Maxwell Grant
Charg, Monster
CHAPTER I. EYES OF THE NIGHT
“FIVE million dollars.”
The man who uttered these words was seated behind a mahogany desk. His square-jawed face was domineering. His words were raspy as they came from curling, puffy lips. His eyes — almost glaring — were focused upon the man before them.
“I am not interested, Mr. Thorne.” The reply came in a positive tone. It was voiced by the man in front of the desk — a pale, bespectacled fellow who returned Thorne’s glare in owlish fashion. Yet there was a determination in the answer that brought a scowl to Thorne’s dark features.
“You are a fool!” The man behind the desk was harsh and outspoken. “You are deliberately destroying the greatest opportunity of your life. Here in this desk” — Thorne’s heavy fist clenched and pounded the woodwork — “I hold the contract, ready for your signature. One simple word of agreement — you, Meldon Fallow, will become a millionaire.”
“Like Frederick Thorne.” There was unveiled scorn in Fallow’s reply. His eyes, too, showed a glare.
“You want to make me like yourself — another plutocrat. You want me to grind my share of profit from the weary and the oppressed. Unfortunately, Mr. Thorne, you have met the wrong man.”
THERE was silence. In this oak-paneled room that served as office in his home, Frederick Thorne, multimillionaire capitalist, was receiving a rebuke from a man whom he considered no better than a pauper. With vast wealth held as a lure, this domineering man could not shake the will of Meldon Fallow.
It was Thorne, however, who ended the pause. The millionaire’s fierce glare seemed to fade. His fist unclenched. Thorne settled back into his swivel chair, as a smile formed slowly upon his lips. Fallow watched. He suspected new strategy in the millionaire’s act.
“Let us consider this less tensely,” suggested Thorne, in a voice that showed smoothness. “You and I, Fallow, should be friends. It is prejudice which places us at odds. Your ideas, it seems, conflict with mine.”
“And always will.”
“I scarcely think so.” Thorne shook his head. “Perhaps, Fallow, our views may be more similar than one might suppose. We are both creatures of an existing economic system. Modern conditions have brought you tribulation and misfortune; to me, they have meant the acquisition of tremendous wealth. I have conformed where you have not — that is all.”
There was persuasion in Thorne’s tone. It was the same smooth system that had enabled this successful capitalist to gain his millions. Fallow knew that fact, yet he could not avoid the reasoning power of Thorne’s argument.
Frederick Thorne was rising from his desk. His height was imposing; it gave him an advantage as he gazed at a downward angle toward Meldon Fallow. Clad in tuxedo, Thorne had the appearance of a dramatic actor as he stood before the velvet curtains that covered the broad window of his paneled office. The electric lamps that illuminated the room showed the deepness of the maroon draperies that hung behind the millionaire.
“Years ago” — Thorne paused reflectively with hands behind his back — “I began a career as a financier. You, Fallow, were then beginning your work as an inventor. I have gained the ultimate in money. You have reached the zenith of creative effort.
“You seem to think that our paths have differed. In a sense, they have; but basically, they have not. Both of us — Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow— held the same ambition. We have gained it. Our ambition was success. Remember that, Fallow. Success!”
Thorne paused emphatically. For a moment, Fallow seemed fully swayed by the millionaire’s words.
Then the bespectacled man swung back to his antagonism.
“Success!” Fallow’s exclamation was scoffing. “Call success our mutual ambition. But while I toiled, while I starved, while people hooted me as a crack-brained inventor, you enjoyed luxury. You were the object of envy — a demigod in the minds of those who worshipped wealth.”
“Quite so,” agreed Thorne. “That, however, does not change the circumstances. We followed different roads, that is all. Mine was smooth and comfortable; yours was hard and trying. Nevertheless, the fact that we meet in private conference here is proof that we have both arrived at a common destination.”
Thorne was strolling forward as he spoke. The blackness behind him — the space where his body had cut off the light began to fade as he reached the desk. The maroon curtains again showed their deep red hue.
Yet a patch of darkness still remained. Fixed on the floor was a long streak of black, extending inward from the curtains. Its dark shape ended in a silhouette.
THAT projecting blackness was the token of another presence in this room. It told of hidden eyes, peering from between the junction of the curtains. Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow were not alone.
“My success has been wealth.” Thorne was speaking suavely as he seated himself at the desk. “Yours has been creation. While I have been gaining millions, you have produced the last word in scientific marvel.
“Your concentrated fuel; the mighty engine which it can drive; these will revolutionize the most vital of all modern utilities: power. Under the existing conditions of society — which we must recognize as real — your invention can be transformed to wealth.
“That is why I sent for you. It is why I insisted upon negotiations. I can offer the maximum of wealth. It is plain business — profitable to us both. I have five million dollars, ready for immediate payment. You cannot do better elsewhere.”
Perhaps it was Thorne’s tinge of satisfaction; perhaps it was his reference to money as the final basis — whatever the cause, the effect upon Fallow was electric. Instantly, the bespectacled inventor regained his former challenge. The lure of millions lost its final chance.
“Wealth!” Fallow’s words came with a sneer. “You judge all by that one term, Thorne. You are the fool — not I. You say that I cannot do better elsewhere. You are wrong. I shall do better — I have already done better.”
Fallow paused and his lips formed a triumphant smile. Again, the poor inventor was taunting the man of wealth. Fallow seemed to gloat over his ability to pass up the chance for fortune.
“Why do you want my invention?” jabbed Fallow, bitterly. “I can answer. You see a chance to make more millions. You see new masses of wealth for your bulging coffers. Through my invention you can drive other corporations out of business. Power plants will lie idle. Present machines will become obsolete. Small capitalists will be ruined.”
“What of it?” interposed Thorne, with a hard smile. “You do not like capitalists. You will kill a budding crop of them if you sell me your invention.”
“Kill them for your benefit!” retorted Fallow. “Turn them into fodder that you may fatten. Let you control a greater aggregate of wealth — you alone — than they all possess together.
“They are not the ones whom I consider. I am thinking of the workers. Thousands upon thousands of men now working in factories will be thrown out of jobs if you gain my invention. That is why you will never have it!”
With that final statement, Meldon Fallow arose. He plucked his shabby hat from the edge of Thorne’s desk. He backed away, a queer, bow-legged figure. His eyes, through the thick lenses, were those of a zealot.
“The world must progress.” Thorne was rising as he made his last insistence. “The misfortune that the masses suffer cannot be avoided. Economic conditions are adjusting themselves to meet the world’s advance. Why show folly, Fallow? This offer of which you speak — it cannot equal mine — it must also cause temporary misfortune—”
“It will bring happiness!” interrupted Fallow, as he stood with his right hand on the door knob. “A group of honest men have gained the rights to my invention. They will not exploit it. Money!” Fallow’s tone showed contempt. “The little that I need will be supplied me. The rest will go to those who deserve it — to the workers, to their superintendents, to salaried officers of honest concerns. Not one penny of profit will be gained by exploiters like yourself!”