The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack, Volume 1, page 115
“You’ll do, Herzog,” he replied—his very strongest form of commendation. “You’re not half bad, after all. So this is liquid oxygen, eh? Very cheap, and very cold?”
His eyes gleamed with joy at sight of the translucent potent stuff—the very stuff of life, its essence and prime principle, without which neither plant nor animal nor man can live—oxygen, mother of all life, sustainer of the world.
“Very cheap, yes, sir,” answered the scientist. “And cold, enormously cold. The specimen you hold in your hand, in that vacuum-protected flask, is more than three hundred degrees below zero. One drop of it on your palm would burn it to the bone. Incidentally, let me tell you another fact—”
“And that is?”
“This specimen is the allotropic or condensed form of oxygen, much more powerful than the usual liquified gas.”
“Ozone, you mean?”
“Precisely. Would you like to sense its effect as a ventilating agent?”
“No danger?”
“None, sir. Here, allow me.”
Herzog took the flask, pressed a little spring and liberated the top. At once a whitish vapor began to coil from the neck of the bottle.
“Hm!” grunted Waldron, smiling. “Mountain winds and sea breezes have nothing on that!” He sniffed with appreciation. “Some gas, all right!”
“You’re right, Wally,” answered the Billionaire. “If this works out on a large scale, in all its details—well—I needn’t impress its importance on you!”
Yielding to the influence of the wonderful, life-giving gas, the rather close air of the laboratory, contaminated by a variety of chemical odors, and vitiated by its recent loss of oxygen, had begun to freshen and purify itself in an astonishing manner. One would have thought that through an open window, close at hand, the purest ocean breeze was blowing. A faint tinge of color began to liven the somewhat pasty cheek of the Billionaire. Waldron’s big chest expanded and his eye brightened. Even the meek Herzog stood straighter and looked more the man, under the stimulus of the life-giving ozone.
“Fine!” exclaimed Flint, with unwonted enthusiasm, and nearly yielded to a laugh. Waldron went so far as to slap Herzog on the shoulder.
“You’re some wizard, old man!” he exclaimed, with a warmth hitherto never known by him—for already the subtle gas was beginning to intoxicate his senses. “And you can handle nitrogen with the same ease and precision?”
“Exactly,” answered Herzog. “This other vial contains pure nitrogen. With enlarged apparatus, I can supply it by the trainload. The world’s fertilizer problem is solved!”
“Great work!” ejaculated Waldron, even more excited than before, but Flint, his natural sourness asserting itself, merely growled some ungracious remark.
“Nitrogen can go hang,” said he. “It’s oxygen we’re after, primarily. Once we get our grip on that, the world will be—”
Waldron checked him just in time.
“Enough of this,” he interrupted sharply. “I admit, I’m not myself, in this rich atmosphere. I know you’re feeling it, already, Flint. Come along out of this, where we can regain our aplomb. We’ve seen enough, for once.”
He turned to Herzog.
“For God’s sake, man,” cried he, “cork that magic bottle of yours, before all the oxygen-genii escape, or you’ll have us both under the table! And, see here,” he added, pulling out his check-book, while Flint stared in amazed disgust. “Here, take a blank check.” He took his fountain pen and scrawled his name on one. “The amount? That’s up to you. Now, let us out,” he bade, as Herzog stood there regarding the check with entire uncomprehension. “Out, I say, before I get extravagant!”
Herzog, perfectly comprehending the magnates’ unusual conduct as due to oxygen-intoxication in its initial stage, made no comment, but walked to the door, spun the combination and flung it open.
“Glad to have had the pleasure of demonstrating the process to you, gentlemen,” said he. “If you’re convinced it’s practicable, I’m at your orders for any larger extension of the work. Have you any other question or suggestion?”
Neither magnate answered. Flint was trying hard to hold his self-control. Waldron, red-faced now and highly stimulated, looked as though he had been drinking even more than usual.
Both passed out of the laboratory with rather unsteady steps. Together they retraced their way to the administration building; and there, safe at last in the private inner office, with the door locked, they sat down and stared at each other with expressions of amazement.
CHAPTER VII.
A FREAK OF FATE.
Waldron was the first to speak. With a sudden laugh, boisterous and wild, he cried:
“Flint, you old scoundrel, you’re drunk!”
“Drunk yourself!” retorted the Billionaire, half starting from his chair, his fist clenched in sudden passion. “How dare you—?”
“Dare? I dare anything!” exclaimed Waldron. “Yes, I admit it—I am half seas over. That ozone—God! what a stimulant! Must be some wonderfully powerful form. If we—could market it—”
Flint sank back in his chair, waving an extravagant hand.
“Market it?” he answered. “Of course we can market it, and will! Drunk or sober, Wally, I know what I’m talking about. The power now in our grasp has never yet been equalled on earth. On the one side, we can half-stifle every non-subscriber to our service, or wholly stifle every rebel against us. On the other, we can simply saturate every subscriber with health and energy, or even—if they want it—waft them to paradise on the wings of ozone. The old Roman idea of ‘bread and circus’ to rule the mob, was child’s play compared to this! Science has delivered the whole world into our hands. Power, man, power! Absolute, infinite power over every living, breathing thing!”
He fell silent, pondering the vast future; and Waldron, gazing at him with sparkling eyes, nodded with keen satisfaction. Thus for a few moments they sat, looking at each other and letting imagination ran riot; and as they sat, the sudden, stimulating effect of the condensed oxygen died in their blood, and calmer feelings ensued.
Presently Waldron spoke again.
“Let’s get down to brass tacks,” said he, drawing his chair up to the table. “I’m almost myself again. The subtle stuff has got out of my brain, at last. Generalities and day-dreams are all very well, Flint, but we’ve got to lay out some definite line of campaign. And the sooner we get to it the better.”
“Hm!” sneered Flint. “If it’s not more practical than your action in giving Herzog that blank check, it won’t be worth much. As an extravagant action, Wally, I’ve never seen it equalled. I’m astonished, indeed I am!”
Waldron laughed easily.
“Don’t worry,” he answered his partner. “That temporary aberration of judgment, due to oxygen-stimulus, will have no results. Herzog won’t dare fill out the check, anyhow, because he knows he’d get into trouble if he did; and even though he should, he can collect nothing. I’ll have payment stopped, at once, on that number. No danger, Flint!”
“I don’t know,” mused the Billionaire. “It may be that this man has us just a little under his thumb. He, and he alone, understands the process. We’ve got to treat him with due consideration, or he may leave us and carry his secret to others—to Masterson, for instance, or the Amalgamated people, or—”
“Nothing doing on that, old man!” interrupted “Tiger.” “Have no fear. The first move he makes, off to Sing Sing he goes, the way we jobbed Parker Hayes. Slade and the Cosmos Agency can take care of him, all right, if he asserts himself!”
“Very likely,” answered Flint, who had now at last entirely recovered his sang-froid. “But in that event, our work would be at a standstill. No, Waldron, we mustn’t oppose this fellow. Better let the check go through, if he has nerve enough to fill it out and cash it. He won’t dare gouge very deep; and no matter what he takes, it won’t be a drop in the ocean, compared to the golden flood now almost within our grasp!”
Waldron pondered a moment, then nodded assent.
“All right. Correct,” he finally answered. “So then, we can dismiss that trifle from our minds. Now, to work! We’ve got the process we were after. What next?”
“First of all,” answered the Billionaire, “we’ll let this Herzog understand that he’s to have a share in the results; that in this, as in everything so far, he’s merely a tool—and that when tools lose their cutting edge we break ‘em. He’s a meek devil. We can hold him easily enough.”
“Right. And then?” asked Waldron.
“Then? First of all, a good, big, wide-sweeping publicity campaign. That must begin today, to prepare opinion for the forthcoming development of the new idea.”
“Henderson can handle that, all right,” said Wally, leaning forward in his chair. “Give him the idea, and turn him loose, and he’ll get results. A clever dog, that. He and his press bureau, working through all the big dailies and many of the magazines, can turn this country upside down in six months. Let him get on this job, and before you know it the public will be demanding, be fighting for a chance to subscribe to the new ventilating-service. That part of it is easy!”
“Yes, you’re right,” replied Flint. “We’ll see Henderson no later than this afternoon. He and his writers can lay out a series of popular articles and advertisements, to be run as pure reading matter, with no distinguishing mark that they are ads, which will get the country—the whole world, in fact—coming our way.”
“Good,” the other assented. “Meantime, we can begin installing oxygen machines on a big scale, a huge scale, to supply the demand that’s bound to arise. Where do you think we’d best manufacture? Herzog says water power is the correct thing. We might use Niagara—use some of the surplus power we already own there.”
“Niagara would do, very well,” answered Flint. He had once more taken out his little morocco-covered note book, and was now jotting down some further memoranda. “It’s a good location. Pipe-lines could easily be extended, from it, to cover practically a quarter to a third of the United States. Eventually we’ll put in another plant in Chicago, one in Denver and one on the Pacific Coast. Then, in time, there must be distributing centers in Europe, Africa, Asia and Australia. But for the present, we’ll begin with the Niagara plant. After we get that under full operation, the others will develop in due course of time.”
“Our charter covers this new line of work. There will be no need of any legal technicalities,” said Waldron, with a smile. “Some charter, if I do say it, who shouldn’t. I drew it, you remember. Nothing much in the way of possible business-extension got past me!”
Flint nodded.
“You’re right,” he answered. “Nothing stands in our way, now. Positively nothing. We have land, power and capital without limit. We have the process. We control press, law, courts, judges, military and every other form of government. All we need look out for is to secure public confidence and keep the bandage on the eyes of the world till our system is actually in operation—then there will be no redress, no come back, no possible rebellion. As I’ve already said, Wally, we’ll have the whole world by the windpipe; and let the mob howl then, if they dare!”
“Yes, let ‘em howl!” chimed in “Tiger,” with a snarl that proved his nickname no misnomer. “Inside of a year we’ll have them all where we want them. You were right, Flint, when you called oil, coal, iron and all the rest of it mere petty activities. Air—ah! that’s the talk! Once we get the air under our control, we’re emperors of all life!”
His words rang frank and bold, but something in his look, as he blinked at his partner, might have given Flint cause for uneasiness, had the Billionaire noticed that oblique and dangerous glance. One might have read therein some shifty and devious plan of Waldron’s to dominate even Flint himself, to rule the master or to wreck him, and to seize in his own hands the reins of universal power. But Flint, bending over his note-book and making careful memoranda, saw nothing of all this.
Waldron, an inveterate smoker, lighted a fresh cigar, leaned back, surveyed his partner and indulged in a short inner laugh, which hardly curved his cruel lips, but which hardened still more those pale-blue, steely eyes of his.
“All right,” said he, at last. “Enough of this, Flint. Let’s get back to town, now, and have a conference with Henderson. That’s the first step. By tonight, the whole campaign of publicity must be mapped out. Come, come; you can finish your memoranda later. I’m impatient to be back in Wall Street. Come along!”
Five minutes later, having left orders that Herzog was to attend upon them in their private offices, next morning, they had ordered the limousine and were making way along the hard road toward the gate of the enclosure.
The gate opened to let them pass, then swung and locked again, behind them. At a good clip, the powerful car picked up speed on the homeward way. The two magnates, exultant and flushed with the consciousness of coming victory, lolled in the deeply-cushioned seat and spoke of power.
As they swung past the aviation field and neared the Oakwood Heights station, a train pulled out. Down the road came tramping a workingman in overalls and jumper, with a canvas bag of tools swinging from his brawny right hand. As he walked, striding along with splendid energy, he whistled to himself—no cheap ragtime air, but Handel’s Largo, with an appreciation which bespoke musical feeling of no common sort.
The Billionaire caught sight of him, just as the car slowed to take the sharp turn by the station. Instant recognition followed. Flint’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“Hm! The same fellow,” he grunted to himself. “The same rascal who stood beside us on the ferry boat, as we were talking over our plans. Now, what the devil?”
Shadowed by a kind of instinctive uneasiness, not yet definite or clear but more in the nature of a premonition of trouble, Flint gazed fixedly at the mechanic as the car swung round the bend in the road. The glance was returned.
Yielding to some kind of imperative curiosity, the Billionaire leaned over the side of the car—leaned out, with his coat flapping in the stiff wind—and for a moment peered back at the disquieting workman.
Then the car swept him out of sight, and Flint resumed his seat again.
He did not know—for he had not seen it happen—that in that moment the slippery, leather-covered note-book had slid from his lolling coat pocket and had fallen with a sharp slap on the white macadam, skidded along and come to rest in the ditch.
The workingman, however, who had paused and turned to look after the speeding car, he had seen all this.
A moment he stood there, peering. Then, retracing his steps with resolution he picked up the little book and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.
Deserted was the road. Not a soul was to be seen, save the crossing flagman, musing in his chair beside his little hut, quite oblivious to everything but a rank cob pipe. The workman’s act had not been noticed.
Nobody had observed him. Nobody knew. Not a living creature had witnessed the slight deed on which, by a strange freak of fate, the history of the world was yet to turn.
CHAPTER VIII.
ONE UNBIDDEN, SHARES GREAT SECRETS.
Immediately on discovering his loss—which was soon after having reached his office—Flint, in something like a fright, telephoned down to the Oakwood Heights laboratory and instructed Herzog, in person, to make a careful search for it and to report results inside an hour. Even though some of the essentials of his plan were written in a code of his own devising, Flint paled before the possible results should the book fall into the hands of anybody intelligent enough to fathom its meaning.
“Damn the luck!” he ejaculated, pacing the office floor, his fists knotted. “If it had been a pocket book with a few thousand inside, that would have been a trifle. But to lose my plan of campaign—God grant no harm may come of it!”
Waldron, slyly observing him, could not suppress a smile.
“Calling on God, eh?” sneered he. “You must be agitated. I haven’t heard that kind of entreaty on your lips, Flint, since the year of the big coal strike, when you prayed God the gun-men might ‘get’ the strikers before they could organize. Come, come, man, brace up! Your book will turn up all right; and even if it doesn’t there’s no cause for alarm. It would take a man of extraordinary acumen to read your hieroglyphics! Cheer up, Flint. There’s really nothing to excite you.”
The Billionaire thus adjured, sat down and tried to calm his agitation.
“Rotten luck, eh?” he queried. “But after all, Herzog is likely to find the book. And even if he doesn’t, I guess we’re safe enough. The very boldness of the plan—supposing even that the finder could grasp it—would put it outside the seeming range of the possible. It’s hardly a hundred to one shot any harm may come of it.”
“All right, then, let it go at that,” said Waldron. “And now, to business. Suppose, for example, you’ve got a perfectly unlimited supply of oxygen-gas and liquid. How are you going to market it? Just what details have you worked out?”
Flint pondered a moment, before replying. At last he said:
“Of course you understand, Wally, I can’t give you every point. The whole thing will be an evolution, and new ideas and processes, new uses and demands will develop as time passes. But in the main, my idea is this: The big producing stations will steadily extract oxygen from the atmosphere, thus leaving the air increasingly poorer and less adapted to sustaining human life.
“I shall store the oxygen in vast tanks, like the ordinary gas-tanks to be found in every city, only much bigger. These tanks will be fed by pipe-lines from the central stations, thus.”
Flint drew toward him a sheet of his heavily embossed letter-paper, and, picking up a pencil, began to sketch a rough diagram. Waldron, making no comment, followed every stroke with keen interest.
“From these tanks,” the Billionaire continued, “smaller pipes will convey the gaseous oxygen to every house taking our service.”
“Just like ordinary gas?”
“Precisely. Each room will be fitted with an oxygen jet apparatus, something like a gas burner, with a safety device to prevent over supply and avoid the dangers of combustion.”
