The Human Zero and Other Science-Fiction Masterpieces Read online

  THE HUMAN ZERO

  AND OTHER SCIENCE

  FICTION MASTERPIECES

  Edited by Sam Moskowitz and Roger Elwood

  Tower

  Books

  Contents

  The Human Zero - by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Man Who Ploughed The Sea - by Arthur C. Clarke

  The Proxy Head - by Robert Bloch

  Hands Across Space - by Chad Oliver

  Itself! - by A. E. van Vogt

  The Imaginary - by Isaac Asimov

  The Cosmic Relic - By Eric Frank Russell

  I, Rocket - by Ray Bradbury

  The Human Zero

  by Erle Stanley Gardner

  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 through 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 president
s 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 fighting 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.”

  Charles Ealy scraped back his chair.

  “Wait a minute,” said Rodney, the cigarette in his mouth wabbling in a smoky zigzag as he talked. “I may have a hunch that’s worth while. Will you give me a break on it, captain, if it’s a lead?”

  The police captain nodded wearily.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  Rodney grinned at the two reporters.

  “This stuff is off the record,” he admonished. “You two can scoop it if anything comes of it. Right now it’s on the q.t.”

  The reporters nodded.

  They were there, in the first place, because the two papers were “in right” with the administration. And they kept in right with the police department by printing what the police were willing they should print, and by keeping that confidential which was given to them in confidence.

  Sid Rodney went to the trouble of removing his cigarette from the corner of his mouth, sure sign of earnestness.

  “I’ve got a funny angle on this thing. I didn’t say anything before, because I think it’s a whole lot more grave than many people think. I have a hunch we’re doing business with a man who has a lot more sense than the average kidnapper. I have a hunch he’s dangerous. And if there was any chance of the bank coming to the front, then letting us try to recover the money afterward, I wanted to play it that way.

  “But the bank’s out, so it’s everything to gain and nothing to lose. Now here’s the situation. I ran down every one I could find who might have a motive. One of the things the agency did, which the police also did, was to run down every one who might profit by the disappearance or death of P. H. Dangerfield.

  “But one thing our agency did that the police didn’t do, was to try and find out whether or not any person had been trying to interest Dangerfield in a business deal and been turned down.

  “We found a dozen leads and ran ’em down. It happened I was to run down a list of three or four, and the fourth person on the list was a chap named Albert Crome. Ever hear of him?”

  He paused.

  Captain Harder shook his head.

  Ruby Orman looked blank. Charles Ealy puckered his brows.

  “You mean the scientist that claimed he had some sort of a radium method of disrupting ether waves and forming an etheric screen?”

  Rodney nodded. “That’s the chap.”

  “Sort of cuckoo, isn’t he? He tried to peddle his invention to the government, but they never took any particular notice of him. Sent a man, I believe, and Crome claimed the man they sent didn’t even know elemental physics.”

  Sid Rodney nodded again.

  There was a rap at the door.

  Captain Harder frowned, reached back a huge arm, twisted the knob, and opened the door a crack.

  “I left orders . . .” He paused in mid-sentence as he saw the face of Bob Sands.

  “Oh, come in, Sands. I left orders only five people could come in here, and then I didn’t want to be disturbed . . . Lord, man, what’s the matter? You look as though you’d seen a ghost!”

&
nbsp; Sands nodded.

  “Look what happened. I started for home. My roadster was parked out in front of headquarters. I got in and drove it out Claremont Street, and was just turning into Washington when another car came forging alongside of me.

  “I thought it would go on past, but it kept crowding me over. Then I thought of all the talk I’d heard of gangsters, and I wondered if there was any chance I was going to be abducted, too.

  “I slammed on the brakes. The other car pushed right in beside me. There was a man sitting next to the driver, sort of a foreign looking fellow, and he tossed something.

  “I thought it was a bomb, and I yelled and put my hand over my eyes. The thing thudded right into the seat beside me. When I grabbed it to throw it out, I saw it was a leather sack, weighted, and that there was crumpled paper on the inside. I opened the sack and found—this!”

  Dramatically he handed over the piece of typewritten paper.

  “Read it aloud,” begged Ealy.

  “Take a look,” invited Captain Harder, spreading the sheet of paper on the desk.

  They clustered about in a compact group, read the contents of that single spaced sheet of typewriting.

  Sands:

  You are a damned fool. The banker would have given in if you hadn’t been so hostile. And the police bungled the affair, as they nearly always do. I’ve got a method of hearing and seeing what goes on in Captain Harder’s office. I’m going to tell you folks right now that you didn’t do Dangerfield any good. When I showed him on the screen what was taking place, and he heard your words, he was beside himself with rage.

  You’ve got one more chance to reach that banker. If he doesn’t pay the sum within twelve hours there won’t be any more Dangerfield.

  And the next time I kidnap a man and hold him for ransom I don’t want so much powwow about it. Just to show you my power, I am going to abduct you, Sands, after I kill Dangerfield, and then I’m going to get Arthur Soloman, the banker. Both of you will be held for a fair ransom. Soloman’s ransom will be seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. So he’d better get ready to pay.