Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack #2. William Logan

claim that this replica—obviously one of the items stolen from the Museum of Natural History—suddenly materialized here. Immediately prior to the alleged materialization a man—whose photograph we show now—ostensibly bent down to tie a shoelace, setting a shoebox beside him. He left the box, walking off into the gathering crowd, and this mastodon seemed to spring into being where the shoebox had been.

      “The mastodon replica has been examined. A report just handed me says it is definitely that from the Museum and that it could not conceivably have been contained in a shoebox. It’s obviously a case of mass hypnotism. The replica must have been trucked here. There’s no other possible explanation. Excuse me!”

      Dick Joy turned away, then back.

      “I have just been handed a notice that Mayor Cadigan wishes to say a few words and I hereby introduce him, His Honor the Mayor, Joseph F. Cadigan!”

      His balding, fragmentarily curly-haired Honor glared.

      “Friends,” he said chokingly, “whatever madman is responsible for this outrageous act will not go unpunished. I call upon the City’s Finest to track him down and bring him to justice.

      “I am for justice, for equality and peace. I—”

      His Honor was apparently determined to use all the time he could. Being a newscast, it was for free.

      I killed the stereo. And the visio rang. It was Phil Pollini, the C. I. Chief.

      “Monk,” he said, “guess you’ve seen the stereo. Al’s out to fix the Mayor’s wagon.”

      “Say that again,” I said, having a brainstorm.

      “Now, look—” he started.

      “Maybe you’ve got something there, Chief,” I cut in. “Cadigan’s got the superduper of all wagons—a seven passenger luxury limousine with bulletproof glass, stereo, a bar, venetian blinds and heaven knows what else. Hot and cold running androids, maybe. He prowls the elevated highways with an ‘In Conference’ sign flashing over the windshield. So’s he can’t be wire-tapped or miked, I guess. It’d be a natch for Al Benson to go for.”

      Pollini grinned.

      “So if you were Benson what’d you do to fix the Mayor’s wagon?”

      “Hitch it to a star,” I said, “and the closest spot to a star would be the observation platform of the Greater Empire State.”

      “You’re probably right,” the Chief said. “Get going!”

      I got.

      Ten minutes later I walked out onto the observation platform on the 150th floor of the Greater Empire State Building—and found an incredulous crowd gathered around the mayor’s limousine. I felt good. I’d predicted.

      I asked a guard, “How’d it get here?”

      His eyebrows were threatening a back somersault.

      “Don’t know,” he said. “I was looking over the side; then turned around and here it was! You have any ideas?”

      Which is when I spotted Al Benson.

      I settled for shoving Benson toward the elevator, being careful since he had a box under each arm. We made the elevator and went down and it stopped on the 120th floor and the operator said, “Change here for all lower floors and the street—”

      As we waited on the 120th for the down elevator, the P. A. system barked:

      “Attention all building occupants. By order of the Mayor no one will be permitted to leave the building until further notice. Please remain where you are. We will try not to inconvenience you for any great time.”

      There was no one close to us.

      “Al,” I said, “look, stinker, you’ve had your fun but this is it. I don’t know what you’ve got in those boxes but you’ve got to turn them over—and yourself—to the next copper who shows. This is a civil matter, strictly local, and not C. I.”

      Benson grinned. “Got to make a delivery first, Monk. Look, there’s a potray over there. Can I use it?”

      His grin was infectious. “So what are you going to send where?” I asked as sternly as I could.

      “The Mayor’s personal files,” he said. “I managed to carry them out of City Hall—once they’d been suitably wrapped, of course! I’m sending them to the Senate Investigation Committee. Don’t worry, Monk, His Honor won’t be President this or any year!”

      I helped him dial the SIC number.

      “What about the other package?” I asked him then.

      “Insurance,” he said. “Come out on the setback.”

      He placed the last package on the mosaic tile of the terrace, untied its string, flipped open the edge of the Benson wrapping and jumped back.

      It was an NYC police helicopter.

      We potrayed it back from the Sands. Suitably wrapped, of course.

      That was a month ago. Most of it never came out in the papers. Nothing of Benson’s invention. C. I. thought it should be squelched, at least until Benson and the boys get back from Mars.

      Which would be the end except for the packages. Yes, Benson left a gross of them with me and I’ve been mailing them one a day to the leaders of the opposition party. I don’t truly know what’s in them, of course. But it’s very curious that the day before the torchship left exactly one hundred and forty-four cylinders of hydrogen sulphide were missing from quartermaster stores. Coincidentally one of my C. I. friends tells me Benson had him rig up a gross of automatic releases for gas cylinders.

      Adding it up, it could be a good lesson for politicians to keep their noses out of science.

      The Instant of Now

      by Irving E. Cox, Jr.

       One of the most intriguing of all science fiction patterns is that of the galactic sweep—the story which takes for granted human travel between stars at speeds far faster than the speed of light. In its most successful form, such a story combines cosmic action with a wholly human plot. In this case Mr. Cox—but read it yourself.

       Revolution is not necessarily a noble thing. Unless shrewdly directed, its best elements may fall victim to its basest impulses.

      Eddie Dirrul had destroyed the message seconds after reading it. Yet, as he left the pneumotube from the University, he felt as if it were burning a hole in his pocket. It had come to him from Paul Sorgel, the new top-agent from the Planet Vinin. It had been written in High Vininese.

      For a moment the alien language had slowed Eddie’s reaction to its contents, as had the shocking nature of its words. It had read—

       Need your help. Glenna and Hurd in brush with Secret Police—both hurt. Come at once.

      Luckily old Dr. Kramer had asked no awkward questions when Eddie excused himself from the balance of the lecture. If the kindly bumbling professor had been inquisitive, Eddie had no idea how he would have answered. Glenna was his fiancée, Hurd his best friend—and their disaster meant disaster for the underground movement that had become the guiding purpose of his entire life.

      The night was still young when he emerged from the pneumotube and the slanting ramp-lines of windows in the massive unit-blocks of the Workers’ Suburb rose about him within the darkness of the structural frames that encased them.

      Parks, recreation centers and gaudy amusement halls were aswirl with the usual evening crowds. With a sort of angry heedlessness Eddie forced his way among tall perpetually-youthful men in bright leisure clothing—and consciously alluring women clad in filmy garments as teasingly transparent as mist.

      Glenna