the contents of the brief case. Now that the contents are presumably in
the bank vault your official worries are over, and though you're curious
to know why Superior's acting the way it is, you're willing to let
somebody else do something about it."
"But they saw me in the room. Those eyes, whatever they are. I had the
feeling--well, that they weren't human."
"Nonsense!" the voice from the Pentagon said. "An ordinary
closed-circuit television hookup. Don't let your imagination run away
with you, and above all don't play spy. If they're suspicious of anyone
it will be of Geneva Jervis because of her connection with Senator
Thebold. Where are you going now?"
"Well, sir, I thought--that is, if there's no objection--I thought I'd
go have a drink. See what the townspeople are saying."
"Good idea. Do that."
"What are they saying in Washington? Does anybody put any stock in this
magnology stuff of Professor Garet's?"
"Facts are being collated. There's been no evaluation yet. You'll hear
from us again when there's something to tell you. For now, Cort, carry
on. You're doing a splendid job."
The streets were cold, dark, and deserted. The few street lights were
feeble and the lights in houses and other buildings seemed dimmer than
normal. A biting wind had sprung up and Don was glad when he saw the
neon words _Club Lyric_ ahead.
The bartender greeted him cheerfully. "It ain't a fit night. What'll it
be?"
Don decided on a straight shot, to start. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Where's the old town going?"
The bartender shrugged. "Let Civek worry about that. It's what we pay
him for, ain't it?"
"I suppose so. How're you fixed for liquor? Big supply?"
"Last a coupla weeks unless people start drinking more than usual.
Beer'll run out first."
"That's right, I guess. But aren't you worried about being up in the air
like this?"
The bartender shrugged again. "Not much I can do about it, is there?
Want another shot?"
"Mix it this time. A little soda. Is that the general attitude? Business
as usual?"
"I hear some business is picking up. Lot of people buying winter
clothes, for one thing, weather turning cold the way it did. And Dabney
Brothers--they run the coal and fuel oil company--got enough orders to
keep them going night and day for a week."
"That's fine. But when they eventually run out, like you, then what?
Everybody freeze to death?"
The bartender made a thoughtful face. "You got something there. Oh,
hello, Ed. Kinda brisk tonight."
It was Ed Clark, the newspaperman. Clark nodded to the bartender, who
began to mix him a martini. "Freeze the ears off a brass monkey," Clark
said, joining Don. "I have an extra pair of earmuffs if you'd like
them."
"Thanks," Don said, "but I think I'd better buy myself some winter
clothes tomorrow and return yours."
"Suit yourself. Planning to settle down here?"
"I don't seem to have much choice. Anything new at your end?"
Clark lifted his brimming glass and took a sip. "Here's to a mild
winter. New? I guess you know we're in Pennsylvania now and not Ohio.
_Over_ Pennsylvania, I should say. Don't ask me why, unless Hector Civek
thinks Superior will get a better break, taxwise."
"You think the mayor's behind it all?"
"He has his delusions of grandeur, like a lot of people here. But I do
think Hector knows more than he's telling. Some of the merchants--mostly
those whose business hasn't benefited by the cold wave--have called a
meeting for tomorrow. They want to pump him."
"He wasn't exactly a flowing spout at Cavalier this afternoon when the
people from the train wanted answers."
"So that's where he was. They couldn't find him at Town Hall."
"Where's it all going to end? If we keep on drifting we'll be over the
Atlantic--next stop Europe. Then Superior will be crossing national
boundaries instead of just state lines, and some country may decide
we're violating its air space and shoot us out of the sky."
"I see you take the long view," Clark said.
"Is there any other?" Don asked. "The alternative is to kid ourselves
that everything's all right and trust in Providence and Hector Civek.
What is it with you people? You don't seem to realize that sixteen
square miles of solid earth, and three thousand people, have taken off
to go waltzing through the sky. That isn't just something that happens.
Something or somebody's making it happen. The question is who or what,
and what are you going to do about it?"
The bartender said, "The boy's right, Ed. How do we know they won't take
us up higher--up where there's no air? Then we'd be cooked."
Clark laughed. "'Cooked' is hardly the word. But I agree that things are
getting out of hand." He set down his glass with a clink. "I know the
man we want. Old Doc Bendy. He could stir things up. Remember the time
they tried to run the pipeline through town and Doc formed a citizens
committee and stopped them?"
"Stopped them dead," the bartender recalled, then cleared his throat.
"Speak of the devil." He raised his voice and greeted the man who had
just walked in. "Well, Doc. Long time since we've had the pleasure of
your company. Nice to see you."
* * * * *
Doc Bendy was an imposing old gentleman of more than average height and
magnificent girth. He carried a paunch with authority. His hands, at the
ends of short arms, seemed to fall naturally to it, and he patted the
paunch with satisfaction as he spoke. He was dressed for the cold
weather in an old frock coat, black turning green, with a double line of
oversized buttons down the front and huge eighteenth-century lapels. He
wore a battered black slouch hat which long ago had given up the
pretense of holding any particular shape.
"Salutations, gentlemen!" Doc Bendy boomed, striding majestically toward
the bar. "They tell me our peripatetic little town has just passed
Pittsburgh. I'd have thought it more likely we'd crossed the Arctic
Circle. Rum, bartender, is the only suitable potable for the occasion."
Clark introduced Don, who saw that close up Doc Bendy's face was full
and firm rather than fat. The nose had begun to develop the network of
visible blood vessels which indicated a fondness for the bottle. Shaggy
white eyebrows matched the fringe of white hair that sprouted from under
the sides and back of the slouch hat. The eyes themselves were alert
and humorous. The mouth rose subtly at the corners and, though Bendy
never seemed to smile outright, it conveyed the same humor as the eyes.
These two features, in fact, saved the old man from seeming pompous.
Don noticed that the rum the bartender poured for Bendy was 151 proof
and the portion was a generous one.
Bendy raised his glass. "Your health, gentlemen." He took a sip and put
it down. "I might also drink to a happy voyage, destination unknown."
"Don here thinks we're in danger of drifting over Europe."
"A distinct possibility," Bendy said. "Your passports are in order, I
trust? I remember the first time I went to the Continent. It was with
Black Jack Pershing and the AEF."
"Were you in the Medical Corps, sir?" Don asked.
Doc Bendy boomed with laughter, holding his paunch. "Bless your soul,
lad, I'm no doctor. I was on the board of directors of Superior's first
hospital, hence the title. A mere courtesy, conferred on me by a
grateful citizenry."
"The citizens might be looking to you again, Doc," Clark said, "since
their elected representatives are letting them down."
"But not _bringing_ them down, eh? Suppose you tell me what you know,
Mr. Editor. I assume you're the best-informed man on the situation,
barring the conspirators who have dragged us aloft."
"You think it's a conspiracy?"
"It's not an act of God."
Clark began to fill an ancient pipe, so well caked that the pencil with
which he tamped the tobacco barely fitted into the bowl. By the time the
pipe was ready for a match he had exhausted the solid facts. Don then
took over and described the underground passage he had seen that
afternoon. He was about to go further when the old man held up a hand.
"The facts only, if you please. Mr. Cort, what you saw in the
underground chamber fits in remarkably with something I stumbled on this
afternoon while I was skating."
"Skating?" Clark said.
"Ice skating. At North Lake. It's completely frozen over and I'm not so
decrepit that I can't glide on a pair of blades. Well, I was gliding
along, humming the _Skater's Waltz_, when I tripped over a stump. When I
said I stumbled on something I was speaking literally, because I fell
flat. While I lay there, with the breath knocked out of me, my face was
only an inch from the ice and I realized I was eye-to-eye with a thing.
Just as you were, Mr. Cort."
"You mean there was something under the ice?"
"Exactly. Staring up at me. Balefully, I suppose you could say, as if it
resented my presence."
"Did you see the whole face?"
"I'd be embroidering if I said yes. It seemed--but I must stick to the
facts. I saw only the eyes. Two perfectly circular eyes, which glared at
me for a moment, then disappeared."
"It could have been a fish," Clark said.
"No. A fish is about the most expressionless thing there is, while these
eyes had intelligence behind them. None of your empty, fishy stares."
Clark knocked his pipe against the edge of the bar so the ashes fell in
the vicinity of an old brass cuspidor. "So, since what you and Don saw
were both under the surface, we could put two and two together and
assume that some kind of alien beings have taken up residence in
Superior's lower levels?"
"Only if you think two and two make five," Doc Bendy said. "But even if
they don't, there's a great deal more going on than Civek knows, or the
Garet-Rubach crowd at Cavalier will admit. It seems to me, gentlemen,
that it's time I set up a committee."
VII
Miss Leora Frisbie, spinster, was found dead in the mushroom cellar of
her home on Ryder Avenue in the northeastern part of town. She had been
sitting in a camp chair, bundled in heavy clothing, when she died. She
had been subject to heart trouble and that fact, coupled with notes she
had been making on a pad in her lap, led the coroner to believe she had
been frightened to death.
The first entry on the pad said: _Someone stealing my mushrooms; must
keep vigil_. The notes continued:
_Sitting in chair near stairs. Single 60-w. bulb dims, gravity
increases. Superior rising again? Movement in corner--soil being pushed
up from underneath. Hand. Hand? Claw!_
_Claw withdraws._
_Head. Rat? No. Bigger._
_Human? No. But the eyes eyes ey_
That was all.
Photostatic copies of the late Miss Frisbie's notes and the coroner's
report became exhibits one and two in Doc Bendy's dossier. Exhibit three
was a carbon copy of a report by the stock control clerk at the bubble
gum factory.
Bubble gum had been piling up in the warehouse on the railroad siding
back of Reilly Street. The stock control clerk, Armand Specht, was
taking inventory when he saw a movement at the far end of the warehouse.
His report follows:
_Investigated and found carton had been dislodged from top of pile and
broken into. Gross of Cheeky brand missing. Saw something sitting with
back to me opening packages, stuffing gum into mouth, wax paper and all,
half-dozen at time. Looked like overgrown chimpanzee. It turned and saw
me, continuing to chew. Didn't get clear look before it disappeared but
noticed two things: one, that its cheeks bulged out from chewing so much
gum at once, and other, that its eyes were round and bright, even in
dim corner. Then animal turned and disappeared behind pile of Cheekys.
No chimpanzee. Didn't follow right away but when I did it was gone._
Exhibit four:
_Dear Diary:
_There wasn't any TV tonight and I asked Grandfather Bendy what to do and
he said "Marie, when I was young, boys and girls made their own fun" and
so I got out the Scrabble and asked Mom and Dad to play but they said no
they had to go to the Warners and play bridge. So they went and I was
playing pretending I was both sides when the door opened and I said
Hello Grandfather but it wasn't him it was like a kangaroo and it had
big eyes that were friendly._
_After a while I went over and scratched its ears and it liked that and
then it went over to the table and looked at the Scrabble. I thought
wouldn't it be funny if it could play but it couldn't. But it could
spell! It had hands like claws with long black fingernails and fur on
them (the fingers) and it pushed the letters around so they spelled Name
and I spelled out Marie._
_Then I spelled out Who are you and it spelled Gizl._
_Then I spelled How old are you and it put all the blank spaces together._
_I said Where do you live and it spelled Here. Then I changed to Where do
you come from and it pointed to the blanks again._
_The gizl went away before Mom and Dad came home and I didn't tell them
about it but I'll tell Grandfather Bendy because he understands better
about things like the time I had an invisible friend._
* * * * *
Don Cort went to bed in the dormitory at Cavalier with the surprised
realization that it had been only twenty-four hours since Superior took
off. It seemed more like a week. When he woke up the floating town was
over New York.
Some high-flying skywriters were at work. _Welcome Superior--Drink
Pepsi-Cola_ their message said.
Don dressed quickly and hurried to the brink. Alis Garet was there among
a little crowd, bundled up in a parka.
"Is that the Hudson River?" she asked him. "Where's the Empire State
Building?"
"Yes," he said. "Haven't you ever been to New York? I can't quite make
it out. It's somewhere south of that patch of green--that's Central
Park."
"No, I've never been out of Ohio. I thought New York was a big city."
"It's big enough. Don't forget we're four miles up. Have you seen any
planes besides the skywriters?"
"Just some airliners, way down," she said. "Were you expecting someone?"
"Seeing how it's our last port of call, I thought there might be some
Federal boys flying around. I shouldn't think they'd want a chunk of
their real estate exported to Europe."
"Are we going to Europe?"
"Bound to if we don't change course."
"Why?"
"My very next words were going to be 'Don't ask me why.' I ask you.
You're closer to the horse's mouth than I am."
"If you mean Father," Alis said, "I told you I don't enjoy his
confidence."
"Haven't you even got an inkling of what he's up to?"
"I'm sure he's not the Master Mind, if that's what you mean."
"Then who is? Rubach? Civek? The chief of police? Or the bubble gum
king, whoever he is?"
"Cheeky McFerson?" She laughed. "I went to grade school with him and if
he's got a mind I never noticed it."
"McFerson? He's just a kid, isn't he?"
"His father died a couple of years ago and Cheeky's the president on
paper, but the business office runs things. We call him Cheeky because
he always had a wad of company gum in his cheek. Supposed to be an
advertisement. But he never gave me any and I always chewed Wrigley's
for spite."
"Oh." Don chewed the inside of his own cheek and watched the coastline.
"That's Connecticut now," he said. "We're certainly not slowing down for
customs."
A speck, trailing vapor through the cold upper air, headed toward them
from the general direction of New England. As it came closer Don saw
that it was a B-58 Hustler bomber. He recognized it by the mysterious
pod it carried under its body, three-quarters as long as the fuselage.
"It's not going to shoot us down, is it?" Alis asked.
"Hardly. I'm glad to see it. It's about time somebody took an interest
in us besides Bobby Thebold and his leftover Lightnings."
The B-58 rapidly closed the last few miles between them, banked and
circled Superior.
"Attention people of Superior," a voice from the plane said. The
magnified words reached them distinctly through the cold air. "Inasmuch
as you are now leaving the continental United States, this aircraft has
been assigned to accompany you. From this point on you are under the
protection of the United States Air Force."
"That's better," Don said. "It's not much, but at least somebody's doing
something."
The B-58 streaked off and took up a course in a vast circle around them.
"I'm not so sure I like having it around," Alis said. "I mean suppose
they find out that Superior's controlled by--I don't know--let's say a
foreign power, or an alien race. Once we're out over the Atlantic where
nobody else could get hurt, wouldn't they maybe consider it a small
sacrifice to wipe out Superior to get rid of the--the alien?"
Don looked at her closely. "What's this about an alien? What do you
know?"
"I don't _know_ anything. It's just a feeling I have, that this is
bigger than Father and Mayor Civek and all the self-important VIP's in
Superior put together." She squeezed his arm as if to draw comfort from
him. "Maybe it's seeing the ocean and realizing the vastness of it, but
for the first time I'm beginning to feel a little scared."
"I won't say there's nothing to be afraid of," Don said. He pulled her
hand through his arm. "It isn't as though this were a precedented
situation. But whatever's going on, remember there are some pretty good
people on our side, too."
"I know," she said. "And you're one of them."
He wondered what she meant by that. Nothing, probably, except "Thank you
for the reassurance." He decided that was it; the mechanical
eavesdropper he wore under his collar was making him too self-conscious.
He tried to think of something appropriate to say to her that he
wouldn't mind having overheard in the Pentagon.
Nothing occurred to him, so he drew Alis closer and gave her a quick,
quiet kiss.
* * * * *
The crowd of people looking over the edge had grown. Judging by their
number, few people were in school or at their jobs today. Yesterday they
had seemed only mildly interested in what their town was up to but
today, with the North American continent about to be left behind, they
were paying more attention. Yet Don could see no signs of alarm on their
faces. At most there was a reflection of wonder, but not much more than
there might be among a group of Europeans seeing New York Harbor from
shipboard for the first time. An apathetic bunch, he decided, who would
be resigned to their situation so long as the usual pattern of their
lives was not interfered with unduly. What they lacked, of course, was
leadership.
"It's big, isn't it?" Alis said. She was looking at the Atlantic, which
was virtually the only thing left to see except the bright blue sky, a
strip of the New England coast, and the circling bomber.
"It's going to get bigger," Don said. "Shall we go across town and take
a last look at the States?" He also wanted to see what, if anything, was
going on in town.
"Not the last, I hope. I'd prefer a round trip."
An enterprising cab driver opened his door for them. "Special excursion
rate to the west end," he said. "One buck."
"You're on," Don said. "How's business?"
"Not what you'd call booming. No trains to meet. No buses. Hi, Alis.
This isn't one of your father's brainstorms come to life, is it?"
"Hi, Chuck," she said. "I seriously doubt it, though I'm sure you'd
never get him to admit it. How are your wife and the boy?"
"Fine. That boy, he's got some imagination. He's digging a hole in the
back yard. Last week he told us he was getting close to China. This week
it's Australia. He said at supper last night that they must have heard
about this hole and started digging from the other end. They've
connected up, according to him, and he had quite a conversation with a
kangaroo."
"A kangaroo?" Don sat up straight.
"Yeah. You know how kids are. I guess he's studying Australia in
geography."
"What did the kangaroo tell your son?"
The cab driver laughed defensively. "There's nothing wrong with the boy.
He's just got an active mind."
"Of course. When I was a kid I used to talk to bears. But what did he
say the kangaroo talked about?"
"Oh, just crazy stuff--like the kangaroos didn't like it Down Under any
more and were coming up here because it was safer."
* * * * *
Later that morning, at about the time Don Cort estimated that Superior
had passed the twelve-mile limit--east from the coast, not up--the
Superior State Bank was held up.
A man clearly recognized as Joe Negus, a small-time gambler, and one
other man had driven up to the bank in Negus' flashy Buick convertible.
They walked up to the head teller, threatened him with pistols and
demanded all the money in all the tills. They stuffed the bills in a
sack, got into their car and drove off. They took nothing from the
customers and made no attempt to take anything from the vault.
The fact that they ignored the vault made Don feel better. He thought
when he first heard about the robbery that the men might have been after
the brief case he'd stored there, which would have meant that he was
under suspicion. But apparently the job was a genuine heist, not a
cover-up for something else.
Police Chief Vincent Grande reached the scene half an hour after the
criminals left it. His car had frozen up and wouldn't start. He arrived
by taxi, red-faced, fingering the butt of his holstered service
automatic.
Negus and his confederate, identified as a poolroom lounger named Hank
Stacy, had gotten away with a hundred thousand dollars.
"I didn't know there was that much money in town," was Grande's comment
on that. While he was asking other questions the telephone rang and
someone told the bank president he'd seen Negus and Stacy go into the
poolroom. In fact, the robbers' convertible was parked blatantly in
front of the place.
Grande, looking as if he'd rather be dog catcher, got back into the
taxi.
Joe Negus and Hank Stacy were sitting on opposite sides of a pool table
when the police chief got there, dividing the money in three piles. A
third man stood by, watching closely. He was Jerry Lynch, a lawyer. He
greeted Grande.
"Morning, Vince," he said easily. "Come to shoot a little pool?"
"I'll shoot some bank robbers if they don't hand over that money,"
Grande said. He had his gun out and looked almost purposeful.
Negus and Stacy made no attempt to go for their guns, Stacy seemed
nervous but Negus went on counting the money without looking up.
"Is it your money, Vince?" Jerry Lynch asked.
"You know damn well whose money it is. Now let's have it."
"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," the lawyer said. "In the first place I
wouldn't want to, thirty-three and a third per cent of it being mine,
and in the second place you have no authority."
"I'm the chief of police," Grande said doggedly. "I don't want to spill
any blood--"
"Don't flash your badge at me, Vince," Lynch said. Negus had finished
counting the money and the lawyer took one of the piles and put it in
various pockets. "I said you had no authority. Bank robbery is a federal
offense. Not that I admit there's been a robbery. But if you suspect a
crime it's your duty to go to the proper authorities. The FBI would be
indicated, if you know where they can be reached."
"Yeah," Joe Negus said. "Go take a flying jump for yourself, Chief."
"Listen, you cheap crook--"
"Hardly cheap, Vince," Lynch said. "And not even a crook, in my
professional opinion. Mr. Negus pleads extra-territoriality."
* * * * *
That was the start of Superior's crime wave.
Somebody broke the plate-glass window of George Tocher's dry-goods store
and got away with blankets, half a dozen overcoats and several sets of
woolen underwear.
A fuel-oil truck disappeared from the street outside of Dabney Brothers'
and was found abandoned in the morning. About nine hundred gallons had
been drained out--as if someone had filled his cellar tank and a couple
of his neighbors'.
The back door of the supermarket was forced and somebody made off with
a variety of groceries. The missing goods would have just about filled
one car.
Each of these crimes was understandable--Superior's growing food and
fuel shortage and icy temperatures had led a few people to desperation.
But there were other incidents. Somebody smashed the window at
Kimbrough's Jewelry Store and snatched a display of medium-priced
watches.
Half a dozen young vandals sneaked into the Catholic Church and began
toppling statues of the saints. When they were surprised by Father Brian
they fled, bombarding him with prayer books. One of the books shattered
a stained-glass window depicting Christ dispensing loaves and fishes.
Somebody started a fire in the movie-house balcony and nearly caused a
panic.