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

“Light varies inversely as the square of the distance,” rasped the reedy voice. “Magnetism varies inversely as the square of the distance. Gravitation varies inversely—”

Click Kendall opened his eyes. The reedy voice snapped to an abrupt termination. A pair of wide, violet eyes were gazing into his. Over the girl’s shoulder was the face of the man who had slammed the gate in his face earlier in the day.

Click tried a smile.

“Professor, I was sent out to get an interview. There’s been a rumor floating around Centerberry that you were experimenting with an anti-gravitational contrivance, and were planning an exploration of the moon.”

The girl’s hand clapped to his mouth.

“Dad! Mr. Kendall’s a reporter. And he refused to come to a truce. He’s going to publish what he learns.”

And then she leaned over him, placed a small glass of excellent brandy to his lips.

“Drink this,” she said kindly, and then added with swift rancor, “and shut up!”

Click gulped the stinging liquid, felt it coursing down his gullet, leaving a welcome trail of warmth, bringing new strength.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

The professor’s black eyes snapped.

“Here, drink this,” crooned the girl.

Mechanically Click opened his lips. Another jolt of fiery liquid shot down his throat. He realized that the girl was deliberately attempting to get him drunk so that he could not utilize the advantage his injury had given him.

He scowled at that, then smiled. After all it was a pretty good world. A rosy hue permeated his thoughts. Beautiful, violet-eyed young girls, beehives that floated, black eyes, prewar brandy. Oh, it wasn’t so bad! And he had the nucleus of a nice story! He felt better now.

Click smiled.

“Do I get another drink, Miss Wagner?”

“You do not!” she snapped.

“Thanks. No harm in asking. But, Professor, if I may ask you a question—”

The question was never asked.

There was the sound of crashing lumber, the splintering of boards, a tearing of metal. Hurried footsteps sounded without the door. A frantic banging of fists caused Professor Wagner to fling it open.

A man, armed with rifle and revolver, gestured toward the fence.

“They’ve driven their machine right through the fence, sir, and are trying to get to the bell!”

Wagner’s dark eyes glittered with cold fury. He snatched a rifle from over the desk, made the door in two great strides. Nor was his daughter far behind.

Click Kendall jumped to his feet, felt a great wave of dizziness, groped for a chair, and stood, swaying. His eyes could see the running figures through the open door. There was a length of smashed fence, a wrecked automobile, running men as they deployed toward the metal shell.

One of them raised his arm. A revolver spat viciously. The professor flung up his rifle. It cracked forth a high velocity bullet that sent the rushing man tumbling to the ground in a search for cover. Another figure on the left ducked behind a pile of lumber, opened fire.

Click saw the bullets kicking up dust near Professor Wagner’s feet. He saw the girl pleading with her father, leading him toward the great metal beehive. Out in the road a passing motorist had stopped. The passengers gawked in open-mouthed wonder.

Click tried a feeble, wobbling run.

The professor gained the metal bell. The girl was behind him. Then the enemy rushed.

Professor Wagner threw his rifle to his shoulder, then suddenly spun half around, and lurched against the girl.

The running figures held their fire, pressed grimly forward. The man who had given the warning, apparently a watchman not overburdened with intelligence, fired an indecisive shot or two, then lowered his rifle, standing uncertainly.

Click passed him, snatched the revolver from its holster.

“Hands up!” he yelled at the foremost figure.

His answer was a singing bullet that wasped its way past his ear. Click fired once, then held his fire, fearing to hit the girl. He reached her side almost at the same time as did the running enemy.

A single lucky swing of the revolver, and he felt the impact of the barrel on the man’s skull. Then he realized that there were struggling figures about him, that the girl had clubbed the rifle taken from her father and was swinging it. There was a spatter of shots. The enemy withdrew, apparently non-plused by the unexpected strength of the defense.

The entrance of the polished metal beehive was before them.

“Inside,” piped the professor in a weak voice. “It’s bulletproof.”

Click helped the girl get the professor in the open door. She slammed it shut.

“Dad, are you badly hurt?”

“Nothing much; caught my shoulder an awful wallop. The shock was the worst. Guess we can bandage it up. We’re safe from bullets here.”

He got to his feet, explored his right shoulder with the tips of his left fingers.

“It’ll be all right,” he said.

Click Kendall looked about him eagerly.

The bell was not over twenty-five feet high, but was more than thirty-five feet in diameter. Within the shell was a cone of what appeared to be silver. It furnished a rounded mirror in which the reflections of the little group flickered in weird distortions. There was a metal table, a glass case containing various instruments, a clutter of boxes and barrels. And there were windows in the metal sides of the shell, little round windows in which three-inch plate glass was set in what appeared to be live rubber.

Breathing heavily, still weak from his loss of blood and exertion, Click pressed his face against one of the windows, wondering what had become of their attackers.

He saw two men grouped in ominous conference, saw a third bringing up an oblong box. Click recognized the label. It was dynamite.

“Quick!” he called. “They’re going to blow off a side of the metal. Is there a loophole through which we can fire?”

And his words brought Professor Wagner to his side.

“Yes, we can and will. Those men deserve to be killed.”

“No, no, Father. There must be some other way!”

Click noticed the men dart their alarmed glances to the left, noticed also a sudden ripple of panic in their attitude, and turned his own eyes.

He saw a red machine, filled with grim men, swinging in from the road. A siren was fastened to the front of the car, just below the radiator.

“Here comes the sheriff. It’s all right!” Click exclaimed.

And the three, setting down the case of dynamite, sprinted for the gap in the fence.

“All right nothing!” moaned the professor. “We’ll have to testify, go through all sorts of red tape, be photographed, held for a trial—”

He staggered to the metal table, lurched into the chair.

“You put in the provisions, Dot?”

“Yes, Father.”

Professor Wagner pulled a lever. Then Click Kendall gasped his utter incredulity.

For the sheriff and his companion drifted down and away. There was no sensation of motion. It was merely that in place of watching the striding figure of the sheriff he suddenly saw the top of the broad-brimmed hat, then caught the oval of an upturned, open-mouthed face.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Click. “What’s happened?”

He saw Professor Wagner at the table, crouched over, studying the instruments. He wanted to see what was going on, ask him what was happening.

He took a swift stride, and then found himself shooting up toward the pointed dome of the shell. Frantically he waved his arms, kicked his feet. All to no avail. He drifted up until he touched the roof.

He pushed his hands against the metal to ward off the impact, and found himself descending, squarely for the professor’s head.

Click tried to avert that collision. His efforts availed nothing. He saw that he would fall squarely on the man’s head.