The Onslaught from Rigel/Chapter III
They whirled away to the east side of the city and up Second Avenue like a triumphal cortege, blissfully disregarding the dead traffic lights, though now and then they had to dodge the ruins of some truck or taxi that had come out second best from an argument with an elevated pillar where the driver's hand had been frozen at the wheel. At Forty-ninth Street Ben's car, in the lead, swung in to the curb and pulled up.
“What is it?” … “Is this the place?” … “Anything wrong?”
An illuminating voice floated up. “Electric store, get all the flashlights and batteries you can. We're going to need them.”
A few moments later they were at the great institution, strangely dark and silent now after all its years of ministering to the sick, with a line of rust showing redly on the tall iron fence that surrounded the grounds. They trooped into the reception room, flickering their lights here and there like fireflies. Ben mounted a chair.
“Just a minute, folks,” he began. “I want to say something…. What we have to do here is build civilization up all over again. Undoubtedly there are more people alive—if not in New York, then in other places. We have two jobs—to get in touch with them and to find out what we can do. Mr. Beeville is going to find out about the second one for us, but we can do a lot without waiting for him.
“In the first place, there's that funny-looking bird that we all saw and that chased Roberts. There may be others like it and a lot of new queer forms of animal life around that would be dangerous to us. Therefore, I think it's in line to get some weapons. Miss Lami, you and Mr. Tholfsen are delegated to dig up a hardware store and find guns and cartridges…. Now for the rest, I'm open to suggestions.”
Everybody spoke at once. “Wait a minute,” said Ben. “Let's take things in order. What was your idea, Mr. Stevens?”
“Organize regular search parties.”
“And a good idea, too. We don't even need to wait for daylight. Everybody who can drive, get a car and trot along.”
“X-ray machines are going to be awfully useful in my work,” offered Beeville. “I wonder if there isn't some way of getting enough current to run one.”
“As far as I remember, this building supplies its own current. Murray, you and Massey trot down and get a fire up under one of the boilers. Anything else?”
“Yes,” came from Dangerfield, the editor. “It seems to me that the first thing anyone else in the world would try to do if he found himself made into a tin doll like this is get hold of a radio. How about opening up a broadcasting station?”
“I don't know whether you can get enough power, but you can try. Go to it. Do you know anything about radio?”
“A little.”
“All right. Pick whoever you want for an assistant and try it out. Any more ideas?”
“What day is it?” asked Ola Mae Roberts.
Nobody had thought of it, and it suddenly dawned on the assemblage that the last thing they remembered was when the snow on the roof-tops bespoke a chilly February, while now all the trees were in leaf and the air was redolent of spring.
“Why—I don't know,” said Ben. “Anybody here got any ideas on how to find out?”
“It would take an experienced astronomer and some calculation to determine with accuracy,” said Beeville. “We'd better set an arbitrary date.”
“O. K. Then it's May 1, 1947. That's two years ahead of time, but it will take that long to find out what it really is.”
The assumption that sleep would be unnecessary proved correct. All night long, cars roared up to the door and away again on their quests. The number of people found was small—the cream had apparently been gathered that morning. O'Hara brought in a metallic scrubwoman from one of the downtown buildings, the tines that represented her teeth showing stains of rust where she had incautiously drunk water; Stevens turned up with a slow-voiced young man who proved to be Georgios Pappagourdas, the attaché of the Greek consulate whose name had been in the papers in connection with a sensational divorce case; and Mrs. Roberts came in with two men, one of them J. Sterling Vanderschoof, president of the steamship lines which bore his name.
At dawn Dangerfield came in. He had set up a powerful receiving set by means of storage batteries but could find no messages on the air, and could find no source of power sufficient for him to broadcast.
The morning, therefore, saw another and somewhat less optimistic conference. As it was breaking up Ben said, “You Tholfsen, take Stevens, Vanderschoof and Lee and get a truck, will you? You'll find one about half a block down the street. Go up to one of the coal pits and get some fuel for our boilers here. We haven't too large a supply.”
There was a clanking of feet as they left and Ben turned into the laboratory where Beeville was working, with the scrubwoman as a subject.
“Something interesting here,” said the naturalist, looking up as he entered. “The outer surface of this metal appears to be rust-proof, but when you get water on the inside, things seem to go. It acts like a specially annealed compound of some kind. And look—” He seized one of the arms of his subject, who gazed at him with mildly unresisting eyes, and yanked at the outer layer of metal bands that composed it. The band stretched like one of rubber, and she gave a slight squeal as it snapped back into position. “I don't know of any metal that has that flexibility. Do you? Why—”
The door swung open and they turned to see Murray and Tholfsen.
“Beg pardon for interrupting the sacred panjandrum,” said the former, “but Stevens and Vanderschoof are indulging in a sulk. They don't want to play with us.”
“Oh, hell,” remarked Ben cheerfully and started for the door, the other two following him.
He found the recalcitrants soon enough. The Wall Street man was seated across a doctor's desk from Vanderschoof and looked up calmly from an interrupted conversation as Ben entered.
“Thought I asked you two to go with the boys for some coal,” said Ben, waving at them. “My mistake. I meant to.”
“You did. I'm not going.”
Ben's eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“This is the United States of America, young man. I don't recognize that I am under your orders or anyone else's. If you think you are going to get us to accept any such Mussolini dictatorship, you've got another guess coming. As I was saying—” he turned back to Vanderschoof with elaborate unconcern, and Murray took a step toward him, bristling angrily.
“Leave me alone, boys, I can handle this,” said Ben, waving the other two back. “Mr. Stevens.” The broker looked up with insolent politeness. “This is not the United States, but the colony of New York. Conditions have changed and the sooner you recognize that the better for all of us. We are trying to rebuild civilization from the ruins; if you don't share in the work, you shall not share in the benefits.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“Put you out.”
There was a quick flash, and Ben was staring into the business end of a Luger automatic, gripped tightly in the broker's hand. “Oh, no you won't. You forget that you made this anarchy yourself when you refused to have a president. Now get out of here, quick, and let me talk with my friend.”
For a moment the air was heavy with tension. Then Vanderschoof smiled—a superior smile. Stevens' eyes blinked, and in that blink Ben charged, and as he moved, Murray and Tholfsen followed. There was a report like a clap of thunder in the narrow room, a tremendous ringing clang as the bullet struck the metal plate of Ben's shoulder and caromed to the ceiling, whirling him around against the desk and to the floor by the force of the impact. Murray leaped across his prostrate body, striking at the gun and knocking it down just in time to send the second shot wild; Tholfsen stumbled and fell across Ben.
Ben was up first, diving for Murray and Stevens, now locked in close grapple, but the chess-player's action was more effective. From his prone position he reached up, grabbed Stevens' legs and pulled them from under him, bringing him down with a crash, just as Ben's added weight made the struggle hopelessly one-sided. In a moment more the dictator of the New York colony was sitting on his subject's chest while Murray held his arms. Vanderschoof, with the instinctive terror of the man of finance for physical violence, sat cowering in his chair.
“Get—some wire,” gasped Ben. “Don't think—cloth will hold him.”
Tholfsen released his hold on the legs and climbed to his feet. “Watch the other one, Murray,” said Ben, his quick eye detecting a movement toward the gun on Vanderschoof's part.
“Now you, listen,” he addressed the man beneath him. “We could tie you up and lay you away to pickle until you died for the lack of whatever you need, or we could turn you over to Beeville to cut up as a specimen, and by God,” glaring with a kind of suppressed fury, “I wouldn't hesitate to do it! You're jeopardizing the safety of the whole community.”
The grim face beneath him showed neither fear nor contrition. He hesitated a moment.
“If I let you go and give you a car and a couple of batteries, will you promise to clear out and never come back?”
Stevens laughed shortly. “Do you think you can bluff me? No.”
“All right, Tholfsen, get his feet first,” said Ben, as the chess-player reappeared with a length of light-cord he had wrenched from somewhere. The feet kicked energetically, but the task was accomplished and the arms secured likewise. “You watch him,” said Ben, “while I get a car around.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Vanderschoof, speaking for the first time since the scuffle.
“Throw him in the river!” declared Ben, with ruthless emphasis. “Let him get out of that.” Stevens took this statement with a calm smile that showed not the slightest trace of strain.
“But you can't do that,” protested the steamship man. “It's—it's inhuman.”
“Bring him outside boys,” said Ben, without deigning to reply to this protest, and clanged out to the car.
They lifted the helpless man into the back seat, and with a man on either side of him, started for Queensboro Bridge. The journey was accomplished in a dead silence.
Halfway down the span, Ben brought the taxi round with a flourish and climbed out, the other two lifting Stevens between them. Murray looked toward his friend, half expecting him to relent at the last moment, but he motioned them wordlessly on, and they set down their burden at the rail.
“Over with him!” said Ben remorselessly. They bent....
“I give up,” said Stevens in a strangely husky voice. Murray and Tholfsen paused.
“Did you hear what I said?” said Ben. “Over with him!”
They heaved. “Stop!” screamed the broker. “For God's sake, I'll give up. I'll go. Oh-h-h!” The last was a scream, as Ben laid a detaining hand on Murray's arm.
“Let him down, boys,” he said quietly. “Now listen, Stevens. I don't want to be hard on you—but we've got to have unanimity. You're done. Take a car and clear out. If I let you go now, will you promise to stay away?”
“Yes,” said the Wall Street man. “Anything, only for God's sake don't do that!”
“All right,” said Ben.
As they were loading the banker in the car for the return trip a thought struck Murray. “By the way, Ben,” he remarked, “didn't he nick you with that gun?” “That's right,” said Ben, “he did.” And gazed down at the long bright scratch in the heavy metal that covered his shoulder joint. It was uninjured.