Lord Asquith gazed out across Whittle Square and sighed an impeccable
sigh that brought a new thinness to his lips, a greater flare to his
aristocratic nostrils. It was evident that his Lordship had recently
been in attendance of something quite odorous.
"I have never witnessed anything so abysmal," he told Lady Asquith with
dry authority. "That play has as much chance for a prolonged engagement
as ... as...." He flicked his case at the Whittle monument and its
bronzed tenant at the top. "... as that chap up there has of flying to
the moon. Even Sir Lawrence couldn't have saved it."
"Quite," Lady Asquith affirmed. "I'd rather be struck dead than attend
another of these wretched American productions. May the fates deliver
me."
At that very moment there was a deafening roar, as all the world seemed
to explode before them. The night suddenly burned with a sullen light,
and the pavement beneath their feet shuddered. In the trembling
silence that followed, Lady Asquith, under the terrifying impression
that the fates were doing their best to oblige her in her wish to be
separated from the American theatre, emitted a small cry and promptly
fell into a swoon at her husband's feet. Lord Asquith gazed down at his
fallen lady with sad perplexity.
"Oh, dear!" he said. Then he shrugged. "But I suppose you really did
bring it on yourself, old girl." Then suddenly struck with a horrifying
thought, he glanced quickly in the direction of the monument in the
square. He started back with a cough of horror.
"Lord above!" he cried.
Across the square, though the night elsewhere was starkly clear, the
monument had become engulfed in a heavy mist. Even as Lord Asquith
watched, the fog seemed to disappear, but in a most peculiar manner.
It was as though the vapors were being absorbed into the marble of the
monument itself. And then, staggeringly, the entire structure began
almost imperceptibly to rise.
"Gad!" his lordship gasped. "The old bloater's setting sail!" He
removed his glasses and wiped them quickly. "And taking his monument
with him! Coo!" He started sharply as a hand fell to his arm.
"Hallo!"
He whirled about to find a pallid-eyed, slightly vaporish little man
staring down at Lady Asquith with baffled concern.
"She just resting?" he inquired thickly, "or did somebody hit her?"
His lordship glanced down at his wife. "She's been struck dead by the
fates," he explained pleasantly. "She rather asked for it, you know."
The small man gazed on Lord Asquith with beaming admiration. "That's
what I like about you English," he said. "You cover your emotions so
well. How do you do it?"
But Lord Asquith didn't answer. Suddenly he was too busy giving vent
to an emotion that wasn't even thinly veiled, let alone covered. As he
caught sight of the monument pulling away from the earth and bobbing
upward like a cork in water, he reached to the street lamp for support.
"Look at that thing leap about!" he gasped.
The little man looked and joined his lordship at the lamp.
"Gord!" he groaned, closing his eyes tightly. "I've had a snootfull in
my day, but never anything like this!"
* * * * *
By this time, others along the street had begun to recover sufficiently
from the shock of the explosion to notice that something terribly
strange was going on in the vicinity of the Whittle monument. A
chorused cry of stunned surprise moved, in chain reaction, along the
street and rose to a babble of hysteria.
In this rising tide of excitement, a taxi driver, unaware that he had
gotten himself caught in anything more than an after theatre jam,
directed his vehicle into the square, proceeded to the center, then
glanced out the window to signal for a turn around the monument. He
glanced, looked away, then glanced again. He shoved the whole upper
portion of his body out the window and stared with blinking incredulity
at the rising monument. He forgot completely about the taxi and the
lady passenger in the back.
A greater scream rose through the crowd as the taxi toured complacently
across the square, over the sidewalk, and lodged itself crashingly
in the aquarium fitted window of a seafood restaurant. The driver
remained oblivious to all but the uprooted monument, even as the
windshield gave way before a deluge of salt water and flopping fish.
Not so, however, his passenger who suddenly found herself staring nose
to nose with a gimlet-eyed mackerel, who was peering up at her rather
evilly from inside the front of her dress.
With a scream that echoed to the very heavens, the lady hurled back the
door of the taxi and leaped to the sidewalk. There, before an enchanted
group of onlookers, she began to clutch at herself with all the mad
frenzy of a native dancer engaged in ceremonial rites dedicated to the
god of human fertility. Reaching low within her dress, she withdrew the
floundering fish and hurled it from her with a vengeance.
The fish looped high through the air and landed neatly on the thin
chest of the still unconscious Lady Asquith. Her ladyship, however,
had apparently been lying at her husband's feet, just waiting for a
fish to take to her bosom. No sooner did the mackerel arrive, than she
made a small whimpering sound and sat up. The fish dropped soggily to
her lap. Her ladyship looked down at the fish, and it in turn looked
up at her. Then with an exchange of horrified shudders, fish and lady
simultaneously flopped over to their sides and lay inert.
Through the babbling crowd, two officers arrived on the scene in a
manner of great haste. Running to the front of the crowd, they stopped,
observed the rising monument with a start, and exchanged looks of
complete confusion.
"Lord a'mighty!" the first cop exclaimed. "The thing's gone and pulled
itself up by the roots!"
"I can't look," the second cop said, turning away. "It fair makes my
skin crawl!"
"What can we do? We ought to take steps."
"There's a good idea," the second cop said fervently. "Let's get out of
here. Let's run!"
"In front of all these people?"
"We could pretend we were after somebody, and just happened by this
way."
The first cop nodded. "That's what we'll do! Draw your gun!"
Assuming expressions of great heroism, the two drew their pistols and
brandished them frantically over their heads.
"Stop thief!" they yelled in chorus, and ran frantically through the
crowd and away into the night.
* * * * *
And so, the sensational affair of the Whittle monument found its
beginnings. An hour later, the news had traveled to the far corners of
the earth. Teletypes rattled, and cables hummed. The nation's thinkers
quitted their beds in the early hours of the morning to apprise the
land of their thoughts on the matter.
The morning paper, which Gerald brought back to the old house from a
nearby village, presented a fair cross-section of world opinion on the
incident. Only Russia had no thoughts to vouchsafe on the question of
buoyant monuments.
"There is more to this matter than the mere loss of a valued landmark,"
Gerald read aloud. "This may be the insult direct to every red blooded
American, the final jab at his pride and sense of independence. For a
long time our enemies have done everything possible to discredit our
American heroes, and it would appear now that they are even willing to
go to the extreme of removing their monuments. That they have chosen
to employ a hideous secret weapon to accomplish this monstrous end,
clearly indicates an intention to spread fear and panic throughout the
nation. When the UN meets tomorrow...."
"You see?" Marc said unhappily. "You see? This thing could easily touch
off a war. You fools!"
Gerald's smile, as he put down the paper, was mindful of an actor
reading his notices after a successful opening night.
"We've done it at last!" he sighed.
"I always knew we would," Cecil said complacently. "Wait 'til tonight."
Ecstatically the two got up and left, intent on the preparations for
the coming disaster.
"Those two haven't got a decent impulse to split between them," Toffee
said.
"And I invented this thing!" Marc said wretchedly. "I'm as guilty as if
I were bombing the city myself. I wish I were dead!"
"You will be," Toffee said, "if something doesn't happen. I heard them
talking last night. They've decided not to give you any food today.
After they've fired the bomb, they're going to let you float off into
space with everything else." She closed her eyes against the thought.
"We've got to get out of here and stop this thing." She looked at Marc
imploringly. "Can't you go to sleep?"
"They've been giving me all those powders."
"If only that supernatural serpent would just show himself," Toffee
said. "I'm sure we could talk George into something if we just had the
chance and enough time."
After that they fell silent, lost in a mood of black desolation.
Outside the sky failed to produce the full promise of day; the grey
dawn lingered and became a dark storm color. Gerald left his work long
enough to throw the levers that closed the metal coverings over the
turrets. A moment later rain could be heard splattering against them.
The tangled shadows of the fantastic equipment grew darker and more
formidable under the glare of the overhead worklights. Toffee looked at
Marc, and for the first time the dullness of true despair was in her
green eyes.
"We've got to get out of here, Marc," she said. "We've got to!"
"But how?"
"We could try to get our chains loose. Our fingers are free, at least.
If we moved close enough together.... We've got to try."
Marc glanced without hope at the tangles of chain that imprisoned them.
"I suppose so," he murmured. Slowly, careful lest he upset himself, he
began working his chair toward Toffee. Slowly he inched forward.
* * * * *
It was nearly a half an hour before they were close enough. Marc
strained his hand forward and began fumbling with the chains at
Toffee's wrists. It was difficult work, but he kept at it. At the end
of several minutes, however, his hands were stiff with pain, and he had
to rest.
"I can't even see what I'm doing," he said.
"Let me try loosening yours while you rest," Toffee said with
determination. "We'll take turns."
The hours wore on without result. There was no interruption from
the Blemishes, however. The brothers were far too absorbed in their
preparations for destruction to pay any attention to their captives.
They did not bring food.
"I'm beginning to feel hungry." Marc said.
"This is no time to think of your stomach," Toffee said.
"It's not my stomach," Marc said. "I just hope I don't start floating
away from you. It could happen, you know." He glanced at her chains.
"Do you feel any slack around your wrists at all?"
"Not yet," Toffee said. "Keep trying."
The rain outside continued with a steady monotony and grew louder. It
was impossible to judge the passage of time. Hours dragged by, enough,
it seemed, to round out several days. Toffee and Marc continued their
efforts with the chains, but with a growing sense of futility.
"It's no use," Marc said. "My fingers are raw."
"We've got to keep trying," Toffee said.
Then suddenly they both were quiet as the sound of nearby yawning
interrupted the stillness. It had the thoughtless, indolent tone of
George about it. They turned expectant eyes toward the scaffolding.
Slowly, George faded into view, materializing himself with slow luxury.
He yawned a second time and stretched his arms above his head. Then he
glanced in their direction and waved with airy insolence.
"That's a clubby picture you two make," he commented. "Spending your
last hours in romantic rapture."
"Louse!" Toffee said. "I'd like to see you spend yours in intolerable
agony."
"How can you bear me such ill will?" George asked innocently. "Didn't I
let you loose last night?"
"Stop lolling around," Toffee said, "and come down here."
"Sure," George said, and drifted blithely down to the floor. "Something
on your mind?"
"Yes," Toffee said. "Murder!"
"George!" Marc said. "You've got to help us. Regardless of your
personal feelings ... or lack of them ... you can't...."
George shrugged with great indifference. "What difference does it make
to me if they blow up the city?" he asked. "The High Council will be
recalling me at any moment now. Let the city go or stay, I won't be
around to see it."
"How do you kill a ghost?" Toffee murmured.
* * * * *
Marc glanced in the direction of the Blemishes. It was evident that
their labors were nearly at an end. The rain was beating in a steady
roar, high on the roof above them. There couldn't be too much time
left. He turned decisively toward George.
"George!" he said. "I'll make you a proposition. What you want, is to
get rid of me forever, isn't it? So you can stay on earth?"
"That's the idea," George admitted.
"Then listen to me," Marc said, his voice level. "You have no special
liking for Cecil and Gerald, so it shouldn't matter to you if they get
hurt." He cleared his throat. "If you'll just turn me loose and give me
a chance to stop them, I'll let you send me off in the catapult."
"Marc!" Toffee cried. She turned to George. "Don't listen to...."
"Whether I win or lose, George," Marc said.
"You can't!" Toffee cried. "That's suicide!"
"Not exactly," Marc said. "If he doesn't finish me off, they will." He
turned back to George. "You'll be sure of getting rid of me. And the
city will be saved."
"Well," George hesitated. "I don't know...."
"Hurry," Marc said. "You've got to do it. They're loading the bomb
right now. This is your chance to do something decent for once."
George closed his eyes thoughtfully and rocked back on his heels. There
was a moment of tense silence as he swayed forward. "Okay!" he said.
"It's a deal. Not that I have any particular feeling one way or another
about this city of yours. Actually, I'm only doing it as a personal
favor to you. After all, I can understand why you don't want to move on
to the next world to make room for someone else. It takes time to get
adjusted to the idea that...."
"Stop orating," Toffee put in harshly. "If you're going to let us
loose, you ghoul, then do it."
"Hurry, George!" Marc said.
Happily George went about the business of releasing first Marc, and
then Toffee.
"Now don't try any funny stuff," he said to Marc. "Remember you made a
bargain."
"I won't," Marc promised gravely.
"Good!" George said. "I've been dying to use that catapult anyway." He
chuckled softly. "You'll die when I do. Isn't that funny?"
"Screaming," Toffee said, and followed Marc as he moved swiftly into
the shadows.
They crept quietly forward to a position behind an enormous dynamo.
Marc stopped and peered around. A few yards away, the Blemishes toiled
with the enormous bomb, adjusting it to the catapult, getting it ready
to be fired. They paused briefly in their activities.
"Is it time yet?" Gerald asked excitedly.
Cecil consulted his watch. "A quarter after eight," he said. "Just
fifteen minutes to go."
"I can't wait," Gerald said.
Toffee moved closer to Marc and put her hand on his arm.
"You aren't really going through with that deal, are you?" she asked.
"With George, I mean?"
"I don't see how I can avoid it," Marc said. He nodded over his
shoulder toward George, who was watching them from a close distance.
"He isn't letting me out of his sight for a second. I'm so weak now
from lack of sleep and food, I may not even be able to handle those two
out there. Then too, if it weren't for George, we'd still be helpless."
"There must be some way out of all this," Toffee said miserably.
* * * * *
Marc turned to her for a moment, his eyes clinging worriedly to hers.
"I only hate doing this to you," he said. "I know you'll go when I
do, and I can't really believe you aren't completely real any more.
Sometimes, I feel that I've known you for years and years."
"You have," Toffee said softly. "You have." Then, boosting herself to
the tips of her toes, she reached up and kissed him lightly on the
cheek. "It's all right. Do what you have to. I'll help if I can."
"I'm sorry," Marc said.
They waited a bit longer. Marc glanced around for a weapon and found
the length of pipe Toffee had given him the night before. He picked it
up and moved cautiously to the edge of the dynamo. The rain sounded
ragingly against the metal coverings over the turrets. He watched the
demented brothers until their backs were turned toward him, then sprang
forward.
The moments that followed were covered with noisy confusion. At
Marc's first movement, the brothers left their work with a cry of
dismay. Cecil whirled about, a heavy wrench in his hand. He raised
it menacingly and Marc ran toward him. Toffee ran toward Gerald, but
her value as a combatant was negligible. Gerald quickly shoved her
aside and, as she fell to the floor, ran to the aid of his brother.
It was just as Marc raised the pipe over Cecil's head that Gerald,
in a headlong dash, butted him squarely and brutally in the pit of
the stomach and sent him doubling forward in a convulsion of agony.
Cecil was quick to seize the opportunity to use his wrench. He swung
it upward and brought it down with savage strength. But the blow was
inaccurate. It missed Marc's head and crashed dully into his shoulder.
With a cry of pain, Marc twisted to one side and fell to the floor. He
lay inert as though the blow had paralyzed him.
Toffee, from her position, had a jumbled impression of Gerald running
in another direction, toward a table upon which lay two guns. He was
going to kill Marc! She jumped quickly to her feet and ran unknowingly
to the switch panel on the wall. Something had to be done! She began
pulling switches with frenzied swiftness. It was as her hand pressed
frantically on the fourth one, that everything was suddenly plunged
into blackness. For a moment she leaned against the panel, weak with
relief.
There was stark silence in the old house for a brief moment, and then
the darkness was filled with sound; curses, a dull dragging, the clang
of equipment being tumbled over. Toffee waited breathlessly, then moved
forward to the place where Marc had fallen. She felt in the darkness
for him, but he wasn't there.
"Marc!" she called.
But her voice was drowned out by the sudden loud rumblings of
machinery. Then a great blast of cold air swept through the building,
and Toffee felt a dampness on her face. She turned and looked upward.
The turret at the top of the large catapult had been opened! Even
as she looked, a flash of lightning squirmed through the sky and
illuminated the entire building. Toffee caught a glimpse of George,
lifting Marc into the cartridge on the catapult.
"Marc!" she screamed, and ran forward.
* * * * *
There was also a cry from the Blemishes. But she didn't stop to listen.
In the darkness she felt her way rapidly through the machinery to the
base of the catapult. As another streak of lightning writhed across
the sky, she saw George climbing down from the scaffolding and moving
toward the switch. She reached out and grabbed wildly at his sleeve.
"Stop!" she cried. "It isn't fair!"
But George moved doggedly forward. In the darkness, Toffee knew that he
was reaching toward the switch. Then, as the enormous room once again
flashed with light, she looked upward toward Marc, and almost laughed
with relief. Even in that small interval, she had seen his lank figure
rise buoyantly above the cartridge and start inching into space.
"He's floating!" she cried triumphantly. "He's getting away!"
George suddenly brushed past her in the darkness and leaped to the
scaffolding. In the next flash of light Toffee saw him climb to the top
of the cartridge and grab vainly at Marc's rising coat tails. Suddenly,
she knew what she had to do. She whirled about and reached for the
switch, found it, and pulled with all her might.
Instantly there was a terrible sucking sound and a great flash of
light. As George fell back into the cartridge, it streaked up the
track of the catapult and out into the night so fast, that it seemed,
a moment later, never to have been there at all. There was a beat of
silence, and then, frighteningly, all the heavens seemed to tremble
with an angry light. A moment later a roar of thunder rolled back
across the earth and crashed deafeningly against the walls of the old
house. It was as though the whole universe shook with a destructive
rage.
Toffee gazed weakly toward the now darkened heavens. "Bon Voyage,
George!" she murmured. Then she turned back to the darkness. "Marc!"
There was no answer, but as she waited, the beam of a flashlight knifed
the darkness in the direction of the small catapult. The Blemishes,
murmuring together, were back at work. Toffee crept forward until she
was close enough to hear what they were saying.
"I don't care what they're up to," Cecil said. "I don't care if they
all went to eternity, it's eight thirty and we're going to launch the
bomb. After that, they can live or die or sit around in their stocking
feet. It won't make any difference to us."
Gerald directed the beam of the flashlight up the track of the small
catapult, then to the face of the turret.
"There he is!" he cried.
* * * * *
Marc, spread eagled across the face of the metal covering, was clinging
frantically to the cable that lifted the contrivance. As the light
caught him, he glanced around, but made no effort to avoid discovery.
He seemed curiously agitated.
"Fine!" Cecil said. "That's a good place for him. We'll get him with
the bomb. Put the light back here so I can see what I'm doing."
"That dame _would_ have to blow out the lights," Gerald said
sullenly.
"Never mind. We can manage. The bomb is all set now. You take the
lever that raises the turret shelter. I'll pull the switch on the
catapult. I'll give the signal and we'll pull together."
"Okay," Gerald agreed. The beam of the flash moved off at a distance,
then darted upward again to illuminate Marc's activities in the turret.
"I'm ready!"
"Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Get away! They're firing the bomb!"
Marc glanced back at her, but didn't move. He seemed to be pulling
frantically at the cable, almost as though he had somehow gotten caught
on it.
"Ready!" Cecil yelled. "Aim...!"
"Marc!" Toffee screamed. "Marc! Marc!"
"_Fire!_"
In the dreadful flash that followed, Toffee couldn't be certain of
what she saw. It seemed that Marc had darted away from the face of the
turret, but she couldn't be sure. In the same moment there was a cry of
terror from Gerald.
"It didn't open!" he screamed. "He jammed the cable!"
The tracks of the catapult gleamed red with friction, and the room was
lighted with a dull glow. And then Toffee saw that the metal covering
had remained secure, blocking the passage of the bomb. She had only a
glimpse before the crash came.
There was an awful rending as the old house groaned and screamed under
the impact of the blow. The turret tore loose from its moorings on
the roof, but the bomb had been deflected. The great metal cylinder
looped away from the track, tore through a section of the ceiling and
streaked upward into the night, traveling in a straight line. There was
a breathless silence as Toffee and the brothers watched the terrible
thing move into the sky directly above the house. It hovered for what
seemed to be minutes, then started down again in a definite course.
"My God!" Cecil screamed. "It's coming down on top of us!" He began to
run.
And then the bomb struck. The whole world glared with screaming light,
and then exploded.
In that last moment, Toffee had only a brief, horrified glimpse of
the lank figure, some distance above the house, soaring away into the
darkness, and the rain.
The world gasped and crumbled around her....