The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack, Volume 1, page 131
He nodded, with a smouldering fire in his eyes.
“Yes,” said he. “If we can loosen the grip of this monster for only forty-eight hours, and flash the news to this bleeding, sweating, choking land that the grip is loosened—after that we need do no more. Après nous, le déluge; only not now in the sense of wreck and ruin, but meaning that this deluge shall forever wash away the tyranny and crime of Capitalism! Forever and a day, to leave us free once more, free men and women, standing erect and facing God’s own sunlight, our heritage and birthplace in this world!”
Catherine made no answer, but her hand clasped his. The light on her magnificent masses of copper-golden hair, braided about her head, enhanced her beauty. And so for a moment, the little group sat there about the table—the group on which now so infinitely much depended; and the lamp-glow shone upon their precious plans, reports and diagrams.
Into each others’ eyes they looked, and knew the moment of final conflict was drawn very near, at last. The moment which, in failure or success, should for long years, for decades, for centuries perhaps, determine whether the world and all its teeming millions were to be slave or free.
They spoke no word and took no oath of life-and-death fidelity, those men and women who now had been entrusted with the fate of the world. But in their eyes one read unshakable devotion to the Cause of Man, unswerving loyalty to the Great Ideal, and a calm, holy faith that would make light of death itself, could death but pave the way to victory!
CHAPTER XXX.
TRAPPED!
Brevard was the first to speak. “Gabriel,” said he, “we have agreed that you must be the leader in this whole affair. The actual, personal leader. To begin with, you’re younger and physically stronger than any of us men. Your executive ability is, without any question whatever, far and away ahead of ours—for we are more in the analytical, compiling, organizing, preparing line. To cap all, your personality carries more, far more, with the mass of the comrades than any of ours. Your career, in the past, your conflict with Flint and Waldron, and your long imprisonment, have given you the necessary following. You, and you alone, must issue the final call, lead the last, supreme attack, and carry the old flag, the Crimson Banner of Brotherhood, to the topmost battlement of an annihilated Capitalism!”
Gabriel demurred, but they overruled him. So, presently, he consented; and pledged his life to it; and thrilled with pride and joy at thought of what now lay written in the Book of Fate, for him to read.
Catherine’s eyes shone with a strange light, as she looked upon him there, so modest yet so strong. And he, smiling a little as his gaze met hers, foresaw other things than war, and was glad. His heart sang within him, that memorable and wondrous night, up there in the hiding-place among the Great Smokies—there with Catherine and the other comrades—there planning the last great blow to strike away forever the shackles from the bleeding limbs of all the human race!
But serious and urgent things were to be thought of, and at once, for on the morrow Brevard was going down, disguised, to Louisville, in one of the two monoplanes, to attend a final secret meeting of the North-middle Section Committee. From this he would proceed to the refuge near Port Colborne, Ontario.
“Let us make that our meeting-place, one week from tonight,” said Gabriel, “in case anything happens. Should we be detected, or should any accident befall, we must have some time and place to rally by. Is my suggestion taken?”
They all agreed, after some discussion.
“But,” added Mrs. Grantham, “let’s hope we’re still secure here, for a while. It doesn’t seem possible they could find us here, in this broad mountain wilderness!”
Brevard, meanwhile, was spreading out diagrams and plans.
“The plant at Niagara,” said he. “Gabriel, study this, now, as you never yet have studied anything! For on your intimate knowledge of these plans—which, by the way, have been obtained only at the cost of eight lives of our comrades, and through adventures which alone would make a wonderful book—depends everything. With all communications cut, and troops kept away, and our own people storming the works, you will yet fail, Gabriel, unless you know every building, every courtyard, wall and passage, every door and window, almost, I might say. For the place is more than a manufacturing plant. It’s a fortress, a city in itself, a wonderful, gigantic center to the whole web of world-domination!
“So now, to the plans!”
For hours, while Gabriel took notes and listened keenly, asked questions and made minute memoranda, Brevard explained the situation at the great Air Trust works. The others looked on, listened, and from time to time made suggestions; but for the most part they kept silent, unwilling to disturb this most important work.
Carefully and with painstaking accuracy he showed Gabriel how the plant now embraced more than two square miles of territory around the Falls, all guarded by tremendous barricades mounting machine-guns and search-lights. On both sides of the river this huge monster had squatted, effectually shutting out all sight of the Falls and depriving the people of their birthright of beauty, at the same time that it had harnessed the vast waterpower to the task of enslaving the world.
“From the Grand Trunk steel arch bridge up to and including the former plant of the Niagara Falls Power Company,” said Brevard, “you see the plant extends. And, on the Canadian side—or what was the Canadian, before ‘we’ absorbed Canada—it stretches from the Ontario Power Company’s works to those of the Toronto-Niagara Power Company, including both. In addition to having absorbed these, it has taken over the Niagara Falls Hydraulic Power and Manufacturing Company, the Canadian Power Company and half a dozen others, and has, as you see, established its central offices and plant on Goat Island.
“Here Flint and Waldron have what may be called a citadel within a citadel—twelve acres of administration buildings, laboratories (in charge of your old friend Herzog, by the way!) and experimental works, including also the big steel chambers, vacuum-lined, where they are already storing their liquid oxygen to be turned into their pipe-lines and tank-cars. This Goat Island central plant will be the real kernel in the nut, Gabriel. Once that is gone, you’ll have ripped the heart out of the beast, smashed the vital ganglia, and given the world the respite, the breathing-space it must have, to free itself!”
“And if I don’t?” asked Gabriel. “If anything happens to upset our blockading tactics, or if our attacking forces are defeated or our aeroplanes shot down, what then?”
“Then,” said Brevard, slowly, “then the world had better die than survive under the abominable slavery now impending. Already the pipe-lines have been laid to Buffalo, Cleveland, Albany and Scranton. Already they’re under way to New York City itself, and to Cincinnati. Already other plants have been projected for Chicago, Denver, San Francisco and New Orleans, to say nothing of half a dozen in the Old World. At this present moment, as we all sit here in this quiet room on this remote mountain-slope, the world’s air is being cornered! All the atmospheric nitrogen is planned for, by Flint and Waldron, to pass under their control—and with it, every crop that grows. All the oxygen will follow. They’re already having their domestic-service apparatus manufactured—their cold-pipe radiators, meters, evaporators and respirators. I tell you, comrades, this thing is close upon us, not as a theory, now, but as a terrible, an inconceivably ghastly reality!
“Even as we talk this thing over, those devils in human form are at work impoverishing the atmosphere, the very basis of all life. My oxymeter, today, showed a diminution of .047 per cent. in the amount of free oxygen in the air right on this mountain. And their plant is hardly running yet! Wait till they get it under full swing—wait till their pipe-lines and tanks and instruments and all their vast, infernal apparatus of exploitation and enslavement are in operation! Even in a week from now, or less, by the time you issue the call, Gabriel, you may see wretches gasping in vain for breath, in some dark alley of Niagara where the air is being drained!”
“Oh, devilish and infernal plot against the world!” said Gabriel, bitterly. “Yet in essence, after all, no different from the system of ten years ago, which kept food and shelter, light and fuel, under lock and key—and made the dollar the only key to fit the lock! Yet this seems worse, somehow; and though I die for it, my last supreme blow shall be against such unutterable, such murderous villainy! So then, comrades—”
He paused, suddenly, as Kate laid a hand on his arm.
“Hark! What’s that?” she whispered.
Outside, somewhere, a sound had made itself heard. Then on the porch, a loose board creaked.
Gabriel sprang to his feet. The others stood up and faced the door.
“In heaven’s name, what’s that outside?” demanded Craig.
On the instant, a heavy foot crashed through the panels of their door. The door, burst open, flew back.
In the aperture, stood a man, in aviator’s dress, with another dimly visible behind him. Both these men held long, blue-nosed, oxygen-bullet-shooting revolvers levelled at the little group around the table.
“My God! Air Trust spies!” cried Grantham, pale as death.
“Hands up, you!” shouted the man in the doorway, with a wild triumph in his voice. “You’re caught, all of you! Not a move, you —— —— ——! Hands up!”
CHAPTER XXXI.
ESCAPE!
Quick as thought, at sound of the imperative summons and sight of the levelled weapons, Gabriel swept up most of the papers and crammed them into the breast of his loose flannel shirt, then dashed the lamp to the floor, extinguishing it. The room grew dark, for now the fire had burned down to hardly more than glowing coals.
There was no panic; the men did not curse, neither did the women scream. As though the tactic had already been agreed on, Craig tipped the table up, making a kind of barricade; and over it Grantham’s revolver, snatched from his belt, spat viciously.
It all happened in a moment.
The foremost spy grunted, coughed and plunged forward. As he fell, he fired his terrible weapon.
The bullet—a small, thin metal shell, filled with a secret chemical and liquid oxygen—went wild. It struck the wall, some feet to the left of the fireplace, and instantly the wood burst into vivid flame. Flesh would crisp to nothing, solid stone would crumble, metal would gutter and run down, under that awful incandescence.
Again Grantham’s revolver barked, while Bevard tugged at his own, which had unaccountably got stuck in its holster. But this second shot missed. And even as Grantham’s bullet snicked a long splinter from the door-jamb, the second spy fired.
Brevard’s choking cry died as the gushing flame enveloped him. He staggered, flung up both arms and fell stone dead, the life seared clean out of him, as a lamp sears a moth.
Gasping, blinded, the others scattered; and for the third time—while the room now glowed with this unquenchable blossoming of flame—Grantham shot.
The spy’s body burst into a sheaf of fire. Up past the lintel streamed the burning swirl. Mute and annihilated, his charred body dropped beside that of his mate.
The total time from challenge to complete victory had not exceeded ten seconds.
“I exploded some of his cartridges!” choked Grantham. shielding his wife from the glare, while Gabriel protected Catherine.
“His—his cartridge belt!” gasped Craig.
“Yes! And now, out—out of here!”
“Brevard? We must save his body!” cried Gabriel, pointing.
“Impossible!” shouted Grantham. “That hellish compound will burn for hours! And in three minutes this whole place will be a roaring furnace! Out of here—out—away! We must save the hangar, at all hazards!”
Against their will, but absolutely unable to approach the now wildly-roaring fire on the floor that marked the spot where Brevard had fallen in the Battle with Plutocracy, the comrades quickly retreated.
Raging fire now hemmed them on three sides. Their only avenue of escape was through the eastern windows, eight or ten feet above the ground. Hastily snatching up such of the plans and papers as he had not already secured—and some of these already were beginning to smoke and turn brown, in the infernal heat—Gabriel shielded Catherine’s retreat. The others followed.
Craig and Grantham first jumped from the windows, then caught Mrs. Grantham and Catherine as Gabriel helped them to escape. He himself was the last to leave the room, now a raging furnace. Together they all ran from the building, and none too soon; for suddenly the roof collapsed, a tremendous burst of crackling flames and sheaved sparks leaped high above the tree-tops, and the walls came crashing in.
In the welter of incandescence, where now only the stone chimney stood—and this, too, was already cracking and swaying—Brevard had found his tomb, together with the two Air Trust spies. All that pleasant, necessary place was now a mass of white-hot ruin; all those books and pictures now had turned to ash.
The five remaining comrades paused by the hangar, and looked mournfully back at the still-leaping volcano of destruction.
“Poor Brevard! Poor old chap!” said Craig. He peered at the women. Neither one was crying—they were not that type—but both were pale.
“I don’t feel that way,” said Gabriel. “Brevard is not to be pitied. He’s to be envied! He died in the noblest war we can conceive—the war for the human race! And his last act was to take part in a battle that stamped out two vipers, Air Trust spies, who would have joyed to burn us all alive!”
“Thank God, I got the Hell-hounds!” muttered Craig. “Two less of Slade’s infamous army, anyhow.” Though Gabriel knew it not, the first one to fall was the same who had battled with him in the trap at Rochester, the same who had trailed him when he, Gabriel, had left the Federal pen. So one score, at least, was settled.
“They’re gone, anyhow,” said Gabriel, “and five of us still live—and I’ve still got the plans and all. Moreover, the monoplanes are safe. The quicker we get away from here, now, the better. Away, and to our last remaining refuge near Port Colborne, on the shores of Lake Erie. Other Air Trust forces may be here, before morning. We must get away!”
A frightful shock awaited them when, entering the hangar—eager now to escape at once from the scene of the tragedy—they beheld their aeroplanes.
By the ruddy light which shone in through the wide doors, from the fire, they saw long strips and tatters of canvas hanging from the ‘planes.
“Smashed! Broken! Wrecked!” cried Gabriel, starting back aghast.
The others stared. Only too true; the monoplanes were practically destroyed. Not only had the spies, before attacking the refuge, slashed the ‘planes to rags, but they had also partly dismantled the motors. Bits of machinery lay scattered on the floor of the hangar.
Stunned and unable to gather speech or coherent thought, the five Socialists stood staring. Then, after a moment, Craig made shift to exclaim bitterly:
“A good job, all right! The curs must have got in at the window, and spent an hour in this work. Whatever happened, they didn’t intend we should have any means of retreat—for of course it’s out of the question for anybody to get away from here through the forest over the ridges and down the cliffs!”
“They meant to trap us, this way, that’s certain,” added Gabriel. “There surely will be others of the same breed, here before morning. They must not find us here!”
“But Gabriel, how shall we escape?” asked Catherine, her face illumined by the leaping flames of the bungalow.
“How! In their own machine! The machine that Slade and the Air Trust secret-service gave them, to come here and catch or murder us!”
“By the Almighty! So we will!” cried Grantham. “Come on, let’s find it!”
The little party hurried off toward the landing-ground, a cleared and levelled space further up the mountainside. The light of the burning bungalow helped show them their path; and Craig had also taken an electric flash-lamp from the hangar. With this he led the way.
“Right! There it is!” suddenly exclaimed Gabriel, pointing. Craig painted a brush of electric light over the vague outlines of the Air Trust machine, a steel racer of the latest kind.
“A Floriot biplane,” said he. “Will hold two and a passenger. Familiar type. I guess all of us, here, can operate it.”
They all—even the women—could. For you must understand that after the Great Massacres had foreshown the only possible trend the Movement could take, practically all the leaders in the work had studied aeronautics, also chemistry, as most essential branches of knowledge in the inevitable war.
“Two, and a passenger,” repeated Gabriel, as though echoing Craig’s words. “Who goes first?”
“You!” said Grantham. “You and Catherine, with Craig to bring the machine back. You’re needed, now, at the front—imperatively needed. Freda and I,” gesturing at his wife, “will hold the fort, here—will keep watch over our dead, over poor old Brevard, the first to fall in this great, final battle!”
A spirited argument followed. Gabriel insisted on being left for the second trip. A compromise was made by having him get the two women out of danger, at once, leaving Craig and Grantham on the mountain.
“I’ll send Hazen or Keyes back with the ‘plane, for you,” said he, as he climbed into the driving seat, after the passengers had been stowed. “That will be tomorrow night. Of course, we daren’t fly by day. And mind,” he added, adjusting his spark and throttle, “mind you meet me with this very same machine, safe and sound, at the Lake Erie refuge!”
“Why this same machine?” inquired Craig.
“Why? Because I intend to use this, and no other, in the final attack. Could poetic justice be finer than that the Air Trust works be destroyed with the help of one of their own ‘planes?”
No more was said, save brief good-byes. Those were times when demonstrativeness, whether in life or death, was at a discount. A hand-clasp and a few last instructions as to the time and place of meeting, sufficed. Then Gabriel pressed the button of the self-starter and opened the throttle.
With a sudden gusty chatter, the engine caught. A great wind sprang up, from the roaring, whirling blades. The Floriot rolled easily forward, speeded up, and gathered headway.
