Chapter XIII

In a city separated from the Prometheus by an interval that was inconceivable, and inexpressible in terms of Space and Time, was a shabby, dowdy building, in a shabby, dirty section of the city. Parts of the city were bright with streams of lighted cars and long rows of gleaming lights with moving walks and tri-level roads. Elevated trains hummed and roared across the city, and the soft light of stars and of a silvery moon were lost in the harsher, multi-colored glare of a giant city's lights.

There was a constant, husky whisper of city noise that seeped even so far into the dingy, dark section of the town, and into this room. A single, old-fashioned gas-glow tube lighted it. The woman who ran the boarding house was as frowsy as her house, and she had a poor sense of economy. There were actually some incandescent bulbs left, because they were cheaper—and 98% inefficient. The gas-glow tube in the room was nearly as bad, and the room was dim.

A scarred, tippy table stood in the middle of the room. A bottle and three glasses stood on the table, and beside them a large ash tray, half full. There were countless overlapping rings where "alcoholic" drinks intended for human consumption had made slight stains on the once-fine oak.

A Job for Someone

"Joe," said the black-haired man, leaning back in his chair, smoking an expensive briar, "I've got a job. This isn't merely a friendly call."

"Atty," replied Joe Keller, "I ain't sa dumb I don' know wen yuh'r here on business. Wat is it? Hope it's bettern the las' stunt yuh had." Keller was still a bit unhappy over the stories that had come back from the Putney-Warren laboratories, even though they had been three months old when the laboratory was blown up, and four months old now.

"It's a lot worse than that was, Joe."

Keller looked disgusted, pained, and unbelieving. "Hooey," he replied at length. "Even the D. T.'s ain't as bad as that was. Hell, the guys wat came back here was all ravin' about it. I've seen 'em outa the D. T.'s but they don' believe it after."

"Uh-huh—only this happened to 'em. They had reason to believe it."

"Suppose, Joe, yuh let this-here gentleman tell his yarn in his own partic'lar way?" suggested the lanky, bronzed individual with the sun-faded hair, on the third side of the table. He was handling his glass with an air of knowing what it was, and not believing it a substance to be downed rapidly in order to enter the state known as inebriation. His other hand was rolling a cigarette. It was a neat cylinder when he finished, and he inserted it into one corner of his mouth and lit it with what seemed one motion, and a puff.

"All right! Watcha got?"

"Texas, and you too, Joe, what would you say if I told you the United States was going to war? And it was going to war in about four weeks more?"

"Huh?" demanded Keller. He sat up straighter. Even the lanky, easy-going Texan sat up a bit. "Who's got the idee they can swing THIS country?"

Six Strong Men Are to Declare War

"Six men have. They're declaring war. Or rather, announcing their rule. The first move will be complete destruction of all known fire-arms, the establishment of a secret police that has the power to execute on suspicion, and condemn without trial—and the removal of enemies."

"Hey—do you mean this?" asked Keller, his eyes narrowing sharply. He saw that Atkill was absolutely sincere. There was none of his air of laughing boredom now. He was deadly serious. He meant all he said.

"I do. They intend to start with the United States, annex Canada, Mexico, and then take on European Nations."

"Who air these-here ambitious hombres?" demanded Texas.

"Old Man Nestor, and five associates, known as the Board of Control of the American Super-power," replied Atkill. "They own the patents that Warren worked out before the gentle souls bumped him off—and bought them from his heir for thirty grand. They'd sell for one hundred million any day in any week, and a billion with no great difficulty. The poor fool was probably tickled to get the thirty thousand. And they get patents that will bring any nation on earth to its knees in a single day!"

There was an unpleasant light in the lanky Texan's eyes, and his slight drawl had become much more pronounced. "And they feel that this here world is their private oyster, I reckon? How they figger they c'n do it?"

"They've got the Burt Hillen mob signed up for the job." Atkill's lips relapsed into a slight, grim smile. "And old Nestor is paying them half a million dollars a day. Then when they have finished getting control of the United States for him, Nestor figures they'll take their pay and get out."

Joe Keller whistled softly. "Sooo—tha's wat the Hillen mob's been up on. There's been strings out, sorta guesses, that they got sumpen big on. But who'd a gessed it was 'at big." He paused thoughtfully for several moments. "What are we goinna do, Atty?"

"What say we take over the ships they are building, and do the job ourselves." Atkill proposed.

The Texan looked at him sharply, then sank back a bit. Keller looked startled, thoughtful, and then finally shook his head. "No—we couldn't do it anyway, but—aw—somehow I like this ole U. S. A. I dunno—I wanna keep it. An' I'm damn sure I don' want Nestor and the rest of those big-wigs tryin' to run it. They'd—they'd wreck it."

The World to Be Ruled with an Iron Hand

"No," said Atkill with a hard little laugh, "they'd improve it immensely. Six strong men ruling the world with an iron hand—six strong men that could execute men on suspicion, without a 'fair and reasonable trial,' and without proving 'beyond reasonable doubts.' Trials that couldn't be beaten because somebody put a comma in the wrong place when the indictment was typed. Graft—hell, they'd make millions out of the country the first year. But six men would RULE the place, and they would see to it they got all the graft that was grafted. And six men just simply can't graft as much as ten or twenty thousand that work at it now. Postoffices where they were needed, not where they'd bring the most votes. No navy, no army, save those ten ships they're building now."

"Laws—half the laws on the books scratched off. Then perhaps two score sound laws that just couldn't be broken. When there's a police force that doesn't have to prove everything, then if that police force is honest and just, there can't be any great amount of crime. Mistakes, yes. They'd make 'em sometimes, but with all the courts, they make mistakes now. And it wouldn't be five and six years between crime and execution, either.

"On the whole, for the people that can't take care of themselves, it would be better. But they wouldn't like it, because they think they can take care of themselves. That's why card sharps and dips make a fat living.

"But I wouldn't want the country that way. I asked that question merely to see what you'd say."

"Waal—what we say don't make such a big difference, I reckon, but what we do, might. The question seems to be what air you aimin' to do about it?" asked Texas.

Atkill smiled. "Well, Joe, that sounds to me as though it were about to be business. You joining the deal?"

"Wat yuh think?"

"Well, let's make some plans. How's the gang, all the old boys with you—I mean other than Marty and Rabbit? They're taking a prolonged vacation I understand."

"Yeah—the State thought they oughta. It even proved they'd oughta. The rest o' the gang's ready."

"All right. Now listen, both of you." Atkill leaned forward tensely, and the others listened sharply as he unfolded his plan in that dingy little room, where history was being made that night, though none, not even the two listeners, knew it, only Atkill himself.