The Science Fiction of Erle Stanley Gardner - The Human Zero Read online

  Mr. Gardner possessed many of the characteristics of the typical science-fiction fan: a feeling of not fitting in as an adolescent, an avid curiosity, a high intelligence, a great propensity for and enjoyment of arguing with people, and a tendency to alternate periods of solitude with periods of multiple companionship.3 Who knows, had he been bom fifteen years later, he might have encountered Astounding's editorial genius, John W. Campbell, Jr., and ended up a science-fiction writer. But at the time Mr. Gardner began writing, no science-fiction magazines existed, and because of his background in law he quite naturally moved into producing detective fiction.

  However, between the years of 1928 and 1932 he did produce seven science-fiction and fantasy stories for Argosy, and these provide us with a fascinating glimpse of the writer he might have chosen to be had circumstances been different.

  The title story of this collection, “The Human Zero,” is both a who-done-it and a locked-room mystery. A man is killed in a locked room, and both his body and his murderer disappear. So Sid Rodney, star detective, tries to avoid his own murder as he figures out who the criminal is and how the chilling crime was committed. The story exemplifies Mr. Gardner’s philosophy of having “characters who start from scratch and sprint the whole darned way to a goal line.”

  “Rain Magic,” the first to be published, is somewhat reminiscent of Edgar Rice Burroughs. It recounts the African adventures of a young shanghaied sailor who jumps ship. Told in very vivid first-person style, it involves love, intelligent ants, a monkey man, and a ledge of solid gold. The story is a strange one, but a prefatory note said that the essentials had been told to the author by an old desert prospector. Initially, Mr. Gardner thought “it was one gosh-awful lie,” but upon subsequent checking on the locale, he found every fact given to him by the old man that could be verified was accurate.

  “Monkey Eyes” is similar in flavor to some of Richard Harding Davis’s work. Set in India, it centers around kidnapping, revenge, and a grotesque scientific experiment. An aerial dogfight, ceremonies at a lost temple, and an interestingly shaded villain are still other highlights of this story.

  “The Sky’s the Limit” is an interplanetary tale of a trip to Venus. Using the idea of an antigravity drive which H. G. Wells had popularized in The First Men in the Moon, Mr. Gardner mixes crime and adventure with a delightful narration of the spaceship’s test run and an accurate description of what scientists thought Venus was like in the late 1920’s.

  “A Year in a Day” takes the idea of invisibility through acceleration that H. Gi Wells popularized in “The New Accelerator” and applies it to the framework of the crime story. The vivid descriptions of the invisibility effect compare favorably with similar attempts by Wells and by John D. MacDonald in The Girl, The Gold Watch, and Everything.

  “The Man with Pin-Point Eyes” is a powerful adventure story of reincarnation and lost gold. As fresh as if it had just been ripped from the typewriter, its western setting is very similar to the Whispering Sand series which will be reprinted in a collection to follow soon after the present science-fiction volume.

  “New Worlds” is an epic disaster story of a worldwide flood caused by a five-degree shift in the earth’s poles. There is a marvelously descriptive scene of New York City being inundated by the rising waters. However, as Sam Moskowitz perceptively points out, yams of this type are popular because catastrophes “vicariously release the individual from the responsibilities of family, law and conscience. They mark the demise of everything that binds, inhibits or restrains.” And in this work, Moskowitz continues, Mr. Gardner uses the “cataclysm as a device for releasing a small group of individuals to unusual adventure.”

  By 1932, when “New Worlds” was published, Mr. Gardner had written his first two Perry Mason novels and was beginning to direct his major efforts into producing book-length manuscripts. As a businessman, he may have decided that the amount of time he had to put into researching a science-fiction story exceeded the amount he needed for a mystery or western. He was also concerned with the sale of reprintings of his works in the future and the need to avoid material which would date his stories. Now, science fiction, unless it is set far away in time, has a tendency to age rapidly as it is overtaken by scientific knowledge, and Mr. Gardner must have known that mysteries and westerns would age less. Faced with all these reasons, then, it is quite possible that he simply decided he could put his efforts to use more efficiently elsewhere.

  In any case, those of us who love science fiction still have the following marvelous tales by which to remember him.

  Charles G. Waugh and

  Martin H. Greenberg

  NOTES

  1. For a summary of his life, including some of his methods of working, see Dorothy B. Hughes, Erie Stanley Gardner: The Case of the Real Perry Mason (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1978).

  2. Such a study has now been published: Francis L. and Roberta B. Fugate, Secrets of the Worlds Best-Selling Writer: The Storytelling Techniques of Erie Stanley Gardner (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1980).

  3. Charles G. Waugh and David Schroeder, “Here’s Looking at You Kids: A Profile of Science Fiction Fans,” Anthro-Tech: A Journal of Speculative Anthropology. Fall, 1978, pp. 12-19. Copies may be obtained from Dr. Darlene Thomas, Lockhaven State College, Lock-haven, PA 17745, for $1.00.

  THE HUMAN ZERO

  CHAPTER 1

  A Mysterious Kidnaping

  Bob Sands took the letter from the hands of the captain of police, read it, and pursed his lips in a whistle.

  Four pairs of eyes studied the secretary of the kidnaped man as he read. Two pencils scribbled notes on pads of scratch paper, of the type used by newspaper reporters.

  Bob Sands showed that he had been aroused from sleep, and had rushed to headquarters. His collar was soiled. His tie was awry. The eyes were still red from rubbing, and his chin was covered with a bristling stubble which awaited a razor.

  “Good Heavens,” he said, “the Old Man was sure given a scare when he wrote that!”

  Captain Harder noted the sleep-reddened eyes of the secretary.

  “Then it’s his writing?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Ruby Orman, “sob-sister” writer of the Clarion, added to her penciled notes. “Tears streamed down the cheeks of the loyal secretary as he identified the writing as being that of the man by whom he was employed.”

  Charles Ealy, reporter for the more conservative Star, scribbled sketchy notes. “Sands summoned—Identifies writing as being that of P. H. Dangerfield—Dramatic scene enacted in office of Captain Harder at an early hour this morning—Letter, written by kidnaped millionaire, urges police to drop case and bank to pay the half million demanded in cash as ransom—Letter hints at a scientist as being the captor and mentions fate ‘so horrible I shudder to contemplate it.’ ”

  Sid Rodney, the other occupant of the room, wrote nothing. He didn’t believe in making notes. And, since he was the star detective of a nationally known agency, he was free to do pretty much as he pleased.

  Rodney didn’t make detailed reports. He got results. He had seen them come and seen them go. Ordinary circumstances found him cool and unexcited. It took something in the nature of a calamity to arouse him.

  Now he teetered back on the two legs of his chair and his eyes scanned the faces of the others.

  It was three o’clock in the morning. It was the second day following the mysterious abduction of P. H. Dangerfield, a millionaire member of the stock exchange. Demands had been made for a cool half million as ransom. The demands had been okayed by the millionaire himself, but the bank refused to honor the request. Dangerfield had not over two hundred thousand in his account. The bank was willing to loan the balance, but only when it should be absolutely satisfied that it was the wish of the millionaire, and that the police were powerless.

  Rodney was employed by the bank as a special investigator. In addition, the bank had called in the police. The investigation had gone throu
gh all routine steps and arrived nowhere. Dangerfield had been at his house. He had vanished. There was no trace of him other than the demands of the kidnapers, and the penciled notations upon the bottom of those letters, purporting to be in the writing of the missing millionaire.

  Then had come this last letter, completely written in pen and ink by Dangerfield himself. It was a letter addressed directly to Captain Harder, who was assuming charge of the case, and implored him to let the bank pay over the money.

  Captain Harder turned to Rodney.

  “How will the bank take this?” he asked.

  Rodney took a deep drag at his cigarette. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, and, as he spoke, the smoke seeped out of the comers of his mouth, clothing the words in a smoky halo.

  “Far as the newspapers are concerned,” he said, “I have nothing to say. As a private tip, I have an idea the bank will regard this as sufficient authorization, and pay the money.”

  Captain Harder opened a drawer, took out photostatic copies of the other demands which had been received.

  “They want five hundred thousand dollars in gold certificates, put in a suitcase, sent by the secretary of the kidnaped man, to the alley back of Quong Mow’s place in Chinatown. It’s to be deposited in an ash can that sits just in front of the back door of Quong Mow’s place. Then Sands is to drive away.

  “The condition is that the police must not try to shadow Sands or watch the barrel, that Sands must go alone, and that there must be no effort to trace the numbers of the bills. When that has been done, Dangerfield will go free. Otherwise he’ll be murdered. The notes point out that, even if the money is deposited in the ash can, but the other conditions are violated, Dangerfield will die.”

  There was silence in the room when the captain finished speaking. All of those present knew the purport of those messages. The newspaper reporter had even gone so far as to photograph the ash can.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Captain Harder jerked it open.

  The man who stood on the threshold of the room, surveying the occupants through clear, gray, emotionless eyes, was Arthur L. Soloman, the president of the bank.

  He was freshly shaved, well dressed, cool, collected.

  “I obeyed your summons, captain,” he said in a dry, husky voice that was as devoid of moisture as a dead leaf scuttling across a cement sidewalk on the wings of a March wind.

  Captain Harder grunted.

  “I came without waiting to shave or change,” said Sands, his voice showing a trace of contempt. “They said it was life or death.”

  The banker’s fish-like eyes rested upon the flushed face of Bob Sands.

  “I shaved,” said Soloman. “I never go out in the morning without shaving. What is the trouble, Captain?”

  Harder handed over the letter.

  The banker took a vacant chair, took spectacles from his pocket, rubbed the lenses with a handkerchief, held them to the light, breathed upon the lenses and polished them again, then finally adjusted the spectacles and read the letter.

  His face remained absolutely void of expression.

  “Indeed,” he said, when he had finished.

  “What we want to know,” said Captain Harder, “is whether the bank feels it should honor that request, make a loan upon the strength of it, and pay that ransom.”

  The banker put the tips of his fingers together and spoke coldly.

  “One-half a million dollars is a very great deal of money. It is altogether too much to ask by way of ransom. It would, indeed, be a dangerous precedent for the more prominent business men of this community, were any such ransom to be paid.”

  “We’ve been all over that before, Mr. Soloman. What I want to know is what do you want the police to do? If we’re to try and find this man, we’d better keep busy. If we’re going to sit back and let you ransom him, and then try and catch the kidnapers afterward, we don’t want to get our wires crossed.”

  The banker’s tone dripped sarcasm.

  “Your efforts so far have seemed to be futile enough. The police system seems inadequate to cope with these criminals.”

  Captain Harder flushed. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got. Our salary allowances don’t enable us to employ guys that have got the brains of bank presidents to pound our pavements.”

  Ruby Orman snickered.

  The banker’s face remained gray and impassive.

  “Precisely,” he said coldly.

  “Nothin’ personal,” said Harder.

  The banker turned to Sid Rodney.

  “Has your firm anything to report, Mr. Rodney?”

  Rodney continued to sit back in his chair, his thumbs hooked into the arm holes of his vest, his cigarette hanging at a drooping angle.

  “Nothin’ that I know of,” he said, smoke seeping from his lips with the words.

  “Well?” asked Charles Ealy.

  Captain Harder looked at the banker meaningly.

  “Well?” he said.

  Ruby Orman held her pencil poised over her paper.

  “The Clarion readers will be so much interested in your answer, Mr. Soloman.”

  The banker’s mouth tightened.

  “The answer,” he said, still speaking in the same husky voice, “is nor

  The reporters scribbled.

  Bob Sands, secretary of the missing man, got to his feet. His manner was belligerent. He seemed to be controlling himself with an effort.

  “You admit Mr. Dangerfield could sell enough securities within half an hour of the time he got back on the job to liquidate the entire amount!” he said accusingly.

  The banker’s nod was casual.

  “I believe he could.”

  “And this letter is in his handwriting?”

  “Yes. I would say ft was.”

  “And he authorizes you to do anything that needs to be done, gives you his power of attorney and all that, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Soloman nodded.

  “Then why not trust his judgment in the matter and do what he says?”

  The banker smiled, and the smile was cold, tight-lipped.

  “Because the bank is under no obligations to do so. Mr. Dangerfield has a checking account of about two hundred thousand dollars. The bank would honor his check in that amount, provided our attorney could advise us that the information we have received through the press and the police would not be tantamount to knowledge that such check was obtained by duress and menace.

  “But as far as loaning any such additional sum to be paid as ransom, the bank does not care to encourage kidnapings by establishing any such precedent. The demand, gentlemen, is unreasonable.”

  “What,” yelled Sands, “has the bank got to say about how much kidnapers demand?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all, Mr. Sands. Mr. Rodney, I trust your firm will uncover some clue which will be of value. The bank values Mr. Dangerfield’s account very much. We are leaving no stone unturned to assist the police. But we cannot subscribe to the payment of such an unheard-of ransom.”

  “A human life is at stake!” yelled Sands.

  The banker paused, his hand on the door, and firmly said:

  “The safety of the business world is also at stake, gentlemen. Good morning!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Who Is Albert Crome?

  The door slammed shut.

  Captain Harder sighed.

  Sid Rodney tossed away the stub of his cigarette, groped for a fresh one.

  “Such is life,” mused Charles Ealy.

  “The dirty pirate!” snapped Sands. “He’s made thousands off the Dangerfield account. He doesn’t care a fig what happens to Dangerfield. He’s just afraid of establishing a precedent that will inspire other criminals.”

  Sid Rodney lit his fresh cigarette.

  Ruby Orman’s pencil scribbled across the paper.

  “Scene one of greatest consternation,” she wrote. “Men glanced at each other in an ecstasy of futility. Sands gave the impression of fig
hting back tears. Even strong men may weep when the life of a friend is at stake. Police promise renewed activity . .

  Bob Sands reached for his hat.

  “I’ll go crazy if I hang around here. Is there anything I can do?”

  Captain Harder shook his head.

  “We’ll have this letter gone over by the handwriting department,” he said.

  Sands walked from the room.

  “Good morning,” he said wearily.

  Charles Ealy turned to the captain.

  “Nothing new, Harry?”

  “Not a thing, other than that letter,” said Captain Harder. “This is one case where we can’t get a toe-hold to work on.”

  Charles Ealy nodded sympathetically.

  “Anything for publication?” he asked.

  “Yes,” snapped Captain Harder. “You can state that I am working on a brand-new lead, and that within the next twenty-four hours we feel certain we will have the criminals in custody. You may state that we already have a cordon of police guarding against an escape from the city, and that, momentarily, the dragnet is tightening . . . Oh, you folks know, say the usual thing that may put the fear of God into the kidnapers and make the public think we aren’t sitting here with arms folded.”