LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY
She stared, almost breathless. "How wonderful!" she said.
"In every major insurrection for the past thirty years," he assured her complacently.
"That must make you—let's see—" she mused.
"Thirty years, did I say?" he quickly interposed. "I meant twenty. In case you were wondering, I'm just thirty-two years old." He tweaked his clipped, military moustache.
"Then you were in your first at—"
"Twelve. Twelve and a half, really. Shall we go somewhere for a cup of coffee, Miss—er—ah—?"
"McSweeney," she said, and added demurely, "but my friends all call me Spike."
"China? Dear me, yes! I was with the Eighth Route Army during the celebrated long trek from Annam to Szechuan Province. And I shouldn't call it boasting to admit that without me—"
Miss Spike McSweeney appeared to be hanging on his every word.
"Have you ever," she asked, "done any technical work?"
"Engineering? Line of communication? Spike, we fighters leave that to thègreaseballs,' as they are called in most armies. I admit that I fly a combat fighter as well as the next—assuming that he's pretty good—but as far as the engine goes, I let that take care if itself. Why do you ask?"
"Lieutenant," she said earnestly, "I think I ought to tell you what all this mess is about."
"Dear lady," he said gallantly, "the soldier does not question his orders."
"Anyway," said Miss McSweeney, "I need your help. It's a plot—a big one. A kind of revolution. You probably know more about them than I do, but this one seems to be the dirtiest trick that was ever contemplated."
"How big is it?" asked Battle, lighting a cigarette.
"Would you mind not smoking?" asked the girl hastily, shrinking away from the flame. "Thanks. How big is it? World-scale. A world revolution.
Not from the Right, not from the Left, but, as near as I can make out, from Above."
"How's that?" asked Battle, startled.
"The leader is what you'd call a scientist-puritan, I guess. His name's Breen—Dr. Malachi Breen, formerly of every important university and lab in the world. And now he's got his own revolution all planned out.
It's for a world without smoking, drinking, swearing, arguing, dancing, movies, music, rich foods, steam heat—all those things."
"Crackpot!" commented the lieutenant.
She stared at him grimly. "You wouldn't think so if you knew him," said Spike. "I'll tell you what I know. I went to work for him as a stenographer. He has a dummy concern with offices in Rockefeller Plaza and a factory in New Jersey. He's supposed to be manufacturing Pot-O-Klutch, a device to hold pots on the stove in case of an earthquake. With that as a front, he goes on with his planning. He's building machines of some kind in his plant—and with his science and his ambition, once he springs his plans, the world will be at his feet!"
"The field of action," said Battle thoughtfully, "would be New Jersey principally. Now, you want me to break this insurrection?
"Of course!" agonized the girl. "As soon as I found out what it really was, I hurried to escape. But I knew I was being followed by his creatures!"
"Exactly," said Battle. "Now, what's in this for me?"
"I don't understand. You mean—?"
"Money," said Battle. "The quartermaster's getting shorthanded. Say twenty thousand?"
The girl only stared. "I haven't any money," she finally gasped. "I thought—"
"You thought I was a dilettante?" asked Battle. "Dear lady, my terms are fifty percent cash, remainder conditional on the success of the campaign. I'm sorry I can't help you—"
"Look out!" screamed the girl. Battle spun around and ducked under the table as a bomb crashed through the window of the coffee shop and exploded in his face.
"Open your eyes, damn you!" growled a voice.
"Stephen—the profanity—" objected another voice mildly.
"Sorry, Doc. Wake, friend! The sun is high."
Battle came to with a start and saw a roast-beef face glowering into his.
He felt for his weapons. They were all in place. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Ah," said the second voice gently. "Our convert has arisen. On your feet, Michael."
"My name is Battle," said the lieutenant. "J. C. Battle. My card."
"Henceforth you shall be known as Michael, the Destroying Angel," said the second voice. "It's the same name, really."
Battle looked around him. He was in a kind of factory, dim and vacant except for himself and the two who had spoken. They wore pure white military uniforms; one was a tough boy, obviously. It hurt Battle to see how clumsily he carried his guns. The bulges were plainly obvious through his jacket and under his shoulder. The other either wore his more skillfully or wasn't heeled at all. That seemed likely, for his gentle blue eyes carried not a trace of violence, and his rumpled, pure white hair was scholarly and innocent.
"Will you introduce yourselves?" asked the lieutenant calmly.
"Steve Haglund, outta Chi," said the tough.
"Malachi Breen, manufacturer of Pot-O-Klutch and temporal director of Sweetness and Light, the new world revolution," said the old man.
"Ah," said. Battle, sizing them up. "What happened to Miss McSweeney?" he asked abruptly, remembering.
"She is in good hands," said Breen. "Rest easy on her account, Michael.
You have work to do."
"Like what?" asked the lieutenant.
"Trigger work," said Haglund. "Can you shoot straight?"
In answer there roared out three flat crashes, and Battle stood with his smoking police special in his hand. As he reloaded he said, "Get yourself a new lathe, Dr. Breen. And if you'll look to see how close together the bullets were—"
The old man puttered over to Battle's target. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "A poker chip would cover them." His manner grew relatively brisk and businesslike. "How much do you want for the job?"
he asked. "How about a controlling factor in the world of Sweetness and Light?"
Battle smiled slowly. "I never accept a proposition like that," he said.
"Twenty thousand is my talking point for all services over a six-month period."
"Done," said Breen promptly, counting out twenty bills from an antiquated wallet. Battle pocketed them without batting an eyelash.
"Now," he said, "what's my job?"
"As you may know," said Breen, "Sweetness and Light is intended to bring into being a new world. Everybody will be happy, and absolute freedom will be the rule and not the exception. All carnal vices will be forbidden and peace will reign. Now, there happens to be an enemy of this movement at large. He thinks he has, in fact, a rival movement. It is your job to convince him that there is no way but mine. And you are at absolute liberty to use any argument you wish. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," said Battle. "What's his name?"
"Lenninger Underbottam," said Breen, grinding his teeth. "The most unprincipled faker that ever posed as a scientist and scholar throughout the long history of the world. His allegedly rival movement is called 'Devil Take the Hindmost.' The world he wishes to bring into being would be one of the most revolting excesses—all compulsory, mark you! I consider it my duty to the future to blot him out!"
His rage boiled over into a string of expletives. Then, looking properly ashamed, he apologized. "Underbottam affects me strangely and horribly. I believe that if I were left alone with him I should—I, exponent of Sweetness and Light!—resort to violence. Anyway, Lieutenant, you will find him either at his offices in the Empire State Building where the rotter cowers under the alias of the Double-Action Kettlesnatcher Manufacturing Corporation or in his upstate plant where he is busy turning out not only weapons and defenses but also his ridiculous Kettlesnatcher, a device to remove kettles from the stove in case of hurricane or typhoon."
Battle completed his notes and stowed away his memo book. "Thank you, sir," he said. "Where shall I deliver the body?"