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Roy Glashan's Library
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Based on an antique oil painting
Fantastic Adventures, January 1945,
with "Freddie Funk's Forest Forge"
THE afternoon was cloudy, but Freddie Funk's outlook on life was very bright. With Dora the forgetful elephant out of his life, Freddie was enjoying a quiet ride in the Des Plaines Forest Preserve. He was assisted by a small mare with a brown belly and white face. The mare seemed gentle enough, but her untroubled outlook on life was not to last.
FREDDIE and his horse had just passed a large clump of bushes
near the river when the mare whinnied, her ears flattened back
and she broke into a frightened gallop.
Freddie grasped the reins firmly, took a deep breath and held on.
"Whoa," he shouted, but it became obvious the mare had no intention of "whoaing."
"Cut it out," Freddie begged, bouncing up and down on an already tender portion of his anatomy. This appeal had no effect on the mare. She passed swiftly under a low-hanging limb and Freddie Funk found himself sitting in a mud puddle.
The horse with the white face seemed satisfied. She came to an abrupt halt several yards beyond Funk and turned with a puzzled expression in her limpid brown eyes. Freddie found the edge of the mud puddle, crawled to higher ground and stood up. He was badly splashed.
He limped toward the horse, then saw the reason for her fright. She had thrown a shoe. Something had frightened her as she passed that clump of bushes. The shoe, badly bent, had worked loose and lay near the edge of the bridle path.
Freddie picked it up and stared along the path. No one in sight. It was at least two miles in either direction to anything resembling civilization. Aside from all this, Freddie Funk was angry. Someone or something hidden in those bushes had frightened his horse and ruined a swell afternoon. That wasn't all that was ruined. He stared down at a mud-splashed riding outfit.
"Damn," he said, then in a louder voice, "Damn!"
He started limping back along the path toward the bushes. The mare looked after him longingly and started to limp behind Freddie. They reached the bushes and Freddie pushed his way into them, parting the branches with both hands. His eyes widened.
He was in a small opening concealed by heavy trees. In the open glade Freddie saw a small hut. Outside the hut was an old-fashioned blacksmith's forge complete with bellows. At one side he noticed a large anvil, hammer and a pile of charcoal.
Funk had never seen an anvil before, but he had seen pictures of them. And of mighty smiths pounding and shaping shoes out of white-hot metal.
Now his horse needed a shoe. The one he held in his hand was bent out of shape. Give him fire, the hammer and a few mighty blows? Anyhow, a few blows, and he could make a horseshoe as good as new. Maybe better.
Freddie tied the mare to a tree on the far side of the path. Then he entered the glade. The charcoal was dry. He heaped a pile of it in the forge, touched a match to the dry wood that lay underneath and started to pump gently on the bellows. The fire went out twice, then caught and at last the forge was hot.
Freddie placed the horseshoe in the center of the flame and put the tongs where they would be handy. He went to where the mare was tied and stared her in the eye.
"I hope you're ready to cooperate," he said warningly.
The mare showed no sign of understanding. Freddie untied her and led her through the bushes into the glade.
CLANG.
Freddie Funk's heart thumped loudly. The sound of a huge hammer hitting against steel stopped him in his tracks. He let go of the mare's reins and stared.
A HUGE man stood over the anvil.
He was dressed in a scarred, blackened leather apron that hung from his waist to his knees. His muscled, hairy legs were bare. His arms and torso were black and sweaty. He had a pleasant face, with blond hair that hung in ringlets atop his ahead and circled his chin in a heavy beard. As Freddie watched, the hammer dropped again, hit the half-circle of hot metal and straightened it out perfectly. The giant, perhaps seven feet tall, held the shoe up in his tongs, stared at it with a satisfied frown and then caught sight of Freddie.
"Hoa!" he said in a voice that resembled fading thunder. "Two wallops and she's good as new."
"Where-where did you come from?" Freddie stuttered.
The giant grinned, dropped the shoe on the ground and put the tongs on the anvil.
"Just thought I'd limber up a little," he said. "Bring that horse over here and we'll fix her up in a jiffy."
Freddie started to respond, then remembered that the smith had suddenly come from nowhere; that he had just materialized from thin air. Freddie hesitated.
"You weren't here a minute ago," he said.
The giant laughed.
"No?"
"No!" Freddie said.
The smith chuckled.
"You brought me here," he said.
"I—" Freddie gulped. "Oh—no I didn't. I had nothing to do...."
"But you did," the stranger insisted. "Come over here where we can't be seen and I'll tell you about it."
Freddie led the mare forward and tied her to the anvil. He backed away a safe distance. The giant bent down and lifted the mare's hoof. He placed the shoe against it and started to spit nails from his mouth. As he did so, he pounded them into the hoof. Then he dropped the horse's leg and stood up.
"Good as new," he said. "A little out of my line, but not the kind of work that will degrade me."
"Thanks," Freddie managed. "But...."
"Vulcan," The giant pushed out a hairy hand. "They call me the god of fire and destruction—of industry and whatnot. I've been trying to get a look at civilization for some time."
Freddie sidled close and accepted the hand. He winced as the smith shook it and dropped it again like a dead fish.
"Funk," Freddie stuttered. "Freddie Funk. Glad to meet you."
Vulcan frowned.
"I wish you hadn't done that," he said, shaking his head.
"What?" Freddie asked.
"Given me your first name. Now I have to tell you mine and I'm not very proud of it."
"But you don't have to," Freddie protested. "Really you don't."
Vulcan blinked. His face turned very red.
"Common courtesy," he mumbled. "But I still wish you hadn't. I'm christened Mulciber. Ain't that a hell of a handle for a god? Mulciber Vulcan. I'd like to ring Augustus' neck."
"Why don't you?" Freddie asked, not knowing who Augustus might be. "I'm sure you could."
Mulciber Vulcan snickered.
"You don't get around much, do you? Augustus was a Roman. He's been dead for centuries.
"Oh!" Freddie felt foolish.
HE was getting quite accustomed to meeting odd people. There
was a time when the name of Mulciber Vulcan might have thrown him
into a violent nightmare of dread. Now that life had tossed him
into destiny's path so many times, the god Vulcan wasn't much of
a shock to his nervous system. Freddie could take his gods or
leave them alone. Besides, Vulcan had fixed the shoe. He owed him
something for that.
"You probably wonder how I got here?" Vulcan asked.
"Maybe you walked," Freddie said. "I don't see a car or anything."
Vulcan roared with laughter.
"Say, you're a great joker, ain't you. Think I could drive a car here from Olympus?"
Freddie thought that over.
"Maybe not," he said, wondering what the correct answer should be.
"I'll say," Vulcan agreed. "No, it's a long story, but I'll make it short. I been wanting to come down here for a while. What with a war on, I'd like to play around with fire a little. It seems that Mars, the god of war, dropped into Germany last month and Hitler gave him a hot-foot. We got to talking it over and I decided to get it back on Hitler. The Boss said that if I could get someone to light the forge, I could come down. Magic power of fire, and all that. Kinda deep for me to explain."
"I know," Freddie nodded, understanding. "So I lit the fire and here you are."
Vulcan seemed puzzled.
"Say," he said. "You're all right. I thought I'd scare the daylights out of everyone. You ain't scared?"
Freddie Funk thought of Dora, the elephant, and the seven-league boots.
"I've got accustomed to things, pretty much."
"You sure have," Mulciber Vulcan admitted. "But, say, now that I'm here, how about showing me around."
"Every time I start showing people around," Freddie said, "I get into trouble. Are you sure you want to see what's going on? All the war there is in Chicago is in the armament factories."
Vulcan nodded his head enthusiastically.
"That's it," he said. "Armament. That's where they make war weapons. I ain't bad on a forge and anvil," he added modestly. "Thought I might like to look at some of them armaments and make some myself. The guys who are fighting Hitler could use them, couldn't they?"
Freddie hated to hurt Vulcan's feelings. The big guy was corny and he sure didn't understand that he was up against a world of precision instruments. Well, perhaps if he just took him around? After Vulcan saw a few machine guns, cannons and so forth, he'd probably clear out.
"I guess I could get us into a factory," Freddie admitted. "What do you make on that anvil?"
Vulcan's chest swelled suddenly. He was himself again.
"Plowshares," he said proudly. "Plowshares and swords. The best swords in the world."
Freddie caught his breath.
"We—we got almost enough plowshares now," he said. "And about swords, they're usually used for dress, but not for fighting. Things have changed a lot, you know," he added, afraid he might hurt Vulcan's feelings.
Vulcan didn't hurt that easily.
"I'd still like to see those factories," he said. "We gods haven't been around much lately, but we still got a few aces in the hole."
THE manager of Powerful, Inc., hated to let Freddie Funk and
his big companion beyond the gates. The big gent looked like a
farmer from southern Illinois, but you can't be too sure, when
there's a war on. Powerful, Inc., made guns, and Axis agents were
everywhere. However, Freddie's pass was signed by the Mayor of
Chicago. It must be the real thing. After one of the staff had
placed a phone call to the Mayor, a guide was assigned to Funk.
Mulciber Vulcan drew Freddie aside as they waited in the main
office.
"Say," he said in a low voice. "I been thinking. They made out my name on that pass as M. Vulcan. You ain't gonna' tell them it's Mulciber, are you?"
Freddie shook his head. "It's our secret," he said. Mulciber looked relieved. "You're a real friend," he said. "I won't forget it."
Powerful, Inc., was a vast factory, housed under miles of glass roof. Men and women, thousands of them, manufactured and assembled cannons, anti-aircraft guns, machine guns, rifles and small ammunition. Certain rooms were so well hidden that the two visitors were not allowed near them. The guide made sure that both M. Vulcan and Freddie Funk were kept some distance from the completed machinery.
Vulcan's eyes were wide before he had seen half of the factory.
"Say," he said. "You boys don't fool. I didn't know wars were like this. I been watching the big furnaces and those torches that throw flames. I didn't know wars were like this. I never had anything like that when I was in active business."
Freddie nodded.
"I suppose you've given up the idea of producing these instruments on the anvil?"
Vulcan chuckled.
"We'll see," he said. "We'll see. I got contacts that may help out."
Everything might have gone well if Vulcan, in his curiosity, had not decided that a blue print or two might help him in his future work. Freddie had already explained that the blueprints near some of the machines showed how certain machines were placed together. Vulcan, unseen by Freddie, managed to fill the pockets of the cheap suit Freddie had bought for him with several of these interesting papers. If the guide noticed it, he said nothing. Everything went smoothly until the pair were once more ushered into the main office.
The manager, a short dark faced man with practically no eyebrows was waiting when they came in. With him were three husky guards and two city policemen.
"A nice trip, Mr. Funk?" the manager asked.
Freddie nodded, his eyes on the police,
"Ye-yes," he stammered. "We—that is—I enjoyed it very much."
The manager's face turned several shades darker. His eyes narrowed.
"That is fine, Mr. Funk," he said sarcastically. "The guide phoned me from the plant that during the trip your friend enjoyed himself also. Indeed, so much so, that...."
Three armed guards jumped forward, pinning Vulcan's arms behind him.
"He put them," the guide shouted, "in his pockets!"
THE office was in an uproar. The police closed in on Funk. As
he watched, the manager whipped out a handful of blueprints from
Vulcan's pocket.
"I'll blast the whole bunch of you," Vulcan shouted.
"Don't do anything," Freddie pleaded. "They'll shoot...."
Vulcan struggled for a moment, then a quiet grin came over his face.
"You might as well let me and my friend go," he said. "You can't do anything about it."
When they were both locked in the city jail. Vulcan sat on the edge of the hard cot, staring around the tiny cell.
"Humans are funny," he said, "locking us in this funny little box."
"Yes." Freddie rocked his head gently from side to side.
There was no hilarity in his voice or his expression.
"Four walls do not a prison make, but with bars, that's different. That's the trouble with gods and things. They can't understand how we live. Suppose you can't be held in, and I'm not so sure you can't. Some time you'll be leaving me. Then I'll take the rap for both of us."
Vulcan looked hurt. He stood up and walked to the door. He tested the bars with his finger tips. Then he turned.
"Funk," he asked in a kind voice. "Do you think I'd leave you in trouble?"
Freddie looked up. He caught the genuine, honest expression of the big smith's face and smiled sadly.
"Mulciber," he said, and Vulcan winced.
"Not that," he begged. "Not—not that name again."
Freddie shook his head.
"Okay," he agreed. "Then—Vulcan, what's going to happen? If we get out, where can we go? I'm only human. Now, don't suggest that I go with you. That's just the trouble, we humans have to stay where we belong. What chance have we got against the law? They think we're spies. They'll follow us and we'll get locked up until they're tired of me. Then I'll get shot."
"You'll get along all right," Vulcan said. "Stick with me. I'm leaving here right now."
"In broad daylight?" Freddie sprang to his feet. "You can't get out. If you could, they'd shoot us both before we got a hundred yards."
Vulcan chuckled.
"Oh, would they? We'll see."
He grabbed a handful of iron bars and started to pull. The bars turned cherry red in his grasp and fell apart. Vulcan bent the ends down until a large hole was left in the center.
"Out you go," he said and pushed Freddie Funk out into the long hall.
Immediately a howl went up from prisoners in the other cells.
"There's a break!"
"Call John Law!"
"Hey, what the heck, get us out of here too!"
"Hey, copper, they's a jail break!"
The last voice was a shout. It resounded up and down the hall. From the front of a station a door clanged and two guards rushed into the hall with pistols drawn.
Freddie, behind Vulcan now, took a deep breath and kept on running.
"They'll shoot us," he howled.
Vulcan held a mighty arm ahead of him.
Fire shot from his finger tips, crackled like lightning, a jagged, white bolt knocked the two policemen over. Silence fell over the cells as though everyone had suddenly fallen asleep.
Vulcan turned to Freddie.
"Let us out of here," he said calmly. "I've had enough of this foolishness. I'll have a lightning bolt ready if you get into trouble."
Freddie gulped. He held a newborn respect for Mulciber Vulcan. Gods weren't to be toyed with once their temper was hot. He hadn't met a god before. He'd have to be more careful.
"Yes, Mulc.... Yes, Vulcan," he stammered and led the way out of the police station.
SERGEANT JOHN COX of the Chicago Police Department hesitated
as Inspector Wilson shouted to him, then leaned once more over
the phone. Cox had been on the trail of two escaped prisoners all
day. He was tired. For a minute only Inspector Wilson's voice
could be heard in the stillness of the office.
"Yes! Good Lord, you can't mean it? No. Impossible. But... but...?"
Then Wilson's voice took on a new steadiness.
"You are serious. All right, sir. Yes, sir, at once. We'll get every man out. Plan B? Yes sir, depend on us."
Wilson dropped the phone, then ran his hand along a row of buttons on the wall near his desk. The top of the chart was lettered, "Air Raid—Plan B."
Sergeant Cox's eyes widened. He stepped close to Wilson's desk. Wilson turned, evidently waiting for the various stations to get his signal. He drew a mike close to his lips, then looked at Cox.
"An honest-to-God air raid. German bombers. They've been watching for hours, wondering which way the flight would go after it hit the coast. Came in over Newfoundland and it's headed straight for Chicago."
Cox's jaw dropped.
"You're kidding...."
Wilson swore.
"The hell of it is, I'm not. Not an aircraft gun in the Loop. A bunch of wardens and that's all. They report two hundred long-range bombers. Flying high. Hell will be...."
Wilson nodded. "The board's clear. They're all waiting."
Wilson pressed a button on the mike and took a deep breath.
"Inspector Wilson speaking from Headquarters. This signal system has been used for drills. Now we have the real thing. Don't take this as a joke. You know Plan B. Throw it into action at once. There's a real air raid on the way. Get those patrol cars out and the sirens going. Get stretchers, first-aid squads. If anyone refuses to douse their light, put a shot through their windows. If they won't get off the street, drag them off. This isn't a tea party. It's the McCoy. Start moving. This board will stay open. New reports will be flashed...."
Wilson turned to Sergeant Cox.
"Didn't find the spies, huh?"
Cox shook his head.
"Trailed them to Des Plaines. They lost themselves in the woods along the river. Planned to send a squad of men out...."
Wilson shook his head impatiently.
"Can't spare 'em," he said. "You handle this sector. See that civilians are treated decently, but if wardens have any trouble, tell the boys to use their sticks. A lot of people will think this is a joke. It isn't!"
In a distance sirens started to scream. Wilson listened.
A low hum, like a base chord on a piano, sounded to the north.
He turned a shade paler.
"On second thought, I don't think they will think it's a joke. That sounds like business."
"Yes sir," Cox grabbed his coat and hurried out.
Searchlights were criss-crossing the sky above the Loop. Air-raid wardens were dashing around, white hats easily seen in the moonlight. Civilians, wondering what was going on, were arguing among themselves. They didn't argue long. Cops and wardens went to work. In five minutes, men and women were flocking into open doors. Chicago was in for its first pounding from the sky.
FREDDIE FUNK turned over, felt the hard ground under him and
sat up. He was in the hut near the river. In a distance he could
hear a dull, pounding noise, as though someone were hitting the
earth with a huge hammer. His head ached. Freddie stood up,
stretched stiffly and looked at his wrist-watch. He had been
asleep for several hours. It was close to eleven in the evening.
He had dropped off right after he and Vulcan managed to escape
the police at four oclock. Freddie had slept ever since.
He wondered about the distant noise and went outside the hut. Vulcan was leaning over the anvil. The anvil, the tongs and Vulcan's hammer were glowing and hot. The force sent out a terrific heat that made the whole glade unbearable. Vulcan himself, black with soot, pounded savagely at a huge chunk of cooling metal that he had almost finished shaping.
"What's that noise?" Freddie asked, then realized that Vulcan was so busy he couldn't have heard. He approached the smith and touched his arm.
Vulcan dropped the piece of steel and turned, wiping sweat from his face.
"That's that," he said. "I've made a hundred of them. Not bad, either."
Freddie stared at the cooling metal. It was a perfectly tooled barrel for a big gun. The barrel was about eight feet long and had an opening about four inches in circumference. Freddie's jaw dropped.
"You—made that?"
Vulcan frowned.
"And why not? Just as easy as a plowshare."
"But—the metal—the machining?"
"Easy," Vulcan said. "God's have power, haven't they? Then why not use it?"
Freddie hadn't thought of that. Then, listening instantly, he heard that pounding noise again.
"That sound?" he asked. "You can hear it?"
Vulcan nodded.
"I can drown it out," he said and lifted his hammer.
"No—listen—how long has it been going on?"
Vulcan looked puzzled.
"About five minutes," he said. "It don't bother me much. I been busy."
Something about the continued, dull crumping sound troubled Funk. Then, as though an electric light suddenly went on in his brain, he knew what it was. He had heard the same thing in the movies, the sound of a town being bombed.
"Bombers," he said, then frowned uncertainly. It couldn't be that. This was Chicago. No bombers over Chicago. But why not? It wasn't impossible.
"Vulcan," he said. "The highest tree. You've got to help me get into it. I need a look at Chicago."
Vulcan grinned.
"From a distance," he agreed. "You'd better not go close. We just left there."
They looked around, found a high elm and Vulcan gave him a boost into the lower limbs. Funk scurried aloft, found a branch that grew high above the forest and climbed carefully out on it. A terrible scene met his eyes.
The sky was criss-crossed with searchlights that managed to pin down tiny spots of black, only to lose them again as the planes roared away. The city was a glowing cherry red. Sections of it were in flames.
Overhead the searchlights continued to work back and forth. There must be dozens of bombers. Occasionally a small charge exploded in the sky as though a few small guns were firing from the ground.
FUNK tore his trousers almost off getting to the ground. He
was breathless.
"It's Chicago," he shouted. "It's being bombed."
Vulcan had returned to his anvil. He was pounding contentedly.
"Hunh?"
"Mulciber," Freddie howled. "Chicago is being bombed!"
Vulcan dropped his hammer angrily.
"I told you not to use that name," he said darkly.
"I had to get your attention. What are we gonna do? It's the Axis—Hitler, the guy who gave your friend Mars the hot-foot. He's dropping bombs on Chicago."
"Bombs?" Vulcan asked. "Say, are you or ain't you gonna call me Mulciber?"
Freddie groaned.
"Look, Vulcan," he pleaded. "Sit down, will you? Sit down here on the ground and we're going to have a talk."
Mulciber Vulcan sat down cross-legged. He leaned a shaggy chin on his palm, elbow on one knee and listened patiently. Freddie talked fast, trying to make his point clear.
At last Mulciber sprang to his feet. An angry roar escaped his lips.
"Hitler," he howled. "We'll give his bombers a hot-foot."
Freddie grinned, wondering how, but questioning nothing.
"If Hitler ever saw you, he'd call you Mulciber—Mulciber—Mulciber," Freddie yelled. "You gotta do something."
Vulcan looked desperate.
"That name," he shouted. "How I hate it. I'll kill Hitler dead. I'll take him home and pickle him in olive oil."
He started running around the forge, trying to collect his wits. Then he stopped short, staring down at the barrel of the gun he had just finished. He looked at Freddie and grinned.
"I'm a damn fool," he said. "I get excited. Why didn't I think of that?"
He bent over, picked up the big barrel in one arm and started toward the woods.
"You lay down on the ground and put your fingers in your ears," he shouted. "I'll take care of Chicago."
Freddie flopped on the ground. He knew Vulcan's power. He didn't want to dispute it. Mulciber Vulcan was plenty mad.
Freddie Funk lay very still for about three minutes. Chicago was taking a hell of a beating. The raid had been in progress for about fifteen minutes. The planes were good for another hour if they were big bombers. They must be big, Freddie thought, to come so far.
SPLUTTER—CRACK-CRACKLE—WHAAAM.
THE earth around Freddie Funk suddenly seemed to hump up like
a seething volcano, shudder under the force of a terrific blow,
then settle again slowly. The world went upside-down and Freddie
crouched close to the dirt, watching a terrible white sheet of
flame that arose all around him, flinging itself into the sky.
The night turned bright as day. Then, strangely silent, the world
was normal again. Normal that is until Freddie gained courage to
turn over on his back and stare about him. The woods were gone.
Only the stumps of a few trees blackened by fire remained.
Stranger yet were the line on line of cannon that he could see in
the direction Vulcan had disappeared. He stared, but believed his
eyes.
Vulcan, a triumphant grin on his face, trotted toward Freddie. Behind him there were at last a hundred cannons. Then Freddie understood. Every one of those cannons had the same type of barrel that Vulcan had been forging when he awakened. The god of fire had been busy all evening. He remembered what cannons looked like. He must have added a few features of his own.
Vulcan strode toward Funk and Funk stood up weakly. Vulcan grasped Freddie's hand.
"I think Chicago is safe now," he said. "Funny, I made lightning-cannons all afternoon, then I almost forgot to use them."
"Lightning-cannons?" Freddie felt suddenly limp. "You mean all that fire, that noise...?"
Vulcan nodded.
"I been fixing to put this Hitler out of business," he admitted. "Your cannons are all right, but just add a little button-trigger and stuff the firing box with lightning. It's a great stunt. One barrage and there isn't a bomber left in the sky."
Freddie stared toward the city. There wasn't a tree standing to disturb his view. Chicago was silent. The spot lights had winked out. The sound of bombs was gone. He wondered what everyone thought when the forest preserve at Des Plaines suddenly belched enough lightning to knock hundreds of bombers out of the sky. He turned to Vulcan with wild, frightened eyes.
"Those cannons," he said breathlessly. "We got to hide them. When the cops catch us...."
Vulcan grunted.
"They wouldn't be mad if they know we're on their side, would they?"
Freddie caught his breath, then he realized what Vulcan had done. With a battery of cannons like this—why—they'd knock the Axis for a row of....
"Mulciber," he whispered fervently. "Mulciber, you're wonderful."
A delighted grin spread over Vulcan's face.
"No fooling, you really think so?" Then he frowned.
"That name," he howled. "You promised not to use it."
IN the early daylight the rows of lightning cannons looked
very impressive. They were all facing the city, their slim
barrels glistening in the sun. Freddie Funk, hair combed neatly,
walked up and down along the row of weapons, whistling Yankee
Doodle. He felt fine. Vulcan had departed. In Vulcan's apron
the god of fire carried a note book filled with names and
addresses.
Freddie Funk carefully prepared that list of names, and his agent, Mulciber Vulcan was on his way to carry out Funk's instructions.
Freddie felt like a successful general. All he had to do now was wait. He patted the barrel of one of his cannons, proudly rubbing the cold steel.
Over the bridge, about a mile away on the main highway he thought he saw a jeep. Sure enough, another jeep crossed the bridge, then a couple of army trucks. They turned and came down the dirt road toward Freddie.
Freddie was getting nervous. Another car turned off, then another. He could see a couple of machine guns shining on top of the trucks.
The first jeep came into view, turned away from the road and stopped fifty feet away. Soldiers, bayonets fixed, jumped out and came toward him, toward Funk. They stopped about six feet away, stared in blank amazement at the long row of cannons, then stiffened. They saluted. Freddie returned the salute. A stout, middle-aged general approached Freddie.
"What company is this?" the general asked sternly.
Freddie blushed.
"Mine."
The general bristled.
"I'll have none of your lip, lad. I'm General Sullivan of Fort Sheridan.
"We are well aware that the concentrated firing of this concealed battery saved the city of Chicago last night. Now, go for your officers. I want to talk with them. Where in hell all this came from, I don't understand."
He hesitated, taking another look at the heavy guns.
Freddie waited until the general turned again.
"Well," Sullivan said, "your officers?"
"The guns are mine," Freddie said.
He was getting angry. Perhaps he was only an honorably discharged corporal, but the guns were his and Vulcan's and they had saved Chicago.
The general smiled.
"Now look, man, I'm not here to quarrel. That job last night was a wonderful thing. Would that I could claim such credit. Chicago would have been a mess if it hadn't been for these guns. You can't stand there and tell me that you fired them alone."
"That's what I'm saying," Freddie answered stubbornly.
The general turned and greeted a half-dozen more officers who had come up in a staff car. He explained the situation in a low voice. Finally the group faced Freddie. A dozen jeeps were nearby, soldiers at attention. Tanks, trucks, were all in sight.
"Suppose," one of the officers suggested in a smug voice, "that this general what's-his-name shows us how he fired that battery of guns. Also, where he got his ammunition and how he handled it? This is one of the craziest jokes I've ever had to stand by and listen to...."
Funk was mad. Fighting mad. He didn't blame them for misunderstanding, but they hadn't even made an attempt to be friendly.
"Maybe you'd like an exhibition?" he asked in a sarcastic voice.
GENERAL SULLIVAN turned red. "Maybe we would," he said
shortly. "In fact, we demand an explanation at once."
Freddie Funk had been waiting for that.
"Have you got an old jeep you don't need?" he asked.
The general looked doubtful, but the smart officer who had put in his two cents was waiting for three cents change.
"Go ahead, Sullivan," he said. "Sacrifice a jeep. This civilian couldn't fire a cannon if he had the ammunition."
Sullivan grinned wickedly.
"And where will you have the jeep, sir?"
Freddie remained solemn.
"Drive it up against that river bank," he said. "There's a solid clay bank about fifty yards high over there."
Sullivan motioned to one of the soldiers. The kid jumped into the jeep, drove it quickly into the water and up on the far side of the river. It was almost hidden close to the high clay bank.
"Now," Freddie said, "you'd better get your staff behind the cannons and lay down on the ground."
Sullivan chuckled.
"We'll stay where we are," he said.
Freddie shook his head uncertainly. He turned and walked over to the first cannon. Vulcan had given him careful instructions. At the firing end of the first cannon there was a small metal box. A lever on top of the box controlled the firing positions of all the guns. He sat down on a cushioned, revolving chair and turned the lever. One hundred gun barrels turned and pointed at Sullivan. The general swore and started to run. His staff followed him. None of them stopped until they were well behind Freddie.
"Don't you do that again!" Sullivan howled.
Freddie noticed that the officers were gathered in a little group.
He heard them talking among themselves.
"But ammunition?" one of them said in a nervous voice. "He can control them automatically, but he can't load and fire . . ."
Freddie pressed the firing button.
SPLUTTER—CRACK—WHAAAM.
The entire line of cannons suddenly erupted white hot fire. The soldiers and officers went down like ten-pins. Freddie himself, well protected in the spring-slung chair that Vulcan had constructed, felt himself thrown back. He bounced up and down on the powerful springs.
He was looking at the spot where the jeep had been. The river itself went up like a geyser. The clay bank disappeared as though a huge plow had suddenly pushed it back three hundred yards. The jeep? It wasn't. The river settled back into its bed and flowed evenly once more. Clay started to fall out of the sky. The hole where the clay bank had been, filled with water. The river formed a deep lake.
General Sullivan lifted his head cautiously and took a look around. His eyes fastened on the lake the guns had blasted, then shifted to Freddie Funk.
Freddie smiled.
"You—you did that?" Sullivan asked, his mouth hanging open very loosely.
Freddie nodded.
"After this," he said sternly, "the army will ask no more questions. Where these guns are made is a secret so precious that even the army cannot know. How they are loaded is my secret. I'll deliver them free of charge to the fighting front. My agent is already on his way to Italy to prepare for the invasion. You ask no questions and you get all the guns you need with instructions to fire them. Is that clear?"
Freddie had never delivered a speech like that in his life. He wondered what the answer would be.
GENERAL SULLIVAN took a deep breath.
"Now I know you. You're name is Funk, isn't it? Corporal Funk of Camp Blitz. The man who saved the invasion plans?"
"Yes sir," he said.
Sullivan grasped his hand.
"I thought I remembered you, Funk. It was that picture of you, taken when the President presented you with the Congressional Medal of Honor. Funk, you'll get a basketful of medals for this."
"Yes sir," Freddie said uncertainly. "And you'll see that the army keeps its promise?"
Sullivan turned and surveyed his companions with stern eyes.
"You men will keep your mouths shut and your eyes open after this, understand."
Freddie chuckled.
"All because of a hot-foot from Hitler," he said.
"What's that?"
Freddie was thinking of Mulciber Vulcan.
"Forget that too," he said. "Now, if you'll get some trucks, we'll load these guns."
"Yes sir," General Sullivan answered respectfully.
GENERAL FREDDIE FUNK swivelled around from his desk in the big
office at Fort Sheridan. An orderly stood at the door, an
envelope in his hand. He saluted General Funk respectfully.
"Another message from your agent. This time it's from Australia," the orderly said. "Came a few moments ago."
General Funk took the message, turned to his desk and opened it.
"Dear Freddie," Mulciber Vulcan wrote, "I've been to all them places you told me to go. There are a thousand lightning-cannons in Africa. Also a thousand in the places mentioned below."
Then a long list of cities and countries that Freddie had already heard from. Italy, France, England, Alaska. He scanned the list hurriedly then read on:
"I'm getting pretty tired of making these things, and I guess the hot-foot Hitler gave Mars is pretty well taken care of. I'm going to Manila next and that's the last place on the list. I'll take a crack at Tokio just before I leave for Olympus. Maybe you didn't know I used to be called Volcanus. That was another one of them names Augustus stuck on me, cuss him. I think I just use my Volcanus power, open up Mount Fujiyama and spray Japan with lava. That should be an easy way to kill off the Japs. Meanwhile, a thousand lightning-cannons for Manila and I'll be seeing you one of these days. Thanks for everything.
"P.S. Remember, keep that name Mulciber to yourself."
General Funk burned the letter carefully and went back to
work. He was busy writing a note of instructions to the American
garrison at Manila.
Two weeks passed before a reply came from Manila. Freddie read it with a suspicion of moisture in his eyes.
"We've got the cannons," the dispatch read, "and they are fine. Knocked hell out of a flight of Jap bombers last night and will go into plenty of action when the boys get the hang of that fancy firing dingus. One thing we wish to mention. With the cannon, delivered F.O.B. this camp, were about a hundred new plowshares and about six dozen old fashioned swords. We have no use for the plowshares and swords. They must have been meant for some other destination. Haven't seen anything like them since our visit to the museum. Please wire instructions for their disposal...."
Freddie turned the dispatch face down on his desk. He took out a handkerchief and started dabbing his eyes. He looked out the window and across the drill grounds, but his vision was badly blurred.
"Poor old Mulciber," he said to himself. "Couldn't resist putting in a little of his old handiwork. Gee, it's gonna be kinda lonesome...."
A sharp knock at the door interrupted Freddie's dreaming. He wiped the tears away from his eyes hurriedly and turned.
"Come in."
The orderly entered, waving a cablegram excitedly in his hand.
"It's from the Pacific," he said. "My God sir, Tokio's done for, and without a shot fired."
He passed the cable to Freddie who looked at it with mixed emotions.
S.S. WASHINGTON SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC DECEMBER 7, 1944
OBSERVERS FROM THIS SHIP REPORTED THAT MOUNT FUJIYAMA ERUPTED TODAY STOP LAVA FLOW CONVERGED DIRECTLY ON TOKIO STOP CIVILIANS IN HURRIED FLIGHT STOP CITY DOOMED
Freddie read the cable over twice, then looked up to see the orderly waiting patiently.
"It's wonderful news, isn't it sir?"
Freddie nodded.
"Blame it all on Mulciber," he said dreamily. "Mulciber Vulcan, the guy who was mad at Hitler about a hot-foot."
The orderly looked blank.
"Yes sir," he said, and turned away with his mouth open. "Yes sir, at once sir."
He made a dash toward the hall.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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