whitehead

3: Something for the Kid / Ellis Parker Butler

4: The Planeteer / Homer Eon Flint (novella)

5: A Deal in Mines and Morals / Edward W Townsend

6: Mr. Wellaway's Host / Ellis Parker Butler

7: Murder By Accident / Roger Torrey

8: Dice and No Dice / Roger Torrey

9: Ticket to Death / John Ryan

10: You Bet Your Life / Norbert Davis

Cumulative Index  # 61-77

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1: A Silent Witness

Richard Marsh

1857-1915

Ainslee's Magazine, April 1899

The Living Death

I DOUBT if a more terrible thing ever happened to any man than that which happened to me in the autumn of 1883. The memory of it all is with me now as though it were but yesterday. And sometimes I wake shrieking in my dreams, and lie awake all night, oppressed with a great agony of fear.

I was a clerk in Burton's Bank at Exeter. For some days I had been queer and out of sorts. More than once I had been conscious of what seemed to me a sudden numbness of the limbs. For instance, on two separate occasions I had been incapable of rising from my office-stool. My wife and fellow-clerks noticed that I did not seem to be in my usual health, and my wife in particular had been urgent in entreating me to take my annual holiday without delay. But I had some complicated accounts to balance which I was unwilling to leave undone. And that more especially since they had given me an infinitude of trouble, the sought-for balance being exactly the thing I could not get.

It was the evening of September I4th. It was a Friday. I had decided at the last moment to remain at the bank after the rest had gone, for I had arranged that if I could get the accounts all right I would start for Penzance on the following morning with my wife. God alone knows how I yearned for a sight of the sea!

It had been a hot day, that Friday— a terribly hot day— and all day long I had been conscious not only of a curious unwillingness, but of an absolute incapacity, to move. In some extraordinary way my limbs seemed in a measure to have passed from my control. I suppose it was past six o'clock. I was all alone in the bank; the rest of the establishment had left a good hour ago. I was leaning forward on my desk, racking my brains to think where the error could be, when— shall I ever forget it?— in an instant— in a flash of lightning— I became conscious of a singular sensation which was stealing over me. It was just as though some malevolent spirit had woven a spell and deprived me of the power of motion. I was spell-bound, rooted to my seat, as helpless as though I had been struck by the hand of death.

The strangest part of it was that while in that sudden, awful visitation I had lost the use of my limbs, I had preserved my faculties intact. I could see— straight in front, that is— for not only could I not turn my head a hair's-breadth to either side, not only could I not even close my eyes, but I could not even change the direction of my glance. I could only look straight in front of me with what I felt instinctively must be a fixed, horrible, glassy stare. But what there was in front of me, that I could plainly see. And I could hear. Indeed, my hearing seemed to be unnaturally keen. For instance, Burton's Bank is in the Cathedral Yard. Not only could I hear every footstep which passed even on the other side of the Cathedral— no slight distance for the sound of a foot to travel— but I could hear the traffic that went up and down Fore Street Hill, and over the bridge, right away to St. Thomas' on the other side. And worse— for God knows that in the horror of all that followed it was of a surety the worst of all!— I could think. My brain, like my hearing, seemed to have become phenomenally clear. Instantaneously I knew what had come upon me. It was catalepsy. I was in a cataleptic fit!

I felt no pain— physical pain, at least. In that sense I was like a man whose physical side is dead, but whose mind still lives. And as I sat there hour after hour, dead, my agony of mind rose to such a climax that I cannot but think that it transcended whatever agony of body the most morbid imagination has at any time described.

It became dark— so dark that my eyes became useless for any purposes of sight, and yet they would not shut. It became silent, too— the intense silence of the night. But all at once, when the night was stillest, a sound struck on my ears— a peculiar sound, as of someone who walked with muffled steps. And then— could it be? Yes! A window was being opened close at hand.

I cannot doubt but that the only thing which had kept me from promptly falling on to the floor when the fit had first taken me, was the fact that I was leaning so forward that the greater part of my weight was on the desk. So, leaning forward on the desk, I stayed. Just in front of me was a glass partition, on the other side of which was the inner office, in which the safe was kept. It was the window of this inner office which was being opened now. By what I cannot but suppose was a providential accident, since I could not alter the direction of my glance, the safe was right in my line of sight; and so, although I could not immediately see who it was that entered, directly the mysterious intruder came between myself and the safe I could see him plainly.

At first all was dark. Then a light was struck, and someone, bearing a shaded lantern in his hand, appeared in my line of sight.

It was Philip Morris, our head cashier, and practically the manager of the bank!

I shall never forget my unutterable amazement when I perceived that it was he. What could bring him there at such an hour, in such a way? He wore a light dust coat which was unbuttoned down the front, so that I could see his dress-clothes beneath and the diamonds gleaming in his shirt.

He carried a small leather bag in his hand. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket; with these he unlocked the safe. From it he took a quantity of notes— I could hear them rustle— and several bags of gold, which jingled as he dropped them in his bag. Then he turned right round, so that I saw him full in the face.

"If Wheeler could only see me now!"— I should mention that my name is Wheeler— Richard Wheeler. The allusion was to me. "I guess he would soon unriddle the mystery of his accounts. Well, the game is up, I suppose; I have had my fling, even if the result is penal servitude for life. I flatter myself that few men would have had the dexterity to carry it on so long."

He came a few steps forward, the lantern in his hand, and suddenly stopped short. His eyes were fixed on the glass partition. On his face there was an expression of the most awful ghastly fear. His lips seemed parched; he gasped for breath. For a moment I thought he would be seized with a convulsion, but he had sufficient control over himself to ward off that. He spoke at last, and his voice was like the voice of a strangled man.

"Wheeler! Wheeler! Is it you? For God's sake, don't look like that! Your eyes are horrible!"

He covered his own eyes with his hand; I could see him shudder. Then he looked again; his mood was changed. With quick, firm steps he advanced to the partition door, and entered the office in which I was.

"I suppose you think you have caught me?" he cried. "I congratulate you upon your cleverness; but perhaps, my friend, you have caught more than you think."

Suddenly he seemed struck by my immobility. He came a step nearer.

"Why do you sit there like a wooden block, you hypocritical old fool? Do you hear? Can't you speak? You think you have trapped me very neatly, eh?"

He paused, he came a step nearer.

"Can't you speak, you fool? Wheeler! Wheeler!"

He laid his hand upon my shoulder; he shone the lantern in my face. Suddenly he gave the most dreadful shriek that ever yet I heard.

"My God!" he cried, "he's dead!"

In his sudden fear the lantern fell from his hand with a crash. He gave me a push which sent me flying head-foremost to the floor. And where I fell, there, like a dead man, I lay.

The Conscious Corpse

I LAY on my own bed in my own room. Oh! what had I ever done to deserve the agony which I endured then? There was my wife on her knees beside the bed; there was a candle which flickered on the chest of drawers, although daylight already streamed into the room; and there was I, wrapped in the garments which enfold the dead. How my wife wept! How she mourned in the sudden anguish of her woe! Now she called on God for mercy and for strength, and now she got upon the bed and pillowed her head upon my breast, or bedewed my face with her kisses and her tears.

"Richard!" she cried. "Richard! After all these years! My own! My dear!"

And then she wept as though her heart would break. Who shall conceive my agony as I lay there?

A little later there was this scene. Five men came into the room. There was Dr. Leverson, my old medical attendant; Wilfrid Burton, the banker, whom, man and boy, I had served for thirty years; Mr. Fellowes, the lawyer to the bank; Philip Morris, that accursed thief; and Captain Philipson, the chief of the county police.

It was Mr. Burton who spoke first. His voice was dry and cold— very different to the kindly, pleasant voice I knew so well.

"Before we go any further, I suppose, Dr. Leverson, there is no doubt that this wretched man is dead? That you certify? No autopsy necessary, or anything of that sort?"

Dr. Leverson smiled a superior smile.

"Richard Wheeler is certainly dead. I have the certificate of death in my pocket. The funeral is already arranged. He died from valvular disease of the heart— a disease of whose presence I have long been aware." My brain reeled as I listened to the glib announcement. "Doubtless his death was accelerated at the last by a sudden shock."

"God," said Mr. Burton, with a solemnity the unconscious irony of which was hideous, "saw fit to strike down the criminal at the moment of his crime."

I wondered what Philip Morris looked like as he heard the words. This time he was out of my line of sight.

"And now," continued Mr. Burton, "to proceed to the business which has brought us here. I need not point out to you, Dr. Leverson, that all that passes here is in the strictest confidence." I presume that the doctor bowed his head. "The bank has been the victim of—" the speaker's voice trembled, and I felt that my wife covered her face with her hands "of the most terrible dishonesty. To what extent the affair has gone I have not yet had time to ascertain, but I fear that we have been robbed to the extent of at least a hundred thousand pounds."

A hundred thousand pounds! My God! No wonder I could not get the accounts to balance! That villain had robbed us of a hundred thousand pounds at least, and I lay speechless there.

"Mr. Morris will repeat the statement which he has already made to me. You, Mr. Fellowes, will kindly take it down, and we will have it attested in the presence of Captain Philipson. Mrs. Wheeler, you need not stop; it will only be painful to your feelings. Indeed, I think you had better go away."

"Sir," said my dear wife— oh, how her dear voice rang through my brain!— "whatever Mr. Morris may have to say, I never shall believe that my dear husband was a thief. I have known him to be a true husband and a God-fearing man for nearly thirty years."

"Ah, Mrs. Wheeler, how appearances may deceive. I had to the full as much confidence in him as you. Before you think that I misjudge him, hear what Mr. Morris has to say."

Philip Morris began his tale. It flashed upon me in an instant that he had availed himself of my supposed decease to fasten his guilt upon my head. But I had never imagined that anyone in his circumstances could have carried the matter through with so easy an air. There was even an affectation of pathos in his tones as he filled in the details of his horrid lie.

"I had been spending the evening at Mr. Fisher's"— Mr. Fisher was one of the minor canons, a bachelor, who was reputed to have a taste for whist and for hours which were, perhaps, a little uncanonical. "I was returning home, when, on passing the bank, I noticed that there seemed to be a light in the office in which the safe is kept. The window, as you know, is but a few feet from the ground. I have often pointed out how easy it would be for a thief to get in that way."

"I know you have! I know you have!" said Mr. Burton.

The hypocrite went on:

"To my surprise I found it was unlatched. I opened it. Whoever was within was too much absorbed in his occupation to notice what I did. I looked through the open window and saw that someone was in the inner office, but who it was I could not at first perceive. I climbed through the window and went in. Directly I entered the man looked up; it was Richard Wheeler. When he saw me he gave the most awful scream I think I ever heard, and fell down— dead. So soon as I had recovered from my bewilderment, I went to the window and called for help. A constable who heard me came to my assistance. Together we examined the room. That is all I have to say. I only wish that I had not to say so much."

"But there is more that must be said," Mr. Burton took up the strain. "In the grate were found the half-consumed fragments of the accounts, which, if they had been suffered to continue in existence, would inevitably have betrayed the dead man's crime. The safe was found wide open— it is— still a mystery how he contrived to open it ransacked of all the chief valuables it contained. On his desk was found a bag containing five hundred pounds in gold, and in his pockets notes for a thousand pounds. But notes and gold to the value of ten thousand pounds, and securities to a very large amount, are gone. We have still to find out where. I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Wheeler, that to search this house is one of the purposes which has brought us here."

"Sir," said my dear wife, "you need make no apology. You are welcome to search the house from attic to basement. You will find nothing that was not righteously my dear husband's own."

The Coffin Breaks

FOR FIVE DAYS I lay there— dead. Words cannot describe the agony I endured. Conceive it if you can. Picture yourself in my position; conceive what you would suffer then. Far better had I indeed been dead.

On the second day they came and measured me for my coffin. Think of it— a living man! On the fourth day they brought it home, and I was placed within. There were two of them that brought it, and as they placed me in that narrow box they cracked their little jest.

"A tight fit, isn't he?" said one.

"Ah," replied his fellow, "they'd have given him as tight a fit if he had lived; four good strong walls for life."

"Who'd ever have thought old Dick Wheeler would have done a bit upon the cross?"

"Well," again replied his fellow— how I loathed that man!— "I would for one. I never knew a psalm-singer yet that wasn't a robber and a thief."

When that choice pair had gone, my wife came in and looked at me as I lay in my last bed. She had a wreath in her hand, which she placed upon my breast, and a white rose, which betokened innocence, which she placed within the wreath. She stooped and kissed me on the brow; and as she did so she burst into a flood of tears.

"Oh, God!" she cried, "show that my dear husband was not a thief!"

The next day, the fifth, they came and screwed me down. Imagine that! I learnt from what they said that they feared that if, in that hot weather, I was left for a longer time exposed, decomposition would set in. When they had already placed the lid upon my coffin, my wife came running in. I learnt that they had come in her absence to shut me for ever from her sight. They imagined that if she were there she might object to what they did. Her appearance disconcerted them. She made them immediately remove the lid, and bade them withdraw from the room, so that she might have final solitary communion with her dead.

She knelt down by the side of my coffin and prayed. She expressed the most profound belief in the innocence of the man who had been her husband for nearly thirty years, and she besought the Most High that He would expound that innocence, and make it clear to man. Then she stood up and kissed me on the lips— kissed me a last good-bye!

Then she left me, to the full as broken-hearted as she herself, and the undertaker's men returned and screwed me down. They put the lid upon my coffin, and shut from me the blessed light; for no one had closed my eyes. They had tried to, but the lids would not come down. I could hear the traffickers in death laughing and jesting as they drove the screws well home. When they had done their work, and gone, I was a prisoner indeed.

How long I remained in that box screwed down I never knew. It seemed to me a hundred years. A dreadful thought came to me, not once but again and again, with recurring force. Suppose that I indeed was dead? Who knows the mysteries of death? Is it not conceivable that when the body dies, the mind, which has such a mysterious affinity with the soul, may live? If I were dead, and my shame should live! Was it possible that through the long cycle of the years, the aeons, which were still to come, my mind should be alive and I be dead? … It is not strange that my pen should tremble as I recall the thoughts which racked me then.

Racked me with such intensity that, even in my state of death, I feared I should go mad. And then? What then? Mad through the aeons in the womb of time! Even dead, I thought my brain would burst. I tried to scream. I struggled as with the issues of life and death for the power to give expression to the great agony of my fear and pain.

And then? What happened then? To this hour I cannot precisely say. I know that while, mentally, I struggled with inconceivable eagerness to cry out, I suddenly awoke. I know no other word to use. I knew I was alive. Alive, and prisoned in that box! And I do believe that for the first few moments of my resurrection— what was it else?— I actually was mad. I had a madman's strength, at any rate. I struggled like a madman, too— struggled to be free— and with such strength that I burst the box, forced the coffin's sides, and was a prisoner no more.

I stood upon my feet. As I did so I discovered that my display of strength must have been a sort of frenzy, for indeed I was so weak that at first I could not stand. I sank back upon the bed. But only for a moment. There was that within me which gave me strength. I was filled with an overmastering desire to proclaim my innocence and bring home to the criminal his crime. Wholly regardless of the clothes I wore, forgetful of them even, I went down the stairs into the street, and ran to Mr. Burton's as certainly I never ran before.

I must have cut a pretty figure as I ran, but Mr. Burton's great house was within a couple of hundred yards of my more modest residence, the hour was late, and I never met a creature on the way. I was well acquainted both with the banker's habits and his house. I knew that often, when the rest of his household was fast asleep, Mr. Burton would sit for hours writing in the study which opened on to the lawn at the back. To this room I hastened. It was as I supposed. There was a bright light within. I turned the handle of the French window; it yielded to my touch. Without pausing for an instant to reflect on what the consequences of my act might be, I burst into the room.

As I entered, Mr. Burton was sitting writing at a table. He looked up. When he saw me he rose from his seat. He clutched the edge of the table. He gazed at me, speechless, unable to believe that what he saw was real.

"Wheeler!" he gasped at last; "Richard Wheeler!"

"Yes, sir, 'tis I! Not dead, but living! This is no ghost you gaze upon, but a creature of flesh and blood, to whom God has given strength to declare his innocence and expose another's crime."

I poured out my tale. He was too bewildered at first to grasp the meaning of my words. It was all so unexpected and so strange that he was unable to realise that he was not the victim of some dreadful dream. But it became plain to him at last. It was painful to see his agitation as he began to grasp the purport of my revelation.

"You had a cataleptic fit!"

"If it was not catalepsy, I know not what it was. I am no doctor, sir."

"And you were within an ace of being buried alive! The thought is terrible."

"It was terrible to me."

"And you saw— you actually saw— Philip Morris rob the safe?"

"I was a silent witness of his crime. It was only when he supposed that I was dead that it occurred to him to place the guilt upon my shoulders."

"What a villain the man must be! It seems incredible! But the whole story seems incredible for the matter of that, and the most incredible part of it is your presence here. But even supposing what you say is true— and God forbid, after what you have told me, that I should deny it— how are you going to prove his villainy?"

"Mr. Burton, I am but newly come from the chambers of death."

"For heaven's sake don't talk like that! You make my blood run cold."

"But the fact is so; and things are revealed to me which to you are hidden." I rose up, still in my grave-clothes, trembling like a leaf. "At this instant the thief is at his work again, and tampers with the safe. Mr. Burton, I entreat you to come with me to the bank; his villainy shall be proved to-night."

"Come with you— to the bank— at this hour of the night!"

But I had my way. The banker lent me some of his own clothes, and a cloak was thrown over my shoulders. The coachman was roused; a carriage was ordered out. Within a very few minutes we were seated in it, and were being driven swiftly towards the bank, through the silent streets, to catch the criminal in the very moment of his crime.

The carriage was drawn up some little distance from the bank. We got out. Mr. Burton had the key of the private door. We approached swiftly, yet silently as well. Our chief object was not to give the slightest alarm.

On the very threshold Mr. Burton paused.

"I am afraid that this is a wild-goose chase that you have brought me on. Some folks would even call it by a stronger name."

"Can you not hear him? Hark! He rustles a bundle of notes! They are those notes which were missing, and which you searched my house to find."

"Hear him, Wheeler? Are you mad? When he is in the private office— if he is anywhere at all— and we are out in the street!"

"I can hear him, if you can't. Give me the key, or open the door. Every moment which we waste increases his chances of escape."

Hesitatingly— I believe he doubted my sanity even then— Mr. Burton put the key into the lock. Noiselessly it turned. Without a sound the door swung open on its well-oiled hinges. We stood inside. It was pitch dark.

"Hadn't we better have a light? I cannot see my hand before my face. We shall be falling over something if we don't take care."

"I need no light. Remember my eyes have grown accustomed to the dark. You, sir, have only to keep close to me."

I led the way. He followed close upon my heels. Suddenly I paused.

"See! There is a light!"

Sure enough there was, in the inner room— in that inner room in which the safe was kept. I caught Mr. Burton by the arm. "Sir, come a little farther, and you shall see it all. You shall see the criminal detected in his crime."

I did not tremble then; I had become quite cool and calm.

I knew my hour was at hand. With unfaltering fingers I unloosed the cloak from about my shoulders and stood revealed in my cerements, as though I had new-risen from the grave. And then—

Then I stole by the outer door into the office in which I had been overtaken by that strange mockery of death. Through the glass partition, sure enough, I saw at a glance that Philip Morris, lantern in hand, was at his old work, busied with the contents of the safe. I leaned right forward on the desk, and tapped with my fingers against the glass. He caught the sound at once, but for a moment did not perceive from whence it rose. He approached the partition; I saw him trembling as he came. I saw his face was ghastly white.

When he was quite close, in my grave-clothes I rose straight up, and, looking him straight in the face— his pallid, panic-stricken face— I raised my arm above my head, and in a loud voice cried out

"Thou thief!"

A WILD SHRIEK rang through the night; and sometimes in my ears I seem to hear it still!

When Mr. Burton and I ran in we found him, stricken by a sudden agony of conscience-stricken fear, a bundle of bank notes in the frenzied grip of his right hand, lying in a fit upon the floor.

____________________

2: The People of Pan

Henry S Whitehead

1882-1932

Weird Tales March 1929

I, GERALD CANEVIN of Santa Cruz, have actually been down the ladder of thirteen hundred and twenty-six steps set into the masonry of the Great Cylinder of Saona; have marveled at the vast cathedral underground on that tropical island; have trembled under the menacing Horns of the Goat.

That this island, comparable in area with my own Santa Cruz, and lying as it does only an overnight's sail from Porto Rico's metropolis, San Juan, quite near the coast of Santo Domingo, and skirted almost daily by the vessels of the vast Caribbean trade— that such an island should have remained unexplored until our own day is, to me, the greatest of its many marvels. Through his discovery, Grosvenor is today the world's richest man.

How, under these conditions, it could have been inhabited by a cultured race for centuries, is not hard, however, to understand. The cylinder— but the reader will see that for himself; I must not anticipate. I would note that the insect life has been completely re-established since Grosvenor's well-nigh incredible adventure there. I can testify! I received my first (and only) centipede bite while on Saona with Grosvenor, from whose lips I obtained the extraordinary tale which follows...

'BUT,' protested Grosvenor, 'how about the lighthouse? Isn't there anybody there? Of course, I'm not questioning your word, Mr Lopez!'

'Automatic light.' The Insular Line agent spoke crisply. 'Even the birds avoid Saona! Here— ask Hansen. Come here, will you, Captain?'

Captain Hansen of the company's ship Madeleine came to the desk. 'Vot iss it?' he asked, steely blue eyes taking in Charles Grosvenor.

'Tell Mr Grosvenor about Saona, Captain. You pass it twice a week on your run to Santo Domingo. I won't say a word. You tell him!'

Captain Hansen lowered his bulk carefully into an office chair.

'It iss a funny place, Saona. Me, I'm neffer ashore there. Nothing to go ashore for. Flat, it iss; covered down to de beach with mahogany trees— millions of mahogany trees. Nodding else— only beach. On one end, a liddle peninsula, and de automatic light. Nobody iss dere. De Dominican gofferment sends a boat vunce a month with oil for de light. Dat's all I could tell you— trees, sand, a dead leffel; nobody dere.'

The captain paused to light a long black cigar.

Grosvenor broke a silence. 'I have to go there, Captain. I am agent for a company which has bought a mahogany-cutting concession from the Dominican government. I have to look the place over— make a survey. Mr Lopez suggests that you put me ashore there on the beach.'

'Goot! Any time you made de arrangement here in de office, I put you on shore dere, and— I'll go ashore with you! In all de Seffen Seas neffer yet did I meet a man had been ashore on Saona. I t'ink dat yoost happens so. Dere iss noddings to go ashore for; so, efferybody sails past Saona.'

The captain rose, saluted the agent and Grosvenor gravely, and moved majestically toward the narrow stairs which led to the blazing sidewalk of San Juan below.

It required two weeks in mañana-land for Grosvenor to assemble his outfit for the sojourn on Saona. He was fortunate in discovering, out of work and looking for a job, a Barbadian negro who spoke English— the ancient island tongue of the buccaneers— and who labored under the name of Christian Fabio. Christian had been a ship's steward. He could cook, and like most Barbadians had some education and preferred long, polysyllabic words.

The Madeleine sailed out of San Juan promptly at three one blazing afternoon, with Grosvenor and Christian aboard.

Grosvenor had asked to be called at six, and when he came on deck the next morning the land off the Madeleine's starboard side was the shore of Saona. The Madeleine skirted this low-lying shore for several hours, and Grosvenor, on the bridge deck, scanned the island with the captain's Zeiss glass. He saw one dense mass of mahogany trees, dwarfed by perspective, appearing little more impressive than bushes.

At eight bells Captain Hansen rang for half-speed, and brought the Madeleine to anchor off a small bay skirted by a crescent of coconut palms. Greensward indicated the mouth of a fresh-water stream, and for this point in the bay Captain Hansen steered the ship's boat, in which he accompanied Grosvenor and Christian ashore. They were followed by another and larger boat, loaded to the gunwales with their supplies.

The trees, seen now close at hand, were much larger than they had appeared from the ship's deck. A fortune in hardwood stood there, untouched it seemed for centuries, ready for the cutting.

As soon as the stores were unloaded, Captain Hansen shook hands gravely with Grosvenor, was rowed back to his ship, and the Madeleine was immediately got under weigh and proceeded on her voyage. Long before the taint of her smoke had faded into nothingness in the blazing glare of the tropic sun, the two marooned inhabitants of Saona had pitched their tents and were settled into the task of establishing themselves for several weeks' sojourn.

Grosvenor started his explorations the next morning. His map of the island was somewhat sketchy. It did not show the slight rise toward the island's center which had been perceptible even from shipboard. Grosvenor's kit included an aluminum surveyor's transit, a thermos-flask of potato soup— one of the best of tropical foods— and the inevitable mosquito-net for the noon siesta.

He started along the line of the stream, straight inland. He was soon out of sight and hearing of his camp in a silence unbroken by so much as the hum of an insect. He found the trees farther inland, in the rich soil of centuries of undisturbed leafage, better grown than those nearer the sea. As they increased in size, the sun's heat diminished.

Grosvenor walked along slowly. The stream, as he had expected, narrowed and deepened after a few rods of travel, and even a short distance inland, rinsing out his mouth with an aluminum cupful of the water, he found it surprizingly cool. This indicated shelter for a great distance and that the island must be very heavily forested.

A quarter of a mile inland he set up his transit, laid out a square and counted the trees within it. The density of the wood was seventeen per cent greater than what the company had estimated upon. He whistled to himself with satisfaction. This promised a favorable report. He continued his walk inland.

Four times he laid out a similar square, counted the trees, measured the circumference of their bases a little above the ground, estimated their average height. The wood-area became steadily denser.

At twelve-thirty he stopped for lunch and a couple of hours' rest. It would take him less time to walk back because he would not have to stop to lay out his squares.

He drank his potato soup, ate two small sandwiches of sharp Porto Rico sausage, and boiled a cupful of the stream water over a sterno apparatus for tea.

Then he stretched himself out on the long grass of the stream's bank under his mosquito-netting. He drifted easily into sleep, to the accompaniment of the stream's small rustlings and the sough of the trade wind through the millions of small mahogany leaves.

He awakened, two hours later, a sense of foreboding heavily upon him. It was as though something weird and strange had been going on for some time— something of which he was, somehow, dimly conscious. As he started, uneasily, to throw off the net and get up, he noticed with surprise that there were no mosquitoes on the net's outer surface. Then he remembered Captain Hansen's remarks about the dearth of animal life on the island. There was rarely even a seagull, the captain had said, along the island's shore. Grosvenor recalled that he had not seen so much as an insect during his five hours on the trail. He threw off the net and rose to his feet.

The vague sense of something obscurely amiss with which he had awakened remained. He looked curiously about him. He listened, carefully. All was silent except for the dying breath of the trade wind.

Then, all at once, he realized that he was missing the sound of the little stream. He stepped toward it and saw that the water had sunk to a mere trickle. He sat down near the low bank and looked at it. There were the marks of the water, more than a foot higher than its present level.

He glanced at his watch. It was three-thirteen. He had slept for two hours, exactly as he had intended. He might have slept the clock around! Even so, twenty-six hours would hardly account for a drop like this. He wound his watch— seven and one-half twists. It was the same day! He looked at the water again. It was dropping almost visibly, like watching the hour-hand of a huge clock at close range. He stuck a twig at its present level, and started to roll up his net and gather his belongings into a pack. That finished, he lit a cigarette.

He smoked the cigarette out and went to look at his twig. The water was half an inch below it. The many slight sounds which make up the note of a brook were muted now; the little trickle of water gave off no sound.

Greatly puzzled, Grosvenor shouldered his pack and started back to camp.

The walk occupied an hour and a quarter. The water grew lower as he went downstream. Before he reached the edge of the mahogany forest it had dwindled into a shallow bit of fenland. At the edge of the coral sand it was quite dry. He found Christian getting supper and bubbling over with long words which emerged out of a puzzled countenance.

'Doubtless you have remarked the diminution of the stream,' began Christian. 'I was fortunate enough to observe its cessation two hours ago and I have filled various vessels with water. It was constitute a very serious menace to our comfort, sir, if we are deprived of water. We might signal the Madeleine on her return voyage tomorrow, but I fear that if the lowering of the stream is permanent we shall be obliged to ration ourselves as to ablutions!'

Having delivered this masterpiece, Christian fell silent.

When Grosvenor arose the next morning the stream was at the same level as on the previous morning. It was as though this stream were subject to a twenty-four-hour tide. There was no means of judging now whether this were the case, or whether some cataclysm of nature at the stream's source had affected it in this extraordinary way. Grosvenor's instinct was all for another trip upstream to the source to find out what he could.

He made more of his tree-tests that morning, and after lunch the stream began to fail again. The following morning it was once more at its high level. That day Grosvenor put his wish into execution. He had plenty of time for his surveys. He would go exploring on his own account today. He started after breakfast, taking only the materials for lunch this time. The mosquito-netting had proved to be useless. There were no mosquitoes!

At nine he reached the spot where he had taken the first siesta. He proceeded upstream, and half an hour later the ground began to rise. The stream shallowed and broadened. The trees in this moist area grew larger than any others he had seen on the island.

His pedometer informed him he was getting close to the island's center. The ground now mounted steadily. He came to a kind of clearing, where the trees were sparse and great whitish ricks replaced the soft coral soil. Through these, the stream, now again narrow and deep, ran a tortuous way, winding about the great boulders. On this broken ground, without much shade, the sun poured in intolerable brilliance. He wiped the sweat from his face as he climbed the last rise to the island's summit.

As he topped the rise an abrupt change took place. One moment he had been picking his way through broken ground among rocks. The next he was standing on smooth stone. He paused, and looked about him. He was at the top.

At his feet lay a smooth, round lake, enclosed by a stone parapet. Beyond, a gentle slope, heavily forested, ran down to the distant sea on the island's other side.

He stooped down, rubbed his hand over the level surface of the stone. It was masonry.

All was silent about him; not even a dragon-fly disturbed the calm surface of the circular pool. No insect droned its fervid note in the clear, warm air.

Very quietly now, for he felt that the silence of this place must not be disturbed by any unnecessary sound, he started around the lake's circular rim. In twenty steps he had reached the source of the stream. Here the edge of masonry was cut into a U through which the water flowed silently out. He resumed his walk, and the circuit occupied fifteen minutes. He reached his starting-point, sat down on the warm rock-edge, and looked intently into the pool. It must be fed by deep, subterranean springs, he judged, and these springs, possibly, ebbed and flowed, a rhythm reflected in a rise and fall of the pool's surface; a consequent rise and fall in the water of the stream.

The sun was almost intolerably hot. He walked off to the nearest mahogany grove, pitched his camp in its deep shade, and sat down to wait till noon. Here he prepared lunch, ate it, and returned to the basin's rim.

The reservoir was several feet lower, the water now barely trickling through its outlet. He watched the waters sink, fascinated. He leaned over the edge of masonry and gazed into their still depths. A cloud passed over the sun, throwing the great pool into shade.

No bottom was visible. Down, down, his gaze traveled, and as he looked the rate of the sinking water-level increased and there arose from the pool a dim, hollow sound as some incalculable suction drew the waters down into the cylinder's depths.

An almost irresistible desire came over him to descend with the water. His scrutiny traveled about the inner surface of the great cylinder now revealed by the sinking waters.

What was that? Something, a vertical line, toward the other side, broke the cementlike smoothness of the chiseled surface. He started toward the point, his heart jumping as what he had vaguely suspected, hoped, became an actuality before his eyes. The vertical line was a ladder down the inner surface of the cylinder, of broad, copper-colored metal insets extending far down until he lost it in the unfathomable darkness below.

The ladder's topmost inset step was some three feet below the top. Looking closely from the rim above it, he observed semicircular ridges on the rim itself, handholds, obviously, shaped like the handles of a stone crock, cut deeply into the masonry. A thin, metal hand-rail of the same material as the steps ran down straight and true beside them.

The impulse to descend became overpowering. He muttered a brief, fragmentary prayer, and stooped down, clutching the stone handholds. He stepped over the rim and down inside, and felt for the topmost step of the ladder with his foot. The step, and the railing, as he closed a firm right hand about it, felt slippery. But steps and rail were rigid, firmly set as though installed the day before. The metal showed no corrosion.

With a deep breath, he took one last look at the tops of the mahogany trees and began to go down the ladder.

At first he felt carefully for each succeeding step, clutched the unyielding handrail grimly, as the dank coolness of the stone cylinder closed in around him. Then, with custom, his first nervous vigilance relaxed. The steps were at precisely regular intervals; the handrail firm. He descended beyond the penetrating light of the first fifty feet into a region of increasing coolness and dimness.

When he reached the two hundredth step, he paused, resting, and looked down. Only a vague, imponderable dimness, a suggestion of infinite depth, was revealed to him. He turned his head about and looked up. A clear blue, exact circle stood out. Within it he saw the stars.

He descended another hundred steps, and now all was black about him. The blue circle above had turned darker. The stars glowed brilliantly.

He felt no fear. He had steady nerves, fortitude, a fatalistic faith in something he named his destiny. If harm were to come to him, it would come, here or anywhere alse. He reasoned that the water would not rise for many hours. In that blackness he resumed his descent. He went down and down, step after interminable step...

It was wholly dark now. The circle above was only the size of a small coin, the stars indistinguishable; only their flickering brightness over the surface of the tiny disk.

He had counted 1,326 steps when something happened to his left foot. He could not lower it from the step on which it rested. The very edge of a shadow of cold fear fell upon him, but resolutely he put it away. He lowered his right foot to the same step, and, resting his body's weight on the left foot attempted to lower the right. He could not!

Then it dawned upon him that he had reached the bottom of the ladder. Holding firmly to the rail with his left hand he reached for his flashlight with the other. By its light he looked about him. His feet were on a metal platform some twelve feet square. Just to his left, leading into the wall of the cylinder, was the outline of a lancet-shaped doorway. A great ring hung on a hinged knob near his hand.

He stepped out upon the platform, his muscles feeling strange after the long and unaccustomed strain of the descent. He took hold of the door-ring, twisted it to the left. It turned in his hand. He pulled, and a beam of light, soft and mellow, came through the vertical crack. He pulled the door half-open, and the soft light flooded the platform. He stepped over to its edge and looked down, leaning on the metal handrail which ran about the edge. Blackness there— sheer, utter blackness.

He turned again to the door. He had not come thus far to yield to misgivings as to what might lie behind it. He slipped through the opening and pulled the door to behind him. It shut, true and exactly flush with its surrounding walls and jambs, solidly.

He stood in a small, square room, of the same smooth masonry as the cylinder, floored with sheets of the coppery metal. The light came through from another doorway, open opposite the side where he stood. Resolutely he crossed the small room and looked through the door.

Vast space— a cathedral— was the first, breath-taking impression. Far above, a vast, vaulted arch of masonry. In the dim distance towered an amazing figure, so incredible that Grosvenor let out his breath in a long sigh and sat down weakly on the smooth floor.

The figure was that of an enormous goat, reared on a pair of colossal legs, the lowered head with sweeping horns pointing forward, some eighty feet in the air. About this astounding image hung such an air of menacing savagery that Grosvenor, weary with his long descent, covered his face with his hands to shut it out. He was aroused out of his momentary let-down by a sound.

He sat up, listened. It was a kind of faint, distant chanting. Suppressing a shudder he looked again toward the overpowering majesty of the colossus. A great concourse of people, dwarfed by the distance, danced rhythmically before the gigantic idol. The chant rose higher in measured cadence. Fascinated, Grosvenor rose and walked toward the distant dancers.

When he had traversed half the space between, the image took on a dignity not apparent from the greater distance. The craggy, bestial face was now benevolent, as it looked down upon its devotees. There was a grotesque air of benediction about the flare of the forehoofs as they seemed to wave in grave encouragement to the worshipers beneath. The attention of the throng was so occupied with their dance that Grosvenor remained unobserved. Clouds of incense rose before the image, making the head appear to nod, the forelegs to wave gravely.

Something more than its cadence seemed now to mingle with the chanting. There was something oddly familiar about it, and Grosvenor knitted his brows in the effort to place it. Then it came to him all at once. It was the words of the ancient Greek Chorus. Nearer and nearer he approached, his feet making no sound on the dull, russet-colored, metal flooring. It was like walking on solid lead. He stooped, at this thought, and with his sheath-knife scratched its surface, dulled with the wear of countless feet. A thin, wirelike splinter curled behind his scratching knife-point. It was bright yellow on the fresh surface. He tore the splinter loose, held it close. It was soft, like lead— virgin gold.

He placed the sliver in his jacket pocket and stood, dumfounded, his heart pounding tumultuously. Gold!...

The chanting ceased. A clear, woman's voice detached itself; was lifted in a paean— a hymn of praise. The words now came to him clear and full. He stopped dead, trying, straining all his faculties, to understand. The woman was singing in classical Greek!

Something of modern Greek he understood from a long professional sojourn in the Mediterranean island of Xante where once he had been employed by the owner of a group of currant-plantations, and where he had learned enough of the Italianized Greek of the island to make himself understood. He hastened forward, stopping quite near the rearmost worshipers. This was no dialect. This was Old Greek, Attic Greek, the tongue of Hellas, of classic days, as used to celebrate the Mysteries about the altars of Zeus and the Nature gods; in the Sacred Groves; at Elis, and Dodona, and before the shrines of Apollo— and in the worship of Pan. Pan!— the Goat. The beginnings of an understanding surged through his mind.

In the ancient tongue of Homer and Aeschylus, this recitative now began to take form in his mind. It was, he soon perceived, a hymn to Pan, to the patron god of woodlands and wild places; of glades and streams and hidden groves; of nymphs and dryads...

The people swayed to the cadences of the hymn, and at intervals the vast throng breathed out a few rhythmical words, a hushed, muted chorus, in which were recited the Attributes of Pan...

Grosvenor found himself swaying with them, the notes of the chorus somehow strangely familiar to him, as though remembered after a great interval, although he knew that he had never before in this life heard anything like this. He approached nearer, without concealment now, mingled with the multitude pouring out its corporate soul to the god of Nature.

The hymn ended. Then, to a thin, piping note— the note of a syrinx— and with no confusion, a dance began. Grosvenor danced naturally with a group of four, and the others, in a kind of gentle ecstasy, danced with him, a dance as old as trees and hills, the worship of the Great Powers which through the dignity and grace of the dance seemed to promise strange and unknown joys...

The dance ended, abruptly, on a note of the pan-pipes. Grosvenor, brought to himself, glanced quickly about him. He was conspicuous. The others were uniformly dressed in blue kirtles, sandals on their graceful feet. The people were very beautiful. Grace and dignity marked their every movement.

Behind the colossal image of the Goat a great recess was set off by an arch which towered aloft out of sight. Here stood an altar, about whose upper edge ran cameo-like figures: youths and girls bearing wreaths; garlanded oxen; children with torches; and, centrally placed, the grotesque figure of Pan with his goat's legs and small, crooked horns upon his forehead— Pan seated, his pipes at his lips.

Suddenly every eye turned to the altar.

There came from a recess a woman, tall and graceful, bearing in her hands a slender vase of white stone. From this, on reaching the altar, she poured out upon it a thin stream of golden-colored oil. An intense, reddish flame arose at once. The vast audience stood motionless.

Then a note on the pipe, and from the throng, quite close to Grosvenor, a young man stepped, and mounted broad, shallow steps to the altar. In his hand he carried a live beetle held delicately by the edge of elevated wings. Straight to the altar he proceeded and dropped the insect in the center of the flame. So silent was the motionless throng that the rackle of the flame devouring this inconsiderable offering was plainly heard. Bowing to the priestess, the young man returned to his place.

A sigh, such as proceeds from a large concourse of people who have been keeping silence, now arose from the throng, which forthwith broke up into conversing groups.

Then the first intimation of fear fell upon Grosvenor like a black mantle. For the first time since his arrival among this incredible company, a quarter of a mile underneath the surface of an 'uninhabited' West Indian island, he took sudden thought for his safety. It was late in the day to think of that! He was surrounded by these people, had intruded into their worship, a worship ancient when the Classics were composed. He was effectually cut off from any chance of escape, should they prove hostile. He saw a thickening group closing in about him— curious, incredulous, utterly taken by surprize at discovering this stranger in their midst...

By a great effort, and in a voice hardly more than a whisper— for his danger had made itself overwhelmingly apparent to him— he spoke in his best attempt at pure Greek.

'I give you greeting, in the name of Pan!' he said.

'And to you, greeting, O barbarian,' replied a deep and rich voice behind him.

The throng about him stirred— a movement of deference. He turned. The graceful priestess stood close to him. He bowed, prompted by an instinct for 'good manners'.

The priestess made a graceful inclination before him. Instinct prompted him a second time. He addressed her.

'I come to you in love and peace.' It was a phrase he had gathered from the hymn to Pan— that phrase 'love and peace'. He continued: 'I have sojourned in the Land of Hellas, the home of the great Pan, though no Hellene, as my speech declares.'

'Sojourn here, then, with Pan's people in love and peace,' returned the priestess with commanding dignity. She made him a summoning gesture.

'Come,' she said, and, turning, led the way back toward the altar.

He followed, into the blackening gloom of the sanctuary, and straight before him walked his conductress without so much as a glance right or left. They passed at last between two enormous curtains screening an aperture, and Grosvenor found himself in a very beautiful room, square, and unmistakably Greek in its appointments. Two long couches stood at each side, along the walls. In the center a chaste, rectangular table held a great vase of the yellow metal, heaped with pomegranates.

The priestess, pausing, motioned him gracefully to one of the seats, and reclined opposite him upon the other.

She clapped her hands, and a beautiful child ran into the room. After a round-eyed glance at the stranger, he stood before the priestess, who spoke rapidly to him. He left the room, and almost immediately returned with a vase and two small goblets of the ruddy gold. The drink proved to be pomegranate-juice mingled with cold water. Grosvenor found it very refreshing.

When they had drunk, the priestess began at once to speak to him.

'From where do you come, O barbarian?'

'From a region of cold climate, in the north, on the mainland.'

'You are not, then, of Hispaniola?'

'No. My countrymen are named "Americans". In my childhood my countrymen made war upon those of Hispaniola, driving them from a great island toward the lowering sun from this place, and which men name "Cuba".'

The priestess appeared impressed. She continued her questioning.

'Why are you here among the People of Pan?'

Grosvenor explained his mission to the island of Saona, and, as well as his limited knowledge of Greek permitted, recounted the course of his adventure to the present time. When he had finished: 'I understand you well,' said the priestess. 'Within man's memory none have been, save us of the People of Pan, upon this island's surface. I understand you are the forerunner of others, those who come to take of the wood of the surface. Are all your fellow-countrymen worshippers of Pan?'

Grosvenor was stuck! But his sense of humor came to his rescue and made an answer possible.

'We have a growing "cultus" of Pan and his worship,' he answered gravely. 'Much in our life comes from the same source as yours, and in spirit many of us follow Pan. This following grows fast. The words for it in our tongue are "nature-study", "camping", "scouting", "golf", and there are many other varieties of the cult of Pan.'

The priestess nodded.

'Again, I understand,' she vouchsafed. She leaned her beautiful head upon her hand and thought deeply.

It was Grosvenor who broke a long silence. 'Am I permitted to to make enquiries of you?' he asked.

'Ask!' commanded the priestess.

Grosvenor enquired about the rise and fall of the water in the great cylinder; the origin of the cylinder itself: was the metal of which the floors and steps and handrail were made common? Where did the People of Pan get the air they breathe; How long had they been here, a quarter of a mile beneath the earth's surface? On what kind of food did they live? How could fruit— he indicated the pomegranates— grow here in the bowels of the earth?

He stopped for sheer lack of breath. Again the priestess smiled, though gravely.

'Your questions are those of a man of knowledge, although you are an outlander. We are Hellenes and here we have lived always. All of us and our fathers and fathers' fathers were born here. But our tradition teaches us that in the years behind the years, in the very ancient past, in an era so remote that the earth's waters were in a different relation to the land, a frightful cataclysm overwhelmed our mother-continent, Antillea. That whole land sank into the sea, save only one Deucalion and his woman, one Pyrrha, and these from Atlantis, the sister continent in the North. These, so the legend relates, floated upon the waters in a vessel prepared for them with much food and drink, and these having reached the Great Land, their seed became the Hellenes.

'Our forebears dwelt in a colony of our mother continent, which men name Yucatan, a peninsula. There came upon our forebears men of warlike habit, men fierce and cruel, from a land adjacent to Hellas, named "Hispaniola". These interlopers drove out our people who had for eons followed the paths of love and peace; of flocks and herds; of song and the dance, and the love of fields and forest and grove, and the worship of Pan. Some of our people they slew and some they enslaved, and these destroyed themselves.

'But among our forebears, during this persecution, was a wise man, one Anaxagoras, and with him fled a colony to the great island in the South which lies near this island. There they settled and there would have carried on our worship and our ways of peace. But here they of Hispaniola likewise came, and would not permit our people to abide in peace and love.

'Then were our people indeed desperate. By night they fled on rafts and reached this low-lying place. Here they discovered the cylinder, and certain ones, greatly daring, cast themselves on the mercy of Pan and descended while the waters were sunken.

'Here, then, we have dwelt since that time, in peace and love.

'We know not why the waters fall and rise, but our philosophers tell us of great reservoirs far beneath the platform where man's foot had not stepped. In these, as the planet revolves, there is oscillation, and thus the waters flow and ebb once in the day and not twice as does the salt sea.

'We believe that in times past, beyond the power of man to measure or compute, the dwellers of these islands, which then were mountain-tops, ere the submersion of Antillea and its sister continent Atlantis, caused the waters of the sea to rise upon them, and whose descendants those of Hispaniola did name "Carib" were men of skill and knowledge in mighty works, and that these men, like one Archimedes of the later Hellas, did plan to restore the earth's axis to its center, for this planet revolves not evenly but slantwise, as they who study the stars know well. We believe that it was those mighty men of learning and skill who built the cylinder.

'Vessels and the metal of the floor were here when we came, and this metal, being soft and of no difficulty in the craftsman's trade, we have used to replace the vessels as time destroys them and they wear thin. This metal, in vast quantities, surrounds our halls and vaults here below the surface of the land above.

'Our light is constant. It is of the gases which flow constantly from the bowels of the earth. Spouts confine it, fire placed at the mouths of the spouts ignites it. The spouts, of this metal, are very ancient. Upon their mouths are coverings which are taken away when fire is set there; replaced when the light is needed no more in that place.

'Our air we receive from shaft-ways from the surface of the earth above. Their ground openings are among the white rocks. Our philosophers think the yellow metal was melted by the earth's fires and forced up through certain of the ancient air-openings from below.'

The priestess finished her long recital, Grosvenor listening with all his faculties in order to understand her placid speech.

'I understand it all except the fruit,' said he.

The priestess smiled again, gravely.

'The marvels of nature make no difficulty for your mind, but this simple question of fruit is difficult for you! Come— I will show you our gardens.'

She rose; Grosvenor followed. They passed out through various chambers until they arrived at one whose outer wall was only a balustrade of white stone. An extraordinary sight met Grosvenor's eyes.

On a level piece of ground of many acres grew innumerable fruits: pineapples, mango-trees, oranges, pomegranates. Here were row upon row of sapodilla trees, yam-vines, egg-plants, bananas, lemon and grapefruit trees, even trellises of pale green wine-grapes.

At irregular intervals stood metal pipes of varying thickness and height, and from the tops of these, even, whitish flares of burning gas illuminated the 'gardens'. A dozen questions rose in Grosvenor's mind. 'How? Why?'

'What causes your failure to understand?' enquired the priestess, gently. 'Heat, light, moisture, good earth well tended! Here, all these are present. These fruits are planted from long ago, and constantly renewed; originally they grew on the earth's surface.'

They walked back through the rooms to the accompaniment of courteous inclinations from all whom they passed. They resumed their places in the first room. The priestess addressed Grosvenor.

'Many others will follow you; those who come to procure the wood of the forest above. Nothing we have is of any value to these people. Nothing they may bring do we desire. It would be well if they came and took their wood and departed knowing naught of us of the People of Pan here underground.

'We shall, therefore, make it impossible for them to descend should they desire so to do. We shall cut the topmost steps of the ladder away from the stone; replace them when your countrymen who drove the people of Hispaniola from Cuba have departed. I will ask you to swear by Pan that you will reveal nothing of what you have seen. Then remain with us if you so desire, and, when your countrymen have departed, come again in peace and love as behooveth a devotee of Pan.'

'I will swear by Pan, as you desire,' responded Grosvenor, his mind on the incalculable fortune in virgin gold which had here no value beyond that of its utility for vessels, and floors, and steps! Indeed he needed no oath to prevent his saying anything to his 'countrymen'! He might be trusted for that without an oath! A sudden idea struck him.

'The sacrifice,' said he,— 'the thurìa, or rather, I should say, the holokautósis— the burnt offering. Why was only an insect sacrificed to Pan?'

The priestess looked down at the burnished metal floor of the room and was silent. And as she spoke, Grosvenor saw tears standing in her eyes.

'The sinking and rise of the waters is not the only rhythm of this place. Four times each year the gases flow from within the earth. Then— every living thing upon this island's surface dies! At such seasons we here below are safe. Thus it happens that we have no beast worthy of an offering to Pan. Thus, at our festivals we may offer only inferior things. We eat no flesh. That is sacred to Pan, as it has been since our ancestors worshipped Him in the groves of Yucatan. That He may have His offering one or more of us journeys to the cylinder's top at full moon. Some form of life has always been found by diligent search. Somewhere some small creature survives. If we should not discover it, He would be angry, and, perhaps, slay us. We know not.'

'When does the gas flow upward again?' enquired Grosvenor. He was thinking of Christian Fabio waiting for him there on the beach.

'At the turning of the season. It seethes upward in three days from now.'

'Let me take my oath, then,' replied Grosvenor, 'and depart forthwith. Then I would speak concerning what I am to do with those others who follow me to this land.'

The priestess clapped her hands, and the little serving-lad entered. To him she gave a brief order, and he took his departure. Then with the priestess Grosvenor made his arrangement about the wood-cutting force— a conversation which occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour. The little messenger returned as they were finishing. He bowed, spoke rapidly to the priestess, and retired.

'Rise, and follow me,' she directed Grosvenor.

Before the great idol the people were again gathering when they arrived beside the altar. They stood, and the priestess held out her arms in a sweeping gesture, commanding silence. An imponderable quiet followed.

His hands beneath hers on the altar of Pan, Grosvenor took his oath as she indicated it to him.

'By the great Pan, I swear— by hill and stream, by mountain and valley, by the air of the sky and the water of streams and ponds, by the sea and by fire which consumes all things— by these I swear to hold inviolate within me that which I have known here in this temple and among the People of Pan. And may He pursue me with His vengeance if I break this my oath, in this world and in the world to come, until water ceaseth to flow, earth to support the trees, air to be breathed, and fire to burn— by these and by the Horns and Hooves of Pan I swear, and I will not break my oath.'

Then, conducted by the priestess, Grosvenor walked through the people, who made a path for them, across the great expanse of the temple to the small anteroom beside the cylinder. Here the priestess placed her hands upon Grosvenor's head. 'I bless thee, in Pan's name,' she said, simply. He opened the door, passed through onto the metal platform, and pushed it shut behind him...

He found the ascent very wearing and his muscles ached severely before he could discern clearly the stars flaming in the disk above his head. At last he grasped the stone handles on the rim. Wearily he drew himself above ground, and stretched himself upon the level rim of the cylinder.

Before starting down the gentle slope for his camp under the shade of the mahogany forest's abundant leafage, he paused beside one of the white rocks, laboriously heaving it to one side. Beneath it was an aperture, running straight down, and lined with a curiously smooth, lavalike stone. He had seen one of the air-pipes which the priestess had described. He knew now that he had not been passing through some incredibly strange dream. He stepped away and was soon within the forest's grateful shade.

He reached camp and Christian Fabio a little before seven-thirty that evening, finding supper ready and the faithful Christian agog for news. This he proffered in Christian's kind of language, ending by the statement that the stream 'originated in a lake of indubitably prehistoric volcanic origin possessing superficial undulatory siphonage germane to seismic disturbance.'

Christian, pop-eyed at this unexpected exhibition of learning on his master's part, remarked only: 'How very extraordinary!' and thereafter maintained an awed silence.

The next day Grosvenor signaled the Madeleine, on her return trip, and taking Christian with him, returned to San Juan 'for certain necessary supplies which had been overlooked'.

From there he sent the company a long letter in which he enlarged on the danger of the periodic gas-escape and gave a favorable report on the island's forestation. He discharged Christian with a recommendation and a liberal bonus. Then he returned to Saona alone and completed his month's survey, doing his own cooking, and sleeping with no attention to non-existent insects. He did not visit the island's center again. He wished to expedite the woodcutting in every possible way, and disliked the loss of even a day.

The survey completed— in three weeks— he went back to San Juan, cabled his full report, and was at once instructed to assemble his gang and begin.

Within another month, despite the wails of 'mañana'— tomorrow— a village, with himself as lawmaker, guide, philosopher, friend, and boss, was established on Saona. Cooks, camp roustabouts, wood-cutters, and the paraphernalia of an American enterprise established themselves as though by magic, and the cutting began. Only trees in excess of a certain girth were to be taken down.

By almost superhuman efforts on Grosvenor's part, the entire job was finished well within the three-month period. Three days before the exact date when the gas was to be expected, every trace of the village except the space it had occupied was gone, and not a person was left on Saona's surface. The great collection of mahogany he had made he took, beginning a week later, by tugboat to San Juan, whence it was reshipped to New York and Boston, to Steinway, and Bristol and other boat-building centers; to Ohio to veneering plants; to Michigan to the enormous shops of the Greene and Postlewaithe Furniture Company.

Grosvenor's job was finished.

In response to his application to the company, he was granted a month's well-earned vacation, accompanied by a substantial bonus for his good work.

This time he did not travel by the Madeleine to Saona. Instead he took ship for Port-au-Prince, Haiti, thence by another vessel to Santo Domingo City; from that point, in a small, coastwise vessel, to San Pedro Macoris.

From Macoris, where he had quietly hired a small sailboat, he slipped away one moonless evening, alone. Thirty hours afterward, he reached Saona, and, making his boat fast in a small, landlocked inlet which he had discovered in the course of his surveys, and with a food-supply for two days, he walked along the beach half a mile to the mouth of the stream.

He followed the well-remembered path until he came to the edge of the woods. He had not brought his gang as far as this. There had been more than enough mahogany boles to satisfy the company without passing inland farther than the level ground.

He walked now, slowly, under the pouring sunlight of morning, across the broken ground to the cylinder's edge, and there, temporarily encamped, he waited until it began to sink. He watched it until it had gone down a dozen feet or more, and then walked around to the point where the ladder began.

The ladder was gone. Not so much as a mark in the smooth masonry indicated that there ever had been a ladder. Once more, with a sinking heart, he asked himself if his strange adventure had been a dream— a touch of sun, perhaps...

This was, dreams and sunstrokes apart, simply inexplicable. Twice, during the course of the wood-cutting operations, the People of Pan had communicated with him, at a spot agreed upon between him and the priestess. Both times had been early in the operations. It was nearly three months since he had seen any concrete evidence of the People's existence. But, according to their agreement, the ladder-steps should have been replaced immediately after the last of his gang had left Saona. This, plainly, had not been done. Had the People of Pan, underground there, played him false? He could not bring himself to believe that; yet— there was no ladder; no possible means of communicating with them. He was as effectually cut off from them as though they had been moon-dwellers.

Grosvenor's last man had left the island three days before the season's change— September twenty-first. It was now late in October.

Ingress and egress, as he knew, had been maintained by a clever, simple arrangement. Just below ground-level a small hole had been bored through the rim, near the U-shaped opening. Through this a thin, tough cord had run to a strong, thin, climbing rope long enough to reach the topmost step remaining. He remembered this. Perhaps the people below had left this arrangement.

He found the hole, pulled lightly on the string. The climbing-rope came to light. An ingenious system of a counter-pull string allowed the replacing of the climbing rope. Obviously the last person above ground from below had returned successfully, leaving everything shipshape here. To get down he would have to descend some thirty feet on this spindling rope to the topmost step. He tested the rope carefully. It was in good condition. There was no help for it. He must start down that way.

Very carefully he lowered himself hand over hand, his feet against the slippery inner surface of the stone cylinder. It was a ticklish job, but his fortitude sustained him. He found the step, and, holding the climbing-rope firmly, descended two more steps and groped for the handrail. He got it in his grasp, pulled the return-string until it was taut, then began the tedious descent, through its remembered stages of gradual darkening, the damp pressure of terrible depth upon the senses, the periodic glances at the lessening disk above, the strange glow of the stars...

At last he reached the platform, groped for the door-ring, drew open the door.

In the anteroom a terrible sense of foreboding shook him. The condition of the ladder might not be a misunderstanding. Something unforeseen, fearful, might have happened!

He pulled himself together, crossed the anteroom, looked in upon the vast temple.

A sense of physical emptiness bore down upon him. The illumination was as usual— that much was reassuring. Across the expanse the great idol reared its menacing bulk, the horned head menacingly lowered.

But before it bowed and swayed no thronged mass of worshippers. The temple was empty and silent.

Shaken, trembling, the sense of foreboding still weighing heavily upon him, he started toward the distant altar.

Soon his usual vigorous optimism came back to him. These had been unworthy fears! He looked about him as he proceeded, at the dun sidewalls rising, tier upon tier of vague masonry, up to the dim vault in the darkness above. Then the sense of evil sprang out again, and struck at his heart. His mouth went dry. He hastened his pace. He began to run.

As he approached the altar, something strange, something different, appeared before him. The line formed by the elevation of the chancel as it rose from the flooring, stone against dull, yellowish metal, a thousand paces ahead, should have been sharp and clear. Instead, it was blurred, uneven.

As he came nearer he saw that the statue's prancing legs were heaped about with piled stuff...

He ran on, waveringly, uncertain now. He did not want to see clearly what he suspected. He stumbled over something bulky. He stopped, turned to see what had lain in his way.

It was the body of a man, mummified— dry, leathery, brown; the blue kirtle grotesquely askew. He paused, reverently, and turned the body on its back. The expression on the face was quite peaceful, as though a natural and quiet death had overtaken the victim.

As he rose from his task, his face being near the floor's level, he saw, along it, innumerable other bodies lying about in varying postures. He stood upright and looked toward the image of the Goat. Bodies lay heaped in great mounds about the curved animal legs; more bodies lay heaped before the sanctuary.

Awestruck, but, now that he knew, something steadied by this wholesale calamity which had overtaken the peaceful People of Pan, he moved quietly forward at an even pace.

Something lay across the altar.

Picking his way carefully among the massed corpses he mounted the sanctuary steps. Across the altar lay the body of the priestess, her dead arms outstretched toward the image of the Goat. She had died in her appointed place, in the very attitude of making supplication for her people who had died about her. Grosvenor, greatly moved, looked closely into the once beautiful face. It was still strangely beautiful and placid, noble in death; and upon it was an expression of profound peace. Pan had taken his priestess and his people to Himself...

He had slightly raised the mummified body, and as he replaced it reverently back across the altar, something fluttered from it to his feet. He picked up a bit of parchment-like material. There was writing on it. Holding it, he passed back through the sanctuary to the room behind, where there would be a clearer light. The rooms were empty. Nothing had been disturbed.

The parchment was addressed to him. He spelled out, carefully, the antique, beautifully formed characters of the old literary Greek.

Hail to thee, and farewell, O stranger. I, Clytemnestra, priestess of Pan the Merciful, address thee, that thou mayest understand. Thou art freed from thy oath of silence.

'At the change of the seasons the sacrifice failed. Our search revealed no living thing to offer to our god. Pan takes His vengeance. My people abandon this life for Acheron, for upon us has Pan loosed the poisonous airs of the underworld. As I write, I faint, and I am the last to go.

'Thine, then, O kind barbarian, of the seed of them that drove from Kuba the men of Hispaniola, are the treasures of Pan's People. Of them take freely. I go now to my appointed place, at the altar of the Great Pan who gathers us to Himself. In peace and love, O barbarian of the North Continent, I greet thee. In peace and love, farewell.

Grosvenor placed the parchment in his breast-pocket. He was profoundly affected. He sat for a long time on the white stone couch. At last he rose and passed reflectively out into the underground gardens. The great flares of natural gas burned steadily at the tops of the irregular pipes.

At once he was consumed in wonder. How could these continue to burn without there having occurred a great conflagration? The amount of free gas sufficient to asphyxiate and mummify the entire population of this underground community would have ignited in one heaving cataclysm which would have blown Saona out of the water!

But— perhaps that other gas was not inflammable. Then the true explanation occurred to him abruptly. The destructive gas was heavier than the air. It would lie along the ground, and be gradually dissipated as the fresh air from the pipes leading above diluted its deadly intensity. It would not mount to the tops of these illuminating pipes. The shortest of them, as he gaged it, was sixty feet high. Of course, he would never know, positively...

He looked about him through the lovely gardens, now his paradise. All about were the evidences of long neglect. Unshorn grass waved like standing hay in the light breeze which seemed to come from nowhere. Rotting fruit lay in heaps under the sapodilla trees.

He plucked a handful of drying grass as long as his arm, and began to twist it into the tough string of the Antilles' grass-rope. He made five or six feet of the string. He retraced his steps slowly back to the room where he had read his last message from the priestess of Pan. He passed the string through the handles of a massive golden fruit jar, emptied the liquefying mass of corrupt fruit which lay sodden in its bowl.

He slung the heavy jar on his back, returned through the sanctuary, threaded his way among the heaped bodies, began to walk back through the temple toward the anteroom.

From across that vast room he looked back. Through the dim perspective the monstrous figure of the Goat seemed to exult. With a slight shudder Charles Grosvenor passed out onto the platform. He grasped the handrail, planted his feet on the first round of the ladder, and began his long, weary climb to the top...

_________________

3: Something for the Kid

Ellis Parker Butler

1869-1937

Cosmopolitan Jan 1911

AFTER all, Christmas is for the children, dear little things! Half the joy of the day is in seeing them dancing around the Christmas tree, clapping their hands at the pretty lights, and bursting into squeals of joy as they discover their little presents. How easily they are satisfied, the little darlings of to-day! There has been a great improvement in children since you and I were boys and girls.

I remember how difficult I was to please, when I was a boy. I remember how I threw myself flat on the floor and howled with rage because I had set my heart on a gingerbread cat with pink fur of frosting, and when I dug the cat out of my stocking it had blue sugar-sand fur. In vain did my parents try to convince me that blue sugar-sand was far superior to pink frosting, as applied to cats. I knew better. My howls spoiled the day for the whole family. I must have been a little wretch. There my parents had gone to all the trouble of preparing a first- class gingerbread cat— that looked like almost any animal in the zoo, and was consequently universally useful—and I re- warded their love by howling like a banshee.

How different it is with the children of to-day. No more crying over gingerbread cats! Little Mortimer, next door to us, had one of those severe disappointments last Christmas, but he did not drop on the floor and howl. Not at all. He walked around the automobile that his father had given him— they had the Christmas tree in the side yard, because an. automobile is too large to take into the house— and kicked the tires to see if they were properly inflated. He examined the upholstery of the car, took a brief look at the magneto, the lamps, all the trimmings. All he said was, "Pretty punk!" No howling. No fit of rage. He merely walked around the car, with one hand in his pocket, and repeated in a low, disgusted tone: "Pretty punk! Pretty punk!" Then he opened the hood and looked at the engine. A shade of deep annoyance passed across his face.

"Doesn't little Morty like the pretty automobile Santa Claus has brought him?" his mother asked anxiously.

"Well, all I've got to say," said Mortimer, "is that if I have to drive a four-cylinder machine when everyone is driving a six, the other kids will have the laugh on me." Then he turned to his rae father. "Dad," he asked, "what did they stick you for this junk?"

His father blushed with shame. Who would not? For a year he and Mortimer's mother had been saving their dollars, vainly hoping that stocks would rise and they could get a high-class French car for Mortimer, but stocks fell instead, and ten hundred dollars was the most they could raise by putting a second mortgage on the house.

"Fourteen hundred and fifty, all complete," said Mortimer's father with a shamed face.

Mortimer smiled grimly. "Stung!" he said.

No howling, you see! No tears!

"My son," said his father, "I know how bitter your disappointment must be, but your mother and I have strained every resource to purchase this little gift. We know it is utterly inadequate to your mer- its. We—we hoped," he wiped a tear from his eye, "it would do as a makeshift for a while. If all goes well we mean to give you a six-cylinder imported car on your ninth birthday. You see," he said, and his eagerness was almost pathetic, "we only want to make you happy. On your birth- day you shall have a six-cylinder car, Mortimer!"

I want you to observe that there were no yells of uncontrolled rage. No spasms of ill temper. Mortimer merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, hot air!" he said. 'Nothing but hot air! You ought to buy a balloon to put that in!"

His father took the rebuke meekly, as he should.

"Mortimer is such a dear boy," his mother said, when she and Mortimer's father had gone into the house. "Did you see how grateful he was, Edgar? I remember what a rage I was in, when I was his age and I had expected a pair of school shoes from Santa Claus, and he only brought me a hair-ribbon. Mortimer has such a sweet disposition!"

"He certainly is a dear chap," said his father heartily, and then he sighed. "I wish to thunder I had something I could mortgage. When a boy receives a fourteen- hundred-and-fifty-dollar car in such a spirit, my heart aches to reward him by giving him a 1911 French limousine. But I'm mortgaged to the limit."

"Well, never mind, dear," said his wife consolingly. "If we give him a better car on his birthday, we can make up his disappointment to him next Christmas by giving him a biplane and an aerodome to keep it in."

Nearly all children are that way, nowadays. That is the wonder of it. They expect automobiles, or aeroplanes, or player-pianos, or ermine stoles, or diamond-studded watches; and yet they do not howl if the biplane turns out to be a mere monoplane, or the watch is studded with only fifty diamonds instead of one hundred. Ai little word or two of disgust— that is all. Perhaps a brief suggestion that father and mother have low taste, a prompt request for permission to exchange the gift for something really decent. But no howling. Oh, the world has advanced!

Your own children have improved it that way, have they? Little rascals, expecting Santa Claus to bring gold chains and rubber- tired pony-carts and all sorts of things that were as distant from your thoughts when you were a child as the moon is now! Positively, the Christmas rapacity of the little wretches is getting beyond endurance. Four-year-olds wanting gifts beyond anything the Queen of Sheba carried to King Solomon! What is the matter with the modern child, anyway? Whence this sophistication?

Why, my dear mister and madam, it comes from you and me. Don't blame little Mortimer or little Susie. The children are at heart as sweet and as easily satisfied as you and I were, but we pile gifts on them, and heap gifts on them, and smother good old Santa Claus, with his gingerbread cat, under heaps of silk and gold. Bless your heart, we have made of Christmas a mere occasion for showing off before our little ones, bragging with big gifts.

____________________

Space opera on a grand scale, even to shifting planets around as though they were snooker balls. "Scientifiction", 1918 style. Flint was co-author of "The Blind Spot", variously described by critics as a masterpiece, or the worst sf novel ever written.

4: The Planeteer

Homer Eon Flint

1892-1924

All-Story Weekly, 9 March 1918.

MASSACHUSETTS City,

July 3, 427 N. E.

To the People of Conserve Island, Greeting:

The Editors wish to congratulate you upon having decided to learn what the rest of the world is doing. We hope that this book will be of help, and have taken unusual pains with the following rather free translation. However, we do not intend to thereby reflect upon your ancestors' action in completely isolating themselves at the time of the Great Change; we wish merely to urge that you master the world's language as quickly as possible. It is now two hundred years since Universo replaced all others, including your "English."

The University of Dead Languages.

No. 11, North America.

1: Danger!

ABOUT HALF A MILE below us and soaring steadily up in our direction, a white triplane caught our attention with a display of the red and green "trouble" signal. I turned the controls over to Ray, and she spiraled down until we were within a few yards of the stranger. A man thrust his head from the nearest port-hole.

"Hello! Aren't you Forbes, of the commissary?"

"Yes," puzzled. "What's up?"

"Bad news from California. Just heard it. Take me aboard." At that instant I recognized John Babcock.

Three minutes later the world's most famous inventor climbed down his transfer ladder into my cabin. Ray glanced at him and nodded instantly; I wondered when he returned the salute, for I didn't know they were acquainted. But then he never did wait for formalities.

"What's the matter with your wireless?" Without pausing for an answer: "Had you been listening you'd have heard that an earthquake struck California shortly after thirteen o'clock, and the entire Sacramento Valley dropped below sea level! San Francisco Bay covers it now!" Ray and I stared in momentary stupefaction. I thought— the heart of the State— thousands of people— millions—

Then Ray caught her breath quickly. "Did any escape?" to Babcock. He shook his head mutely. She turned abruptly and fled into the other compartment, sobbing as she closed the door behind her.

But this is what I was thinking: Why had John Babcock stopped us to give us this news? The loss of life was probably staggering, but what did that mean to him? There must be something worse. I waited.

"The water is as far north as Redding. The fault-lines seem to be along the foothills on both sides. The station on Mount Shasta— "

A shout from outside took us to the window. His companion was calling from the triplane. "Fresno reports three feet of water. It has stopped rising. No reports from south of there. That means the San Joaquin is safe."

I caught an exclamation of relief from the other room. Ray had heard.

John went on quietly. "You will change your course for New York?"

"Let us take your machine. We'll transfer my fuel to your tank and make better time."

He thoughtfully helped me with my luggage as I climbed up into the triplane. "How about Miss Abbott?" he smiled grimly after me. I had forgotten her for a moment. In the midst of my confusion he helped her up the ladder.

"You're a nice one to desert me like that," she declared indignantly. But I saw that she was scolding to hide her emotion; moreover, curiosity was getting the better of her. She could see that John was adjusting my plane's parachute, while the tank was rapidly emptying. In a moment she broke out.

"What's wrong, Bob? You aren't going to run for the flooded district, are you?" She had glanced at the compass. I waited until John was aboard before replying.

The three of us watched the trim little cruiser floating, automatically controlled, softly down to the Indian Ocean two miles below. "Ray, I must ask you not to judge too hastily when I say perhaps it is just as well that so many people were drowned this afternoon." I waited, not daring to look into her eyes. There was worse to tell.

John helped me out. "You see, Miss Abbott, the Sacramento Valley was something more than the headquarters of a big population. It is their occupation we have in mind."

"Their occupation!" repeated the girl wonderingly. "They are farmers, aren't they? I forget what is raised there."

"Wheat," I answered. A quick light came into Ray's eyes. "Two billion people use the wheat that is produced by a few million farmers. A tenth of the world's crop comes from there, and this catastrophe has struck at a very awkward time. Harvesting was to have begun next month."

Ray was grasping it now. "And you mean that the world needs this wheat very badly," she mused. Then she looked up sharply. "Just how badly?" she demanded. She did not see as yet that that land could never be used for wheat again. But I had to answer her. I turned to John.

"Babcock, how are we to make this situation clear to Miss Abbott? You know her education has been so largely musical. She wouldn't understand the usual technical terms."

John turned from the window. My plane was out of sight. He started the wireless and transmitted a warning to shipping below before answering my question. His round face was very serious.

"I suppose you know, Miss Abbott, the world is facing overpopulation. Last year's census was twelve billion. That is six times the accepted estimate at the beginning of the last war. Right, Forbes?"

"Close enough," I replied. "Needless to say, although the people have increased, the Earth has remained the same size. A century ago there was plenty and to spare. Today it is very different. Fact is, the past four centuries of unbroken peace have had exactly the bad effect that many predicted. Without wars to keep up the death-rate and with no industrial worries to hinder, most people have done little but to raise big families."

"I don't understand at all!" protested the girl. "Are you trying to tell me that this alarming situation is due to the peacefulness of today, to the very qualities which we find so pleasant?"

"Yes and no," John, hurried to explain. "No, because Forbes is wrong. According to actual figures, people do not raise such offensively large families. There is another reason for the big population. Are you really interested?"

Ray nodded quickly and John went on. "At the end of the last war, then, the various governments faced the problem of explaining to their peoples why they had fought and bled and starved for years. Lies could not fool them as in the past; the people of the Central Powers now saw that their governments were mere parasites, while the Allies finally realized that the 'democracy' for which they had struggled was no democracy at all; it was little more than 'each for himself and the devil take the hindmost.' They had won a victory for their democracy, but it left the poor poorer and the rich richer. In short, every nation became a republic at once."

John sighed, as though in longing for those strenuous times. "Well, the great change came soon after that. The war had shown everybody that if a government could conduct warfare better than individuals or corporations, perhaps it would also operate things more efficiently in times of peace. There was a great deal of experimenting, of course. They had to set a new standard of incentive."

"But what was gained by the great change?" the girl wanted to know.

The inventor hesitated helplessly, then asked: "Do you know what is the average income today, and what is the average workday, in hours? What do you pay for sugar?"

Ray was nonplused. "Sugar is two cents now, I think. Nearly everybody works three hours a day. The average per diem is between eighteen and nineteen dollars, isn't it? But why?"

"Just this," returned John. "Before the change, four-fifths of the people were working long hours at very low pay. Eight hours and five dollars were considered excellent at a time when sugar was eight or nine cents a pound."

"Are you sure?" from Ray incredulously. She appealed to me, and I spoke up enthusiastically. This was more along my line.

"Efficiency, that's the answer. You've no idea how wasteful the world was before the change. They built two railroads where one was enough. Millions of people were engaged in advertising, legal business, and the police system, all of which became utterly unnecessary. Therefore these same people could work in really useful industries and thereby reduce labor for all."

"But that doesn't explain why we have so much more income now."

John answered this. "Because cooperation is far more productive than competition. We have no idle people, either poor or rich; no idle land, no idle machinery of any kind. Everything is being used to the best advantage. Is that clear?

"Well, in those days a man was continually pressed to make a living, continually tempted to shorten his days with a 'strenuous' life; whereas today our welfare is guaranteed for life. We work because we like to. Do you know what was the average lifetime before the change?"

I saw that Ray did not know, so answered: "Thirty-eight years."

"What!" she gasped in intense astonishment. "That— that's unbelievable. Are you sure?"

"Entirely. Men who lived to be over a hundred were a greater rarity than men of two hundred are today. Our average last year was eighty-four."

But I hastened to add, "John shouldn't give economic conditions all the credit. Much of this longevity is due to Fulgrath's solvent."

"The treatment that keeps the arteries soft?" said Ray. "My great-grandfather uses it; he's a hundred and fifteen. And that's why the world is so densely populated!"

"Exactly," came from John. "You can't blame people for wanting to raise a few children, and for caring to live in this agreeable world as long as they feel young. At the same time, try as we may, we cannot make the Earth produce enough to feed any more. And the spring crop of babies is as large as usual— half a billion."

Ray thought this over for a minute or two, looking down at Abyssinia as we passed at a height of three miles to avoid the Madagascar traffic. The people down there had probably heard of the wheat catastrophe. My bureau would be swamped with anxious inquiries. At length the girl turned to me, her face now very grave.

"You haven't answered my question, Bob. Just how badly off are we, anyway?"

I caught a grim glance from John and faced the girl squarely. "The world must go on short rations tomorrow."

2: The Collision

A STEADY STREAM of tourists could be seen on the lower levels, following the course of the Nile to the Nyanzas. Shortly we were out over the dreary wastes of the desert; and I stood at a south porthole and thought of the situation, revolving schemes in my mind until I was mentally weary. In reaction I turned to— John's remarks on the great change.

What was the use, thought I bitterly. What had it all come to, this wonderful ideal in its realization? The world had made astonishing strides, only to stumble against its own heels. Starvation in the midst of plenty, merely because we were living according to the highest possible standards!

It occurred to me that before the change Ray Abbott and I could not have taken this little Melbourne-to-Cairo jaunt without arousing talk that would ruin the girl's reputation. But today, thanks to good mothers and earnest teachers, men are just as jealous of their chastity as women. A young couple can be trusted anywhere alone; society has long recognized that.

Of course, as John would point out, economic conditions do have some bearing here, too. The world is enjoying far greater ease and comfort; but instead of turning to sensuality we are using our time and money for higher pleasures than those of the body. Come to think of it, even before the change it was the poor, not the rich, who had big families.

There is improvement also in the standards of being a "gentleman." Formerly his pet ambition was to tell some heroic lie to save a woman's tender feelings. Today he is expected to live his life for humanity; a good deal better than the old standard of living off the labor of others.

Again, I thought of the astonishing progress of invention since the agreement. This triplane was good for four hundred miles per hour, could be brought to a standstill in mid-air, guided straight down to the ground without a jar, and rise straight up afterward. The early specimens in the museums could not exceed a hundred and fifty miles an hour, and had to start on the run on the ground. In landing they occasionally smashed the outfit and spoiled the aviator.

John would contend that these improvements are the result of improved conditions. Naturally, each adult being able to own one, the planes have been highly developed. Considering that the early models were so expensive that not a man in ten thousand owned one, no wonder they were inefficient.

But our engines are as far ahead of the old ones, as they outclassed the ancient steam-engines. Our fuel is another marvel which was to be expected with the progress of so many years. I was not yet ready to admit that spectacular advances could ever equal the influence of steady improvement.

To me the great change is a very natural phenomenon, and a constant wonder that the ancients were so slow to look for it. It was such a simple step. Big money, as it was then called, was steadily outgrowing little money. It was only a question of time before the few great "trusts" would become one giant trust; people only needed to see that the difference between owning the trust and being owned by the trust was a matter of actually controlling the government instead of leaving the job to a few obliging party leaders.

As a result of it all, here were the three of us hurrying to New York to help solve the riddle which had come up. Ray Abbott, for several years a favorite photophone soprano and now busy with a class, all of which promise to do as well as she, was the younger. I was nearly forty and John three years my junior; but Ray was not quite thirty, a graceful, vigorous girl just under six feet in height. Her features would be considered too large in a woman of ancient height; but the only real beauty in nature— the glow of perfect health— diffused her skin. Dark-blue eyes, widely separated by a slightly upturned, though perfectly straight, nose, reflected every thought that passed through her mind with the most fascinating changes of light.

I never could decide which I liked best, those eyes or her wonderful hair, a blond heap which seemed always struggling to burst its bounds and become a cloud. We were not engaged— although I certainly wished we were— or I'd have kissed that hair a hundred times a day.

She was wearing a simple one-piece aviation costume, rather striking as to color scheme. Aside from that I can't describe the gown. Ever since women gave up following "styles" altogether, and each adopted a design to become herself, it has been admittedly easy to distinguish individuals, but a discouraging task to analyze the decoration itself. I can only assure you that all of Ray's creations suited her physique perfectly.

Everybody knows how John looks. His round, cheerful face, with its great play of expression, varying from boyish innocence to intense shrewdness, is as familiar to each of us as our own. Any man who falls short of the six-foot-six standard of the day consoles himself by reflecting that Babcock is only six feet and, to be frank, inclined to the stout rather than the trim standard.

I have never ceased to marvel at his astonishing progress. Given a complete technical education, he swiftly developed a practical edition of his father's artistic temperament. The greatest inventor of the world's most inventive century, John gave me the impression, when I met him for the first time, of a boy just beginning to mature. How I saw him become great before my very eyes you may read as I go further.

Of myself, the less said the better. Rather above the average in height and below in weight, I am remarkable chiefly for an ascetic cast of countenance, inherited from a long line of such folks. In other times I would have been called an aristocrat; but the present situation found me where my overdeveloped talents for efficiency would naturally lead. I had already realized one ambition: I had become the head of the American division of the Commissary Bureau.

Our pilot was Harry Mapes, a youngster with a tremendous admiration for John, which had led to his being selected from among thousands to work with the inventor. His specialty was heat analysis; so he got the most out of our craft.

Before night fell we were above the Atlantic. In response to my message with John's outfit, an official fuel balloon was waiting for us at the Cape Verde Islands. We were continually interrupted by aerograms from the bureau, as well as from various officials, including the chairman himself. But even to him we replied that nothing could be done until after a conference in New York. We did not eat dinner until nearly midnight.

Afterward we sat in the rear cabin and kept a studied silence. John was poking a small prism glass toward the Milky Way; and Ray idly kept tab on the purple lights of the mail planes on the next level, comparing their flights with the schedule. I remember she broke into my thoughts with some mention that "the Antarctic plane is ten minutes late," and I was just getting my mind to working again when John gave an astonished exclamation.

"Look at Saturn!" he was saying, and thrust his glass into my hands. Next second Ray had another, and John was showing us where to look. I expected, of course, to see the famous rings of the great planet, but was astounded to observe a tremendous yellowish-white cloud behind the familiar disk. The rings were greatly distorted, and even as I watched, the strange cloud grew in size and the rings began to break up.

Ray was speaking excitedly. "What can it be, John? Did you just notice it?"

"It happened within the past half-hour, I am sure," he declared. "I saw nothing of it earlier. Can't be that the old fellow has burst!"

The truth had occurred to me as he spoke. There could be only one adequate cause for such a catastrophe. "We are seeing something big, comrades; the biggest event since our moon was formed. Saturn has collided with a dark star."

We little dreamed what far-reaching effects this phenomenon was destined to produce.

3: On Short Rations

It turned out that I was not quite right. Before we reached New York the observatories announced that the collision was due to a slightly luminous star which had been under observation for two or three hours before the event. Apparently it was one of those countless irresponsibles of space which are continually falling into the sun's influence. This one, which might be termed a planetoid, had drawn the one chance in billions and taken a slap at our distant and unobtrusive neighbor.

Within a few hours Saturn was enveloped by an incandescent cloud, five or six times his former size. Clearly the wandering blunderer must have had a much greater velocity than the planet, to produce such terrific results; but it was not until several days later that the astronomers learned that the planetoid was a double one, a "binary," traveling as fast as a comet. Striking Earth's big brother squarely on the right cheek, the impact of one of the two stars had turned the planet into white-hot gas and almost brought him to a stop. The other half of the binary was continuing sunward, unchecked.

After the excitement had died down, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible in our chairs and dozed until dawn. Once we slowed down alongside a relay plane, bringing another pilot to relieve Harry and John. Ordinarily, I would have driven, but I needed to be fresh for the conference.

By seven-thirty, the Delaware coast coming into view, we finished a rather pleasant breakfast and watched our pilot gingerly feel his way down through the traffic. Even with the best of regulations, it is a heroic task to come down from the high-speed levels in the vicinity of New York. We should have descended a hundred miles back but for our haste. Bad news seems to draw planes as efficiently as a celebration.

You will appreciate that the California wheat disaster was somewhat too delicate a matter to be handled in the usual way over the photophone. That system is excellent for general affairs, such as elections; but in a case which might require quick and drastic treatment, with explanations later, nothing but a closed conference would do. It was held in the south wing of the central chambers, and only the chairman, the council, the chiefs of the various bureaus, and my eight directors were present.

Not waiting to even state the problem, the chairman informally urged me to suggest a remedy. I simply pointed out what you already know, that with every available inch of land put to the best possible use, the world was nevertheless in dire need of the wheat which had been lost. I said that perhaps the people could be induced to relinquish land now used for other purposes, and the surest way to make everybody see how serious the matter stood, would be to cut down the distribution of flour. This, I argued, would also provide a margin in case of accident to any other harvest.

The chief of transportation wanted to know if his department could do anything to reduce the pressure. I assured him that he was handling his end perfectly. The Asiatic chief of my bureau said that all precaution was being taken to prevent accidents within his field; and for a few minutes silence ruled.

It was broken by the judiciary chief. His great age made him a compelling figure as he paused for a moment, tall and erect, before speaking.

"There is nothing in the regulations to prevent the step which Comrade Forbes recommends," he stated in his booming, resonant bass. "But my judgment is that the people will criticize the administration. Such a restrictive measure is not in accord with current ideals. It flavors of antiquity."

But the Italian chairman rose to my support. "On the other hand, your honor," he declared, "we have a double responsibility. We must not only prevent any drain on our supplies, but we must firmly impress every one with the necessity for a radical change of some sort."

Others indicated their approval, and a vote was taken; and so in secret session we acted in what we believed to be the best interests of all when we ordered the now famous retrenchment of the year of the new era, 410.

Of the public attitude toward the action, but little needs be told now. For the first few hours after the announcement the phone wires were kept hot with indignation meetings; but the only actual intimation of anger came from four or five widely separated spots in Africa and Asia, where folks had grown to hope that famines were no more. But by the next day all trouble had blown over, and we knew that the world would wait patiently to hear our next proposal.

In the meanwhile I was busy receiving suggestions from thousands of sources. My bureau gave them the closest attention; but of the many remedies proposed, few were worth considering at all, and these had already been discarded by us after careful investigation. I concluded that, to use a phrase which was very popular with an ancestor of mine, it was "up to me to make good."

One afternoon Ray called in person to sympathize and to advise, after a glance at my face, that I take some mysterious treatment for the nerves. I obediently followed her to take to the lake, where I found she had brought an antique rowboat, no doubt a copy of some museum relic. The ridiculous notion struck me at a weak place in my dignity, and I allowed her to row me out into the middle of the water, while my assistants stood on the bank and fumed.

Ray had the wonderful good sense to say nothing, and I lay back in my seat and nearly fell asleep, so quickly did the soothing motion of the boat take effect. And then, in one of those semiconscious moments of inspiration, the big idea came to me. Not full-fledged like the melody of a song, but the basic notion of a remedy for the threatened disaster.

Ray again showed a powerful sense of fitness by controlling her curiosity as I excitedly grabbed the oars. I hurried out of the boat, intent on the scheme in mind, and rushed away to my laboratory without another glance at the poor girl. It was not until the next day that I recalled this, and at once got Ray over the phone.

The photophone was not as handy, of course, as the portable visiphone which we now use. One stepped into a small booth, and, facing the mosaic mirror which filled one side of the room, adjusted the calling dials on the right wall. As soon as the party answered the call, one immediately saw a full-length reflection of the interior of the other booth, complete in natural colors, lighting and all; so that it was much the same as a face-to-face conversation. A similar mirror on the left made it possible for three parties to talk at once. Of course there were more elaborate booths for official business.

One talked in his natural tones, there being no need to place receiver to ear or to keep near a mouthpiece. The diaphragms were conveniently located at the right. Conversation was distinct and of natural strength; so that there was all the value of a personal visit, minus only the actual bodies themselves.

By this time Ray had returned to her home in California and was at work with her pupils. She would not let me apologize. "I was too gratified to be offended," she smiled; "I knew my treatment had worked." There was a peculiar tremor in her voice which I often catch in my mother's, a kind of solicitous nervousness which always seems to come from a full heart. It encouraged me greatly; I made up my mind to propose at the first opportunity.

But during the next few months I was exceedingly busy with the working out of my idea. I judged that I owed first allegiance to my office; personal affairs must wait. Besides, there were many devices to be tested in the most thorough manner imaginable. My scheme was to solve a great problem; it should be worked out with appropriate care.

Through it all I kept my own counsel. I pledged my assistants to secrecy, and am sure that no outsiders learned of my plan. Perhaps I was wrong here; we might have made quicker progress with more advice. But I reasoned that, since we had displeased the people in secret, we should remedy matters in like fashion.

During this time I heard little of John Babcock, knowing vaguely that he was at work in his Venezuela laboratories, perfecting several inventions. But I was not surprised when the photophone director one day announced that the inventor wished to "acquaint the people with a bit of good news." John was always behaving unconventionally; besides, his remarkable success gave him the photophone wires whenever he wished. People liked Johnnie, and admired and respected him as well. I stepped into my booth knowing that it would be well worth while.

John's booth was evidently right in his workshop, for he had left his door open and part of his apparatus was in sight. He was dressed in full-length overalls, which at that moment were badly soiled. But for that matter, his face and hands also indicated that in his eagerness he had not stopped to clean up. His haggard face showed that he had probably worked for days without rest.

"I've found it, folks!" he jubilated. (I dare say half the waking population was listening to him as he talked.) "Don't worry about food. There will be plenty for all and to spare. Take my word for it— I can't go into details now— bound to work out all right! Gee, but I'm glad!" And the boy, as he now appeared, grinned happily and dodged out of the booth, to return in an instant with a curious cone-shaped object, of some aluminum alloy; apparently a model of some kind, small enough to be held in the hands.

"This is what'll do it!" he shouted at the door of his booth. "Don't ask me how— I'll give you the particulars as soon as it's all worked out. By-by!" And he rang off, leaving a very puzzled world to wonder what he meant, and to smile to itself and say: "Wasn't it just like Johnnie?"

For my own part, I had no doubt as to his sincerity. I also believed that he would accomplish what he promised to do, for his record was so far unbroken. The only possibility of failure was some flaw in materials for which he could not make allowance. I was decidedly relieved by his announcement; but of course did not let up in my own work. The problem was serious enough for the greatest of effort.

I merely renewed my attention to every detail. There would be no flaw in my work. And meanwhile people made little objection to two-thirds of a loaf.

4: The Double Proposal

AT INTERVALS the observatories reported on the progress of Saturn, the onetime planet whose collision with a double star had turned it into a sun, just like old Sol on a very small scale. The big wanderer was to be seen every night, and his increasing size caused us some alarm. But the astronomers assured us that the course he was taking was far from our vicinity.

They figured that this new sun would seek a new path very near that of Jupiter. In fact, even to the naked eye Saturn was rapidly approaching the round ball of his nearest neighbor. Each night a decidedly perceptible change in position could be noted, and before long the two great bodies were separated by proportionately the same distance as existed between Earth and moon.

So we really anticipated the announcement that Jupiter and the new sun had formed a combination. Held by mutual gravitation, they formed a couplet, revolving around one another like the ends of a dumb-bell with an invisible handle. It was a queer sight. One night Saturn would be visible on Jupiter's right; the next, behind him; but of course both planets were mutually disturbed. Jupiter danced just as much as his flaming companion.

I had several conversations with Ray via phone, but still refrained from visiting her. The result was, in time, an uneasy feeling which soon amounted to an obsession. I must call on Ray and learn my fate. Things could not go on like this much longer. I was hopelessly in love; uncertainty did not improve matters one bit. So, when the Christmas holidays gave me an excuse to close my desk, I called up Ray and asked if I might come for a day or two. She was far from surprised. "I was almost sure you would call. What's your great scheme in leaving me alone all this time? Trying to make the heart fonder with a dose of absence?"

Now, I was entirely accustomed to the prevailing frankness of women, but somehow I fancied an undertone in what she said that made my heart leap. Could it be? I wondered, dizzily. And then she calmly remarked: "Johnnie Babcock is coming, too. We'll have a chance to renew our peculiar acquaintance."

I stepped out of the booth with an assortment of feelings which would be hard to classify. I had not thought of Johnnie! And yet, when I put my memory to it, I recalled that he scarcely took his eyes off the girl all the while we were in his plane.

Not that he stared, but his glance kept coming back to her as a bird, just learning to fly, periodically returns to the nest.

I felt somewhat like an ancestor of mine who had half his fortune in one "bank." The bank failed. It spoiled his faith in banks and he invested what was left in government bonds. Well, thought I, a faith like mine— and I had never considered any other girl— ought to be invested where it would be appreciated. I would try my very best to interest Ray in my security.

The day after Christmas found me flying to the Yosemite, where Ray's home and studio were located. There is no denying the advantage of quick transit through the air. One's work is located at home, unless one is engaged in manufactures. There is but little loss of time in the system; yet I often wish we could have preserved one of our great business cities in its entirety. For instance, Broadway was once a brilliant thoroughfare, noted throughout the world for its bustle and extravagance. Now, its quiet, factory-lined course offers a marked contrast.

I reached the place ahead of John, who had lost some time getting fuel en route. So, although Ray assigned me to the choicest room, I could not take much credit for that. When John arrived, it was twenty-one o'clock, and both he and I were eager for bed. Nothing of consequence was said during the little meal our friend had ready for us; and I made up my mind before I fell asleep to make some headway with my suit the next day.

John and I ate breakfast alone, Ray having gone out, said her folks, to test the snow. We wandered into the empty studio and amused ourselves on some of the instruments. In a few days the place would be alive with returned pupils, making the rooms ring with the voices Ray was training. The girls came from all parts of the globe.

Ray came in shortly to suggest a good old-fashioned snow-shoe trip. Her house being located on a knoll on the plain above Yosemite Falls, we quickly made our way down to the brink, where we watched the famous cataract plunging from its icy bed, and wished we could stay until a big storm came up. Ray glanced at the sky and judged that our wish might come true.

After a while we started back up the stream, pausing at a score of points to admire the various villas along the route. It seems incredible that our forefathers could have overlooked this beautiful home spot; but of course it is the final perfection of our aeroplanes which makes it possible for folks to live where the air is pure and God's inspiring beauty right at hand. Today we take it all as a matter of course.

We selected an eastern branch of the creek and soon reached higher ground. From here we could overlook a portion of the wonderful canon itself, catching sight of a solitary pedestrian making his way over the otherwise deserted road. By this time we were getting hungry; and John and I spread out the contents of a lunch-case which we had carried by turns.

We were in a small hollow on the lower edge of a group of dwarf firs, sheltered from a wind which was becoming stronger every minute. But the warm food took off the chill, and soon we were in a talkative mood.

"Last year at this time I would have prophesied almost anything but this combination just now," I said at last. "Remember how we got acquainted, John?"

"Ridiculous interrogation," he came back. "My life has taken a fresh start since then." Unconsciously his head turned so that he could see Ray… And suddenly I caught the girl looking at me, whereupon she burst into a rollicking laugh. I am no good at taking a joke, as a rule; but I saw that my face had given me away. The cat was out of the bag; I laughed with her.

"Oh, what's the use of ignoring the facts?" I exclaimed. "John, you're head over heels in love with Ray, and so am I. Draw, and defend yourself!" And I involuntarily smiled at him. The likable boy!

Ray was in no wise disturbed; her face showed actual relief. As for Johnnie, he was startled for an instant; then grinned as usual, reached for a sandwich, and after a dark pretense of poisoning it from an imaginary vial, guilelessly handed it to me.

"When shall we be married, Ray?" he inquired nonchalantly, ignoring me. We all tittered nervously, and I could see what an effort it cost him. As for myself, I could not control the violent beating of my heart, and I know my face grew pale and tense as I listened for Ray's answer.

The girl was looking out over the snow, smiling for a moment and then becoming very serious and grave. But when she spoke, it was lightly. "If it would settle matters, I'd marry you both," she declared: "although that would be contrary to— to everything. Fact is, I'm not decided at all. I want to marry, and it would be one of you two; but which one, I wish somebody else would decide for me."

"I'm a champion decider," I proclaimed.

But she shook her head. "You're prejudiced. I could tell almost in advance which way you'd decide. No, it's for me to do, of course. I feel something like the girl in the story, who put off her suitors so long that at last each of them got tired waiting and married another girl. I'm afraid not to decide, for fear I get left."

John broke in eagerly: "I'll give you an option on the next forty years."

But Ray turned him down. "You'd want me to deposit a kiss for that option," and she blushed slightly. Then she was silent for a good many minutes.

When she spoke again: "Bob, I've known you almost all my life. If there's anything in a good inheritance, you've got it. You are a decided success in your work, and a big credit to the Commonwealth. But the very steadiness of your development has handicapped you; it is not easy for you to make any great advance. Your reserve and dignity, while conserving a lot of power, also make you less approachable than John.

"I've known him only since last summer, yet I like him immensely." And she colored a little, yet smiled easily and went on: "Oh, hundreds of girls would say the same. You are easy to like. You are so frank and boyish— full of life and energy. I've often wondered that some forward girl didn't land you when you were very young." This rattled Johnnie a bit, but Ray kept right on:

"At the same time, you also are successful. You're even more prominent in your field than Bob, but of course his work is the more indispensable. I've been over this ground again and again, and I can't decide. I know all too well that it makes me appear very egotistical to be picking and choosing in this fashion; but a girl ought to do the best she can, not because of her own pride, but because of what she wants to do for her children." And when she said this, she looked us straight in the eyes and did not blush.

We were silent for a while, and I had a vivid picture of a similar situation in ancient times. Impossible! you would declare, were you living four hundred years ago; impossible for a girl to honorably love more than one man. You would talk of the "great passion" and pronounce Ray immoral. But today we know that passion is largely a matter of propinquity. Reason is dominant.

What I said was: "John Babcock, from now henceforth we are bitter, bitter enemies." I scowled at him darkly; he glared at me ferociously. I continued: "Ray is going to marry the one of us who makes the greatest effort within— shall we say, two or three years?" She looked at John inquiringly, and he nodded vigorously.

"Then it's time I told you something new. I also have a surprise coming soon." And they looked at me with fresh interest. "We won't beg Johnnie to divulge his discovery until he gets good and ready; although it's barely possible that we have the very same idea. You propose to remedy the food shortage? So do I."

Ray jumped in delight. "Well, now we have got a working basis. I'm to marry the one who does the most to— to prevent famine, am I?" She giggled in her excitement. "That's fair enough. My, but I'll be a proud wife!" Then she added: "And right now, a conceited soprano."

The first new flakes of snow put an abrupt end to further talk. We hurried back to the house, and there passed the evening quietly while the storm raged outside; then got a few hours' sleep and arose before dawn. We ate breakfast and were ready to start by the time it was light enough to fly through the snow.

Ray did not mention our problem, but silently watched us get into our coats. Then she went to the door with us; and there very simply kissed us, first John, then me, and saying nothing but her quaint Californian "Adios, señors," she smiled confidently into our eyes and softly closed the door behind us.

We walked toward our machines. I was mighty sorry to go, and I looked at Johnnie. His face was a study. Suddenly he looked up, and held out his hand. "Good luck, Bob," he murmured; and I gripped his hand hard as I wished him the same. Never were rivals friendlier.

We started off nicely; and first, as planned, swept out over the falls and dropped down until we were opposite the water. There we held the machines stationary with our horizontal propellers while we watched the astonishing force of the up-valley wind as it blew the mighty cataract first to one side, then to the other. Then the storm divided the falls in half; and once, such was its power, it held back the entire flow for several seconds, damming up the water like an embankment. It was an exciting thing to watch this in midair from a distance of a few yards, considering the danger of being blown into the falls.

But we volplaned safely down toward the east until we got a fresh start, and soon crossed the crest of the great mountains. Here John turned to the south, while I kept on east; and the last I saw of him for the time was a fluttering handkerchief from a window.

I reached my side of the continent in ten hours.

5: Getting Off The Earth

THE NEW understanding filled me with a determination to not only succeed, but also to do it soon. I put in from fourteen to sixteen hours at my work. Most of my routine affairs were handled by assistants; the great scheme filled my mind. It had passed the experimental stage, and I was now at work on the estimate of its huge cost. It was an immense task.

John must have been similarly inspired, for in about a month it was announced that he would make a preliminary report. It was easy to understand how, with so many friends to place their incomes at his disposal, he was able to rush his plans to completion. In fact, his speed disappointed me. How could he have accomplished so great a thing in so short a time?

At the appointed hour I, like most of the public, was in my booth. The connection was made on schedule, and showed Babcock on the floor of his laboratory. He was wearing an ordinary aviation suit. Harry Mapes and several assistants were in the background.

Johnnie came right to the point. "First I am going to disappoint you by admitting that I am not yet ready to tell my big idea. But perhaps you'll be interested in this fact: in ten minutes we start for Mars, to see how they do it there."

He paused, well knowing that a thrill of surprise ran over the world as he made this astonishing statement. Then he went on, visibly controlling his excitement: "It's a comparatively simple matter. Do you remember Thauber's experiments with centrifugal force, in 255? If you've forgotten, I'll explain briefly.

"Centrifugal force is in proportion to the square of the speed. For instance, if the Earth rotated nineteen times a day instead of once, an object on the equator would have no weight. Its centrifugal force would balance the force of gravitation. Now, at ordinary speeds this force acts only within the limits of the object which is in motion, but Thauber proved that when a wheel of sufficient strength was revolved at extremely high speeds, centrifugal force went outside the rim of the wheel and actually repelled small articles dropped toward the wheel, several inches before they reached the rim.

"Well, I have merely adapted this principle on a large scale. All that was needed was a steel strong enough to stand the strain. Now we'll take a look at the apparatus."

At this signal the assistants opened the big door to the proving grounds. It was the world's first glimpse of the Cone.

Imagine a gleaming metallic building with a diameter of almost exactly fifty yards, and each side the same. Standing on its base, then, it formed a perfect equilateral cone. Along its visible surface were placed a number of windows; and about three feet from the ground, directly opposite, a wide door. John paused for a minute while we took it in, then came close to the mirror and said:

"You remember that I've been working on a wireless photophone for years. That also is ready for use, and there are two booths inside the Cone. I'll connect you with the ground floor," and with that he threw a switch. Next instant I was looking at the inside of the great sky-car.

By the time my eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light, John had opened the broad door and entered from the yard, followed by Harry and two others. The inventor eyed us questioningly and asked: "Can you see and hear the same as usual?" You can imagine the chorus of "Ayes!" that came to him. Of course, the image in his mirror was a composite one; a characteristic portrait of the combined peoples of the Earth.

But he was busy pointing out details. In the middle of the floor of the Cone was a gigantic machine of peculiar yet simple design. It consisted of three tremendous fly-wheels, each direct-connected to an electric motor. The lowest wheel was a horizontal one, set in a depression in the floor; while a massive framework supported the other two, both of which were then vertical. That is to say, these three wheels "pointed" in as many different directions. At the moment they were all revolving, silently save for the subdued hum of the motors themselves.

"The source of current," explained John, "is a compound battery of Burgess-Ames static cells. They are located in the upper part of the Cone. Any electrician can explain to you how we control the discharge from these cells, as well, as the theory of their unlimited capacity. These have been charging for the past ten days from a fifty-thousand kilowatt generator, running continuously."

He pointed out the switches and other controlling devices located on the framework of one of the upright wheels. "The operation is, as you will see, quite simple. By varying the speed of these wheels we can produce any desired degree of centrifugal force in any desired direction. The speed is limited only by the ultimate strength of the material in the wheels. I used Kent's formula for the platina-steel, refined with nitrogen in a Ball furnace and heat-treated in the mercury vapor arc. I can count on a peripheral speed of one hundred and fifty thousand miles per hour, although a third of this is all I really need."

While the inventor was talking, Harry was operating the controllers on the opposite side of the big floor. The hum of one motor grew a little sharper, while the others seemed more subdued; and I saw that one of the vertical wheels was spinning much faster. The thing was dawning on me now.

"You see," explained Johnnie, "the vertical wheel is now developing a force which is so placed as to oppose the gravity of the Earth beneath our feet. Before it spins any faster, I'll cross the floor." He ran past the whizzing wheel, and as he did so I noticed that he leaned heavily toward it. Yet, so great was the invisible force already produced, he lost his balance and staggered against the wall of the Cone. The hum grew to a pronounced whine, and John quickly closed a small switch. Apparently this exhausted the air from the motor, for the whine instantly subsided into a mere murmur.

"And now, comrades," smiled the inventor in our direction, "if you see us appear to be a little anxious, kindly remember that we are about to do something that has never been done before. We are going to leave the atmosphere." As he spoke, he was moving the handle of a controller, while one of his friends went down a long line of switches, methodically closing them one by one. Johnnie eyed an indicator on the frame of the motor, and spoke again.

"Twenty-five thousand miles now— Comrades, let me introduce you to Harry Mapes, Theodore Parker, and H. E. Robertson. Harry is an expert gas analyst, Parker an electrical engineer, Robertson a mathematician.

"We four figured that you good people might try to deter us with well-meant objections. We have plenty of food, an immense quantity of compressed air in the upper compartment, plenty of reserve oxygen, and neutralizing apparatus to purify the air of carbon dioxide. The walls are double and separated by vacuum space, on the same principle as a hot-and-cold bottle. We aren't afraid of the interplanetary cold; anyhow, we have electric heaters. The Cone itself is made of the same material as the wheels, so that the centrifugal force cannot damage its construction.

"Wherever the force sends that wheel, the whole Cone must go, obviously enough— twenty-nine thousand. We are now considerably lighter than air and would float in it the same as a cork in water; but I have provided anchors on the underside of this floor to hold us fast to the Earth. The idea is to insure a fast start."

He was silent for a minute, and I could hear my heart pounding. Jove, what an adventure! Off on a jaunt which would make a circumnavigation of the globe look like a Sunday stroll! I envied the boy and his companions, envied their wonderful nerve— "We'll not say good-by or even Adios," smiled Johnnie. I knew whom the last word was intended for. "You can see just as well as though we were at home. Thirty-two thousand; ready, boys?" Each man had taken the safety-clasp off a large three-pole switch.

I judged that they would control electromagnets connected with the anchors. Johnnie turned to a window straight ahead of our mirror and opened its shutter. A flood of sunlight bathed the floor.

"All right, then; one-two-three, pull!" Each man gave a sharp jerk; the Cone twitched sharply, and I saw the ground receding through the window. I had a slight feeling of nausea, exactly as though an elevator had started too swiftly. The Cone was going at great speed. The four men were staggering with the effect. Harry had stumbled to his knees.

Johnnie managed to get to the switchboard. His voice was muffled and strained, but it did not hide his pride and triumph.

"I'll connect you with the booth on the grounds," he shouted, glancing toward us; and as he snapped a thumbpiece the view instantly changed to the solid Earth again. It was a startling effect; I clung to the side of the booth to steady myself.

The new outlook was directly toward the laboratory. Slowly it panoramed to the zenith (operated by Harry's father, I afterward learned) until the blue sky filled the view. Then I caught sight of a round, black disk, rapidly diminishing in size. It was the base of the Cone, shooting away from Mother Earth.

A moment later it had faded to a tiny dim spot in the brilliant blue. Next second it was gone.

6:  Men On The Moon

WHEN JOHNNIE restored the connection to the Cone, we saw that a railing had been put up to keep the voyagers away from the dangerous force. Harry was distributing hot chocolate. They next opened several windows, and by means of levers panoramed our mirror to get the various views.

They were already beyond the atmosphere limits, and no details of the Venezuelan topography were distinguishable. The Earth was covered with a haze: only the general outline of the northern coast and the deeper shade of the Caribbean could be made out. The Cone was now going incredibly fast.

Two peculiarities certainly should be recorded. The sunlight was intensely bright, disagreeably so; in fact, our friends had already fitted snow glasses to their eyes. Now I could see why the floor and walls of the Cone were colored black. Even then, enough light was reflected to damage the eyes of all who were watching from Earth, had not Johnnie thrown a lever and thus swung a dark glass screen over our mirror, smilingly saying as he did so, "Didn't I tell you we had arranged for everything?"

The other oddity was the absolute blackness of the sky itself. All of the stars were visible, appearing much brighter than we had ever seen them before. Johnnie gave us a connection to the other mirror, near the top of the Cone, and we had a fine view of the Milky Way. If we had ever thought it contained millions of stars, now it seemed to have billions— all this difference because there was no atmosphere to hinder our sight; and this fact also accounted for the brilliance of the sun. It is hard to realize that air is not perfectly transparent; but it is merely less opaque than water, and otherwise much the same.

Johnnie was talking when he restored the connection to the other mirror. "There will be little to see for a couple of hours. Better go back to work, or to sleep, or whatever you are doing. I'll call you later." Our view immediately jumped back to the laboratory. Johnnie's father and brother were in the booth, having evidently been watching the mirror as we were. The younger man spoke: "We have the sender and receiver in an adjoining building. They are automatic and will respond to any call."

My first thought, on stepping from the booth, was of Ray. Without doubt she had witnessed this extraordinary adventure. What did she think now? Would this spectacular affair weigh heavily in John's favor? Every woman is supposed to admire this kind of courage; many of them would marry a man for this quality alone. I was decidedly down in the mouth.

And then she called me to the phone.

"Discouraged?" she laughed, with her disconcerting way of reading my thoughts. "Don't worry, Bob; Johnnie has done a big thing and perhaps will do bigger; but I have any amount of confidence in you. Are you ready yet with your idea?"

"I can't show off for two or three months," I responded gloomily, although I must admit that her manner lifted my feelings several notches. Then I perked up a smile and added, "My hated rival has outstepped me. Revenge!"

"That's the spirit! Now get busy and show us what you are made of." I took her at her word, ran to my desk and worked nine hours without a break.

In this way I missed Johnnie's next call, and so did not get to see the Earth at full. They told me it was a wonderful yet disappointing sight. The immense globe filled nearly a third of the heavens with its luminous, decidedly curved surface. Fancy the moon brought down until she nearly filled the sky from one side to the other! But on the other hand, the details so familiar to anyone who has studied a school globe were almost entirely lacking. The atmosphere is like a window curtain: the people inside can look out, but people outside cannot see in. Only the deep blue of the oceans and the tips of the highest mountains were clearly visible. The rest was yellowish-white, tinged with reds, browns, and greens.

When I did finally respond to one of Johnnie's calls, I saw that he and his friends had rigged up hand-rails along the switchboard and across the "safe" portion of floor. Moreover, the men were clinging to these rails almost continuously. Johnnie had already explained this, and so it took me a few moments to guess the reason.

Since cutting loose from the Earth, the Cone and everything it contained were free from the effects of gravity. They no longer had weight, in the usual sense of the term; the Cone was now a little independent planet in itself. The rails were needed to keep the men from floating— yes, that's the right word— floating through the air toward the Cone's center of gravity.

There was a ladder leading from the floor to the ceiling above. One of the men appeared at the opening, and to my alarm jumped down without touching the rungs. But he did not fall— he gently sank through the air, and landed softly. Had he not caught the ladder he would have rebounded to the ceiling— Johnnie and Parker were then at work on a calculation. In a moment they had finished, and began adjusting the controllers to correspond with their figures. John explained as they did so. "We are now at such a height that the moon, which you in the longitude of New York can see rising in the east, is on a level with the floor of the Cone. The centrifugal force in the vertical wheel is still acting against the Earth's attraction, but the moon is pulling vigorously to the side. It is just behind your mirror."

He thought of the other mirror and quickly connected us.

I saw the moon as it had never appeared before. With no atmosphere between it and my eyes, its sharp features stood out like print. It was almost new, of course, the eastern side being very slightly illuminated. This was in accord with the well-known law that Earth and moon show opposite phases.

Even as I watched, the moon's disk grew steadily larger. Johnnie was at my elbow, so to speak. "The horizontal wheel is barely in motion. I am letting the moon pull all it will. As soon as we get up enough speed I'll use that wheel as a brake. See?"

He explained that he would not stop the vertical wheel, but would allow it to turn slowly so that it might act as a gyroscope to counteract the tendency of the Cone to turn around the horizontal wheel.

And so from time to time I watched the growing size of the satellite, inspecting its well-known features with fresh interest. After a few days it appeared larger than in Earth's most powerful instruments, the narrow line of sunlight on its eastern edge filling the entire width of our window. We appeared to be heading for the middle of this match, a spot just between Mare Crisium and the crater of Langrenus.

I saw that we— of course I mean "they"— would not land for a few hours; so went to bed after giving word to be called at six. The day had been voted a holiday, so probably everyone on Earth got a view of the event. The moon was now, at a guess, about ten miles away, and the edge of the Cone was still at right angles to the surface. I wondered how the inventor was going to get its base downward.

He pointed out the third of the great wheels, which thus far had taken no part in the operations. "I call that the steering wheel," he explained. "You notice that its framework is like a gigantic set of gimbals, such as are used to support a mariner's compass. We can point that wheel in any direction, while it is not running; and as soon as it is started its gyroscopical force will keep it in place."

By means of levers they directed this wheel toward the further edge of the moon, and soon the rim was revolving swiftly. At the same time the other two wheels were slowed down. Watching through our window, we could see the bright crust move slowly out of sight; and then the black night of the universe took its place. We could not see what was happening underneath, and for a while I was very nervous. What if the steering wheel could not stop the sky-car as it dropped?

But soon light appeared through the deadlight in the floor. Johnnie was watching progress, with every other man at a switch, ready to throw on more current if needed. But shortly the inventor saw that he was using too much power; the Cone was not dropping quickly enough, and they slowed the wheel a bit.

The light grew steadily brighter— of a sudden, I caught sight of the tip of a crater through the window— a mountain-top in the distance. Johnnie signaled for a bit more power; and with his eyes glued to the deadlight, waited a moment and then signaled for power off. There was a shivering jolt, and next, instant Johnnie snapped open every window-shutter. The Cone was flooded with light. It had landed on the moon!

7: — And In It!

JOHNNIE TURNED toward the mirror and smiled easily, while the others began throwing off the power; and every one of them was grinning, and finally they all began to bow. Suddenly it struck me that everybody on Earth was applauding as vigorously as I. The world was congratulating them.

"It will take several minutes for the wheels to stop. Recess!" and the inventor threw a switch. I put in the time wondering what would be found. Of course, the world's best telescopes, especially those of the compound-reflecting type, had brought the satellite very near. Any object the size of a man would have been seen long ago. But the actual material of which the moon was made— the secret of its puzzling lightness as compared with the Earth, was now to be told. There were no sleepy scientists that night.

Johnnie was completing the connections for the other mirror when next we saw him. He had placed the device so as to fill one of the window openings.

I saw the great plain which stretches south toward Langrenus. I knew better than to expect any extraordinary sight, but was nevertheless disappointed. The utterly barren, featureless waste of desert that met my eyes was absolutely devoid of vegetation. Its surface was broken into irregular mounds and ridges of lava, but aside from this it might have been one of the gravelly wastes of southwestern America. The surface was scarcely worth looking at.

Soon we were back in the Cone. The men had brought down several cages from the "loft"; and now I saw, as I had expected to see, a number of pigeons and rabbits, together with a few chipmunks. Johnnie was at work in the vestibule of the big outer doors, adjusting the fastenings and levers. By simply closing the inner door of the vestibule he obtained an air-tight compartment about eight feet square. Into this he placed one each of the animals and closed the double glass door upon them.

Meanwhile the other mirror was so placed as to command a view of the interior. We were now to see whether there was enough air on the moon to support life. Johnnie cautioned us first. "If you're at all squeamish, don't watch this." Then he moved the levers in the walls which opened the outer door—

Well, I do not need to go into details. The poor beasts died, the first to be sacrificed to the advance of human science for two centuries. I was glad when we were switched to the other mirror. Johnnie was reading some instruments.

"Two hundred degrees below, centigrade," from the thermometer. "The barometer is away down at the bottom of the scale. It will not register negative pressures. There's no air at this particular spot; that's certain."

He stifled a yawn. "I see nothing to be gained by staying here any longer. We ought to go to bed for a while, however, before looking any further. But— just a moment." Shortly he had us looking out of an upper window.

We saw an immense reddish globe, several times the apparent size of the moon. For a moment. I was puzzled, then gasped as I recognized the Earth— I had a very weird sensation, such as a disembodied spirit might feel on gazing at the human shell which was once its home— we could make out no details whatever.

About nine hours later the call came again. There was now a big change in the appearance of things. Night had come on the moon— the fourteen-day night of intense cold, void even of twilight or dawn. The travelers were making preparations for departure; all the wheels were going, the adjustable one the faster. Shortly Johnnie gave the order to cast off. The anchors let go, and with a jerk the Cone flew off at an angle.

Using the other wheels as levers, Johnnie threw the Cone in a new direction. Watchers on Earth, through scopes, saw it disappear around the eastern edge of the moon. As the inventor explained, "We all want to know what is on the other side. We'll go up high enough to see the whole of it."

The next time I looked, the mirror had been placed over a deadlight, looking straight down. The Cone was hovering over the center of the great disk, at a height of perhaps a hundred miles. The surface was brilliantly light, except for a strip of shadow on the western edge. The moon was, as seen from the Earth, just approaching her first quarter— the most striking feature was its apparent flatness. There was much less of the characteristic globular appearance than on the other face.

I learned that the travelers had gotten a good profile view of the moon shortly before. "This bears out the theory, held by many astronomers," commented Johnnie, "that the moon, having always the same face turned toward the Earth, is not a globe but more or less egg-shaped, with the sharp end Earthward. If we accept the nebular hypothesis, then certainly the moon was at one time molten, and Earth's gravitation could have had this effect— but look at the craters."

I most certainly was looking at them. This face of the moon was simply filled with craters. There were thousands of eruptions of various sizes on the side we knew so well, but here were five times as many. There was nothing else to be seen. No plains, no seas, no ridges such as distinguished the other side. This surface— have you ever seen a snap-shot of a pool of water in a heavy rainstorm? Like that, the rims of the craters looked as though gigantic raindrops had fallen on the moon, and splashed.

I watched at intervals of half an hour, as Johnnie purposely descended very slowly. They minutely examined every section of the surface, and soon were competent to declare that there was no sign of human existence, or even plant life. When within a mile of the ground, I watched with the keenest interest.

The Cone settled down within the great circle of a crater about a hundred and fifty miles in diameter. The rim rose to a height of perhaps ten miles, jagged and rocky, enclosing a central basin composed of lava-like formations. Great fissures ran everywhere; and a little to one side of the center vas a pit, perhaps a quarter of a mile in its greatest diameter. From above it was perfectly black, indicating a great depth.

"We could learn nothing by landing among those fissures," remarked Johnnie to his friends. "I propose that we drop down that pit a little way and see what we can see. Are you game?"

Harry looked disgusted. "Of course, there's nothing at all game about lying around in space with a wild inventor; oh, no. Go as far as you like." The other two men snorted in agreement, and Johnnie steered for the pit.

The Cone sank smoothly into the center of the huge space. The sunlight was almost, but not quite, straight down; the light continued unabated. Johnnie held the pace slow, and yard by yard the Cone dropped silently into the moon— nobody spoke for several minutes, and the tension became severe. My nerves were on edge. It was an uncanny proceeding!

Suddenly, without any warning, the light went out. My mirror was absolutely black. I involuntarily shouted in dismay and horror— what could have happened?

When came Johnnie's voice, a little strained but still matter-of-fact. "We passed into the shadow. I should have warned you." As he spoke he turned on the lights in the Cone; and a world breathed freely again.

They had stopped the Cone. Johnnie operated the steering wheel enough to bring the car over to one wall and stopped it in mid-space at a distance of a couple of feet. Then, going into the vestibule, the inventor rigged up some queer apparatus, came out, and closed the inner door tightly. Then he opened the outer door, and operated several levers.

We could not see what he had done, but after he had closed the outer door he went into the vestibule and returned with a large pair of tongs grasping a big fragment of crumbly rock— a portion of the very heart of the moon. Only Parker's presence of mind prevented Johnnie, who was strangely excited, from taking the specimen in his bare hands. Had he done so, his skin would have welded fast to the stone, cold as it was with the terrible cold of the universe.

Johnnie's hands fairly shook in his eagerness as he flipped the stopper from a small bottle. Carefully separating a tiny fragment from the stone, he allowed a drop from the bottle to fall upon it. Instantly the specimen disappeared! Johnnie and his friends began to sneeze and to cough violently; Harry rushed the big stone to the vestibule and closed the door upon it. When he returned, Johnnie was exclaiming exuberantly.

"I knew it! I knew it! That's why the moon was so light!— and my scheme will work!" He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and danced him around like a schoolboy. In a moment he thought of explaining.

"Don't worry about this gas; the neutralizers will take care of it— and listen, you on Earth: I'm not going off at half-cock by telling you part of my plan before I'm sure of the whole thing. We've got to go to Mars first. Excuse me, please?"

8: On To Mars

THE CONE made a very auspicious start for our next planetary-neighbor, first finding a level spot approximately in line with Mars and then, with the steering wheel, laying a perfectly straight course. When the anchors were finally released the sky-car started from the moon at the highest safe velocity. At the same time the vertical wheel's speed was greatly increased, and shortly the Cone was flying at an unprecedented rate.

Johnnie reminded us that the communication apparatus required a great deal of power, all of which might be needed later; and so we heard from them only once daily for a few minutes at a time. On these occasions we learned little that was not already known of interplanetary space. The four men, when not reading or enjoying limited acrobatics, indulged in a great variety of games to kill time. By means of a simple receiving device they enjoyed the more important daily news as transmitted by a powerful machine operated at Babcock's plant.

One day Robertson came down from the loft carrying some peculiar instruments. Johnnie examined them curiously, explaining meanwhile that, in his hurry, he had merely asked a museum to send him four of the least ancient of their repeating rifles. I recalled an almost forgotten bit of history.

Firearms were once very common throughout the world. During the last war, the rank and file were armed with them, although most of the actual damage was done with large machines, called cannon, for throwing huge projectiles. It is astonishing how much ingenuity the ancients displayed in these devices for destroying life, and what little thought they gave to conserving it.

Clearly our friends could not make out the action of these weapons. Johnnie consulted some literature sent by the museum, but said, "The curator writes that the method of using these rifles is a lost art. All he knows is that the fuel for them will be found in this carton." Johnnie tore open the container and displayed some tarnished brass cylinders, each having a rounded plug at one end— evidently the ancient bullet.

"Can anybody tell me how to operate this thing?" he appealed to the world at large. "Here! Don't all speak at once. I don't want suggestions: does anybody know?"

There was not a single reply. Think of it! Twelve billions of people, and not one knew how to manipulate a specimen of the old world's most deadly hand weapon. As a comment on the efficacy of the great change, in having removed the causes of the situations which called for force, nothing more needs be said.

But here was a problem, and Johnnie met it by gingerly fingering the weapon. To make it short, between them the travelers discovered the way to use the devices without serious accident. However, one rifle did become accidentally discharged (I believe this is the correct word) but the bullet flew harmlessly across the room. That is, it started across, but was caught by the force and flung away at right angles to its path. From the great dent it made in the steel wall, it was believed to be quite powerful. They were very careful in handling the things.

Each time we saw and talked to them we were also shown the steadily growing disk of Mars. Of course this renewed everybody's study of the planet. Recent work with compound telephotoscopes had added immensely to our knowledge. The much-discussed canals, whose relationship to the changing seasons of Mars was once disputed, became as familiar to us as the rivers of America. The great cities, once called oases, were studied intently for fresh proof of a still-existent life. Our instruments brought us within fifty miles; there was little doubt that intelligent beings of some kind once lived there, and perhaps— The new combination called by some "Jupiturn," which had formed when the now white-hot Saturn had come within Jupiter's influence, was also watched with great interest. It will be remembered that Saturn was actually falling toward the sun when it was attracted to and held by its big brother. But that doesn't mean that Jupiter stopped the stumbling planet: gravitation is a mutual affair.

Think of it this way: Jupiter's velocity and Saturn's were now combined inseparably. The sun was no longer pulling on the one alone— it was pulling on the pair of them, because they were revolving around one another. So you see that, although Jupiter's speed in his path around the sun had not increased or decreased, Saturn's sunward motion had brought him much nearer. He was no longer able to hold to his old orbit, but was steadily swinging in toward the sun, his path describing a giant spiral in space.

There was some slight apprehension on Earth when this was announced. Several feared that the giant planet might come so near as to get the Earth into its power.

But the astronomers laid this bogy. Jupiter was doomed to take up an orbit between us and Mars, and, although our next-door neighbor, would be a ruly one. It was easy to figure; the Newtonian law showed that every heavenly body will find a path in space where its centrifugal force will balance with the existing gravitational influences.

Mars would not be affected by this sunward motion, although Jupiter would pass just ahead of him. The distance would be just enough to insure Mars's safety from disturbance. It would be a couple of years before the change took place.

I am going somewhat into detail on these points, because they have a very important bearing on what follows. You ought, also, to know that the remaining half of the double star, or planetoid, which had caused the original mischief, was now speeding for the sun. They found that it was following a hyperbolic path, and thus, after swinging around the sun, would fly off into space again, never to return. On its outward way it would pass near the Earth, but not dangerously close.

I had finished my estimate, and was now at work on a life-size model. It was spring; the approaching harvest promised to be the same as usual over all the world. People seemed reconciled to short rations, and I felt safe in delaying my announcement until I was perfectly sure. Had there been any signs of discontent, I would have taken chances and placed the scheme before the public at once. But I was ambitious to win the only girl I had ever loved. Can you blame me for wanting to be sure?

I kept my plans as secret from the world as I am withholding them now from you. With the exception of a few reliable assistants, nobody knew of the station on the coast of Brazil where I was trying out my scheme. There was a time when an enterprising "reporter" would have spoiled it all for me; but people have acquired a vast respect for the experimenter and a wonderful ability to mind their own business. Score again for the change.

Ray and I had a few photophone visits, and from each I gained a fresh inspiration to do my best. I longed to call in person, but I thought it unfair to Johnnie, under the circumstances. Most certainly he would never have taken advantage of my absence. Ray understood, and did not invite me.

Time dragged heavily in the Cone until Mars's gravitation began to be felt. Then there was rapid progress; the day soon came when Johnnie tipped the Cone until its base was "down," and set the vertical wheel going to brake their terrific coast. And when Deimos, Mars's outer moon, was passed at a distance of about twenty miles, the whole world was on hand to wonder at the tiny black satellite and gaze at its mysterious parent.

Obscured as always with its film of thin air, Mars's surface was more or less indistinct. The south polar cap was still visible, this being the planet's spring season in its southern hemisphere. As we approached, the nearly circular patch called Hellas appeared a light yellowish-green in color, while the pointed expanse of Syrtis Major was a rusty blue. As for the canals, they ran straight through Syrtis, as well as in the surrounding regions; so if the "sea" ever held water, assuredly it contained none now, if the canals were really canals.

As we watched the planet revolved beneath us, Johnnie purposely using his steering wheel to offset the effect of gravity. Thus the Cone hovered stationary, and soon several double canals came into sight: I recognized Euphrates and the two great cities to the east. We constantly drew nearer, and soon lost the globular effect as the surface flattened out. Johnnie was steering for latitude 40 in the south temperate zone.

By this time we were near enough to make out Mars's only mountain system, the chain on the plateau south of Fastigium Aryn. To the west of this was the great "gardens," as they had been called for centuries. Johnnie used his glasses continually, and informed us that there was every sign of cultivation in this vast district. He could make out no forms of growth, but the great diversity of coloration, laid out in definite patches, showed that somebody had planted something methodically. I was in my booth for hours.

Judge of our excitement when Solis Lacus appeared at our left. This tremendous oval, once thought to be a mere patch of vegetation, all now knew to be the capital city of Mars. In fact, the more recent textbooks call it Marsopolis. We were less than thirty miles high when it came into sight, and by the time it was directly below us we were only five miles away. Johnnie had connected us to the deadlight, but we knew that he and the others were watching with powerful glasses. Suddenly Harry broke out:

"Flying machines!" And billions of eyes strained to see. But we could make out nothing with our unaided sight. Johnnie had stopped his braking wheel, and we were now carried along by the gravity, thus accompanying the city. A little farther down, and all of a sudden, so swiftly that the mere thought sends the blood jumping through my veins even now, an aerial machine darted across my vision not a hundred feet below the Cone!

Soon we could make out hundreds of them. Peculiar flapping arrangements, with wings arranged in stories like an ancient multiplane; some of them were so fragile that I could see light through them as though they were almost transparent. At first we could make out nothing of their operators.

Then our attention was attracted to the surface. The atmosphere was clearer now. We could easily define the streets, which ran with the utmost exactitude in parallel lines. There were no cross streets: the buildings appeared to completely fill all the spaces. At a rough glass, the structures stretched for ten miles without a break. Evidently the streets were merely to give access to sunlight.

This idea was borne out by the multitude of aircraft. They darted here and there like flocks of birds. I had thought that the Earth's supply was hopelessly confused, but here it was infinitely worse. For several minutes I did nothing but marvel that there were no accidents. It occurred to me that the Cone's arrival must have been observed, and that probably we were looking upon all the planet's machines.

The excitement was too severe for anyone to speak here on Earth, but Johnnie was coolly examining the instruments. "Pressure about the same as on Mount Everest," he commented, and "Ten above zero, centigrade. If the air is the same as we have at home, we can stretch our legs, boys."

Harry was already placing three animals in the vestibule. The mirror was not shifted, so the world waited in anxiety for several minutes. Could we live in that air? At last Johnnie closed the outer door, opened the inner one, and took out the rabbit. It was still alive, though panting feverishly; but the pigeon and chipmunk were both very active, as though they enjoyed the change of air.

"Good. We'll touch bottom in a few moments. I'm going to shift the mirror to one of the windows, so that you can see all that happens." Johnnie suited the action to the word, and I was soon gazing out over Marsopolis at a height of about a hundred yards.

There were no very tall buildings. Apparently they were all factories, with the exception of a group of reddish structures about three miles distant, set up on a slight eminence. These had already been seen from Earth, and long ago styled "the Capitol." But I was looking eagerly for the Martians themselves.

I had my own theory as to their probable characteristics. My idea was the small amount of air, and the necessity for lots of breathing to get enough oxygen, would require the Martians to develop extra-large lungs. Again assuming that they were constituted similarly to us, the very slight gravity would permit them to grow to immense heights. But the same reason would make it unnecessary for them to have much bulk. In short, they would resemble the greyhound type, long, big-chested, fragile as to limb.

I could have shouted aloud for joy when I saw, not a hundred yards away, one of the machines come to a swift, fluttering landing in the large, open space or plaza toward which we were settling. For in a moment a Martian stepped out of the machine. He proved my theory.

He was looking up at us, and meanwhile signaling rapidly to others who were out of sight. His height was simply astonishing: he was all of twenty feet. His head was exceedingly long and tall, but I could not then make out the features. His chest was, exactly as I had guessed— immense as compared with the rest of him. The torso and arms and legs were preposterously thin; he was nothing more or less than my greyhound, standing erect. Otherwise he was an anthropoid mammal— a man!

Harry was operating the controls, and succeeded in landing with scarcely a jar. But our eyes were glued on the buildings surrounding the plaza, and the vast crowd of people under the walls. From the distance they made a confused mass, all moving in an excited fashion that made it impossible to distinguish details.

I heard Johnnie unlatching the inner door of the vestibule. He and Harry were preparing to step out immediately. There were no preliminaries; you would have thought these two were about to take a stroll along the seashore, for all the care they took. I could not see, but heard Robertson come up to them and speak quietly.

"You'd better take these." I guessed that he was offering the rifles. "I don't like the looks of that crowd. Maybe they're armed. Better take them."

There was a moment's silence; then Johnnie impatiently exclaimed: "Oh, I suppose so. 'Safety first,'" he added, quoted a saying which has come down from our ancestors of four hundred years ago. We heard the inner doors close; then there was a pause. Next instant men stood for the first time on Mars.

9: Were They Human?

AS I GAZED I heard Johnnie reminding Harry to step carefully, because the light gravity would change a hasty stride into a veritable leap. It seemed ages before they appeared in front of our window. Both were panting violently, their faces suffused; they took very cautious steps, but smiled at us reassuringly.

Johnnie said it was their intention to merely show themselves; and then faced the crowd.

And what a crowd! Their aspect was astonishing, to put it mildly. They were near enough now for us to see that none were less than thrice the usual height of a man, and apparently all of far less weight. Had they six limbs, I might describe them as spidery. Their bulging chests helped that impression.

They were about fifty yards away, and we could hear them faintly. Whatever they were saying, it had a most unpleasant minor undertone which filled me with uneasiness. If these people were not actually hostile, they were certainly very sour about something else. I know most of the world got that idea.

The fellow whom I had first seen, together with half a dozen others, came from the center of the group and stepped toward us. Their enormous strides brought them at hand in two seconds. They stopped twenty feet away, while our two representatives faced them in the immediate foreground. It was the most dramatic moment since the creation itself: interplanetary diplomacy was about to take place. Can you conceive of a greater chance for Johnnie to pose?

But he was making a rather poor showing, panting violently as he was. Harry was equally distressed; but the Martians were perfectly composed. And what extraordinary beings! You are probably familiar with the kinemagraphs which Parker and Robertson brought back, but they do not give the full impression. I shiver every time I revisualize those terrible faces.

Picture a head as tall as a half-grown boy, and as slender! The upper three-fourths was forehead, if I may call such a hideous malformation by so plain a name. The eyes, set one on each side like a bird's, accentuated the depth of the head and called striking attention to the complete absence of a nose, unless the small central orifice served that purpose. But the mouth! Could any nightmare have devised a worse object than that grim slit, set as it was just below those unwinking eyes? It perfectly belonged to the thin, pointed chin which jutted out half a foot in front of the rest of the "face."

When I examined the eyes closely, I saw one reason for my feeling of uneasiness. No trace of emotion could be seen in those large, staring pupils. No ancient vulture ever had half that cruel, hard expression. They were examining Johnnie and Harry with the same coldly scientific interest you might give to an insect.

Suddenly the leader opened his hideous mouth and began to speak. I cannot describe the sound adequately, but it resembled a far-off rumbling more than anything else. At first I thought that some machine had started in the distance, but our friends were listening intently. I tried to catch definite sounds.

It was impossible to divide the sounds into word groups. The Martian spoke for a few seconds, waited, and then spoke again. When he did this the third time, I saw that he was repeating the same thing. Yet there was no hint of question, declaration, or command in his voice. It was flat and colorless, with the minimum of modulation. On the other hand, terrifying.

Apparently they had no teeth, for the dental consonants were entirely absent. The gutturals seemed to predominate. The rumbling was so devoid of resonance that it had almost wholly timbre quality. Harshness was its greatest element.

Johnnie came to the conclusion, expressed for our benefit at the cost of much breath, that the men wanted to know their immediate desires. Accordingly the inventor went through a prearranged pantomime with Harry. First Johnnie made motions, illustrating with a pencil that he wanted a similar object from Harry. Harry nodded extravagantly, at the same time producing another pencil and handing it over. Having thus established the nod for "yes," Johnnie then asked if he wanted the pencil returned; and when Harry vigorously shook his head, Johnnie forthwith pocketed the pencil.

When they paused, there was a lot of rumbling among the stilt-like men. They imitated the nodding and shaking of the head, and then watched Johnnie in grim silence. He offered the pencil to one of the group, who unhesitatingly reached out with his preposterously long, thin arm and grasped the thing in his disgusting excuse for a hand. It was like feeding an octopus to thrust the pencil into that writhing mass of wormlike fingers.

The group examined the pencil with every indication of having never seen such a thing. Finally the leader handed it back with that same peculiar certainty of movement which added to the horror of his aspect. Johnnie produced a pad of paper, rapidly outlined a globe with a tiny Cone on its surface, and showed this to the Martians. They inspected it, whereupon Johnnie made a tentative nod. Instantly they all fell to nodding violently—

Next Johnnie made another sketch, starting with a large, glowing orb and placing concentric circles of various sizes at the approximate locations of the various planets in the solar system. Having drawn a tiny Cone on the fourth of these globes, Johnnie pointed to the third, and indicated that he and Johnnie came from there. Then he handed the paper to the Martians. They rumbled monotonously over it.

"If they are as intelligent as they are supposed to be," said Johnnie, "they'll know enough astronomy to make that out." I knew he was thinking of the biological theory which assumes that Mars, being a smaller planet than the Earth, cooled off sooner, and thus became fit for life sooner. Therefore the Martians would have progressed farther, all other things being equal.

Suddenly the leader of the stilt-men began experimenting with the pencil. In a moment he had drawn a tiny oval next to the sphere which Johnnie had designated as the Earth!

"He's drawn the moon!" jubilated the inventor for our benefit. So they knew— I forgot to say that the mirror was so connected that, while we could hear and see what was happening, the Martians could not see or hear us. So they could not know that we knew.

With the foregoing experiments as a basis, Johnnie and the Martians between them worked out a fairly effective sign language. Neither made any attempt to master the other's enunciation: it was a matter of physical difference, and perhaps impossible to overcome. Instead, they relied upon eye and brain alone… I cannot fill these pages with the details; they have been published in the etymological journals, and also duplicated by the kinemagrams.

Johnnie stuck to his policy of not going away from the Cone. "If they want us to go to see their high muck-a-muck," he chuckled, "I'll tell 'em to bring him here. I guess the first men to cross from the Earth are as important as their chairman, or whatever they call him."

So the first day passed with considerable progress made. The two adventurers scarcely moved from the door of the Cone, even eating a pocket lunch outside; and by nightfall were more or less inured to the rare atmosphere. They made the Martians understand about sleep, and reentered the Cone without ceremony.

The four men ate heartily, the while exchanging notes with the chairman and other intercontinental officers. What had been learned was too disconnected to form any conclusions upon as yet; and shortly our friends retired. The Martian night being almost the same length as the Earth's, all enjoyed an excellent rest; nevertheless, they divided the time into watches, and each kept one for safety's sake.

10: Mars's Dilemma

I WAS DISAPPOINTED that they did not try to learn something of the Martian night life, for this was a disputed point; but appreciated their weariness and went to sleep myself-. The following morning Johnnie met the "committee" within an hour after the tiny sparkling sun, its rays only half as strong as on Earth, rose in the east in the good old way. He and Harry kept up the show of being the only passengers.

During the day they patiently worked out their scheme of communication. In some places the work was very tedious, and not many citizens followed it throughout. Harry summarized it for us that night.

"The canals are, as ye felt sure, waterways connecting the frozen polar caps with the irrigation districts. Their northern and southern hemispheres have their alternate summer and winter, just as we do; but their winter must be a terrible thing. They are warm-blooded, just as we are; they all migrate from one hemisphere to the other as the seasons change, to avoid the cold.

"The population is the same today as it was thousands of years ago. I know this sounds extraordinary, but it seems to be the truth. The people are divided into two distinct classes: the rulers, with some of whom we were talking; and the workers, whom they exhibited to us."

I was at the phone when this exhibit was brought forth. The workers appeared to be of the same general type, but not so tall. They were slightly more bulky, but flabby in make-up; each wore a uniform. Their heads had less height and more width than their masters'; their chins not nearly as prominent, and their eyes infinitely milder. I never saw a greater exemplification of gentleness and patience than in the expression of their dovelike pupils.

"Apparently this condition has existed for countless centuries," Harry went on. "There appears to have been several revolutions long before humans appeared on our Earth; but they were put down ruthlessly. Since then a group of approximately three thousand families has kept the rest of the population, numbering millions anyway, in subjection. There are occasional outbreaks, but never wide-spread."

The chairman put in this question: "How do you account for this lack of progress, Babcock?"

Johnnie said there was only one way. "Everybody knows that Mars is a lightweight planet. Did it ever occur to you that iron, and all the heavier ores, would be very scarce here? Well, iron is as rare as platinum on Earth. I would trace it all to the scarcity of mountains and the volcanic activity which is responsible for ores.

"Anyhow, this lack of iron means a lack of machinery. They do nearly everything by hand, like the ancient Chinese. The rulers own every bit of the metal, and use most of it in their fliers. This gives them the advantage over the workers, being able to keep close watch on them without danger to themselves. Apparently progress stopped here at about the stage represented by the year 1700 a.d. on Earth."

Harry broke in: "Without machinery to do their work for them, the workers have never had a really good argument for revolting. There was little to be gained— work would have to be done in the old way, regardless."

"The canals serve a double purpose," pursued Johnnie. "They not only irrigate, but transport workers from field to field as they are needed. The manufacturing is all done in these cities. Of course, there is no idea of a wave-motor here, because these tiny moons would not cause a tide even if there was enough water; so they still get their power from below the surface. I can't make out whether the fuel is liquid or solid; possibly it's gas.

"And that's all we learned today, except one thing: they have powerful instruments here, likely more efficient than ours; they know that our moon keeps one face always toward the Earth, and that Mercury and Venus behave the same toward the sun. But they know almost nothing of the surface of the Earth. Our atmosphere accounts for that." And with this the report came to an end for that day.

I called up Ray and talked over these facts, to which she had also been listening. "How can Johnnie possibly learn anything of value to us in such a God-forsaken world?" I wondered. "Did he tell you anything of his plans, Ray?"

"He called me up just before he started," she replied hesitatingly. "Said that his plans were automatic, in a sense, because his discoveries would decide each new step for him. That is nearly his exact words. I got the notion that he is going somewhere else after visiting Mars; I don't know why, but I did."

"Wherever he goes, I hope he makes a discovery that will solve our food problem," I answered.

Ray looked worried. "Aren't you satisfied with your own scheme?" she asked.

"It looks all right to me now, but I'd feel better if I knew there was a handy alternative in case of failure. It's too serious a matter not to be sure of success."

Now, I've never been able to recall Ray's next words, exactly; but they heartened me up immensely. There must have been more in her tone than in her phrases. But I left the booth convinced that if I failed it would be my own fault; and if I won— I shut my eyes to stop dreaming about the prize. I busied myself with the details of my model during the most of that night.

The next day Johnnie startled us with this news: they had been awakened in the middle of the night by a strange noise. They decided it was tapping, as though some one wanted to get into the Cone; they examined the outside thoroughly by the light of the reddish glow' from the surrounding city. But they found nothing, and were on the point of giving it up when Robertson chanced to look at the deadlight.

Two Martians were staring up into the Cone. From their faces and uniforms, Johnnie knew them to be of the working group; and both he and Harry instantly surmised that these men wanted some sort of help. It was impossible to remove the deadlight, but that did not hinder the sign language. Evidently these two men had watched the working out of this system from a distance, and with little difficulty made our friends understand what they wanted.

The rulers were harsh and cruel, they said. Evidently they did not give the workers enough to eat, and especially were they lacking in something else, not so easy to make out, but, Johnnie thinks, fuel for warmth. He gathered that a secret rebellion was being planned, but was at a loss to understand what he could do about it until one of the Martians, by a clever bit of acting, indicated that the Cone would make an excellent fortress with which to storm and capture the food warehouses.

Harry's sympathies were instantly aroused; these men were so simple and guileless that it angered him to think of oppressing them. Moreover, their enterprise in tunneling to the Cone was proof of their sincerity. But Johnnie put his doubts in these words: "If we help overthrow this overbearing government, it may be that these poor fellows will suffer in the end through being unable to manage things. We don't know."

So he decided to await further knowledge, and told the visitors he would let them know later. They were keenly disappointed, and went away sulky, like children. After they left a number of others came up and peered suspiciously into the Cone from time to time, until the thing got on Parker's nerves, and he covered the glass.

"I'm going to get at the bottom of this," Johnnie told us as he and Harry prepared for another day's conference. The "delegates" were already at the door. "These tall-domed fellows give me the creeps; and if they aren't doing the right thing under the circumstances, I'm going to chastise them." And he grinned as he changed our mirror connections.

There was double the number of Martians on hand this morning. Also, unless my fancy deceived me, they had an even more cold-blooded look about them; I got an uneasy feeling that they were planning mischief. But the "talk" proceeded without any irregularities for a couple of hours; and I gradually forgot to watch for something to happen.

11: The Battle

WE LEARNED that the little planet was in a very bad way. Crops were exceeding poor, due to the fast-diminishing supply of water. Instruments on Earth had long ago shown us that the canals were not as prominent near the equator as formerly, but it was hardly supposed that Mars was drying up. The stilt-men declared that the sun evaporated the water faster than the ground could soak it up.

And now I come to the disagreeable part. Apparently the rulers had for centuries systematically put the workers to death upon reaching a certain age of inefficiency. Food could not be spared for the unproductive. But what shocked us most, the rulers had recently decided to sterilize half the workers, to provide against new births!

It was hard for me to conceive of such a barbaric condition of human affairs. We on Earth thought ourselves badly off when our bread allowance was slightly reduced; but here was a vast group of unfortunates who were to be surgically unsexed, all because a few thousand rulers insisted upon being parasites. You will agree that had not the rulers decided against progress in the earlier days, a genius would inevitably have sprung up from among the workers to devise a remedy for their predicament.

I reflected that, at one time in the Earth's history, there were people who stoutly maintained that we must always have caste and class; my own ancestors were of that mind. I shuddered to think of what would have become of Earth's humans had these ancient aristocrats continued to govern. And I thanked God again that workers had been encouraged on our planet; and because of their progress we now had a single glorious class, with peace and security for all.

It was not quite noon when Robertson, inside the Cone, saw a Martian looking at him through the deadlight. The fellow darted out of sight; and Robertson, thinking it queer, hid behind the machines and kept watch on the glass. Shortly the fellow returned, peering cautiously; and Robertson saw that he was not a worker, but one of the others. The tunnel had been found.

Johnnie was immediately notified by means of a tattoo code. He and Harry reentered the Cone, and quickly decided that the situation was very grave. Looking out of the window, they saw that the news had reached the "delegates," and messengers were flying everywhere.

Johnnie excitedly restored our connection to the inside mirror. "If there is really a rebellion in the air," he exclaimed, "these bosses may spring a surprise on us that I haven't allowed for. Keep your eyes open."

The four men swiftly barred the vestibule and unrolled the coiled shutters which Johnnie had provided on the outside of each window. These shutters were of metal slats affording an outlook but good protection. Johnnie reconnoitered through them all and reported that the square was being filled with a great crowd of Martians, mostly rulers. The flying machines had been removed; queer-looking apparatus like enormous catapults had been set up all around the edge.

Johnnie was puzzled. "I can't make out their purpose," he said, and pondered for a while. Suddenly he gave an exclamation. "Boys! They must have seen these wheels and guessed what they're for. They haven't enough iron to make them here. Understand?" and he shouted in his excitement. "They'll destroy the Cone, if necessary, rather than let us take it away!"

And as he spoke he leaped for the controllers. He took some risk of burning the armatures, so swiftly did he start the motors. But time was needed for the great wheels to reach their effective speeds, and meanwhile the world waited in dread for the offensive. Would it be some new and dreadful chemical, which could flux the walls of the Cone and overwhelm our friends? Or would it be some subtle gas, like a nitrogenous ether, which could penetrate the shell and kill the travelers?

In the midst of these conjectures the original group of rulers appeared at the door and rapped for attention. They had with them a new figure, which Harry afterward described as "the ugliest, meanest-looking stilt of them all." Concluding that they had brought their chief at last, and optimistically hoping that a peaceable understanding might be reached, Johnnie finally decided to face the delegation. However, Harry insisted on going with him; and, as it afterward turned out, remained hidden in the vestibule, armed with one of the ancient repeating rifles.

Parker watched the conference through the shutters: "They're trying to induce Johnnie to be one of them, I think. They're making him some sort of a big offer. Perhaps they're offering him a moon," grimly. Suddenly the electrician muttered savagely: "Confound the skinny devils! Arc they hypnotizing the boy?"

Johnnie afterward said that he had a feeling that he was being mesmerized, a drowsy, contented sensation that required all his will-power to shake off. He roused from it to realize that these cruel monsters were simply gaining time for their plans, and without apology turned and darted into the vestibule.

Even as his feet touched the floor, he felt the hand of the chief ruler on his shoulder. Think of that bunch of tentacles writhing in your face! No wonder Johnnie dreams of it at times. He broke loose, though, and turned to find three of the fiends trying to crowd into the doorway. Parker was ready to open the inner door, but feared to do so before the outer one was closed. The Martians barred the way.

Then Harry used the rifle. His first trial resulted in spattering the sides of the vestibule with the contents of one Martian's skull. His second struck another squarely in his bulging chest, and neatly divided that Martian into five sections. But he completely missed the chief himself, who had followed the main group at a galloping run for the edge of the plaza.

Next moment the two men were safely inside. And then the bombardment began. Evidently the machines were designed for throwing stones, and though probably made of wood, were of great power. Immense masses of rock, weighing several tons, were hurtled against the Cone. Each impact crashed above our heads like a clap of thunder. The Cone shook and crackled with the strain; the reverberations threatened to burst our ear-drums.

"The Cone can't stand this!" shouted Johnnie above the uproar, as he reached to throw more current into the wheels. "More juice for the prime vertical!" he yelled to Parker. But the electrician shook his head and mutely pointed to the horizontal wheel. For a moment Johnnie stared, uncomprehending.

Then I also caught the idea. They were going to use the sidewise force to dislodge their antagonists. I watched the increasing velocity excitedly, listening in dread to the smashing thuds on the Cone. No structure could long withstand such a bombardment. The racket was diminishing a bit. "Fifty thousand miles a minute on the rim," read Johnnie from an indicator; then ran to a window and peered out.

"Good God, what a sight!" he stammered. He backed away from the window. The last of the stones descended, and for a second there was only the hum of the motors. Then Johnnie threw open a shutter directly opposite our mirror.

We could hear no sound, but I have always had a mental image in my mind of the roar that must have come up around that square. I could see a confused mass of Martians, fliers, and catapults, churning and grinding together like the contents of a concrete mixer as the fearful force rolled them away from the Cone. Back they swirled at an awful speed, a dense cloud of dust arising. In an instant the seething wave smashed against the walls of the surrounding buildings as they in turn crumbled and collapsed under the strain.

The chairman's voice finally crossed to the Cone. "Stop it!" he shouted with such vigor that Johnnie heard above the din. In a moment the lower wheel was slowing and the power running into the prime vertical. Harry slammed the shutters to cut off the sight, and all four men wiped their foreheads shakily.

The Cone tugged at its anchors. Johnnie waited until he could be sure of a good start. The instant he was ready to cast off, Parker discovered two Martians at the hole under the deadlight. They had some sort of a contrivance with them. Parker stuttered in consternation and stumbled away from the glass.

I could get a one-sided view of the fellows. They were on the point of discharging their apparatus when Johnnie cast off. Up flew the Cone, and at the same instant a large projectile was emitted from the tunnel. It rushed straight for the glass.

12: The M-Rays

SUCH WAS the great speed of the Cone that the projectile from the tunnel never reached its mark. For the first second or two it gained, then lost speed, slackened, and finally dropped completely behind.

But no sooner was it lost sight of than an exclamation from Robertson drew attention to the windows. They told us afterward that the Cone was absolutely surrounded by fliers. The one which we could see was a gigantic affair, flimsily but delicately designed; and apparently manned by only one aviator. At its bow was the M-ray machine.

Now you will appreciate that I, like other humans, can only guess as to the nature of these rays. My guess would be no better than yours; but I was at least a first-hand witness. There was only a fleeting glimpse, and the blinding radiance of those crimson beams prevented seeing much else. The path of the rays was distinctly visible in broad daylight, like the beams from a search-light at night.

In less time than it can be told, the nearest of the fliers approached to within a few hundred yards. As it came on, the Cone flew straight up. I saw the rays being aimed, and their path steering in our direction. I was not afraid; I did not know, then, what they were. I saw the rays from this machine swinging in a giant arc. In a moment they would have struck the Cone, but its terrific speed took it above the path of the light. Had it not done so, the whole world would now be vastly changed.

This is what happened. Looking through the deadlight, our friends saw the converging crowd of fliers trying to stop their headlong flight toward the spot where the Cone had been. For the most part skillful driving prevented damage, but they could not keep the rays from striking. Whenever the crimson light hit a flier, the flier vanished. It passed into vapor instantaneously. One second there would be a giant flapping machine, the next a pinkish cloud of smoke, and it was gone. The M-rays worked that quickly.

There were two machines which approached one another at right angles. To avoid colliding with others, both drivers turned aside; and to avoid one another, they dodged under and over. But the rays could not be turned— there was no time. Then there were two swift puffs of the pinkish steam, and in another instant these were dissipated into thin air. Not a vestige remained of either huge machine!

Johnnie busied himself with the machinery to regain his composure. In a few moments he turned to us and spoke very solemnly. "We have escaped from what is probably their most efficient weapon. Until we can devise some way to neutralize it, it will not be safe for men to visit Mars again. Nice, amiable people!"

Such was the first and last visit of man to Mars. Johnnie admitted that the journey was practically wasted. "Like an old-time excursion to a penitentiary," he put it. They watched the planet's receding disk with few regrets.

The Cone had started off in a direction which would have carried it to the sun, had not the steering wheel been so adjusted as to get the benefit of Deimos, Mars's outer moon. Johnnie exerted all possible pressure with his wheels, and the resulting thrust was enough to almost dislodge the little satellite from its orbit. But it gave the Cone a fresh start in another direction. Going faster than any comet, it was headed straight for Jupiter.

During the next few hours Johnnie was besieged with objections to this new flight. Astronomers and physicists declared that the giant planet, the most brilliant object short of the moon, was still in a semi-molten condition. They called it rank folly to visit a place too hot to— There is no use of my going into these arguments. Johnnie turned them all aside by counter-claims, pointing out that no man had ever seen Jupiter's surface, because of the veil of air. He said that the Cone's insulated construction would protect them; they'd be careful. Anyhow, they were going, and on their way.

The Cone's trip to Jupiter was considerably shortened by reason of the recent changes which had occurred in the big planet's orbit. He and Saturn were steadily gliding nearer and nearer the Earth's path, so that the Cone had less distance to travel. Moreover, Johnnie's practice with his apparatus had shown him how to get tremendous speed, such as could only be attained in space, where no air exists to impede progress.

The inventor was in constant communication with the small group of scientists who agreed with him about Jupiter, and was advised by them of the approach of various asteroids. He used each as a fresh lever, and within six weeks was within sight-seeing distance.

Through telescopes on Earth, Jupiter seemed a terrible object to visit. Saturn's flaming mass, less than two million miles from the planet, seemed altogether too near for comfort. What if the Cone should become entangled in its powerful attraction? The old notion of the hereafter would come true.

But the vast distances which at all times separated the Cone from Saturn and the dozen satellites made its approach to the great planet comparatively easy. That is, it looked easy to us who were given frequent glimpses through various windows; but I noted that Johnnie and Harry relieved one another frequently in the operation of the giant car, and continually checked their figures with those of the astronomers. We afterward learned that they more than once narrowly escaped being smashed on one of the many moons.

And so, feeling their way with the steering wheel and frequently testing the power of the prime vertical to make sure that it could break their fall, the Cone dropped swiftly toward Earth's big brother, the biggest of the sun's whole family. Have you any idea what it means when I remind you that Jupiter has eleven times Earth's diameter? For one thing, it means that he has one hundred and twenty-two times as much surface. One might say that an acre on Jupiter is nearly a quarter section, as compared to one on Earth. Or, if streets were relatively as wide in a Jovian city (suppose there were a city), it would take about five minutes to walk across.

As the sky-car neared the great disk, people on Earth kept constant watch for glimpses of the unknown surface, but the varicolored atmosphere was as yet too dense. We had to be content with a close-range inspection of the various satellites.

Of the five which occupy the space between Saturn and the planet, one at least was thought by some to be habitable. However, you can get all these details from the records.

When Fidus, the smallest and nearest of all the moons, was passed, I figured that there should soon be indications of the Jovian atmosphere. You will recall that a planetary giant like this has everything to correspond; his air is nearly twenty-five thousand miles deep.

The first sample was hurriedly analyzed; and Harry exuberantly announced that it was practically the same as that of the Earth, except that hydrogen was present in considerable quantity and carbon dioxide hardly at all. A few thousand miles down showed a bigger percentage of oxygen; and the farther the Cone proceeded the denser the air became.

Of course, air is subject to the same laws as any other gas. On Earth, at sea level, air pressure is about fourteen pounds to the square inch, but only a third of that much on top of Mount Everest. On the other hand, at the bottom of deep mines the pressure mounts up quite high.

The Cone was now near enough that the reddish tint, which of late years had come to appear conspicuously in the planet's yellow glow, had all but disappeared. Clouds now definitely interfered with any direct observations. At first these clouds moved with inconceivable swiftness, carried along by the planet's amazingly swift rotation, which gives him a fresh day every ten hours. But Johnnie adjusted the Cone to follow the surface and soon was traveling with the clouds, dropping slowly so as to avoid friction.

Of course the barometer was useless, but the thermometer was of value in showing a steadily increasing heat. Johnnie purposely steered clear of the hot middle zone, planning to land in about forty-five degrees latitude, south. Instruments on Earth had long ago shown that the poles were frigid, although the equator is hot.

Passing through several strata of clouds, none of which actually obscured the sunlight, but rather pleasantly diffused it, the Cone steadily sank lower and lower, and finally emerged into the actual surface air. Johnnie speeded up the vertical; and hovering thus, at a height of two miles, we were given a place at the deadlight, and gazed downward.

Men looked for the first time on the soil of Jupiter.

13: An Amazing World

THE ENTIRE population turned out to see which was right— the majority of scientists who claimed that the big planet was a kind of semi-sun, still molten if not actually glowing with heat; or the minority, who maintained that the crust of Jupiter, as a whole, was solid.

Well, the first thing that caught my eye was a volcano at the extreme edge of my vision. The next thing I saw was a genuine, unmistakable river directly below.

I rubbed my eyes, but it was there; on its banks were grass and trees; green stuff, everywhere!

There was life beneath us! Even though the crater was smoking and a gleam of lava showed red on one side— life! The idea was wildly exhilarating. We were merely disappointed when our belief in Mars's habitability was so rudely verified, but we rejoiced as though we had found something long lost to know that Earth's big brother was habitable.

"And why not?" Johnnie was arguing with Robertson. "Granted that all the planets were formed from a common nucleus, each should be practically as livable as the Earth. Why, we may even find bipeds here."

"But this spot may be the only oasis in a desert of lava," objected the mathematician.

Johnnie only laughed. "Strange that we should hit upon the only oasis, isn't it? No; if part of Jupiter is like this, probably most of him is the same."

And they guided the Cone gently down toward the west side of the river. I bore in mind that, since all the planets revolve in the same direction around the sun, as the Earth does, also revolve on their axes in the same fashion, the points of the compass are the very same as on Earth. Meanwhile I kept my eyes open for signs of life.

"Do you notice that the trees appear to be about the same height as those at home?" remarked Johnnie as the Cone hovered just about the surface of the stream.

I had already marked this item, because I had assumed that vegetation would all be dwarfed by the effect of gravity, which is nearly three times as great as on Earth. But Johnnie had hit upon the explanation.

"The air pressure accounts for their normal size. This enormous amount of air has the same effect upon these trees, apparently, as ordinary air pressure has upon a balloon. It reduces their weight: it balances the gravity, at least to some extent."

Harry was analyzing another sample of the air. He declared that, aside from its great density and the presence of a few unknown gases in small quantities, it was practically the same as that in the Cone. It would sustain life.

The Cone came to a gentle halt upon an immense sandbar at a turn in the river. There was nowhere else to land. Both banks were thickly grown with a dense tropical forest, very like those of equatorial Africa or Brazil. The river, perhaps a mile wide, ran with remarkable swiftness through a boulder-strewn bed a few steps away. The water seemed quite clear— that is, if it indeed were water. Looking up at the current we could see, in the distance, a great range of mountains; on the summit of the highest— a veritable Mount Whitney— was the undeniable white cap of snow.

"After a while, I'll show you the view from another window," said Johnnie. We looked toward the south. No wonder we doubted our eyes. The mouth of the stream was but a few miles away, emptying into the rippling waters of a bay. And beyond that the horizon; but between it and the bay was the everlasting, glorious blue of an unmistakable ocean!

Had not astronomers followed the Cone so carefully with their instruments, certain folks would contend to this day that Johnnie had played a tremendous joke on us. The thing was so much like Mother Earth.

It was midday when the Cone landed. The temperature was then a hundred and fifteen in that particular region. Of course, it was neither summer nor winter, for Jupiter has no seasons. The reason is, his polar axis is almost straight, while the Earth's is decidedly slanted. And also remember that nightfall was only two and a half hours away, because of the planet's ten-hour day.

"We'll have to hurry if we want to explore before dark," urged Johnnie as he placed the livestock in the vestibule. A moment later the air of Jupiter was exposed to the beasts; and we noted with elation that, aside from panting quickly as might be expected, there were no ill effects. One of the rabbits made quickly for the bank and began nibbling at a blade of grass with every indication of enjoyment.

Nevertheless the men used the vestibule so as to keep the Cone at its usual pressure; and Harry and Robertson stayed behind while the other two explored. The mirror was right behind them as they took their first steps.

We could see that it was somewhat of an effort for them to move their legs, and of course they breathed with difficulty, but on the whole were far less convenienced than on Mars. "It isn't so bad," offered Johnnie after a while. "I could run if I had to," and he broke into an easy trot down the sand. But he quickly turned about and came back, shouting with what seemed unnecessary loudness. But of course the heavy air carries sound very easily. "It's like running in water," he panted. "No wonder it's warm; this is like a tank of compressed air."

They stepped to the river and returned shortly with a sample of the water. Harry was ready with his chemicals and soon pronounced the liquid "rich in free carbon dioxide and slightly alkaline, but otherwise it's plain H2O. It ought to be filtered if used in large quantities." Without any further delay they drank to Jupiter's health in his own natural beverage.

Then Johnnie sprang his surprise. "The spot where we got this sample," casually, "is evidently the watering place of many animals. We found a beaten path leading down across the sand, just beyond that bend."

Our interest was intense. For, if there were animals, why not other beings? Johnnie said they could not make out what type of creation from the tracks, except that in one or two soft places the tracks were very large and strangely shaped. Harry and Robertson were eager to learn more; and soon left, each armed with a rifle and provided with camping articles for use in case darkness overtook them.

We watched them go down to the stream's edge, after which they followed the path Johnnie mentioned, disappearing from sight in the heart of the jungle. I could not see ten feet in that tangle of greenery.

During their absence Johnnie made tests of the earth on the neighboring bank, announcing later that it was rich in nitrogen and other valuable elements. "I see no reason why cultivated plants wouldn't grow here as well as anywhere," and he began to plant an assortment of seeds, also a clipping or two which he had thought to bring along.

Shortly, twilight began. As might be imagined, the dense atmosphere reflected so much light that the day lasted much longer than five hours. It offered a strong contrast to Mars and the moon, where there was practically no twilight at all, due to the lack of air. However, it was soon dark enough for us to distinguish a new type of radiance in the air; Saturn's yellow glow was not predominating. We could make out his wispy flaming mass on the opposite side of the sky from the sunset.

Suddenly there came the sound of an explosion. Johnnie leaped to a northern window and looked out anxiously. As he did so, we heard four more shots. Almost instantly these were followed by five in swift succession. A ghastly silence. Nobody spoke or moved, but stood waiting for further sounds. Johnnie strained his eyes at a window. Before long, "I'm going to see what happened," he blurted out; and was on the point of loading another rifle when the two explorers came into view, sauntering coolly down the path in the twilight. They cut across the sand to the vestibule and entered leisurely.

"What did you see? Did you kill something? Was it beast, bird, fish, or man?" The questions were fired at them before they could get their breath. They were decidedly surprised. "I didn't suppose you could hear the shooting," said Harry. "We thought we'd have a surprise to spring on you in the morning."

He hesitated a moment. "Perhaps you had better wait till then anyhow. You wouldn't believe us if we told you." And no more could be gotten from them.

They were very hungry, however, and, after eating, became enthusiastic about the beauties of the country. Among the souvenirs they brought with them were odd lemon-colored fruits, shaped like our peaches but with seeds of the plum type. They said that they could not place a single variety of all they saw growing. It was all foreign to the Earth.

"The astonishing thing is that we found all stages of growth going on at the same time," said Harry. "A tree would be in full bloom right alongside of another of the same species, leafless. And we would pick fruit from another. It is more than I can explain."

But Robertson guessed it. "There are no seasons here, that's why. The sap runs as it pleases. You know how fig-trees behave, with several crops a year. Evidently all forms of Jovian vegetation follow entirely independent cycles."

Saturn continued above the horizon most of the night, giving an effect of arctic twilight which made artificial light unnecessary save for reading or writing. Two of the moons were in the sky, as well.

"This explains why the surface keeps so warm regardless of the distance from the sun," remarked Johnnie. "The night is so short, the heat does not get lost by radiation. I suppose it never frosts here. Of course, the density of the air acts like a blanket, to keep the heat in. I had the idea, at first, that there would be a fresh cycle of vegetation every day, but these warm nights prevent that."

Toward dawn the air was full of strange noises. Evidently the larger beasts preferred these hours in which to roam. Some of the bellow that came from the watering-place would have rattled windows less tightly fastened. The population was filling up for another day.

The thermometer was still high— a hundred and one— when our friends arose from a nap to find the sun just rising. "If we want more temperate weather, we'll have to move nearer the pole," said Johnnie.

One of the mirrors was mounted upon a small carriage; wires were run from it to the big apparatus in the loft. Parker stayed behind, and the other three crossed the sand-bar and carried the mirror over to the water's edge.

The ground was literally churned with fresh foot-prints. Some of the marks indicated elephants or other animals equally large; while others gave me the impression of hogs about eight feet high. In places there was a well-defined hoof-mark such as only a horse would make. But nowhere was there a sign of humanity.

The trail was beaten four feet wide, and worn deep into the ground. On either side rose the rank, steaming undergrowth and the typical parasite-covered trees of the Amazon jungle. Of course we on Earth could not get the odors or the damp hothouse heaviness of the air, but the mirror did absorb an absolute wilderness of sound. Shrieks, twitterings, mucous howls, and deep-throated grunts came from all directions; while the bird-life kept the upper branches in a constant flutter. It was astonishing that so much life could be crowded into so small a space.

After fifteen minutes travel he turned a bend and came upon Harry's surprise. It barred the trail completely and loomed before us like a huge blue boulder. Johnnie cleared a path around the carcass, and returned to express his belief that the animal was some land-roving variation on the sea-cow. It was all of twenty-five feet long, and would have been a formidable thing, indeed, had not its hide been so comparatively soft. Apparently in confusion, it had charged our two explorers; they had fired to avoid being run down.

There was little to be learned by going further. The trail went on for miles through similar jungle, said Harry, and aside from glimpses of the mountains, would show us nothing new. Accordingly our friends collected a quantity of specimens on the spot.

An hour later "we" left the sand-bar.

14: The Two Schemes

FROM WHAT had been learned so far, Jupiter appeared to be an unattainable haven of refuge for the Earth-bound crowds. Of course it was idle to think of migrating to the planet; the immense cost of the Cones made such a plan unthinkable. Even though they were built at the highest possible speed, we could not make them a tenth as fast as the population would increase.

So people gave a sigh of regret and wondered all the more why Johnnie's party remained for about three weeks, making rapid excursions to every part of his surface. Few but scientists followed their wanderings closely. But we asked them again and again about humans; and they continually replied "no," although there was proof of every other kind of life save anthropoids. Finally Johnnie steered his car slowly, so as to avoid friction, out of the great air blanket, passed the satellites and, using Saturn as a "base," hurtled back toward the Earth. He announced that, upon his arrival, he would state the proposition he had promised. "In the meanwhile if anybody else has a plan dealing with food shortage, I suggest that he prepare it so that the voters can take their choice."

This idea was adopted by the council, the chairman hinting that certain parts of the Earth were showing signs of unrest and impatience. By this time, however, I was positive that my scheme would succeed; and spent the interval in working out the best form in which to present it. But Johnnie, I afterward learned, spoke his piece absolutely off-hand: a good example of the fundamental difference between us.

Thus it came about that, in less than a year after Ray and Johnnie and I had come to our memorable understanding on the heights above the Yosemite, the Cone arrived safely on the terrestrial spheroid within three and a half seconds of the time scheduled by the astronomers, who had calculated the car's path with their usual precision. At the behest of the general council, a committee had first passed on the several hundred plans which had been offered, and had come to the same conclusion as I— they were all impracticable.

And so, when the people took a recess the next day at six o'clock, New York time (to make it convenient to the largest number of people), it was to hear only two speeches: that of the world's greatest inventor, and that of the man whose department was fundamentally responsible for the situation. At half past five I called up Johnnie and surprised him at breakfast.

"I was thinking that we have been rather childish in not confiding in one another," I had to say. "What if we have the very same scheme in mind? One of us is going to look rather foolish."

He shook his head smilingly. "Not likely, Bob. You and I were cast in different molds. Anyhow, your seniority gives you the first place on the program, so don't worry." He walked to the table, picked up his bowl of cereal, and resumed eating in a way which showed that he wasn't worrying, anyhow.

"I was chuckling over something else," he added, as though there was a great joke on someone somewhere. "Did it occur to you that my temporary popularity could be made to turn the vote in my favor? In this way, I mean: suppose I were to tell that Ray is going to marry the winner?"

I was thunderstruck. It had never occurred to me. Of course it was true; sympathy for the hero of the hour would influence opinion. And Johnnie had harbored such an idea! For an instant I felt my respect for him waning; then I caught his twinkling eye and realized that here was a stronger character than my own. For he, knowing how to be a sneak, refused to use this knowledge. Suddenly I felt very discouraged; for, in the bottom of my heart, I wanted Ray to have the best man.

The boy's uncanny intuition broke into my thoughts. "Don't let it worry you, old man," in all sympathy. "There are two measures of a man: his personal stature, and what the world gets from him. Too many details for us to work out alone. Let's leave it to the people."

Then I rang off; and for the tenth time I wished that Johnnie had been my younger brother, rather than my rival.

At six the chairman introduced us with a brief account of the situation, describing generally the shortage of wheat, the work of the committee, and the hitherto undisclosed schemes which were now to be presented. Without any delay— for the entire world's time was being used— I stepped into focus and began:

"Fellow citizens: I have been at work ever since the Sacramento Valley earthquake to devise this plan; so you may be sure it is a mature one. On the other hand, before bringing up this new notion I first made sure that all existing means were being utilized to the most efficient extent.

"For instance, by making use of several hundred thousand acres of roof surfaces in various parts of the globe, I have been able to add nearly one per cent to the wheat output. Several rocky ranges in Hindustan, Peru, and Western America, which were once given up as sterile, have been partially converted into stepped farms, conveying the soil from near-by valleys. I have also made several fruit orchards into combined fruit-and-vegetable ranches, by replanting the trees; in this way adding a little to the spare land for wheat.

"I have also used a new crop-intensifying spray with good results. Of course, super-fertilization, artificial ozone, and weather regulation have been utilized to the limit. I say all this to convince you that nothing, absolutely nothing, short of a revolutionary plan will deal with the problem."

At this time I reminded them that the world's surface is about four-elevenths land, and the remainder covered with water. I pointed out that we already utilized the tides for power, and used the surface of the water for freight transportation, but that the ocean's great irrigating power had not been touched.

"So I propose that we grow our wheat on the ocean." I paused exactly the right length of time to let this idea soak in. "I need not point out the vast field which this opens up; you want only to be told how it can be done.

"My experiments were conducted on the coast of Brazil. To be very brief, I used (after a great deal of study and experiment), flat-bottomed scows of a half-acre in extent. These scows, filled with earth 'mined' from selected localities, I planted and cultivated in the usual manner and towed out to sea. I found that comparatively little power is needed to convey a whole fleet of these scows.

"The crop yield, if anything, was even better than that obtained on land. It is due to several reasons. First, I had absolute and instant control over the irrigation. Second, I was able to place the scows where they could have the best effect of the sun, when desired, or of the rain when needed.

"Finally, I built warehouses for these scows, which complete the solution of our problem. These warehouses are arranged with elevators and traveling cranes, so that the scows, during inclement weather, can be stored in tiers or stores in perfect safety. The same buildings are equipped with the planting, cultivating and harvesting machinery.

"In harvesting, the scows are simply towed under a reaper, which extends the full width of the boat. The grain is immediately conveyed by endless belts to the threshing machines. And so on, through all the details, the crop is handled in half-acre units. You can imagine the advantages in the saving of time, while the care of the scows costs less than we sometimes lose by fire on land.

"Let me point out that grain grown on the sea is very clean. Also, the salt water in no way impairs the flavor. I scattered this particular crop over all the world, and you have all eaten of it without detecting any difference.

"Now, as to cost: the maintenance will be slightly less than the present rate, so we need consider only the initial expense. There are three distinct items: the mining and transportation of the soil, the making of the scows, and the building of the warehouses, together with their machinery.

"Of course it is not necessary to supply any great amount of equipment at first, since it can be added to from time to time as the population increases and other demands are made upon the land. Nevertheless I have calculated the total cost to produce as much wheat as will be needed to support us a generation hence; for it has been calculated that the population will then be so large as to require all the land surface for other purposes. This total cost will have to be borne sooner or later, and we don't want the next generation to accuse us of extravagance.

"The entire cost, then, will be eight hundred billions of dollars. At the present rate of increase, the population will have to spend about twenty billion a year. I could go into a great deal of detail, but think you will be practically satisfied to know that the committee has gone over my plan very thoroughly and approves of it at every point. For one example, however, I aim to manufacture the scows from sheet metal, stamped in one piece in a huge press. All other items would be carried out in the same wholesale fashion."

And with that I thanked them, bobbed my head and stepped away from the mirror. But I could not escape the applause. It was very embarrassing; I had never heard such a thing before, that is, on such a scale. There were so many people clapping at one time, the resultant sound was a single bass note, of trombone quality and especially cheery.

Then the chairman dryly remarked that a stranger from another world would have something to say. Johnnie immediately stepped into view and began as I did, without preamble and, I noted with petty satisfaction, without brushing his hair.

He said:

"I propose that we move to Jupiter."

15: "Do It Now!"

"IT'S NOT AS HARD as it looks," Johnnie I remarked calmly as soon as the excitement had somewhat abated. "We can really move to Jupiter and do it with uncommon ease; but before I tell you how, I'd like to point out a serious flaw in what Mr. Forbes has proposed, in order that you may be the more seriously interested in what I have to offer.

"First, I admit that the scow idea is first rate. I see no reason why it shouldn't work perfectly, neither does the estimate look especially forbidding to me. But, I insist, it has its limitations. It is quite true that there is far more water than land on this globe, but a vast proportion of this water lies in ice-covered regions. Therefore there is a practical limit to the life of this scheme.

"Without doing some very elaborate calculating, I can only guess that the Forbes plan will serve the world for three or four generations. What will we do then? Of course it's a long-way ahead; nevertheless, time goes right along, and in the meanwhile the human race will miss its only opportunity to claim a bigger planet.

"Now, I warn you that the question of 'how' cannot be answered quickly. It calls for a lot of explanation. But I'll be as brief and yet as exact as possible. To begin with, I'll state that the Cones themselves will not solve the problem, except indirectly."

Then he rapidly summarized the events leading up to Jupiter's present position. He began with the advent of the double star, one element of which, striking Saturn, had nearly stopped him in his course and caused him to fall, a flaming sun, toward Jupiter. By mutual gravitation the two had then combined to form a new couplet, while the other half of the blundering planetoid had continued sunward.

Thus Jupiter, partaking of Saturn's great fall, but retaining his own velocity, was now swinging steadily inward on his orbit; and the astronomers had announced, as you will recall, that this great spiral would ultimately become a nearly circular orbit just outside the Earth's.

"Remember that Jupiter is immensely larger than the Earth. His atmosphere is three times as deep as our entire diameter. Another thing: his new orbit will in no way interfere with the Earth, where she now is.

"Now, the Universal Astronomical Society has aided me in calculating the details of what I am going to propose. It is this: let's move the Earth to Jupiter!"

Had he suggested an ice-pack for the sun he would have created a smaller sensation. The world held its breath in amazement. In a moment Johnnie was smiling and saying: "Before you call me crazy, hear me to the bitter end. Remember, the society has verified all my figures.

"You realize that the whole solar system owes its stability to the nice balance which exists between the sun's pull and each planet's centrifugal force. The one just offsets the other; so that a planet can neither fall into the sun nor fly on indefinitely in a straight line. For instance, the Earth is traveling at eighteen and a half miles per second in its three hundred and sixty-five day orbit around the sun; yet this orbit is, practically, a circle, instead of a straight line, simply because of the sun's gravitation.

"Here's the point. If in any way we could increase the Earth's speed, we would thereby cause it to seek a wider and larger path. The greater the speed, the greater the centrifugal force; whereas the gravitational effect would be unchanged.

"My whole proposition is based on this law of Newton's. So long as the Earth's velocity remains what it is now, we will continue in this orbit. But let that velocity be increased, and the orbit is enlarged. Jupiter's new orbit is to be just outside ours; so that, if we can increase our speed enough, we can take up a fresh position in about the same region as he.

"I spoke a moment ago of the double star, the remaining half of which is now nearing the sun. This planetoid is being constantly observed. It is a small affair, a trifle less than two thousand miles in diameter; probably its mate was of a similar size, and its damage to Saturn was due wholly to its speed, which is several hundred miles per second."

He quoted the astronomers' declaration that the planetoid, upon leaving the sun, would cross the Earth's path on March 5. The crossing would be at quite a distance and without endangering the Earth.

"Now, I propose that we tamper a bit with that star. You remember how, when the Cone used Deimos as a starting-place, the rebound of the centrifugal force nearly threw the little moon out of its path. Well, there are forty Cones nearing completion, and their combined power will be enormous.

"My plan is to go out and meet that star just as it leaves the sun. By lining up the Cones on one side of the thing, we can exert enough force to change its orbit slightly. Of course this effect will be very small on a body with such great momentum as this speeder has; but that is my very idea in setting to work at once. A tiny displacement at that distance will become a large one by the time it reaches the Earth.

"On March 5, then, the planetoid will cross behind the Earth, outbound, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. If we alter its course by exactly the right amount we can bring it near enough to the Earth to draw us out of our orbit!" Johnnie paused for a moment, well knowing what a staggering thing he was proposing.

"The planetoid's gravitational effect would be very small indeed," he resumed quietly; "but for the fact that we shall bring it quite near. You know that gravitation is in inverse proportion to the square of the distance. That is to say, bringing the star to within a thousand miles will make it four times as effective as at two thousand, and so on.

"To make it short, we have calculated that the Cones can readily make this alteration in the star's path, steering it near enough to have the desired effect upon the Earth; which is, to add to our velocity. Passing us at an angle of forty-five degrees, it will cause us to exceed twenty-one miles per hour as against our present eighteen and a half; and thereby take us far enough out to get into Jupiter's path.

"It is only a matter of delicate figuring. By steering the planetoid to exactly the right distance, at exactly the right longitude and latitude, figured to the ten-thousandth part of a degree, we can adjust our destination to a nicety. We need not actually touch Jupiter. Our velocity will be enough to keep us from succumbing to his gravitation; but we must aim so as to strike well within the limits of that wonderful atmosphere. The Earth will then become a new satellite, revolving around Jupiter for the rest of her existence. Of course, once in that magnificent air, our planes will do the rest.

"There is really only one problem: the moon must be eliminated. Revolving around us as she does, she would certainly collide with the big planet, and spoil it all for us. You know, of course, that such a collision would turn them both into another Saturn."

Johnnie paused to take a long breath. Harry entered the booth with a small refrigerator case, from which the inventor quickly removed, with a pair of forceps, a small piece of stone. I recognized at once the grayish substance which he secured from the wall of the crater in the moon.

"This material is in the same condition as when I found it— frozen. If I allow it to become as warm as this booth, it will turn to a muddy liquid, which some of you would recognize. It is nothing more or less than crude chloride of nitrogen.

"The moon is made of it." Johnnie returned the specimen to its case. "I had a theory to that effect years ago. There was no other way to account for the moon's lightness. Of course, this chloride is not pure. It is two-thirds adulterated with almost every known element, but their presence does not alter the character of this chemical.

"Chloride of nitrogen is an extremely powerful explosive. When pure it is very dangerous, decidedly unsafe to handle. As found on the moon, it is almost inert because of the adulteration. That is why the moon, from the beginning, has escaped all harm.

"You see my drift. All we have to do is to upset our satellite's smug complacency. The Cones can readily carry enough chemicals there to refine this chloride, after which it is only a matter of apparatus to explode it. The moon would be blown into fragments. These would have terrific velocity, and anything traveling faster than a mile and a half a second would never return. It would be done after the planetoid passed.

"Now as to Jupiter himself. Our explorations showed that the two polar regions extend nearly to latitude seventy-five, while the torrid zone is about twenty-five degrees wide. The remainder is now fit to live upon. As the planet gradually becomes cooler, in time nearly all of it will be habitable. As for becoming acclimated, we felt far less discomfort than we would in going to Africa today. The district between fifty and sixty degrees, either hemisphere, is ideal.

"The soil is rich beyond belief. There are about equal parts of land and water. There is room enough for the human race for hundreds of generations. Some of us have complained that our present civilization has become monotonously tame. Well, there is plenty of excitement on Jupiter. Another race of pioneers will be needed to clear those jungles. There are enough prehistoric animals to satisfy the most adventurous soul. But above all, remember that there is one hundred and twenty-two times the surface of the Earth.

"Finally, I have only this to say. March fifth is not only the first chance the Earth will get to make this leap for a new life: it's the last chance. There is no likelihood whatever of such means being offered us again. This planetoid solves our problem.

"In short, if we move to Jupiter we must do it now!"

16: We Vote On It

DURING THE NEXT few days the world was in a state of excitement such as even the great change did not arouse. People discussed the two plans during every spare moment. Of course the detailed data in both cases had been scattered broadcast in pamphlet form.

My proposition did not get much attention. It could wait; Johnnie's scheme could not. It was "yes or no" before March fifth, and everybody knew it. They bombarded the scientists for verification of Johnnie's theories and figures, and had to be assured over and over again.

Many did not appreciate the exactness of modern mathematics. The old story of Leverrier and Adams, the two ancient astronomers who figured out the location of an unknown planet, was revived. People marveled again at the intelligence which could calculate, from certain irregularities in Uranus's orbit, that some other planet was causing these disturbances; moreover, the location of Neptune was thus prophesied with such accuracy that the observers had only to point their telescopes where the mathematicians directed and within an hour the planet was found.

And since that day progress had of course carried the science much farther. The two spiral orbits of Jupiter and the Earth, as described by John Babcock, were calculated within extremely narrow limits; but even though a small error should occur it could not make a serious difference in the result. The Earth was sure to glide into the limits of Jovian air.

The planetoid's orbit insured this. Its path made a great loop around the sun, never coming nearer our orbit than seventy million miles. Thus, on its outward trip it would not cut squarely across our orbit, but at a decided angle. The Cones' operations would cause it to actually follow and overtake the Earth. The power of the Cones, together with the star's inertia, were easily and minutely calculated. The planetoid could be steered as nicely as any plane.

Fresh samples of the ore were brought from the moon, and experiments proved Johnnie's theories. The chloride would do all that was expected of it. Of course it was only necessary to explode the outer crust of the moon, not the entire mass; the force of the explosion would disintegrate the whole and dissipate it into space.

Some fear was felt that these fragments might strike the Earth. But we were shown a plan for so placing the "mines" as to form a cross over the center of the face. By causing the explosion to follow' these lines, the moon would be separated into sections, each of which would fly away from the center. Thus we would be protected.

Johnnie produced hundreds of photographs to prove to the skeptical regarding Jupiter's habitability. He explained how the tremendous gravity had held captive so much air; but that this very density of atmosphere offsets the gravity and also holds in the heat which, on Earth, was largely lost by radiation during our comparatively long-nights. Johnnie showed that the big planet is in a stage corresponding to our recent Pleistocene age; mankind should have appeared long before, in the ordinary course of evolution.

These and several other questions were disposed of without difficulty. The public interest in Johnnie led to many popular articles about him and his work. One writer enthusiastically bestowed the title, "Doctor of Dangers"; it struck the people's fancy and became Johnnie's nickname.

When the election day arrived, a week later, there was no doubt that the public was sufficiently well informed to cast an intelligent vote. We had perfect faith in mathematics; we had seen for ourselves via the phone. It was too momentous a matter to be left to a representative vote.

Of course you know how it turned out. The balloting was completed in a few hours, thanks to the photophone, which made every booth a polling-place. There could be no false voting. And so it was by a fair, honest, intelligent vote of the whole people which, by more than two to one majority, elected on January tenth to move the Earth.

The first Cone took flight three hours later.

About this time a remarkable thing occurred on Mars. He grew a pair of tails. They were brilliant streams of pale red light, emitted from what appeared to be a volcano about five degrees south of Marsopolis. It was all the more puzzling because of the well-known scarcity of mountains. The beams were nearly as long as the planet's diameter; and instead of spreading out, formed in parallel lines, like a pencil. From the color they were generally supposed to be the dreadful M-rays, which had so nearly put an end to the Cone.

We called it only a coincidence; we did not know, then, how closely they would be intimately related with our own affairs. We went about our usual business, putting in our spare time in astronomical study. Of course there were numbers of skeptics, including a few religious enthusiasts who gathered small crowds to protest against "this defilement of nature, this competition with God." It is curious how the trend of progress provokes lapses toward superstition and faith-worship. We shall probably never entirely outgrow these outbursts.

Johnnie was exceedingly busy with the details of the great steering. The Cones were all en route within a week, each heavily charged with power, and carrying four men. Johnnie superintended the journey toward the sun, to insure their taking care to avoid its enormous pull.

They met the planetoid when it was almost exactly on the opposite side from the Earth. The Cones gathered on the sunward side of the star; and thanks to the photophone, we were all able to watch the operations.

All three wheels were used in the work. The horizontal one was kept revolving so that its gyrostatical force might hold the Cone in place. Then, both the vertical and steering wheels were brought into line with the sun and planetoid. Their force was raised to the highest point by the swiftest safe speed; and thus, pressing against the star in one direction, and the sun in another, they tended to separate the two orbs.

Something had to give. Nothing could withstand the terrific push of those wheels. Bit by bit the planetoid shied from its orbit; at first it amounted to only a few yards per hour. But the unremitting pressure, together with the unbreakable laws of inertia, increased this variation in geometrical progression. By the time the star had come half-way, it was thousands of miles out of its course.

As originally calculated, the planetoid would have passed somewhat beneath as well as behind the Earth. So the Cones operated against its southern hemisphere, forcing it up as well as to the side. Moreover, it was necessary that the Earth be carried a little higher, if it were to jibe precisely with Jupiter's orbit— a painstaking bit of trigonometry.

When February passed and March fifth grew near, folks began to get a little nervous. We were not told just how near the star would be brought; we only knew that it must pass quite close to be effective. But we were not afraid of March fifth, itself. We were in the same state of mind as when we mail an important letter.

The act is unimportant; the significance enormous. No; we were nervous because of what March fifth might lead to.

17: The Star-Mover

THE PUZZLING phenomenon on Mars still excited our curiosity, especially as of late the flaming tails had become considerably larger. Soon it was clear that they were directed toward the two little moons, Phobos and Deimos. All told, it was but three weeks before the rays reached their goals.

It was a wonderful sight, and only credible to those who had seen the M-rays work. No sooner had the light touched the moons than they were turned into fire. They collapsed, flattened, then spread out in an exploding puff of pinkish-flame. It was the destruction of those living machines on a gigantic scale. Few saw Phobos die, but the world watched when Deimos was struck. It was all over in a few minutes. Absolutely nothing whatever was left of what had once been two solid satellites, save two great clouds of fire, which quickly spread and faded until, after a few days, even this evidence disappeared. Clearly it was a deliberate act of the Martians, but none the less a baffling mystery.

On the night of March fourth, the red planet showed up quite close to Jupiter and Saturn. Of course millions of miles actually intervened. You will recall that the astronomers figured that the big planet's slanting path would cross just ahead of Mars and without disturbing him vitally. But the distance from the Earth was so great that the two could hardly be distinguished.

Mars's tails had all but disappeared. However, to add to our bewilderment, a new outbreak of the same nature was taking place at the planet's north pole. It bid fair to become larger than the first displays. First two tails, and now a plume. We gave it up in disgust.

The planetoid was scheduled to pass the Earth the next day. Its path would carry it over a spot on the Pacific Ocean southwest of Chile. Several photophone stations were erected aboard freight liners at this point, to insure that all should have a clear view. Fortunately it would be moonlight— seven-thirty o'clock— when the passage should occur.

Have I mentioned the star's velocity? Travelling at nearly three hundred miles per second, its advent would be a brief one. I confess to a personal uneasiness at that time. I did not know just how near it would come, and I did not like to think of the consequences should some slight mistake be made. A collision— not pleasant to contemplate.

At seven o'clock we were called to the phone. "There are a few Cones at the disposal of any nervous citizens," was the announcement. These had already been promised. It is noteworthy that several hundred elderly folks, of rather unimaginative dispositions, had applied for space in the sky-cars; but it is far more remarkable that curiosity, or pluck, or both combined, kept every last soul from making any use of them. When it came to the test, we were all true to our modern training.

At seven-fifteen the planetoid became visible to the naked eye. Of course, I was in my booth through it all, and saw the passing as well as though I had been aboard the ship in person. The tiny black globe appeared low on the southwestern horizon, growing momentarily larger in appearance. As it approached, the director of the central observatory made an announcement.

"It will be necessary for the star to pass within a very few miles," he stated. "Its mass is so small, its pull will be just barely enough for our purposes. There will be no danger to our atmosphere, much less to the Earth itself."

This reassured us somewhat. We watched with unmixed curiosity as the star grew steadily nearer. Before long we could make out its revolving motion, which was peculiar in that it was retrograde; that is, from east to west. Its brown, irregular surface, entirely devoid of any interesting detail, was a disappointment compared with that of our beautiful moon. As it came nearer, it mounted a little higher in the sky.

We had an uncomfortable five minutes. The star gained rapidly, growing always larger and nearer, blotting out one constellation after another with deadly efficiency. Shortly I was hoping that it might pass a good deal higher than it seemed to be going. Its western edge was scarcely above the horizon. Now the big disk, plainly globular in form heretofore, was beginning to flatten out. Then it appeared as the moon did on its opposite face. But no sooner did the star gain one aspect than it assumed a newer and more fearsome one.

Undoubtedly we were to all but graze it! Imagine that black, silent monster rushing over our heads! I was thankful that it was going so fast; it could not stop to make trouble. But there was something nerve-racking about knowing that the thing was actually catching up with us, coolly overtaking us as though our globe were motionless. It made us feel small.

To relieve the tension I left the booth and walked around for a moment, returning at precisely seven-thirty-two, the scheduled time of the passing. At first I was puzzled to account for things. I thought that something had happened to the apparatus; for, lo my alarm, the screen was entirely blank. There was nothing to be seen— the surface was black as jet!

Next second came the voice of the director. "We have turned a searchlight on the planetoid. Just a moment." And suddenly I realized that the great sphere had cut off the moonlight. I had forgotten that it would cause an eclipse. Afterwards we learned that the star was ninety-odd miles away at the nearest point. Never before had the Earth come so close to a heavenly body, excepting only meteors.

The great white disk of the searchlight played on the black surface. It was too close, and travelling too fast, for us to make out any details. There was nothing but a dull blur to be seen. I wondered that it did not whiz. And then we heard the hum.

You know there is a little air, a very little, even at a hundred miles. Not enough for the planetoid to develop serious friction, but enough to make a sound. It was like a rubber band vibrated by the breath, a faint bass note of very pleasing sound. It grew louder and stronger— a throbbing cadence about it; I forget its pleasing note and began to fear. If it became much louder— too near. Then I recalled that it takes time for sound to travel, and that the star was already passing!

The darkness continued for a few moments, then it began to abate. The rounded edge of the planetoid was approaching; the surface surrounding the searchlight's beam was grayish now. In a moment the current was turned off; it was starlight.

I had barely time to notice that the hum was dying down, when suddenly the moon flashed into full radiance. But the world did not care.

After a while the world thought to applaud. We gave the Cones a heartfelt cheer. We could not see what had happened to the Earth's orbit, but we took it for granted that this monster, now rushing on to the east, had done the work. And we were frankly glad it was all over.

Not long after that, came the tide. Of course, the astronomers knew this must happen, but they expected it would occur like the lunar tides, delayed six hours by reason of the water's inertia. They never guessed that gravitation takes time to operate, and that the nearer the planetoid, the sooner the tide.

Suddenly the director of our mirror exclaimed hurriedly for our benefit. "You must take a look at the horizon." His voice was vibrant with excitement as he adjusted our mirror.

We saw the wave approaching. It was hundreds of miles away, but its tremendous crest, higher than a chain of mountains, loomed far above the level. It was coming at a terrific rate.

I caught sight of a plane leaving the deck just ahead of the mirror. Then I noted others already in the air. The crew was taking flight. Three seconds later the wave struck.

The mirror began to rise, slowly at first, then with swiftly increasing speed. In a few seconds it was rushing upward as though in a cone. Then it began to toss. We could see the surface of the wave ahead of us, churning and tossing as though in a grip of a hurricane. Up we flew, flung first to one side, then another; the great ship behaved like a chip in a pond. The sea roared and crashed furiously. A great wave surged over the deck and momentarily blotted out our view. But the mirror held fast.

There was an instant's lull. Next second the ship gave a sickening lurch; the mirror keeled over on its edge, then upside down. There was a deafening rush of water.

Later we learned that the tidal wave, originating in the neighborhood of New Zealand, crossed the Pacific and broke against the shores of Chile and Peru. It gained in height and speed as it proceeded: and when it struck the continent, an unbelievable amount of destruction was done.

But Callao and Valparaiso were completely destroyed, together with about a hundred smaller towns. If there was any loss of life, it was due to stubbornness; and of course every home was in the mountains. Nothing but factories and shipping suffered.

Six hours after the passage of the planetoid the astronomers were able to announce that (1) the Earth was moving at a rate in excess of twenty-one miles per hour, (2) she had been pulled considerably outside her old orbit, (3) she would undeniably and absolutely continue according to schedule, and ultimately become one of Jupiter's satellites. The star-mover had succeeded.

18: The Race In Space

THEN CAME the most terrifying news that had ever been told. Through the director of the central observatory, we learned that the meaning of Mars's new plume had been deduced. The announcement was made by phone.

"Several weeks ago," stated the director, "we agreed among ourselves that the two tails which Mars formerly sported were due to a deliberate purpose upon the part of the authorities there. Whatever their control over those amazing M-rays, they were evidently using them, as we have seen lately, to get rid of their two moons. We agreed that their purpose was similar to ours; the moons would be in the way of their future movements. But we could not see what they could accomplish by it.

"Within the past week it has been explained by their display of the plume at their north pole. As you have seen, it points always in the same direction; to their 'ear,' with respect to their motion around the sun.

"This plume is an artificial volcano. It is shooting a stream of Mars' solid mass into space. They undoubtedly knew just how much velocity to give the material, for we have measured its speed and found it to exceed the planet's critical velocity. None of that tail will ever return to Mars.

"It is a gigantic rocket. Our warlike neighbor is now going slightly faster. Instead of keeping in his usual orbit he, like the Earth, is entering upon a somewhat larger one. By so doing, Mars is going out to meet Jupiter, so to speak; they are planning to get there ahead of us!"

My heart gave a genuine leap of fear; I am not ashamed to admit it. What if the Earth and Mars should collide! There could be only one result, another star like Saturn.

And then the director resumed. "Don't forget that we knew this a week before our little experiment with the planetoid. There is no danger of the Earth colliding with Mars; we calculated his path and allowed for it, the same as we allowed for Saturn and the satellites. The star was steered so as to give us the proper direction. We shall reach Jupiter in safety."

But I left the booth in a stupor of despair. I recalled the terrible nature of Mars's "civilization" and what it might mean to us. Was there room on Jupiter for both races? Could we successfully combat those dreadful rays with centrifugal force? My heart sank as I visualized a Cone, surrounded by a fleet of the ray-machines.

I pictured the race of man, grown peaceful and gentle under centuries of highly developed civilization, taken in hand by these ruthless warriors, these repulsive stilt-men, and kept captive for their benefit. I could imagine a rebellion, glorious in its purpose, failing in a sea of blood— boiling under the heat of the M-ray!

Was this to be the end of the human race? Had we overcome the baser elements in society, developed our intelligence, and put peace and plenty into the everyday life of several generations, only to become the property of these horrible creatures? I could not conceive of them as humans; mere reason and an anthropoid frame do not make a human.

At any rate, I could be thankful that my own theory had been disproved. I had thought it possible that the Martians were planning to destroy Jupiter's air. Having noted the Cone's work on the planetoid— their instruments were doubtless capable of this— and having deduced what we were planning to do, they might have taken the attitude of dogs in a manger. They could have determined to keep us away from what was denied to them.

If you will hold your right thumb and forefinger together, you will roughly indicate the two orbits of Mars and Jupiter respectively. Assume the finger to be the big planet's path; the thumb, Mars's. Pretend that the sun lies away off to your left.

Now you will see that Mars, which had originally been due to just escape Jupiter's influence, by merely going a little way farther from the sun would get into the giant globe's grip. That is just what happened; but such was the nearly equal speed of the two planets that Mars only very gradually reduced the millions of miles which separated him from Jupiter. The little red planet followed the big cream one like a puppy after its mother. It was months before the distance was reduced by half.

The fate of the moon was spectacular in the extreme. Perhaps, however, you will be interested in the means used to destroy her. It was a gigantic task, relatively far more work than the steering of the star.

Every available Cone worked for weeks in carrying chemicals to the moon. It required thousands of tons, and each round trip took a week. Upon reaching the moon a Cone would drop into a crater; and using long cables which carried wiring in their makeup lowered the refining elements into cracks, fissures and pits, as far as possible below the surface. The containers for these chemicals held apparatus for releasing the contents and thus forming the refining compound.

But the refining itself was not done until after the last Cone deposited its load. In this way several hundred craters had been provided with the means for simultaneously producing billions of gallons of chloride of nitrogen. All that was needed was the wireless discharge that would release the chemicals. This was operated from aboard the last Cone; I don't know whether it was Harry or Johnnie who closed the switch.

It was easy to see that the action really occurred. In theory the refining would result in three separate compounds; a gas which would comprise part of the separated adulterants, a residue of solid matter comprising the other impurities, and a liquid overlaying this. The liquid would be pure chloride. In three hours' time the moon was covered with a dense fog which could mean only one thing: The chloride was being formed.

The actual firing of the discharge was made quite a ceremony. Many people insisted that Johnnie have the honor, but he would not hear of it. "The chairman is the man to perform that operation," declared the inventor. "Shooting the moon is like ancient capital punishment. I'll not have its blood on my hands!"

We laughed at this reference to our poor, dead old moon. All that we cared for was its safe destruction. Of course, we would miss its beauty, especially on summer evenings when we felt sentimental. Did I mention the system of mining the moon? The craters selected for the purpose formed a giant cross upon the face which was turned our way. The intersection was in the center of the disk.

The only essential thing was that the discharge occur when the moon was behind us; that is, to the rear of the Earth as it flew in its orbit. A day was selected when the moon was at her first quarter; we voted it a holiday and flocked to our booths to see.

The chairman spoke a word or two of our confidence in the work of the "moon-killers," as he called the Cone operators. Then he reminded us that there was no danger whatever, that the loss of the moon would not appreciably alter our motion, and that we should be treated to a remarkable sight. With that he threw the switch.

It required some time for the rays to reach the moon. Then a tiny spark of light appeared in each of the craters. The spark grew rapidly; it became a small bluish flare, spreading rapidly until the entire crater was filled. Before I could decide whether the flare had any well-defined form it had spread across the plains to meet a similar flare from another crater. In an incredibly short time a gigantic cross, outlined in intense flame, was formed across the moon. Its incandescence hurt the eyes.

When next I looked the moon's surface was changed. It was now decidedly larger and a most terrifyingly brilliant thing. A glance was all I could give it— as well try to gaze at the naked sun.

In short, the moon, which was actually exploding before our eyes, appeared to burn instead. This effect was due to the distance, which reduced the apparent speed of the flames. From close at hand its action would have appeared instantaneous; but from the Earth it was like a huge globe of fire.

And so our satellite burned. The flames grew steadily whiter and brighter; they spread in height until the visible area of the moon was three times its former size. Great irregular flares shot off from the circumference. People with keen vision already reported seeing fissures through the glare. Strange that we could hear no sound! But sound requires air to travel in. At the end of a week the moon nearly filled the eastern heavens. The velocity of the flames and fragments was then figured at five miles per second; but the brilliance had decreased to a whitish glow. The moon was rapidly disintegrating into the space from which it had come. The cloud of fire had broken up into several sections, the nearest four of which were steadily flying toward the Earth from what had been the moon's center. But, because of the method of placing the "mines," these four fragments passed safely by us, each bearing away at an angle and, after overtaking the Earth, continuing in straight lines indefinitely. Ultimately they became planetoids.

As time passed we did little else in our spare time but watch these two phenomena: the spreading, waning moon, and the growing Jupiter. The former satellite, after the various fragments had been blown into the heavens, left behind in their stead a cloud of fiery vapor, resembling several well-known nebula. With the naked eye it looked like a rather serious spill on the Milky Way. But Jupiter's tremendous beauty attracted more attention, our admiration being tempered by the uneasiness we could not avoid whenever we glanced at his red retainer. With his wonderful plume Mars was our bugaboo!

Of course these events did not improve the food situation. Nothing occurred to reduce the population, nor did the crops increase materially. On the other hand, folks were healthier than ever. But there was little complaint, although we had been obliged to reduce the wheat allowance to about one-half what it had been two years before. You will understand that the vast cost of the Babcock project left no funds for trying my plan. We were all looking forward to our new home; we weren't worrying about the old. A great many people took up Fletcherism with new enthusiasm and excellent reason.

A time came when it was possible to detect a difference in the weight of things by day and by night. This effect of Jupiter's gravity could also be seen on Mars, who was steadily, though slowly, closing the big gap. At midnight— and each night was now brightened by Saturn— we could get this situation with perfect clearness since sun, Earth, and Jupiter were then in opposition. Rather, the big planet would be seen well to the east, being "ahead" of the Earth at this time. Refer to your finger-and-thumb illustration again, and imagine the Earth located a few inches to the left of the second joint of your thumb. Only by now the forefinger will represent both Jupiter's and Mars's orbits.

The event of our reaching Jupiter had been set for December 24, at twenty-two o'clock, central time. During the preceding fall the Earth, because of its superior velocity, steadily gained on its destination in the same proportion as its aspect grew larger. In September Jupiter loomed up in the east like the great pinkish globe that he appeared in the instruments; while Saturn periodically swung between him and the Earth, filling our nights with brilliance. Mars could be spotted nearly at the zenith, a new red moon in appearance, his wonderful markings standing out in all their sinister suggestiveness. He still maintained his rocket.

And this takes us up to the week before our "landing." On December 17 the marvelous globe of our new habitation filled a large part of the sky. His tremendous girth was out of sight only during the day. Each evening he arose, in his astonishing splendor like a nightmare moon, completely blinding out our view of any fixed stars until dawn. On this date we were so near that Saturn, whose orbit lies at a decided angle with Jupiter's equator, swung round his circle almost over our heads.

The day before the great event I flew to Ray's home above the Yosemite.

19: The Last Lap

"I DON'T FEEL as nervous as I did when the star passed," remarked Ray. We were standing in her little observatory, listening to the astronomers' announcements from the other side of the Earth. It was noon and Johnnie had just arrived.

"You are justified," he retorted in his usual insolent fashion "…As I remember it, you didn't have two protecting cavaliers on hand then." But under his banter I caught, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, an undeniable undertone of anxiety.

Ray noted it at the same instant. She watched him constantly after that; and I made a mental note to maintain my own coolness. However, I had such faith in our mathematical science that I felt practically no uneasiness. Why not turn this faith to advantage in my own cause?

"In seventeen hours we are due in our new berth," the inventor remarked presently. He spoke hurriedly, as though anxious to keep the talk going. "Just now, of course, we can't see where we're going; but tonight our mirror will be of service to the very folks who are sending these bulletins." He paused as the photophone announced, from the Tokyo observatory, that all of the seven outer satellites had been passed in safety.

"There remain only Saturn and the five inner moons," concluded the astronomer. "Mars is just at the meridian— which means directly opposite us and going in the same direction. He looks a little larger than our old moon. I'll let you see for yourselves shortly."

Ray broke the silence which followed. "How much faster does the Earth travel than Mars?"

"Under the old conditions three and a half miles a second," I was able to answer. "But since the change in our respective speeds his rate is only half a mile less than ours."

"But you notice," eagerly Johnnie broke in, "that we have already caught up with him. From now on we shall be in the lead."

Again I caught the disquieting note in his voice. Was it us he was trying to assure, I wondered, or was it himself? It did not seem possible that he had lost faith in his own calculations.

"Anyway," Ray put in, having evidently noted the same thing I had seen, "it's not so important which reaches Jupiter first. The great thing is to get there without bumping into one of these conceited moons."

"Oh, we'll get there all right!" exclaimed Johnnie with such confidence that I quickly revised my notion of his uneasiness. On the other hand, was he so good an actor as to fool me with his bravado? No.

Just after lunch we were given photophone glimpses of the sky on the other side of the globe. We marveled as usual over Jupiter's growing size, and were disappointed that we could make out no details.

"Just wait until we get down into that atmosphere," reminded Johnnie.

Then we had a look at Saturn, the great flaming sun whose orbit, a million and a half miles from Jupiter, was such as to presently bring him quite close to us. He made a forbidding sight; he was so near that artificial light was unnecessary.

Next the mirror was focused on the vast expanse of space separating Saturn from the great planet. "We are now approaching," explained the astronomer, "the region of the original five satellites. You can make out Callisto, the outermost one, not far from Saturn. He is destined to cross our path just ahead of our transit.

"It so happens that the other four are at present in eclipse; shortly they will emerge from behind the planet." We eyed Callisto with some slight misgivings, hoping fervently that nothing would happen to delay his passing; but it was toward Saturn that we turned the more anxious eye.

"I'm glad there's a wide margin in our favor," said Ray. "That tremendous ball of fire must have a powerful pull. What if there has been a miscalculation and we should be drawn into it?"

She said it to draw Johnnie out; I could see that, and watched him narrowly.

"I'll show you the figures, if you like," he hastily volunteered; and drew a sheaf of papers from his pocket as he spoke. "Even if we should veer five thousand miles too far to the east we should still have enough centrifugal force to counteract Saturn's gravitation."

Ray said that she wouldn't understand the calculations, anyway, and apparently Johnnie considered that she was reassured, for he turned to the mirror again. I noted, however, that he gazed at Saturn; and this involuntary action of his did more to upset my own equanimity than anything else could have done. For an instant I feared for the outcome.

Then I mentally reaffirmed my faith and quietly proposed that we go for a walk. Ray glanced at me quickly, as though to make sure of some former conclusion, and led the way down through the snow-covered villas to the falls.

Later in the afternoon we followed the wall of the cañon toward the west until it became twilight. When we turned back it was seventeen o'clock; but Mars arose in the east and lighted our way with a dull red glow as we trudged through the snow back to the house.

Ray asked Johnnie a good many questions about the Martians. For one thing: "Don't you think it possible for us humans to devise a complete code of communication with the rulers, as soon as the two journeys are finished, and ultimately come to a peaceable understanding with them?"

Johnnie shook his head energetically. "There is something insurmountable about their brand of intelligence," he declared. "You have to stand in their presence, as Harry and I did, to get the full impression of them.

"Did you ever seriously consider a horse?" he asked irrelevantly. But Ray had visited few zoos. "Well, a horse is vastly superior to a human in many ways. It is larger, stronger, fleet of foot, and a natural vegetarian. Yet it cannot be made to see our viewpoint without the use of force."

Johnnie briefly sketched the use of "harness" in ancient times. "The horse needed to be shown that we were superior— and nothing but force would suffice. The same is true of the Martians. Vastly superior to us though they are in many ways, our development is, on the whole, the better. Yet they could not be made to see this unless we dominated them."

"And so long as they have the M-rays there's small likelihood of that," I commented. "Apparently they lack a sense of justice. I could see that they were wholly without humor; how could they be just? Of course there must be some slight trace of righteousness in their makeup— the rebellions prove that; but clearly the quality is deliberately stifled in each newborn ruler."

Johnnie added that there was still another obstacle which he could not describe; he had gotten a feeling of extreme loathing which was utterly inexplicable.

After supper we hurried to the observatory and kept constant watch on our heavenly neighbors. Mars seemed to have lagged behind his position of the night before, but his apparent size was greater. Jupiter's edge was already over the horizon.

Ray focused an instrument on this edge and adjusted the clockwork to keep step with our motion. Thus the scope constantly pointed in our general direction of travel. We referred to it from time to time during our inspection of Mars; and about ten o'clock Ray stepped back from its eyepiece with a startled exclamation:

"Did either of you move this scope?" she demanded. When we pleaded not guilty, she pointed out that it no longer centered on the planet's edge but was decidedly displaced upward and to the left.

Johnnie glanced at once to the north. Creeping up toward the Great Dipper, Saturn's flaming mass was just beginning to show. His huge body would soon cover the pole star.

"There's the reason for the change in the scope," Johnnie said. "We are being led astray by that upstart of a baby sun!"

"Do you mean to say that Saturn has turned us aside that much?" demanded Ray sharply.

"That's just the beginning. We are going to wobble a good deal more than that before our journey is over." Johnnie was unconcerned— outwardly; but I fancied that he was bluffing to some extent.

Saturn's size appeared to grow rapidly as he drifted in from the northeast. We could detect Jupiter's shifted position with the naked eye, and it was now plain that Callisto would pass ahead of us. At this hour Mars was nearly in the position of the noonday sun. Perhaps I had best remind you again that he was at the Earth's "right" in the race toward Jupiter.

A little later: "Saturn is certainly much larger than before," declared Ray, and I caught a trace of that peculiar matronly tremor.

I hurried to comment: "It's impossible for him to influence us greatly. We are going too fast— and not near enough to him."

"Fact is," Johnnie backed me up, "we really need his little pull to carry us safely around back of Callisto."

He went on to comment upon the absolute silence of the whole affair, saying that it impressed him strangely. He did not say that it was making him nervous. "It didn't seem odd for the Cone to be noiseless; but for this immense globe to rush through space without sound is— it's appalling."

We said but little after that until past midnight. Once I broke the silence when Saturn was at his nearest. Ray was very nervous and making no effort to conceal the fact. I said: "We were always in more danger of colliding with the old moon than we are now in from Saturn. Speed is what does it."

But the great star was a nerve-racking spectacle. He was a yellowish likeness of the moon about three days after the explosion began, with the added terror of constantly increasing size. We could make out the leaping flames, which at this distance only seemed to crawl. Of the former satellites and the wonderful rings not a trace remained. There was nothing but this awful— I almost said roaring— burst of fire. Queer that we could see so plainly and yet hear nothing!

"The Martians evidently plan to cross ahead of Callisto," I remarked later. I noticed how the words startled Johnnie, and was alert for fresh indications. "They are far enough to our right to do so, I mean."

Johnnie replied with a visible effort: "That is the way their orbit appears on the chart. They have the same chance we have."

Ray noted the change in his confidence at once. His face showed that he was under a very genuine strain. It struck me that he might be considering some new invention, and I carelessly asked him what his next production would be.

"Nothing at all definite in mind," he answered, surprised. "I've thought of nothing but this little jaunt for three years." Instantly he lapsed into watchfulness.

20: Ray Sings

ABOUT THREE O'CLOCK the first of the four eclipsed satellites came into sight. The announcement was to the effect that we should pass over Ganymede; his orbit is nearly in the plane of the planet's equator, while we were steering for the northern temperate zone. I asked Johnnie about this.

"There is a double reason," he explained. "We are going into the higher latitude for the benefit of the milder climate; also, because the Earth's speed, due to the braking effect of Saturn and these satellites, will become reduced to such a point that we must strike Jupiter where his air is moving less swiftly than near his equator."

"I see," mused Ray. "If the Earth did not finish her journey in a part of the atmosphere where its speed was about the same we should suffer from friction. Of course the air moves as fast as Jupiter himself, and at the poles is motionless, but on the equator flying extremely fast."

Johnnie added that there was a further advantage in passing over instead of among the moons. "Watch how Ganymede pulls us down."

By this time Callisto was near the position which Mars had occupied earlier in the evening, and the red planet was on its way to the northwestern horizon. Johnnie's eyes were on it constantly.

As for Ganymede, shortly it dropped below the horizon and out of our direct sight. We got into communication with African observatories, and with the phone saw the curiously marked satellite draw steadily nearer and nearer, yet always drifting farther south. The effect was very disconcerting to be looking up at the thing and yet to feel that we were passing over it. Of course we have the habit of assuming that north is up.

"We are much nearer to this moon than we have ever before, with the exception of the planetoid, approached any heavenly body. The distance is much less than that to the old moon; and were it not that our paths are at right angles we might easily form a new couplet from mutual attraction.

"As it is," concluded the announcer, "Ganymede is pulling us enough out of our otherwise straight path to bring us uncomfortably near the next satellite."

It was only shortly after that when we again looked "around the Earth" and saw Europa, the middle moon, rapidly climbing the southern horizon. I admit that these directions are a bit puzzling, especially when my narrative skips from one side of the globe to the other in this fashion; but you need only remember that the Earth was threading its way through a veritable labyrinth of moons. It was never done before; it would never be done again.

The instant I caught sight of Europa my heart gave an uncontrollable leap of fright. It was terribly near! Its surface was partly in shadow, so that it resembled the old moon in its first quarter; but there was no denying its steady motion toward us.

"Johnnie— that looks dangerous!" Ray's voice shook, although she made a violent effort to appear calm. "Are you sure that we shall pass all right?"

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on Mars, before answering. "Oh, yes; perfectly sure."

And the look that Ray gave me supported my own fears. What if Johnnie and his astronomer friends had all been wrong? What if those elaborate calculations had been based on some ancient but false premise? If so, did Johnnie now realize that the great adventure was doomed to end in tragedy— and was he deliberately concealing his fears to allay our own?

He quietly broke into my thoughts with: "I'm not worrying about the Earth, Bob."

I was startled. His tone was so like of old I was taken completely off my guard. Involuntarily I cast about in my mind for an object for legitimate worry. I stepped abstractedly to the mirror and glanced at Europa. What I saw made my heart stand still in its work.

The moon was almost in my face. I gave an exclamation of dismay, noting at the same instant that Europa had scarcely moved at all westward. The Earth was being drawn toward it; we and all its people were in genuine peril.

"My God, Johnnie!" I exclaimed, whirling from the mirror. "You have been playing with us! The whole thing has gone wrong!"

"Bob! Johnnie!" stammered Ray. Her face had gone deathly white, and she clung to the scope for support.

Johnnie faltered for an instant, then dashed to the mirror. Instantly he turned and thundered at us. "Be quiet!" I was stumblingly trying to comfort the girl. "Bob!— I didn't think you were such a fool! Why, if there was any real danger, I'd have Ray a million miles away in a Cone, by this time!"

The girl rallied suddenly. "And do you suppose for one second that I'd use the Cone?" She eyed him angrily; then as suddenly she softened. She had thought of something. "If you have enough faith, Johnnie, not to keep a Cone for your own use, I'll stand by your game to the finish."

It was my turn to feel ashamed. I had overlooked this very obvious proof of his sincerity; I was on the point of apologizing when our photophone connection was changed to a station in the Congo region.

"Wild excitement among the native population," announced the operator. "We will give you a view of the largest mob." In a moment we were looking into a seething, roaring crowd of blacks in a large open space on some river bank. Lighted only by the reflection from the terror moon, the people impressed us horribly with their weird cries and gesticulations. The negroes had clearly gone out of their senses; thousands of supposedly civilized people, temporarily mastered by fear.

It occurred to me that this sort of thing might be going on everywhere. Not necessarily in mobs, but in each citizen's soul. Had it not been for Johnnie's courage, I would have been terrorized myself, At that moment the music began.

I watched the photophone in astonishment. Someone was singing in a clear, ringing soprano; someone who as yet had kept out of focus. The opening notes were in Latin, sharp and staccato like the call of a clarion. It was an order to clear the throne room; the emperor was coming. And then Ray stepped into sight.

I had not missed her. The chairman had given the old right to the system. On went the song, pausing before it took up a much different strain. Somebody was telling the emperor that an heir to the throne was being born. It was a sympathetic narrator; she sang of the patience of mothers— a low, even key. Then she began a lullaby.

We— mothers' arms. It was deliciously warm and comfortable there; the lights were dim and there was a gentle murmuring undercurrent of friendly voices in the next room. Imperceptibly it all died away, with a sigh at the— asleep.

Suddenly the music burst forth hilariously. We were children now, scampering madly to and fro on a lawn. There were pet animals cavorting with us. I was having a great time! In a moment matters had become serious. I was very thoughtful. There were things more important than play; we must equip ourselves for the world. And then we were out for ourselves, striving for place and honor with the rest of humanity. The strains became energetic, challenging, combatative. They rose to stridence; I must do my best! There was no denying that clanging note of strife.

And now the singer exulted. We had succeeded. We could boast in security. The refrain became a lilting melody, full of laughing sidelights. Life was truly joyous; we had done so very well! The notes swelled with the fullness of a satisfied heart.

Then came the crash. The music stopped with a discordant blare. Something had gone wrong. The singer sobbed as she told the emperor, brokenly, fearfully. It was an accident. We had been hurt; people were hovering over us, murmuring soothing words and bathing our foreheads. Then the hesitating, doubtful notes became stronger; in a moment they were assured, and then confident, and then triumphant. It would be all right; the emperor need not be alarmed. On went the melody; there was a tear of joy behind every note. And now others joined in, to prove the singer right; figures appeared by her side, and the solo became harmony. I recognized some of Ray's pupils. We were going to keep together, unafraid and comradely. The notes were positive and sweet; they rose and fell evenly and with stately tread. And marching confidently on, they swept out of our hearing, unconquerable and irresistible, as the singers stepped out of focus.

It was a miracle of faith. The world gave a sigh of the most intense relief; and then, from the photophone, came the good, old cheering which always greeted Ray when she used to sing the Marseillaise. Mad people could not cheer like that. She had restored their reason.

After a while the girl returned. We could not speak for emotion, but she was alert. "Is civilization only skin deep?" she asked thoughtfully. Then she turned to me, puzzled. "A fine lesson for us all. You nearly stampeded me, Bob. What started you off, anyway?"

I decided at once to force Johnnie to explain. If not Europa, what then was bothering him? I turned to find him at the scope, which was now pointed toward the northwest and bearing on Mars.

Never again do I want to see such a look on a man's face. Johnnie had been shaken to his very soul by what he had seen. I took his place, and stared at the red planet for a full minute before I understood.

"Bob; what do you see?" Ray was at my elbow, anxious and peremptory. I let her look, and gazed at Johnnie with a great weight at my heart.

"Well?" she was looking at us in perplexity. And so I told her.

"Ray, Mars has been drawn completely off his course. He has begun to circle around Saturn."

Still she did not understand. Johnnie broke in hastily, as though to get it over with. "Mars is flying in a spiral!"

"Merciful heavens!" burst from Ray. Then we stood in awestruck silence for a while, each busy with his own thoughts. It was beyond my imagination. That inconceivably immense cloud of fire! Getting closer and closer— the stilt-men— but we had escaped.

I resolutely turned to inspect Europa and was relieved to note that it had drawn away considerably. Johnnie had been right. The Earth's velocity, augmented by the pull from the next planet, had taken her out of Europa's influence. We were now approaching Io, heading so as to cross over its north pole, just as in the case of Europa.

"Do we pass very near this one?" I queried Johnnie. He was standing entranced at the scope and did not hear me.

I repeated in a louder tone.

Then he began to speak, in a sorrowful monotone, mechanically, as though he felt he must say it. "Come here, Bob; you too, Ray. We must watch this thing through to the end. No; there is no real danger from Io, although we must go exceedingly close.

"Now look at Mars, Ray." He spoke in a low tone, entirely devoid of feeling. "He is only about half a million miles from Saturn and gliding rapidly nearer. Is he too near the horizon now? I'll connect you to the Philippines observatory."

On he went, in the same sing-song fashion, his face like the face of a bereaved mother. In a moment we could view the planet more directly. We could actually see the change of motion, so rapidly did Mars succumb.

Ray was sobbing, partly in sympathy and partly in excitement. We watched entranced, not noticing the lapse of time. Dawn had passed. It was broad daylight, and still we stood at the mirror.

And Johnnie rambled on. "I'll tell you how it happened by and by. Just look at that planet. It took millions of years for life to reach the stage we found there. In an hour it will be burned to a crisp."

After a while Ray made him stop. "Johnnie! You're getting on my nerves. What makes you talk that way? It's a dreadful thing, but it can't be helped."

To my vast astonishment the inventor suddenly dropped into a chair and burst into a fit of sobbing. His shoulders heaved convulsively, his whole body shaking with the terrible crying that only a man experiences. Ray eyed him in wonder, her face filled with ready sympathy.

I turned hastily to the mirror. Mars was quite near his awful goal; and looking intently at his disk, I saw a brilliant spark of light in the center. As I watched, it grew and spread until it became a triangular patch of scintillating radiance, a pinkish flare against the somber background.

I called the others to inspect it. Johnnie had regained his composure. Hardly had they taken their places at the mirror when the tragedy came, swift and sudden, silent and dreadful as the hand of death.

21: The Catastrophe

I SAW MARS swing around Saturn until he approached the far side of the flaming sun. There he seemed to pause as though to gather strength for another circle; but the irresistible force of the gigantic star reached out. In an incredibly short time the red disk with its curious pinkish flare dropped down and back, down and back, until first one of Saturn's flames, then another, intercepted him. Then the planet disappeared into the great fiery mass; a stream of flame appeared at the spot where the entrance occurred, and we knew that in time a great volcanic eruption would mark the funeral pyre of Mars.

When it was all over, we sat down and gathered our faculties as best we could. We had witnessed the world's greatest tragedy; yet, I am bound to say that my first definite thought was of breakfast. We ate a few bites in silence.

Suddenly Johnnie jumped to his feet and began pacing the room. "I can't stand it any longer," he blurted. "I must tell you what really happened. You have got to know.

"You remember that, a week before we steered the planetoid past the Earth, the astronomers finally agreed that Mars's 'plume' was a deliberate effort to intercept Jupiter?"

Johnnie paused and passed his handkerchief over his forehead with a shaking hand. He was laboring under a terrific strain. I racked my brain for a cause of such distress.

He fell to pacing again. "When we calculated the Earth's path in leaving her old orbit to share Jupiter's, we took into consideration the influences of every planet and satellite which could affect us. As soon as we were sure of Mars' purpose, we allowed for him also; and figured out just where to steer the star so as to counteract what disturbance he might make.

"But here's the point. We knew what Mars had done; they didn't know what we were going to do. When they discharged their rocket of M-rays, they had calculated only for what was known to them."

Johnnie raised his voice impatiently, breathlessly. "Don't you see? We could allow for Mars, but they couldn't allow for the Earth."

He dropped into his chair again, but rose in a moment, more agitated than ever. "What happened is this: the Martians figured on slipping in ahead of Saturn the same as we did; but we, being bigger and faster and a little ahead in the matter of time, got by in safety. But you must remember that, if Saturn deflected us, so did we deflect Saturn. Gravitation is mutual; don't forget that." His voice trailed off impotently.

"And so," I finished for him; "Mars came nearer to Saturn than they thought. And we have seen. God, what an awful end!" I paused, and then added, "Well, Johnnie, it's all over now. Don't let it bother you."

"Not bother me!" he fairly shouted, leaping to his feet. "Why— "

At this instant the mirror flashed with an announcement from the chairman. He had taken the center of focus, and spoke with a beaming face that filled my heart with relief and gladness.

"Congratulations, everybody," he said, quietly but with ill-concealed satisfaction. "We are past every obstacle, and from now on all is clear sailing. There remains only Fidus, the tiny innermost satellite, and we are traveling so as to surely slip in between him and Jupiter.

"Briefly, I must remind you that we are bound for the eastern edge of the big world. We are not aimed directly at his face, of course; the purpose of the calculations was to bring the Earth well within the limits of the Jovian atmosphere, yet far enough from his surface that his gravitation could not overcome our centrifugal force.

"There will be nothing startling about our arrival. Life will go on here just as before, except that we shall experience frequent eclipses whenever we pass through Jupiter's shadow. In time our air will mingle with the new, but for years it will be hard to detect any difference."

The chairman mentioned the ease with which our airplanes could make the trip between the two surfaces, and cautioned everybody to go slowly and bear in mind the need for care. "I know you are all anxious to visit the big planet; but don't forget to take your bearings with great care when you reach the 'neutral zone.' I mean, the point where the two gravitations balance. There is the only danger."

He spoke regretfully of the great disaster which had overtaken Mars; and called attention to the fact that the peculiar triangular flame still remained in the spot where Mars had last been seen. It was very odd.

"I want to keep you another minute, long enough to mention the man whose extraordinary ingenuity and heroic explorations have made this wonderful thing possible. I congratulate the race of man on having produced Johnnie Babcock!" And as the chairman stepped out of focus, he switched the connections so that we heard the applause.

And such an ovation! The world never heard its like before. The composite reflection which smiled and shouted at Johnnie expressed all that is glad and hopeful and buoyant in the human race. I would have been forgiven had I felt envious; but I could not help joining in the chorus.

In a moment the young fellow, flushing to his ears and considerably rattled, stepped into focus and looked shyly at the mirror. Quickly the applause died down, and meanwhile he regained his poise. "I'll tell you how much I appreciate this," he stated in a dry, hard voice, "shortly after twenty-two o'clock. We aren't there yet."

I stared at him in astonishment as he stepped toward Ray and me. What had made him throw such a damper on their spirits? Ray caught him by the shoulder and shook him as though he were a disobedient child.

"Johnnie, there's something all wrong, somewhere. Tell us quickly what it is. You shan't move another step until you do."

He hesitated, and I put in with "You were on the point of telling, when the chairman began speaking. I had said, not to let Mars' fate bother you— I think."

"But it does bother me," he said mournfully. "You may have forgotten why we three are here together, Bob, but I haven't— Ray is going to select one of us for her life partner."

Now, I had made up my mind what to say; for none but a fool would have placed my small efforts alongside Johnnie's amazing record. I cleared my throat. "Johnnie, I'm out of the race. You've beaten me and I admit it. You don't want me, do you, Ray?"

She did not hesitate now, but looked me sympathetically in the eye. "Johnnie's the bigger man, Bob. I love him— I always have. If it's any consolation to you to know that you are far and away the finest character I ever— "

She was interrupted by a groan from Johnnie. "Dear girl, don't say any more— not until you've heard it all." The boy was trembling in agony; his face was streaked with perspiration.

"Listen." He clutched the chair spasmodically. "These Martians— we knew their plans and allowed for them. We are safe, and they are dead! My God!"— his voice vibrated wildly— "this is the terrible thing! I— I knew they'd have to be sacrificed! I knew— from the beginning!"

22: The End?

JOHNNIE SLID to the floor, writhing in the torture of his soul. Ray stared at him in growing horror. Her eyes were distended with dread; her lips curved in repugnance. She said nothing; but the despair and fear in the stare she gave her lover, can be compared only to a rabbit's horror of a rattlesnake.

I could scarcely believe what I had heard. "Great heavens, man, have you hoodwinked yourself into assuming the blame for this? Why didn't you tell somebody, long ago?"

He got to his feet and walked shakily about the room, twisting his hands together as though in pain and not even raising his eyes from the floor, much less to look at Ray. She had found relief in tears, moaning a little under her sobs.

"These astronomers are an unimaginative lot," muttered the inventor. "None of them figured on what would happen to the globes we passed, after we had gotten by. They all stopped short at that point. But I went a step further and saw that Mars must fall into Saturn.

"My first idea was to confide in the public; but I remembered that the women's votes were largely against the enterprise from the outset. I felt sure that, if they knew, they would vote against moving the Earth.

"Don't you see?" His eyes were fixed on Ray, beseechingly. "In all probability a planetoid would never pass us again. And meanwhile, what would become of the Earth? Don't you realize that a few generations would witness the breaking down of our civilization? We would either have to put away the old people, or prevent births. That wouldn't be life: that would be bare existence.

"Ray!" he begged, then turned to me. "I was afraid I couldn't make her understand. But there was nothing else to be done. It was now or never. It was a fearfully ticklish job to maneuver our orbit, anyhow. We had to steer that star with the utmost delicacy to give the Earth precisely the correct send-off."

Ray stopped him. She spoke in a low, reproachful voice, full of regret and sorrow, far more terrible than an outright denunciation. "Was our civilization so much more precious than theirs? You allowed them to be sacrificed for our convenience!"

"Don't!" he pleaded piteously. He began pacing again in desperation. "You will never appreciate how hopeless they were! If you could only have faced them as I did— terrible people! Don't pity those workers too much— they were not like humans— if they had gotten the upper hand, they'd have been as cruel as the rulers."

"I understand, Johnnie, if Ray doesn't. It isn't as though we sacrificed part of our own race."

But Ray was crying again. She could not comprehend. There is a peculiar faculty in the male makeup which enables us to detach ourselves at will from a problem and consider it impersonally. Few women have the gift. To the feminine mind, every question is personal.

I hope you'll not misunderstand my own attitude in this unfortunate situation. I am not an unselfish paragon, thinking only of others and their happiness. I wanted to see Ray and Johnnie reconciled because I was fully convinced that he was the better man. Of course, at the bottom of it all I wanted her to be happy; if I had thought for one instant that she could ever care as much for me as she did for Johnnie, I dare say I'd have done nothing to patch things up.

I regret to say that my efforts were totally without effect. Ray retired to her room, mourning the breaking of her ideal, quite unable to see her lover's case in its broader light. Johnnie went out for a dismal stroll on the snow, and I was left alone in the observatory.

For want of anything else to do, I called Paris and watched Fidus approaching in the southeast; we were aimed to pass between him and Jupiter. As for the giant himself, he filled half the heavens.

After a while I thought of what Johnnie had said about looking further ahead than the astronomers; and took a sight at the spot in the heavens where Mars disappeared into Saturn. I was amazed to see the triangular pinkish flare immensely larger, so large as to rival Saturn himself.

"We are analyzing it now," said the astronomer to whom I appealed. "Just a moment." I waited, and shortly he came running to his mirror in great excitement.

"It's the M-Rays!" he shouted violently. "Those damned devils fired at us! The thing is coming straight for the Earth!"

I ran from the mirror and found Ray and Johnnie. By this time the astronomers were making the formal announcement that the red planet had loosed a final attempt at revenge. They stated that the rays were traveling at such a rate as to insure their reaching the Earth.

"As to what effect they may have, we can only guess. It is reasonable to suppose that they are capable of overheating our atmosphere. We can do nothing whatever but wait. The impact will occur about twenty-one o'clock, C. T."

We three had gone through too much recently to be upset by this news, yet we forced ourselves to keep awake until the end. It gave Ray plenty of time to think of her problem in a new light.

The flare increased steadily in size, without in the slightest degree reducing its brilliance. In a short time it rivaled Jupiter in conspicuousness. The world awaited its arrival in feverish anxiety.

It was five minutes of the hour when Johnnie, who was at the mirror, gave a great shout of relief. "Wait!" he cried. "There's a pleasant surprise in store for us." He made us wait a couple of minutes before he let us look into the phone.

What I saw was a fitting climax to all that had gone before. Gliding in between the M-Rays and the Earth was Fidus, the tiny satellite which we had all but ignored. Such was the timing of the event, that the little moon struck the rays squarely at the exact moment they reached his orbit. Instantly he burst into flames. There was no slow rise of vapor; it happened so rapidly, because the distance was so short, that the little round orb almost instantaneously changed into a seething, boiling ball of rose-colored fire.

"By Jove, we've escaped!" I exclaimed, my voice hollow with awe. It seemed— the Almighty.

But Johnnie was watching closely. "Fidus has absorbed almost all the rays," he announced suddenly; then glanced up sharply. "There's a tiny tip of the triangle left, which the disk did not cover. And it's coming right along!"

There was little time to wait. By some queer chance the rays were pointed toward our own quarter of the globe; we could see that the tip was due to strike somewhere to our west. It was traveling at a terrific rate, and struck in a few seconds.

Looking out over the Yosemite we saw the beam fall on the western horizon. There was no sound, at first, but instantly a dense cloud of vapor arose. "It struck water," commented Johnnie. After a minute the report came from Lick Observatory that the rays had stopped in the Pacific, a few miles from the coast.

There was another short pause, and then came the storm. I never want to experience such another. I have passed through some extremely violent hurricanes in the East Indies, but none quite as bad as this. It was the intense heat of the rays; they turned a part of the sea into a veritable caldron, and upset the careful balance of pressures.

Considerable damage was done in our immediate neighborhood, to say nothing of an immense amount of destruction along the coast. Ray's house escaped, however, except for having all her windows smashed. Within half an hour the commotion died down.

We had remained in the observatory because of its substantial construction. I made the first remark.

"I said they would be hounds, and so they were. Martians!— dogs! Dogs in a manger. If that whole discharge had struck us, this wind would have blown fast enough to have taken all the air off the Earth. We would be suffocated. I'm glad they're gone!"

Johnnie said nothing. He was busy adjusting the mirror, which had been blown over. I glanced at Ray and was startled to see in her face the exact reflection of my own anger and relief. She took a step or two toward Johnnie.

"Mister inventor," she said tremulously. Her eyes were very big and moist and piteous; but she forced her mouth to twitch at the corners. "I guess you knew more about them than I did— I'll be good now." And she put on the air of a child who has asked for candy and doesn't know whether it will be forthcoming. Only— had it been me, now, I wouldn't have kept her waiting.

Abruptly Johnnie turned around. His face was suffused with a broad grin, and his voice was boyishly frank again. "If I am approached in the proper manner, I think I can be induced to kiss you!"

But it was he who did the approaching.

I turned away in time to avoid seeing what happened, but I heard the sound. And now I was at a loss to know how to conceal my own feelings. They should not know how my heart ached. The phone came to my rescue. It was the chairman.

"The trouble in the Pacific is little more than local," he stated. "Fidus is reduced to flames. The Earth is absolutely safe, and just entering the upper atmosphere of Jupiter according to program!"

He was answered by a mighty cheer, the pent-up feelings of billions of relieved and triumphant humans going into the sound. For several minutes the rejoicing continued, then it broke and a word began to make itself heard: In a moment it predominated. "Johnnie!" they were shouting. It became unanimous. "Johnnie! Johnnie!"

He tore himself from Ray and stepped into focus. He began with some trivial joke about the satellite which had become all "light"; I couldn't make it out in the confusion. But he went on to thank them for their confidence in the scientists whom he represented. He named some of them individually, and disclaimed any personal credit for the enterprise whatever.

"The idea was an inspiration, and inspirations come from a superhuman source." He hesitated diffidently, and added in a lower tone: "If you feel like praying, now is a fine time to thank God." He stood for a while with bent head, and the intense silence which followed was the most impressive thing about the whole affair. By and by— "Don't be too hasty about driving to the surface. Remember how slowly and carefully we had to proceed with the Cone."

He irreverently gave way to a tremendous yawn. Instantly an answering gasp came from the rest of the world; and then we all laughed. Can you imagine that hilarity? Johnnie started to leave the booth, saying: "I guess we need sleep more than anything else right now," but Ray stepped up beside him.

Her face was scarlet, but her chin was resolute. "If any of you girls have designs upon this boy, you'll have to take him from me by main force." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "He's my choice and I'm his."

There was no mistaking the vociferous response that came from the phone. The world knew Ray and thought it well.

But the chairman saw a chance to badger the inventor. He interrupted in a tone of mock bluster. "You started out to find a place for us to overflow upon. What are you going to do with us when we finally outgrow Jupiter, hey?"

Johnnie desperately stifled a yawn, and assumed an air of indifference. "Here's your solar system," and he waved a hand grandiloquently. "And there's the stars. Every one of 'em means more planets. You've got the Cones, haven't you? Well— help yourselves!"

He yawned until I feared for the worst. Then he smiled apologetically: "Good night!"

___________________

5: A Deal in Mines and Morals

Edward W Townsend

1855-1942

The Cosmopolitan Feb 1905

BEING already cross, it annoyed Mortimore Collins the more to know that he was followed. He turned on the man and exclaimed, "Why are you following me?"

The man first looked surprised, then smiled as one who would indulge another's ill temper, and replied:

"Sir, I was about to ask why you were preceding me. But I refrain because you lost your position in the assay office of the Knickerbocker Reduction Company to-day, and that has caused a state of mind which the judicious sympathize, not quarrel, with."

Collins stared at the stranger, small, slight, elderly, but alert and well-poised, before he asked in surprise:

"How did you know that the company closed its assay office to-day, and that that throws me out of employment just as I—  Well, how do you know anything about me?"

"You show surprise. Why? You lost your place: that's a fact. That a fact should come to my knowledge is less strange than that it should not, since I deal in facts. Now the lines of anger fade from your brow and your looks improve. I, too, am a person of presentable looks, so let us walk on together and discuss— facts."

"At least, you are a merry person,"  said Collins, noting the smile with which the man had made this speech, "and though I am not likely to be one, I am glad enough to see one."

The man was more than presentably dressed, rather fashionably; spoke, in his quaint precision, with the accent of an educated person— though plainly not a New Yorker—and had a manner not only well-bred, but peculiarly adapted to win confidence. They strolled on, Mortimore waiting for the other to explain.

"Of course, it is not a commonplace of life that a stranger, met on the street by chance, should know more about us than our dress and expression tell to the casual observer. To be done with fancies: I learned of the loss of your position ina matter-of-fact way. I came to New York to transact some mining business—" He had dropped his voice, hesitated, and now was silent for a few steps. He resumed with cautious tone: 'Mr. Collins, you've been in the assaying business long enough to know that it sometimes requires secrecy. For instance, when you were entrusted with those samples of rebellious ore shipped here from Panimint, California, you were especially cautioned to—"

"Oh, I say!" interrupted Collins, laughing but bewildered.  "Tell me who ou are, how you know about me and that Panimint ore, and we can go on from there more comfortably."

The man laughed softly, and looked at Mortimore admiringly. "You are the right sort," he said. "No mysteries with strangers. My card, sir. Now for a frank story, for that is the only kind I like to tell or want to hear. Amonth or two ago, I went over to Panimint to study their process for roasting rebellious ore. There I met— your smile anticipates the name— your classmate in the Columbia School of Mines, Frank Hosmer. I had already planned this trip to New York, and asked Hosmer to recommend a careful and trustworthy man to do some work for me. He told me to go to the Knickerbocker people and stipulate that you should do the work. This morning I went there, and in the outer office noticed some confusion. As I waited for a messenger to take my card to the manager, a young lady passed me, going out. She was in tears."

"Poor Gertrude!" murmured Collins. The stranger leaned forward to catch the name, and then resumed:

"The manager informed me that the New York office had been closed by the directors, and that you, for whom I inquired, had gone to the works in New Jersey with your books and papers, and would no longer be employed unless the directors rescinded their action."'

"They are pig-headed dolts!" Mortimore remarked, with ardor.

"The manager intimated some such fact— I'm fond of facts. I asked your address, called at your home, missed you and waited in the neighborhood to see you."

"And did Frank Hosmer give you such a good description of me that you were able to tell ne at sight?" Collins asked, amused and curious.

"I should be less a man of the world than I am if I could not tell one who had just met such a reverse as has been yours, and who must now wait for a happy day he thought this morning was near at hand." This with gentle sentiment, but watching Collins closely.

Mortimore flushed, and said, laughing: "You're a queer lot, whoever you are. What do you know of a happy day postponed?"'

"I will not answer you,"' the stranger replied, with his winning smile, "because one dislikes hearing of secret inquiries concerning oneself. I had to know something of your personal affairs, and as what I know satisfies me, be content. But to business. Dinner is business: will you dine with me where we may talk in comfort? Say at my hotel?"

He mentioned a hotel which assured a good dinner, and Mortimore, who already felt his blues shading off in this cheery company, accepted the invitation— for Frank Hosmer's sake. They were soon seated at a dinner which the host ordered with a nice discrimination as to what the markets of New York afford for the fortunate.

"My name, as my card informs you, is John Clemments," Collins' host said, when the dinner had proceeded to its more substantial dishes. "I call myself a miner, though it might be well here to call myself a capitalist. That is no matter— but this Burgundy is excellent. I like the plain old word 'miner,' and shall hold to it all my days, even if affairs should keep me here, far from my beloved mines. Your smile asks why I have sought you. That is well: I want to give you profitable employment at once. I will see that you receive some samples of ore which we want assayed for gold and silver, and shall ask for your opinion as an expert as to the best process for the ore's reduction. Are you at liberty to undertake the work?"

"It belongs to my profession and I am— out of a job," Mortimore responded.

John Clemments was a pcture of a satisfied man as he sat at dinner. He smiled richly, and spoke with the easy, redundant use of words which never accompanies a spirit vexed or body troubled. Mortimore had had but small experience with men, and he felt his thanks due to Hosmer for directing such an agreeable person his way, even though the acquaintance should not profit him materially. Then he thought of Gertrude, and hoped that there would be more than a spiritual benefit in it.

"You have an office— laboratory— where one could work quietly, undisturbed? Free from curious observers? There may be some peculiarity about the work not understanded of the general. You follow me?"

"I can work in the Columbia laboratory, where I studied. I'll not be both- ered there."'

"Excellent! The professors, instruct- ors, demonstrators, pupils, what not, will assume that in your leisure you are conducting experiments in which they are not concerned. Excellent! And this brandy! You donot care for it? I suppose that in fashionable circles the glass of good cognac has become neglected. But we old miners bring back to civilization fond memories of luxuries of youth, and long for them. Now I tire you. To-morrow you will make your arrangements with alma mater, and I will consult my principals, and in the evening we meet— here. Happy thought! Why not give me the pleasure of meeting, with a smile on her face, the young lady I saw to-day with tears in her eyes? Indulge an old miner."'

Mortimore laughed as he thought how Gertrude would enjoy the experience, and he accepted the invitation for both.

"Must you go? Wait: a trifle on account of your fee as an expert." He took a fifty-dollar bill from a pocketbook which bulged with the like, and gave it to Mortimore, saying, "To-morrow evening at seven-thirty."'

NEXT DAY, John Clemments called at the office of lawyers Bloom & Blow, agents of a syndicate considering the purchase of the Spanish Bayonet mine, and waiting on the report of Mr. Bloom, who had visited the mine with Mr. Clemments. The latter asked if the samples of ore had been delivered from the express-office. They had.

"What assayer will you send them to?" Clemments asked.

"To Mortimore Collins," declared Bloom, determinedly. "You said you'd be satisfied with him, and he's all right; good family, and all that, I've learned."

There was a touch of disappointment in Clemments' voice as he said, "Would it not be better to go to some established office rather than give the work to Collins, now that his office is closed?"

"I don't suppose Collins has given up his profession, even if his employer has gone out of business," Bloom said, shrewdly.

"Understand me, Mr. Bloom; I am making no objection—particularly—to Collins. I only prefer an established office. Still, if you insist, I will look him up to-day and let you know where to send the samples."

When Clemments left the office, Bloom turned to Blow and winked as he said: "I take no chances. That fellow happened to mention on our way from Arizona that Collins was the best assayer Columbia ever turned out, and I made a memorandum of the name. Did you hear him try to switch me off to somebody else? I took all the ore samples myself, put them in gunny-sacks, boxed them up and screwed down the lid. Nobody is going to fool me in this deal!"

Clemments, having accomplished his purpose, which was to make sure that Bloom would employ Collins, met the young assayer at dinner in happy mood. His greeting of Gertrude was courtly, and in her honor he composed a dinner which caused even the mâitre d'hôtel to remark that a man who knew how to dine was in the restaurant at last. When Clemments learned that Gertrude, although she had been but a bookkeeper in the Knickerbocker Company's office, knew enough about Mortimore's work to help him, and was going to do so in the new work, he was moved. He ordered more champagne, declared that there were phases of civilization more cherished than even a good dinner in his lonely heart, and smiled so meaningly at the young couple that Gertrude blushed. She was uncommonly pretty when she blushed, and at all other times, which fact Clemments noted with approving smiles for Mortimore. At times, when he looked at Gertrude, a wonted craftiness in his eyes left them and in its place came a grave reminiscent tenderness which would vanish with a sigh. When he had finished his second bottle, Clemments took from his pocket a long paper, and said:

"Miss Croft,I am alonely old miner; a wifeless, childless, homeless wanderer. There was once a lovely woman— But no; not at the festive board! Accept this," and he put into her hands a certificate for one thousand shares of the capital stock of the Spanish Bayonet Gold Mining Company of Arizona. Gertrude hesitated.

"Take it, child," Clemments said, his voice trembling. "Take it, for if Mortimore finds that the ore assays well, somebody I know will have an income to satisfy easily the most exacting woman in the matter of— let us say —in the matter of a trousseau."

Gertrude's hands closed nervously, and the certificate was in one of them. "That's right, child," her host said, encouragingly. He signaled the waiter that the bottle was empty. "And, friend Mortimore, if I may so call you, the laborer is worthy of his hire." He handed a certificate for the same number of shares to Collins, who received it with a smile not of gratitude; and as Clemments turned to see that the fresh bottle was opened, Mortimore winked to Gertrude and made signs with his lips throwing doubts on the value of the gift. But she eagerly folded her certificate and crushed it into her reticule.

"Children," remarked Clemments, after finding that the wine was cooled to his exacting demands, "I am gratified to bring the flush of thanks to the desert where none bloomed— I mean to say, that I shall sell to the syndicate but a control of the mine— fifty-one thousand out of one hundred thousand shares. You oblige me by accepting two thousand shares, leaving me yet with more than would satisfy visions of the vain. What, then, to a lonely old miner? Must you go? To-morrow the samples will be delivered to you, Mortimore. Be discreet, be cautious, be—be scientific. So long!"

"A curious chap, but too clever to give away certificates worth anything," Mortimore remarked to his companion, as they left the restaurant.

"I think he's a dear!" responded Gertrude. "He would not give me a worth- less certificate. How funnily he talks. But sometimes he had such— well, such a good look. I wish he had finished that figure of speech about my cheeks being a bloomless desert."

THE NEXT DAY, there was delivered to Collins a heavy little box, fastened with screws and banded with iron, which he opened with difficulty, deciding that some one had taken great care to keep the contents from designing persons. Inside were a number of small ore-sacks, each sealed and labeled. As he handled the sacks, his nostrils were assailed by pungent odor of chlorin. Many have distinctive odors, but Mortimore was familiar with odor, except salt undergoing certain treatment.

"Chlorin, eh?" His nose turned up suspiciously; the more so as he recalled, with a cynical smile, the gifts of certificates of stock. For two days, he worked at the college, and the result of his assays showed that the samples of ore carried gold in varying values, but none less than many thousands of dollars a ton; and that the cloth of the sacks was marvelously rich, one stained and pungent scrap bearing gold at the rate of some hundreds of thousands of dollars a ton. "Mined, I should think," Mortimore mentally commented, "from the veritable field of the cloth of gold."

The next day, he told the janitor to bring him the box the samples had come in. "Perhaps the saw-mills are as auriferous in Arizona as the jute-mills seem to be," he thought.

Two nights he had declined to dine with the lonely old miner. Gertrude had received invitations, too,and bunches of violets. On the third day, came a letter from Clemments saying that he was eager to learn the results of the assays, but would possess his soul with better patience if his dear young friend Mortimore would accept the enclosed. It was a certificate for five thousand shares of Spanish Bayonet stock.

Collins presented it, together with his other certificate, to Gertrude, saying, "Not for its intrinsic value, but as an evidence of my high esteem for the natural marvels of Arizona."

Gertrude ignored the humorous intent of her lover, and carefully folded the papers away with her other stock. Then the young assayer examined the box. In each he found a small, neatly plugged gimlet-hole.

They could be seen from the outside only by close inspection, but on the inside of the thick boards the displaced splinters sprung by the penetrating gimlet made easily seen scars.

Thus the swindling trick was disclosed to the investigator; some one— John Clemments? —had bored holes in the box after it had been closed and fastened, inserted a syringe charged with bichlorid of gold, and enriched the ore— incidentally mineralizing the burlap!

Mortimore disliked to tell Gertrude of the discovery had made in her absence. She had maintained in the face of his joking that Clemments was a gentleman, and gravely believed in the value of her Spanish Bayonet stock. But he must report to Bloom & Blow; for they, not Clemments, had sent him the samples. He would go there the next day and make his unpleasant disclosure.

At his home that evening he found a letter from Frank Hosmer which had been addressed to his former office, forwarded to the New Jersey works, and in leisurely manner sent to his home address.

"Dear Mort," the letter ran— "Some weeks ago a persuasive chap came up here to Panimint and tried to interest some of our people in an Arizona property. He would have succeeded had not one of my assistants recognized him as a clever mine-salter.

John Clemments, as he is called, has, it seems, worked his game for years in the character of an old miner, but he does not know the difference between an up-raise and a chute, or an incline and a cross-cut. A little later heard that he had we some New York parties on the hook, and that a tenderfoot lawyer had come out to make an examination. Ye gods! men with money to invest will hire that kind of greenhorn to investigate while men like you are to be had. I have thought little more of it had it not ocurred to my mind that good old John Clemments, while here, took a fatherly interest in stories of my college career, and hearing that my college chum was with the Knickerbocker Company asked particularly about you, even cherished a remark I made about having just congratulated you on your engagement to my cousin Gertrude— to whom my best regards. As I thought it over, I could see no innocent reason for such a man's interest in your affairs, and so decided to tip you off. But first I sent over to a fellow I know at a mine near the Spanish Bayonet, and told him to forward you a fair lot of samples of the average in run of the ore good John's mine. It's gopher-hole as yet, but my friend writes that it's not a bad-looking prospect

By the way, if you do meet Clemments, write me what you think of him. He certainly no common swindler, but is probably one of the gentleman-gambler characters still sometimes found in the Southwest."

The next morning, Mortimore Bloom presented a statement of the assays to Mr. Blolom. The lawyer's eyes first bulged contracted with excitement, and then with greed as he gazed at the figures; after he had pored over them for some minutes, he looked up at Mortimore and said, hastily:

"You recognize only us in this matter? We sent you the samples."

"That is so," assented the assayer.

"You are not to reveal to anyone, especially to John Clemments, the figures in this report. I must get all of that old smoothy's stock," he added to himself, but speaking aloud in his excitement.

"He doesn't suspect how rich it is! He's said to be clever,but I'll show him a trick! And the syndicate, too!"

Mortimore was doubly amazed: first by the lawyer's purpose to over-reach both the syndicate and Clemments, but more so that Bloom did not suspect the truth from the absurd figures of the report.

He had less heart than a few minutes before to expose Clemments, for the rascal before him was so much more repulsive than the rascal he must expose— and Gertrude liked Clemments! But it had to be done, and he told Bloom the story of the trick revealed by the box. Before he had half finished the tale, the fine lines of avarice in Bloom's face had twisted into boisterous snarls of rage. He was in the height of an outburst against Clemments'perfidy when that sly old miner walked into the room.

Bloom turned upon him a torrent of denunciation, which Clemments received with calmness; but when the lawyer raged of an intention to inform the po- lice, Clemments responded, in the man- ner of enjoying a joke: "I wasn't sure you were ready to see me a few minutes ago, so I waited outside where I couldn't help overhearing your plan to do me and your clients out of our rights. If Mr. Collins had been as crooked as you and I, the trick would have been turned. But he was square. And I'm glad of it, because of something you wouldn't understand if I told you."

"Oh," sneered Bloom, "I don't see anything in this report about fraud. Perhaps Collins first meant to aid your swindle. He was mighty slow about disclosing it."

Possibly Mortimore lacked a measure of spiritual ruggedness, but there was no scant in the measure of his physical courage. At the lawyer's last word he sprang at him and clutched his throat, crying, "Retract that, or I'll break your neck!"

John Clemments' right hand rested lightly under the skirt of his coat on something protruding from his hip-pocket, and his eyes followed with sure, quick dartings the movements of Bloom's hands, until the lawyer sputtered an apology, and Mortimore left the office.

He had walked a little way, excited and disgusted, when Clemments slipped an arm through his and said: "My boy, I admire you for several reasons, but I'll mention only two: you are square and nervy. Now let's talk."

Mortimore shook himself free roughly, saying, "I don't know whether I'm more angry with you for trying to bribe me, or with myself for looking like a man who could be bribed."

Clemments was puzzled. "Bribed?" he exclaimed. "I wanted you interested with me; wanted us to have a community of interest, as they say here. If you had reported the assays as silly as they were, without saying anything about the dope, your stock would have been worth a small fortune. But I am glad you were square with yourself. I am, surely."

He was so simple, so wholly goodnatured, that Mortimore's anger would subside in spite of himself, and give place to curiosity.

"If Frank Hosmer told you I was a thorough scientist, and not a laboratory mechanic," he asked his companion, "how could you suppose I'd not see so stupid a game? Every man who has ever attended a term of lectures in the course has heard stories of mine swindles by that bichlorid-of-gold and syringe trick. It's a stock story in the lecture-room."'

Clemments began to laugh softly, but was soon so shaken by mirth that he leaned against a building for support.

"Oh," he gasped, "what a laugh the boys will have on me when they hear of this! You are right; it is an old trick, though I have never tried it before. But that lawyer was so easy, and so crooked, that I chanced it. I didn't know much about the dope, and must have made the solution too strong in gold. And I had to work in a hurry one night while I was in the express-car where the box of ore was, talking over things with the express-messenger, an old friend of mine. I suppose if I'd used a weaker dope, or less of it, you might have missed the trick, eh?"

"And my professional reputation ruined when the fraud was discovered by some one else!" exclaimed Mortimore.

"Perhaps not," commented Clemments, with a sudden grieved look. "The mine may be all right for all I know. You see, I don't savvy the first thing about mines. Cards is my game. Mining's too slow, and there's too many chances against winning. But selling salted mines to suckers is a sure thing, mostly. I know so little about mines that I've salted good mines and sold 'em to parties who've got rich out of 'em. There was one property I passed on to an English syndicate, after salting it, which is now producing a hundred thousand a month, and I cleared but fifty thousand on that turn. Oh, I was swindled in that deal!"

"Do you know nothing about the Spanish Bayonet? The ore is pretty good-looking."

"Not a blessed thing! I won it one night at poker from a miner, who traded a Mexican two mules and a silver spur for it. Then I happened to run across this man Bloom, and I saw that he was easy, and let him have it—or tried to."

"I'm not wasting sympathy on Bloom," said Mortimore. "What makes me feel small is that you picked me out as one likely to help swindle him."'

"I never took your view of it," declared Clemments, earnestly. "Whether you salt a mine, or sell it natural, you put it up to the buyer as pretty as you can. Eh? That's what some of these silk-hat promoters are doing, as I look at it, with some high-toned-sounding trusts. Maybe I'm wrong as to them. But I am sorry you feel hurt. I am, surely. I like you; and as for that young lady you are going to marry, why, I was thinking of her as much as of you when I hoped you'd not discover the dope, or overlook it. I was saying something the other night, when I'd been drinking a little, about there being a lovely woman who once came into my life. I'm sober now, and I tell you that there was a lovely woman, a good and pure woman, who cared for me. She looked like the lady you are going to marry."

He spoke so gravely that Mortimore could feel no resentment at his mention of Gertrude.

"That's the worst thing about it," he said. "I must tell Miss Croft. She believes in you."

"But you're not going to tell her,' Clemments said, confidently.

"I must."

"You must not until I say so. I begin to see that it wasn't right for me to ring you into this without telling you what the game was. Down my way it would be considered a favor to be let in on as good a thing— as Bloom. But you look at this sort of thing differently here— some of you. So I don't want Miss Croft to know, yet."

Mortimore changed the subject : "Why don't you have your mine examined, and see if you haven't got a property worth developing?"'

Clemments was thoughtfully silent before he answered. "I never considered that," he said. "It would be consoling in my old age to be in on the game on the square. I'll send for some of the rock, and you see what it is."'

"Hosmer sent me some," said Mortimore.

Clemments chuckled quietly.

"So friend Hosmer thought my samples might be a trifle fancy, eh? Well, you assay 'em, and see what kind of a mine we've got."

Mortimore did so, and found that the Spanish Bayonet mine, as nature had endowed it, contained ore running from ten to twenty dollars a ton in gold.

"Would that pay to work?" asked Clemments, simply.

'Depends on conditions: how accessible by roads, how near rail transportation, where you get fuel and water, and how much it costs to get them, how expensive the milling would be— it acts like free-milling ore—and, most of all, how wide your ledge is and if it holds out as you go down."'

Clemments listened increasing wonder at the young expert.

"I never knew there were so many points in the game," he remarked. "It's interesting, too, when you come to hear about it. I don't know about the things you ask, but you go down and look it over. I'll advance your expenses and fees. If it looks like a good proposition, I'll make it easy for you to own a half interest."

Mortimore was perplexed with doubts. Could he honorably accept such a commission from such a man? Clemments awoke to the moral points involved in the young man's mind and answered them:

"You and Miss Croft dine with me to-night. I've an idea there's an honest streak left in me, and if there is, that young lady will see it.  I don't know that I could be square according to your standards, but if she says I could I'll gamble she's right. Since I've seen her, and been reminded of another good woman— one who cared for me when I was younger, and believed in me— I've been thinking it would sort of ease my mind to turn square; to give up grafting ways, and do what Miss Gertrude would say was right. Why? Well, I'm not as easy a talker about conscience and such things as about some other things, but I reckon if I deal my cards after this according to what Miss Gertrude would approve, that other woman's soul, if it's keeping cases on me, might be com- forted to know that at last I'm on the level. You leave this matter of being my partner to Miss Gertrude, after you've told her what my little game with Bloom was; but don't tell her until after dinner. Then if you do go to the mine, we'll make a business arrangement of it. I've enough capital to develop it if you say to go ahead; but if you're going to keep out of the mining game until you find a partner who never tried to sell a mine for more than it was worth —learn another profession."

They dined together that night, and the Arizonian drank only water. With Gertrude he was skilful: he first fixed her interest by praise of Mortimore, then increased it by the manner and matter of his talk— of the mystery and wild beauty of the deserts and mountains of the far Southwest. He made a point of finding her direct gaze and holding it steadily, and she never turned from meeting his eyes without a pleased smile.

On their way to her home, Mortimore told Gertrude all that he had learned about John Clemments and of the offer, and asked her,"What do you think of it?"

"Well, Morty," she sagely announced, after a considerable pause, "if half of that man isn't honest and the other half eager to be, I never saw an honest pair of eyes in my life. Of course it was very wicked in him to try to cheat Mr. Bloom, but he'll never try to cheat me, and as you and I are to be one I think you are safe in going to Arizona."

The young lady's reasoning struck Mortimore as being more feminine than logical—yet it sent him to Arizona.

There, as skilfully as he tested the ore they soon began to mill in liberal quantities, he unskilfully tested the character of John Clemments.

"You'd be an easy proposition to beat in this game, Mortimore— leaving all the financing to me," Clemments said to him once. "But this mining deal has sort of dealt me out anew hand in morals. When I see that you'll accept any statement I make about our returns from the mint for our shipments of bullion, about our expenses, as to when we'll pay dividends, and never draw anything for yourself except for expenses, I say to myself: 'On the square, John! On the square for the good opinion of the woman who looks like the other.' But there's one confession I guess I'd better make, Mortimore: I've been corresponding with Miss Gertrude, and asked her not to tell you about it."

"You have, eh?" laughed Mortimore. "Then I think it's about time for me to go back and get married."'

WHEN Mortimore came home to marry Gertrude, he said to her, "Arizona really isn't so bad, and we won't have to live there long, for the mine will soon be paying dividends."

"Soon paying them?" asked Gertrude, in amazement. "Why, Morty, the dividends on our stock which John Clemments has already sent me have easily satisfied a 'most exacting woman in the matter of— let us say— in the matter of a trousseau.' "

_________________

6: Mr. Wellaway's Host

Ellis Parker Butler

The Century Magazine Nov 1912

"NO, sir," said Mr. Wellaway, positively, "this is not the club at all. This is not the sort of club. The club I mean has a heavier head—heavier and flatter."

The clerk looked here and there among the racks of golf-clubs, but his general manner was that of hopelessness. There seemed to be thousands of golf-clubs in the racks, and he had shown Mr. Wellaway club after club, each seeming to fit the description Mr. Wellaway had given, but in vain. Mr. Wellaway looked up and down the shop.

"If I could remember the name of the clerk," he said, "he would know the club. He sold one of them to Mr. —" He hesitated. "Now I can't remember his name. A rather large man with a smooth face. He has a small wart or a wen just at the side of his nose. You didn't wait on such a man last week, did you?"

"I can't recall him by the description," said the clerk.

"Pshaw, now!" said Mr. Wellaway, with vexation. "I know his name as well as I know my own! I would forget my own if people didn't mention it to me once in a while. It is peculiar how a man can remember faces and forget names, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," said the clerk. "If you just look through these clubs yourself, you may be able to find what you want. Was the name of the clerk you had in mind Mills? Or Waterson? Or Frazer?"

"It might be Frazer," said Mr. Wellaway, doubtfully.

"If it was Frazer," said the clerk, "he left here last Saturday."

"But couldn't you look up Frazer's sales and see what kind of driver he sold? But of course you can't if I don't remember the name of the man he sold it to, can you?"

"Not very well," admitted the clerk, with a polite smile. "Now, if you like a heavy club—"

He was interrupted by another customer. The golf goods were on the basement floor, and a short flight of steps led to the basement from the main floor, and the new customer had come down the stairs. He was a big, bluff, hearty man, with a cheerful manner and a rather red face, and Mr. Wellaway immediately remembered having met him sometime and somewhere. He nodded his head with the ready comradeship of a fellow-golfer.

"Hello!" exclaimed the new-comer, heartily. "Well! well! so you are at it too, are you? Got the golf fever?" Then to the clerk: "Got my brassy mended?"

"What name, sir?" asked the clerk.

"Didn't leave any name," said the big man. "It's a mahogany brassy, the only real mahogany brassy you ever saw. I had it made to order," he said to Mr. Wellaway, as the clerk hurried away to the repair department. "So you've taken up golf, have you? It's a great game."

"It is a great game," said Mr. Wellaway; "but I've been at it a long time. Not that I'm much good at it."

"No one is ever any good at it except the crack players," said the other. "I'm as bad as they make 'em; but I love it. Where do you play?"

"Van Cortlandt," said Mr. Wellaway.

"Ever play Westcote?"

"No," said Mr. Wellaway. "I've been in the village, but I didn't know there was a course there."

"Best little course you ever saw," said the hearty man. "Nine holes, but all beauties. I want you to play it sometime. Look here," he added suddenly, "what have you got on for this afternoon?"

"Well, I was going up to Van Cortlandt," said Mr. Wellaway, hesitatingly.

"That's all off now! You're coming out with me and have a try at our Westcote course. Yes, you are. You know I never take 'No' for an answer when I make up my mind. And, look here, we have just time to get a train."

Mr. Wellaway's host beckoned violently to the clerk.

"But my clubs—" protested Mr. Wellaway.

"That's all right, too. Our professional can fit you out."

"I ought to telephone my wife."

"Oh, do it from the club."

The temptation was too much for Mr. Wellaway. It was a hot day, and he knew the public links at Van Cortlandt would be crowded to the limit. He imagined the cool green of the little course at Westcote and let himself be persuaded, and in four minutes he was aboard the commuters' train, being whirled under the East River.

It was not until the train was out of the tunnel and speeding along over the Long Island right of way that he felt the first qualm of uneasiness; but it was a very slight qualm. He was ashamed that he could not remember the name of his host. The man's face was certainly familiar enough, and the man evidently knew Mr. Wellaway well enough to invite him to play golf, or Mr. Wellaway would not have been invited; but the name would not make itself known. But, after all, that was an easily remedied matter. The first friend they met would call Mr. Wellaway's host by name.

At Woodside they left the electric train and boarded the steam train, but no one had spoken to Mr. Wellaway's host on the platform. One or two men had nodded to him in a manner that showed they liked him, but none mentioned his name. Mr. Wellaway smiled. He would use a little very simple Sherlock Holmes work when the conductor came through for the fares.

Mr. Wellaway had noticed that his host used a fifty-trip ticket-book when the conductor asked for the fare on the electric, and now he waited until the new conductor tore the trip leaves from the book and returned the book to its owner.

"I see you use a book," said Mr. Wellaway. "Do you find it cheaper than buying mileage?"

He held out his hand for the book. It was an ordinary gesture of curiosity, and his host surrendered the book.

"No, I don't, not usually," he said. "And a commutation-ticket is cheaper than either. Now, a commutation-ticket costs—"

He entered into the commuter's usual closely computed average of cost per trip, and Mr. Wellaway nodded his acquiescence in the figures; but his mind was elsewhere. He read as though interested the face of the book, and then turned it over. There on the back, in a bold hand, under the contract the thrifty railroads make book-holders sign, was the signature, "Geo. P. Garris." Mr. Wellaway stared at the name while he ransacked his memory to recall a George P. Garris. He not only could not recall a George P. Garris, but he could not remember ever having heard or seen the name of Garris. If the second "r" was meant for a "v," the name might be "Garvis," but that did not help. He could not recall a Garvis. At any rate, it was some satisfaction to know his host was George P. Garris or George P. Garvis. When and how he had met him would probably soon appear.

"I see you are looking at that name," said Mr. Wellaway's host, "and I don't wonder. Matter of fact, I have no business to have that book; but Garvis was a good fellow, and he needed the money, so I bought it of him when he left Westcote."

"Oh," said Mr. Wellaway, blankly, and then: "So that's why you are not using a commutation-ticket this month." He had to say something.

"That's the reason," said his host; "and this is Westcote."

ii

THE Westcote Country Club was all Mr. Wellaway's host had boasted. The greens rolled away from the small club-house in graceful beauty, small groves of elms and maples studded the course, and picturesque stone walls and sodded bunkers provided sufficient hazards. Everything was as neat as a new pin. It was a sight to make any golfer happy, but when the station cab rolled up to the club-house door, Mr. Wellaway was not entirely happy. He was beginning to feel like an interloper. The more he studied the face of his host, the surer he became that he had no business to be a guest. As a word in print, when studied intensely, becomes a mere jumble of meaningless letters, so the face of his host grew less and less familiar, until Mr. Wellaway had decided his familiarity was with the type of face and not with this particular face. One thing alone comforted him: his host seemed to know Mr. Wellaway.

As they left the cab, Mr. Wellaway made a desperate effort to learn the name of his host; for he felt that if he did not learn it now he was in for a most unpleasant five minutes. Mr. Wellaway was a small, gentle little man, but he was almost rude in his insistence that he be permitted to pay the cabby.

"Yes, I will," he insisted. "I certainly will. If you don't let me, I'll be downright angry. You paid my fare, and you offer me an afternoon's sport; but I am going to pay this cabman."

"But this is my party," said his host.

"You go right into the club-house, and let me pay," said Mr. Wellaway. "I want to do this, and you ought to let me." With a laugh the host turned away. Mr. Wellaway fumbled in his pocket until he was alone with the cabman.

"What is the charge?" he asked.

"Quarter," said the cabby, briefly.

"Here's a dollar," said Mr. Wellaway. "Now, can you tell me the name of that man— the man who drove up with me?"

"No, sir," said the cabman; "I don't know what his name is."

"I just wanted to know," said Mr. Wellaway.

When he entered the club-house his host was alone.

"You wanted to telephone," he said to Mr. Wellaway. "There's the booth. It's a money-in-the-slot machine. I'll get a greens-ticket and a bag of clubs for you while you are in there, and we will not lose any time. When you come out, come up to the locker-room."

Mr. Wellaway entered the booth and closed the door. He called for his number and waited while the connection was made. It was hot in the booth with the door closed, but not for the world would Mr. Wellaway have opened it.

"Hello, is that you, Mary?" he asked, when he had dropped the requisite coins in the slot at the request of the central. "This is Edgar. Yes. I'm out at Westcote, on Long Island. I'm going to play golf. I met a friend, and he insisted that I come out here and try his course. I say I met a friend. Yes, a friend. An old acquaintance. He lives out here."

For a few seconds Mr. Wellaway listened.

"No, listen!" said Mr. Wellaway. "I don't know what his name is, but I'll find out. I just met him, you know, and he asked me, and I couldn't say, 'Thank you, I'll accept; but what is your name?' I couldn't say that, could I? When he knew me so well? Oh, nonsense, Mary! I tell you it's a man."

As he listened to what Mary had to say to this, Mr. Wellaway sighed deeply.

"No, it is not funny that I don't know his name," he said. "You know I can't remember names, and I know thousands of men, and speak to them, and can't recall their names. Listen! There's no reason in the world for your jealousy to get stirred up. Not the least. I'll know his name inside half an hour, and if you are going to act that way about it, I'll telephone you the minute I learn it. Yes, I will! Well, that's all right, too; but since you take that attitude, I'm going to telephone you. Good-by." He waited half a minute for an answering "Good-by," and then hung up the receiver softly. Mary's jealousy was a real annoyance. Mr. Wellaway stepped out of the booth and wiped his forehead.

The small sitting-room of the club was deserted. In the adjacent butler's pantry he could hear the steward at work, and above the low ceiling he could hear his host changing his shoes. On the bulletin-board, among the announcements of competitions and new rules, was a list of members posted for dues or house-accounts. It was a very short list, and Mr. Wellaway recognized none of the names. On the opposite wall was a framed list of the club-members, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five, and Mr. Wellaway ran his eye down them. Only one of the names was familiar, that of George C. Rogers, and the host was not Rogers, for Mr. Wellaway knew Rogers well. Not another name was even faintly familiar. Mr. Wellaway was still poring over the list when his host descended the stairs.

"I see," said Mr. Wellaway, "that George Rogers is a member of the club."

"That so?" said his host. "I don't know him. I don't know many of the fellows yet. Rankin and Mallows are putting me up for membership, but I'm playing on a temporary card until the next meeting of the board of governors. They say there's no doubt I'll be admitted; but I don't take chances. I pay as I go until I'm a full member. When I'm in, I'll sign checks like the rest of them; but until I am in, I'll pay cash. Now, you run up and shuck your coat, if you want to, while I get you a bag of clubs and a greens-ticket. I left my locker open— Number 43."

Mr. Wellaway ascended the stairs. All about the locker-room were the lockers, two high, and on each was the name of the holder. The door of 43 stood open, and Mr. Wellaway darted for it, and looked for the name of his host. There was no name on the locker.

IN the locker was the usual accumulation of golfer's odds and ends. A few badly scarred golf-balls lay on the floor, along with a pair of winter golf-shoes. A couple of extra clubs stood in one corner. A sweater hung from a hook, and from another hook hung the coat and waistcoat his host had just removed. From one pocket, the inside pocket, of the coat protruded the tops of three or four letters. Mr. Wellaway stared at the letters and perspired profusely. He had only to put out his hand and raise the letters partly from the pocket to know the name of his host. Then he could make an excuse to telephone his wife again. Assuredly there was nothing dishonorable in merely glancing at the address of the letters. But he stood very still and listened intently before he put out his hand. He could hear the soft tread of rubber-soled shoes on the floor below. Very gently Mr. Wellaway raised the letters from the pocket just as he heard the rubber-soled shoes touch the zinc treads of the stairs. He slid the letters back into the pocket in a panic, and jerked off his coat, but he had seen the address of the outermost letter. It was an unmailed letter, and it was addressed to "Mrs. Edgar Wellaway, Rimmon Apartments, West End Avenue, New York."

"All ready!" said his host, cheerfully.

"Just a moment," said Mr. Wellaway. He was taking his papers from his coat-pockets and putting them in the hip-pocket of his trousers. A man cannot be too careful.

iii

MR. WELLAWAY'S host used a Scotch-plaid golf-bag, without initials painted on it, and when the two men issued from the club-house the bag was leaning against the wall immediately under the outside bulletin-board. One list on the board was headed "Applications for Membership," but there were no names entered later than a month and a half old, and all these had the word "Elected" written after them. When Mr. Wellaway caught sight of the other list his face brightened.

"My handicap is eighteen," he said, looking through the list of members with the handicaps set opposite the names.

"Two better than mine," said his host. "I play at twenty."

"Twenty?" said Mr. Wellaway, running his finger up and down the handicap list.

"But I haven't been given a handicap here yet," said his host. "They don't give you a handicap here until you are a member."

"Oh," said Mr. Wellaway, and turned away. He had no further interest in the handicap-list.

The course was clear for the entire first hole. Mr. Wellaway got away with a clean drive, but sliced his second into the rough, while his host sliced his first into a sand-pit, got out with a high niblick shot, and lay on the putting-green in three. Mr. Wellaway wasted a stroke chopping out of the rough, and put his ball on the green with a clean iron shot in four, close enough to putt out in one, making the hole a five. His host took two to hole out, doing another five, but winning the hole on his handicap, which gave him one stroke on the first hole. It was good golf, par golf, and Mr. Wellaway was elated. To do a hole in par on a strange course, after getting into the rough, was better golf than he knew how to play, and the loss of the hole after such playing made him only the more eager to play his best. He forgot Mary's jealousy and his annoyance at not knowing the name of his host, and played golf as he had never played it before. The professional's clubs seemed to work magic in his hands. At the ninth hole he was still one down, but his host did the first hole on the second round in eight, to Mr. Wellaway's seven, and it was seesaw around the course the second time, with all even when eighteen holes had been played.

"I guess we can play it off before the storm hits us," said Mr. Wellaway's host, and for the first time Mr. Wellaway noticed the black clouds piling up in the west. They started the nineteenth hole with a rush of wind whirling the dust from the road across the course, and before they had walked to where their balls lay after their drives, the forward edge of the storm-clouds, low, ragged, and an ugly yellow, was full over them, and a glare of lightning, followed by a tremendous crash, blinded them both. Mr. Wellaway's host threw his bag of clubs on the grass as though it were red hot, and started at a full run for the club-house. Mr. Wellaway followed him.

Except for the steward and his wife, the club-house was already deserted, the last automobile tearing down the club roadway as Mr. Wellaway reached the veranda. The lightning exceeded anything Mr. Wellaway had ever seen, and crash followed crash in deafening explosions, as though the electrical storm had centered near the club-house. A fair-sized hickory-tree, half dead from the depredations of the hickory-bark beetle, fell crashing across the sleeping-room annex of the club-house. For half an hour after the rain began to fall in sheets the lightning continued, while Mr. Wellaway and his host stared at the storm through the windows of the club-house; but about six o'clock the worst of the storm had passed on, and the rain had become a steady, heavy downpour.

"There's one thing sure," said Mr. Wellaway's host: "there's no going home for you to-night."

"But I must go home," said Mr. Wellaway.

"If you must, of course you must," said his host; "but there would be no sense in going in this rain. We will have dinner right here. I suppose you can get us up a couple of chops or something?"

"Yes, sir," said the steward, who had returned from a survey of his sleeping-quarters. "Chops or steak."

"Then I'll just 'phone my wife that I'll not be home," said Mr. Wellaway's host, and he entered the telephone-booth. In a few minutes he came out again. "Can't get central," he said with annoyance. "The thing is either cut off or burned out. Probably a tree has fallen across the wires. I hate to drag you out through all this rain, but my wife will be distracted if I don't get home. She'll imagine I'm killed. You will have to come home with me and take pot-luck."

"Why, that's very kind of you," said Mr. Wellaway, "but I could not think of it. My own wife will be worrying. I'll just scoot through the rain to the station and get the first train home."

"Of course, if you think best," said the host. "We have to pass the station on the way to my house. But Sarah would be glad to put you up for the night."

The station was not as far as Mr. Wellaway had feared, for it was not necessary to walk to the main station; there was another nearer, and they reached it a few minutes before a train for the city was due. Mr. Wellaway's host walked to the ticket-window.

"I presume the train is late," he asked.

"You presume exactly right," said the young man in the ticket-office. "She's not only late, but she's going to be later before she ever gets to New York. The lightning struck the Bloom Street bridge, and the bridge went up like fireworks. It will be about twenty-four hours before anybody from this town gets to New York."

"Twenty-four hours!" exclaimed Mr. Wellaway, aghast. "But I can telegraph."

"If you can, you can do more than I can do," said the young man. "I've tried, and I can't do it, and I'm a professional."

"Well!" said Mr. Wellaway.

"All right," said his host. "Now there's nothing for you to do but accept my invitation, and I make it doubly warm. Sarah will be delighted. You are the first guest we've had for the night since we moved out here. She'll be delighted, I tell you. And so will I."

"But I ought to go home," insisted Mr. Wellaway.

"But you can't go home," laughed his host. "Come right along. Sarah will be delighted. She's— she's fond of company. Perhaps our 'phone will be working. You can telephone your wife from our house. Really, Sarah will be glad— she'll be delighted, I tell you."

So Mr. Wellaway accompanied his host. The house to which he was led was an average suburban dwelling, a frame house of ample size, with wide verandas, a goodly lawn, and the usual clumps of shrubbery. At the screen door the host paused.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll let you wait here while I step inside and tell Sarah we are coming. Sarah is the most hospitable of women, and that's the reason I want to tell her. She'll welcome you with open arms, but—you know how these hospitable women are, don't you? They like a minute or two to get into a more than casual mood. It will be all right. Only a minute."

"Certainly," said Mr. Wellaway, feeling rather uncomfortable, and his host opened the door with a latch-key and entered. If Mr. Wellaway could have heard what passed inside that door, he would have turned and run.

"Darling!" exclaimed his host's wife when she saw him. "How wet you are! Go right up-stairs and get into a hot bath this minute! You'll die of cold!"

"In a minute, Sarah," said her husband; "but, first, I've got a man out there. He's going to stay for dinner and sleep here."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sarah, letting her mind jump to her larder. "But we didn't expect any one. Really I don't know. Perhaps I can make what I have do. Is— is it any one important?"

"Don't know," said Mr. Wellaway's host, hastily. "I'll tell you all about it when I'm dressing. I don't know the fellow's name, but he knows me as well as I know you. I ought to know his name as well as I know yours, but I don't. I met him somewhere, and I remember he was a good fellow. We'll get his name out of him somehow before he's in the house very long, but, for Heaven's sake! don't let him know I don't know. He may be some one important. He looks as if he might be somebody. I'll bring him in. Don't give me away."

"But you don't know who he is. He may be a thief—"

"Hope not. I can't let him stand out there any longer, anyway. Be pleasant to him."

He threw open the door.

"Come right in!" he exclaimed heartily. "I've bearded the lioness, and told her the story of our lives. I don't believe you have met before."

"I have not had that pleasure," said Mr. Wellaway, making his best bow, "but I am delighted, although I'm sorry to come unannounced."

"Announced or unannounced, you might know you are always welcome," said Sarah, charmingly. "And the first thing is to get on some dry clothes. You'll both of you take cold. Run along, and I'll see what we have for dinner."

The garments given him by his host did not fit Mr. Wellaway specially well. They were considerably too large, but he was glad to get into anything dry. What dissatisfied him with them more than aught else was that they were the sort of garments of which the newspapers remark, "There were no marks of identification." The spare room into which he was put offered no more aid. Three or four recent magazines lay on the small table, but bore no names except their own titles. For the rest, the spare room was evidently a brand-new spare room, fresh from the maker. For purposes of identification it might as well have been a hotel bedroom. Mr. Wellaway dressed hastily and hurried down-stairs.

The parlor, to the right of the stairs, stood open, and Mr. Wellaway entered. A large fireplace occupied one end of the room, and the furnishings and pictures bespoke a home of fair means, but no great wealth. Magazines lay on a console table, but what attracted Mr. Wellaway was a book-case. The case was well filled with books in good bindings, and Mr. Wellaway stepped happily across the carpet and laid his hand on the book-case door. It was locked.

iv

MR. WELLAWAY'S host and his host's wife descended the stairs together just as the maid issued from the dining-room to announce dinner, and once seated, the conversation turned to the storm, to the utter disruption of the telephone service, and to the game of golf the two men had been unable to finish. In the midst of the conversation Mr. Wellaway studied the monogram on the handles of his fork and spoon. It was one of those triumphs of monogrammery that are so beautiful as to be absolutely illegible. The name on the butter-knife handle was legible, however. It was "Sarah."

The soup had been consumed, and the roast carved when Mr. Wellaway's host looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. She smiled in acknowledgment of the signal.

"Don't you think some names are supremely odd?" she asked Mr. Wellaway. "My husband was telling me of one that came under his notice to-day. What was it, dear?"

"Oh, I shouldn't have noticed it but for the circumstances," said Mr. Wellaway's host; "but it was a rather ridiculous name for a human being. Can you imagine any one carrying around the name of Wellaway?"

Mr. Wellaway gasped.

"Imagine being a Wellaway!" said Sarah. "Isn't it an inhospitable name? It seems to suggest 'Good-by; I'm glad you're gone.' Doesn't it?"

"I can see the man with my mind's eye," said Mr. Wellaway's host. "A tall, thin fellow, with sandy sideburns. Probably a floor-walker in some shop, with a perpetual smile."

"But tell him the rest," said Sarah, chuckling.

"Oh, the rest— that's too funny!" said Mr. Wellaway's host. "I had a letter this morning from this Mrs. Wellaway—"

Mr. Wellaway turned very red and moved uneasily in his chair.

"I ought to tell you that— that I know Mrs. Wellaway," he stammered. "I— I know her quite well. In fact—"

"Then you'll appreciate this," said his host, merrily. "You know the business I'm in. Every one knows it. So you can imagine how I laughed when I read this letter."

From the inside pocket of his coat Mr. Wellaway's host took a letter. He removed the envelope and placed it on the table, address down.

"Listen to this," he said:

Dear Sir:

Only the greatest anguish of mind induces me to write to you and ask your assistance. It may be that I am the victim of an insane jealousy, but I fear the explanation is not so innocent. I distrust my husband, and anything is better than the pangs of uncertainty I now suffer. If your time is not entirely taken, I wish, therefore, to engage you to make certain that my fears are baseless or well founded. Please consider the matter as most confidential, for I am only addressing you because I know that when a matter is put in your hands it never receives the slightest publicity.

Yours truly,

Mrs. Edgar Wellaway.

When he had read the letter, Mr. Wellaway's host lay back in his chair and laughed until the tears ran from his eyes, and his wife joined him, and their joy was so great they did not notice that Mr. Wellaway turned from red to white and choked on the bit of food he had attempted to swallow. When they observed him, he was rapidly turning purple, and with one accord they sprang from their chairs and began thumping him vigorously on the back. In a minute they had thumped so vigorously that Mr. Wellaway was pushing them away with his hands. He was still gasping for breath when they half led, half carried him to the parlor and laid him on a lounge.

"By George!" said his host, self-accusingly, "I shouldn't have read you that letter. But I didn't know you would think it so funny as all that. Do you feel all right now?"

"I feel— I feel—" gasped Mr. Wellaway. He could not express his feelings.

"Well, it was funny, writing that to me, of all people, wasn't it?" said Mr. Wellaway's host. " 'Not the slightest publicity.' I suppose she looked up the name in the telephone directory, and got the wrong address. I know the fellow she was writing to. Same name as mine. Same middle initial. Think you can finish that dinner now?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Wellaway. "I think I'd like to rest here."

"Just as you wish," said his host. "Hello! There's the telephone bell. You can 'phone your wife now, if you wish."

"No, thank you," said Mr. Wellaway, meekly. "I'll not. It's of no importance—no importance whatever."

v

"WELL, what do you think!" exclaimed Mr. Wellaway's host's wife a few minutes later, as she entered the parlor. "Of all the remarkable things! You would never guess it. Who do you think just called me on the 'phone? That Mrs. Wellaway!"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Wellaway's host, and Mr. Wellaway sat straight up on the lounge.

"But she did," said Sarah. "And she's hunting that distrusted husband! She telephoned the country club, and the steward told her there had been no strangers there except your guest, so she telephoned here! Imagine the assurance of the—"

She stopped short and stared at Mr. Wellaway. He was going through all the symptoms of intense pain accompanied by loss of intelligence. Then he asked feebly,

"What— what did you tell her?"

"I told her he wasn't here, and hadn't been here, of course," said Mr. Wellaway's hostess, "and that we did not know any such man, and that I didn't believe he had come to Westcote at all, and that if I had a husband I couldn't trust, I'd keep better track of him than she did."

"Did you— did you tell her all that?" asked Mr. Wellaway with anguish.

They stared at him in dismay.

"See here," said his host, suddenly, "are you Mr. Wellaway?"

For answer Mr. Wellaway dropped back on the lounge and covered his face with his hands.

"Now, I'll never, never be able to make Mary believe I was here," he said, and then he groaned miserably.

vi

"OH, I'm so sorry!" said Mr. Wellaway's hostess in real distress. "We were absolutely unaware, Mr. Wellaway. We meant no harm. Roger did not know your name. But you can fix it all right. You can telephone Mrs. Wellaway that you are here. Telephone her immediately."

"Yes," said Mr. Wellaway. "I'll do that. That's what I must do," and he went up the stairs to the telephone. He returned in ten minutes and found his host and hostess sitting opposite each other, staring at each other with sober faces. They looked at him eagerly as he entered. His face showed no relief.

"She says," he said, "she says she don't believe I'm here. She says I could telephone from anywhere, and say I was anywhere else. She says she just telephoned here, and knows I'm not here. And then she asked me where I was telephoning from, and—"

Mr. Wellaway broke down and hid his face in his hands.

"And I didn't know where I was telephoning from!" he moaned. "I didn't know the street or the house number, or— or the name!"

"You didn't know the name!" cried Mr. Wellaway's host. "You didn't know my name was Murchison?"

"Murchison?" said Mr. Wellaway, blankly. "Not the— not the Murchison? Not Roger P. Murchison, the advertising agent, the publicity man?"

"Of course," said Mr. Wellaway's host.

For a full minute Mr. Wellaway stared at Mr. Murchison.

"I know," said Mr. Wellaway. "You eat at the Fifth Avenue! You sit by the palm just to the left of the third window every noon."

"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Murchison. "I knew your face was familiar. And you sit at the end table right by the first window. Why, I've seen you there every day for a year."

"Of course you have," said Mr. Wellaway, cheerfully. "That explains everything. It makes it all as simple as—" His face fell suddenly. "But it doesn't make it any easier about Mary."

Mr. Murchison might have said that Mary was none of his concern, but he creased his brow in thought.

"Sarah," he said at length, "run up-stairs and telephone Mrs. Wellaway that her husband is here. Tell her he means to stay over Sunday, and that he wants her to hire a taxicab and come out immediately and stay over Sunday. Tell her our game of golf was a tie, and I insist that Mr. Wellaway play off the tie to-morrow afternoon."

Mrs. Murchison disappeared.

"And now," said Mr. Murchison, genially, "you know my name, and you know my business, and I know your name, and everything is all right, and I'm mighty glad to know you as long as you are not a floor-walker. Oh, pardon me!" he added quickly, "you are not a floor-walker, are you? You didn't say what your business was."

Mr. Wellaway blushed.

"Names," he said. "I'm a genealogist. My business is looking up names."

__________________

7: Murder By Accident

Roger Torrey

1901-46

Private Detective Stories Nov 1943

Largely forgotten today, Torrey was a prolific writer of private eye stories for Black Mask, Dime Detective, Private Detective and others from the early 1930s to around 1945.

MISS MARTIN was pretty and she had a temper. And she ran things her way, as I could see right off the bat. She said: "I'm Joan Martin and this is George Summerville. He's here under protest; I'll tell you that to begin with."

Because her brother had changed his habits, the girl was sure he was in trouble. Her fiance tried to shrug it off, but the detective thought maybe she had something I said I was glad to meet them and shook hands with Summerville. He had a nice firm hand and his smile was friendly enough. I took him to be about thirty-five and the girl possibly ten years younger.

"It's about my brother. Peter Martin. He's in trouble and I want you to find out what it is."

"You're guessing, Joan," told her. "You've nothing but a notion."

"I'm not guessing," she said. "He's borrowed from me and he's borrowed against his share in the estate. He's never done that before. And he isn't running around and spending his money as he did before. There's something wrong."

Summerville shrugged and said: "The boy's young. It's natural that he gets in over his head once in a while. Don't you agree, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "I don't want to get involved in any arguments, people. Suppose you tell me about it. Is your brother the one that got— uh— involved with a girl from the Versailles last year?"

She made a face and said: "That's right. It may be something like that now. It probably is. But he told me all about that mess, and he won't say a word about his troubles now. He doesn't even tell me where he's going, and that's unusual for Peter. I've practically raised him, Mr. Ryan. He's only twenty."

I kept quiet and let her take it on from there.

THE Martin kids, it seemed, had been on their own for the last three years. At that time their father had died and left them the estate tied up, with Joan's half comin g to her when she was twenty-eight and with Peter's share coming due when he turned twenty-one. She was twenty-six— the boy was twenty, with his twenty-first birthday four long months away.

George Summerville, who'd been the junior partner in Martin and Summerville, was executor, working under bond, of course.

Summerville broke in here with: "It... was— I should say it is— a general brokerage firm, Mr. Ryan. We have a seat on the Exchange, naturally. We still carry on under the same name."

I said I understood. Miss Martin went on with: "Peter has been trying for a commission in the Air Corps. He's been flying his own plane for the last two years and has a little over six hundred hours in his log book. He's very serious about it. He's practically stopped drinking and foolishness like that. That's why I don't understand his actions now. And he's frightened—terribly frightened. I know him so well that I can't be mistaken."

Summerville smiled as though he thought she was using imagination, and she flared back at him with: "I know he's frightened, George. I should tell you, Mr. Ryan, that George and I are engaged. We plan to be married in the Fall."

I offered congratulations and didn't know who I meant them for. She was pretty but she had a temper that wouldn't make for a happy home life if I was in the home. I could see that. Summerville was a good-looking geezer, but one of the smarty kind that knew it. In spite of the looks I didn't think he'd be a bargain for a girl.

She said: "Now Peter's been this way for the last two months. He stays in— doesn't run around and drink and gamble as he did. Once a week, usually on a Thursday evening, he goes out, and he dreads the trip. I know him so well I can tell it. It's before he makes these excursions that he borrows money from George and me, and I'm sure these trips are made for the purpose of paying out blackmail."

"Sounds like it."

She got red in the face. "I don't want you to think I make a practice of spying on my own brother, Mr. Ryan, but I followed him last week. I felt I should. He went to 417 West  —th Street, to a shabby looking brownstone building, and he was in it not more than fifteen minutes. He returned home then. I'm sure that's where the blackmailer lives."

I said it was possible, but that more than likely that was just the contact point. With this she turned to Summerville and looked triumphant.

"You see, George," she told him. "Mr. Ryan knows how these things are managed. I was right in going to him, no matter what you say."

Summerville shrugged again and gave me an apologetic smile. "It's just that I don't like to see Joan make an issue out of something that probably has a perfectly normal explanation. That's all."

I said: "And you want me to check on what the boy does? That it?"

"That's it," she said.

I told her she'd hired a man.

I stalled around the corner drug store two blocks above 417 West  —th Street for two hours before I got the call.

I took it in the booth, and Joan Martin said:

"He's just leaving, Mr. Ryan. He's just going down the drive."

I asked how he was dressed and she told me he was wearing a light gray suit, gray hat, and a gray topcoat. The top-coat was tweed, which would make it a cinch to spot.

I said: "Okay! I'll be there," and hung up the phone and drifted down to the hrownstone. I'd already looked the place over—it was one of the old houses remodeled into housekeeping rooms, and it was typical of the neighborhood. An open-fronted glass door opening into a cubbyhole lined with mail boxes on each side, with a bell and a speaking tube above each mail box. Then a door with an electric release opening into the main downstairs hall. I didn't bother calling anybody— just went inside and used a thin dime to open that inner door— and I was waiting back of the stairs leading to the second floor when Peter Martin highlighted himself in the space between the doors.

I watched him shove a button and bend down and speak through a speaking tube. I heard the door click half a dozen times, letting him through, and he came in with his topcoat over his arm and with a sick and worried look on his face. It was the first I'd seen him. He was chunky and tanned and blond, and looked like the average college boy with an athletic turn of mind.

He went up the stairs as though he was going to his own funeral, and, as soon as he cleared the top, I was after him. The place was four stories high, but his appointment was on the second floor. I kept everything but my head below the hall level and watched him go down to the last door on the right-hand side, and saw him knock and then hesitate.

That was all I wanted to know. At least right then. I went downstairs and out, and saw, two cars down from the door, a big convertible that would take six months of the Ryan income for a down payment on.

And I was standing by it when the boy came past me, almost running, and slammed into the seat of it. His face was white and he was panting, and he was so excited it took him minutes to find the starter on his own car. He took off in second gear and he was doing at least fifty by the time he reached the first intersection.

THE door at the right at the end of the hall was open, and the lights were on. The man inside was on his back, with his arms and legs thrown out as if they'd all been broken. There was a trickle of blood still dribbling from his mouth—his head was twisted to the side —and his head, from the top to below his ear, was crushed. There was a fancy ornamental ash-stand by him, on its side, and it was no trick to figure what had hit him. He hadn't been dead more than five minutes, and that put it right in Peter Martin's lap.

Or so I thought.

I couldn't see where a few minutes one way or the other would make any difference to a man that dead, so I closed the door and started through the place. There was a desk in the corner, with nothing in the pigeon holes. I looked under the corners of the shabby rug and didn't find a thing. The bedroom was littered, but it looked as this was more the result of poor housekeeping than a search. I found a pile of dirty clothes, a few clean ones, in the dresser. There were two suits, both needing pressing, in the closet. Nothing in the pockets of either. The kitchen was littered with dirty dishes— mostly glasses — and there was a half-full bottle of cheap gin on the drainboard, along with three halves of lemon. The other half had been squeezed dry, and was in the sink with a greasy frying pan and a half-dozen cockroaches that didn't even bother to scuttle away from me.

The back door from the kitchen opened on a landing and I went out on this and saw stairs zig-zagging down to the alley.

That made it look a little better for Peter Martin, anyway. He'd called the apartment from downstairs and certainly somebody had answered. Somebody had clicked the door open for him. That same somebody could have slammed the man inside over the head while Martin was on his way upstairs, and that same somebody could have left the apartment and the body for Martin to find. It was Martin's only out, so it was at least something to consider.

I went back through the place, wiping everything I'd touched clean with a handkerchief. My prints were on file at the station because of my gun permit and my license—and I wanted to keep clear of the mess until I had a lead.

And with this done I went downstairs and up to the corner drug store and got the Central Station on the phone. I held a half-dollar in my mouth, and if a voice can be recognized with a handicap like that, I'd like to see it done.

I said: "If you'll send an officer to 417 West.  —th Street, to the last apartment on the second floor— the one on the right— you'll find a dead man."

"Who's calling, please?" the desk man asked. I could picture him holding the phone with one hand and signing to somebody else for a tracer on the call.

I mumbled something that could have been any name in the telephone book.

"What's that?"

I said: "There's a dead man there," and hung up the phone and went down to where my car was parked.

It took about thirty minutes to drive out to the Martin place, and I spent that time in a lot of thought

A MAID in a frilly cap led me into what had been Martin Sr.'s library. A fine big room with three walls lined with books, and with a fireplace that was meant for use instead of decoration. George Summerville was there, as well as both the Martin kids. Both Peter Martin and Summerville had drinks in their hands, but Summerville had cut his with soda and Martin was taking his straight. In a wine glass, and straight Scotch in quantities like that certainly show a troubled mind.

I said: "Hello, Miss Martin. Hiya, Mr. Summerville."

Joan Martin said: "This is my brother Peter, Mr. Ryan. Pete, this is John Ryan — you may have heard of him."

The kid grunted and said he hadn't had that pleasure. He took his Scotch down straight and poured another before the first had time to hit bottom.

"The detective," she added.

He choked on his second drink.

Summerville said: "Won't you join us, Ryan? I just got here myself."

Both he and the girl looked worried— but they couldn't hold a patch to the boy. He was having the jitters in a big way. Summerville poured me a drink, with me telling him when, and I got half this down me before I started the business.

And then I said: "Did you kill him, Pete?"

The kid dropped his glass but it didn't break. If the rug hadn't been two inches thick, it probably would have. He tried to say something but just stuttered.

"I was up there not two minutes after you left. The guy was still bleeding. Can you make it self-defense or anything like that?"

He sat down— almost fell down— in one of the big chairs. He said: "My God! I didn't do it. He was like that when I walked in. He told me to come up and opened the outside door for me, and I walked in and found him like that. I ran out. Maybe I should have stayed and called the police, but I lost my head."

"You should have called them, all right."

"I was afraid. All I could think of was that they'd say I did it, and then I'd never get in the Air Corps."

Both his sister and Summerville were shooting questions at me, but I was watching the boy. Trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.

"Who was he?"

"His name was Andrews. John Andrews."

"Why was he blackmailing you?"

"I hit him with my car."

"When?"

"About three months ago."

"Where?"

"Long Island. Out in Roslyn."

"How'd you do it? Why the pay-off?"

HE STARTED shaking all over and Summerville splashed whiskey into another wine glass and gave it to him. He needed it. He looked at the floor, any place but at his sister, and, when he spoke, his voice was so low I could hardly hear him.

"It started like this," he said. "I might as well tell you and let you arrest me and get it over with."

"I'm a private cop. I'm working for your sister, not for the town. I'm on your side, Pete, so give it to me straight."

He looked at his sister for confirmation and she nodded. Summerville said: "You'd better tell Mr. Ryan, Pete. He can do more than anybody else to help you right now."

Pete managed to get his voice up a little but he still kept staring at the floor. "I'd been playing cards. I was at Jerry Hinkle's place, on Madison. There was a man there I'd met and played with before— a man named Evans. Charley Evans. I didn't know him very well, but when I ran out of money and dropped out of the game I talked to him a little. He told me he knew of a place out in Long Island and suggested we take a run out there, and I was tired of playing in Hinkle's place and took him up on the idea."

I said: "I know Evans. Used to be a bootlegger. Then he turned to hi-jacking. Strictly a bad one."

"I didn't know him very well. Just saw him around, you know."

"Go on."

"I was broke so we drove down to your apartment, George. D'ya remember? That night about three months ago when I went up and borrowed three hundred from you? About eleven at night?"

Summerville said he remembered.

"Evans waited in the car while I went up and borrowed the money from George. Then we drove out to Roslyn and just a little past, and turned down a side road. The place was off the road in a clump of trees, and just as I turned in to it a man fell in front of the car. I hit him— I didn't have either time or room to turn. I didn't hit him very hard, but it smashed him up pretty badly in spite of that."

"Were you drunk?"

"That was it. I wasn't, but I'd had a few drinks. You know how you do when you're gambling."

I said I knew only too well.

"I didn't know what to do. I wanted to call the police and an ambulance, but I was afraid they'd charge file with drunken driving. I knew that would blank out any chance I had to make the Air Corps. Then Evans suggested we take the man to a doctor he knew right by there, so I did that. The doctor looked him over and said he'd take care of if, and I arranged to have the bills sent to me. I went out and saw the man several times, and when he was better I gave him five hundred dollars. Your money, Sis— you remember that was the first time I'd borrowed from you."

Joan Martin said she remembered.

"Then I thought it was all over. But about two months ago this man called me and told me he wanted me to run down and see him. It was Andrews, and. he was at 417 West  —th Street, where he was tonight. He told me he couldn't work—that he was a nervous wreck— and so I gave him what money I had with me. He told me I'd have to give him so much a week—two hundred and fifty dollars—or he'd report me to the police as a hit-run driver and all the rest of it. I talked to Evans and he advised me to pay it."

"Why didn't you talk to me?" asked Summerville,

The boy didn't answer this but I caught the look he gave Summerville. There was no love lost between them, in spite of their relationship. I could see the boy didn't like him— could see he didn't like the idea of his sister marrying him. There was brother-in-law trouble coming up between them even before they'd reached that status.

I said: "Well, it's done now. The thing to do is try and work you out of it. Did you always drive your car to this West  —th Street address?"

"Usually."

"Ever meet anybody there? I mean in the halls?"

"Why, yes."

I said: "Then, sonny, all you've got to do is sit tight and wait for the police. A car like the one you drive isn't going to go unnoticed in a neighborhood like that. Somebody's stopped and looked at your name on the registration. Somebody's going to remember seeing you in the halls— and clothes like you're wearing aren't common around there, either. And then the guy probably has your name tucked away in that place, somewhere. So just sit tight."

Miss Martin said: "What are you going to do, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "Try to break it before the police do. That's all I can do."

THE first thing to do was try and find what the cops knew, and I went to the precinct station that covered the section 417 West  —th Street. I happened to kn ow Nels Jorgenson, a Homicide lieutenant, there, and knew he'd give me the dope, if I worked it right.

I caught him in and told him I was by his way and just stopped in to say hello. He might even have believed it.

He started to light the cigar I'd bought just for him, and I started it out. "Anything new?"

He looked at me through the smoke and asked: "In your line or mine?"

"Just making conversation, Nels."

"We got a funny one at that, Johnny. Some duck called in and told the boys at Central that they'd find a stiff in our territory. Sure enough they did. A guy named Ellis, though he was going under the name of Andrews. A guy that used to be a contortionist in a circus. A guy that's been in the accident racket so long he's worn himself out with the insurance companies. Ever hear of him?"

I said I hadn't.

"The boys are working on it now. It's some kind of a racket but they can't figure out just what."

I said it was very interesting and talked for a while longer and then left Nels. He knew, more than he was telling me, but the only way I could have found out just what it was would have been to come out with the questions.

And Nels was too old a hand to take those sort of chances with.

From there I called Summerville and got him just as he got back to his apartment. I said: "I'm going calling, and you might go along. You're working with me on this, I take it."

He said he certainly was, and I picked him up clear uptown. Almost where I wanted to go.

"You're seeing somebody?" he asked.

"Charley Evans."

"Isn't that the man who touted the boy out to Long Island?"

"That's right."

He looked puzzled and I explained.

"I figure the accident was a phony," I said. "This Evans—the kid knew him as Andrews—was a professional accident victim. He got so hot he couldn't take the insurance people any longer, so he must have gone into private trade. He probably worked the same gag on a lot more people than young Peter."

"And you think Evans was with him on it?"

"Sure. Proving it's going to be something! else again."

"Then possibly some other Victim was the one who killed him."

"Possibly. But if the cops put young Martin on the spot, and with the proper leg work that's what they'll do, he'll burn for it. The guy was killed just about the time he was up there,"

Summerville scowled and said the boy always was unlucky. Or guilty of poor management.

I SAID: "Here we are. This guy's tough— let me do the talking."

He said he certainly would. He didn't act near as cocky as he ordinarily did, either. I pegged him right then as a man who talked a good.fight but talked himself out of it rather than in.

I rang Evans' bell and he answered the door himself. And I heard Summerville gasp as Evans' full beauty burst upon him.

Evans was an old-timer and looked the part. Between fifty and sixty and bald. He had a nose like an eagle, and the skin on his face and on the top of that bald head of his was wrinkled and blotched, the last from a bad liver, I thought, and he had little black snapping eyes that were almost always hooded with eyelids as wrinkled as the rest of him. He wasn't over five and a half feet high and he didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. He was a toughie with a gun in his hand or a gang at his back, but that was all.

I said: "Hello, Charley."

He just grunted and I couldn't tell whether he was scowling at me or Summerville.

"I want to talk to you."

"Well, talk. You're here."

"Inside, Charley."

"Here in the hall. I wouldn't let a private dick stink up my place."

I put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. He went, rather than fell backward. Inside, his place looked like a second rate movie set, with too big chairs and too long couches and too many, too fancy floor lamps.

I said: "That's no way to treat company, Charley. This is Mr. Summerville. Say hello to Mr. Summerville."

He said:

"To hell with Mr. Summerville and to hell with you, you cheap—"

I slapped him and he went back and under a table. He landed on his hands and knees and stared up at me without trying to get up. He was in his shirtsleeves and I could see he didn't have a gun on him.

"You want to talk like that, Charley, it's all right with me. Or you can crawl out from under and stand on your feet. Either way."

"Talk to you, hell."

I STARTED toward him and he scuttled back farther under the table. I hauled him out and cuffed him again a couple of times and then sat him in a chair.

"I don't like this, Charley," I said. "A man comes up to talk sense to you and you give him a piece of lip. I'll slap that lip out of you if that's what you want."

He swore at me again and I slapped him again. And then things quieted down.

He said: "What's it? You know well enough, Ryan, I don't like cops. You get me burned, just looking at you."

"What's the idea of tolling a client of mine into a fakeroo like that Long Island phony? You know the deal I mean."

"I do not."

I lifted my hand and he flinched away from me, which was what I wanted. He said hastily. "I know what you're talking about, all right, but I just happened to be along with the kid. That's all."

"Nuts."

"That's my story."

"Want to tell it to the cops?"

"You dizzy enough to call cops on me?"

"Sure."

He laughed. "Then you're also dizzy enough to keep that fool kid out of the Army. The stink that'll raise would do it and you know it."

"It's murder, now, Charley."

"Hunh!"

"The stooge. Andrews. Ellis. Whatever you call him."

"You crazy?"

"No."

"Is the guy dead?"

"As mutton. Want to talk to the cops about it?"

He suddenly began to laugh and I think he meant it. He said: "Listen, you dope. That would clear me if anything will. If I was in it—and I'm not admitting a thing, would I be fool enough to kill off the only guy that could collect on the racket? Hey? The stooge would be the only one who could collect a pay-off, wouldn't he be? Hey? If he's dead, I couldn't get a dime, and if I was in a racket like that, I'd only be in it for the dimes, and you and I and the cops all know it."

"You've got something there, Charley, at that."

"And I've got something else, Ryan. Do the cops know your boy was paying off Ellis?"

"I don't know."

"They fool around with me and maybe they might find out. Not from me— from this anonymous that's always tipping 'em off. Get what I mean?"

"Sure. Mind telling me the name of the doctor you took the guy to? That friend of yours out there that's in the racket with you?"

"Don't you know it?"

"I'm just checking. The kid told me but I want to see if you tell me the same thing."

"It's Seitz. Dr. Seitz. And he's legit and you'll play hell proving he isn't."

"Maybe the Medical Board can," I said. "Be seeing you, Charley."

HE DUCKED but not in time. He ended up under the table again and the language he used was lurid. I was laughing when we went out, and Summerville was looking worried.

He said: "I don't understand that, Ryan. You deliberately antagonized the man."

"Sure."

"But why?"

"It may bring things to a head."

"But he's a vicious character if I ever saw one. It may be dangerous."

"Sure."

"I don't mean for you. But he's certainly going to hold this against Peter. He'll know that Peter told you of him."

"Sure. But Peter'll be safe enough. The first thing that's going to happen to Peter is a visit from the police. Peter will be safe in a nice cell, where Charley Evans and his boys can't touch him."

"You seem sure the police will get on Peter's track."

I said: "I know the cops. They're not the dopes that people think they are. They wouldn't be cops if they were."

Summerville thought that over and admitted I might be right. I said: "There's just one thing. They'll pick him up, all right, but they may hold him on some slighter charge than suspicion of murder. They may hold him on something bailable. If they do, you leave him in. Don't bail him out and don't let his sister bail him out."

"I'd have a hard time stopping her."

"Be a man, not a mouse."

It took him a minute to decide not to get sore at the crack, but he finally made up his mind He laughed and said: "I see you don't know Miss Martin very well. She does pretty well as she pleases."

"If she wants to keep little brother safe, she'll leave him in jail," I said. "Here we are at a cab stand. I'm going to pick up my car and drive out to Long Island. You tell Miss Martin that under no circumstances is she to bail the kid out; I've started dynamite and I don't want the wrong party in the blast."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Ryan," he said, sounding doubtful.

I told him not to worry and climbed in a cab and gave the driver the name of the garage my car was in. I didn't know exactly what I was starting any more than Summerville did, and I was as worried as he was. But it was a case of smoking somebody out in the open before the police had a chance to build up a solid case against the Martin boy — and that wouldn't take them long.

All I wanted to do was get things moving.

I DIDN'T find where Dr. Seitz was located until the third filling station in Roslyn gave me the dope, and that was a tip-off right there. The guy was only out of town a couple of miles, and in a little place like that he should have been a landmark. I drove out an unpaved road, turned to the right and then to the left, as directed, and finally came to a sign reading QUIET PLEASE—HOSPITAL.

The place was right around the bend— a big white house that looked more like a country home than the sanitarium it advertised itself as being. Sure enough, the sign in front was lettered THE SEITZ REST HOME FOR CONVALESCENTS.

It was a rambling sort of thing and I had to admit it looked restful. A slope of lawn that ran to the road, dotted with Norway pine and lilac bushes. Soft lights behind Venetian blinds. Some way of lighting the grounds directly around the house from under the eaves, but in a soft and shaded way not much stronger than moonlight.

I parked in front and sat in the car a moment, just looking around, and then a man came to the side of the car and shoved a gun in my face.

"You'll be Ryan," he said.

"That's right. This the way people usually get admitted to the sanitarium?"

He laughed but he didn't sound at all funny. "Special, just for you," he said. "Hey, Mike."

Mike came from around the corner of the house. He was a tall thin man and he'd had a broken nose at some time that hadn't been set right. He also had a sap in his hand.

"This the guy?" he asked.

"This is him."

"I see Evans has been busy on the phone."

"Take his gun," the first man said.

Mike crawled in with me and took it. I didn't do a thing except look at the gun the first man still showed me.

Then he said: "Get out of the car."

It happened then. I got out and walked into the sap and went down. I got the side of the gun across my face when I started to get up, so I stayed down that time. Then they started kicking me and slamming me with both the gun and the sap— and the last thing I remember was the one called Mike jumping up and down on my left hand, which in some way I'd thrown out to the side.

I woke up in the back of a farmer's pick-up truck just as we stopped in front of the Roslyn hospital.

They held me for three days in spite of anything I could do. The Roslyn chief spent most of his time sitting by the bed asking me questions, in between the times the doctor was putting me together again. I'd been picked up in the road alongside my car, at least a mile from the sanitarium. The car hadn't been hurt nor had I been robbed. Even my gun was stuck in its clip inside my coat. The chief wanted me to swear out a complaint against the people responsible for the outrage. I wouldn't. The doctor wanted me to stay and let him make sure the slight concussion I had was coming along all right, and I couldn't see that.

My hand wasn't broken, but it was swollen all out of place. It had been on soft turf during the stamping and that had saved the bones. Both my eyes were black clear down to below the cheekbones, but the dividing line wasn't clear because both cheekbones were so bruised. I had four teeth out in front and they'd come out the hard way. They'd broken off level with the gums and the doctor had to get a dentist to come in and pull the roots. My lips were swollen so I had trouble in opening my mouth, much less talk— and my throat and mouth were so sore that all I could eat was soup.

I had two broken ribs on my left side and three on the right, but my sides weren't as sore as my stomach. They'd really booted me down there— I was blade and blue all over, and the medico couldn't understand why I hadn't internal injuries. He seemed almost disappointed that I didn't have.

I managed to say: "I'm the same guy. Doc, that the Army turned down. They said I was too old to fight— that I couldn't take it."

He went away, shaking his head and saying, "My God," to himself, over and over again.

BUT they turned me loose on the fourth day and the doctor got a local boy to drive me in town in my own car. I went up to the apartment and sent him after a quart of whiskey before I paid him for the trip and sent him back to Roslyn. And then I called up a rubber I happened to know that was off shift in a Turkish bath and then got the Martin house and Joan.

I said: "This is John Ryan, Miss Martin."

"I'm surprised you'd bother to call me," she said.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't you know?"

"I do not."

"Can I believe that, Mr. Ryan?"

That made me sore. I said: "Listen, sister. You may have all the dough in the world but I still don't have to lie to you about one thing. You can believe it or not."

She sounded a little friendlier. "What makes you talk that way? You don't sound normal."

I was still sore. I said: "I had four teeth kicked out, lady. Try it sometime and see how you talk."

"Oh, Mr. Ryan! Then you really didn't know."

"Know what?"

"It's Peter. He's in the hospital. He may not live— he may not even regain consciousness."

"What happened to him?"

"Why, the police arrested him. They charged him with conspiracy to defeat justice and with withholding information vital to the police, or some legal way they have of saying what that means. They didn't accuse him of murder, though I think they were all ready to do that when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"I bailed him out, Mr. Ryan, or had a bail bond man do it, rather, and Peter was assaulted on his way to the cab stand, just down the street from the police station. His skull is fractured and he has internal injuries and the doctors say it's an even chance whether he lives or not."

"Anything in the papers?"

"Not as yet. George, Mr. Summerville, says he thinks they are trying to complete the case against Peter before they break it."

I said: "Maybe I can break it before they do, even now. I'll try, anyway."

"It seems so unimportant. I'm almost crazy. Don't you realize Peter may not live?"

I said: "Listen, Miss Martin, and get hold of yourself. If he lives and the thing breaks in the papers, he's lost his chance for the Air Corps. If he gets over this, that's going to be the most important thing in his life. So don't lose your head. Where's Summerville?"

"He'll be in this evening. I'm going to the hospital now. Would you like me to stop at your office and see you?"

"You wouldn't like the sight," I told her, and hung up and opened the door for Vladimir Volenski. Volenski was the rubber from the Turkish baths.

VLADIMIR was a good guy and he did the best he could, but I didn't expect too much and I didn't get it. He worked me over as easily as he could and I finally got so I could move without feeling as if I'd break in pieces. He took the tape from around me— that Roslyn doctor had me fixed up like a mummy— and he held my ribs in place with lighter wraps.

I could twist a little, even if it hurt like Billy Blazes. He dressed me; I helped but very little, and then we got down to the main piece of business.

I've got a little gun I'd always wanted to try, and I dug it out of the little collection I've got in a wall case. A .41 Remington derringer with one stubby barrel over the other. Just two shots, but that heavy flat-nosed .41 slug has wallop up at close quarters. It's strictly a barroom gun, made for shooting at card table distance, but the only modern gun that compares with it in smallness is the little .25 Colt automatic and that hasn't the punch I knew I'd need if I needed a gun at all.

Of course the gun hasn't been made for a good many years, but that was no reason for my not giving it a try.

Vladimir ripped up a sheet and made a sling for my bad left hand. He wrapped bandages around it, after I'd cuddled the loaded little derringer into the palm, even closing the bandages around the ends of my fingers. The bandages would catch fire if I had to shoot but I thought I'd rather have a burned hand than a bullet in the middle.

That was another reason I picked the derringer, for that matter. An automatic might jam being used in wraps like that. The slide could be caught and an ejected shell could jam the action because of not being thrown clear.

I tucked another gun in my waistband— a .38 Police Positive, but I knew fairly well I'd not have a chance to use it.

The trouble I was going to run up against was too smart trouble ever to let me get away with a gun in plain sight or a hide-out gun in the usual hidey spot. The bandage trick was an old one— but it was so old I thought it might get by with the younger generation where it wouldn't with an old head.

It was worth trying, anyway.

WE TOOK my own car and Vladimir left me off in front of Evans' apartment house. I said: "Now look, Russky. If you hear any shooting, you get the cops in a hurry. Speed it up. If I don't come out in half an hour, you get 'em. Understand?"

He said: "You are my friend, Johnny. It is not right that you should fight when you are injured."

"I'll get a lunch while the other guy gets a meal," I told him. "Got that straight about getting the cops?"

"It is understood," he told me. Vladimir's big— well over two hundred— and he looks like he's a barrel of fat, but he's all muscle under that thin layer of suet. A blank red face— skimpy blond hair and with no eyebrows at all, and with hands like the hams that used to be heard about. I climbed out of the car and went inside, and as I looked back over my shoulder I could see him still sitting there, watching me with a puzzled frown on his broad face.

I'd known him for years and knew I could depend on him.

And in the shape I was in I needed somebody like that.

Charley Evans might have been waiting for me. He opened the door almost before I had my hand down after rapping. He stepped aside and waved and said: "Why, come right in," and I saw the guy from Long Island, the one called Mike, standing back of him and pointing a gun my way.

I said: "The last time I saw you, Mister, you were using a sap. It's a gun now, eh?"

He nodded and grinned at me. He had a broken tooth right in front, and there was a gap, on the side where a couple more were missing.

There were three more men in the room beside Evans and Mike. One was Mike's pal— the other one of the two who'd worked me over in Long Island. The one who'd had the gun that time. One of the other two was of the same stripe— just a hoodlum— but the third man was short and weazened and looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but where he was.

I said: "You'd be Dr. Seitz."

He nodded once before he thought.

"You boys all together here trying to figure somebody to take the place of Andrews, or Ellis, or whatever you called him?" I asked. "You can't work that accident without a guy to take the phony fall, can you? Why don't you try and get an India rubber man from some carney? There's a guy that should be able to do tricks for you."

Mike moved to the side and nodded, and his partner took my .38 from my waistband. He also patted me all over for a hide-out gun, and I talked fast so they wouldn't look over my bandaged hand.

I said: "Or are you going to let the racket die down for awhile?"

Evans said. "Die down, hell! It's good for five grand a week, with enough suckers paying off, and that's too good money to lose over a dope like you butting in. So you're on the way out. I've had cops up here asking about Ellis. I've had cops up here asking me about framing the Martin kid. I've had merry Ned raised with me over this business, and on top of that I took a cuffing around from you that I won't take from any man in the world. You're on your way out, Ryan.

"The next time the cops come up here, they'll be here to take your body out. I killed you in self-defense, and I've got four witnesses to prove it. They won't believe the story but they'll swallow it because they'll have to. You'll shoot at me and miss, and there'll be a slug in the wall from your own gun to prove it. I won't miss, and there'll be a slug in you that'll prove that, too. Now what?"

I said: "You're a fool, Charley. You'll never get away with it. If the Martin kid dies, his sister will swear out a complaint against you for murder. Killing me will make it that much stronger. I wouldn't have come up here if I hadn't figured that out."

HE LAUGHED. He said: "You dope! If I'd wanted the kid beat up, the way he was, I'd have waited. I wouldn't have picked him half a.,block from the station, right after he was released on bail. I didn't even know he'd been pinched, Ryan, much less know he'd be at that precinct station at that time and out on bail. You don't use your head."

I swung so that my bandaged hand was bearing his way. I said: "That's only part of it. I was hired to clear the kid on the phony accident filing and that's what I'm doing. It'll take an accountant to tell who's responsible for the Martin kid being in the hospital now, if you know what I mean."

"Then you figured it out?"

"Sure."

He said: "Too bad you'll never have a chance to tell anybody about it. Gimme tnat gun out of the drawer, Sully."

The one who'd taken my gun handed Evans a .45 Army automatic. He said: "We work it like this. Sully, you stand alongside of Ryan. You turn his gun

loose into the wall, here by me. I'll blast him at the same time."

Sully stood at my side and Evans snicked the safety off on the big automatic. I tipped my hand in the bandage, so the bore of the derringer centered on his belt buckle, as near as I could line it.

Out of the comer of my eye I could see Sully raise my gun— could see Dr. Seitz crouch down in his chair and put his hands over his ears. And I could see Mike and the other thug lean forward, grinning.

And then, from the hallway, came: "I would not be hasty, gentlemens."

It was Vladimir. He'd sneaked a .357 Magnum out of my gun case, and that big gun looked like a cap pistol in his big hand. He took up most of the hallway, and I never was so glad to see anybody in my life as I was to see that big hulk.

Mike still had a gun in his hand, as did Sully and Charley Evans. Vladimir had his eyes on Mike and Sully and wasn't watching Evans. I saw Evans tip up his automatic, turning so it lined on Vladimir, and I turned loose the derringer at that ten-foot range. And that took Evans off his feet, blowing him sideways into the wall—and it also opened the ball.

Mike lifted his gun and Vladimir shot at him and missed. A revolver, and particularly one as big as that Magnum, isn't an easy gun to shoot, and Vladimir had little experience. Mike shot once and I saw Vladimir sag, and then I gave Mike the second barrel of the derringer. The little gun had jumped out of my hand when I'd shot Evans, and I didn't have it solid in my hand on that second shot— and probably because of that I hit Mike in the haunch, rather than in the belly.

The result was as successful; though. That big flat-nosed slug broke his leg at the same time it knocked it out from under him, and when he went down, he dropped his gun.

That left Sully, and he and Vladimir were trading shots. Vladimir jerked again and I knew Sully had got to him but Vladimir won on the exchange. He caught Sully in the teeth and the Magnum load went right on through, taking part of the back of Sully's head with it.

I picked up my own gun— the .38— when Sully dropped it, and started ripping the bandages away from my left hand. They weren't burning but they were smoldering, and there's no pain in the world just like a burn.

Then there was a thin little pop— it sounded thin at least, after the slamming noise the big guns had made, and something tapped me lightly high on my left shoulder. Vladimir was, falling, going down in an easy way, as I turned and saw Dr. Seitz.

He had a little .22, a pearl-handled woman's gun, and he was holding it in both hands and trying for another crack at me. He was shaking so. that he was pointing it all over the room, rather than in my direction, and I didn't bother to turn loose at him with the .38.

Instead I bopped him along the jaw with the barrel of it and looked around for the other hoodlum.

This one was standing against the wall with his hands up almost to the ceiling. If he'd been a foot taller, he'd have reached it.

He said: "Not me, Mister! Not me! I'm out of it."

I said: "Maybe out of the shooting but not out of jail. You won't be out of that for a long time."

I took time out before calling the cops to look Vladimir over, and found he'd taken one through the flashy part of the thigh and another right under his left collarbone. Neither slug had touched a bone and so there was nothing to worry about.

I told him this and he grinned and said: "You and I are the good friends, eh, Mr. Ryan?"

I said: "We're pals, Russky. Now I'm going to get the cops and an ambulance and the dead wagon."

MISS JOAN MARTIN wasn't too hard to convince. And also she was happy because the kid brother had regained consciousness and the doctors had jumped his chances of getting well. He was about ninety-ten. then, with the big odds his way. We were telling each other what good news that was when George Summerville followed the maid into the library.

He looked at me in a startled way and said: "Why— uh— I thought that you'd dropped the case, Mr. Ryan. After all, we've seen nothing of you since Peter was beaten and sent to the hospital."

"That's right," I said. "I was beaten a bit myself, but I can't lay that on you. I'm just accusing you of having the job done on Peter, after you bailed him out."

"Are you crazy?"

"Oh no. I told you to let him stay in jail, didn't I?"

"Why, yes. And, Joan, if you'll remember, I told you the same thing."

"But you didn't insist on it and you didn't tell Miss Martin I'd made a particular point of it."

He said stiffly: "I don't have to answer to you for my actions, Mr. Ryan. Joan, do I understand that you are taking stock in this man's ridiculous charges?"

The girl looked at him as though he were a stranger. She said: "Your ring is on the table, George. Right by you. I want to tell you that I am having an accountant start checking the books on the Martin estate immediately. I think that answers everything."

He said: "But Joan! Please!"

I said: "You fool! You've been looting the estate and you knew it would come out, when Peter turned twenty-one and demanded an accounting. He hates your guts and you know it and he'd slam it on you if he caught the shortage. If you could get him out of the way, either on a murder charge or by killing him, you'd have married Miss Martin and be in the clear. You followed him and found out about the accident jam he was in. You killed t h at contortionist after Peter was on his way up to the guy's room, and you went down those backstairs and left the kid to find the body and to take the rap. When that didn't work, you hired a couple of thugs to beat him to death, thinking it would be blamed on Charley Evans. It backfired. You're it."

"Joan!"

"I'm having the books checked in the morning, George."

I didn't expect gun play but I was watching for it. Instead of that he reached in his handkerchief pocket and hauled out the handkerchief that matched his socks and tie. He mopped his face and then went forward on his face— and I rolled him over and got a whiff of what he'd taken.

It was cyanide, of course. Just about the only thing that would get him that fast. He'd had it in a little glass tube and he'd crunched the tube so it cut his lips and mouth and gave the poison a chance to hit the bloodstream then and there.

I said: "He's gone. Miss Martin."

I'd known she had a temper but I hadn't thought she was as cold-blooded as she was. She only said:

"He'd have died anyway, in the chair. This saves the State a lot of unnecessary bother."

And then I changed my mind about her being cold-blooded. She went over in a faint before I could make a move to catch her.

THE doctor, Seitz, got five to ten on a fraud charge, along with one for criminal practice. The hoodlum with him— the one that hadn't joined in the gun fight in Evans' apartment, got three to five, also on the fraud charge. The girl and Peter got back what Summerville had looted the estate for— a little matter of two hundred thousand dollars plus— this from the bonding company over Summerville.

And I got my fee and a thousanddollar bonus, as well as the Roslyn hospital bill and other minor expenses, but I'd rather expected that.

The big winner was Vladimir. He waved the thousand-dollar check Miss Martin had given him and got so excited he could hardly talk.

"With this, my friend Johnny," he told me, "I shall return to Russia. I have a way of travel routed out. It is a long way but I shall arrive. There is yet the time to fight for Russia and I, Vladimir, will be there in time."

I said: "Swell stuff, Russky."

Miss Martin looked puzzled and Peter Martin grinned. We were in his room, both Vladimir and I still patched up but well on the way to recovery.

Miss Martin said: "But, Mr. Volenski. I understood you left Russia to come to this country because you were not happy there. Isn't that correct?"

"But yes, Miss. But that was before my Russia was in war. Now it is different. I feel a duty— as your brother feels a duty to fight for your own country. Is if not clear?"

Miss Martin said she thought she understood, but there was no question in my mind about her little brother knowing how the big guy felt.

If he hadn't had the same notion, he'd never have gotten himself in the mess he had.

And if I hadn't thought much the same way I'd never have worked so hard to keep his record clear so he could make it in the Air Corps.

It was once I was working for more than money.

__________________

8: Dice and No Dice

Roger Torrey

Dime Detective 15 Sep 1934

IT'S a honey of a crap game... for Farmer Sheats that's running it. I drop a hundred and twenty but I ain't crying about it because if I'd got over I'd have got a cut of between five and six grand as near as I can count. There's about that much in it. I've just lost the dice and the hundred and twenty and am standing right back of George Cullen that's got the dice now, and Nigger Eisman is right next to George waiting for 'em. George is rattling the dice in his hand and has got five twenties laying in front of him that's taken, but he's holding tight so's to give the side-bettors a chance to get their dough on the line.

Half of these are calling for how much they think he'll make his point, which happens to be eight, and the other half of 'em are saying for how much he'll seven and it's the usual madhouse that a big crap game always is.

MICKEY CATARINA'S taking the cut for the house and the game's big enough so Farmer's watching him which isn't usual. Mickey reaches out and takes a fin for the house and says: "Hit the board, George!"

George nods and says: "Eight just once, dice!" and draws his arm back to bounce 'em against the back of the table.

Just then Nigger grabs his arm and says: "No dice!"

He holds George's hand and says to Mickey: "These are bum dice. He can't seven with 'em."

Mickey says, "Gimme!" and holds out his hand for the dice. George gives 'em to him and says, "Look good, Mickey!" and turns and takes Nigger right in the puss.

He's all braced and set and he times it perfect. Nigger can't fall backard because there's too many people behind him and they keep him from going that way, but he bounces on them and then just sort of slips to the floor and lands on his back. George takes a step ahead and holds his foot about a foot above Nigger's face and then stamps down with it— but Nigger don't know it.

I grab George before he works on him any more, not because I give a damn about Nigger but because I don't want George going up on a murder rap.

Farmer's seen the whole thing. He goes over to Mickey and looks the dice over and tosses them on the board. They show seven which proves Nigger was wrong about them being crooked dice. He says to Mickey: "How much did Nigger drop?"

And when Mickey says, "Not over fifty bucks!" he says, "Pick him up."

There's a guy waiting to go on shift in Mickey's place that I don't know and he and some guy that Nigger fell against pick him up, and they and Farmer go into the washroom and I go along with 'em for two reasons: I want to hear Farmer tell Nigger what the score is because I don't like him five cents' worth; and I'm now out of money and figure I'll get a hundred off Farmer and get back in the game. I figure a hundred more won't hurt me too much and there's percentage in that big a game if you can ever get over.

They throw water in his face and Farmer and I stand there waiting for him to come to. He's got on a new suit that's a light flashy gray, and when George stepped on his face it busted his nose and he's bled all over the front of it. He's a mess.

He comes around finally and looks up at us groggy as hell, and Farmer says: "Here's the lousy fifty you lost and if you ever come in my place again I'll not only throw you out but I'll see you'll get a floater out of town from then on. Get that, Nigger?"

Farmer's got enough drag to do just that little thing and Nigger knows it. He gets up shaky as hell and takes the money and then says, "All right, Farmer!" and wobbles through the door. Farmer says to the house man: "See that he gets as far as the steps, Sam, and—" He winks and Sam, who's a big husky bird, winks back and they go out.

Farmer don't even ask me what I want; which proves how smart he is but just says: "How much, Johnny?"

I say: "A hundred'll do. I can't be sick always."

He gives me the hundred and I go back and get in the game.

AN hour later I'm well again. I've run the hundred up to about seventeen-fifty and I've got the dice and have just made my point and am going to try for a seven when somebody says: "Heist 'em, boys."

I look up, see two masked guys, one standing right by the door where he's got the room under control, the other by the side. The first guy's got two guns and the second, one. The door's about thirty feet from me and I think fast.

I've got two-fifty on the table and the rest of it, fifteen hundred, in my left hand, and I figure I can toss this under the table as I raise my hands and as soon as the heist guys are gone I can find it.

I do this.

There's a little guy wedged in next to me that's been rattling about ten dollars in silver in his hand and betting dollars against points. He sees me toss my fifteen hundred under the table and I'm damned if he don't throw his ten in silver after it! When the silver hits the floor it sounds as loud as an automobile smashup.

Nobody could miss it and the guy at the door don't. He says: "Line up against the waK and face it!" and waves his guns and we do just what we're told. Then he says to his partner: "Shake 'em down, keed! The cash drawer is on the far side and there's money under the table."

Keed goes through the crowd and cleans us right down to and including carfare, and takes the money out of the house drawer and dives under the table, and I can hear him grunt when he finds my roll. He even gets the guy's silver that he was so proud of.

Then the guy by the door says to us: "Turn around."

We do. I'm so mad I can hardly see, not so much at the heist guys as at the little dope that pitched the chicken-feed, but what happens next scares the mad out of me. We're all lined up against the wall, maybe twenty, maybe twenty-five of us, and this guy looks us over and comes up with his right-hand gun and pops George Cullen, who's standing right by me. When he does I see the gray coat he's wearing and it's the same one Nigger had on. There's blood down the front of it just the same way and it's cut the same and made out of the same flashy cloth.

I get all this in the second it takes George to fall forward on his face.

The guy waves his guns and says, "Don't hurry!" to us and to his partner, "Le's go, keed!" Keed goes out the door and the trigger man follows him out backward and we just stand there and watch 'em go. The game's really a hustler's game and all these boys know enough not to run after a guy with a gun. They figure all they lost is money and I figure the same way right along with 'em. We couldn't stop the guys and all we'd do is take chances on being laid on a slab alongside of Cullen.

I know he's dead but I squat by him and see I'm right. Fanner goes over and locks the door and calls out: "As soon as the law comes you boys can go but I don't want any questions about what's happened. There'll be no beef. Get the time straight and remember what's happened as plain as you can because you're going to be witnesses in a murder trial."

He comes over to me and squats down alongside and says: "Dead?"

"Plenty," I say.

He says, "You know who don't you?" and I say: "Nigger Eisman. I'll call MacAndrews at the station if you want, Farmer. He'll give you as much of a break as any of 'em and maybe more."

"Go ahead," he says.

We got to call the law because the room's so soundproof nobody could have heard the shot unless they was right against the door. I go over to the phone then and call the station and get homicide and ask for MacAndrews, and he's in which is a break. I tell him it's me— Johnny Carr—and where I am and what's happened and for him to come down, and then I say: "It'll save time if you put out a pick-up on Nigger Eisman. He's the guy that done it."

He says: "It's easy done if I want to but why should I?"

I say: "He's the one that done it, I tell you. There's at least twenty witnesses to it."

"How long ago did this happen?" he says.

I LOOK at my watch and see it's 11:26 and I know this happened at 11:23 because I looked at the time then in case of any question.

"Three minutes ago," I say.

He says: "Eisman's been here for at least twenty minutes talking to Tony and me. He's damn near drove us nuts trying to get us to put in a good word for him with Farmer so Farmer won't put the bee on him in all the rest of the joints."

"What kind of a coat's he got on?" I say.

I hear MacAndrews talk to somebody else in the homicide room and then he says: "He's got on a gray coat. He's got a smashed schnozzle and it's bled all over the front of it."

I say: "Well, come on down!" and hang up the phone and tell Farmer what he said.

Farmer's place is on Spring and not over eight blocks from the station. It takes Mac about five minutes to make it and he knocks on the door and Farmer lets him and Tony Corte, his partner in, and they've brought Eisman with 'em.

This Eisman is only called Nigger because he's got thick fat lips and is dark. And he's just one of those dirty stinking kind of two-bit hustlers that hang around the real ones. He comes in, feeling plenty snotty, and looks at me and Farmer and says: "Trying to hang this on me, hunh. It's no dice because I was at the station when it happened and I can't be framed."

He's just as smart about it as he can well be. Farmer looks at me and shakes his head so I don't say anything. By the time Mac and Tony take everybody's names and where they live there's a photographer there and about twenty other cops, some in uniform and some not, and an assistant district attorney and the place is jammed.

Farmer's got this D. A. over to one side and is talking to beat hell and then Mac calls out: "You can all go home but don't leave town without coming up to the station and telling me. You're material witnesses and I don't want to have to go after you." He knows he's safe in letting 'em go like that because they're mostly birds that live without working and can't afford to jam with the law over anything like being witnesses.

I start to go with 'em but Farmer sings out, "Wait, Johnny!" so I do. He gets through with the D. A. and gets his hat and I say goodnight to Mac and Tony and we start to go. I say, "Where ?" and he says: "Le's go to Herbert's and talk it over."

So we get a hack in front and go there and sit at a table and order and then Farmer says: "And what d'ya think of it?"

I've done plenty of thinking. Whoever done it got away with seventeen hundred and fifty dollars of my money and this hurts. I don't like to have George Cullen killed right alongside of me but after all he's no particular friend of mine and this don't bother me as much as losing the dough does.

"Why in hell should Nigger start the beef with George?" I say. "That was a phony. He'd lost fifty slugs but what of that. That wouldn't start him out unless he was higher than a kite and he didn't act like it."

Farmer asks: "Does he use the weed?" and I say: "Sure! But he didn't act like he was high tonight."

"You want to work on it for me, Johnny?" Farmer says.

I say: "Yes you bet. I'm going to do seventeen hundred and fifty dollars' worth of work on it for my own side."

He says: "The D. A.'s going to act as if it was a row in a private club so I won't get jammed for running a spot, but I had between four and five grand in that drawer. If I hadn't got a break I'd have had to pay out every one of the customers on a frequenting-a-gambling-house rap. I'm out and injured."

"You ain't got any cherry," I say. "I'll scout around and see what I can see."

He thinks about this for a while and says: "Cullen was in this, it's a gut. If Eisman's row with him was to make it look good for the shooting later on, which I think and you think, he must be. How's that for an angle?"

I tell him that it's maybe O. K. and we go. He's got to cash a check to pay our ticket. He's cleaned out as pretty as I am.

I FIGURE Farmer's got a good idea about Cullen but that I've got a better one. MacAndrews and Corte think we was seeing things when we saw Nigger Eisman but I know better. If Nigger had an alibi, and he's got a cast-iron one, somebody else didn't know he was going to have and was going to use him for the goat—whoever did the job. That's first-grade stuff. Also they wouldn't know he had blood all over the front of his coat unless they had seen him in the hour between the time of the beef with Cullen and the time of the heist. That's second-grade. Also Eisman wouldn't have picked a beef with Cullen unless he was in the dope some way. That's third-grade only it'd be eighth- if I could figure why he'd spot himself as a killer, and then back out on it.

The fourth-grade is a lot harder. I scout around a little that night and don't do any good and it's around three the next afternoon before I find out where Eisman lives... the Continental Hotel on South Main.

I beat it right down there and Eisman ain't in when I get there but comes in while I'm asking the clerk what room he's got. He sees me and starts to back out but he ain't got a chance because I see him at the same time he sees me. I grab him and say: "Le's go in your room and talk," and he stalls a little but we go back.

Just as soon as we get inside I shut the door and tell him to sit down and then I see he's higher'n a kite. He's got that dopey, screwy expression that shows it all over his face... a kind of silly grin that tells the score right down to runs, hits and errors.

"High, hunh!" I say; and he looks at me and grins and says: "Uh-huh."

I tell him that he's behind the eight ball and he tells me I'm crazy. Then he starts to tell me why I am. He's just so damn high he's got to brag to somebody and I'm there.

"You know Felix Ullman's place?" he says.

I do and I say so. Felix runs a cigar stand and is fronting for some bird that's making book in the back room of the spot. He goes on with: "Well, I was there yesterday about noon putting five on Jackie Horner's nose in the fourth at Caliente." He swears some here at somebody that touted Jackie Horner to him. "The dog thought he was the little lamb and the rest of the field was Mary. He'd have come in tenth except there was only nine horses running."

He's so dinged up that I figure it's better to let him go and not try to hurry him. I lost five myself on Jackie Horner to place and I know how he feels when it comes right down to it. He says: "While I was in there some guy comes over to me and says do I want to make fifty smackers. I say yes and he takes me over to one side and says it's mine if I pick a beef with George Cullen and let him take me." He kind of puffs up on this and explains that that's the only reason he lets George take him. In the shape he's in he even believes it.

"Who was this guy?" I say; and he says: "I don't know him but I've seen him in there once or twice before. He comes in there always with some other guy and this other guy calls him Oley."

I ask him what he looks like and he says: "He's about as tall as I am but he's got a big belly. He's bald as an egg on top of his head and just got a fringe around the edges and is light-complected." He goes on then with: "I tell him I'll do it and he says he'll pay me when I do. I back up on it then and he gives me twenty of it then and is going to give me the rest later."

"You think you'll get it?" I say.

"I know I will!" he says, and takes out a sweetheart of a stop watch that's worth half a grand of anybody's money. He shows it to me and explains: "He give this to me to hold and is going to meet me here with the other thirty at five today to get it out of soak." He nods his head at me as if that should show me what a smart dope he is.

I look at my watch and see it's ten to four. I say: "Where did you see him after you left the joint?" and he says: "In the cafeteria up the street from there. He and his friend were there waiting for me to see whether I did it or not. As soon as I talk to them I figure it's maybe a phony so I go up to the station and make myself an out. I guess I'm half smart."

I don't know whether he'll remember what he's told me when the marijuana wears off but I hope he does. I figure to ask him then how smart he is. He hasn't got any phone in his room and I figure that maybe the guy that did the job will take a chance and come in and pay off because they won't know I know anything about the set-up, and may figure that it's safer to pay Eisman so he'll keep his mouth shut. It'd be a sucker stunt but the whole thing's so screwy I figure it's a good bet.

"I'm going out," I say to Eisman. "Be right back."

He goggles at me and pulls out another reefer and grins at me and says: "I'll be right here when you get back."

He is....

I'VE gone to the lobby and telephoned. I get Mac and tell him to come on down if he wants to make the pinch and he says he will and I go back to the room. I knock on the door and Nigger don't say anything and I try the knob and it's locked. I pound some more thinking he's passed out. He was so damn high I don't think he can walk out and he didn't act like he wanted to take a powder on me.

About then my foot slips in something on the floor. I look down and see a dark spot that gets bigger while I look at it and right then I get the smell of fresh blood. There's no mistake if you ever smell it once. I get back against the wall across the hall and slam into the door with my shoulder, and this breaks the lock and I fall over Eisman.

He's laying on his back about a foot from the door when it's open, and somebody has fixed him up good. Really firstdass. There's a spot on his temple that means he got clouted there and then somebody's taken a knife and just ripped his neck open. This has cut the big artery and he's bled to death while he was knocked cold and this means plenty of blood.

For a minute it gets me. The phone booth's at the side of the lobby and all the time I telephoned Mac I kept watch, and I know nobody either went back or come out through the hall. I know it can't be suicide because marijuana smokers don't do the dutch hardly ever for one thing, and he wasn't even feding low for another, and what makes it murder for sure is that there's no knife. I look.

I sit down on the bed and tiy and figure it out, and here's a closet with the door standing open and that tells the story. Whoever did the killing was in the room when Nigger and I come down the hall, and he heard -us and hid there and heard Nigger tell the story of his life to me and figured that with Nigger dead things'd shape up better, and come out and smacked him when I left and made sure he was dead by cutting his throat. This makes it look like the bird that Nigger alibied for must be it, and it makes any chance of me tagging him at Ullman's no dice, because he's heard Nigger tell me about him hanging around there and'll give the place a miss from now on. The whole thing don't look so good.

I sit there and watch these puffy lips of Eisman's change color and think this all out before Mac comes. He sneaks down the hall and knocks real quiet and I whisper just loud enough so's he can hear it: "Come in!" He does, very quiet, looking at me instead of at his feet— and falls over the body and goes on his face.

Then he gets up and I say: "Meet the boy friend!" and I wave at Nigger.

He looks at him and says: "Did you have to—" then sees how his neck is chopped up and changes it to: "Who done it?"

I tell him that I don't know and this makes him sore and he says: "You was here, wasn't you?"

Mac's like that, flies off the handle easy. He says: "What was the idea in getting me in here and making me fall over it?" He waves at the body.

I say: "It was your own feet you fell over." It burns him up but he lets it slide. I tell him how it happened and that the guy locked the door after himself and must have gone out the back way and about what Nigger told me about this Oley, whoever he is.

"Ullman might know," Mac says then.

I say: "He might!" and Mac says: "He better."

He calls the morgue wagon and the print man and all the rest of the staff at the station and I beat it I know Ullman and I don't think Ullman's going to know a thing that he'll talk about. Mac could take some guy that didn't know the score too well down to the station and make him think up stories if he didn't know any, but this Ullman'II know what Mac can and can't do. He's got plenty of protection on his joint or he wouldn't be running the way he is, and a guy like that's got too many connections to get rough with just on a guess. As soon as Mac gets down to earth he'll figure the same way and I know it so I can't see any sense in wasting time sticking along with him.

I START right then on Fanner Sheats' hunch because it's all I got left, and make the rounds of the joints trying to find somebody that knows something about Cullen. The catch on this is everybody knew him and don't know anything about him. He was one of these birds that don't get up until the joints open and stays until they close and that don't seem to have any home. It takes me three days before I get a lead, but when I do I find out he's married and has got a kid and lives out in the Wilshire district which is a damn nice neighborhood.

I go out there and find his apartment and knock on the door and a little short dark woman comes to the door and I say: "Mrs. Cullen?"

She says she is and looks scared to death. I say: "I want to talk to you," and she says: "Won't you come in?"

I do. They got a pip of an apartment, the kind that rents for at least a hundred and fifty, and this is important money for a hustler to be paying for rent. She waves me to a chair and says in this scared way: "George isn't home, officer. I don't know where he is."

She's got me picked as a copper which is all right with me for a while. If I figure I can get more out of her by telling her I run a private agency there's always time. I never think about her maybe not knowing what the score is and say: "Why, didn't you know George was dead?"

"It's a hell of a thing to do but I don't think. She looks at me like she don't understand and says: "What did you say?" and then sees by my face that she's heard right. She looks at me for a minute and then says, "Oley!" as if to herself and starts to cry.

I let her go for a minute and think what a heel I am to tell her like that and she says, still crying: "George knew it. He knew it was going to happen."

I say: "He had a hunch?" and she says: "He told me we were going to move away from here because he was afraid of Oley."

I say: "Oley who?" and she says: "Oley Chrisman." She's really going to town with her crying and it's like talking to somebody who's answering questions they don't know is being asked 'em. Like somebody talking in their sleep. I say: "What made him think that?" and she says: "He and George quarreled something terrible the last time he was here. Oley's brother was quarreling with George too."

I say: "What about?"

She keeps on crying and mumbles:

"I don't know!" and I say: "George is dead, Mrs. Cullen. Anything you tell me may help me find the man that killed him." She cries harder than ever and says: "It was my fault. The whole thing was my fault. If I only hadn't asked George to quit."

"Quit what?" I say.

She looks up at me and says: "Kidnaping!"

I stare at her and she says: "George and Oley and his brother and a woman Oley said was his wife, only I don't think she was, were kidnaping people. I made George tell them he was going to stop it."

I've changed my mind about it being such a raw stunt telling her about her old man. If she had a chance to think it over she wouldn't be talking like this. She's lived with a hustler and if she wasn't about half nuts she'd clam up like one. I got her at just the right time.

"Did you ever hear any names?" I say.

She says: "I heard the name McClure once. And Sullivan. I heard that too. That was when they were all arguing, the night before George went away." She puts her head down on her hands and really goes to town again with her crying on this and I let her go because I got to have a minute to think.

For the last six months there's been talk around the joints about some snatch gang that works the big hotels for married men that want to party a bit. They let him meet some gal and seem to get over with her pretty well and when she takes him to her apartment they bust in and take him. The gal's supposed to be a respectable married woman just out for no good and the guy can't squawk on her account as well as his own. He'd have to admit being where he shouldn't. There's never been a beef come out yet because this bunch is smart enough to put the slug on easy— maybe five, never over ten grand— and give the sap plenty of time to raise it. A guy won't cry on a touch like that where he would if it was lots of money. I don't remember either the name McClure or Sullivan but I think of another way to check on it.

"How long have you lived here, Mrs. Cullen?" I say.

"About six months," she says. "We came from Kansas City. George got in some trouble there and...."

This fits fine. I can't see why George and his friends have a beef about him quitting though, so I say: "Why did you want him to stop?"

"This woman that was supposed to be Oley's wife," she says, "was always making eyes at George!" She breaks down here and starts in to cry good again and sobs out: "He got killed just because I was jealous of him."

I SMOOTH her down a little and wonder a guy that was as smart as this George Cullen must have been should have married a half-wit of a woman. He might have quit the other boys because she wanted him to but they didn't knock him off on account of that. I think of another way to check this kidnap yarn and ask her where the phone is and she points it out to me. I call the station and get Mac.

"Mac," I say, "did you ever hear of anyone named McClure and Sullivan?"

He speaks back real quick. He says: "McClure was picked up in a ditch last week but wasn't identified till this morning. Why?"

"I just wondered," I say. "What about Sullivan?"

He says: "Never heard the name. What about McClure? Why did you ask?"

I say: "Never mind. I'll tell you when I see you," and hang up the phone and go back to the woman. I ask her if she has any idea where this Oley Chrisman hangs out and she says she don't and then I figure I'll check on Nigger's description and I say: "He's blond, ain't he?"

"Why no," she says. "He's dark and he's got curly black hair parted in the middle. He's heavy." I ask her how tall and she shows me about five feet and a half high in the air.

I got another hunch now so I say: "You better get in touch with the law, Mrs. Cullen. I'm only a private detective!" And I get out while she stares at me.

I get down to the front of the apartment house and just as I step out on the street I hear a siren howl and along comes Mac and Tony Corte in a fast wagon. Mac sees me and climbs out and says: "What's this about McClure?"

His face is red and I can see he's so damn mad he can't hardly talk. It burns him up to think I'm holding out on anything he should have found out by himself. It takes me about ten minutes to tell him what the gal told me and then he says: "And you don't know where this Chrisman is?" and looks at me like he don't believe it.

I say: "I don't. There's two Oley Chrismans. One blond and bald-headed and the other dark and with black curly hair. As soon as I find more of them I'm going to put 'em with the Smiths in the phone book."

He says: "And you don't know where to find 'em, hunh?"

I say: "No. Believe it or not."

"For two cents," he says, "I'd stick around with you for a while." I give him a nickel and tell him that he owes me three cents and he says: "You mick! You hold out on me and you'll wish you hadn't."

I say: "Come along then."

He stares at me as mean as he can and says: "I know you're holding out on me. That's why I traced the telephone call."

"So what?" I say.

He says to Corte: "Come on, Tony. Le's go up and see what this woman's got to say."

They go into the apartment house and I head for a phone booth.

I start calling up hotels and make it on the fifth one. The Belvedere. A nice place. I say: "Have you had a Mr, Sullivan registered at your hotel in the last week or two that went away without his luggage?" I know that if anybody does a stunt like that it makes talk among the help.

The girl says: "Wait a minute!" and I wait and by and by she says: "Hello. Who is this speaking ?"

"Missing Persons," I say, which is taking an awful chance if the hotel has reported it to Missing Persons. But in a minute a man says: "This is Mr. Fields, the manager. You were asking about Mr. Arthur Sullivan?" I say: "Yes."

I hear him talk to somebody else and then he says: "Can you come down here? It's very important."

I've started something I don't know what to do with. Then I think that even if worse comes to worse and there's trouble I can always say they misunderstood on the Missing Persons gag and that I can't be stuck for impersonating an officer on that kind of proof so I start. There's something doing and I want to know what.

I GO into the lobby and ask for this Mr. Fields and he's left word for me because a bell-boy takes me to his office plenty quick. This Fields is a thin, worried-looking bird and he doesn't look too happy when he says: "You're from Missing Persons?"

"I'm John Carr!" I say, and let him take the Missing Persons thing for granted.

"This is Mr. Zeil," he says, and waves at a little dark Jewish-looking guy and I shake hands with him not knowing what it's all about. This Zeil says: "Mr. Fields and I had just decided to call you."

I sit down and say nothing and Fields says: "We didn't know what to do. We were just talking when your call came in."

I let Zeil tell the story and it's just what I thought it is. He and Sullivan run a real-estate office and a hotel in Santa Barbara and have quite a bit of property. Zeil gets a letter from Sullivan that tells him to dig up ten thousand in cash and to give this to a man that'll give him another letter from him. The pay-off is here at the Belvedere but Zeil gets thinking about it and don't believe the letter where it says it's for a business deal.

He explains: "We got spread out before the slump and are land poor. Sully'd know that I'd have a hard time to get the money and that we can't afford to go in to anything else."

He and Sullivan and this Fields have been friends for years and so he asks him about it and they just about decided it was a phony when I call. The baggage being left in the room is the tip-off to them, though they are sure that Sullivan wrote the letter.

I say: "Does it say when the man'll call for the money with the letter?"

Zeil gives me the letter and I see that he's supposed to wait at the hotel from Wednesday on and it's Friday now. I ask him about this and he says he's been waiting but the more he thought it over the more he thought he ought to do something. Then I tell them that I heard of a man named McGure who's just been found dead and Sullivan mentioned in the same way and ask 'em if they'll let me go on it my way, and we talk it over and finally decide what to do and how to do it, and Fields calls in the house dick and tells him he's to do what I tell him. Fields don't want any fuss in the hotel but I tell him that whether there is or not depends on how the play comes up and he has to stand for this.

The play comes up that same night and there's no fuss. I'm in Fields' office and I hear the buzzer on his desk tick three times which means that somebody asks the clerk for Zeil and I drift out easy into the lobby.

There's a short, runty-looking bird standing by the desk. By and by Zeil comes downstairs and he and this guy talk a minute and then the guy gives Zeil a letter. Zeil reads it and goes over to the clerk and asks for the envelope he's checked in the hotel safe, and the clerk gives it to him and he gives it to the guy and then I step in.

I don't make a move before because the guy has to get the money before the case is air-tight. I tip the wink to the house dick and step alongside this bird and say: "Easy, guy. It's a pinch."

Cullen has been shot and Nigger Eisman has been stabbed and this McGure has been killed some way I don't know about and I ain't taking any chances. I got a gun in my coat pocket and I got about three inches of the end of it into this guy's ribs when I speak.

He turns and looks at me and says, "What for?" just as easy as hell and I say: "It's only kidnaping now. It'll be murder on top of it by and by."

He says nothing to this but shoves his shoulders up like it's no never minds to him, and the house man and I take him out the back way so's not to tip anybody off that might be waiting for him. The whole thing goes so smooth that nobody even guesses there's been a pinch made and there's at least fifty people milling around the lobby. As soon as we get him out of sight we shake him down and don't even find a gun. He's got this envelope that Zeil gave him though, and he's got a letter addressed to Victor Chrisman and this is a break.

I load him into a cab and take him to the station and into the homicide room and say to Mac: "Here's one of the guys!"

Mac don't waste any time in getting into action. I don't even have time to tell him I know the answer to what he wants to know. He comes right over to the runt and says: "Where d'ya live?"

The guy gives him a snotty look and says, "You guess!" and Mac smacks him across the puss and the guy hits the floor so hard he bounces. He's out cold.

"He lives on Redondo," I say. "I just brought him up to park him and see if you want to make this pinch with me." I show Mac the letter, which is a bill from a radio company, and Mac says to another copper that's there, "When he comes to, put him away!" and to Corte, "Come on, Tony!" and we go.

THIS house on Redondo is in the third block up from where the street-car line ends on Washington. It's a nice neighborhood, all little houses but modern and most of 'em built this Spanish style. Mac coasts the police car into the curb a half block down from the house and I say to him: "This is going to be tough."

He grunts and gets out and says, "Why?" and I say: "Because this guy is plenty tough and there's this poor devil of a Sullivan in there with him. We got to call our shots."

He grunts again and pays no attention and says to Corte: "You take the back, Tony. Carr and I'll go in the front way." He's sore as hell because he thinks I'm trying to tell him what to do and just starts out with his head down and never a thought in it, and I got to tag along or lose my place.

He gives Corte barely enough time to get to the back and pulls up on the front porch and pushes the doorbell. There's nothing happens for a minute, but from where I'm standing back of him I think I see a shade on one of the front windows flicker. There's no light showing any place in the house and Mac keeps his finger on the bell and half turns to me and says : "I guess we're too—"

He gets that far and the front door opens and somebody reaches out and clouts him on the side of the head. Mac don't even see what hits him. There's a street light on the corner but the porch is so dark I just get the flash of the gun the guy uses to clout with as it comes down and I'm looking right at it.

Mac goes down like it was an ax he was hit with instead of a gun and I go through the door in a dive at about where the guy's knees should be, figuring that if he's going to shoot I can maybe upset him before he does.

He don't shoot but hits down at me as I come in. He misses my head and just hits me on the back and this don't bother me none. What does bother me is that I miss his knees and sprawl out there on the floor and can't see or hear a thing. I'm afraid to move. The door is either on a spring or he gave it a pull as he dodges back because it's closed now.

I lay there on my belly and listen and all of a sudden I hear a grunt and he smacks down with the gun again, but it lands on my shoulder instead of my head which is a break again.

It's the last one I get. This bird acts like he can see in the dark. I'm stretched out there and I got a gun in my right hand and all of a sudden he piles on top of me and gets my right wrist in two hands and puts on a wristlock that's a honey. I got to drop the gun to break it and I do this, and he changes it into a hammerlock but don't get a chance to put on any pressure because I get my head down and roll ahead. We're all tangled up with him still holding my wrist with both his hands and I shout, "Corte!" just as loud as I can, and smack whoever's got me with my left— but I can't get any weight behind it because he's holding me off balance.

This is the first he knows there's anybody in the play but Mac and me. He puts a twist on my wrist and puts me down to my knees and then he must remember that I've dropped the gun I had, because he lifts me up and changes his hold into a whip wristlock and pitches me over against the wall. I land sitting down.

This is a mistake but I can see how he makes it. He's got his gun and thinks I ain't I've lost one but I got another one and I yank it out. I got to hold it in my left hand because my right's still numb, but at that I figure it's even.

I hear Tony Corte pounding away at the back door and have got time to try and figure what in hell's holding him back before this bird makes a move. When he does I know he can see in the dark. I'm just sitting there, afraid to move because he could hear me, and he shoots and I hear the slug chunk into the wall right by my head.

The flash of the gun is heading right at me and it about half blinds me, but I shoot right at it once and then once to each side and about a foot away from it. While I shoot I get up to my knees and the minute I'm done I throw myself as far to the side as I can, hoping he won't be able to hear it above the bang of the gun. But I get another bad break.

I land into a chair and the damn thing skids across the floor generating plenty of noise, and he turns loose again. I feel a kind of jar in my left shoulder and high up but it don't seem to hurt at the time. I shoot twice back and move about five feet to one side and this time I manage not to run into anything.

I hear a kind of thud and then a little scramble, but I'm afraid to try for it. I only got one shell left in my gun and I can't waste it. I can hear Corte pounding away on the back door and it sounds like he's got something to pound with finally.

I hear a kind of groan and then I think I hear something move on the floor. Just then Corte smashes through the back door and comes in through the kitchen and the damn fool's got a flashlight in his hand, and as he comes into the front room he turns it full on me!

I DUCK and the guy on the floor shoots but Corte has kept on swinging his light and just as the guy shoots the light hits him. He's on his knees and right in front of a door. Corte and I shoot at the same time and he goes backwards through the door. Corte starts after him and I say: "Hold it. Turn on the light first."

He uses the flash some more and finds the light switch by the front door and turns it on. Just then Mac starts to pound on the outside and he lets him in. We all three look, and see a pair of feet sticking out this other door. I pick up my gun that's still got shells in it and then we move sideways until we can see what belongs to the feet, and here's the guy laying on his back and all shot to hell. He's deader than last Christmas's goose.

We hear another noise in the room beyond and ease in there, and here's a guy on the bed with tape across his pan and both his hands and his feet tied with more of it. We cut him loose and pull the tape from his puss taking a bunch of whiskers along with it, and he looks at us and sees he's on the right side once again and passes out. Corte goes in the bathroom and gets some water and throws it on him, and we find a bottle of bum rye in the kitchen and give him a slug of that. He comes out of it far enough to even watch us shake the stiff down.

We figure right away the blond bald head and the black curly hair angle. He's in his curly hair make-up when we come in and when he fell his toupee fell off and shows his egg head. He's a little short guy but built as solid as a Shetland pony, and I'll be damned if I see how I made out with him as good as I did. If I hadn't been scared to death it'd just been too bad.

He's got one hole in his head and along the edge of the blood the dark stain he's put on his face has run. That makes the dark complexion the woman said he had. He's got another hole right center on his wishbone and there's two more besides this in him, one low and to the right in his side and another just ticking his left arm. I figure that Corte and I made the two center shots when the light was on him and the other two was what I was doing in the dark.

We look at my own shoulder and the slug's made a little groove about half an inch deep right on top. It don't hurt any until I look at it and then it hurts like hell because I think about it. It's bleeding some and there's some cotton in the bathroom and we put some of this on it and tape it there. Then Corte goes out front to where all the neighborhood is flocked in the street and borrows a phone and calls the morgue wagon.

We load Sullivan in the car when the morgue wagon and medical examiner get there, and take him hack to the station and sit him down in the homicide room. He tells us that the reason George Cullen falls out with his Swede pals was because after this guy McClure paid off they killed him and Cullen wouldn't go for that. This makes more sense than his wife's yarn about quitting because of her being jealous of him, though he probably told her that to keep peace in the family. McClure was still there the first day Sullivan was brought in and he knows Me Clure paid off and hears Chrisman and his brother tell Cullen they were afraid McClure would squawk.

We get a description of the woman, Chrisman's wife, from Sullivan and Mac puts out a pick-up for her, though it prohably won't ever do any good. Then we go to Chrisman's cell and tell him we got Brother put away on ice and that all he's got to do is sign the complaint; and I'll be damned if he don't look stubborn and say: "I'd really rather not."

We tell him we know what the score is and can prove it's a blackmail proposition along with the snatch and all that, but he says that he could never make his wife see that and so he'd rather not.

Mac's just about ready to blow his cork on that, because he ain't got any proof on the McClure killing without it, and the kidnap rap won't stick either unless Sullivan beefs, but I get an idea. I go back to Sullivan.

I say: "Did you have a stop watch?"

We've searched the stiff but he didn't have any watch on him. This Sullivan says: "Why no, but McClure did. I saw it and heard Chrisman and his brother talking about it. The brother you got in jail got it."

I say: "If we find that watch and ask you to testify to this will you do it? The gal angle won't come into it if you're only a witness like that."

He thinks a minute and says he will if we'll keep him in the clear and then he says: "But what's the watch got to do with it?"

Even Mac don't get it and I've told him where I saw the watch. So I explain: "If it can be proved that the brother we got in jail had it instead of the brother we killed, I say, "This brother can be stuck for the Nigger Eisman killing. It don't make any difference who he's charged with killing as long as it sticks. He can only hang once."

Mac says: "We never took time to look but they'd shake him down before they'd put him away. It'll be on his property slip if he's got it. It'll be his neck if he has."

He rings a buzzer and when the clerk comes in he says: "Get me this fella Chrisman's property slip."

The clerk goes out and Mac says to me: "If he's only got it!" and then the derk comes back with the slip.

We look and he has. Also he's got seventeen hundred and fifty that I get, which makes the difference between dice and no dice to me. Where Chrisman goes he ain't got no use for money.

________________

9: Ticket to Death

John Ryan

(Roger Torrey, 1901-46)

Private Detective Stories  Aug 1944

IF ANYBODY had told me that when I went to Florida I'd get mixed up with the F.B.I. and with black market stuff, I'd have told them they were crazy.

And if I'd believed them, I'd have stayed home. If for no other reason than that the Federal boys don't need outside help from me or from anybody else.

But I got mixed up with it—I certainly did.

It started innocently enough. I'd bought a round-trip ticket to Florida with thirty-day stop-over privileges. It was entirely a vacation—I hadn't even taken a gun along. For that matter I had no license to practice in Florida and no reason to think I'd need one.

I stayed two weeks, lying around on the beach in the sun during the days and spending the evenings in the cocktail bars. And during the season Florida has plenty of the last. Then I decided I had a thick enough coat of tan and that I was getting a little bored with it all. New York's got cocktail bars, also, and that loafing was getting me down. So I went to the railroad station and started to turn my last half of the round-trip ticket in on a reservation.

I'd heard stories but I hadn't believed them. I'd bought a ticket and I couldn't see a reason in the world why it shouldn't be honored. But they gave me a reason then and there.

No space. All trains crowded. No chance for a reservation for at least two weeks, and no promise made for then.

The ticket man was nice enough about it. In fact he was so nice I decided he was laughing up his sleeve at me and I got huffy.

I said: "Now look, mister! You people took my money for this ticket. That's right, isn't it?"

He said that was right.

"Then I'm entitled to accommodations. What am I paying for?"

"I've explained it, Mr. Ryan," he said, very patiently. "We just haven't the space. You'll have to take your turn, that's all. Now if you'd made your reservation when you first came down, we might possibly have had something saved for you. But you didn't and you'll just have to take your turn."

"I've got a business to look after. At least I had a business—if I spend any more time down here I won't have any left."

"I'm sorry. I really am. It's better for you in that you're your own boss. We have a good many people in here on vacations that are going to lose their jobs for overstaying their time. You're actually lucky."

I BLEW up. I said I was going to sue the railroad and he told me to go right ahead. That he heard that fifty times a day or more. I said it was a crooked way of doing business and he said that the court might agree with me but that it hadn't agreed with the people that had actually sued. I ended up by telling him I wanted a reservation just as soon as I could get one and told him where I was staying and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as he could get me a thing and he promised to do that.

And I left his window thinking he'd do no such thing and that I'd haunt him every day from then on.

I got thee proposition before I got to the door.

A shabby-looking little man sidled up to me and said: "Hey, mister! I heard you talking."

"Probably everybody inside of two blocks did," I told him.

"You want to go to New York?"

"I hope to tell you."

"Can you wait three days, say?"

"I want to go right now."

"That'll cost you more, mister. Twenty bucks more. Now if you wait three days it'll only cost you thirty bucks. But on tonight's train it'll cost you fifty. I only got one for tonight left and I'm holding it for fifty."

"What is this?"

"Well, if a guy wants to get out of here in a hurry, it's only right that he pays for it."

A black market on tickets was a new one on me but I didn't like it better than any other kind of black market deal.

I said: "Get the hell away from me you little —— or I'll break your-neck."

"Jeese, mister! I was only trying to give you a hand."

I cuffed him, not hard. Just with the back of my hand. He scuttled away, holding his cheek and I looked back in time to see the ticket clerk grinning at me.

I was wise to the setup right then.

I STOPPED at my hotel desk to tell them I wouldn't be checking out that night as I said I would be. And, just making conversation, I told the clerk just why.

He gave me the regular hotel clerk stock grin and said: "Why I can fix you up on that, Mr. Ryan. Of course there's a small premium concerned. But I know when a man has to get back to attend his business, money doesn't make a great deal of difference to him."

"You can fix me up or is it the hotel that does the fixing?"

"The hotel has nothing to do with it, though we like to think it's part of the hotel service. It really is, we think. It pleases the guests, and a hotel cannot operate unless the guests are happy."

"You said we?"

"Oh yes! Practically everyone in the hotel could help you, with the possible exception of some of the maids. They—uh—can't finance it, let us say."

I said: "Well I'll be damned."

"You tell me which train you want a reservation on and I'll do the rest. That's all."

"I'll let you know," I said, and went into the bar that opened from the lobby. And there I let it be known that I was open to a proposition and got one both from the waiter and from the bar man.

By this time I was getting ideas and wasn't happy with them. I took a cab from die hotel to a night spot at the edge of town and got offered transportation from the cabby. All I had to do was complain about how hard it was to get back to New York. At the spot I got offered the same thing from the waiter, the bar man, and the manager.

I could see the idea had possibilities I hadn't realized. None of these people, other than those in the hotel even knew me. The cabby had taken me from there and assumed I was a guest. It was a high-priced place and he imagined I was a high-priced guy, that was all. At die night spot I spent money, and that was all it took. Possibly I'd mentioned the name of my hotel—I don't remember—but they hadn't even bothered to check on me. I knew they hadn't because they didn't even know my name and couldn't.

There had to be somebody at the head of it, that was a cinch, and I wanted to find who it was. And for two reasons. There'd be money in it for me some way or another and I didn't like the idea of a black market in tickets.

I DIDN'T think it would take too much work to locate the head of the thing, either, and that's where I was wrong. A mile wrong. It wouldn't be that little people like those that had been propositioning me could finance the thing. Tickets and Pullman reservations to the average place up North would be around a hundred dollars. Each of those people would either have to have a small fortune invested in them, to take care of the customers they were hustling, or would have to get them from a central agency. And it's the rare hotel clerk, waiter, and cabby who's got a thousand dollars or better to put into a gamble like that— the gamble of finding a customer and against the law as well.

That meant the central agency idea as the logical answer— and that meant a tie-up with the railroad ticket offices.

I hadn't tried it but I had a notion the busses would be in the deal as well. They had the same transportation problem on their hands—not enough seats for too many customers, and there'd be the same chance of racketeering from the people who had to get home in a hurry on them.

It was big business with a capital B.

Of course I didn't know at the time that I was stepping on F.B.I. toes, and I don't know whether, at that stage of the game, I'd have stepped down or not.

When a man gets sore, he gets pig-headed, and I was sore. I've never been played for a patsy yet and liked it— and that's what they figured me for.

I was past being sore— I was red-headed.

THE first cagy play I ran into was from the same ticket seller I'd talked with. I bounced into the ticket office early, figuring to catch him before the rush started, but that was a joke. He was as busy as a little bee, even at eight-thirty in the morning, and I had to wait my turn.

He didn't even remember me, or pretended not to. He didn't even blink when I gave him my name and reminded him that I'd talked with him just the day before.

He said wearily: "Look, mister, I'm talking with several hundred people a day, all wanting just what you want. How can I remember one of the bunch?"

I was being sweetness and light. I said: "I just came in, mister, to say that I was sorry about losing my temper yesterday. It wasn't any fault of yours that you couldn't give me reservations."

"I can't give 'em if I haven't got 'em." "Of course not. I was wondering." Here I lowered my voice. "I was wondering if maybe there wasn't some way of working it by paying a little extra."

"Not from me there's a way of working it. I sell what they give me, mister. I didn't even bootleg during Prohibition."

"It was just an idea."

He said: "Look, pal! Just open your eyes. Just ask at your hotel. Just ask a hack driver. Just ask at any joint where people spend any kind of dough. Don't be a chump— just open up your big blue eyes. But don't ask me. I just work here for the railroad."

I said: "Thanks for the tip," and left the window.

And, so help me, if I hadn't remembered the grin he'd given me the afternoon before, when I'd cuffed the booster that had been the first to try to peddle me a high-priced ticket, I might have believed the guy was on the square.

A private cop soon learns how to tail a man, and that's what I decided to do. And I picked my hotel clerk as the man to tail and wasted five days tagging him back and forth before I realized I was wasting my time doing it.

And also realized I was up against smart people.

I followed the dope to the room he had in a private house each day after work. Then I'd tag him to a cheap restaurant for his dinner. I'd follow him then to a picture show—the guy was a movie fan. He'd leave the show and stop in one certain bar for one beer on his way home.

That would be the nightly routine.

I'd pick him up the following morning and see him stop in the same restaurant for breakfast and then go to the hotel. He had his lunch there—I took it the hotel furnished lunches because no hotel clerk could afford the price that scatter charged for them.

And that was the routine, day in, day out, for the three days I watched him.

THE third day I caught wise. I saw a messenger boy come in and hand him a manila envelope and he slipped it into his own pocket instead of putting it up in the rack for some guest. He was doing his business by telephone, that was all— he was having no contact with his money man at all.

I aught the boy just as he was getting on his bike in front of the hotel. A little kid, not over fourteen. I gave him a flash of the deputy's badge I've got, not letting him look at it long enough to see what it really was, and pocketed it in a hurry.

I said: "Around the corner, sonny, and wait for me. I don't want to talk to you here."

He said: "Golly! A G-man."

I didn't tell him different. I kept on going across the street beause I was in full sight of the desk, and I went in the drug store there and through it and out the side door.

And then around the block to where the kid was standing by his bike, waiting for me. The kid was actually shaking with excitement.

He said: "Golly, mister, anybody'd look at you and think you was just another tourist."

"That's my disguise," I told him. "Now about that envelope you just delivered. What about it?"

"You mean to that dopey clerk? The one that just gimme a dime tip?"

"That's the one. Where'd you pick up the envelope to deliver?"

"A man gimme it on the street and told me where to take it."

"That the first time that's happened?"

"Golly no! Only it's always a different man that gives me the envelopes. Sometimes I get four or five to take around. The guy always tips, too, mister— it don't make no difference which one it is."

"Where d'ya take these envelopes?"

"Twice I've took one of them to that dopey clerk. The rest of them to different joints around town. The guy always gives me a list that's all written out on a typewriter."

"You got any of the envelopes left?"

"Golly, mister, I'm sorry. I always leave that dopey clerk for the last delivery beause he don't ever put out more than a dime."

"Got the list yet?"

"Sure, mister."

He hunted through his pockets and finally brought out a grimy slip of paper that had five names written on it. The clerk's name it turned out was Harry Grimes, and it had the hotel's name following it. Each of the other four names had the name of some hot spot after it.

I said: "I'll keep this."

"Sure, mister."

HE GOT a four-bit piece for it and I went back to the hotel. And I got back in time to see Harry Grimes in the very act of passing an envelope to some old sister I'd noticed hanging around the desk several times. I couldn't say for sure, of course, that the envelope he gave her held a railroad ticket with a Pullman reservation to match, but I'd have given nice odds that it did.

That ended my dealings with the clerk. I couldn't see any percentage in working on him at the time, though I thought I might do just that later.

He was the kind of guy that would tell everything he knew to anybody that was bigger and a little tougher than he was and was willing to prove it.

And for that very reason I didn't think he'd know enough to help me much. Whoever he was working for would think the same as I did—and wouldn't trust the guy as far as he could kick him.

I TOOK a day to think it over and spent it in the various cocktail bars that had been mentioned in the list I'd taken from the messenger boy. And I didn't see a thing wrong and I didn't get a proposition.

I didn't drop a hint that I was having trouble getting a reservation out of town, which may have had something to do with that, though.

Whether it was the drinks that I'd taken or what I'll never know. Or maybe it was beause the answer was staring me in the face all the time.

I went down to the Western Union office and looked"' around for my particular messenger kid. I had to wait awhile for him — those kids are busier than little bees these days—but he came in and I got him to the side.

"Any more of those delivery things, sonny?" I asked him.

"Twice today, mister. I was sort of looking for you."

"Any yesterday?"

"Sure, mister. Just once though."

"The day before?"

"I get 'em every day. I get a buck, too, from the guy that gives me the envelopes to deliver. And mostly I get a quarter from the people I take 'em to."

"Any more for the hotel clerk?"

"One today. That's all. That's the first time since the time you saw me give him that one."

"How about the other kids? They get them to deliver, too?"

"Sure. We make more money out of them envelopes than we do out of anything else except maybe some guy that's awful drunk. Once in a while a drunk kicks loose with a five-spot."

I said: "I'm going to sort of keep an eye on you, sonny. But you'll have to play it smart. You'll have to act like you don't know I'm watching you. Think you can do that?"

"Sure. Golly! Anytime I get to help a G-man I'll do most anything. You know, mister, you're the first one I ever seen."

"Okay then. And there'll be ten bucks in it for you if I can pick up the guy that hands you the next batch of envelopes."

"Golly!"

"So don't stick 'em in your pocket so quick I won't get a chance to see them passed. And another thing. I'll probably in a car. So you don't do any fancy bike riding. Keep to your side of the street and obey traffic rules."

"Look, mister. The guy, or whichever guy it is, always calls in and tells them to send a boy to wherever he wants to meet us. I could tell you right where it'd be. How'd that be, better?"

I said: "Sonny, you've earned five bucks for yourself already."

And anytime I lay out five bucks when I can't put it on an expense account, I'm getting my money's worth for sure.

I HIRED a U-Drive-It coupe early the next morning and parked it by the Western Union office. And I went in and talked turkey to the manager, who was as impressed by my deputy sheriff's badge as the kid had been. A badge like that is something no private cop should be without— though a man can get in a lot of trouble with one if he shows it to the wrong people.

The call came just before noon and the kid came out and said: "It's to be at the corner of Ponce De Leon and Hibiscus. That's two blocks up and four over. Can you find it?"

I said: "Sure. Give me time to get there, that's all."

He grinned and said: "I don't hurry much any place, mister. Golly! Are you going to pinch the guy, right there?"

"I am not."

He looked so sorry about it that I explained. "I'm going to follow him and try and catch his gang. Get the idea?"

"Oh, sure! Golly! You just watch." I drove to the corner he'd told me and parked a hundred feet past it. I was taking a chance on being hung up—the guy might have a car and drive it off the other way— but I couldn't stand right by that corner and expect any action. As it was, the kid rode his bike to the corner and then had to wait for at least five minutes—and he was more nervous than I was, if the way he fidgeted around was any sign.

Then a big blond man came up from Hibiscus and to the kid. A young fellow, probably twenty-eight or around that, and looking like a professional football player on vacation. He talked with the kid a minute and then handed him a half dozen envelopes and what I could see even at that distance was a list to go with them. And the kid gave me plenty of time to see what he was given and to spot my man. Then the kid got on his bike and started away and I put my foot on the starter and got the motor going.

And then a little thin man opened the door on the side away from me and showed me the gun he held.

He said: "Okay, snoop! You asked for this."

I LOOKED at the little man and at the gun and then up the street to where the blond man had been standing. He was already halfway to where I was parked, coming right to the car. He was grinning but it was a mean grin— he wasn't smiling at any joke.

The little man said: "You heeled?"

It was the first time I'd thought of that. I somehow hadn't connected selling tickets for a premium with gun play.

I said: "Lord, no! Why should I be?"

"Federal?"

"Again no."

"Just what?"

"Private cop. That's all."

The blond man was with us then. He opened the door on my side of the car so that I was between them. He said coldly:,

"I'll ask him the questions, Tony."

Tony said: "Why, sure, Duke. He tells me he ain't heeled but maybe it'd be better if I made sure."

"Maybe it would," said Duke.

I could see I wasn't going to like this Duke one bit. He had a smooth soft voice, rather deep, and it should have been a pleasant voice. Instead of that, though, it grated on me like a wet finger on glass. Tony reached in and patted me under the arms and Duke did the same for my hip pockets.

Duke said then: "Mister Man, you're an awful chump. Didn't you think I'd be watching that Western Union place to make sure the kid wasn't spilling his guts to some cheap copper like you? That's why I had him meet me some place close like that. So I could tag along behind him and make sure he wasn't leading somebody to me. You don't use your head or you wouldn't have walked in on it like that. Move over."

I said: "Hunh!"

He had thirty pounds or more on me and he was one of the strongest guys I'd ever seen. He just shoved me out from under that wheel like I was a kid.

"I'll drive," he said. "Get in, Tony. Keep that gun in his ribs. If he squawks, why, turn it loose."

I said: "You got me wrong, fella. I'm a private cop, that's all. I ran onto this game and wanted a piece of it. Anything as big as this can always make a place for one more."

He started the motor and put the car in gear before he spoke. He said: "Personally, I think you're Federal. But that's something I'll soon know."

Tony said helpfully: "I asked him that, Duke. He says no. He's a private eye. It could be he's telling the truth— I never seen a snoop yet that wouldn't sell his own mother out for a cup of coffee."

"Shut up," said Duke.

"I was just saying."

"Shut up."

THAT was the last word Tony said until Duke stopped the car, not more than ten minutes later. And he stopped the car in front of a place that, knowing rents during the season, I knew was costing somebody fifteen hundred or up, a month.

And then he only said: "Last stop on the line!"

I got out without being told but Duke had his fingers around my elbow with a finger in the armpit, and the finger was pressing in solidly. If you know the place to press, it hurts like the very devil and half paralyzes your arm— and he knew the place to press.

He said: "This is it, Mister Man. Just walk in like a little man."

I said: "Sure. Why not?"

"I'll give you something to think about, you copper—" he said, not raising his voice and not even changing the tone of it. "You'll walk in but you won't walk out."

I walked—but I began to think that I was really walking into a bad bad spot.

THE house was a honey but I was in no mood to enjoy it. I had a gun pressing in my right kidney and I had that big hulk of a Duke practically tearing my arm off at the elbow joint. They walked me into the place, with me going along like Mary's little lamb and through the first door to the right, off the big hall the front door opened on.

The door led into a room big enough to have two fireplaces and carry the effect, but it was dressed up like a business office and was being run like one. Filing cases around the walls—four adding machines and a couple of bookkeeping machines as well as six typewriters and six girls running them. At the far wall were a row of desks with half a dozen men back of them and all working. One kid, not over fourteen, was running one of the adding machines, and there was a sour-looking bird that looked like a chief clerk in a bank running one of the bookkeeping machines.

It looked like a very busy outside office in a very busy manufacturing plant.

Duke said to the one that looked like a dhief clerk: "Sammy in?"

The clerk said: "You dumb ——! Where would he be?"

Duke pinched my arm a little harder and we moved through the room and through a side door.

And there was Sammy.

Sammy was short and very fat and he looked like a cheap race track tout. And he was dressed like one— or over-dressed like one. But after you took one look at his eyes, you got over that cheap tout thought and fast. They were as cold as ice and had as much expression in them as two glass marbles.

He was sitting in a wide leather chair with what looked to be a Collins on the table by his side, but he wasn't alone. Across from him, but in a slightly smaller chair sat another man just as short as Sammy, but not fat. As big around but every inch of it muscle.

This last one winked at me and said: "Hiya, pal."

Sammy asked Duke: "This the guy?" and Duke started to Show how smart he was.

He began: "I watched the kid go out of Western Union and he stopped and told this lug his story. The lug starts the car and the kid stalls with his bicycle and finally gets going and I follow. Then when I get to where I'm to meet him I see the lug staking the spot. So I see I'm right and I give Tony the office and that's all there is."

Sammy said: "Don't run off at the mouth, Duke. It don't get you no place at all. The guy'll tell me—you don't have to."

"I just...."

"Get the hell out," Sammy told him. "You too, Tony."

THE short man across from Sammy took a Luger from the cushion of his chair, where it had been resting alongside his leg and hefted it as though he liked the weight.

He said: "Yeah, Duke! I'll take care of Sonny Boy! Even if I got to hold him on my knee—and paddle him."

Duke and Tony went out, with Duke giving the Luger man a look that said he didn't like him one damned bit.

And Sammy said to me: "All right, fella. What d'ya know? You Federal or what?"

"I'm a private eye, that's all. I got jerry to what was going on and thought I could maybe ride along with you boys and pick up a buck or two or three. That's all."

"Got anything to prove it?"

"Sure."

"Show me."

I handed him my wallet and what it held. My private license, permit to carry a gun, a courtesy card from the New York Commissioner—something that's damned hard to get—my draft registration and classification card, and some more stuff like that. Such as driver's license, insurance identification, and a few of my own cards as well as a few that had been given me. I even had both Western Union and Standard Oil courtesy cards in the thing.

He said: "I guess he's who he says he is, Truck," to the Luger man. And with no change in his voice:

"And he's probably F.B.I. besides."

I said: "Nuts. Your boys will tell you I wasn't even ironed. I was down here on a vacation and didn't even bring a gun along. If I was F.B.I. I'd be loaded, wouldn't I?"

"Not if you was making a play to get in my place, you wouldn't," Sam said thoughtfully. "You'd have played it just like you did. Let yourself be gathered in, thinking you'd be let out. What you think, Truck?"

I was between the two almost, within five feet of both but slightly in front of them. Just where I'd stopped when I'd handed Sammy my wallet. And I had a feeling that what Truck would say would decide the thing.

And Truck said: "I hate to do this, pal, but I been asked and a man that's asked has got to answer. Sammy, this guy is a stooge. If he ain't Federal, he's stooging for 'em some way."

I went for his gun right then. I didn't have to stop and think— I'd already planned it. I went into him head first, aiming my head at his big belly like a billy goat at a tree, and I got his gun hand with both hands just as I hit him.

If he'd been expecting it, I never could have done it. He'd have tightened up his belly muscles and my head would have done him no harm, and he'd have grabbed that Luger back against him and plugged me as I landed.

But I caught him cold. I got the gun with just one twist, but he'd fired twice with it by that time. It was at my side and away from me though and the slugs from it missed me a foot and more. I got the gun and then I slugged him with it, smacking him on the side of the jaw and leaning on it. I could hear it break and feel it break beneath the gun barrel.

Then I got away from him and swung toward Sammy, expecting him to be getting into action, but he was just sitting there. He had both hands on his fat belly and the most astonished look on his face that I ever saw on a man. He was wearing a very light gray suit—that is, gray with green plaid checks for a pattern, and under it he had an almost white silk shirt. Oyster white I think it's called. He had his hands across the front of this shirt and even as I looked at him, I could see the shirt redden under his hands.

I said: "The boy friend clipped you, eh?''

Then the side door opened and Duke and Tony came steaming in.

I'd shot a Luger but not for a good many years. I never liked the gun. I've heard good things about its balance but I could never see it. And I liked them less right then.

DUKE saw I was in control, rather than it being the other way and shot at me when he wasn't more than ten feet inside the room. He missed, but he didn't miss Sammy. I heard the bullet chunk into him, and even in that second I remember thinking that Sammy was getting all the worst

of it from his own side.

I shot back at Duke, but I missed in turn. The Luger seemed to go soft in my hand some way—it just didn't shoot like a gun.

Sam tried again and burned me alongside the leg. That time I got him, but it was an accident. I'd aimed at his belly and that damned gun shot high and caught him in the throat.

Tony had a gun out in sight but he hadn't used it. He turned and started for the door and I had to shoot twice at him before I hit him. Of course I was shooting for his legs, trying to cripple him, so that can be explained.

My leg was burning but it didn't even make me limp. I got to that side door and turned the Luger back and forth and tried to sound a lot braver than I felt.

I said: "You people just hold tight. You over by that phone. Get on it and ask for the cops. Jump now, damn it."

He jumped.

And then so did I. Because the door into the hall slammed open and about a dozen men came pouring in, with the guy that sold tickets at the railroad office in the lead. He was carrying a gun and ready to use it and I figured it was curtains for Mrs. Ryan's little boy. I swung the gun toward him though, thinking it was better to go out trying, and then he spoke.

He said: "Drop that, you fool! This is a Government pinch."

THE F.B.I. ticket seller's name was Ramsey, and he was so damned sore at me he wouldn't even talk to me for half an hour. He just went ahead and cleaned up the place— and I sat in Sammy's office and worked on a bottle of Scotch I just stumbled onto.

Finally Ramsey got things under way and came over and sat down by me.

He said: "Well, Mr. Ryan! You certainly raised hell and tied it up with a nice strong cord. You blew this up for me— I get half a dozen men and five times that get away. D'ya realize this racket is running all over the state? D'ya realize that man, Sammy Helziner was making as much money as the mint does out of it? D'ya realize I'd have picked up everybody and cleaned the thing up right if you hadn't butted in? I ought to charge you with interfering with an officer in pursuit of his duty."

I said: "How the hell did I know you were working on it? Nobody told me. If I was in your way, why didn't you warn me off? To hell with you. The guy's dead. Two of his own men shot him. Without him this racket will fold up and you know it. Let the papers have it that the G-men killed off the head of the gang, and the cheap pushers, the guys and gals that have been peddling the tickets, will run like rabbits. It died with him and you know it."

"Well, maybe."

"Why didn't you stop me if I was in your way?"

"I had a tag on you, Ryan. I got the dope on you from the city. I decided then that you weren't trying to cut yourself in on it. I thought you might blunder into something, that was all."

"I sure as hell did, too."

He laughed then. He said: "I've had a man right behind you ever since you first came in the office and slapped that pusher's face. He even tagged you out here— that's how I knew where to come. I was planted outside, when you started the shooting."

"It was the one named Truck that started that."

"Why argue?"

"No argument. Look, Ramsey! Will you answer me just one question?"

"Maybe."

"Now look! I know you've been trying to break this mess up—that you knew there was this black market in tickets going on. Sure, I know that. I know you took that ticket agent job so you could sort of keep an eye on things. That through that you could catch the railroad people who were working the tickets out to be sold that way. That right?"

"Why, yes, of course. I'll have half a dozen railroad men in Federal prison in three months, and it would surprise you if you knew how high up some of them are."

"It would surprise me if they were small fry. This was a big deal and took big men in the railroad business to swing their end of it. Okay! So far, so good. I know you had a hell of a lot of the pushers spotted, Guys like my hotel clerk and the cabbies and people like that that did the actual selling."

"A lot of them, yes."

"Now here's the question? Did you know who was back of it? Did you know about Sammy Helziner, if that was his name, be ing the guy behind it? Did you know he was running the thing and did you know this house was his headquarters? That's the question."

He said: "You win the sixty-four dollars Ryan. I didn't know. I was trying to find out and had been for the last month. That was all I was waiting for, just to find out who the head man was and whete he was located. Satisfied?"

"You bet."

"Now, I'll ask one. What were you in it for?'

I thought of telling him I was in it because I hated black markets but I decided that would sound too foolish.

I said: "For what I could get out of it, of course. With that much money around, I thought I could catch a little piece of it for my very own self."

"And have you?"

I said: "Nuts! I'll even have to pay the doctor to patch up my damned leg where it's creased. I'm out my expenses even. I didn't even break even on the mess."

He laughed and I didn't blame him.

__________________

10: You Bet Your Life

Norbert Davis

1909-1949

Dime Detective, Sep 1942

1: Horse Car Jackson

IT WAS a hot night, and Dodd had thrown all the covers off the bed. He was lying flat on his back, long arms and legs thrust out in all directions, snoring like seven hundred dollars, when the telephone on the night-table rang suddenly and shrilly.

"Uh?" said Dodd, not moving.

The telephone rang again.

"Oh," said Dodd vaguely. "Wait." He groped out in the darkness and picked the instrument off its stand. "Hello. What?"

A voice said: "This is Hennessey, Dodd."

"Who?" Dodd asked.

"Hennessey. Sergeant Hennessey from Central Police Headquarters."

Dodd yawned. "Hello, Hennessey. What are you doing on duty now? I thought you were working days."

"I ain't on duty. I'm in the hospital."

"Oh," said Dodd. "That's too bad. What's wrong with you?"

"There ain't nothing wrong with me. It's Meekins."

"Who?"

"Dodd," Hennessey said patiently. "Wake up, will you? Meekins, the little bald rummy that works for you, is here in the Emergency Hospital."

Dodd yawned again. "Is he? What's the matter with him ? Has he been drinking bad liquor again?"

"No. He got shot, and he got his skull caved in."

DODD sat up with such a violent start he dropped the telephone on the floor. "What?" he yelled. He lunged over the side of the bed and fumbled wildly for the telephone. "Hennessey! What did you say about Meekins? Shot... Skull cave in... Hennessey!"

"I'm still right here, Dodd. Take it easy."

Dodd clutched the telephone with both hands. "Hennnessey! What about Meekins ? Is he— is he—"

"Naw. He ain't dead. At least, I don't think so. Not yet. They got him in the operating-room."

"Wait there!" Dodd ordered, turning on the night light. "I'm coming!"

"Don't get so jumpy, Dodd. You can't do nothing down here right now. They won't let you in the operating-room. They wouldn't let me in even with my badge. I am calling now from the pay phone in the hall right outside. I can see the door of the operating-room, and if they bring Meekins out I'll find out how he is."

"Who did it?" Dodd demanded. "Just tell me the guy's name, that's all."

"I dunno. But I think a guy by the name of Horse Car Jackson was in there somewhere."

"Horse Car Jackson?" Dodd repeated. "I never heard of him. Who's he?"

"He is an old bum that follows horse races from track to track all over the country. He never has no dough to pay bus or train fares, so he rides in the cars with the horses. That's why they call him Horse Car."

"What's he got to do with Meekins?"

"I'm telling you. He was picked up as a vag last week. I was there when he was brung in, and so was Meekins. Meekins looked over his stuff when I searched him to see did he have enough dough to pay for some bail. He only had a dime on him, so of course Meekins wouldn't put up no bail for him. In fact, all he had was this betting slip, and that was a very funny thing."

"Why?"

"Well, it showed that Horse Car had put down fifty smackers at two hundred to one in Lilybud."

"On what?" Dodd asked.

"Lilybud. It's a horse. Well, that's the joke, really, because Lilybud ain't a horse. It's strictly a dog."

"Just translate," Dodd ordered. "What are you talking about?"

"This Lilybud is nothing but a wienie, Dodd. It is twelve years old, and it ain't never won a race in its life. And it is entered in the Crater Lake Sweep with nine other nags that are really first class. So it is a joke that this old bum of a Horse Car puts down fifty smackers on it. It ain't got no more chance of winning that race than I have of being the next police chief. Meekins and me ask Horse Car what he throws his money away that way for, and it seems he rode thousands of miles with Lilybud and thinks it is an awful nice horse. He says Lilybud has lots of character, so when he wins fifty bucks in a crap game, he bets it all on the old glue pot. That just goes to show how crazy Horse Car is."

"If he's crazy— how about the fellow who entered the horse in the Crater Lake Sweep?"

"Oh, he ain't crazy," Hennessey answered. "That's Bimley. He has eight or nine horses— pretty good ones— aside from Lilybud that he is racing out on the Coast. So they close the tracks out there on account of the war— like they are using Santa Anita for a Jap concentration camp— and catch Bimley short. He has to get in on some Eastern tracks. So he enters Lilybud in the Sweep to get stable rights at Crater Lake. He don't expect to win. He just wants an entry under his name. It is such a smell that even the sports writers are giving him the bird about it."

"ARE you watching that operating-room?" Dodd demanded.

"Sure. I got my eye right on it. So Meekins and me have a laugh on Horse Car, and he goes up before Judge Tracy and gets sentenced to sixty days for vagrancy and put away in jail, and we don't think no more about him until we are listening to the Crater Lake Sweep on the radio this afternoon. Man, you can't guess what happened!"

"Yes, I can," said Dodd. "Lilybud won."

"Aw, you was listenin'. But did you hear how it happened, huh? That was something like ain't never been seen before. At the half Lilybud was already trailin' by twelve lengths, and the other nags was all bunched, and this guy that was ridin' third tried to pull between the two leaders, and they crowded him, and all three of 'em went end-over-end. And the whole field piled right in. Three more went down, and one bucked his rider off, and one started runnin' the wrong way. And then Lilybud came around clear on the outside—"

"Yes, yes," said Dodd. "I'll read it in the paper. What has this to do with Meekins?"

"Well, right away he thinks of that betting slip of Horse Car's. He wants me to give it to him so he can go collect it for Horse Car, but I can't do that because it is sealed up in Horse Car's property envelope and there was three cops fired just last month for monkeying with them property envelopes. So he wants me to let Horse Car out for awhile, but I can't do that neither because the commissioner has been raising particular hell about us sendin' prisoners out to do errands for us. So Meekins runs out and gets Dunstead."

"Dunstead?" Dodd repeated.

"That crummy little lawyer who is always hanging' around police court. Meekins and him get up before old Judge Barth— you know, the dumb one that sort of drools in his beard when he chews tobacco— and they put on an act like you wouldn't believe. They tell the judge that Horse Car is a man of property and substance who is wrongly accused and that he is a deacon in a church and has a wife and six kids dependent on him and that his life will be ruined if he don't get out of the sneaker right away. So Barth paroles him."

Dodd was trying to get out of his pajamas one-handed.

"What?" he said in a muffled voice. "A parole? On a vag charge? From the county jail?"

"It sounded kind of funny to me, too," Hennessey admitted.

"Who did he parole him to? Meekins?"

"No. To you. On account of you had to put up the bond."

"Bond?" said Dodd.

"Yeah. For Horse Car's good behavior."

"How much?" Dodd asked grimly, feeling for his socks.

"Just five hundred."

"Just!" Dodd echoed, breathing hard. "All right. Tell me the rest."

"That's about all. Meekins went off with Horse Car to collect this bet. He asked me would I keep an eye on things for him. So I sat around there for three hours after I was off duty, and I was gettin' pretty mad because I figured they had collected that bet and then gone off on a tear. Then I hear they picked up Meekins sort of in pieces in an alley off Ventner Street near Tenth. So I come over here."

"Stay there until I get there," Dodd said. "I'm on my way right now."

2: Sucker Bet

DODD pushed back the heavy swing door with a sudden whoosh of compressed air and entered the bright, antiseptic coolness of the hospital lobby. He looked harassed and mad and sleepy all at the same time. His coat collar was turned up, and his tie was jerked around under one ear, and his adhesive-patched horn-rimmed glasses were set askew on his long nose. His heels raised smacking echoes as he headed across to the small reception desk in the corner.

"How's Meekins?" he asked.

The receptionist wore a starched white uniform and a white nurse's cap. Her hair was gray and smooth, cut very short, and her lips made a thin, prim line in a face that was so sallow and colorless it looked faintly dusty.

"I beg pardon?" she said in a frigid tone.

"Meekins," Dodd said impatiently. "Meekins. My runner. How is he?"

"I'll look up the records."

"No, no," said Dodd. "He just came in. He was shot or something."

"Oh," said the receptionist disapprovingly. "That one. I imagine he is still in the operating-room. It's on the second floor. You may wait in the hall up there, if you wish. You will find a police person also waiting to see this Meekins. Did you say his first name was Runner? How very peculiar."

"No," said Dodd, heading for the stairs. "I said he was my runner. I'm a bail bondsman. He works for me. I don't know his first name. I don't think he has one."

He trotted up the rubber-treaded steps and turned into a long, glistening hall. Hennessey was sitting slumped down on a bench in front of two gray doors, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He had his uniform cap tipped on the back of his head, and his normally round face had sagged into lines as disconsolate as those of a bloodhound's.

"Heard anything?" Dodd asked.

"Naw," said Hennessey. "These guys around here don't give out with nothing but the brush-off."

"Are they still working on him?"

"Yeah. I'm worried, Dodd. You know these butchers they got around this joint. They cut people up for fun if they ain't got nothing else to do. But anyway, I got Meekins' wallet, so they won't swipe his dough."

Dodd held out his hand. "Let's see it."

Hennessey gave him a worn, bulging wallet. Dodd opened the bill compartment and found that it contained three crumpled one dollar bills. He looked accusingly at Hennessey.

"So now you've taken to robbing the dead and wounded, have you?"

Hennessey looked up at him with round, innocent eyes. "What's that, Dodd? Oh, you mean that betting slip ? He didn't have it on him. I looked all through his clothes."

"I mean the money," said Dodd. "I gave Meekins a twenty-buck advance on his salary this morning. You know Meekins. He never spent seventeen dollars of his own dough in one day in his life. Give."

Hennessey reluctantly produced a folded five dollar bill. "Well, he owes me this, and it won't do him any good if he's gonna die, and anyway I didn't take it from him. I got it from Crestwick."

Dodd put the five dollar bill in with the three ones. "Who is Crestwick?"

"The driver of the ambulance that picked Meekins up. He frisked Meekins, and he kinda misplaced the five in his own pocket while he was doin' it. I had an idea he might have did something like that, so I bumped his head against the wall a couple times and he coughed up. He didn't have the betting slip, though. I don't think Meekins had it on him at all. He tried to get it away from Horse Car at the station, and Horse Car kicked up a hell of a beef."

"Let's talk some more about that betting slip," Dodd said. "I don't play the horses, but it seems to me that two hundred to one on fifty dollars is a little out of order. That means a ten thousand dollar pay-off in case of a win."

Hennessey nodded. "Yeah, I think it's sort of a joke bet. Horse Car tells Meekins and me that he goes all over town trying to get odds on Lilybud and all the bookies laugh at him because he is such an old crumb and because Lilybud couldn't possibly win that race unless all the other horses fell down. They did, like I tell you."

"Where did he place the bet?"

"With Dom Carlos. He ain't really a bookie. He's a betting commissioner. He hangs around at the Stagland Bar in the Savoy Hotel, and he'll take a bet on anything you want to name— like how long it will take a bug to crawl out of a bottle or whether the next guy that comes in will put his right or left foot on the bar rail first. There's a very flash crowd that hangs around the Stagland, and Dom Carlos does pretty well for himself because he is a bear-cat at figuring odds. From what Horse Car said, I think he sneaked into the Stagland and braced Dom Carlos in front of some of his ritzy pals. Dom Carlos takes a look at Horse Car and figures he don't have more than a dime, so he quotes the two hundred to one, and then he can't back down when Horse Car outs with his fifty."

"What do Dom Carlos' betting slips look like?"

"Fancy," said Hennessey. "Green with his name printed on them in gold. They are bigger than average because he has got to write bets with screwy terms. You can easy spot one if you see it."

"All right," Dodd said. "Have you got any lead at all on Horse Car? Has he been seen or heard of since Meekins was picked up?"

"Nope. He blew himself away like a puff of smoke. But I figure he is the innocent by-stander here anyway, Dodd. Where would he get a gun ? And anyway, he is a scared, puny little bird that don't weigh more than a wet dish-rag. I figure somebody tried to stick him and Meekins up for that betting slip, and Meekins beefed, and Horse Car ran."

"I want to ask him a question. Where was he picked up on the vag charge?"

"On Water Street near Crail."

"Has anybody checked up on Dom Carlos?"

Hennessey pursed his lips. "Not unless it was Lieutenant Gudolfson."

Dodd stared at him. "Who?"

"Lieutenant Gudolfson. You heard of him. Whenever the cops make a real bad butch, why Lieutenant Gudolfson gets the blame for it in the newspapers and reports and stuff and gets fined and suspended and dismissed and sent out to herd goats and all that. There ain't really no such person, of course. We just use the name to take the heat off the police department so them reformers won't be clawing us all the time. Lieutenant Gudolfson is investigatin' this business about Meekins, unless you say different."

"How was that last?" Dodd asked.

Hennessey shrugged. "I figured maybe you'd want to look around a bit and wouldn't want to be trippin' over cops while you was doin' it."

Dodd smiled slowly. "You're kind of a handy person to know., at that, Hennessey."

"Now and then," Hennessey said blandly. "You know, that Meekins is a pest. He gets in my hair something fearful around the station, and he is always playin' snide tricks of one kind and another, but I'm sorta used to him now."

Dodd nodded in an understanding way. "So am I, Hennessey."

"Don't get caught killin' nobody, Dodd."

"No," said Dodd absently.

THE gray doors across the hall opened, and a man in a white surgeon's smock came out. He was tall and thin and sharpfeatured, and he had an air of cynically bored superiority.

"Are you two waiting to hear about this man, Meekins?" he asked.

"Yes," Dodd answered. "How is he?"

"He was shot twice— once in the right thigh and once in the left calf. The bullet in his calf fractured the leg bone but didn't splinter it. The X-rays show he doesn't have a skull fracture, but he has a concussion and severe lacerations about his head. He was struck several times by a heavy instrument with sharp edges— probably a revolver— while he was lying on the ground shot, I should judge."

Dodd said: "Well, is he all right? I mean, will he recover?"

The doctor was lighting a cigarette. "Oh, I imagine so. Unless complications set in."

"Where is he now?"

"We're putting him in the out ward to await transfer. He can't stay here, you know."

"Oh yes, he can," Dodd said flatly.

The doctor looked up in faint surprise. "We have no facilities to care for any except temporary patients here. This is the Emergency Hospital."

"You have rooms on the third floor," said Dodd.

The doctor's thin lips tightened. "They are not open to the public."

"I know," Dodd agreed. "They're for city officials and other rummies who get a free medical ride from the taxpayers. But Meekins stays in one just the same, with a day and night nurse. Run him up there."

"That's quift impossible," said the doctor.

"If I was you, Doc," Hennessey said conversationally, "I would kind of do like Dodd, here, suggests. He's a bail bondsman, and he gets around quite some. If he should get mad, he might call up the mayor or the health commissioner and start talkin' to them about a lot of things they'd just as soon not talk about, and if that happened some innocent third party— like yourself— would get his teeth kicked right in."

The doctor lost his superior air. "Well, of course, it might be dangerous to move the patient at the moment... We might make an exception."

"Do that," Dodd said. "And just see that you stay on the job yourself."

The doctor stiffened up again. "I'll do my best."

"I wouldn't stop there, if I was you," said Hennessey. "If your best wasn't good enough, lots of queer things might happen all of a sudden around here."

The doctor ignored him pointedly. "Please sign for the patient at the reception desk. I will inform the nurse in charge, of the circumstances. Good-evening." He walked down the hall, shoulders very stiff and straight.

Hennessey was scowling in concentration. "Say!" he said suddenly. "I just got an idea! How much is eight from twenty?"

"Twelve," said Dodd. "Why?"

"You said you advanced Meekins twenty bucks this morning. He's got eight now, countin' that five I shook out of Crestwick. You said Meekins wouldn't spend seventeen bucks of his own dough in one day. I don't think he'd spend twelve, either. Do you?"

"No," Dodd admitted.

Hennessey slapped his fist down heavily on the bench beside him. "That damned Crestwick! He held out on me! Why, that guy is nothing but a crook! I'll fix his clock for him!"

He heaved himself off the bench and lumbered purposefully down the hall toward the back. He had gone about ten paces when he stopped and turned around.

"How much did you say you advanced Meekins?"

"Fifty dollars," said Dodd.

Hennessey nodded once. "That's what I thought you said. I'll make that Crestwick cough up." He started on down the hall again.

DODD went the other way and descended the front stairs to the lobby. The receptionist was bent over the desk filling out a white card. She ignored Dodd.

"Ahem," he said, after a moment. "Excuse me, but I'd like to make out an entry blank or whatever it is for my man, Meekins. He's staying here."

"I'm well aware of that," said the receptionist in a spitefully disapproving voice. "I'm filling out his card now. I took the particulars from his draft registration. He was identified by that when he was picked up."

"I see," said Dodd.

"Doctor Burns has informed me of the circumstances," the receptionist added, pen scratching furiously, "and I must say I think they are highly irregular. Fill out this, please. Name, address, relation to patient, and occupation— if any."

"Yes, ma'am," said Dodd mildly.

He filled out the blank spaces on the card and handed it back as Hennessey came puffing down the stairs. He held his right hand up in front of Dodd's face and waggled his thick fingers.

"Look. That first knuckle again. I bet it's gonna swole up."

"Swell up!" the receptionist snapped.

"I like swole better," said Hennessey. "It sounds more like my knuckle feels. You was right, Dodd. That Crest wick went and lifted the whole of that sixty-five smackers you advanced to Meekins."

"Sixty-five?" Dodd said. "Is that so?"

Hennessey counted crumpled bills on the desk. "Yeah. Here it is. I'm holdin' out five dollars on account I figure Meekins owes me a reward or something for collecting, and anyway I want to buy him some flowers. I know a very tony florist that is a bookie on the side, and you'd be surprised how many flowers a cop can get in his place for five bucks."

"Scandalous!" said the receptionist.

"Aw, no it ain't," said Hennessey. "The guy just likes cops. Some people do."

"Bookies and other scum, no doubt. Mr. Dodd, Doctor Burns spoke of you desiring special nurses. You will have to make additional arrangements for them."

"I'll attend to it myself," Dodd told her. "I'll get some from an outside agency. I don't like the looks of the ones they keep around here."

"That feeling is quite mutual. Instruct them to report to Doctor Burns. The patient, Meekins, is assigned to Special Suite Number 6 on the third floor. Are you leaving now?"

"Yes, thanks," said Dodd. "Coming, Hennessey?"

"Naw. I'll stick around. That there florist delivers, and I want to chat with Meekins when he gets conscious—if ever —and cheer him up."

"You can't!" said the receptionist flatly. "The patient is under the influence of the anesthetic and will be for several hours, and you can't talk to him even when he comes out unless the doctor authorizes visitors. It is useless for you to wait."

"Aw, I got lots of time," said Hennessey.

Dodd nodded to the receptionist.

"What's your name? I mean, in case I want to call up and find out about Meekins I'll ask for you."

"The name is Nurse Parr, if it is of any interest to you, but we do not give out information over the telephone concerning patients."

"Oh, now," said Dodd. "Not even for me? I'll have Hennessey give you some of Meekins' pretty flowers if you will."

Nurse Parr straightened up with a jerk. "I do not accept gratuities— nor bribes!"

"Good-night, nurse," said Dodd, heading for the door.

3: Meekins Talks

THE Savoy Hotel was old-fashioned and proud of it. Dodd entered through the side door and went down a long, stiffly formal corridor lined with shiny Empire chairs and octagonal mirrors with deep brass borders. There was not a soul in sight, and the corridor looked like a museum display from the last century.

Dodd turned to the right and went down two steps and pushed open a leather padded door and stepped right back into the present. A subdued roar of noise welled around him. The Stagland Bar was for men only, and it was full of them now. They were all along the dimly lighted bar in gesticulating knots and crowded over the red-topped tables like flies over sugar.

Dodd worked his way through the press to the end of the bar and waited until the bartender approached at a dignified waddle.

"Your pleasure, sir?" said the bartender.

"Is Dom Carlos here?" Dodd asked. The bartender shook his shining head slowly and sadly. "I regret to say that he is not now present, sir."

"How can I get in touch with him?"

"I am at a loss to tell you, sir. May I serve you with some libation?"

"No," said Dodd.

He turned away and started back toward the door.

"Dodd!" a shrill voice called. "Oh, Dodd!"

Dodd turned around and waited, and his mouth dipped down a little at the corners.

"Just happened to see you," said the other man in breathless, quick spurts. "Wanted to speak to you."

He was small, and there was a round sleekness about him. He wore very nice clothes, and they were clean and pressed, but in spite of that he managed to look just slightly soiled. It was nothing you could point out specifically. It was just his general air. He had a furtive smile that came and went without any apparent reason.

"About Meekins," he said. "Shocking thing. So sorry. Wanted to tell you."

Dodd waited, staring at him.

The small man cleared his throat. "Well, you know me! You've seen me hundreds of times around the courthouse. My name is Dunstead. I'm an attorney. Don't you remember?"

"Yes," said Dodd. "I remember."

"Oh," said Dunstead uncertainly. "Well, I wanted to tell you. Think you should be informed. There's some sort of a conspiracy of silence about the course of the investigation into Meekins'— ah— accident. I asked at the police station and couldn't find anything out. Met with the most evasive answers. I was referred to a Lieutenant Gudolfson. I can't find any trace of any such lieutenant."

Dodd leaned forward a little. "Why were you asking about Meekins?"

Dunstead popped his eyes in surprise. "Eh? Why, my client. Interests of my client. Must protect them, you know."

"Which client?"

"Mr. Jackson. Mr.— ah— Horse Car Jackson."

"Where is he?"

Dunstead spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know. That's why I'm so concerned. In view of what happened to Meekins, his absence at this time is very damaging. Almost incriminating. I must find him and tell him to report to the authorities and give his explanation of the affair and clear himself of any suspicion."

"Have you seen Dom Carlos?"

"Who?" said Dunstead, puzzled.

Dodd leaned further forward and tapped Dunstead gently on one shoulder. "I know what's giving you that gleam in your eye. It's a matter of ten thousand dollars. And now I want to tell you something. Don't try cutting any corners in front of me, or I'll make you hard to find."

Dunstead smiled and then stopped smiling and backed away a step. "Threats," he said breathlessly, "threats of physical violence don't frighten me. I shall do my duty by my client."

"Don't let me catch you at it," Dodd advised.

HE LEFT Dunstead standing there and went out through the padded leather door and up the steps into the corridor. He turned to the right and went on along the corridor, turned again and entered the empty majesty of the hotel's main lobby. A clerk behind the long desk in the alcove nodded deferentially and smiled at him.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where's the manager?" Dodd asked. "Right behind you, sir," said the clerk. Dodd swung around and looked down at a worried, bald, little man who was watching him anxiously through rimless glasses that were fastened to his coat lapel with a broad black ribbon.

"You— wanted me?" he asked timidly.

"No," said Dodd. "I want Dom Carlos."

"Is— is your name Dodd? Bail-Bond Dodd?"

"Yes."

"Well, would you mind proving it, please?"

"Not a bit," said Dodd. He brought out his wallet, opened it, and extended it on his palm. "That's my draft registration. Want to see my driver's license?"

"No, no," said the manager. "Thank you very much. I have a message for you. A message from Dom Carlos."

"What is it?" Dodd demanded.

"Well, I don't know. It's difficult to explain... If you'll just step in the credit office right here and wait for a few minutes, he'll call you."

"I don't like this Japanese spy stuff," said Dodd. "Where is he?"

"I don't know!" the manager wailed. "He calls here every half-hour, and he told me to have you wait if you came in, and he'd talk to you. He's due to call in just seven minutes. Please, just step in here..."

"All right," said Dodd.

They went into a small, square office equipped with an enormous flat-topped desk and a whole wall of filing cases.

"If you'll just sit here beside the desk," said the manager. "Here's the telephone—"

It buzzed suddenly under his fingers, and the manager started so violently that his glasses dropped off.

"That— that can't be he. He calls right precisely on the minute. Pardon me ..." He picked up the telephone gingerly. "What is it?... What? For Mr. Bail-Bond Bird-Brain Dodd? Why— why, I don't—"

"Give it to me," said Dodd. He took the telephone from the manager and said: "Hello."

"I bet you can't guess who this is, Dodd."

"Hennessey," said Dodd wearily.

"Bet you can't guess where I am, though."

"In Meekins' room," said Dodd.

"Aw, shucks. You always guess right."

"How'd you get in there?"

"That was fancy, Dodd. I was waitin' out in front for them flowers I ordered, and when they come I see the delivery boy has on a uniform, so that gives me an idea. So I ditch my gun and my badge and stuff and have the flower guy pile flowers on me until they hide my face and all the rest of me except the edges, and then I walk right in the lobby and tell that old sourpuss of a Nurse Parr that I got to deliver the flowers right up to the room so I can arrange 'em, and here I am yet, still arrangin'."

"How is Meekins?"

"He's not so good. In fact, he looks like hell. But that old sourpuss in the lobby was cuckoo, Dodd, because he is conscious. Of course, he is full of dope and stuff, but he is almost as sensible as he generally is. Say, Dodd, did you pick out that nurse you sent up here personally?"

"No," Dodd answered. "I just called the medical bureau and asked them to assign a couple to Meekins. Why? What's the matter with her?"

"Man!" said Hennessey fervently. "There ain't nothin' the matter with her. She looks just like Lana Turner. Honest she does, Dodd. It's wonderful, but it's too bad."

"Make some sense," Dodd invited impatiently.

"I mean, it's too bad Meekins can't see her when she's so wonderful. His eyes is swole tight shut. They look like a couple of blue balloons. The swellest shiners, bar none, that I ever did see."

"Can he talk to me?"

"He ain't supposed to. The nurse just went out to get him some gruel or something, and she gave me strict orders that I wasn't to talk to him. Huh? Wait a minute, Dodd... Hey, Meekins says he can talk, all right, if you can understand him. He has got his jaw in a sling. I'll give him the phone. Here, Meekins. Be careful, now."

MEEKINS' voice was a blurred, feeble croak. "Hello, boss. It's me again."

"Hello, fella!" said Dodd warmly. "How do you feel? Is it— is it pretty painful?"

"Naw. I can't feel nothin'. I'm wrapped up like a mummy and blind as a bat."

"Look, Meekins," said Dodd. "I don't want to upset you, and I'm not mad, but just what the hell kind of a fandango were you trying to pull with Horse Car Jackson and that betting slip?"

"I wanted to help the old dope, Dodd. The cops that pinched him said that he'd been wavin' that betting slip all over Water Street. Lots of people knew he had it. They'd remember when they heard Lilybud came in and come swarming around and roll the old boy before he could wink. And then I figured we might as well make a small piece of change out of it for being so kind-hearted."

"Sure. So what?"

"Well, he was in the jail on a bum rap, Dodd."

"Why?" Dodd asked.

"He was in for vagrancy. A vagrant is a guy that is destitute and poverty-stricken and all that. A guy with ten thousand bucks certainly don't fit that definition."

"No." Dodd admitted.

"Well, so when Hennessey couldn't cooperate, I .got hold of Dunstead because I was in a hurry."

"I know. You couldn't have picked worse. I just saw the little rat. He's hanging around here to get a line on Horse Car or Dorn Carlos. He says he wants to protect Horse Car's interest. You know what will happen to that ten thousand if he does."

"Well, Dodd. He ain't Horse Car's lawyer. He's your lawyer."

"What?" Dodd said, startled.

"Yeah. I figured he'd try to chisel, so I drew up a little receipt and had him sign it. I paid him ten bucks of my own dough as a retainer. In that receipt, I put it that he was our lawyer and that our interests were opposed to Horse Car's because we were on his bond. Dunstead was so boggle-eyed over that betting slip that he never read the receipt, but it puts him on notice. He can't represent both sides of a case. If he tries it, we'll jerk him up before the Bar Association."

"Where is that receipt?" Dodd demanded tensely.

"In my wallet."

Dodd slapped his side pocket and felt the weight of the wallet and breathed a deep sigh. "That's good! I'll fix the little rat the next time I catch up with him. Wait a minute. You said you paid him ten dollars of your own dough. How much did you have left of that twenty I gave you?"

"Eight bucks. Why?"

Dodd chuckled. "Tell Hennessey that sometime, but not now. What about this parole idea?"

"That was Dunstead's notion. He couldn't figure out any way to get Horse Car out of the cooler right away, and so he says he will try this gag on old Judge Barth. Dunstead quoted a lot of phoney cases and reeled off some double-talk he claimed was in the Civil Code or somewhere, and Barth was so dumb he took it in. That old boy is half-witted."

"Now we come to the squeeze," said Dodd. "How about that bond on Horse Car?"

"That's us, Dodd. That's our cut. When I told Horse Car that Lilybud had won the Sweep, he nearly went nuts. He's a very suspicious old guy, and he was sure somebody would cheat him or something if he didn't get right out and collect his bet. So I say I'll try to get him out, but it will cost some dough, probably. He says he'll pay it. So, before I sign that five hundred dollar bond, I ask him about it. He says if we put up the five hundred so he can get out he will pay us five hundred when he collects from Dom Carlos. That's a hundred per cent on a bond, boss. That's good business."

"You bet," Dodd agreed. "Then what happened?"

"Well, Horse Car is so afraid somebody will cheat him that he is nuts. He gets that betting slip in his mitts, and he won't let go. I mean, for a fact. He holds it like a kid holds a piece of candy he's scared of losing. So I see the old guy is a little off his trolley, and I think I better tag along and collect for us."

"Sure," Dodd agreed. "Go on."

"DOM CARLOS has a drop at the Allied Apartments on Tenth near Ventner where he pays off his bets. It is dark by the time we get there, and Horse Car is seeing hob-goblins behind every fire plug, so we sneak in the alley heading for the back door. Somebody just up and shot at us without no warning at all. It felt like somebody hit me in the legs with an axe. I fell down and started to roll, and then this party hit me on the dome with something heavy. That's all."

"Did you see the guy at all?"

"I saw his legs when I rolled over. He was wearing white shoes and white pants."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. They showed up in the dark. I think Horse Car got away O.K., because the last thing I can remember is hearing his feet going down that alley like a machine gun. He was really runnin'. You got any line on him at all?"

"No. Not yet, but—"

Hennessey's voice sounded, faint but frantic: "She's cornin' back! Gimme that phone! Gimme— Yes, Mr. Magruder! Yes, Boss! I'm right here now, and I arranged them flowers just like you told me, and they sure are pretty... What, ma'am?... Me? Oh, no! I wouldn't let him talk on the telephone, not after you told me—"

There was a faint scrabbling sound, and then a feminine voice that sounded pleasant even when it was angry said furiously: "Who is this? Who is on this line?"

"Mr. Magruder," said Dodd. "From Magruder's Flower Shoppe."

"Were you talking to my patient?"

"Oh, no," said Dodd. "I just wanted to check up on my assistant. He's very untrustworthy and unreliable—"

"You don't need to tell me! I can't see why a florist would hire a big hulk who doesn't know a lily from a gardenia and tries to put his arm around people and kiss them. I don't think you have a flower shop at all but don't— you— call— my— patient—again!"

The line snapped so violently that it popped in Dodd's ear. He put the telephone carefully back on its stand.

The manager was jiggling from one foot to the other in an agony of nervousness. "You talked past the time Mr. Carlos was supposed to call! Now you'll have to wait—"

The telephone buzzed again.

"Oh!" said the manager. "Thank goodness! He must have got a busy signal and tried again!"

Dodd picked up the telephone and said: "Dodd speaking here."

There was a humming silence for a good ten seconds, and then a smooth, low voice said: "This is Dom Carlos, Dodd. I want to see you."

"All right," said Dodd. "When and where?"

"Go out the Third Street entrance of the hotel and walk west. A cab will pick you up within a half-block. He knows where to take you."

The line clicked softly.

"Is it— is it all right, Mr. Dodd?" the manager asked anxiously.

"It had better be," said Dodd. "Thanks for the service."

He went out of the office and crossed the lobby and pushed through the doors on the Third Street side of the hotel. It was late now, and a cooling breeze stirred away the remainder of the day's heat and felt fresh and soothing against Dodd's face. He started walking west, his footsteps sounding loudly hollow in the darkness.

Ahead of him and across the street, a car starter let go with a sudden rip. Headlights bloomed and then shined squarely on him as the car swung around in a U-turn and coasted in along the curb.

"Your name Dodd?"

"I think so," said Dodd.

A door latch snapped, and light bloomed softly yellow in the interior of the cab. There was no one in it but the driver. "Hop in."

Dodd got in and sat down, and the cab slid smoothly down the street.

"Want me to close my eyes and promise not to peek?" Dodd asked.

"I don't know nothin' about nothin', chum," said the driver. "I'm ignorant."

4: Two Hundred to One

HE MADE no attempt to complicate his route. He turned off on Travel Boulevard and went straight across town, heading up into the exclusive apartment house district on Bryant Hill. Halfway up, he turned off on a narrow side street, went two blocks and part of another, and then made a swing up the steep slope of a private drive and rolled down into a gloomy, cavern-like garage.

An attendant m white cover-alls was polishing a car beside the grease-pit, and he stopped and came toward the cab immediately, tucking the polish rag into his hip pocket. He opened the cab door and said: "This way, please, Mr. Dodd."

Dodd got out. "Do I owe you anything?" he asked the driver.

"Nope."

Dodd followed the attendant back farther into the garage. The attendant stopped in front of a wide white door and pressed a button beside it. They waited for a moment, and then the latch clicked. The attendant opened the door. There was an elevator on the other side.

"Step right in," the attendant invited. "I'll ride you up."

He got in the elevator after Dodd and pressed one of the buttons on the control panel. The elevator rose slowly, wheezing a little, and stopped at the fifth floor.

The attendant slid the door back. "It's 502, Mr. Dodd. Right ahead there."

The hall had white walls and a thick, bright pink carpet on the floor. The doors along it were the same shade of pink with spider-lik'e numerals in-set in the panels. Dodd knocked softly on 502.

"Come in."

Dodd opened the door and stepped inside. This was a single apartment— one long room not much wider than a pullman car, all modernistic and built-in, with indirect lighting like over-bright sunshine. There was no one in sight.

"Put up your hands, Dodd."

Dodd located the voice. It came through a half-opened door, the only one in the apartment, ahead and to his left. He raised his hands slowly.

"Turn around."

Dodd turned around. Feet whispered lightly on the rug behind him, and a round object poked warningly against his back between his shoulder blades.

"Stand still."

A hand patted him quickly and expertly, under both arms, both hips, around his waist.

"All right. Go over and sit in that chair."

Dodd strolled over and sank down into fibroid cushions that looked hard but were surprisingly comfortable. He looked up at the other man and smiled thinly.

"You've been seeing too many gangster movies."

"Probably," said Dom Carlos. "But I've heard a lot about you, Dodd. You've got a reputation for being tough, rough, and nasty in a clutch. I wanted to make sure I had a chance to talk to you before you started rolling."

HE WAS thick-set and taller than average and very fit-looking. He was deeply tanned, and he had black hair with streaks of gray in it and a black pencil-line mustache. He was the type that would have seemed very much at home on a polo field or at a hunt club or even on a yacht. He was wearing a black dressing gown and black silk pajamas. In his right hand, he was holding a stubby hammerless revolver, and he dropped it into the pocket of the dressing gown now.

"All right," said Dodd. "You talk. I'll listen."

"About your runner," said Dom Carlos. "This man, Meekins. I had nothing whatsoever to do with that deal. I was over at the Allied Apartments when the shooting happened, but I was in my own apartment at the time. I can prove it."

"Sure," said Dodd.

Dom Carlos made a helpless gesture. "That's just what I was afraid of! Good God, Dodd, be reasonable! Do you think I'd try to murder somebody just to keep from paying off a bet?"

"Ten thousand dollars ain't hay," said Dodd.

Dom Carlos walked the length of the apartment and back again. "I know it isn't. Two hundred to one. Good God! I've been kicking myself ever since!"

"I thought it was sort of off-center," Dodd commented.

"I'll tell you how it was. I was in the Stagland in the afternoon talking to some members of the Stirrup Club. They were having a polo game the next Sunday with that Army outfit from Fort Clark. They didn't have a chance against the Army— as a matter of fact they were beaten 15 to 2—but I was needling them a little to see if I couldn't get them to put some dough down at odds on themselves. This damned Horse Car sneaked in through the kitchen and braced me for odds on Lilybud. I tried to brush him off, but then he started to yell about me being afraid to take a bet. I could have had him thrown out, but it wouldn't have looked very good. Not when I was trying to needle these other boys into betting. You see what I mean?"

Dodd nodded, interested. "Yes. Go ahead."

"This Horse Car was obviously a bum. I was sure he didn't have more than four bits on him. So I said two hundred to one. And then he came up with fifty dollars, and I had to take it. Good God, Dodd, two hundred to one is only one-half of one per cent return on your money if you win. You don't think I could stay in business if I made deals like that?"

"No," Dodd admitted.

"I never make a bet at those odds unless it's for nickels to tease a sucker along, but as a matter of fact two hundred to one was fair enough in the circumstances. I've got lines on every track. That Lilybud was always a hay-bag, but I happened to know that Bimley had retired it. It wasn't even in training. It was out at pasture. But Bimley couldn't get any of his other horses back from the coast on account of war railroad priorities. He had to enter something to get his stable rights for the meet."

"I know," Dodd said.

Dom Carlos took another turn up and down the room. "I'm not claiming I can pay out ten thousand without weeping in my beer, but I thought I'd just make the best of it and use the deal for advertising. I figured on sticking the receipted betting slip up in the Stagland and letting people see what a sucker I was. I'd have made it back. I'm not fooling you, Dodd. If you will make several bets with me and let me name the odds, I can take you every time."

"I believe you," Dodd agreed.

Dom Carlos picked up a big manila envelope from the table and flipped it into Dodd's lap. "I'm ready to pay off. I'm not trying to dodge it."

The envelope had Lilybud scrawled

across it. The flap wasn't glued, and Dodd opened it and looked inside. The envelope was packed full of hundred dollar bills.

"Count them," Dom Carlos invited simply.

Dodd sighed and shook his head. He shut the envelope reluctantly and put it back on the table.

"Have you heard from Horse Car at all?" he asked.

"No. Not a word."

"How do you know he hasn't called at your drop over at the Allied Apartments?"

"I've got a man over there. I told him to send anyone who tried to collect over here."

"Anyone?" Dodd repeated sharply.

DOM CARLOS moved his heavy shoulders. "Now that's what puts me behind the eight-ball. I have to pay off on the slip, Dodd. No matter who has it or how he got it. I couldn't run my business any other way. That slip is a receipt and a claim on me. I have to honor it and no questions asked. That's why I've been trying to get hold of you— to tell you that. I can't hold the pay-off back for you or Meekins or Horse Car or anybody else."

"I see," said Dodd slowly.

"I don't want trouble with you, Dodd," said Dom Carlos earnestly. "I'll tell you who collects, but I can't stall him. In fact, you can sit here and wait for whoever comes around, if you want."

Dodd shook his head. "I want to find Horse Car—if someone hasn't found him already."

"How much are you in him for?"

"Five hundred dollars. For his bond."

"That's bad," said Doth Carlos. "I can't even hold out that for you. You can see why. I'm sorry about this whole business, Dodd. I'm right in the middle. It's no pleasure for me."

"Meekins didn't have fun, either," said Dodd. "Do you play tennis?"

"What?" said Dom Carlos blankly. "Tennis? Why, sometimes?"

"Do you ever play at night?"

"No," said Dom Carlos, puzzled.

"Were you playing late yesterday afternoon ?"

"No."

"Did you see anyone around the Allied Apartments that had been or was going to?"

"No," said Dom Carlos. "But why?"

"Just checking up. Do you know anybody off-hand who makes a habit of wearing white shoes and white trousers at night?"

Dom Carlos shook his head slowly. "No, I don't."

"Somebody does," said Dodd. "Or did. I'd like to locate him. He's a man I want to meet."

A telephone bell hummed softly somewhere. Dom Carlos went over to the streamlined bureau, opened the top drawer, and took a telephone out of it.

"Yes?" He waited for a moment, listening intently. "Who? Lieutenant Gudolfson? I don't know him."

Dodd sat up straight suddenly.

"What?" said Dom Carlos into the telephone. "An assignment? That can't be—"

"What is it?" Dodd interrupted.

"Wait," Dom Carlos said into the telephone. He nodded at Dodd, scowling. 'This is the man I left over at the Allied Apartments. He says a detective by the name of Lieutenant Gudolfson is there with what he claims is an assignment of Horse Car's interest in my betting slip. He hasn't got the slip, but it's described in the assignment. He claims the assignment takes precedence over the betting slip because it's a legal instrument—"

"Oh-oh," said Dodd. "Tell your man to put Gudolfson on the wire. I'll talk to him."

"Let me talk to Gudolfson, Dick," Dom Carlos requested. He handed the telephone to Dodd.

Dodd said: "Hello, Dunstead. This is your client."

THERE was a long silence, and then Dunstead's voice asked cautiously: "Who— did you say you were?"

"Your client, you louse. Dodd is the name. "

"Oh! What? Why— why, I'm not— you're not my client I'm representing—"

"Me," said Dodd. "I've got it down in black and white. You should have read that receipt Meekins had you sign."

"Receipt?" Dunstead repeated. "I didn't—I mean, I resign! I'm representing Mr. Horse Car—"

"Oh, no," said Dodd. "I refuse to accept your resignation without due notice. And even if you do resign, you can't represent Horse Car because the receipt states that his interests and mine are opposed and that you understand they are. Do you understand that?"

"I didn't— it didn't— you can't—"

"Any more of your lip, and we'll argue it out in front of the Bar Association," Dodd warned. "Now listen, Dunstead, I've got a job for you. I've decided to lease the Empire State Building in New York City. I want you to make out a master lease on it and a separate lease for each tenant in the building, giving all particulars in detail."

"What? Empire State? Why, there are hundreds of tenants—"

"Haste is imperative," said Dodd. "I want everything ready by tomorrow afternoon."

"I couldn't possibly—"

"You get it done. Start working right now and don't stop until you're finished. If you're not ready on time, I'll sue you for a billion dollars and have you pinched for impersonating an officer and disbarred for trying to represent both sides of legal case. Now, scat."

Dodd handed the telephone back to Dom Carlos. "He won't bother you any more. I've got to run along now."

Dom Carlos put the telephone back in its drawer. "Do you mind telling me where you're going?"

"Down on Water Street. I figure Horse Car will head for his old hangout if he wants to get under cover. If you want to get in touch with me, try the Emergency Hospital."

Dom Carlos frowned thoughtfully.

"Water Street. Are you going down there alone?"

"Sure."

Dom Carlos took the stubby revolver from the pocket of his dressing gown and extended it butt first. He didn't say anything.

Dodd nodded once and put the revolver in his coat pocket. "Thanks. I'll see

you."

5: Benny the Beef

WATER STREET was rough and tough and— literally— full of fleas. Formerly it was accustomed to roll over and roar every Saturday night, but since the war industries had opened up the town it roared every night. It was after two o'clock in the morning now, but the sidewalks were full of tramps of both sexes and bums of every hue. Store-fronts and saloons dripped blindingly incandescent streaks of neon, and shills lay in wait in every doorway, ready to grab you and drag you inside if you so much as glanced at a window display. This had been posted out-of-bounds for soldiers, sailors, and marines, and there were no uniforms visible except for an occasional shore patrol or military police detail.

Dodd got out of a taxi at the corner of Crail Street and stood there for about ten minutes, watching the crowd stagger past. After awhile, a voice spoke to him from just below the level of his left shoulder.

"I can't pay you tonight, Dodd."

Dodd looked around. "What did you say?"

"I can't pay you tonight. I can't pay you for another couple weeks. I can't pick no fifty bucks off a bush. I got to put out for the stuff. They ain't gonna give me no tea on credit. I told Meekins that."

He was a very small man, very thin, dressed in a dark suit that was shiny at the seams. He had a still, dark face, and the skin was pulled so tightly over his cheekbones that it glistened. He opened his mouth a little when he talked, but he didn't move his lips.

"Meekins said it was O.K.," he went

Dodd remembered him now. His name was Benny Beef, or so his record stated, and he had been arrested for every petty crime the state legislature had been able to discover and make a law against.

"You peddling marihuana now?" Dodd asked him.

"Sure. Only to my pals, though. Strictly private. I ain't no wholesale house. Roll 'em up myself. Cost me a nickel apiece. Sell 'em three for four bits."

"Have you got any on you now?"

"Naw. I got six or eight drops along the street where I keep 'em stashed away. I can easy get you some, though. All you want. Compliments of the house."

"No, thanks," said Dodd. "I just didn't want to talk to you if you were carrying any. This district is floating with feds. I don't want any part of them."

"You and me," Benny Beef agreed. "They don't bother with no small-time stuff, though. Japs, they're lookin' for, and fifth columns and blast-boys and like that."

"I want some information," Dodd said. "I'm looking for Horse Car Jackson."

"Sure," said Benny Beef. "Everybody is—or was."

"What do you mean?" Dodd demanded.

Benny Beef licked his colorless lips. "Fifty fish at two hundred to one. And Dom Carlos pays of? like the U. S. Mint. Sure, everybody was lookin' for Horse Car."

"Why aren't they still looking for him? Did someone find him?"

"Naw. Not yet—I don't think. Red Tano put the word out that he was poison."

"Come again," Dodd invited.

"Red Tano." said Benny Beef. "He runs the Ritz-Plaza Cocktail Salon. He's got fifty-sixty guys out scoutin' for Horse Car. Them guys put the word out that Red Tano don't want to hear of anybody else lookin' for him."

"Is Red Tano a tough guy?"

BENNY BEEF'S lip curled slightly.

"He claims. He gets funny with me he's gonna get a knife stuck in that fat pot of his. I don't like his business methods."

"Such as what?" Dodd asked curiously. "The Ritz-Plaza is nothing but a smoke-hole. Why, he makes his whiskey out of anti-freeze fluid and rubbing alcohol and like that. Sells it for a nickel a shot. He's ruinin' a lot of my customers' healths."

"You think marihuana would be better for them?"

"Well, sure. Mary-Jane don't hurt you. I smoked it for years, and look at me."

"I am," said Dodd. "But I'd rather look at Red Tano. I'll forget that fifty bucks if you'll come along and introduce me to him."

"It's a deal," said Benny Beef. "Only I tell you, I don't like that guy. I don't figure he's ethical. We had words about it more'n once. I tell him the last time that if he lays any more of my customers away with that there acute alcohol poisoning, I'm gonna cut out his heart and feed it to him."

"How about his fifty or sixty tough guys?"

Benny Beef looked up slowly, and his eyes were all shiny black, dilated pupil. "Why, I ain't scared of no fifty-sixty guys, Dodd."

"Oh-oh," said Dodd, swallowing.

Benny Beef smiled, showing dark, wide-spaced teeth. "Now don't worry, Dodd. I ain't loaded up. I ain't smoked more than two or three or four, I don't think. I'm just feelin' normal-like. You can see that."

"Sure," said Dodd warily. "But maybe we'd better forget Red Tano—"

"Come on along," said Benny Beef. "This way. It's only a block."

He began to drift along with the crowd in a peculiarly effortless, gliding walk. Dodd hesitated a moment and then shrugged his shoulders and followed him.

People muttered and milled around them, and the air was full of rackety swing and the hibber-gibber of sidewalk barkers and a complicated miasma of odors that hung over the street like a fog.

"Right here," said Benny Beef.

He turned into a pitch-black alley, and the bricks were unpleasantly slimy under Dodd's feet.

"Keep in the center," Benny Beef advised. "There's garbage cans and drunks and stuff along the walls."

Dodd stopped short. "Wait a minute. I can't see a damned thing. Let me put my hand on your shoulder."

"Here I am," said Benny Beef.

Dodd groped in the darkness and located his narrow, thin shoulder. "Lead

Benny Beef either could see in the dark or felt it wasn't necessary, because he went right along regardless. The air moved and stank and whispered invisibly around them. Dodd was beginning to feel very edgy. He put his free hand in his pocket and gripped Dom Carlos' stubby revolver hard. Benny Beef was whistling a very complicated arrangement of a popular tune. "Turn," he said, and did so.

DODD stumbled around behind him. A weary light gleamed over a white-painted door ahead of them. Benny Beef walked up to it and kicked it open, and sound tunneled out at them like banshees howling from the bottom of a well.

The Ritz-Plaza Cocktail Salon was a long room, unpainted and unadorned with anything resembling furniture. The customers roamed back and forth between the walls until they fell down and stayed there or got up again. They yelled and argued with each other and themselves, too. They were all filthy and stinking drunk and some of them were obviously mad, and the all-over picture was something that had to be seen to be believed.

Benny Beef pushed one man in the face and elbowed another in the stomach and walked right through to the short, narrow bar at the far end of the room. The bartender had no front teeth and only one ear.

"Is Red in the back room?" Benny Beef asked him.

The bartender spread two enormous hands flat on the top of the bar and leaned forward. "Scram, muggles-pincher! We don't want no reefers today!" he said.

There was a little snap and a glittering flick in the air, and Benny Beef pressed the blade of a knife delicately and gently against the first knuckle of the forefinger of the bartender's right hand.

"You're so sweet," he said, smiling, "that I think I'll hack me off a souvenir to remember you by."

His knife was the type known as the Arkansas toothpick, sharp-pointed with a thin, cruel blade. The bartender looked at it, and he didn't move. He stood as rigid as a statue, slowly turning green around the mouth. There was another snap and a flick, and the knife disappeared.

"Joke," said Benny Beef, winking. "Ha-ha. Is Red in the back room?"

"Yes," said the bartender,' with a gulp.

"Come on, Dodd," said Benny Beef.

He went around the end of the bar and pushed open another door. Dodd followed him into a narrow hall with walls that were greenish and mildewed and peeling away in ragged strips.

Benny Beef pointed to a door at the side. "Exit," he explained. "In case we come out fast. Gives out into an alley that leads to a parking lot that faces on Crail below Water. Catch?"

"Catch," said Dodd. "But let's not come out fast."

"You never can tell," said Benny Beef. "I'm riding, and when I'm riding you just never can tell. Come on."

HE WENT on down the hall and opened the door at the end and walked through. Dodd followed him gingerly. There was a bridge lamp with a blue shade in the middle of the room and an iron cot with a striped mattress on it against the far wall. A man lay like a great wheezing, inert mound on top of the mattress.

"Hi, Red," said Benny Beef.

The man wheezed louder once, and then said thickly: "You tea-dancer, you're fulla hop or you wouldn't dare show your ugly puss around here. Who's that droop with you?"

"Dodd," said Benny Beef. "Bail-Bond Dodd. This is Red Tano, Dodd."

Dodd nodded. "Hello. I want to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to you. Get the hell out of my place."

"He's sassy," said Benny Beef. "Fat and sassy."

Red Tano rolled over, and the springs on the cot groaned under him. Puffing laboriously he pushed himself up to a sitting position. His face was as big and flat as a snare drum and redder than the fringe of rusty hair that circled an immense, nakedly gleaming expanse of skull above his wrinkled forehead.

"Get the hell out," he repeated. "Relax," Dodd advised, closing the door behind him. "I hear you're prowling around after Horse Car Jackson. What for?"

"Owes me dough."

"How much?" Dodd demanded.

"Fifty bucks."

"For what?"

"He won it here in a crap game."

"How does that make him owe it to you?"

Benny Beef was leaning against the wall in an elaborately graceful way. "That's the way it is in this dive. Red runs a crap game in front when he can find anybody with dough, but nobody but him ever walks away with any winnings. If Red can't take 'em away with loaded dice, he gives the guy a mickey and rolls him when he passes out. When the guy comes to, Red tells him he spent all the dough on drinks, and the guy feels so bad he thinks maybe he might have."

Red Tano didn't trouble to deny it. "You two blow outa here. Don't want you around. Beat it, or you get some trouble."

"How did Horse Car get out with the fifty?" Dodd asked.

"Ran like hell," said Red Tano. "You guys gonna leave— under your own power?"

"When we get ready," said Dodd.

Red Tano bounced once on the creaking bed, preparing to heave himself to his feet. Dodd took the stubby revolver out of his pocket and pointed it casually at him.

"Sit still, fatso."

Red Tano relaxed and wheezed thickly. His lips pulled back from teeth that were as sharp and yellow as a wolf's.

Dodd said: "Listen. I'm taking care of Horse Car. You leave him alone. Call in your boys and keep out from under my feet."

There was a sudden pound of footsteps in the hall, and a fist slammed against the door.

"Hey, Red!" a hoarse voice said. "I got somethin'."

Dodd stepped sideways away from the door. He moved the revolver meaningly and nodded at Red Tano. Tano sat mountainously silent, glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey, Red!" said the voice outside.

Dodd murmured softly: "Maybe I'm fooling. Maybe this gun isn't loaded."

"Come on in," Red Tano called sullenly.

6: Call the Morgue

THE door opened, and a heavy-shouldered man in a patched red sweater and a checked cap slumped through it and with a contemptuous heave hauled another man in behind him and dumped him in a heap on the floor. The heavy-shouldered man opened his mouth to say something to Tano, and then he caught sight of Dodd's gun. His mouth stayed open.

"Shut the door," Dodd said.

The man groped behind him with one thick arm, finally hit the door and knocked it shut. Nobody moved for a long, dragging moment. The man on the floor lay like a bundle of rag-clad sticks, and now he raised a smeared, sick-white face and peered around with eyes that seemed to cringe in their sockets.

"What's your name?" Dodd asked the heavy-shouldered man.

"Joe Haley."

Dodd jerked his head toward the thin little man on the floor. "Where'd you get this, and what did you have to tell Red about him?"

Haley looked at Red Tano questioningly.

Dodd moved the revolver. "Talk to me. Red's sitting this one out."

Haley moistened his lips. "The guy's name is Sailor. I caught him buyin' food."

"What of it?" Dodd demanded.

Benny Beef said: "The old bird is a canned-heat drinker, Dodd. They don't eat."

"What?" Dodd said, startled.

Benny Beef shrugged. "Well— hardly any. Just what they can pick off garbage cans and like that. No canned-heat drinker would buy food. It ain't that important to him. That's why Haley nabbed the old boy. He was buyin' the food for somebody else. Some pal who is under cover and don't want to come out and buy it himself. Catch?"

"Yes," said Dodd. "You, Sailor. Who were you buying that food for?"

Sailor stared with eyes that were bleary, watering slits. He shook his head once, and then he wound his skinny arms around his head and waited, resigned for whatever came next.

"Now you're going to have a hell of a time," Benny Beef said. "Them canned-heat bums get numb from drinkin' so much of the stuff. You can stick pins in 'em, and they don't even know it. No use beatin' the guy up to get him to talk. It won't hurt him."

"Haley," said Dodd. "What did you get out of him?"

Haley said: "Nothin'. I slapped him around, but he wouldn't talk."

"Does he know Horse Car?"

"Yeah," Benny Beef answered. "I seen 'em together. Horse Car was tryin' to reform him. That Horse Car has got some cylinders missin'."

Sailor unwound his arms slowly and cautiously. "That's a dirty lie. Horse Car's as smart as anybody, and he's a nice fella, and you better leave him alone." He glared malignantly at Haley. "That fella took somethin' else from me besides the two bits."

"What?" Dodd asked quickly.

"Piece of paper. With writin' on it."

"Let's see it," Dodd ordered.

Haley reluctantly produced a ragged slip of paper from the pocket of his corduroy trousers. He held it out, and Dodd stepped closer, reaching for it.

"Look out!" Benny Beef yelled.

Haley grabbed Dodd's hand and tried to snap a wristlock on his arm. Dodd slashed him across the nose with the blunt barrel of the revolver. Haley yelled, and Dodd jerked his arm away, spinning around.

RED TANO fell flat on his back and flipped one arm over and back pf the cot. He came up to a sitting position again, not wheezing and panting at all now, but moving as smoothly as a coiled spring. He had a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, and he swung it at Dodd.

Before Dodd could move there was a quick whicker of steel in front of his face, and the toothpick knife hit Red Tano with a little slapping sound just under the fat bulge of his chin. It stayed there, black handle jutting straight out and trembling.

A hand clawed across Dodd's back, and he spun again, ducking, and tripped over Sailor's stick-like leg. He fell flat on his back, and Haley loomed over him, arms spread wide and blood from his nose smeared across one cheek.

"Back up!" Dodd shouted.

Haley dived head-first at him. The stubby revolver jumped and roared in Dodd's hand, and Haley writhed in midair and fell sprawling and leadenly motionless over Dodd, knocking him backwards. Dodd's head banged against the floor, and Benny Beef went over him in a cat-like leap.

Benny Beef was laughing crazily. He was clear out of this world now, and he went for Red Tano, whipping out one hand to grab for the hilt of the knife.

"Yeeah!" yelled Benny Beef.

The shotgun thundered. Benny Beef went whirling across the room as if he had no weight at all, and his face was a formless red smear. He hit the wall and bounced off and fell flat on the floor. He didn't move again.

Dodd sat up and looked at Red Tano. The shotgun slipped out of Tano's freckled, fat hands and thumped on the floor. He sat there, hunched forward a little, chin propped on the knife handle, staring blindly ahead. Then he made a noise like a cough. Blood came out of his mouth in a dark, welling flood. He fell forward off the cot in a quivering, jelly-like heap.

Dodd got up stiffly. The smell of powder smoke bit at his nostrils and made him choke with nausea.

"Oh!" Sailor whimpered. "Oh, oh!"

Dodd leaned down and caught him. "Come on. We've got to get out of here."

"My paper," said Sailor.

He scrambled across the floor and picked up the ragged scrap of paper. Dodd hauled him to his feet and thrust him toward the door.

Dodd opened the door and looked down the hall. The one-eared bartender was thrusting through it, a sawed-off billiard cue swinging in one hand. Dodd fired twice, shooting high, and the bartender howled and jumped back out of sight.

Taking a firm grip on Sailor, Dodd pulled him along the hall to the exit door Benny Beef had pointed out. Dodd knocked up the, latch with the barrel of his revolver and thrust Sailor through into steamy, squirming darkness, slamming the door violently shut behind them.

"Run!" he ordered.

The mud was slippery over cobblestones under their feet. Dodd slammed into a garbage can and sent it rolling tinnily and stepped on something soft that roared a drunkenly incoherent protest. Sailor was as light as thistledown, and he tried to jerk away now.

"No, you don't!" said Dodd, getting him by the nape of the neck.

THEY ran on in a kind of shuffling lock step, and then blurred lights showed ahead, and Dodd steered Sailor sideways between rows of dusty cars packed into a long, narrow parking lot. Apparently there was no attendant on duty this late, and Dodd pulled up, breathing hard, between two of the cars. He listened intently, but there was no sound of any pursuit from the alley. He sighed and dropped the revolver into his coat pocket.

"You— you lemme go," Sailor whimpered.

"Sit," Dodd ordered, pushing him down on the running board of one of the cars. "Where's that piece of paper, Sailor?"

"I et it."

"What ?" said Dodd blankly.

"I swallered it."

"Well, why?" Dodd demanded.

" 'Cause that's what I was supposed to do if anybody tackled me. I woulda done it before, only that Haley grabbed me before I could. I ain't gonna tell you nothin' about Horse Car, not even if you was to kill me."

"So," said Dodd. "You do know something about him?"

"I ain't gonna tell you nothin'. He's my friend, and he's nice to me. Go ahead and beat me. I don't care."

"Now listen to me," said Dodd. "I want to help Horse Car. I want to locate him before these wolves around here find him and pull him down. In fact, I have already helped him. I'm the one who got him out of jail. My name is Dodd. Didn't he say anything about that?"

Sailor's eyes were blearily suspicious. "Bail-Bond Dodd?"

"Yes."

"What's the fella's name that works for you?"

"Meekins."

Sailor nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's what Horse Car said. He was right sorry Meekins got shot. He said Meekins was tryin' to help him collect his bet. He's awful scared now, Horse Car is. He says them shots was meant for him— not Meekins."

"They were. What were you supposed to do with that piece of paper he gave you— I mean, besides eat it?"

"Call the number that was on it on the telephone."

"Whose number was it?"

"I dunno."

"What were you supposed to say when somebody answered?"

"Just tell 'em that Mr. Jackson was awful sick and to come down and get him."

"Is he sick?"

"Nope. Just scared."

"Do you remember the number?"

Sailor hesitated warily. "You sure you honest want to help Horse Car? You ain't lyin' to me and foolin' me?"

"Do you think I'd have a gun-fight with Red Tano just for a thrill?" Dodd asked. "Didn't I advance Horse Car five hundred dollars to get out of jail? Doesn't that prove I'm a friend?"

"I guess so," said Sailor, still doubtful. "Well... The number was Center 4567. I remember because it was like countin'."

"That sounds like an official number," Dodd said slowly. "Did you call it?"

"Yeah, and I said just like Horse Car told me to and then hung up quick, and then Haley grabbed me."

"Where is Horse Car now?" Dodd asked casually.

SAILOR studied him in silent misery.

Dodd said: "You'd better tell me, Sailor. You saw what happened in Red Tano's. Just the thought of that ten thousand makes these boys around here get red in the eye. If I don't help him, someone else will find Horse Car, and that'll be the end of him for sure."

Sailor swallowed. "At 18 Calcutta Street. Number 82— upstairs in back."

"Thanks," said Dodd. "You'd better go a long ways away from here— quick. People are going to be looking for you. Here."

He took Meekins' wallet from his pocket and pulled out the bills Hennessey had collected from Crestwick. He wadded them up and put them in Sailor's grimy hand.

"Gee," said Sailor in an awed whisper.

"Lay off the canned-heat until you get out of town," Dodd advised. "Scram now, Sailor."

Sailor scuttled away, ducking expertly around and between cars, and disappeared without a trace. After a moment, Dodd walked the length of the parking lot and came out into the shadowy quiet of Crail Street. He went on up to the corner of Water and looked down the block.

There were two police prowl cars and a shiny white ambulance parked at the mouth of the alley into which Benny Beef had led him so confidently. As Dodd watched, two uniformed figures carrying an empty stretcher came slouching disgustedly out of the alley. They heaved the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.

"Hey!" called a policeman who was pushing the crowd along the sidewalk. "Was it a false alarm?"

"Why don't you guys look before you start hangin' on the telephone?" one of the ambulance attendants answered. "Them guys is dead. Call the morgue."

Dodd stood rigid, watching the attendants climb into the front of the ambulance. His eyes were wide and startled behind his glasses. The uniforms the attendants wore were white. So were their shoes...

He found that he was staring absently at a sign across the street that spelled out in red neon script the words: UNCLE LEMUEL'S LOANS.

Dodd walked across the street and went through a narrow doorway into the incredibly cluttered interior of the pawnshop. Uncle Lemuel, behind the high counter at the rear, was young and sleek and beady-eyed. He wore a pink suit and a pinker shirt and a turquoise necktie.

Dodd nodded. "Hello, Lem. Have you got a few .38 Short revolver cartridges lying around that you don't want?"

"I ain't supposed to sell cartridges or even give 'em away free, Dodd, but right now I got asthma something terrible and I positive got to step out and catch a snort of fresh air. If you looked in the second drawer of this desk while I was gone, could I help it?"

"Thanks," said Dodd, going behind the counter. "Can I use your phone?"

"I ain't stopping you, am I?" asked Uncle Lemuel, strolling elegantly out.

DODD pawed around in the drawer until he located an opened box of cartridges that fitted the stubby revolver. He reloaded it and dropped several more cartridges into his pocket. Sitting down on Uncle Lemuel's stool, he lifted the telephone and dialed Center 4567.

"Hello," a voice answered at once.

Dodd's head jerked back, and he stared incredulously into the mouthpiece.

"Well," said the voice, "are you gonna talk or ain't you?"

"Hennessey!" Dodd exploded. "Where are you?"

"Well, right where I been all the time. At the Emergency Hospital."

Dodd's lips pursed in a silent whistle, and then after a second he asked: "How come you're answering the telephone?"

"Meekins, that big rat, went and peached on me. He told his nurse— is she gorgeous!— that I wasn't no delivery boy for no florist, so she slapped my face and threw me out of his room. So I come down to the lobby and waited."

"What for?" Dodd asked.

"Well, I ain't gonna give up that easy, Dodd. You should see that nurse. She's wonderful. Pretty soon she's gonna feel sorry she slapped me, I bet, and then I'm gonna quick ask her for a date. So I been waitin' for her to get sorry and chattin' with that sourpuss, Nurse Parr. She is not so bad when you get to know her, Dodd, although she is full of some of the screwiest ideas I ever heard. So she has to go to the rest-room and powder her nose and what-not, and there ain't nobody to relieve her, so I say I'll handle the board at the reception desk for a moment. How am I doin'?"

"Fine," said Dodd. "Listen. You said that Crestwick, the ambulance guy, picked Meekins up. Are you sure he did? Or did he just search Meekins when they got him back to the hospital?"

"I dunno, Dodd."

"Find out. And also find out if Crestwick plays the races."

"He does. I found a Racing Form in his pocket when I shook him down. So does that doctor that is fixin' Meekins. He has had three calls from a bookie since I been on the board here."

"O.K.," said Dodd. "I'll see you soon. Keep the home fires burning."

He put the telephone back on its base and went to the front of the store. Uncle Lemuel was lounging in the doorway.

"Where's Calcutta Street, Lem?" Dodd asked.

"Down Water a block this side of the piers. It ain't what you'd call elegant. I was wondering— did I see you tonight, Dodd?"

"No," said Dodd.

"I knew all the time it wasn't you," Lemuel told him.

7: Lilybud Pays Off

IN THE old days Calcutta Street was infamously known and cursed on every sea in the world. Crimps roved up and down its roaring length with a bottle of doped whiskey in one pocket and a blackjack in the other. They offered you the whiskey first. If you refused it, you got the blackjack without any more argument. You woke up in a hell-ship with the rats gnawing at your toes.

All that was gone now, with the sailing ships, and even the War hadn't stirred the street out of its aged, evil decay.

Number 18 Calcutta was only a half-block up from the piers, standing gaunt and blackly ancient between the squatter ruins of two abandoned warehouses.

A single bulb burned at the front, and below it the door gaped like a toothless mouth. Dodd went into a narrow hallway. There was a desk at the side, and a yellowish skeleton of a man slept in the swivel chair behind it, tipped far back, with saliva making a glistening line through the stubble on his cheek.

Dodd went softly up the flight of narrow stairs and came out into a long, narrow hallway at the top. There was no one in sight but behind one of the closely spaced doors someone was moaning in a dreary cadence and behind another someone talked in a raving monotone that went on and on without pause for breath or punctuation. Dodd walked down the hall and stopped in front of the door numbered 82. He knocked softly and said in a hoarse murmur: "Horse Car, it's Sailor."

There was no stir, no sound, from behind the door. Dodd tried the greasy knob. It clicked, and he pushed the door back with a squeal of rusty hinges.

Dodd didn't attempt to enter. He stepped back and sideways, revolver balanced in his right hand. The room was dark. Dodd found a match with his left hand, snapped it alight.

The flame painted a quick, smeared picture of utter barrenness. The room was as narrow as a grave and contained nothing but a shelf-like bunk. Dodd went on in and pulled the knotted string dangling from the unshaded bulb that hung down from the ceiling.

HORSE CAR was lying on the bed.

The crusted blanket under him had soaked up most of his blood, but there was a thick little pool of it under the fingers of the hand that dangled lifelessly toward the floor. A thin safety razor blade glistened brightly against the red background. There was a small red nick, no more than half an inch long, under Horse Car's ear, and he had been dead for about an hour.

Dodd began to swear to himself in a soft, bitter whisper. Someway, the whole time, he had felt this was going to happen. Events had been. marching inexorably toward this very climax, but it didn't make him feel any better to see it. That betting slip had been Horse Car's death warrant, and after it had become valid he had just been living on borrowed time. The horrible part of it was that he had known it. He had run as fast and far as he could and hidden as deeply, but it hadn't been good enough.

Dodd put the revolver back in his pocket and reached up to turn out the light. There was nothing more he could do. He froze suddenly, then, staring incredulously. Horse Car's left hand, pulled in close against his side, was doubled into a fist, and the edge of a green piece of paper peeped out between the rigid fingers.

Still incredulous, Dodd stepped closer and leaned down. Very gently and slowly, he worked the paper loose from Horse Car's grip. It was crumpled and sweaty, and Dodd unfolded it carefully. He saw the name Dom Carlos printed in gold at the top and under it, written in red ink, Fifty dollars at two hundred to one — Lilybud— Crater Lake Sweep and the swirling initials D. C.

It was Dom Carlos' betting slip. The murderer certainly couldn't have missed it, had he searched at all.

It didn't make any sense at all, and Dodd had a creeping, uneasy feeling that made the sweat come out cold on his forehead. He went down the hall, trying to look in every direction at once. He went down the stairs, and the yellowish man was still snoring behind the desk.

He found a taxi on Water Street. "Emergency Hospital," he said hoarsely.

"You do look kinda sick, at that," the driver observed.

DODD came into the lobby of the hospital in a hurry. He was scowling, and his eyes were narrowed and hard and puzzled behind the lenses of his glasses. His heels cracked hard on the tile floor, and Nurse Parr, behind the reception desk, looked up with annoyance.

Hennessey was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. "Hi, Dodd," he greeted. "I was wonderin' if you would get here in time. Listen, I want you should go up and tell that nurse that it's time she should go home and have a rest, and you're gonna give her a police escort—"

"Shut up," said Dodd. "What did you find out about Crestwick?"

"Well, he was the one that picked Meekins up just like he said. If you think maybe he is the baby that blew at Meekins, you are wrong. The neighbors called in not five minutes after the shootin', and Crestwick was here then."

"What about that doctor?"

"I dunno about him. You didn't ask me to find out."

Dodd turned toward the reception desk. "Nurse Parr, do you know if Doctor Burns was here in the hospital when that call on Meekins came in?"

"He was," Nurse Parr snapped. "He was operating. I know, because some bookie person wanted him. He made such a nuisance of himself that I went to see if the doctor was busy finally to get rid of him. Doctor Burns is an excellent physician, but this vicious craze for gambling that has him in its grip will result in his certain ruin. I warned him."

"You see?" said Hennessey. "I told you. She has nutty notions."

Nurse Parr's sallow face flushed slightly. "I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut! I know whereof I speak. The greatest calamity that ever befell this state was when gambling on horse races was legalized. I fought it with all my power. I wrote letters to every member of the legislature but they ignored me."

"You're very bitter," Dodd abserved.

Nurse Parr raised her voice. "I have the right to be! Gambling on horse races broke up my home— ruined my marriage! My husband loitered at horse race tracks!"

"Gee," said Hennessey. "Did he beat you, too? I don't see hardly how he could have helped it."

Dodd asked confidentially: "Your husband's name wasn't Parr, was it?"

"No! I wanted no reminder of him and his evil ways. I gave him his choice— horse races or me. He chose, and then I resumed my own name, but I've never divorced him. His name was Jackson."

Hennessey jumped. "What?"

Dodd said: "Your husband is dead now, Nurse Parr. He was murdered."

"That is of no interest to me," said Nurse Parr spitefully. "He invited it by his gambling and his vicious life. Now I suppose I'll have to pay for his funeral. I'm certain that he'd leave no estate."

"I wonder," said Dodd slowly. "Hennessey, you said Horse Car had a dime on him when he was picked up."

"Well, he had two nickels," said Hennessey. "That's a dime, ain't it?"

Dodd nodded. "Two nickels. He used them both— in telephone calls. He called the same number both times— this number. Didn't he, Nurse Parr?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," said Nurse Parr.

"Horse Car must have been a little crazy," Dodd said thoughtfully. "He had kept track of you, and he still loved you, even after the permanent brush-off you gave him, and the first thought he had was to share his good luck with you. He called you up and told you all about it. About Dorn Carlos and the ten thousand dollars and where and when he was going to get paid off. Only you didn't want to share with him, did you? You wanted all of that ten thousand. You waited in the alley and shot at him, but you hit Meekins instead."

DODD was watching Nurse Parr. "You borrowed the revolver from Crestwick or someone else. But you'd never shot one before, I don't suppose, and you missed badly. You hit Meekins, and you smacked him over the head to keep him from seeing who you were. He caught a glimpse of white shoes and what he thought were white trousers. You wear white stockings. They were what he saw."

"That's childish nonsense," she said.

"Horse Car didn't recognize you in the dark," Dodd went on. "He had no idea that you would try to kill him. So the poor guy gave you another chance. He didn't have anyone else to turn to. He thought he could trust you. He had his friend call and say he was sick at 18 Calcutta Street. He knew you'd get the message and understand. Unfortunately for him, he was right. You went down there. This time you didn't trust to 5. revolver. You've had training as a surgical nurse. You knew just how to nick that artery in Horse Car's neck, and he bled to death because he wouldn't call out or seek help because he didn't want to involve you."

Nurse Parr smiled primly. "Mr. Dodd, I think you must be quite mad— as well as stupid. You know very well that you can't prove one word you've said."

"Here's one thing I can prove," said Dodd. "You should have studied that law that legalized betting just a little more closely. You left that betting slip in Horse Car's hand because you wanted it found on him. You thought you'd inherit the ten thousand dollars that way. That's why you mentioned, just now, that you were his wife. You were already starting to lay the foundation of your claim. But that law that legalized betting legalized it at the race track through mutuel machines. It didn't legalize betting with bookies. That's just as illegal as it ever was. A bet like the one Horse Car made with Dom Carlos is an illegal debt, and you can't collect it through an action at law. You can't inherit it."

Nurse Parr sat perfectly still and frozen.

"You're lying," she whispered.

"Naw, he ain't," said Hennessey. "Do you think that if that there bookie-florist was legitimate he would have give me all them flowers up in Meekins' room for only five bucks?"

Nurse Parr screamed. The sound went on and on endlessly and crazily until it filled the whole lobby, and the cords stood out rigid on Nurse Parr's neck. Her face was a queer dusky purple. And then suddenly she collapsed. Her head banged down on the top of the desk and rolled a little, and her white cap fell off. She made little whimpering sounds.

"Say!" said Hennessey. "That there betting slip! You said she left it on Horse Car! Somebody's liable to steal it! It may be an illegal debt, but Dom Carlos will pay off on it and right now!"

"Is that a fact?" said Dodd blandly.

________________

Index to Past Masters Nos 61-77

The "Author Index" to Issues 1-60 has been uploaded separately.

Achmed Abdullah

The Mystery of the Talking Idols 63

"A. E. P."

The End of Sherlock Holmes  67

Achmed Abdullah

Framed at the Benefactors' Club 73

W. L. Alden

After the Comet 67

Foote's Catorium 70

How the Fat Woman Eloped 68

A Scientific Balloon 72

Silver Plated   67

The Wild Man of Borneo 67

Mark Allerton

A Christmas Mix-Up 70

The Stanhope Scandal 70

Anonymous

A Barrack Ghost Story 76

Beauty in Flight 76

The Diamond Necklace 62

The Great Auk's Egg Affair 61

Fool Proof  75

The Hat Trick 71

Jacobs and Gale, Tobacconists 70

Local Color 75

An Old Norman-French Story 76

A Railway Murder 70

Remorse 76

Retribution 74

Revenge 74

The Ruins of the Abbey of Fitz-Martin 64

The Skipper's Scheme 73

The Stamp Thief 71

The Thriller 71

A Solicitor's Story 75 (as by "S.S.")

F. Anstey

Taken By Surprise  66

Francis Henry Atkins

The Lay Figure  63

Edouard A. Aujard

The Flood 75

The Swing of Sentiment  75

Stacy Aumonier

A Source of Irritation 73

Irving Bacheller

Holy Poker 71

The Prodigal Village 71

Robert Barr

The Last Straw 72

J. M. Barrie

The Adventure of the Two Collaborators 75

My Brother Henry 72

John Arthur Barry

Baleston's Secret Reef 72

The Mystery of the "Mountain Maid"  64

Frederick R. Bechdolt

Before Michael Came  63

The Lie-Detector 73

L. Adams Beck

The Interpreter (novelette) 62

H. Bedford-Jones

The Artificial Honeymoon 66

Death Gave Him His Chance  63

J. J. Bell

The Lovely Little Dinner 70

The Price of a House  63

"Sir William"  61

E. F. Benson

Negotium Perambulans  64

The Terrace 69

J. D. Beresford

The Hidden Beast 75

Harold Bindloss

Trooper Jenkins 68

Ottwell Binns

The Britisher 73

Dixon's Romance 75

Algernon Blackwood

The Kit-Bag 76

Christopher B. Booth

"Doc" Meets the Train (as by John Jay Chichester)  72

Mr Clackworthy Collects 63

Mr Clackworthy Gets His Tonic 64

Mr Clackworthy Sells Short  63

Mr Clackworthy Stakes a Friend 70

Solly's Last Forgery 64

When Mr. Clackworthy Needed a Bracer 64

Guy Boothby

By Right Of Conquest 72

B. M. Bower

The Ghost in the Red Shirt  63

Jack Boyle

The Beauty-Fountain 70

A Woman Without Fear 70

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Good Lady Ducayne  71

Max Brand

Five Minutes to Twelve 61

Honor Bright 64

Lion Heart 61

Percy James Brebner

Cat or Devil 65

A Literary Secret  66

Scarsley Moor Mystery  66

Coutts Brisbane

Without Fear 76

Thomas Burke

The Bloomsbury Wonder 61

The Horrible God 62

Laughing Lillian 62

The Yellow Imps 62

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Who Murdered Mr. Thomas? 68

Ellis Parker Butler

Just Like a Cat 71

Mr. Wellaway's Host 77

The Ninety And Nine  69

Something for the Kid 77

Sir Gilbert Campbell

The Mystery of the Essex Stairs 62

Scott Campbell

The Point of Contact 70

Under the Crown 70

Without Air 73

A Study in Green 73

Agnes and Egerton Castle

The Great Todescan's Secret Thrust 70

Mark Channing

Intrigue 74

Anna Alice Chapin

Through the Dragon's Valley  63

The Scales of Time 63

G.K. Chesterton

The Sword of Wood 65

Peter Cheyney

Christmas With a Punch 75

Cocktail For Cupid 65

Dance Without Music  64

Irvin S. Cobb

The Eminent Dr. Deeves 72

Faith, Hope And Charity 71

The Thirteenth Degree 72

Sylvanus Cobb, Jun.

The Bottomless Jug  64

J. J. Connington

After Death the Doctor 63

Dorothea Conyers

Meave's Ride  69

Norbert Davis

You Bet Your Life 77

E. M. Delafield

The Luggage in the Hall  66

Charles Caldwell Dobie

The Open Window 71

Sir Geo. Douglas, Bart.

Unconscious Interloper 69

L C Douthwaite

The London Guillotine 66

Prospector 75

Richard Dowling

The Going Out of Alessandro Pozzone 62

Edward Dyson

A Golden Shanty 65

The Third Chair 65

Fred Engelhardt

Heritage of Osiris 75

George Allan England

Drops of Death  68

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Three Hours Between Planes 65

Francis Flagg

The Superman of Dr Jukes  72

Mrs. May Agnes Fleming

How The Lone Star Went Down  68

J. S. Fletcher

Ex-Officio 76

Homer Eon Flint

The Planeteer  77

Ford Madox Ford

Riesenberg 61

Andrew Forrester Jr.

Arrested on Suspicion 61

Robert Edward Francillon

A Circumstantial Puzzle 62

R. Austin Freeman & Clifford Piers

By the Black Deep  64

Ltnt Edgar Gardiner

Up Irrawaddy Way 74

Arthur Gask

Rejuvenation 66

Strychnine for Village Dogs 62

Theophile Gautier

The Mummy's Foot 62

George Gilbert

In Maulmain Fever-Ward  63

Lady Gilbert

Aurora's Treasure  75

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper  64

Why I wrote "The Yellow Wallpaper" 64

Guy Gilpatric

The Artful Mr. Glencannon 70

Crocodile Tears 68

The Glasgow Phantom 66

The Homestretch 61

The Masked Monster 72

Where Early Fa's the Dew 65

Susan Glaspell

A Jury of Her Peers 67

F. A. J. Godfrey

Not Proven 76

Frederick Graves

White Flame  62

Fred V Green

Markham's New Partner 65

A. S. Gregory

The Death Window 68

Valentine Gregory

Third Time Unlucky 71

While on Remand 71

James Norman Hall

Death on an Atoll 72

Fame For Mr. Beatty 75

Uncle Ned's Teeth 76

Julian Hawthorne

Calbot's Rival 67

Nathaniel Hawthorne

The Great Stone Face 66

Miles Henslow

Mystery Flight 75

Kenneth Herford

An Echo of the Quarter 73

Smiley's Scoop 73

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

The Act of God 74

The Outcast 65

Headon Hill

The "Artemis" Mystery 65

The Bank Clerk's Love Story 65

The Dining-Car Clue 65

Limping Justice 65

S. B. H. Hurst

The Ball of Fire  74

The Receipt 74

W. W. Jacobs

Captain Rogers 71

A Love Knot 70

Malcolm Jameson

The Anarch  69

Val Jameson

"Burglin' ain't the game it was" 61

Jerome K. Jerome

The Dancing Partner 74

Rudyard Kipling

The Phantom Rickshaw 73

Otis Adelbert Kline

The Dragoman's Secret 74

Stolen Centuries 65

Thomas H. Knight

The Man Who Was Dead 61

Edmund Leamy

My First Case 74

Henry Leverage

Black Light 66

The Crimp 66

Crooked Charity 67

R. C. Lehmann

The Umbrosa Burglary 67

Henry Leverage

Over the Wall   76

Sinclair Lewis

The Cat of the Stars 68

Seven Million Dollars 68

The Willow Walk 61

H.P. Lovecraft

Obit: Henry St. Clair Whitehead 71

Marie Belloc Lowndes

An Unrecorded Instance 61

Richard Mace

The Emerald Beetle  62

Arthur Machen

The Shining Pyramid 71

Fred MacIsaac

The Abominable Test 76

William J. Makin

The Death Barge 73

The Planes that Never Returned 73

Julia Magruder

The Secret of the White Castle 65

Don Marquis

Accursed Hat! 70

Richard Marsh

A Silent Witness  77

Huan Mee

The Russian Cipher 65

J. J. Meehan

The Squirrel Motor 69

Abraham Merritt

The Woman of the Wood 72

William Henry Moberley

The Great Valdez Sapphire 63

C. S. Montanye

Old King's Coal   72

F. Frankfort Moore

Joan Dark 65

Ainsworth Morgan

Lady in Lower 11   72

Talbot Mundy

Bengal Rebellion 69

Edith M Nesbit

In the Dark 64

Man-Size in Marble  65

Number 17    61

Douglas Newton

Straight Enough 73

David Wright O'Brien

Hokum Hotel  68

Fitz-James O'Brien

The Wondersmith  64

Owen Oliver

The Awakening  74

Vincent O'Sullivan

The Business of Madame Jahn  64

Thomas Nelson Page

What was the Lady's Choice? 62

Miles  Overholt

Wrong Number 75

Sir Gilbert Parker

At the Sign of the Eagle  70

Max Pemberton

The Devil To Pay 63

The Dumb Avenger 75

G. G. Pendarves

The Black Camel  65

The Sin-Eater 74

The Withered Heart  74

Hugh Pendexter

Lyacus Whittle— Globetrotter 70

Ernest M Poate

A Person from the Police 63

To Professional Services— $100,000   70

Doctor Grimes Awaits Probate (as by Arthur Mallory)  73

Expert Testimony 74

William Le Queux

The Baron's Snapdragon 68

The Faith of Men 62

The Mystery Man 68

The Mystery of the Third Thumb 68

The Story of the Chief of Police 61

The Third Cracker 68

The Velvet Hand  68

The Woman Who Hated London 68

The Yellow Jasmine 68

Edith Rickert

The Chair That Smiled 74

Walter Ripperger

The Cardboard Clue 62

School For Murder 69

Morley Roberts

The Egregious Goat 73

Arthur Somers Roche (novelette)

In the Money 67

Michael Romain

Genesis   76

Anthony M Rud

The Invisible "Blinker" 73

J. Johnston Smith

Queen Of Diamonds  75

Thorne Smith

Birthday Present 66

Andrew Soutar

Bluebeard 63

D. H. Souter

Conroy 74

Charles B. Stilson

Dr. Martone's Microscope 72

The Sky Woman 67

The Soul Trap 72

Halliwell Sutcliffe

Handsome Jack  67

Miss Phyllis Brown 67

Murgatroyd's Wife  67

Georges Surdez

Charles the Bold 76

Spite Corner 76

Emile C Tepperman

Coffin Cache 63

E. Temple Thurston

A Cameo 69

Roger Torrey

Dice and No Dice 77

Murder By Accident 77

Ticket to Death (as by John Ryan)  77

Edward W Townsend

A Deal in Mines and Morals 77

E Charles Vivian

How the Girl Came to Bentley's 62

Cyril G. Wates

The Visitation 76

Edgar Wallace

The New Doctor  76

R. A. J. Walling

A Chat With William Le Queux 68

Mrs. Rooth's "Murder" 61

The Spook of Cornelius 61

"Wanderer"

Waif of the Bush 74

Stanley G Weinbaum

The Red Peri  69

Albert Richard Wetjen

The Chief of the Loch McCree 61

Raid on Jigger's Reef 76

Harvey Wickham

The Man With the Painted Nose 75

Fred Merrick White

Early Closing Day  64

Gentlemen of the Jury  65

The Missing Blade 75

The Purple Terror 66

Victor L. Whitechurch

The Convict's Revenge  61

How the Captain Tracked a German Spy 61

In a Tight Fix 61

Henry S. Whitehead

The Chadbourne Episode 75

The Door 71

Passing of a God 75

The People of Pan 77

The Shut Room 75

Sweet Grass 76

The Wonderful Thing  70

Raoul Whitfield

The Great Black 65

H. C. Witwer

Money to Burns 71

Mary E Wilkins

The Shadows on the Wall  64

Edward Woodward

Clarence 75

Arthur Leo Zagat

Coward's Kill   69

______________________

Table of Contents

1: A Silent Witness / Richard Marsh

2: The People of Pan / Henry S Whitehead

3: Something for the Kid / Ellis Parker Butler

4: The Planeteer / Homer Eon Flint (novella)

5: A Deal in Mines and Morals / Edward W Townsend

6: Mr. Wellaway's Host / Ellis Parker Butler

7: Murder By Accident / Roger Torrey

8: Dice and No Dice / Roger Torrey

9: Ticket to Death / John Ryan

10: You Bet Your Life / Norbert Davis

Cumulative Index  # 61-77