Читать книгу The Man Who Bought Mars - John Russell Fearn - Страница 3
Оглавление(Writing as POLTON CROSS)
Hal Bailey bought Mars although it seemed worthless. But then he slept for a century and a half ...
FANTASTIC ADVENTURES
VOL. 3, NO. 4
June, 1941
"Centuries have passed, and you now own Mars," they told Hal Bailey when he awoke, "but it's worthless." Then why did they want to buy it?
"Two-hundred dollar stake in a planet that's as dry as a textbook! Are you crazy, buddy?" Hal Bailey shook his head at the question.
"Nope, I'm not crazy; no telling when Mars might pay dividends. Just make out the claim and give me a receipt. I'm just back from a trip out there, and even red sand will sell at a price."
"Not in 1970, pal. Still, it's your funeral."
Hal took the receipt handed to him, smiled gravely as he left the Space Corporation Building. People glanced at him curiously as he walked along. He knew he looked odd, attired in rough, dirty space slacks, a lump of gray mineral rock under one arm. His face was masked in its good humored cleanness by a bristling stubble. He looked, and felt, all washed up from his personal trip in an old space can as far as Mars and back.
Anyway, it had been worth it. Something queer about the rock he had found. Emanations. Probably valuable to the authorities. And his two-hundred dollar stake on the ocher planet secured things.
He nodded as he thought his deal over—then all of a sudden every thought was dashed and blinded out of his brain by a terrific blow on the head—He pitched into a darkness blacker than space.
Hal stirred uneasily, conscious of awakening life. It was a queer sensation, quite unlike a normal awakening from stupor. It was more like gradual recovery from cramp in which his limbs merged from leaden uselessness into warmth and feeling. Threaded through his mind was the fading memory of wandering afar off; a conviction that he had accomplished much while yet being unaware of doing it—
He opened his eyes abruptly and gazed mystifiedly about him.
Hospital? Possibly. Morgue? No, sir! Cemetery—? But no; there were men's faces watching him—earnest and respectful faces. There were six. Hal's eyes went round a room of immense proportions scattered with endless, non-paned ceiling-floor windows. Light—light and more light. It poured in on him from everywhere.
What he saw through the windows made him awaken thoroughly, and with it came a certain fear. New York, as he had known it anyway, had gone! In its place reposed a metropolis of breath-taking size rearing into the blue summer sky. Skyscrapers, bridges, street cars, radio towers, aircraft—As far as the eye could see.
"Holy cats!" he gasped suddenly, rising up. "What happened—?"
He stopped, looking down at himself self-consciously. He was dressed in a light smock which covered him from head to toe. He realized now that he had been lying on a bed of vacuum cushions, electrically heated from below. His body felt saggy from disuse. He was shaved, however, his hair was brushed, and his nails manicured.
"This," said one of the men gravely, looking at Hal with piercing gray eyes, "is indeed a momentous day! Helgis"—he glanced at one of the other men—"inform the Publicity Bureau."
Hal watched the man go, then moistened his lips.
"Say, what goes on?" he asked uneasily. "How'd I get here? Who was the guy that socked me out in the street?"
"Socked you? Oh—you mean your assailant of long ago? I am afraid we have no idea...."
"No idea?" Hal looked more worried than ever. "And what do you mean by 'long ago?' How long have I been unconscious anyway?"
The man with gray eyes looked at his companions momentarily, then as they nodded he answered gravely:
"One hundred and fifty years. We had no idea when you would wake up—if at all. It became clear long ago that a curious pathological condition was—"
"Damn the pathology!" Hal exploded, scrambling off the bed. "You said a hundred and fifty years! You don't mean it! You can't mean it! Why dammit, it only feels like an hour ago—"
He stopped, breathing hard. He stood passive as an unemotional servant threw a robe about him.
"This," said the man with gray eyes, "is the year 2120, and you, Excellent Friend, have been the medical wonder of the past years. As record has it you were attacked in 1970 and taken to the hospital with a fractured skull. From there, your condition being one of slight body movement without actual recovery of consciousness, you were taken to the Medical Wing of the State Museum. Through the years, as your wealth was used by State trustees, you became the especial care of principal medicoes in this residence. We have eagerly awaited your return to consciousness, have spent our lives studying you. The day has come ... My name, Excellent Friend, is Nilicot."
Hal stared for a while, then rubbed his head. "You—you said something about wealth?"
"Yes, Excellent Friend. At a rough estimate you are worth some hundred million croni—dollars as you used to call them. Your other possessions include half of this city, the planet Mars—Is something the matter?" Nilicot broke off anxiously, as Hal staggered.
"No—no." Hal sat down on the bed again with a thud. "I'm just kinda dizzy.... I'd like something to eat and drink."
"Of course! Forgive my lack of attention ..."
Nilicot turned to the wall and pressed a variety of buttons. Trays guided on radio beams shot through the wall's unseen hatches and came to rest in mid air at the level of Hal's lap. There they remained. With bulging eyes he stared down at the perfect food awaiting him—then with a hopeless shrug he picked up knife and fork and started.
Suddenly one of the men in the group, a bulldog-faced man in a tight blue one-piece suit went into detail. His voice and brain were like those of a robot for accuracy.
"In 1970 you staked a claim with the Space Corporation for a strip of territory on Mars encompassing Cynia Oasis. You became unconscious before you could make good your claim, thereby establishing a precedent in law because you were neither dead nor alive and your claim still held good. By the law of progressive land interest holdings your claim doubled in three years. Experts viewed Mars and decided it was of no particular value to us ... In a hundred years your claim entitled you to three quarters of the planet. Now ..." The man took a deep breath. "Now, Excellent Friend, you own Mars!"
Hal looked up and smiled weakly.
"Think of that! Is there anything else?"
"Decidedly. Your space machine was found and disposed of by the State. The auctioned money was placed in the bank for you in the form of investments. The investments realized enormous sums after the Scientific War of 2050 and it ended as you are today, with ownership of half this city and a bank account of some hundred million croni. You are a wealthy man, Excellent Friend—wealthy even for this age of finance incarnate."
"Yeah ... seems I am." Hal got slowly to his feet, went to the window. "And when I got laid out I was a no account space-hogger. I've got the wealth—but I've lost everything, gentlemen! I've lost the girl I was going to marry, my friends, my ideals, everything. I have been pitchforked into an incredible world way ahead of me ..."
He fell silent, staring out on the gigantic enigma of the city.
"You will accustom yourself," said the bulldog financier gravely. "If I can help you at any time my name is Dagnam. I'm Treasurer for the City."
"Thanks. I'll remember that ..." Hal looked at the others. "I just recall something. When I was laid out I was carrying a chunk of mineral rock. Anybody know what became of it?"
"Mineral rock?" repeated Nilicot. "From where?"
"From—That doesn't matter," Hal said briefly. "I want to know if there's any record of it having been used? Any record of the theft?"
"Not that we know of," Nilicot said.
Hal compressed his lips. Then he asked:
"Just why did I go into a trance for one hundred and fifty years? Anybody know?"
"You have confounded medical science. The blow dulled your brain and yet did not kill you. It was as though you moved into some other Time-continuum—"
"And that's the best explanation you advanced scientists have to offer?" Hal demanded.
The men shrugged and glanced at each other. Financier Dagnam said softly:
"Decidedly!"
Hal shrugged.
"Okay, I'll have to accept it—until I know better, anyway. Seems to me I've a lot to catch up on ..."
It took Hal some time to even begin to adjust himself to the altered, advanced conditions. The city seemed to work like clock-work. Everything he wanted in this immense residence was there for him. Servants without end passed silently up and down the long marble corridors of the place. Robot controls were everywhere; teleplates brought the world to his side.
At first it was amusing, thrilling, staggering—by turns. But Hal Bailey was no mug and the vital issues of his interrupted life insisted on being dealt with. On the seventh day he summoned an astronomical expert.
"Of just how much value is Mars?" Hal asked the man.
"Of no value at all, Excellent Friend. The pity is that you staked your claim on a planet since proven so useless to science. You own it of course; by law nobody can touch it—but State examinations on your behalf have shown it has no useful mineral or other yields. Its only value lies in it being useful as a refueling station for long distance space flights."
"Would you suggest," Hal asked slowly, "that I sell Mars?"
The astronomer shrugged.
"Why not? A planet of red dust is no use to you. The Government would make you an offer. If that does not come up to expectations try the city control—Dagnam is the Treasurer."
"Okay ... Thanks."
Hal sat in thought for a while, face grim—then he pressed a teleplate button. The Secretary of State appeared on the mirror.
Hal said, "Mr. Secretary, Mars is in the market for sale. What is the Government offer?"
"For the past twenty-five years it has remained at one thousand croni—"
"What! A thousand smackers for a whole planet? And of huge value as a fuel station—"
"That is the figure," said the Secretary implacably. "I am only the mouthpiece of the State, Excellent Friend. I am not in a position to enforce you to—"
"You bet you're not!" Hal switched off, pressed another button. Bulldog-faced Dagnam merged in view.
"Ah, Excellent Friend, good morning! I—"
"Listen, Dagnam, if I decide to sell Mars to the city what's the price?"
"Basic figure of forty fifty thousand croni, open to adjustment."
"Hm-m...." Hal's eyes gleamed. "Well, thanks. I'll do some hard thinking...."
He switched off, thought out loud. "If Dagnam will pay that and the Government won't it looks as though Dagnam is responsible for whatever jiggery-pokery is going on behind the scenes. So Mars is not valuable, eh? That's what they think! Seems to me I can't do better than go and look that real estate over a little more thoroughly. I might find something."
