Эрл Гарднер - The Human Zero. The Science Fiction Stories of Erle Stanley Gardner

“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

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 corners 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.