 Vanishing Point by C.C. Beck This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Frank Duncan. Vanishing Point by C.C. Beck In perspective, theoretically the vanishing point is at infinity and therefore unobtainable, but reality is different. Vanishment occurs a lot sooner than theory suggests. That? Oh, that's a perspective machine. Well, not exactly, but that's what I call it. No, I don't know how it works. Too complicated for me. Carter could make it go, but after he made it, he never used it. Too bad. He thought he'd make a lot of money with it there for a while, while he was working it out, almost had me convinced. But I told him, get it to working first, Carter, and then show me what you can do with it, better than I can do without it. I'm doing pretty well as is. Pictures selling good, even if I do make them all by guesswork, as you call it. That's what I told him. You see, Carter was one of them artists that think they can work everything out by formulas and stuff. Me? I just paint things as I see them. Never worry about perspective and all that kind of mechanical aids. Never even went to art school. But I do alright. Carter now was a different sort of artist. Well, he wasn't really an artist. More of a draftsman. I first got him in to help me with a series of real estate paintings I got an order for. Big aerial views of land developments, and drawings of buildings, roads and causeways. That kind of stuff. It was a little too much for me to handle alone, because I never studied that kind of things. You know, I thought he'd do the mechanical drawings, which should have been simple for anybody trained that way. And I'd throw in the colors. Figures and trees and so on. He did fine. Job came out good. Client was real happy. We made a pretty good amount on that job. Enough to keep us for a couple months without working afterwards. I took it easy. Fishin' and so on. But Carter stayed here in the studio working on his own stuff. I let him keep an eye on things for me around the place. And just dropped in now and then to check up. The guy was nuts on the subject of perspective. I thought he knew all there was to know about it already. But he claimed nobody knew anything about it. Really. He said he'd been studying it for years. And the more he learned about it, the more there was to learn. He used to cover big sheets of paper with complicated diagrams trying to prove something or other to himself. I'd come into the studio and find him with thumbtacks and strings and stuff all over the place. He'd get big long rulers and draw lines to various points all over the room. And end up with a little drawing of a cube about an inch square that anybody could have made in a half minute without all the apparatus. Seems pretty silly to me. Then he brought in some books on mathematics and physics and other things. And a bunch of slide rules, calculators, and junk. He must have been a pretty smart guy to know how to handle all those things. Even if he was kind of dopey about other things. You know, women and fishing and sports and drinking. He was lousy at everything except working those perspective problems. Personally, I couldn't see much sense to what he was doing. The guy could draw alright already. So I asked him, what more did he want? Let me see if I can remember what he said. I'm trying to get at things as they really are. Not as they appear, he said. I think those were his words. Art is an illusion, a bag of tricks. Reality is something else. Not what we think it is. Drawings are two dimensional projections of a world that is not merely three but four dimensional. If not more, he said. Yeah, kind of a crackpot. Carter was just on that one subject though. Nice enough guy otherwise. Here, look at some of the drawings he made. Working out his formulas. Nice designs, huh? Might make good wallpaper or fabric patterns. Real abstract. That's what people seem to like. See all those little letters scattered around among the lines? Different kinds of vanishing points they are. Carter claimed the whole world was full of vanishing points. You don't know what a vanishing point is. Let me see if I can explain. Come over to the window here. You see how the road out there gets smaller and smaller in the distance? Of course the road doesn't really get smaller. It just looks that way. That's what we call a vanishing point in a drawing. Simple, isn't it? Never could understand why Carter went to so much trouble working out all those ways to locate vanishing points. Me, I just throw them in wherever I need them, but Carter claimed that was wrong. Said they were all connected together some way, and he was going to work out a method to prove it. Here, here's a little gadget he made up to help his calculations. Bunch of disks all pivoted together at the center. You're supposed to turn them around so the arrows point to different figures and things. Here's the square root. Remember Carter telling me that. This one is the tangent function. Whatever that means. Log there is short for logarithm. Oh, he had a bunch of that scientific stuff in his head all the time. To know whether he understood it all himself. He built this thing just before he put together the perspective machine there. A silly looking gadget, huh? All them pipes and wires. That little cube in the center. Don't try to touch it. It ain't really there. You just think it is. It's what Carter called a teteract, or a cataract. No, that ain't the right word. Something like that. Tesser, something or other. There's a picture like it in one of Carter's books. Hurt your eyes to look at it, don't it? That's what Carter thought was going to make him a lot of fame and money. That perspective machine. I told him nobody ever made a drawing machine yet that worked. But he said it wasn't supposed to make drawings. It was just supposed to give people a view of what reality really is, instead of what they think it is. I don't know whether he expected to charge money to look through it, whether he was going to look through it himself and make some new kind of drawings and sell them. No, I can't tell you how it works. I said before I don't know. Carter only used it once himself. I came in here the day he finished it, just as he was ready to turn it on. He was just putting the finishing touches on it. In a few minutes he told me, I'll have the answer to a question that may never have been answered before. What is reality? Is the world a thing by itself and all we know illusion? Why do things grow smaller the farther away from us they appear? Why can't we see more than one side of anything at a time? What happens to the far side of an object? Does it cease to exist just because we can't see it? Are objects not present, non-existent? Because artists draw things vanishing to points. Does that mean that they really vanish? A whack. That's what he was. Nice guy, but sort of screwy. He kept saying more goofy things while he was finishing. Up the machine. About how he'd figured out that all we knew about vision and drawing and so on must be wrong. And that once he got a look at the real world he'd prove it. Now about cameras, I asked him. Take a picture with a camera, and it looks just about the same as a drawing. Don't it? That's because cameras are built to take pictures like we're used to seeing them, he said. Flat, two-dimensional, slices of reality. Without depth or motion. Even 3D moving pictures, I asked. They're closer to reality, he admitted. But they are still only cross-sections of it. The shutter of a movie camera is closed as much of the time as it is open. What happens between the times it's open? You know, he went on. People used to think matter and motion were continuous. But scientists have proved that they are discontinuous. Now some of them think time may be, too. Maybe everything is just imaginary, and appears to our senses in whatever way we want it to appear. We are so well trained that we see everything, just as we are taught to see it, by generations of artists, writers, and other symbol makers. If we could see things as they really are, what might happen? We'd probably all go nuts, I told him. He smiled. Well, here goes, he said. It's finished. Now to find out who is right. The scientists and philosophers who say reality is forever unreachable, or the artists who say there isn't any reality, that we make the whole thing up to suit ourselves. He moved one of those pointers you see there, and squinted around at the different scales and dials, and then stepped back. That little tessie thing appeared. Real small at first. Just a point. You could hardly see it. I couldn't see anything else happening. And thought he was going to do something else to the machine. I turned to look at Carter, and saw his face was white as a sheet. Good God, he says. Just like that. Good God. That's all. Well, I says to him, who is right? The scientists? Or the artists? The artists, he sort of screeches. The artists were right all the time. There is no reality. It's all fabric of illusion. We've created ourselves. And now I've ripped a hole in that. He gives a strangled hoot, and goes high-tailing it out of here. Like something was after him. Jumps in his car, and roars off down the road, and disappears. Nah, I don't mean he really disappeared. Are you nuts? Just roared on down the road till he got so small I couldn't see him no more. You know, the way things do when they get farther and farther away. Happens every day. That's what us artists mean by perspective. The machine? Well, I don't know. What to do with it? If Carter ever comes back, he might not like me getting rid of it. Maybe I'd put it in the hobby show at the county fair next week. Though, you notice how that funny looking cube inside there gets bigger every time you look at it. There, it just doubled its size again, see? People at the fair ought to get a big kick out of that. No telling how big it'll get with all those people looking at it. But come on. Let's go fishing. We'd better hurry, or it'll be too late. The end. End of Vanishing Point by C.C. Beck. Recording by Frank Duncan. The Gadget was strictly beyond any question a toy. Not a real, workable device. Except for the way it could work itself under a man's mental skin. Toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, toys, It's all explained right here in your instruction book, the demonstrator said, holding up a garishly printed booklet open to a four color diagram. You all know how magnets pick up things, and I bet you even know that the Earth itself is one great big magnet. That's why compasses always point north. Well, the atomic wonder space wave trapper hangs onto those space waves, invisible all about us and even going right through us are the magnetic waves of the Earth. The atomic wonder rides these waves just the way a ship rides the waves in the ocean. Now watch. Every eye was on him as he put the gaudy model rocket ship on the top of the table and stepped back. It was made of stamped metal and seemed as incapable of flying as a can of ham. Neither wings, propellers, nor jets broke through the painted surface. It rested on three rubber wheels and coming out through the bottom was a double strand of thin, insulated wire. This white wire ran across the top of the black table and terminated in a control box in the demonstrator's hand. An indicator light, a switch, and a knob appeared to be the only controls. I turned on the power switch, sending a surge of current to the wave receptors, he said. The switch clicked and the light blinked on and off with a steady pulse. Then the man began to slowly turn the knob. A careful touch on the wave generator is necessary as we are dealing with the powers of the whole world here. A concerted aww swept through the crowd as the space wave trapper shivered a bit. Then rose slowly into the air. The demonstrator stepped back and the toy rose higher and higher, bobbing gently on the invisible waves of magnetic force that supported it. Ever so slowly the power was reduced and it settled back to the table. Only 1795, the young man said, putting a large price sign on the table. For the complete set of the atomic wonder, the space trapper control box, battery, and instruction book. At the appearance of the prize card, the crowd broke up noisily and the children rushed away toward the operating model trains. The demonstrator's words were lost in their noisy passage and after a moment he sank into gloomy silence. He put the control box down, yawned and sat on the edge of the table. Colonel Houghton was the only one left after the crowd had moved on. Good, you tell me how this thing works, the Colonel asked, coming forward. The demonstrator brightened up and picked up one of the toys. Well, if you will look here, sir, he opened the hinge top, you will see the space wave coils at each end of the ship. With a pencil he pointed out the odd shaped plastic forms about an inch in diameter that had been wound, apparently at random, with a few turns of copper wire. Except for these coils, the interior of the model was empty. The coils were wired together and other wires ran out through the hole in the bottom of the control box. Biff Houghton turned a very quizzical eye on the gadget and upon the demonstrator who completely ignored this sign of disbelief. He inside the control box is the battery, the young man said, snapping it open and pointing to an ordinary flashlight battery. The current goes through the power switch and the power light to the wave generator. What you mean to say, Biff broke in, is that the juice from this 15 cent battery goes through this cheap rheostat to those meaningless coils in the model and absolutely nothing happens. Now tell me, what really flies the thing? If I'm going to drop 18 bucks for six bits worth of tin, I want to know what I'm getting. The demonstrator flushed. I'm sorry, sir, he stammered. I wasn't trying to hide anything. Like any magic trick, this one can't be really demonstrated until it's been purchased. He leaned forward and whispered confidentially, I'll tell you what I'll do though. This thing is way overpriced and hasn't been moving at all. The manager said I could let them go at $3 if I could find any takers. If you want to buy it for that price, sold my boy, the colonel said, slamming three bills down on the table, I'll give you that much for it no matter how it works. The boys at the shop will get a kick out of it. He tapped the wing rocket on his chest. Now really, what holds it up? The demonstrator looked around carefully, then pointed. Strings, he said, or rather, a black thread. It runs from the top of the model through a tiny loop in the ceiling and back down to my hand, tied to this ring on my finger. When I back up, the model rises. It's as simple as that. All good illusions are simple, the colonel grunted, tracing the black thread with his eye, as long as there is plenty of flimflam to distract the viewer. If you don't have a black table, a black cloth will do, the young man said, and the arch of a doorway is a good sight. Just see that the room in back is dark. Wrap it up, my boy. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm an old hand at this kind of thing. Biff Haughton sprang it at the next Thursday night poker game. The gang were all missile men and they cheered and jeered as he hammed up the introduction. Let me copy the diagram, Biff. I could use some of those magnetic waves in the new bird. Those flashlight batteries are cheaper than the locks. This is a thing of the future. Only Teddy Canner caught wise as the flight began. He was an amateur magician and spotted the gimmick at once. He kept silent with professional courtesy and smiled ironically as the rest of the bunch grew silent one by one. The colonel was a good showman and he had set the scene well. He almost had them believing in the space-wave trapper before he was through. When the model had landed and he had switched it off, he couldn't stop them from crowding around the table. A thread, one of the engineers shouted, almost with relief, and they all laughed along with him. Too bad, the head project physicist said. I was hoping that a little space-wave tapping could help us out. Let me try a flight with it. Teddy Canner first, Biff announced. He spotted it while you were all watching the flashing lights, only didn't say anything. Canner slipped the ring with the black thread over his finger and started to step back. You have to turn the switch on first, Biff said. I know, Canner smiled, but that's part of the illusion, the spiel and the misdirection. I'm going to try this cold first so I can get it moving up and down smoothly and then go through with the whole works. He moved his hand back slowly in a professional manner that drew no attention to it. The model lifted from the table, then crashed back down. The thread broke, Canner said. You jerked it instead of pulling smoothly, Biff said, and knotted the broken thread. Here, let me show you how to do it. The thread broke again when Biff tried it, which got a good laugh and made his collar a little warm. Somebody mentioned the poker game. This was the only time that poker was mentioned or even remembered that night because very soon after this, they found that the thread would lift the model only when the switch was on and two and a half volts flowing through the joked coils. With the current turned off, the model was too heavy to lift. The thread broke every time. I still think it's a screwy idea, the young man said. One week getting fallen arches, demonstrating those toy ships to every brat within a thousand miles, then selling the things for three bucks when they must have cost at least $100 a piece to make. But you did not sell the 10 of them to people who would be interested, the older man asked. I think so. I caught a few Air Force officers and a Colonel in Missiles one day. Then there was one official I remembered from the Bureau of Standards. Luckily, he didn't recognize me. Then these two professors you spotted from the university. Then the problem is out of our hands and into theirs. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for results. What results? These people weren't interested when we were hammering on their doors with the proof. We've patented the coils and can prove to anyone that there is a reduction in weight around them when they are operating. A small reduction and we don't know what is causing it. No one can be interested in a thing like that. A fractional weight decrease in a clumsy model, certainly not enough to lift the weight of the generator. No one wrapped up in massive fuel consumption, tons of lift and such is going to have time to worry about a crackpot who thinks he has found a minor slip in Newton's Laws. You think they will come now? The young man asked, cracking his duckles impatiently. I know they will. The tensile strength of that thread is correctly adjusted to the weight of the model. The thread will break if you try to lift the model with it. Yet, you can lift the model. After a small increment of its weight has been removed by the coils. This is going to bug those men. Nobody is going to ask them to solve the problem or concern themselves with it. But it will nag at them because they know this effect can't possibly exist. They'll see it once that the magnetic wave theory is nonsense or perhaps true. We don't know but they will all be thinking about it and worrying about it. Somebody is going to experiment in his basement just as a hobby, of course, to try to find the cause of the error. And he or someone else is going to find out what makes those coils work and maybe a way to improve them. We have all the patents, correct. They will be doing the research that will take them out of the massive lift propulsion business and into the field of pure spaceflight. And in doing so, they will make us rich whenever the time comes to manufacture, the young man said cynically. We'll all be rich, son, the old man said, patting him on the shoulder. Believe me, you're not going to recognize this old world 10 years from now. The end of Toy Shop by Harry Harrison. Read by Dale Grossman. The Dream of Debs by Jack London. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Dream of Debs by Jack London. I awoke fully an hour before my customary time. This in itself was remarkable and I lay very wide awake pondering over it. Something was the matter. Something was wrong. I knew not what. Was oppressed by a premonition of something terrible that had happened or was about to happen. But what was it? I strove to orient myself. I remember that at the time of the great earthquake of 1906, many claimed they awakened some moments before the first shock and that during these moments, they experienced strange feelings of dread. Was San Francisco again to be visited by earthquake? I lay for a full minute. Numbly expectant, but there occurred no reeling of walls nor shock and grind of falling masonry. Always quiet. That was it. The silence. No wonder I had been perturbed. The hum of the great live city was strangely absent. The surface cars passed along my street at that time of the day on an average of one every three minutes. But in the tense, seceding minutes, not a car passed. Perhaps it was a street railway strike was my thought or perhaps there had been an accident and the power was shut off. But no, the silence was too profound. I heard no jar and rattle of wagon wheels nor stamp of iron-shot hoofs straining up the steep cobblestones. Pressing the push button beside my bed, I strove to hear the sound of the bell, though I well knew it was impossible for the sound to rise three stories to me, even if the bell did ring. It rang all right. For a few minutes later, Brown entered with the tray in morning paper. Though his features were impassive as ever, I noted a startled apprehensive light in his eyes. I noted also that there was no cream on the tray. The creamery did not deliver this morning, he explained, nor did the bakery. I glanced again at the tray. There were no fresh French rolls, only slices of stale-gram bread from yesterday, the most detestable of bread so far as I was concerned. Nothing was delivered this morning, sir. Brown started to explain apologetically, but I interrupted him. The paper? Yes, sir, it was delivered, but it was the only thing, and it is the last time, too. There won't be any paper tomorrow. The paper says so. Can I send out and get you some condensed milk? I shook my head, accepted the coffee black and spread open the paper. The headlines explained everything, explained too much, in fact, for the lengths of pessimism to which the journal went were ridiculous. A general strike, it said, had been called all over the United States, and most foreboding anxieties were expressed concerning the provisioning of the great cities. I read on hastily, skimming much and remembering much of labor troubles in the past. For a generation, the general strike had been the dream of organized labor, which dream had arisen originally in the mind of Debbs, one of the great labor leaders of 30 years before. I recollected that in my young college settlement days, I had even written an article on the subject for one of the magazines, and that I had entitled it, The Dream of Debbs. And I must confess that I had treated the idea very cavalierly and academically as a dream and nothing more. Time in the world had rolled on. Gompers was gone. The American Federation of Labor was gone. And gone was Debbs with all his wild revolutionary ideas. But the dream had persisted. And here it was at last realized, in fact. But I laughed as I read it. The journals glue me outlook. I knew better. I had seen organized labor worsted in too many conflicts. It would be a matter only of days when the thing would be settled. This was a national strike and it wouldn't take the government long to break it. I threw the paper down and proceeded to dress. It would certainly be interesting to be out in the streets of San Francisco and not a wheel was turning and the whole city was taking enforced vacation. I beg your pardon, sir, Brown said, as he handed me my cigar case. But Mr. Harmed has asked to see you before you go out. Send him in right away, I answered. Harmed was the butler. When he entered I could see he was laboring under controlled excitement. He came at once to the point. What shall I do, sir? There will be needed provisions and the delivery drivers are on strike and the electricity is shut off. I guess they're on strike too. Are the shops open? I asked. Only the small ones, sir. The retail clerks are out and the big ones can't open. But the owners and their families are running the little ones themselves. Then take the machine, I said and go the rounds and make your purchases buy plenty of everything you need or may need. Get a box of candles no get half a dozen boxes and when you're done tell Harrison to bring the machine around to the club for me. Not later than 11. Harmed shook his head gravely. Mr. Harrison has struck along with the chauffeur's union and I don't know how to run the machine myself. Oh, he has has he said I. Well, when next Mr. Harrison happens around you tell him that he can look elsewhere for a position. Yes, sir. You don't happen to belong to a butler's union. Do you harm it? No, sir was the answer. And even if I did I'd not desert my employer in a crisis like this. No, sir, I would all right. Thank you. I said now you get ready to accompany me. I'll run the machine myself and we'll lay in a stock provisions to stand a siege. It was a beautiful first of May even as May days go. This guy was cloudless. There was no wind and the air was warm almost bomb me. Many autos were out but the owners were driving them themselves. The streets were crowded but quiet. The working class dressed in its Sunday best was out taking the air and observing the effects of the strike. It was also unusual and with also peaceful that I found myself enjoying it. My nerves were tingling with mild excitement. It was a sort of placid adventure. I passed Miss Chickering. She was at the helm of her little runabout. She swung around and came after me catching me on the corner. Oh, Mr. Cork, she held. Do you know where I can buy candles? I've been to a dozen shops and they're all sold out. It's dreadfully awful, isn't it? But her sparkling eyes gave a lie to her words. Like the rest of us, she was enjoying it hugely. Quite an adventure it was getting those candles. It was not until we went across the city and down into the working class quarter south of Market Street that we found small corner groceries that had not yet sold out. Miss Chickering thought one box was sufficient, but I persuaded her into taking four. My car was large and I laid in a dozen boxes. There was no telling what delays might arise in the settlement of the strike. Also, I filled the car with sacks of flour, baking powder, tin goods and all the ordinary necessaries of life, suggested by Harmed, who fussed about and clucked over the purchases like an anxious old hen. The remarkable thing that first day of the strike was that no one really apprehended anything serious. The announcement of organized labor in the morning papers that it was prepared to stay out a month or three months was laughed at. And yet that very first day we might have guessed as much from the fact that the working class took practically no part in the great rush to buy provisions. Of course not. For weeks and months, craftily and secretly, the whole working class had been laying in private stocks of provisions. That was why we were permitted to go down and buy out the little groceries in the working class neighborhoods. It was not until I arrived at the club that afternoon that I began to feel the first alarm. Everything was in confusion. There were no olives for the cocktails and the service was by hitches and jerks. Most of the men were angry and all were worried. A babble of voices greeted me as I entered. General Folsom, nursing his capacious punch in a window seat in the smoking room, was defending himself against half a dozen excited gentlemen who were demanding that he should do something. What can I do more than I have done? He was saying. There are no orders from Washington. If you gentlemen would get a wire through, I'll do anything I have commanded to. But I don't see what good can be done. The first thing I did this morning, as soon as I learned of the strike, was to order in the troops from the Presidio, 3,000 of them, regarding the banks, the men, the post office and all the public buildings. There is no disorder, whatever. The strikers are keeping the peace perfectly. You can't expect me to shoot them down as they walk along the streets with wives and children all in their best bib and tucker. I'd like to know what's happening on Wall Street, I heard Jimmy Wombald say as he passed along. I could imagine his anxiety, for I knew he was deep in the big consolidated Western deal. Say, Corf Atkinson, bustle up to me. Is your machine running? Yes, I answered, but what's the matter with your own? Broken down and the garages are all closed and my wife somewhere around Truckee, I think, stalled on the overland. I can't get a wire to her for love or money. She should have arrived this evening. She may be starving. Lend me your machine. Can't get it across the bay, Halstead spoke up. The fairies aren't running, but I tell you what you can do. There's Rawlinson. Rawlinson, come here a moment. Atkinson wants to get a machine across the bay. His wife is stuck on the overland at Truckee. Can't you bring the Laurette across from Tiberon and carry the machine over for him? The Laurette was a 200 ton, ocean-going schooner yacht. Rawlinson shook his head. You couldn't get a longshoreman to land the machine on board, even if I could get the Laurette over, which I can't for the crew or members of the Coast Seaman's Union and they're on strike along with the rest. But my wife may be starving. I could hear Atkinson wailing as I moved on. At the other end of the smoking room, I ran into a group of men bunched excitedly and angrily around Bertie Messiner. And Bertie was stirring them up and prodding them in his cool, cynical way. Bertie didn't care about this drag. He didn't care much about anything. He was blasé, at least in all the clean things of life. The nasty things had no attraction for him. He was worth 20 millions, all of it in safe investments. And he had never done a tap of productive work in his life, inherited all from his father and two uncles. He had been everywhere, seen everything and done everything but get married. And this last in the face of the grim and determined attack of a few hundred ambitious mamas. For years, he had been the greatest catch and as yet he had avoided being caught. He was disgracefully eligible. On top of his wealth, he was young, handsome and as I said before, clean. He was a great athlete, a young, blonde God that did everything perfectly and admirably with the solitary exception of matrimony. And he didn't care about anything, had no ambitions, no passions, no desire to do the very things he did so much better than other men. This is sedition one man and the group was crying. Another called it revolt and revolution and another called it anarchy. I can't see it Bertie said. I've been out in the streets all morning. Perfect order reigns. I never saw more law abiding populace. There's no use calling it names. It's not any of those things. It's just what it claims to be. A general strike and it's your turn to play gentlemen. And we'll play all right, cried Garfield, one of the traction millionaires. We'll show this dirt where its place is, the beast. Wait till the government takes a hand. But where is the government Bertie interposed? It might as well be at the bottom of the sea so far as you're concerned. You don't know what's happening at Washington. You don't know whether you've got a government or not. Don't you worry about that Garfield blurted out. I assure you, I'm not worrying Bertie smiled languidly. But it seems to me it's what you fellas are doing. Look in the glass Garfield. Garfield did not look, but how he looked he would have seen the very excited gentleman with rumpled iron gray hair, a flushed face, mouth sullen and vindictive, and eyes widely gleaming. It's not right I tell you, little Hanover said. And from his tone I was sure that he already said it a number of times. Now that's going too far Hanover, Bertie replied. You fellows make me tired. You're all open shop men. You've erode at my eardrums with your endless gavel for the open shop and the right of a man to work. You've harangued along these lines for years. Labor is doing nothing wrong in going out on this general strike. It is violating no law of God nor man. Don't you talk Hanover. You've been wringing the changes too long on the God given right to work or not to work. You can't escape the corollary. It's a dirty little sordid scrap. That's all the whole thing is. You've got labor down and gouged it and now labor's got you down and is gouging you. That's all and you're squealing. Every man in the group broke out in indignant denials that labor had never been gouged. No, sir Garfield was shouting. We've done the best for labor. Instead of gouging it, we've given it a chance to live. We've made work for it. Where would labor be if it hadn't been for us? A whole lot better off, Bertie sneered. You've got labor down and gouged it every time you got a chance and you went out of your way to make chances. No, no were the cries. There was the Teamsters strike right here in San Francisco. Bertie went on impoturbably. The employer's association precipitated that strike. You know that and you know I know it too for I've sat in these very rooms and heard the inside talk and news of the fight. First you precipitated the strike, then you brought the mayor and the chief of police and broke the strike. A pretty spectacle you philanthropists getting the Teamsters down and gouging them. Hold on, I'm not through with you. It's only last year that the labor ticket of Colorado elected a governor. He was never seated. You know why? You know how your brother philanthropists and capitalists of Colorado worked it? It was a case of getting labor down and gouging. You kept the president of the Southwestern amalgamated association of minors in jail for three years on trumped up murder charges and with him out of the way you broke up the association. That was gouging labor you'll admit. The third time the graduated income tax was declared unconstitutional was a gouge. So was the eight hour bill you killed in the last Congress. And of all unmitigated immoral gouges your destruction of the closed shop principle was the limit. You know how it was done. You brought out Farburg the last president of the old American Federation of Labor. You was your creature or the creature of all the trusts and employers associations which is the same thing. You precipitated the big closed shop strike. Farburg betrayed that strike. You won in the old American Federation of Labor crumpled to pieces. You fellows destroyed it. And by so doing undid yourselves for right on top of it began the organization of the ILW. The biggest and solidest organization of labor the United States has ever seen. And you were responsible for its existence and for the present general strike. You smashed all the old federations and drove labor into the ILW. And the ILW called the general strike still fighting for the closed shop. And then you have the frontery to stand here face to face and tell me that you never got labor down and gouged it. Bah. This time there were no denials. Garfield broke out in self defense. We've done nothing we were not compelled to do if we were to win. I'm not saying anything about that bird he answered. What I am complaining about is you're squealing now that you're getting a taste of your own medicine. How many strikes have you won by starving labor into submission? Well, labor has worked out a scheme whereby to starve you into submission. It wants the closed shop and if it can get it by starving you, why starve you shall. I noticed that you have profited in the past by those very labor gouges you mentioned insinuated Brentwood, one of the wildest and most astute of our corporation lawyers. The receiver is as bad as the thief he sneered. You had no hand in the gouging but you took your whack out of the gouge. That is quite beside the question Brentwood birdie drawled. You're as bad as hand over intruding the moral element. I haven't said that anything is right or wrong. It's all a rotten game, I know. My sole kick is that you fellows are squealing now that you're down and labor is taking a gouge out of you. Of course I've taken the profits from the gouging and thanks to you gentlemen without having personally to do the dirty work. You did that for me. Well, believe me not because I am more virtuous than you but because my good father and his various brothers left me a lot of money with which to pay for the dirty work. If you mean to insinuate Brentwood began hotly, hold on don't get all ruffled up birdie interposed insolently. There's no use in playing hypocrites in this fierce den. The high and lofty is all right for the newspapers, boys clubs and Sunday schools. That's part of the game. But for heaven's sake, don't let's play it on one another. You know and you know that I know just what jobbery was done in the building trade strike last fall. Who put up the money? Who did the work and who profited by it? Brentwood flushed darkly. But we are all tarred with the same brush and the best thing for us to do is to leave morality out of it. Again I repeat, play the game, play it to the last finish but for goodness sake don't squeal when you get hurt. When I left the group birdie was off on a new tack, tormenting them with the more serious aspects of the situation, pointing out the shortage of supplies that was already making itself felt and asking them what they were going to do about it. A little later I met him in the cloakroom, leaving and gave him a lift home in my machine. It's a great stroke this general strike he said as we bolt along the crowded but orderly streets. It's a smashing body blow. Labor caught us nappy and struck at our weakest place, the stomach. I'm going to get out of San Francisco, Corf. Take my advice and get out too. Head for the country, anywhere. You'll have more chance. Buy up a stock of supplies and get into a tent or a cabin somewhere. Soon there'll be nothing but starvation in this city for such as we. Our correct birdie messener was I Never Dream. I decided that he was an alarmist. As for myself I was content to remain and watch the fun. After I dropped him, instead of going directly home I went on and hunt for more food. To my surprise I learned that the small groceries where I had bought in the morning were sold out. I extended my search to the potrero and by good luck managed to pick up another box of candles. Two sacks of wheat flour, 10 pounds of gram flour which would do for the servants. Case of tin corn and two cases of tin tomatoes. It did look as though there was going to be at least a temporary food shortage and I hugged myself over the goodly stock provisions I'd laid in. The next morning I had my coffee in bed as usual and more than the cream I missed the daily paper was this absence of knowledge of what was going on in the world that I found the chief hardship. Down at the club there was little news. Ryder had crossed from Oakland in his launch and Halstead had been down to San Jose and back in his machine. They reported the same conditions in those places as in San Francisco. Everything was tied up by the strike. All grocery stocks had been bought out by the upper classes and perfect order range but what was happening over the rest of the country in Chicago, New York, Washington. Most probably the same things that were happening with us we concluded. But the fact that we did not know with absolute surety was irritating. General Folsom had a bit of news. An attempt had been made to place army telegraphers in the telegraph offices but the wires had been cut in every direction. This was so far the one unlawful act committed by labor in that it was a concerted act he was fully convinced. He had communicated by wireless with the army post at Benicia. The telegraph lines were even then being patrolled by soldiers all the way to Sacramento. Once for one short instant they had got the Sacramento call then the wires somewhere were cut again. General Folsom reason that similar attempts to open communications were being made by the authorities all the way across the continent but he was noncommittal as to whether or not he thought the attempt would secede. What worried him was the wire cutting. He could not but believe that it was an important part of the deep blade labor conspiracy. Also he regretted that the government had not long since established its projected chain of wireless stations. The days came and went and for a time it was a hum drum time. Nothing happened. The edge of excitement had become blunted. The streets were not so crowded. The working class did not come uptown anymore to see how we were taking the strike and there were not so many automobiles running around. The repair shops and garages were closed and whenever a machine broke down it went out of commission. The clutch on mine broke and neither love nor money could get it repaired. Like the rest I was now walking. San Francisco lay dead and we did not know what was happening over the rest of the country but from the very fact that we did not know we could conclude only that the rest of the country lay as dead as San Francisco. From time to time the city was placarded with the proclamations of organized labor. These had been printed months before and evidenced how thoroughly the ILW had prepared for the strike. Every detail had been worked out long in advance. No violence had occurred as yet with the exception of the shooting of a few wire cutters by the soldiers but the people of the slums were starving and growing ominously restless. The businessmen, the millionaires and the professional class held meetings and passed resolutions but there was no way of making the proclamations public. They could not even get them printed. One result of these meetings however was that General Folsom was persuaded into taking military possession of the wholesale houses and of all the flour grain and food warehouses. It was high time for suffering was becoming acute in the homes of the rich and bread lines were necessary. I knew that my servants were beginning to draw long faces and it was amazing the hole they made in my stock of provisions. In fact, as I afterwards surmised each servant was stealing from me and secreting a private stock of provisions for himself. But with the formation of the bread lines came new troubles. There was only so much of a food reserve in San Francisco and at the best it could not last long. Organized labor we knew had its private supplies nevertheless the whole working class joined the bread lines. As a result the provisions General Folsom had taken possession of diminished with perilous rapidity. How were the soldiers that distinguished between a shabby middle class man a member of the ILW or a slum dweller? The first and the last had to be fed but the soldiers did not know all the ILW men in the city much less the wives and sons and daughters of the ILW men. The employers helping a few of the known union men were flung out of the bread lines but that amounted to nothing. To make matters worse the government tugs that had been hauling food from the army depots on Mayor Island to Angel Island found no more food to haul. The soldiers now received the rations from the confiscated provisions and they received them first. The beginning of the end was in sight violence was beginning to show its face. Law and order were passing away and passing away I must confess among the slum people in the upper classes. Organized labor still maintained perfect order. It could well afford to. It had plenty to eat. I remember the afternoon at the club when I caught Halstead and Brentwood whispering in a corner. They took me in on the venture. Brentwood's machine was still in running order and they were going out cow stealing. Halstead had a long butcher knife and a cleaver. We went out to the outskirts of the city. Here and there were cows grazing but always they were guarded by their owners. We pursued our quest following along the fringe of the city to the east and on the hills near Hunter's Point we came upon a cow guarded by a little girl. There was also a young calf with a cow. We waste it no time on preliminaries. The little girl ran away screaming while we slaughtered the cow. I admit the details for they were not nice. We were unaccustomed to such work and we bungled it. But in the midst of it working with the haste of fear we heard cries and we saw a number of men running toward us. We abandoned the spoils and took to our heels. To our surprise we were not pursued. Looking back we saw the men hurriedly cutting up the cow. They had been on the same lay as ourselves. We argued that there was plenty for all and ran back. The scene that followed beggars description. We fought and squabbled over the division like savages. Brent would I remember was a perfect brute snarling and snapping and threatening that murder would be done if we did not get our proper share. And we were getting our share when there occurred a new eruption on the scene. This time it was the dreaded peace officers of the ILW. The little girl had brought them. They were armed with whips and clubs and there were a score of them. The little girl danced up and down in anger. The tears streaming down her cheeks crying, give it to him, give it to him. That guy with the specs, he did it. Mash his face for him. Mash his face. That guy with the specs was I. And I got my face mashed too though I had the presence of mine to take off my glasses at the first. My but we did receive a trouncing as we scattered in all directions. Brentwood, Halstead and I fled away for the machine. Brentwood's nose was bleeding while Halstead's cheek was cut across with the scarlet slash of a black snake whip. And low when the pursuit ceased and we again the machine there hiding behind it was the frightened calf. Brentwood warned us to be cautious and crept up on it like a wolf or tiger. Knife and cleaver had been left behind but Brentwood still had his hands and over and over on the ground he rolled with a poor little calf as he throttled her. We threw the carcass into the machine covered it over with a robe and started for home. But our misfortunes had only begun. We blew out a tire. There's no way of fixing it and twilight was coming on. We abandoned the machine. Brentwood pulling and staggering along in advance. The calf covered by the robe slung across his shoulders. We took turn about carrying that calf and it nearly killed us. Also we lost our way. And then after hours of wandering and toil we encountered a gang of hoodlums. They were not ILW men. And I guess they were as hungry as we. At any rate they got the calf and we got the threshing. Brentwood raged like a madman the rest of the way home. And he looked like one with his torn clothes, swollen nose and blackened eyes. There wasn't any more cows stealing after that. General Folsom sent his troops out and confiscated all the cows and his troopers ate it by the militia ate most of the meat. General Folsom was not to be blamed. It was his duty to maintain law and order and he maintained it by means of the soldiers. Wherefore he was compelled to feed them first of all. It was about this time that the great panic occurred. The wealthy classes precipitated the flight and then the slum people caught the contagion and stampeded wildly out of the city. General Folsom was pleased. It was estimated that at least 200,000 had deserted San Francisco and by that much was his food problem solved. Well do I remember that day in the morning I had eaten across the bread. Half of the afternoon I had stood in the bread line and after dark I returned home tired and miserable carrying a quart of rice in a slice of bacon. Brown met me at the door. His face was worn and terrified. All the servants had fled he informed me. He alone remained. I was touched by his faithfulness and when I learned that he had eaten nothing all day I divided my food with him. We cooked half the rice and half the bacon sharing it equally and reserving the other half for morning. I went to bed with my hunger and tossed restlessly all night. In the morning I found Brown had deserted me and greater misfortune still he had stolen what remained of the rice and bacon. It was a gloomy handful of men that came together at the club that morning. There was no service at all. The last servant was gone. I noticed too that the silver was gone and I learned where it had gone. The servants had not taken it for the reason I presume that the club members got to it first. Their method of disposing of it was simple. Down south of Market Street in the dwellings of the ILW the housewives had given square meals in exchange for it. I went back to my house. Yes, my silver was gone. All but a massive pitcher. This I wrapped up and carried down south of Market Street. I felt better after the meal and returned to the club to learn that there was nothing new in the situation. Hanover, Collins, and Dacon were just leaving. There was no one inside, they told me. And they invited me to come along with them. They were leaving the city, they said, on Dacon's horses and there was a spare one for me. Dacon had four magnificent carriage horses that he wanted to save. And General Folsom had given him the tip that the next morning all the horses that remained in the city were to be confiscated for food. There were not many horses left. For tens of thousands of them had been turned loose into the country when the hay and grain gave up during the first days. Birdall, I remember, who had great drying interests had turned loose 300 gray horses. At an average value of $500, this had amounted to $150,000. He had hoped at first to recover most of the horses after the strike was over, but in the end he never recovered one of them. They were all eaten by the people that fled from San Francisco. For that matter, the killing of the army mules and horses for food had already begun. Fortunately for Dacon, he had had a plentiful supply of hay and grain stored in his stable. We managed to raise four saddles and we found the animals in good condition and spirited, with all unused to being ridden. I remember the San Francisco of the great earthquake as we rode through the streets, but this San Francisco was vastly more pitiable. No cataclysm of nature had caused this, but rather the tyranny of the labor unions. We rode down past Union Square and through the theater, hotel and shopping districts. The streets were deserted. Here and there stood automobiles abandoned where they had broken down or when the gasoline had given up, there was no sign of life, save for the occasional policemen and the soldiers guarding the banks and public buildings. Once we came upon an ILW man, pasting up the latest proclamation. We stopped to read. We have maintained an orderly strike it ran and we shall maintain order to the end. The end will come when our demands are satisfied and our demands will be satisfied when we have starved our employers into submission as we ourselves in the past have often been starved into submission. Messengers, very words Collins said, and I for one am ready to submit, only they won't give me a chance to submit. I haven't had a full meal in an age. I wonder what horse meat tastes like. We stopped to read another proclamation. When we think our employers are ready to submit, we shall open up the telegraphs and place the employer's associations of the United States in communication. But only messages relating to peace term shall be permitted over the wires. We rode on, crossed Market Street, and a little later we're passing through the working class district. Here the streets were not deserted. Leaning over the gates or standing in groups were the ILW men. Happy, well fed children were playing games and stout housewives sat on the front steps gossiping. One and all cast amused glances at us. Little children ran after us crying, hey, mister, ain't you hungry? And one woman nursing a child at her breast called to Dakon, say fatty, I'll give you a meal for your skate, ham and potatoes, current jelly, white bread, canned butter and two cups of coffee. Have you noticed the last few days handover remarked to me that there's not been a stray dog in the streets? I'd noticed but I had not thought about it before. It was high time to leave the unfortunate city. We at last managed to connect with the San Bruno Road along which we had itself. I had a country place near Menlo and it was our objective. But soon we began to discover that the country was far off and far more dangerous than the city. There the soldiers and the ILW kept order, but the country had been turned over to anarchy. 200,000 people had fled from San Francisco and we had countless evidences that their flight had been like that of an army of locusts. They had swept everything clean. There had been robbery and fighting. Here and there we passed bodies by the roadside and saw the blackened ruins of farmhouses. The fences were down and the crops had been trampled by the feet of a multitude. All the vegetable patches had been rooted out by the famished hordes. All the chickens and farm animals had been slaughtered. This was true of all the main roads that led out of San Francisco. Here and there, away from the roads, farmers had held their own with shotguns and revolvers and were still holding their own. They warned us away and refused to parley with us. And all the destruction of violence had been done by the slum dwellers and the upper classes. The ILW men with plentiful food supplies remained quietly in their homes in the cities. Early in the ride, we received concrete proof of how desperate was the situation. To the right of us, we heard cries and rifle shots. Bullets whistled dangerously near. There was a crashing in the underbrush. Then a magnificent black truck horse broke across the road in front of us and was gone. We had barely time to notice that he was bleeding in lane. He was followed by three soldiers the chase went on among the trees on the left. We could hear the soldiers calling to one another. A fourth soldier, limped out upon the road from the right, sat down on a boulder and mopped the sweat from his face. Militia Dacon whispered, deserters. The man grinned up at us and asked for a match and replied to Dacon's, what's the word? He informed us that the militia men were deserting. No grubby explained. They're feeding it all to the regulars. We also learned from him that the military prisoners had been released from Alcatraz Island because they could no longer be fed. I shall never forget the next sight we encountered. We came upon it abruptly around a turn of the road. Overhead arched the trees. The sunshine was filtering down through the branches. Butterflies were fluttering by and from the fields came the song of larks and there it stood, a powerful touring car. About it and in it lay a number of corpses. It told its own tale. Its occupants fleeing from the city had been attacked and dragged down by a gang of slum dwellers. Hoodlums, the thing had occurred within 24 hours. Freshly opened meat and fruit tins explained the reason for the attack. Dacon examined the bodies. I thought so he reported. I ridden in the car. It was periton, the whole family. We've got to watch out for ourselves from now on. But we have no food with which to invite attack. I objected. Dacon pointed to the horse I rode and I understood. Early in the day, Dacon's horse had cast a shoe. The delicate hoof had split and by noon the animal was limping. Dacon refused to ride it farther and refused to desert it. So on his solicitation we went on. He would lead the horse and join us at my place. That was the last we saw of him, nor did we ever learn his end. By one o'clock we arrived at the town of Menlo or rather at the site of Menlo for it was in ruins. Corpses lay everywhere. The business part of the town as well as part of the residences had been gutted by fire. Here and there a residence still held out but there was no getting near them. When we approached too closely we were fired upon. We met a woman who was poking about in the smoking ruins of her cottage. The first attack she told us had been on the stores and as she talked we could picture that raging, roaring, hungry mob flinging itself on the handful of townspeople. Millionaires and paupers had fought side by side for the food and then fought with one another after they got it. The town of Palo Alto and Stanford University had been sacked in similar fashion we learned. The head of us lay a desolate, wasted land and we thought we were wise in turning off to my place. It lay three miles to the west snuggling among the first rolling swells of the foothills. But as we rode along we saw that the devastation was not confined to the main roads. The van of the flight had kept to the roads sacking the small towns as it went. While those that followed had scattered out and swept the whole countryside like a great broom. My place was built of concrete, masonry and tiles and so at escape being burned but it was gutted clean. We found the gardener's body in the windmill littered around with empty shotgun shells. He had put up a good fight but no trace could we find of the two Italian laborers nor of the housekeeper and her husband. Not a live thing remained. The calves, the colts, all the fancy poultry and thoroughbred stock, everything was gone. The kitchen and the fireplaces where the mob had cooked were a mess while many campfires outside were witness to the large number that had fed and spent the night. What they had not eaten they had carried away. There was not a bite for us. We spent the rest of the night vainly waiting for Daccon and in the morning with our revolvers fought off half a dozen marauders. Then we killed one of Daccon's horses hiding for the future what meat we did not immediately eat. In the afternoon Collins went out for a walk but failed to return. This was the last straw to hand over. He was for flight there and then and I had great difficulty in persuading him to wait for daylight. As for myself, I was convinced that the end of the general strike was near and I was resolved to return to San Francisco. So in the morning we parted company hand over heading south 50 pounds of horse meat strapped to a saddle while I similarly loaded headed north. Little hand over pulled through all right and to the end of his life he will persist I know and boring everybody with the narrative of his subsequent adventures. I got as far as Belmont on the main road back when I was robbed of my horse meat by three militiamen. There was no change in the situation they said except that it was going from bad to worse. The ILW had plenty of provisions hidden away and could last out for months. I managed to get as far as Bodin when my horse was taken away from me by a dozen men. Two of them were San Francisco policemen and the remainder were regular soldiers. This was ominous. The situation was certainly extreme when the regulars were beginning to desert. When I continued my way on foot they already had the fire started and the last of Dakon's horses lay slaughtered on the ground. As luck would have it I sprained my ankle and seceded in getting no farther than south San Francisco. I lay there that night in an outhouse shivering with a cold and at the same time burning with fever. Two days I lay there too sick to move and on the third reeling and giddy supporting myself on an extemporized crutch I tottered on towards San Francisco. I was weak as well for it was the third day since food had passed my lips. It was a day of nightmare and torment. As in a dream I passed hundreds of regular soldiers drifting along in the opposite direction and many policemen with their families organized in large groups for mutual protection. As I entered the city I remember the workman's house at which I had traded the silver pitcher and in that direction my hunger drove me. Twilight was falling when I came to the place. I passed around by the alleyway and crawled up the black steps on which I collapsed. I managed to reach out with a crutch and knock on the door then I must have fainted. For I came to in the kitchen my face wet with water and whiskey being poured down my throat. I choked and sputtered and tried to talk. I began saying something about not having any more silver pitchers but that I would make it up to them afterward if they would only give me something to eat. But the housewife interrupted me. Why, you poor man, she said. Haven't you heard? The strike was called off this afternoon. Of course we'll give you something to eat. She bustled around opening a tin of breakfast bacon and preparing to fry it. Let me have some now please, I begged. And I ate the raw bacon on a slice of bread while her husband explained that the demands of the ILW had been granted. The wires had been opened up in the early afternoon everywhere the employer's associations had given in. There hadn't been any employers left in San Francisco but General Folsom had spoken for them. The trains and steamers would start running in the morning and so would everything else just as soon as system could be established. And that was the end of the general strike. I never want to see another one. It was worse than a war. The general strike is a cruel and immoral thing and the brain of man should be capable of running industry in a more rational way. Harrison is still my chauffeur. Who's part of the conditions of the ILW that all of its members should be reinstated in their old positions. Brown never came back but the rest of the servants are with me. I hadn't the heart to discharge them, poor creatures. They were pretty hard pressed when they deserted with the food and silver. And now I can't discharge them. They have all been unionized by the ILW. The tyranny of organized labor is getting beyond human endurance. Something must be done. End of The Dream of Debs by Jack London. Cold Light by SP Meek. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Frank Duncan. Cold Light by SP Meek. The bodies had broken into pieces as though they had been made of glass. Confounded, Carnes, I am on vacation. I know it, doctor, and I hate to disturb you but I felt that I simply had to. I have one of the weirdest cases on my hands that I've ever been mixed up in. And I think that you'll forgive me for calling you when I tell you about it. Dr. Byrd groaned in the telephone transmitter. I took a vacation last summer or tried to and you hauled me away from the best fishing I have found in years to help you on a case. This year I traveled all the way from Washington to San Francisco to get away from you and the very day that I get here, you are after me. I won't have anything to do with it. Where are you anyway? I'm at Fallon, Nevada, doctor. I'm sorry that you won't help me out because the case promises to be unusually interesting. Let me at least tell you about it. Dr. Byrd groaned louder than ever into the telephone transmitter. All right, go ahead and tell me about it if it will relieve your mind but I have given you my final answer. I am not a bit interested in it. That is quite all right, doctor. I don't expect you to touch it. I hope, however, that you will be able to give me an idea of where to start. Did you ever see a man's body broken in pieces? Do you mean badly smashed up? No, indeed. I mean just what I said, broken in pieces. Legs snapped off as though the entire flesh had become brittle. No, I didn't and neither did anyone else. I have seen it, doctor. Huey, what have you been drinking? Operative carns of the United States secret surface chuckled softly to himself. The voice of the famous scientists of the Bureau of Standards plainly showed an interest which was quite at variance with his words. I was quite sober, doctor, and so was Huey's and we both saw it. Who is Huey's? He is an air mail pilot. One of the crack flyers of the Transcontinental Air Mail let me tell you the whole thing in order. All right, I have a few minutes to spare, but I warn you again that I don't intend to touch the case. Suit yourself, doctor. I have no authority to requisition your services. As you know, the TAC has been handling a great deal of Transcontinental Air Mail with a pretty clean record on accidents. The day before yesterday, a special plane left Washington to carry two packages from there to San Francisco. One of them was a shipment of jewels valued at a quarter of a million consigned to an San Francisco firm and the other was a sealed packet from the War Department. No one was supposed to know the contents of that packet except the chief of staff who delivered it to the plane personally. But rumors got out, as usual, and it was popularly supposed to contain certain essential features of the Army's war plans. This much is certain. The plane carried not only the regular TAC pilot and courier, but also an Army courier and it was guarded during the trip by an Army plane armed with small bombs and a machine gun. I wrote in it, my orders were simply to guard the ship until it landed at the mill's field and then to guard the courier from there to Presidio of San Francisco until his packet was delivered personally into the hands of the commanding general of the 9th Corps area. The trip was quiet and monotonous until after we left Salt Lake City at dawn this morning. Nothing until we were about 100 miles east of Reno. We had taken elevation to cross the Stillwater Mountains and we were skimming low over them. My plane trailing the TAC plane by about a half mile. I was not paying any particular attention to the other ship when I suddenly felt our plane leap ahead. It was a fast Douglas and the pilot gave it the gun and made it move. I can tell you, I yelled into the speaking tube and asked what was the reason. My pilot yelled back that the plane ahead was in trouble. As soon as it was called to my attention, I could see myself that it wasn't acting normally. It was losing elevation and was pursuing a very erratic course. Before we could reach it, it lost flying speed and fell into a spinning nosedive and headed for the ground. I watched, expecting every minute to see the crew make parachute jumps, but they didn't and the plane hit the ground with a terrific crash. It caught fire, of course. No, doctor. That is one of the funny things about the accident. It didn't. It hit the ground and it opened place free from brush and literally burst into pieces, but it didn't flame up. We headed directly for the scene of the crash and we encountered another funny thing. We almost froze to death. What do you mean? Exactly what I say. Of course, it's pretty cold at that altitude all the time, but this cold was like nothing I had ever encountered. It seemed to freeze the blood in our veins and it congealed frost on the windshield and made the motor miss for a moment. It was only momentary and it only existed directly over the wrecked plane. We went past it and swung around in a circle and came back over the wreck, but we didn't feel the cold again. The next thing we tried to do was to find a landing place. That country is pretty rugged and rough and there wasn't a flat place for miles that was large enough to land a ship on. Hughes and I talked it over and there didn't seem to be much of anything that we could do except to go on until we found a landing place. I had had no experience in parachute jumping and I couldn't pilot the plane if Hughes jumped. We swooped down over the wreck as close as we dared and that was when we saw the condition of the bodies. The whole plane was cracked up pretty badly, but the weird part of it was the fact that the bodies of the crew had broken into pieces as though they had been made of glass. Arms and legs were detached from the torsos and lying at a distance. There was no sign of blood on the ground. We saw all this with our naked eyes from close at hand and verified it by observations through binoculars from a greater height. When we had made our observations and marked the location of the wreck as closely as we could, we headed east until we found a landing place near Fallon. Hughes dropped me here and went on to Reno or to San Francisco if necessary to report the accident and get more planes to aid in the search. I was wholly at sea, but it seemed to be in your line and as I knew that you were at the St. Francis, I called you up. What are your plans? I've made none until I talked with you. The country where the wreck occurred is unbelievably wild and we can't get near it with any transportation other than burrows. The only thing that I can see to do is to gather together what transportation I can and head for the wreck on foot to rescue the packets and to bring out the bodies. Can you suggest anything better? When do you expect to start? As soon as I can get my pack trained together, possibly in three or four hours. Carns, are you sure that those bodies were broken into bits? An arm or a leg might easily be torn off in a complete crash. They were smashed into bits, as nearly as I could tell. Doctor, Hughes is an old flyer and he has seen plenty of crashes, but he never saw anything like this. It beats anything that I've ever saw. If your observations were accurate, there could be only one cause and that one is a patent impossibility. I have a bit of equipment here, but I expect that I can get most of the stuff I want from the University of California across the bay at Berkeley. I can get a plane at Chrissy Field. I'll tell you what to do, Carns. Get your burrow trained together and start as soon as you can. But leave me half a dozen burrows and a guide at Fallon. I'll get up there as soon as I can and I'll try to overtake you before you get to the wreck. If I don't, don't disturb anything any more than you can help until my arrival. Do you understand? I thought that you were on vacation, doctor. Oh, shut up. Like most of my vacations, this one will have to be postponed. I'll move as swiftly as I can and I ought to be at Fallon tonight. If I'm lucky and don't run into any obstacles. Burrows are fairly slow, but I'll make the best time possible. I rather expect you would, doctor. I can't get my pack trained together until evening, so I'll wait for you right here. I'm mighty glad that you are going to get in on it. Silently, Carnes and Dr. Bird surveyed the wreck of the TAC plane. The observations of the Secret Service operative have been correct. The bodies of the unfortunate crew had been broken into fragments. Their limbs had not been twisted off as a freak of the fall, but had been cleanly broken off as though the bodies had suddenly become brittle and had shattered on their impact with the ground. Not only the bodies, but the ship itself had been broken up. Even the clothing of the men was in pieces or had long splits in the fabric whose edges were as clean as though they had been cut with a knife. Dr. Bird picked up an arm which had belonged to the pilot and examined it. The brittleness, if it had ever existed, was gone and the arm was limp. No rigor mortis, commented the doctor. How long ago was the wreck? About 72 hours ago. Hmm, what about those packets that were on the plane? Carnes stepped forward and gingerly inspected first the body of the army courier and then that of the courier of the TAC. Both gone, doctor. He reported, straightening up. Dr. Bird's face fell into grim lines. There is more to this case than appears on the surface Carnes. He said, this was no ordinary wreck. Bring up that third burrow. I want to examine these fragments a little. Bill, he went on to one of the two guides who had accompanied them from Fallon. You and Walter scout around the ground and see what you can find out. I especially wish to know whether anyone has visited the scene of the wreck. The guides consulted a moment and started out. Carnes drove up the burrow the doctor had indicated and Dr. Bird unpacked it. He opened a mahogany case and took from it a high powered microscope. Setting the instrument up on a convenient rock, he subjected portions of the wreck including several fragments of flesh to a careful scrutiny. When he had completed his observations he fell into a brown study from which he was aroused by Carnes. What did you find out about the cause of the wreck doctor? I don't know what to think. The immediate cause was that everything was frozen. The place ran into a belt of cold which froze up the motor and which probably killed the crew instantly. It was undoubtedly the aftermath of that cold which you felt when you swooped down over the wreck. It seems impossible that it could have suddenly got cold enough to freeze everything up like that. It does and yet I'm confident that is what happened. It was no ordinary cold Carnes. It was cold of the type that infests interstellar space. Cold beyond any conception you have of cold. Cold near the range of absolute zero of temperature nearly 450 degrees below zero on the Fahrenheit scale at such temperatures things which are ordinarily quite flexible and elastic such as rubber or flesh becomes brittle as glass and would break in the manner which these bodies have broken and examination of the tissues of the flesh shows that it has been submitted to some temperature that is very low in the scale probably below that of liquid air. Such a temperature would produce instant death and the other phenomenon which we can observe. What could cause such a low temperature doctor? I don't know yet. Although I hope to find out before we are finished. Cold is a funny thing Carnes. Ordinarily it is considered as simply the absence of heat and yet I have always held it to be a definite negative quantity. All through nature we observe that every force has its opposite or negative force to oppose it. We have positive and negative electrical charges. Positive and negative or north and south magnetic poles. We have gravity and its opposite apogee and I believe cold is really negative heat. I never heard of anything like that doctor. I always thought that things were cold because heat was taken from them. Not because cold was added. It sounds preposterous. Such is the common idea and yet I cannot accept it for it does not explain all the recorded phenomenon. You are familiar with searchlight, are you not? In a general way yes. A searchlight is merely a source of light and of course of heat which is placed at the focus of a parabolic reflector so that all of the rays emanating from the source travel in parallel lines. A searchlight of course gives off heat. If we place a lens of the same size as the searchlight aperture in the path of the beam and concentrate all the light and heat at one spot the focal point of the lens, the temperature at the point is the same as the temperature of the source of the light less what has been lost by radiation. You understand that do you not? Certainly. Suppose that we place at the center of the aperture of the searchlight a small opaque disc which is permeable neither to heat nor light in such a manner as to interrupt the central portion of the beam as a result the beam will go out in the form of a hollow rod or pipe of heat and light with a dark cold core. This core will have the temperature of the surrounding air plus the small amount which has radiated into it from the surrounding pipe. If we now pass this beam of light through a lens in order to concentrate the beam both the pipe of heat and the cold core will focus. If we place a temperature measuring device near the focus of the dark core we will find that the temperature is lower than the surrounding air. This means that we have focused or concentrated cold. That sounds impossible but I can offer no other criticism. Nevertheless, it is experimentally true. It is one of the facts which led me to consider cold as negative heat. However, this is true of cold as it is of the other negative forces. They exist and manifest themselves only in the presence of the positive forces. No one has yet concentrated cold except in the presence of heat. As I have outlined how this cold belt which the TAC plane encountered came to be there is another question. The thing which we have to determine is whether it was caused by natural or artificial forces. Both of the package which the plane carried are gone doctor. Observed Carnes. Yes and that seems to add weight to the possibility that the cause was artificial but it is far from conclusive. The packets might not have been on the men when the plane fell or someone may have passed later and taken them for safekeeping. The doctor's remarks were interrupted by the guides. Someone has been here since the wreck doctor said Bill. Walter and I found tracks where two men came up here and prowled around for some time and then left by the way they came. They went off toward the Northwest and we followed their trail for about 40 rods and then lost it. We weren't able to pick it up again. Thanks Bill replied the doctor. Well, Carnes that seems to add more weight to the theory that spot of cold was made and didn't just happen. If a prospecting party had just happened along they would either have left the wreck alone or would have made some attempt to enter the bodies. That cold belt must have been produced artificially by men who plan to rob this plane after bringing it down and who were near at hand to get their plunder. Is there any chance of following that trail? I doubt it Doc. Walter and I scouted around quite a little but we couldn't pick it up again. Is there any power line passing within 20 miles of here? None that Walter and I know of Doc. Funny, such a device as must have been used would need power and lots of it for operation. Well, I'll try my luck Carnes. Help me unpack and set up the rest of my apparatus. With the aid of the operative Dr. Byrd unpacked two of the burrows and extracted from the cases where they were carefully packed and padded some elaborate electrical and optical apparatus. The first was a short telescope of large diameter which he mounted on a base in such a manner that it would be elevated or depressed and rotated in any direction. At the focal point of the telescope was fastened a small knot of wire from which one lead ran to the main piece of apparatus which he had sat on a flat rock. The other lead from the wire knot ran into a sealed container surrounded by a water bath until which a spirit lamp burned. From the container another lead led to the main apparatus. This main piece consisted of a series of wire coils mounted on a frame and attached to two leads. The doctor took from a padded case a tiny magnet suspended on a piece of wire of exceedingly small diameter which he fastened in place inside the coils cemented to the magnet was a tiny mirror. What is this apparatus? Asked Karnes as the doctor finished his setup and surveyed it with satisfaction. Merely a thermocouple attached to a D. Arsonval galvanometer replied the doctor. This large squat telescope catches and concentrates. You're out of my depth. What is a thermocouple? A juncture of two wires made of dissimilar metals. In this case of platinum, iridium, alloy. There is another similar junction in this case which is kept at a constant temperature by the water bath. When the temperature of the two junctions are the same the system is in equilibrium. When they are different temperatures an electrical potential is set up which causes a current to flow from one to the other through the galvanometer. The galvanometer consists of a magnet set up inside coils through which the current I spoke of flows. This current causes the magnet to rotate and by watching the mirror the rotation can be detected and measured. This device is one of the most sensitive ever made and it is used to measure the radiation from the distant stars. Currents as small as 0.1 to the 27th amper have been detected and measured. This particular instrument is not that sensitive to begin with and has its sensitivity further reduced by having a high resistance in one of the leads. What are you going to use it for? I'm going to try to locate somewhere in these hills a patch of local cold. It may not work but I have hopes. If you will manipulate the telescope so as to search the hills around here I will watch the galvanometer. For several minutes Karn swung the telescope around. Twice Dr. Bird stopped him and decreased the sensitivity of his instrument by introducing more resistance in the lines in order to keep the magnet from twisting clear around. Due to the fluctuations in the heats received on accurate of the varying conditions of reflection as Karn swung the telescope again the magnet swung around sharply nearly to a right angle to its former position. Stop, cried the doctor. Read your azimuth. Karn's read the compass bearing on the protractor attached to the frame which supported the telescope. Dr. Bird took a pair of binoculars and looked long and earnestly in the indicated direction. With a sigh he laid down the glasses. I can't see a thing, Karnsy, he said. We'll have to move over to the next crest and make a new setup, plan a rod on the hill so that we can get an azimuth bearing and get the airline distance with a rangefinder. On the hilltop which Dr. Bird had pointed out the apparatus was again set up. For several minutes Karn swept the hills before an exclamation from the doctor told him to pause. He read the new azimuth and the doctor laid off the two readings on a sheet of paper with the protractor and made a few calculations. I don't know, he said reflectively. When he had finished his computations this darn instrument is still so sensitive that you may have merely focused on a deep shadow or a cold spring of something of that sort. But the magnet kicked clear around and it may mean that we have located what we are looking for. It should be about two miles away and almost do west of here. There is no spring that I know of, Doc. And I think I know of every water hole in this country, remarked Bill. There could hardly be a spring at this elevation anyway, replied the doctor. Maybe it is what we are seeking. We'll start out in that direction anyway. Bill, you had better take the lead for you know the country. Spread out a little so that we won't be too bunched if anything happens. For three quarters of an hour the little group of men made their way through the wilderness in the direction indicated by the doctor. Presently Bill, who was in the lead, held up his hand with a warning gesture. The other three closed up as rapidly as cautious progress would allow. What is it, Bill? Asked the doctor in an undertone. Slip up ahead and look over the crest. The doctor obeyed instructions. As he glanced over, he gave vent to a low whistle of surprise and motioned for Carnes to join him. The operative crawled up and glanced over the crest. Any hollow before them was a crude, one-storied house and erected on an open space before it was a massive piece of apparatus. It consisted of a number of huge metallic cylinders for which lines ran to a silvery concave mirror mounted on an elaborate frame which would allow it to be routed, rotated so as to point in any direction. What is it, whispered Carnes? Some kind of projector, muttered the doctor. I never saw one quite like it but it is meant to project something. I can't make out the curve of that mirror. It isn't a parabola and it isn't an ellipse. It must be a high degree subcontannary or else built on a transcendental function. He raised himself to get a clearer view and as he did, so a puff of smoke came from the house to be followed any moment by a sharp crack as a bullet flattened itself a few inches from his head. The doctor tumbled back over the crest out of sight of the house. Bill and Walter hurried forward. Their rifles held ready for action. Get out on the flanks, men, directed the doctor. The man we want is in a house in that hollow. He's armed and he means business. Bill and Walter crawled under the shelter of the rock to a short distance away and then, rifles ready, advanced to the attack. A report came from the hollow and a bullet whined over Bill's head. Almost instantly, a crack came from Walter's rifle and splinters flew from the building in the hollow a few inches from a loophole through which projected the barrel of a rifle. The rifle barrel swung rapidly in a circle and barked in Walter's direction. But as it did so, Bill's gun spoke and again, splinters flew from the building. Good work ejaculated Dr. Bird as he watched the slow advance of the two guides. If we just had rifles, we could join in that party, but it's a little far for effective pistol work. Let's go ahead and we may get close enough to do a little shooting. Pistols in hand, carns and the doctor crawled over the crest and joined the advance. Again and again, the rifle spoke from the hollow and was answered by the vicious barks of the rifles in hand, in the hands of the guides, carns and the doctor resting their pistols on rocks and sending an occasional bullet toward the loophole. The conditions of light and moving target were not conducive to good marksmanship on the part of the besieged men and none of the attackers were hit. Presently, Walter succeeded in sending a bullet through the loophole. The rifle barrel suddenly disappeared with a shout, the four men rose from their cover and advanced toward the building at a run. As they did so, an ominous warring sound came from the apparatus in front of the house and a sudden shill filled the air. Back, shouted Dr. Bird, back below the hill if you value your lives. He turned and raced at full speed toward the sheltering crest of a hill. The others following him closely. The warring sound continued and the concave reflector turned with a grating sound on its gears. As the path of its race struck the ground, the rocks became white with frost and one rock split with a sharp rapport, one fragment rolling down the slope, carrying others in its trail. With panic-stricken faces, the four men raced toward the sheltering crest but remorsely the reflector swung around in their direction. The intense cold numbed the racing men, cutting off their breath and impeding their efforts for speed. Stop, cried the doctor suddenly. Fire at that reflector, it's our only chance. He set the example by turning and imping his pistol futilely at the turning mirror. Bill, Walter and Carnes followed his example. Near and nearer to them came the deadly ray. Bill was the nearest to its path and he suddenly stiffened and fell forward. His useless gun still grasped in his hands as his body struck the ground and it rolled downhill for a few feet. The deadly ray following it, his head struck a rock and Carnes gave a cry of horror as it broke into fragments. Walter threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired again and again at the rotating disc. The cold became intense and he could not control the actions of his muscles and his rifle wavered about. He threw himself flat on the ground and with an almost superhuman effort steadied himself for a moment and fired. His aim was true and with a terrific crash the reflector split into a thousand fragments. Dr. Byrd staggered to his feet. It's out of order for a moment, he cried, to the house while we can. As swiftly as his numbed feet would allow him he stumbled toward the house. The muzzle of the rifle again projected from the loophole and with its crack the doctor staggered for a moment and then fell. Walter's rifle spoke again and the rifle disappeared through the loophole with a spasmodic jerk. Carnes stumbled over the doctor. Are you hit badly? He gassed through the chattering teeth. I'm not hit at all, muttered the doctor. I stumbled and fell as he fired. Look out, he's going to shoot again. The rifle barrel came slowly into view through the loophole. Walter fired, but his bullet went wild. Carnes threw himself behind a rock for protection. The rifle swung in Walter's direction and paused. As it did so, from the house came a strangled cry and a sound as of a blow. The rifle barrel disappeared and the sounds of a struggle came from the building. Come on, cried Carnes as he rose to his feet. He made his stumbling way forward. The others followed at the best speed which their numb limbs would allow. As they reached the door, they were aware of a struggle which was going on inside. With an oath, the doctor threw his massive frame against the door. It creaked, but the solid oak of which it was composed was proof against the attack and he drew back for another onslaught. From the house came a pistol shot followed by a despairing cry and a guttural shout. Reinforced by Carnes, the doctor threw his weight against the door. With a rending crash, it gave and they fell sprawling into the cabin. The doctor was the first one on his feet. Who are you? asked a voice from one corner. The doctor whirled like a flash and covered the speaker with his pistol. Put them up, he said, tearlessly. I am unarmed, the voice replied. Who are you? We're from the United States Secret Service, replied Carnes who had gained his feet. The game is up for you and you'd better realize it. Secret Service, thank God, cried the voice. Get Koskof, he has the plans. He has gone out through the tunnel. Where is it? demanded Carnes. The entrance is that iron plate on the floor. Carnes and the doctor jumped at the plate and tried to lift it without result. There was no handle or projection on which they could take hold. Not that way, cried the voice. That cover is fastened on the inside. Go outside the building. He'll come out about 200 yards north. Shoot him as he appears or he'll get away. The three men nearly tumbled over each other to get through the doorway into the bitter cold outside. As they emerged from the cabin, the gaze of the guide swept the surrounding hills. There he goes, he cried. Get him, said Carnes sharply. Walter ran forward a few feet and dropped prone on the ground, cuddling the stock of his rifle to his cheek. 200 yards ahead, a figure was scurrying over the rocks away from the cabin. Walter drew in his breath and his hands suddenly grew steady as his keen gray eyes peered through the sights. Carnes and the doctor held their breath in sympathy. Suddenly, the rifle spoke and the fleeing man threw up his arms and fell forward on his face. Got him, said Walter, leconically. Go bring the body in, Carnes, explained the doctor. I'll take care of the chap inside. Did you get him? Asked the voice eagerly as the doctor stepped inside. He's dead already, replied the doctor grimly. Who the devil are you? And what are you doing here? There is a light switch on the left of the door as you come in, was the reply. Dr. Byrd found the switch and snapped it on a light. He turned toward the corner from whence the voice had come in recoiled in horror. Propped in the corner was a body of a middle-aged man dobbed and splashed with blood, which ran from a wound in the side of his head. Good lord, he ejaculated. Let me help you. There's not much use, replied the man rather faintly. I'm about done in. This face wound doesn't amount to much, but I am shot through the body and I'm bleeding internally. If you try to move me, it may easily kill me. Leave me alone until your partners come. The doctor drew a flask of brandy from his pocket and advanced towards the corner. Take a few drops of this, he asked. With an effort, the man lifted the flask to his lips and gulped down a little of the fiery spirit. A sound of trampling feet came from the outside and then a thud as though a body had been dropped. Carnes and Walter entered the cabin. He's dead as a mackerel, said Carnes and answered to the doctor's look. Walter got him through the neck and broke his spinal cord. He never knew what hit him. The plans came in a gasping voice from the man in the corner. We got them too, replied Carnes. He had both packets inside his coat. They have been opened, but I guess they are all here. Who the devil are you? Since Koskoff is dead and I'm dying, there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you was the answer. Leave that brandy handy to keep up my strength. I have only a short time and can't repeat. As to who I am or what I was, it doesn't really matter. Koskoff knew me as John Smith and it will pass as well as any other name. Let my past stay buried. I am or was a scientist of some ability but fortune frowned on me and I was driven out of the world. Money would rehabilitate me. Money will do anything nowadays. So I set out to get it. In the course of my experimental work, I had discovered that cold was negative heat and reacted to the laws which governed heat. I knew that, cried Dr. Bird, but I never could prove it. Who are you? demanded John Smith. Dr. Bird of the Bureau of Standards. Oh, Bird, I've heard of you. You can understand me when I say that as heat, positive heat is a concomitant of ordinary light. I have found that cold, negative heat is a concomitant of cold light. Is my apparatus in good shape outside? The reflector is smashed. I'm sorry, you would have enjoyed studying it. I presume that you saw that it was a cantonary curve. I rather thought so. It was and it was also adjustable. I could vary the focal point from a few feet to several miles. With that apparatus, I could throw a beam of negative heat with a focal point which I could adjust at will. Close to the apparatus, I could obtain a temperature almost down to absolute zero, but at the longer ranges, it wasn't so cold due to leakage into the atmosphere. Even at two miles, I could produce a local temperature of 300 degrees below zero. What was the source of your cold? Liquid helium, those cylinders contain or rather did contain, for I expect that Kostkoff have emptied them, helium in a liquid state. Where is your compressor? I didn't have to use one. I developed a cold light under whose rays helium would liquefy and remain in a state of equilibrium until exposed to light rays. Those cylinders had merely enough pressure to force the liquid out to where the sun could hit it. And then it turned to a gas, dropping the temperature at the first focal point of the reflector to absolute zero. When I had this much done, Kostkoff and I packed the whole apparatus here and we're ready for work. We were on the path of the transcontinental airmail and I bided my time until a specially valuable shipment was to be made. My plans, which worked perfectly, were to freeze the plane in midair, then rob the wreck. I heard of the joules shipment the TAC was to carry and I planned to get it. When the plane came over, Kostkoff and I brought it down. The unsuspected presence of another plane upset us a little and I started to bring it down but we had been all over this country and knew there was no place that a plane could land. I let it go on in safety. Thank you, replied Karns with a grimace. We robbed the wreck and we found two packets. One of the joules I was after and the other a sealed packet which proved to contain certain ward department plans. That was when I learned who Kostkoff was. I had hired him in San Francisco as a good mechanic who had no principles. He was to get one fourth of the loot. When we found these plans, he told me who he was. He was really a Russian secret agent and he wanted to deliver the plans to Russia. I may be a thief, any murderer but I am not ready to betray my country and I told him so. He offered me almost any price for the plans but I wouldn't listen. We had a serious quarrel and he overpowered me and bound me. We had a radio set here and he called San Francisco and sent some code message. I think he was waiting here for someone to come. Had we followed our original plans we would have been miles from here before you arrived. He had me bound and helpless as he thought but I worked my bonds a little loose. I didn't let him know but I knew that the plane I had let get away would guide a party here and I thought I might be able to help out. When you came and attacked the house I worked at my bonds until they were loose enough to throw off. I saw Kostkoff start my cold apparatus to working and then quit. Because he ran out of helium when he started shooting again I worked out of my bonds and tackled him. He was a better man than I gave him credit for or else he suspected me. For about the time I grabbed him he whirled and struck me over the head with his gun barrel and tore my face open. The blow stunned me and when I came too I was thrown into this corner. I meant to have another try at it but I guess you rushed him too fast. He turned and ran for the tunnel but as he did so he shot me through the body. I guess I didn't look dead enough to suit him. You gentlemen broke open the door and came in. That's all. Not by a long shot it isn't explained Dr. Bird. Where is that cold light apparatus of yours? In the tunnel. How do you get into it? If you will open the cupboard on the wall you'll find an open knife switch on the wall. Close it. Dr. Bird found the switch and closed it. As he did so the cabin rocked on its foundation and both Karnes and Walter were thrown to the ground. The thud of a detonation deep in the earth came to their ears. What was that? cried the doctor. That replied Smith with a one smile was the detonation of 200 pounds of TNT. When you dig down into the underground cave where we use the cold light apparatus you will find it in fragments. It was my only child and I'll take it with me. As he finished his head slump forward on his chest with an explanation of dismay Dr. Bird sprang forward and tried to lift the prostate form. In an agony of desire the doctor tightened his grip on the dying man's shoulder but Smith collapsed into a heap. Dr. Bird bent forward and tore open his shirt and listened at his chest. Presently he straightened up. He is gone he said sadly and I guess the results of his genius have died with him. He doesn't strike me as a man who left over much to chance. Karnes is your case completed? Very satisfactorily doctor. I have both of the lost packets. All right then come back to the wreck and help me pack my burrows. I can make my way back to Fallon without a guide. Where are you going doctor? That Karnes old deer is none of your blankety blanked business. Permit me to remind you that I am on my vacation. I haven't decided yet just where I'm going but I can tell you one thing going to be some place where you can't call me on the telephone. End of cold light. by S. P. Meek. The Smiler by Albert Hearnhunter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dale Grossman. Have you ever written science fiction? Have your stories been rejected? Herein may lie the reason. The Smiler by Albert Hearnhunter. Your name? Cole Martin Cole. Your profession? A very important one. I am a literary agent specializing in science fiction. I sell the work of various authors to magazine and book publishers. The coroner paused to study Cole to ponder the thin, mirthless smile. The coroner said, Mr. Cole, this inquest has been called to look into the death of one Sanford Smith, who was found near your home with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his brain. The theory of suicide has been rather hard to rationalize. The coroner blinked. You could put it that way. I would put it even stronger. The theory is obviously ridiculous. It was a weak cover-up. The best I could do under the circumstances. You are saying that you killed Sanford Smith? Of course. The coroner glanced at the six-man jury, at the two police officers, at the scattering of spectators. They all seemed stunned. Even the reporter sent to cover the hearing made no move toward the telephone. The coroner could think of only the obvious question. Why did you kill him? He was dangerous to us. Whom do you mean by us? We Martians, who plan to take over your world. The coroner was disappointed. A lunatic. But a lunatic can murder. Best to proceed, the coroner thought. I was not aware that we have Martians to contend with. If I'd had the right weapon to use on Smith, you wouldn't be aware of it now. We still exercise caution. The coroner felt a certain pity. Why did you kill Smith? We Martians have found science fiction writers to be our greatest danger. Through the medium of imaginative fiction, such writers have more than once revealed our plans. If the public suddenly realized that, the coroner broke in. You killed Smith because he revealed something in his writings? Yes. He refused to take my word that it was unsalable. He threatened to submit it direct. It was vital material. But there are many other such writers you can't control. We control 90% of the output. We have concentrated on the field and all of the science fiction agencies are in our hands. This control was imperative. I see the coroner spoke in the gentle tones one uses with the insane. Any writing dangerous to your cause is deleted or changed by the agents. Not exactly. The agent usually persuades the writer to make any such changes as the agent is considered an authority on what will or will not sell. The writers always agree? Not always. If stubbornness is encountered, the agent merely shelves the manuscript and tells the writer it has been repeatedly rejected. The coroner glanced at the two policemen. Both were obviously puzzled. They returned the coroner's look apparently ready to move on his order. The thin, mirthless smile was still on Cole's lips. Moniacal violence could lie just behind it. Possibly Cole was armed. Better to play for time. Try to quiet the madness within. The coroner continued speaking, you Martians have infiltrated other fields also? Oh yes, we are in government, industry, education. We are everywhere. We have, of course, concentrated mainly upon the ranks of labor and in the masses of ordinary everyday people. It is from these sources that we will draw our shock troops when the time comes. That time will be soon, very soon. The coroner could not forbear a smile. You find the science fiction writers more dangerous than the true scientists? Oh yes. The scientific mind tends to reject anything science disproves. There was now a mocking edge to Cole's voice. Science can easily prove we do not exist. But the science fiction writer? The danger from the imaginative mind cannot be overestimated. The coroner knew he must soon order the officers to lay hands upon this madman. He regretted his own lack of experience with such situations. He tried to put a soothing, confidential note into his voice. He said a moment ago that if you'd had the right kind of weapon to use on Smith, Cole reached into his pocket and brought out what appeared to be a fountain pen. This, it kills instantly and leaves no mark, whatever. Heart failure is invariably stated as the cause of death. The coroner felt better. Obviously Cole was not armed. As the coroner raised a hand to signal the officers, Cole said, you understand, of course, that I can't let you live. Take this man into custody. The police officers did not move. The coroner turned on them sharply. They were smiling. Cole pointed the fountain pen. The coroner felt a sharp chill on his flesh. He looked at the jury, at the newspaper man, the spectators. They were all smiling cold, thin, terrible smiles. A short time later, the newspaper man phoned in his story. The afternoon edition carried it. Coroner Bell dies of a heart attack. Shortly after this morning's inquest, which resulted in a jury verdict of suicide in the case of Sanford Smith, coroner James Bell dropped dead of heart failure in the hearing room of the county building. Mr. Bell leaves a wife and the end of The Smiler by Albert Hearnhunter.