He studied the back of the neck of the slim girl who sat ahead of him. He was glad that he was sufficiently established in his profession so that he no longer had to accept assignments involving young women. That last young woman, nearly six years ago, had made him quite ill.
The dark hair of the girl in the seat ahead of him was drawn into a tight spinster bun on the back of her neck. Walk up behind her, not so fast as to alarm her. Left hand over her mouth, quick icepick thrust just below the bun of dark hair. No fuss. No noise.
As though conscious of his gaze the girl raised a slim white hand and patted the dark hair, a gesture infinitely feminine. Jennilou Caswell was extremely bored. The Civil Service regulations were unfair. She had been more than happy to do the extra work. But-overtime had to be taken off the following week and Mr. Fincher had practically ordered her to leave the office.
Mr. Fincher acted so odd sometimes. The way he looked at her. He should know that he could never find anywhere as efficient a secretary as Jennilou Caswell. For her the words marched from the typewriter, crisp and black, with gunfire rattle. She could transcribe as fast as the man could talk.
She dressed in neat black, used the tiniest bit of makeup, kept her voice low. When she walked she set her feet down crisply and with purpose. Purpose and plan. That was what counted in life. Work to do. Work to be proud of doing well. Orderly files. Orderly checkbook. A neat little apartment, as shining as a new needle.
Jennilou Caswell slept flat on her back because she had read that it rested a person more. She scrubbed her teeth with up and down strokes, chewed each mouthful thirty times, wore plain and sensible underclothes. All men were ridiculous, except Mr. Fincher, of course. She read instructive books, went to educational films, subscribed to lofty magazines and bathed twice a day.
She felt most assured in her dark office suit with the white collar. She felt most ill at ease when, in her apartment, off guard, she noticed the somehow blatant and vulgar femininity of her body. Though she carried but a hundred and ten pounds on her five-foot-six Finch frame she wore the tightest girdles she could squeeze into.
She gave a sideways glance of annoyance at the boy who sat on the right-angle bench near the coin box and stared fixedly at her legs. Her skirt was pulled down as far as it would go. Why didn’t the dirty little creature go back and stare at that blowzy blonde? She’d probably appreciate it.
But Benny Farr had no idea of where he was staring. He was thinking of the ten-dollar bill in his watch pocket and he had a secret sense of excitement. He was fourteen. He had a thin sallow face, an adenoidal sag of lower lip and grubby hands. His grey pants were too small for him and the dark blue sweatshirt was too big.
Benjamin Farr was deeply concerned over a matter of ethics. On the previous night he and Louie Mastinson had broken into one of the big houses on the hill. The people had been away. A noise had scared them after they’d finished testing Louie’s new hunting knife on the upholstery and all they’d gotten away with was a gold watch that Benny had found in a bureau drawer.
The pawn man had given him ten bucks for it — and he was wondering if he could get away with telling Louie that he had only got five. That would mean seven fifty for him, but that brought up the problem of changing the bill. He should have changed it in Bell City or asked the pawn man to give him the money in two fives.
The bus rolled stolidly on. When Stan Weaver stopped for a light the six heads of the passengers all nodded as though they were simultaneously agreeing, without enthusiasm, to some eternal truth. McGoran’s distinguished grey head, Shirley Sanger’s blond one, the dark head of Jennilou Caswell, the aching rumpled head of Bill Dorvan, the Queen Mary hat of Mrs. Thompson, the scurfy mud-colored head of Benny Farr.
At the end of High Street the bus rolled left under the underpass, straightened out again on Lowell Boulevard. Six heads, nodding without expression. Six bodies, lax in the seats. Tangled thoughts of Jeremy, icepicks, boilermakers, dictation, brandy and a ten-dollar bill.
Off to the left, beyond the city dump, was the garbage disposal plant and beyond it the windowed roofs of Consolidated Metallurgical winked in the sun. The dark greasy river was off to the right and lining the highway were battered stucco drive-ins, waiting for night to blossom into a fantasy of neon which could not mask the smell of stale deep fat.
On the riverbank, with the beginning of the residential section of Stockland in the distance, there appeared the long white buildings of Loma Transmission Devices, a new concern. A high wire fence surrounded it. On the roof of the central building glittered vast cup-shaped objects of shining metal, looking faintly like half-finished searchlights.
Stockland Mountain was seven miles beyond Stockland. On the top of the mountain were other devices connected with Loma Transmission Devices Research Program Ten.
The cup-shaped objects on the roof of the plant were aimed at the mountain top.
Under the stimulus of a government grant the physicists of Loma had at last made a crude but practical heat engine which could draw off and utilize a shade more than forty percent of the output of the pile buried deep in the bowels of the concrete maze under the plant property. With the heat engine hooked up to the humming generators Loma had a concentrated power source that had top executives walking around on their heels, with glazed eyes and a look of poorly-concealed glee.
Program Ten was the attempt to transmit, over a short range through the air, an intense beam of electric energy without too appreciable a loss in transit.
The plant was in direct contact with the technicians on the peak of Stockland Mountain.
At the predesignated moment the full surge of power was cut over to the cup-shaped transmitter, a full thirty feet in diameter. The attendant on the roof heard the sputter of a short circuit and raced for the cutoff switch. Power was radiating from the transmitter but the short circuit super-heated one of the stanchions supporting the transmitter. It sagged with majestic slowness, turning on the weakened brace until it was aimed directly at the highway in the distance.
The attendant slapped the cutoff switch and the buzzing faded. He cursed softly and reached for the phone. He glanced toward the highway to see if the beam of force had caused damage. A few cars glittered in the distance. At the spot where the beam had pointed a blue and silver interurban bus waddled along like a tired beetle going home from a fancy-dress party.
“Yeah,” the attendant said into the phone. “I caught it in time.”
Chapter II
The Invulnerable
It was a tingle at the back of the neck, an answering tingle at the base of the spine. It was a feeling like the flutter of warm anticipation. It was a sudden heightening of all senses, an air of wellbeing, of supreme optimism. It faded but the sense of well-being seemed to cling.
Stan Weaver’s toothache faded and the meal no longer rested heavily on his stomach. The sunshine looked good. He whistled through his teeth and clutched the wheel a bit tighter. It felt surprisingly soft. He looked down and saw the plastic of the wheel oozing between his fingers. Cold sweat popped out on him.
Gingerly he edged over to the shoulder and applied the brake. He put his big foot on the brake pedal and pushed slowly down. He pushed the pedal right down through a torn hole in the metal floor and the bus jerked to a stop.
“Why are you stopping here?” the old lady demanded.
Stan Weaver was breathing hard. He made his voice casual and said, “Something wrong with the bus, folks. I’ll flag the next one along.”
It had happened to him before but before it had been trouble he could understand. He tried to smile at the bored faces of the six passengers. It wasn’t much of a smile. He grabbed the metal bar and slung the door open. The thick metal pipe bent and tore off in his hand. He stared stupidly at it and dropped it. It hit with the proper clang of metal, instead of the soft thud he had half expected.