THE RAT RACE
by JAY FRANKLIN
The Astonishing Narrative of a Man Who Was Somebody
Else ... Mixed Up With Politics and Three Luscious Women!
_A COMPLETE NOVEL_
GALAXY PUBLISHING CORP.
421 HUDSON STREET
NEW YORK 14, N. Y.
GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Novels, selected by the editors of
GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Magazine, are the choice of science
fiction novels both published and original. This novel
has been slightly abridged for the sake of better pacing.
GALAXY _Science Fiction_ Novel No. 10
_Copyright 1947 by Crowell-Collier Publishing Company_
_Copyright 1950 by John Franklin Carter_
_Reprinted by arrangement with the publishers_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_by_
THE GUINN COMPANY, INC.
NEW YORK 14, N. Y.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"THE RAT RACE"
By Jay Franklin
When an atomic explosion destroys the battleship Alaska, Lt. Commander
Frank Jacklin returns to consciousness in New York and is shocked to
find himself in the body of Winnie Tompkins, a dissolute stock-broker.
Unable to explain his real identity, Jacklin attempts to fit into
Tompkins' way of life. Complications develop when Jacklin gets
involved with Tompkins' wife, his red-haired mistress and his luscious
secretary. Three too many women for Jacklin to handle.
His foreknowledge of the Alaska sinking and other top secret
matters plunges him into a mad world of intrigue and excitement in
Washington--that place where anything can happen and does! Where is the
real Tompkins is a mystery explained in the smashing climax.
Completely delightful, wholly provocative, the Rat Race is a striking
novel of the American Scene.
CHAPTER 1
When the bomb exploded, U.S.S. Alaska, was steaming westward, under
complete radio silence, somewhere near the international date-line on
the Great Circle course south of the Aleutian Islands.
It was either the second or the third of April, 1945, depending on
whether the Alaska, the latest light carrier to be added to American
naval forces in the Pacific, had passed the 180th meridian.
I was in the carrier, in fact in the magazine, when the blast
occurred and I am the only person who can tell how and why the Alaska
disappeared without a trace in the Arctic waters west of Adak. I
had been assigned by Navy Public Relations to observe and report
on Operation Octopus--the plan to blow up the Jap naval base at
Paramushiro in Kuriles with the Navy's recently developed thorium bomb.
My name, by the way, is Frank Jacklin, Lieutenant-Commander, U.S.N.R.
I had been commissioned shortly after Pearl Harbor, as a result of
my vigorous editorial crusade on the Hartford (Conn.) Courant to
Aid America by Defending the Allies. I was a life-long Republican
and a personal friend of Frank Knox, so I had no trouble with Navy
Intelligence in getting a reserve commission in the summer of 1940.
(I never told them that I had voted for Roosevelt twice, so I was
never subjected to the usual double-check by which the Navy kept its
officer-corps purged of subversive taints and doubtful loyalties.) So
I had a first-rate assignment, by the usual combination of boot-licking
and "yessing" which marks a good P.R.O.
It was on the first night in Jap waters, after we had cleared the
radius of the Naval Air Station at Adak, that Professor Chalmis asked
me to accompany him to the magazine. He said that his orders were to
make effective disclosure of the mechanics of the thorium bomb as soon
as we were clear of the Aleutians. Incidentally, he, I and Alaska's
commander, Captain Horatio McAllister, U.S.N., were the only people
aboard who knew the real nature of Operation Octopus. The others had
been alerted, via latrine rumor, that we were engaged in a sneak-raid
on Hokkaido.
The thorium bomb, Chalmis told me, had been developed by the Navy,
parallel to other hitherto unsuccessful experiments conducted by the
Army with uranium. The thorium bomb utilized atomic energy, on a
rather low and inefficient basis by scientific standards, but was yet
sufficiently explosive to destroy a whole city. He proposed to show me
the bomb itself, so that I could describe its physical appearance, and
to brief me on the mechanics of its detonation, leaving to the Navy
scientists at Washington a fuller report on the whole subject of atomic
weapons. He had passes, signed by Captain McAllister, to admit us to
the magazine and proposed, after supper, that we go to examine his
gadget.
It was cold as professional charity on the flight-deck, with sleet
driving in from the northwest as the icy wind from Siberia hit the
moist air of the Japanese Current. There was a nasty cross-sea and the
Alaska was wallowing and pounding as she drove towards Paramushiro at a
steady 30 knots.
"You know, Jacklin," said Chalmis, as the Marine sentry took our passes
and admitted us to the magazine, "I don't like this kind of thing."
"You mean this war?" I asked, noticing irrelevantly the way the
electric light gleamed on his bald head.
"I mean this thorium bomb," he replied. "I had most to do with
developing it and now in a couple of days one of these nice tanned
naval aviators at the mess will take off with it and drop it on
Paramushiro from an altitude of 30,000 feet. The timer is set to work
at an altitude of 500 feet and then two or three thousand human beings
will cease to exist."
"The Japs aren't human," I observed, quoting the Navy.
Chalmis looked at me in a strange, staring way.
"Thank you, Commander," he said. "You have settled my problem. I was
in doubt as to whether to complete this operation in the name of
scientific inquiry, but now I see I have no choice. See this!" he
continued.
"This" was a spherical, finned object of aluminum about the size of a
watermelon, resting on a gleaming chromium-steel cradle.
"If I take this ring, Jacklin," Chalmis remarked, "and pull it out,
the bomb will explode within five seconds or at 500 feet altitude
whichever takes longer. The five seconds is to give the pilot a margin
of safety in case of accidental release at low altitude. However,
dropping it from 30,000 feet means that the five seconds elapse before
the bomb reaches the level at which it automatically explodes."
"You make me nervous, Professor," I objected. "Can't you explain
without touching it?"
"If it exploded now, approximately twenty-four feet below the
water-line," Chalmis continued, "it would create an earthquake wave
which could cause damage at Honolulu and would register on the
seismograph at Fordham University."
"I'll take your word for it," I said.
"So," concluded Chalmis, "if the bomb were to go off now, no one could
know what had happened to the Alaska and the Navy--as I know the
Navy--would decide that thorium bombs were impractical, too dangerous
to use. And so the human race might be spared a few more years of life."
"Stop it!" I ordered, lunging forward and grabbing for his arm.
But it was too late. Chalmis gave a strong pull on the ring. It came
free and a slight buzzing sound was heard above the whine of the
turbines and the thud of the seas against Alaska's bow.
"You--" I began. Then I started counting: "Three--four--fi--"....
* * * * *
There was a hand on my shoulder and a voice that kept saying, "Snap
out of it!" I opened bleary eyes to see a familiar figure in uniform
bending over me. My head ached, my mouth tasted dry and metallic, and I
felt strangely heavy around the middle.
"Hully, Ranty," I said. "Haven't seen you since Kwajalein. What's the
word? What happened to the Alaska?"
Commander Tolan, U.S.N.R., who had been in my group in Quonset,
straightened up with a laugh. "When were you ever at Kwajalein,
Winnie?" he asked. "And what's the drip about the Alaska?"
"You remember," I said. "That time we went into the Marshalls with the
Sara in forty-three. But what happened to my ship? There was a bomb....
Say, where am I and what day is it anyway?"
There was a burst of laughter from across the room and I turned my
head. I seemed to be sitting in a deep, leather arm-chair in a small,
nicely furnished bar, with sporting-prints on the wall and a group of
three clean-shaven, only slightly paunchy middle-aged men, who looked
like brokers, standing by the rail staring at me. Tolan was the only
man in uniform. These couldn't be doctors and what were civilians doing
in mess....
"We blew up!" I insisted. "Chalmis said...."
"You've been dreaming, Winnie," drawled one of the brokerish trio. "You
were making horrible noises in your sleep so Ranty went over and woke
you up."
"If you want to know where you are," remarked another, "you're in the
bar of the Pond Club on West 54th Street, as sure as your name is
Winfred S. Tompkins and this is April 2nd, 1945."
"Winnie Tompkins!" I exclaimed. "Why I once knew him quite well. He and
I were at St. Mark's together, then he went to Harvard and Wall Street
while I went to Yale and broke, so we didn't see much of each other
after the depression."
"It's a good gag, Winnie," Tolan laughed, "but now you've had your fun,
how about another drink?"
I shook my head. "Listen, Ranty," I begged. "Tell me what happened.
I can take it. Are you dead? Are we all dead? Is this supposed to be
heaven? What's the word?"
"That joke's played out," said Tolan. "Here, Tammy, another Scotch and
soda for Mr. Tompkins. A double one."
Tompkins! My head ached. I stood up and walked across the room to study
my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Instead of my painfully
familiar freckled face and skinny frame, I saw a red, full jowled face
with bags beneath the watery blue eyes, set on a distinctly portly body
which was cleverly camouflaged as burliness by impeccable tweeds of the
kind specially made up in London for the American broker's trade.
"I look like hell!" I muttered. "Well, tell me this, Ranty. What
happened to Frank Jacklin? Or is that part of the gag?"
Tolan turned and stared at me with an official glitter in his Navy
(Reserve) eye. "Jacklin? He _was_ at Kwajalein with me, now that I
think of it. A skinny sort of s.o.b., wasn't he?"
"I wouldn't say that," I hotly rejoined. "I thought he was a pretty
decent sort of guy. Where is he?"
"Jacklin? Oh, he got another half-stripe last January and was given
some screw-ball assignment which took him out of touch. He'll turn up
sooner or later, without a scratch; those New Dealers always do."
"Say," Tolan added. "You always did have a Jacklin fixation but you
never had a good word to say for the louse. What did he ever do to you,
anyhow? Ever since I've known you, you've always been griping about
him, specially since he got into uniform. Lay off, will you, and give
us honest hard-drinking guys a chance to get a breath. Period."
I took my drink and sipped it attentively. Whatever had happened to me
since the thorium bomb burst off Adak, this was Scotch and it was cold,
so I doubted that this place was Hell. Probably it was all a dream in
the last split-second of disintegration.
"Thanks, Ranty, that feels better. Now I've got to be going."
"Winnie," drawled one of the brokers, "tell us who she is this time.
You ought to stop chasing at your age and blood-pressure or let your
friends in on the secret."
"This time," I said, "I'm going home."
The steward came around from the bar and helped me into a fine
fur-lined overcoat which I assumed was the lawful property of Winnie
Tompkins.
"There were two telephone messages for you, sir, while you were
dozing," he said.
"Who were they from, Tammy?"
"The first one, sir, was from the vet's to say that Ponto--that would
be your dog, sir--would recover after all. He was the one that had
distemper so bad, wasn't it, sir? I remember you told me that he was
expected to die any minute. Well, now, the vet says he will recover.
The second call, sir, was from Mrs. Tompkins. She asked if you had left
for your home."
"What did you tell her, Tammy?" I asked.
"Why, what you told me, sir, of course, when you came in, sir. I said
that you hadn't been in all day, but that I would deliver any messages."
Wait a minute, Jacklin, I said to myself. Let's figure this one out. We
were blown up on the Alaska, off the westernmost Aleutians, and now we
find ourselves at the Pond Club, in New York City, masquerading in the
flabby body of Winnie Tompkins. This must be Purgatory, since nobody
who has ever been there would call the Pond--or, as the initiates
prefer, the Puddle--either Heaven or Hell. This is one of those damned
puzzles designed to test our intelligence. My cue is to turn in the
best and most convincing performance as Winnie Tompkins, who has
undoubtedly been sent to Hell. If we pass, we'll be like the rats the
scientists send racing through mazes: we'll get the cheese and move
on up. If we flunk, we'll be sent down, as the English say. Ingenious
deity, the Manager!
"Tammy," I said, "will you get me the latest Social Register?"
"Certainly, sir."
I sat down by the door and thumbed through the testament of social
acceptability as measured in Manhattan. There I was: Winfred S.
(Sturgis) Tompkins. Born, New York City, April 27, 1898. St. Mark's
School, Southboro, Mass., 1916. Harvard, A. B. 1920. Married: Miss
Germaine Lewis Schuyler, of New York City, 1936. Clubs: Porcellian,
Pond, Racquet, Harvard, Westchester Country. Residence: "Pook's Hill,"
Bedford Hills, N.Y. Office: No. 1 Wall Street, N.Y.C.
"Thanks, Tammy," I said and returned the register to him.
Then I reached inside my coat and pulled out the well-stuffed
pocket-book I found inside the suave tweeds. It was of ostrich-hide
with W.S.T. in gold letters on it, and contained--in addition to some
junk which I didn't bother to examine--sixty-one dollars in small bills
and a new commutation-ticket between New York City and Bedford Hills,
N.Y.
So far, so good. My sense of identity was building up rapidly. I felt
in my trousers' pocket and found a bunch of keys and about a dollar
and a half in silver. I peeled a five-dollar bill from the roll in the
pocket-book and handed it to the club steward.
"This is for you, Tammy, and a happy Easter Monday to you. If anyone
calls, you haven't seen me all day."
"Thank you very much, sir, I'm sure," he said, pocketing the five spot
with the effortless ease of a prestidigitator or head-waiter.
I strolled out to the street--dusk was beginning to darken the city
and already there were lights burning in the office windows--and
walked across to the corner of Park Avenue. To my surprise, remembering
New York, there were few taxis and those were already occupied. After
about five minutes of vain waiting, I remembered reading somewhere
of the cab shortage in the United States, and walked south to Grand
Central. As I turned down Vanderbilt Avenue, I noticed something
fairly bulky in the pocket of my overcoat. I stopped and dragged out
two expensively tidy packages, with the Tiffany label on them. One was
inscribed "For Jimmie" and the other "For Virginia."
This represented a new puzzle--perhaps a trap--so I paid a dime for
the use of one of the pay-toilets in the Terminal and unwrapped my
find. The one marked for "Jimmie"--who might be, I guessed, my wife
Germaine--was a neat little solid gold bracelet, the sort of thing you
give your eldest niece on graduation day. The one marked "Virginia"
contained a diamond-brooch of the kind all too rarely given to a girl
for any good reason.
"Uh-uh!" I shook my head. Whoever "Virginia" might be, she was
obviously not my wife and the Social Register had not mentioned any
children, ex-wives or such appertaining to Winnie Tompkins. And you
don't give diamonds to your aged aunt or your mother-in-law. We can't
have Winnie start off his new life by palming off mere gold on his
wedded wife and diamonds on the Other Woman, I decided. So I switched
the labels on the packages and returned to circulation in time to
catch the 4:45 Westchester Express.
* * * * *
Here, I resorted to a low subterfuge. Instead of the broker's bible,
"The New York Sun," with its dim view of all that had happened to the
commuting public since 1932, I was coward enough to disguise myself by
buying a copy of "P.M." in order to lessen the risk of being recognized
by fellow-passengers whom I certainly would not know by sight. I buried
my face in that spirited journal, with its dim view of all that had
ever happened outside the Soviet Union, as I slunk past the Club Car,
and did not fully emerge from its gallant defense of the Negro and the
Jew until I was in the smoker, directly behind the baggage compartment.
The train was fairly crowded but I was able to find a seat far forward
where few passengers could see my face. I decided that my strategy had
been sound when the conductor, on punching my ticket, remarked: "See
you're not using the Club Car today, Mr. Tompkins. Shall I tell Mr.
Snyder not to wait for you for gin rummy?"
"Don't tell him a thing, please," I begged. "I'm feeling done in--a
friend of mine was just killed in the Pacific--and I don't want to be
bothered."
He clucked consolingly and passed on. I was lucky enough to reach
Bedford Hills without other encounters and walked along the darkened
platform until I spied a taxicab.
"Can you drive me out to my place?" I asked the driver.
"Sure, Mr. Tompkins. Glad to," he replied. "Goin' to leave your coop
down here?"
I nodded. "Yep. I'm too damned tired to drive home. Got any other
passengers?"
"Only a couple of maids from the Milgrim place," he said, "but we can
drop you first and let them off afterwards if you're feelin' low."
"Hell, no!" I insisted. "This is a free country--first come first
served. You can drive me on to Pook's Hill after you've left them at
the Milgrim's. Perhaps they'd get in trouble if they were delayed."
The driver looked surprised and rather relieved.
"Haven't heard of any employers firin' maids in these parts since
Wilkie was a candidate," he said.
I climbed into the cab, across the rather shapely legs and domestic
laps of two attractive-looking girls who murmured vaguely at me and
then resumed a discussion of the awful cost of hair-do's. I felt
rather pleased with myself. I seemed to have won at least one man's
approval in the opening stages of my celestial rat-race. Now for my
first meeting with the woman whom I had married nearly ten years ago,
according to the Social Register. Surely she would recognize that there
was something radically wrong with her husband before I had been five
minutes at Pook's Hill. Why! I wouldn't know where the lavatory was,
let alone her bedroom, and what should I call the maid who answered the
door, assuming we had a maid?