The little man started to refuse and then noticed the case. “What an unusual design!”
“Yeah,” said Pop, and pressed the music button. “The Sidewalks of New York” tinkled through the room.
“Fascinating,” said Hannibal. “What delicate mechanism! You know, I’ve made several rather small things myself. Here is a copy of the Bible which I printed.” And in Pop’s hand he laid the merest speck of a book.
Pop peered at it and somehow managed to open it. Yes, each page appeared to be perfectly printed. There was a slight tingling which made him scratch his palm after he had handed the volume back.
“And here is a car,” said Hannibal, “which I spent much time constructing. The engine is quite perfect.” And thereupon he took the inch-long object and poked into it with a toothpick. There was a resultant purr.
“And here is a car,” said Hannibal, “which I spent much time constructing. The engine is quite perfect.” And thereupon he took the inch-long object and poked into it with a toothpick.
“It runs,” said Pop, startled.
“Of course. It should get about a hundred thousand miles to the gallon. Therefore, if a car would make the trip and if it could carry enough gas, then it could go to the moon. The moon is only 238,857 miles from Earth, you know.” And he smiled confidently. He had forgotten about the car and it started up and ran off his hand. Pop made a valiant stab for it and missed. Hannibal picked it up and put it away.
“Now I must show you around,” said Hannibal. “Usually I start with the garden—”
“We’ve seen that,” said Pop.
“Seen what?”
“The garden.”
“Why,” said Hannibal, “I said nothing about a garden, did I? I wish to show you my trains.”
“Trains?”
“Have you ever played with trains?”
“Well—I can’t say as I have. You see, Mr. Pertwee, I came about that lecture. If you could tell me what it is about—”
“Lecture?”
“That you made before the physics society. Something about moving freight.”
“Oh! ‘The Pertwee Elucidation of the Simplification of Transportational Facilities as Applying to the Freight Problems of the United States.’ You mean that?”
“Yes. That’s it!”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Pertwee does not refer to the subject now.”
“Mr.— Wait, aren’t you Mr. Pertwee?”
“Yes, indeed. Now about my trains—”
“Just some comment or other,” pleaded Pop. “I couldn’t understand just what it was all about.”
“There’s nothing half so lovely as a train,” said Mr. Pertwee, almost firmly.
Pop took out his case and lighted a cigarette.
“Would you mind pressing that button again?” said Pertwee.
Once more the worn mechanism tinkled out its music. When it had done, Hannibal took the case and inspected it anew with great attention.
“You said something about trains,” said Pop.
“Pardon?”
Pop took back his case and put it firmly away. “You spoke of trains. There may be a story there.”
“Oh, there is, there is,” said Hannibal. “But I don’t talk about it, you know. Not with strangers. Of course you are not a stranger, are you?”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Pop, mystified because he could see no bottle about. “But let’s get on to the trains.”
Hannibal bounced eagerly up and led his caller through the house, pausing now and then to show other instances of things done very small.
Finally they reached the train room and here Pop stopped short in amazement. For here, spread out at their feet, were seemingly miles of track leading off in a bewildering tangle of routes.
“My trains,” said Hannibal, caressingly.
Pop just kept staring. There were toy stations and semaphores and miniature rivers and roads and underpasses and sidings and switches. And on the tracks stood a whole fleet of freight cars in a yard. Engines stood about, ready to do the switching. The roundhouses were crammed with rolling stock and, in short, nearly every type of equipment used was represented here.
Hannibal was already down on his knees at a switchboard. He grabbed up a top hat and plonked it on his head and then beamed at Pop.
“Cargo of strawberries for Chicago,” said Hannibal. He threw half a dozen switches. The engines in the freight yard came to life and began to charge and puff and bang into cars, making up a train without any touch from the operator except on the control board.
“That bare space away over there is Chicago,” said Hannibal.
Pop saw then that this room was vast enough to contain a replica of the United States and realized with a start that these tracks were, each one, a counterpart of an actual railroad line. Here were all the railway routes in the United States spreading over a third of an acre!
“This is New York,” said Hannibal, indicating another bare space. “Only, of course, there isn’t anything there yet. Now here we go!”
The freight, made up, began to move along the track faster and faster. It whistled for the crossings and rumbled over the rivers and stepped into a siding for a fast freight to go by, took on water and finally roared into the yard beside the bare space which was Chicago. Here it was broken up and other engines began to reform it.
In the space of two hours, Pop watched freight being shunted all over the United States. He was excited about it, for he had never had a chance to play with trains as a boy and now it seemed quite logical that they should interest him as a man.
Finally Hannibal brought the cars back to the New York yard and broke up the last train. With a sigh he took off his hat and stood up, smiling apologetically.
“You must go now,” said Hannibal.
“Look,” said Pop. “Just give me some kind of an idea of what you were talking about in that article so I can mention it in the paper.”
“Well—”
“I’ll do you some good,” said Pop.
“Do you understand anything about infinite acceleration?”
“Well, no.”
“Or the fourth dimension?”
“Wellllllllll . . .”
“Or Einstein’s mathematics?”
“No.”
“Then,” said Hannibal, “I don’t think I can explain. They would not believe me.” And he laughed softly. “So, you see, you wouldn’t either. Good night.”
And Pop presently found himself outside the gate, confronted once more with the long walk to the station and the long ride back to New York.
A fine job he’d done. No story.
Still— Say! Those trains would make a swell yarn. A batty little scientist playing with toy railroads— Sure. He’d do it. Play it on the human-interest side. Great minds at leisure. Scientist amuses self with most complete model road in the world— Yes, that was it. Might do something with that.
But he’d never get far with it.
Trudging along he reached for his cigarette case. He fumbled in other pockets. Alarm began to grow on him. He couldn’t find it! More slowly he repeated the search.
Hurriedly then he tore back to the gate and shouted at the house. But the only reply he got was printed on the sign:
TRESPASSERS BURIED
FREE OF CHARGE!
Chapter Three
POP, it might be said, was just a little proud of having turned out a presentable story where no story had been before. And, feeling the need of a little praise, he finished off his story the following morning and took it to Caulborn personally.
Caulborn, in a lather of activity which amounted to keeping half the staff enraged, pushed up his eyeshade—which he wore for show—and stared at Pop with calculated coldness.
; “Well?”
“That story you sent me out on,” said Pop, putting the sheets on Caulborn’s desk. “You didn’t think there was any story there. And you were right as far as news was concerned. But human interest—”
“Humph,” said Caulborn, barely glancing at the type. He was, in truth, a little annoyed that Pop had gotten anything at all. When Caulborn had taken this job he had known very well that there were others in the office who had more seniority, more experience, and therefore a better claim.
“You call this a story?” said Caulborn. “You think we print anything you care to write? Go back to the copy desk.” And so saying he dropped the sheets into the wastebasket with an emphatic gesture of dismissal.
Pop was a little dazed. He backed out and stood on the sill for seconds before he closed the door. A hurrying reporter jostled him and was about to rush on when he saw Pop’s expression.
“Hey, you look like you need a drink.”
“I do,” said Pop.
The reporter glanced at Caulborn’s door. “So he’s making it tough for you, is he? The dirty rat. Never mind, Pop, when better newspapermen are built they’ll all look like you. Something will break sooner or later—”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Say, look now! Don’t quit under fire. You know what ails that guy? He’s scared, that’s all. Scared of most of us and you in particular. Why, hell’s bells, you belong in that chair. We’re losing money, hundreds a day, and when it gets to thousands the publisher himself will get wise—”
“I’m being laid off,” said Pop.
“You? For God’s sake!”
Pop wandered back to his desk. Two other reporters came over to commiserate with him and curse Caulborn, but Pop didn’t have anything to say. He just kept on pulling old odds and ends out of his desk, throwing many of them away but making a packet out of the rest.
“You’re not leaving today, are you?” said a third, coming up.
“What else can I do?” said Pop.
And he went on cleaning out his desk, looking very worn and old and quiet. He scarcely looked up when Caulborn passed him, on his way out to lunch.
It was about one o’clock and he was just tying a string around his belongings—a pitifully small package to show for all his years in this city room. The phone rang on the next desk and Pop, out of habit, reached across for it.
“Gimme rewrite,” barked an excited voice.
“I’ll take it,” said Pop suddenly.
“This’s Jenson. I’m up on the Drive. Ready?”
Pop raked some copy paper to him and picked up a pencil. He was a little excited by the legman’s tone. “Ready.”
“At twelve-forty-five today, Grant’s Tomb disappeared.”
“Huh?”
“Get it down. The traffic on the Drive was at its noon-hour peak and the benches around the structure were filled with people. When, without warning, a rumble sounded, the alarmed populace—”
“To hell with the words,” cried Pop. “Give me the story. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. There are half a dozen police cars around here staring at the place Grant’s Tomb was. I was about a block away when I heard shrieks and I came tearing down to find that traffic was jammed up and that people were running away from the place while other people ran toward it. I asked a nursemaid about it and she’d seen it happen. She said there was a rumbling sound and then suddenly the tomb began to shrink in size and in less than ten seconds it had vanished.”
“Was anybody seen monkeying with it?” said Pop, feeling foolish instantly.
“A chauffeur said he saw a little guy in a swallowtail coat tear across the spot where the tomb had been.”
“How many dead?”
“Nobody knows if anybody is dead.”
“Well, find out!”
“How can I find out when everybody that was sitting on the steps and all completely disappeared?”
“What?”
“They’re gone.”
“Somebody is crazy,” said Pop. “No bodies?”
“No tomb.”
“I got this much,” said Pop. “You hoof it back there and get stories from the witnesses.” He hung up and whirled to shout down the line of desks, “Grant’s Tomb’s gone! Get Columbia on the phone. We got to have a statement from somebody that knows his stuff. You, Sweeney, grab an encyclopedia and see if anything like this ever happened before. Morton, grab a camera and get out there for some pictures. Dunstan! You go with Morton and find the relatives of the people that have vanished along with the tomb. Get going!”
Nobody asked any questions beyond a stammer of incredulity. Nobody thought of tearing out to find Caulborn. Sweeney, Morton, Dunstan and others went into a flurry of activity.
“Branner!” cried Pop into the interoffice phone. “Start setting up an extra. We’ll be on the street in half an hour. Second extra in an hour and a half with pictures.”
“Is this Pop?”
“Yeah, this is Pop. What are you waiting for?”
“Okay. Half an hour it is.”
“Louie, get some shots of Grant’s Tomb out of the files and rush them down to Composing.” Pop pulled his old typewriter toward his stomach and his fingers began to flash over the keys. Hunt and punch it was, but never had a story rolled so swiftly. In five minutes it was streaming down to Composing.
Pop got up and paced around his desk. He rumpled his graying hair and looked unseeingly out across the city room. He had pinch-hit as night editor so often that he did not question his authority to go ahead. And still nobody thought of Caulborn.
Shortly a damp proof was rushed up. The copy boy hesitated for a moment and then laid it on Pop’s desk. Pop looked it over. “Okay. Let it run.”
The boy loped away and Pop, reaching for a cigarette, again missed his case. Instead he hauled up a limp package and lighted a match. The phone rang somewhere.
“Take it, Pop,” said a reporter.
Pop took it.
“Who’s this?” said Pop.
“Freeman. Grab your pencil.”
“Got it,” said Pop, beginning to tingle at the tone of the legman.
“The Empire State Building disappeared about five minutes ago.”
“Right,” said Pop.
“I’m down at precinct— About three seconds ago a cop came staggering in with the news. I haven’t had a chance to look.”
“Get right down there and see,” said Pop. “Grant’s Tomb vanished just before you called.”
“Check.”
Pop put down the phone and dashed over to the window. But in vain he searched the skyline for any sign of the Empire State Building. “Gone,” he said. The human being in him was appalled. The newspaperman went into action.
“Goodart,” roared Pop, “get a camera down to the Empire State. It’s disappeared.”
“Check,” said Goodart, dashing away.
“Copy boy!” yelled Pop. And into the phone, even while he started the second story, he yelped, “Branner. Limit the first extra. Get set for a second. Story coming down. The Empire State Building has disappeared.”
“Okay,” said Branner.
“Get some pictures down to Branner on the Empire State,” shouted Pop. His fingers were blurring, so fast they raced over the keys.
“New York is going piece by piece,” said a reporter. “Oh boy, what a story!”
“Call the mayor, somebody!” said Pop. “Tell him about it and ask him what he means to do.”
“Check,” said a cub eagerly.
“No such incident in the encyclopedia,” reported Sweeney.
“Unprecedented,” said Pop. “Lawson and Frankie! You two get cameras and rush downtown to be on hand in case any other big
buildings exit. Copy boy!”
And the second story was on its way to Composing. And still nobody remembered Caulborn.
Pop went back to the window, but the Empire State was just as invisible as ever.
“Columbia says mass hypnotism or hysteria,” said a girl.
“Get their statement,” said Pop.
“Got it.”
“Dress it up and shoot it down.”
“Check.”
Pop walked around his desk. Again he reached for his cigarette case and was again annoyed to find it gone. He lighted up, frowning over new angles, one eye hopefully on the phone.
“Find out how many people are usually in the Empire State,” said Pop.
“Check,” said a reporter, grabbing a phone.
“Don’t try to call the Empire State!” said Pop. “It isn’t there!”
The reporter looked silly and changed his call to the home of a director of the Empire State.
Certain that the story would keep breaking, Pop was not at all surprised when Frankie called.
“Pop! This’s Frankie. Pennsylvania Station’s gone!”
“Penn— Full of people?”
“And trains and everything!” cried Frankie. “There’s nothing there but a hole in the ground. I was lucky, about a block away and saw it happen! You said big so I figured Pennsylvania—”
“The story!”
“Well, there was a kind of rumble and then, all of a sudden, the station seemed to cave into itself and it was gone!”
“Statements!”
“A little guy in a swallowtail coat almost knocked me down running away. He was scared to death. Everybody was trying to get away. And right on the corner one of our boys was shouting our first extra. The whole building just disappeared, that’s all. People, trains, everything. You ought to see the hole in the ground—”
“Get statements and rush your pictures back here. Don’t be a damned photographer all your life.”
“Okay, Pop.”
“Pennsylvania Station,” yelped Pop. “Tim, get this for rewrite. About five minutes ago, Pennsylvania Station disappeared—people, trains, everything. There’s nothing but a hole in the ground. There was a rumble and then the thing vanished. Seemed to cave into itself but there is no debris. It’s gone. All gone.”