Classic Audiobook Collection - The Ambulance Made Two Trips by Murray Leinster ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: March 7, 2023

The Ambulance Made Two Trips by Murray Leinster audiobook. Genre: scifi In a town where racketeer Big Jake Connors seems untouchable, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald has learned to live with frustration. Witnesses clam up, judges get leaned on, and every honest cop knows the score: Connors takes over businesses by intimidation and bribery, and the law arrives just in time to pick up the pieces. Then something changes. After a small dry-cleaning shop refuses Connors' so-called protection, the usual pattern of threats and violence starts to misfire. Guns go off at the wrong moment, cars crash in unlikely ways, and would-be enforcers end up injured by accidents that feel less like chance and more like sabotage by the universe itself. Fitzgerald follows the trail to Brink, the calm new man behind the cleaners, who hints at a secret advantage: a strange psi device that can tilt probability and turn deliberate harm into humiliating mishaps. As Fitzgerald weighs duty against disbelief, he must decide whether to fight corruption with ordinary procedure or with an edge that no court would ever understand. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:17:25) Chapter 2 (00:33:46) Chapter 3 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

the ambulance made two trips by murray lindster part one detective sergeant fitzgerald found a package before his door that morning along with the milk he took it inside and opened it it was a remarkably fine meersham pipe such as the sergeant had longed irrationally to own for many years there was no message with it nor any card he swore bitter On his way to headquarters he stopped in at the orphanage where he usually left such gifts. On other occasions he had left scotch, a fly-rod, sets of very expensive dry flies, and dozens of pairs of silk socks. The female head of the orphanage accepted the gift with gratitude. I don't suppose, said Fitzgerald morbidly, that any of your kids will smoke this pipe, but I want to be rid of it and for somebody to know.

He paused. Are you getting many other gifts on this order from other cops like you used to? The head of the orphanage admitted that the total had dropped off. Fitzgerald went on his way, brooding. He'd been getting anonymous gifts like this ever since Big Jake Connors moved into town with bright ideas. Big Jake denied that he was the generous party. He expressed complete ignorance, but Detective's Sergeant Fitzgerald knew better. The gifts were having their effect upon the force.

There was a police lieutenant whose wife had received a minked stole out of thin air and didn't speak to her husband for ten days when he gave it to the community drive. He wouldn't do a thing like that again. There was another sergeant, not Fitzgerald, who'd found a set of four new whitewerell. white-wall tires on his doorstep, and was ostracized by his teenage offspring when he turned them into the police lost and found. Fitzgerald gave his gifts to the orphanage with a fine disregard of their inappropriateness. But he gloomily suspected that a great many of his friends were weakening.

The presents weren't bribes. Big Jake not only didn't ask acknowledgments of them, he denied that he was the giver. But inevitably, the recipients of bounty with the morning milk felt less indignation about what Big Jake was doing and wasn't getting caught at. At headquarters, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald found a memo. A memo was routine, but the contents of this one were remarkable. He scowled at it. He made phone calls, checking up on the more unlikely parts of it.

Then he went to make the regular investigation. When he reached his destination, he found it an unpretentious frame building with a sign outside, elite cleaners, and dyers. There were no plate-glass windows. There was nothing show-off about it. It was just a medium-sized, modestly up-to-date establishment, to which lesser tailoring shops would send work for wholesale treatment. From some place in the back, puffs of steam shot out at irregular intervals.

Somebody worked a steampresser on garment. of one sort or another. There was a rumbling hum as of an oversized washing machine and operation. All seemed tranquil. The detective went to the door. Inside there was that peculiar professional cleaning fluid smell, which is not as alarming as gasoline or carbon tetrachloride, but nevertheless discourages the idea of striking a match. In the outer office, a man wrote placidly on one blue paper strip after another. He had an air of pleasant self-confidence. He glanced up briefly, nodded,

wrote on three more blue paper strips, and then gathered them all up and put them in a particular place. He turned to Fitzgerald. Well, Fitzgerald showed his shield. The man behind the counter nodded again. My name's Fitzgerald, grunted the detective, the boss. Me, said the man behind the counter. He was cordial.

My name's Brink. You've got something you talk to me about? That's the idea, said Fitzgerald. A couple of questions. Brink jerked his thumb toward a door. Come in the other office. Chairs there and we can sit down. What's the trouble?

A complaint of some kind? He ushered Fitzgerald in before him. The detective found himself scowling. He'd have felt better with a different kind of man to ask questions of, this brink looked untroubled and confident it didn't fit the situation the inner office looked equally matter of fact no there was a shelf with the usual books of reference on textiles and such items as a cleaner and dire might need to have on hand But there were some others. Basic principles of Psy, modern psychokinetic theories. There was a small, mostly plastic machine on another shelf.

It had no obvious function. It looked as if it had some unguessable but rarely used purpose. There was dust on it. What's the complaint? repeated Brink. Hmm, a cigar? No, said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. I'll light my pipe.

He did, extracting tobacco and a pipe that was by no means a meerschaum from his pocket. He puffed and said, A guy who works for you caught himself on fire this morning. It happened on a bus. Very peculiar. The guy's name was Jakaro. Bink did not look surprised. What happened?

It's kind of a strange thing, said Fitzgerald. According to the report, he's riding this bus reading his paper, when all of a sudden he yells and jumps up. His pants are on fire. He gets him off fast and chucks him out the bus window. He's blistered some, but not serious. And he clams up, but good when the ambulance dock puts salve on him. He won't say a word about what happened, or how. They had a call on ambulance, because he couldn't go hunting a dock with no pants on. But he's not badly burned? asked Brink. No. Blisters, yes.

Scared? Yes, and mad as hell. But he'll get along. It's too bad. We pinched him three times on suspicion of arson, but we couldn't make it stick. Something ought to happen to make that guy stop playing with matches. Only, this wasn't matches. I'm glad he's only a little bit scorched, said Brink. He considered—did he say anything about his eyelids twitching this morning? I don't suppose he would. The detective stared. He didn't. Say, aren't you curious about how he came to catch on fire?

Or what his pants smelled of that burned so urgent? Or where he expected burning to start instead of his pants? Brink thought it over. Then he shook his head. No, I don't think I'm curious. The detective looked at him long and hard. Okay. He said, Dowery.

But there's something else. Day before yesterday there was a car accident opposite here, remember? I wasn't here at the time, said Brink. There's a car rolling along the street outside, said the detective. There's some hoods in it, guys who do dirty work for big Jake Connors. I can't prove a thing. But it looks like they had ideas about this place. About thirty yards up the street a sawed-off shotgun goes off.

off, very peculiar. It sends a load of buckshot through a side window of your place." Brink said with an air of surprise, "'Oh, that must have been what broke the window.' "'Yeah,' said Fitzgerald. But the interesting thing is that the flash of the shotgun burned all the hair off the head of the guy that was doing the driving. Didn't scratch him, just scorched his hair off. It scared him, silly.' Brink grinned faintly, but he said pleasantly,

"'Tisk, tisk, tisk.' He jams down the accelerator and rams the telephone pole, Pursuit Fitzgerald. There's four hoods in that car, remember? And every one of them's got a police record you could paper a house with. And they've got four sawed-off shotguns and a tommy gun in the back seat. They're all laid out cold when the cops arrive. I was wondering about the window, said Prylough.

Brink pensively. It puzzles you, eh? demanded the detective, ironically. Could you have figured it out that they were going to shoot up your plant to scare the people who work for you, so they'll quit? Did you make a guess they intended to drive you out of business like they did the guide that had this place before you? That's an interesting theory, said Brink, encouragingly.

Detective Fitzgerald nodded. There's one more thing, he said, formidably. You got a delivery truck. You keep it in a garage back yonder. Yesterday you sent it to a garage for inspection of brakes and lights and such. Yes, said Brink. I did. It's not back yet.

They were busy. They'll call me when it's ready. Fitzgerald snorted. They'll call you when the bomb squad gets through checking it. When the guys at the garage lifted the hood, they started running. Then they hollered copper. there was a bomb in there. Brink seemed to try to look surprised. He only looked interested. Two sticks are dynamite, the detective told him grimly. Wired up to go off when your driver turned on the ignition.

He did, but it didn't. But we got a police force in this town. We know there's racketeering being practiced. We know there's crooked stuff going on. We even got mighty good ideas. Who's doing it? But we ain't been able to get anything on anybody. Not yet. Nobody's been willing to talk so far, but you— The telephone rang stridently. Brink looked at the instrument and shrugged. He answered.

Hello? No, Mr. Chikaro isn't in today. He didn't come to work. On the way downtown, his pants caught on fire. But Jarrell guessed that the voice at the other end of the line said, What? In an explosive manner. Brink said, matter-of-factly, I said his pants caught on fire.

It was probably something he was bringing here to burn the plant down with, a fire-bomb. I don't think he's to blame that it went off early. He probably started out with the worst possible intentions, but something happened. He listened and said, But he didn't chicken. He couldn't come to work and plant a fire-bomb to set fire to the place. I know it must be upsetting to have things like that automobile accident. in my truck not blowing up, and now Giacaro's pants instead of my business going up in

flames. But I told you— He stopped and listened. Once he grinned. "'Wait,' he said after a moment. He covered the transmitter and turned to Fitzgerald. What hospital is Giacaro in?' Fitzgerald said sourly.

He wasn't burned bad, just blistered. They lent him some pants and he went home cussing. Thanks, said Brink. He uncovered the transmitter. He went home, he told the instrument. You can ask him about it. In a way I'm sure it wasn't his fault. I'm quite sure his eyelids twitched when he started out.

I think the men who drove the car the other day had twitching eyelids, too. You should ask— The detective heard muted noises, as if a man shouted into a transmitter somewhere. Brink said briskly, "'No, I don't see any reason to change my mind. No, I know it was luck, if you want to put it that way, but—' No, I wouldn't advise that. Please take my advice about when your eyelids twitches.'

Fitzgerald heard the crash of the receiver, hung up at some distant place. Brink rubbed his ear. He turned back. "'Hm,' he said, "'your pipe's gone out?' It was. Sergeant Fitzgerald puffed ineffectually. Brink reached out his finger and tapped the bowl of the detective's pipe. Instantly, fragrant smoke filled the detective's mouth.

He sputtered. Now, where were we? asked Brink. Who was that? demanded Fitzgerald ferociously. That was Big Jake Connors. You may be right, Brink told him. He's never exactly given me his name. He just calls up every so often and talks nonsense. What sort of nonsense?

he wants to be a partner in this business said brink without emotion he's been saying that things will happen to it otherwise i don't believe it anyhow nothing's happened so far detective sergeant fitzgerald tried at one in the same time to roar and to swallow he accomplished neither he put his finger in the bowl of his pipe he jerked it out scorched look he said almost hoarsely i was telling you when the phone rang we got a police force here in town that's what we've been trying to get you come along with me to head-quarters and swear to a complaint Brink said, interestingly, why? That big Jake Connors, raged the detective. That's why. Trying to threaten you and to give him a share of your business. Trying to burn it down or blow it up when you won't.

He was just a small-town crook once. He went to the big town and came back with ideas. He's using him. Brink looked at him expectantly. He started a beer business, said the detective bitterly. Simultaneous other beer dealers started having trouble. Empty keg smashed, trucks broke down, drivers in fights. They had to go out of business.

What did the cops do? asked Brink. They listened to their wives, snarled Fitzgerald. They began to find little grab-bag packages in the mail and with the milk. Fancy perfume, tricky stockens. Fancy underwear they should have been ashamed for any. anybody to know they had it on underneath. The cops weren't bribed, but their wives light opened in the door of a morning and finding charming little surprises. Ah, said Brink. Then there were jute-boxes, went on the detective. He went in that business, and trouble started.

People to drive up to a beer joint go in, get it in a scuffle and bingo. The jute-box smashed. Always the jute-box. Always an out-of-town customer. Half the jute-boxes in town weren't working on an average, but the ones that were working were always big jakes. Presently he had the jute-box business to himself. Brink nodded somehow appreciatively. Then it was cabs, said Fitzgerald. A lot of cops felt bad about that, but their wives wouldn't be happy if anything happened to dear Mr. Big Jake to deny that he gave anybody anything, so it was all right to use that lovely perfume. Cabs got holes in their radiators, they got sand in their oral systems. They had blowouts and leaks and break fluid lines.

Cop's wives were afraid Big Jake would get caught. But he didn't. He started insuring cabs against that kind of accident. Now every can't. driver pays protection money for what they call insurance or else. And cops' wives get up early, bright-eyed, to see what Santa Claus left with the milk. You seem, said Brink with a grin, to hint that this big Jake is, well, dishonest. End of Part 1. Part 2 of The Ambulance Made Two Trips by Murray Lister. Libra Box recording is in the public domain.

Part 2. Dishonest! Fitzgerald's face was purplish, from many memories of wrongs. There was a guy named Burdock who owned this business before you. You know what happened to him? Yes, said Brink. He's my brother-in-law. Connors are somebody insisted on having a share of the business

and threatened dreadful things if he didn't. He didn't. So acid got spilled on clothes. clothes, machinery got smashed. Once a whole delivery truckload of clothes disappeared, and my brother-in-law had to pay for any number of suits and dresses. It got him down. He's recovering from the nervous strain now, and my sister asked me to help out. So I offered to take over. He warned me I'd have the same trouble. "'And you've got it!' fumed the detective.

"'But anyhow you'll make a complaint. We'll get out some warrants, then we'll we'll have something to go on. But nothing's happened to complain about, said Brink quite reasonably. One broken window's not worth a fuss. But something's going to happen, insisted the detective. That guy Big Jake is poison. He's taken over the whole town, bit by bit. You've been lucky so far.

But your luck could run out. Trink shook his head. No, he said, matter of factly. I'm grateful to you, Mr. Fiddell. it's Gerald, but I have a special kind of luck. I won't tell you about it because you wouldn't believe, but I can give you some of it. If you don't mind, I will. He went to the slightly dusty, partly plastic machine.

On its shelf were some parts of metal and some of transparent plastic, and some grayish, granular substance it was hard to identify. There was an elaborate diagram of something like an electronic circuit inside. but it might have been a molecular diagram from organic chemistry brink made an adjustment and pressed firmly on a special part of the machine which did not yield at all then he took a slip of plastic out of a slot in the bottom you can call this a good luck charm he said pleasantly or a talisman actually it's a psionic unit one like it works very well for me anyhow there's no harm in it just one thing If your eyelids start to twitch, you'll be headed for danger or trouble or something unpleasant. So if they do twitch, stop and be very, very careful. Please.

He handed the bit of plastic to Fitzgerald, who took it without conscious volition. Then Brink said briskly, if there isn't anything else— You won't swear out a warrant against Big Jake, demanded Fitzgerald bitterly. I haven't any reason to, said Brink amiably. I'm doing all right. He hasn't harmed me. I don't think he will. Okay, said the detective, bitterly.

Have it your way. But he's got it in for you, and he's going to keep trying until he gets you. And whether you like it or not, you're going to have some police protection as soon as I can set it up. He stamped out of the cleaning and drying plant. Automatically he put the bit of plastic in his pocket. He didn't know why. He got into his car and drove down. downtown. As he drove, he looked suspiciously at his pipe. He fumed. As he fumed, he swore.

He did not like mysteries. But there was no mystery about his dislike for Big Jake Connors. He turned aside from the direct route to headquarters to indulge it. He drove to a hospital where four out-of-town hoods had been carried two days before. He marched inside and up to a second floor, corridor door, with a uniform policeman seated outside it. "'Hm. Donnelly,' he growled. "'How about those guys?' "'Not so good,' said the patrolman. "'They're getting better.'

"'They would,' growled Fitzgerald. "'A lawyer's been up to see him twice,' said the policeman. "'He's coming back after lunch.' "'He would,' wanted the detective. "'They went out,' said the cop. "'I'm not surprised,' said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. He went into the sick room. There were four patients in it, none of them looking exactly like gentle invalids.

There were two broken noses of long-ago dates, three cauliflower ears, and one scar of a kind that is not the result of playing lawn tennis. Two were visibly bandaged and the other's adhesive taped. All of them looked at Fitzgerald without cardiality. Well, well, well, he said, you fellows. still here. There was silence. In Union there is strength, said Fitzgerald. As long as you stay in one room, everybody sure the others haven't started ratten, right? One of the four snarled silently at him. It was just an accident, pursued the detective.

You four guys are riding along, peaceable, merrily taking the air, when quite inadvertently one of you almost blows the head off of another, and he's so astonished at there being a gun in the car that he wrecks it. And when they get you guys in the hospital, there ain't one of you knows anything about four sought-off shotguns and a tommy-gun in the car with you. Strange, strange, strange. Four faces regarded him with impassive dislike. The bandage ones were prettier than the ones that weren't. That Tommy Gun business, explained Fitzgerald, is a federal affair. It's against Fed law to carry him around loaded.

And your friend, Big Jake, hasn't been leaving presence on the White House steps. You know, you guys could be in trouble. Three pairs of eyes and an odd one, the other was hidden under a bandage, stared at him stonily. You see, explained Fitzgerald. old again. Big Jake slipped up. He hasn't realized it yet. It's my little secret. A week ago, I thought he had me lit. But something happened, and today I felt like I had to come around and congratulate you, fellas. You got a break. You're going to have free board and lodging for years to come.

I wanted to be the first to tell you. He beamed at them, and then went out. Outside his experience, expression changed. He said bitterly to the cop at the door, I bet they'd beat this ramp. He went downstairs and out of the hospital. He started around the building to his car. His eyelid twitched. It twitched again, began to quiver and flutter continuously. But Jarrell stopped short to rub the offending eye. There was a crash. A heavy glass water pitcher hit the cement walk immediately before him. It broke into a million pieces. He glared up.

The pitcher would have hit him if it hadn't been for a twitching eyelid that had brought him to a stop. The window of the room he just left was open, but there was no way to prove that a patient had gotten out of bed to heave the pitcher, and it had been broken into too many pieces to offer fingerprint evidence. Ha! said Fitzgerald morosely. They're plenty confident. He went to headquarters. There were more memos for his attention. One was just in.

A cab had crossed the sidewalk and crashed into a plate-glass window. Its hydraulic brakes had failed. The trouble was a clean saw-cut in a pressure line. Fitzgerald went to find out about it. The cab driver bitterly refused to answer any questions. He wouldn't even admit that he was not insured by Big Jake against such accidents. Fitzgerald stormed. The owner-driver firmly and gloomily

refused to answer a question about whether he'd been threatened if he didn't pay protection money. Fitzgerald raged on the sidewalk beside the cab and the act of being extracted from the plate-glass window. An open-mouthed bystander listened admiringly to his language. Then the detective's eyelid twitched. It twitched again violently. Something made him look up.

An employee of the plate-glass company—there were rumors that Big Jake was interesting himself in the plate-glass insurance beside cabs, wrenched loose a certain spot. Rich Gerald grabbed the bystander and leaped. There was a musical crash behind him. A tall section of the shattered glass fell exactly where he had been standing. It could have been pure accident. On the other hand— He couldn't prove anything, but he had a queer feeling as he left the scene of the crash.

Back in his own car, he felt chilly. Driving away presently, he felt his eyelid tentatively. He wasn't a nervous man. Ordinarily his eyelids didn't twitch. He went to investigate a second memo. It was a restaurant, and he edged the police car gingerly into a lane beside the building. In the rear the odor of spilled beer filled the air. It would have been attractive, but for an admixture of gasoline fumes and the fact that it was mud.

Mud whose moisture content is spill beer has a peculiar smell all its own. He got out of his car and gloomily asked the questions the memo call for. He didn't need to. He could have written down all the answers in advance. The restaurant, now reporting vandalism, had found Big Jake's brand of beer unpopular. It had twenty cases of a superior brew brought in by motor truck. It was stacked in a small building behind the cafe. For one happy evening the customers chose their own beer.

Now, next day, there were eighteen cases of smashed beer bottles. The crime had been committed in the small hours. there were no clues. The restaurant proprietor, unconvincingly declared that he had no idea who'd cost it, but he'd only notified the police so he could collect insurance, not for Big Jake. With a sort of morbid, frustrated gloom, Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald made the necessary notes. He put his notebook in his pocket and backed his car out of the alley. Oddly enough, he thought of a.

a beautifully carved Meersham pipe he'd found with the milk that morning. He'd presented it to an orphanage mainly because, irrationally, he'd have light to keep it. There had been other expensive gifts he'd have light to keep. Bourbon, a set of expensive dry flies, an eight-millimeter movie camera, scotch, shiny, smooth silk socks that would have soothed his weary feet. He'd denied himself these gifts because he believed he knew that they came from Big Jake, who tactfully won friends and influenced people by making presents and denying it. In business matters he was stern, because that was the way to collect protection money,

but he was subtle with cops. He had their wives on his side. Sergeant Fitzgerald growled in his throat. He'd always wanted a really fine Mir-sham pipe. He'd had one this morning, and he'd had to get rid of it because it came from Big Jake. He felt that Big Jake had robbed him of it. He turned the police car and drove back toward the elite cleaners and Dyer's establishment. As he drove, he growled. His eyelid had twitched twice, and each time he'd been heading into danger or trouble.

The fact was dauntingly coincidental with Brink's comment about giving him a scrap of plastic from the bottom of that crazy machine. These things were on his mind. He couldn't bring himself to plan to mention them, but he needed to talk to Brink again. Brink could testify to threats. He could justify arrests. Sergeant Fitzgerald had a fine conviction that with a chance to apply pressure, he could make some of Big Jake's hoods and collectors talk, and so bust things wide open.

He only needed Brinks's cooperation. He drove toward the elite cleaners and dyers to put pressure on Brink toward that happy end, but he brooded over his own eyebrow twitchings. When the cleaning establishment came into view, there was a car parked before it. Two men from that car were in the act of the act of. of entering the elite plant through the same door the detective had used earlier. He parked his car behind the other, fuming he crossed the sidewalk and entered the building. As he entered, he heard a scream from the back. He heard a crashing sound and more screams.

He bolted ahead, through the outer office and into the working area he had not visited before. He burst through swinging doors into a two-story machinery filled, cleaning and dine. plant. Tables and garment racks and five separate people appeared as proper occupants of the place, but something had happened. There was a flood of liquid detergent solution, flowing toward the open back doors of the big room. It obviously came from a large carboy which had been smashed as if to draw attention to some

urgent matter. The people in the room seemed to have frozen at their work, except that Brink had a apparently been interrupted in some supervisory task. He was not working at any machine to clean, dye, dry, or press clothing. He looked at the two individuals whom Fitzgerald had seen enter only fractions of a minute earlier. His jaw clenched, and Fitzgerald was close enough behind the bottle-breakers to see him take an angry, purposeful step toward them. Then he checked himself very deliberately, and put his hands in his own. his pockets and watched. After an instant he even grinned at the two figures who had preceded

the detective. They were an impressive pair. They were dressed in well-pressed garments of extravagantly fashionable cut. They wore expensive soft hats tilted to jaunty angles. Even from the rear, Fitzgerald knew that handkerchiefs would show tastefully in the breast pockets of their coats. Their shoes have been polished until they not only shone but glittered. But by professional instinct, Fitzgerald noted one cauliflower ear, and the barest fraction of a second later, he saw a squat revolver being waved negligently at the screaming women. He reached for his service revolver, and things happened. End of Part two.

Part 3 of the ambulance made two trips by Murray Lindster. This Lieberbox recording is in the public domain. Part 3 The situation was crystal clear. Big Jake Connors was displeased with Brink. In all the city whose rackets he was developing and consolidating, Brink was the only man who resisted Big Jake's civic enterprise and got away with it.

And nobody who runs rackets can permit resistance. It is contagious. So Big Jake had ordered that Brink be brought into line or else. The or else alternative had run into snags before, and it was being given a big new try. There was the shrill high clamor of two women screaming at the tops of their voices, because revolvers were waved at them. One elite employee at the pressing machine

took his foot off the treadle and steam billowed wildly. Another man at a giant sheet-iron box which rumbled stared with his mouth open and blood-draining from his cheeks. Brink alone looked, quite impossibly, amused and satisfied. Get outside! snarled a voice as Fitzgerald's revolver came out ready for action. This joint is finished. The companion of the snarling man rubbed suddenly at his eye.

He rubbed again as if it twitched violently. But it was, after all, only a twitching eyelid. He reached negligently down and picked up a wooden box. By its markings it was a dozen bottle box of spot-remover. the stuff used to get out spots the standard cleaning fluid in the dry cleaning machine did not remove. The man heaved the box with the hand with which he had rubbed his twitching eye. The other man raised a hand, the one not holding a revolver, to rub at his own eye, which also seemed to twitch agitatedly. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had his revolver out.

He drew in his breath for a stentorian command for them. to drop their weapons, but he didn't have time to shout. The hurtling small box of spot-remover struck the large sheet-iron case from which loud rumblings came. It was a dryer, a device for spinning clothes which were wet with liquid from the dry-cleaning washer. A perforated drum revolved at high speed within it. The box of spot-remover hit the door.

The door dented in, hit the high-speed drum. inside and flew frantically out again, free from its hinges, and turning end for end as it flew. It slammed into the thrower's companion, spraining three fingers as it knocked his revolver to the floor. The weapon slid merrily away to the outer office between Detective Fitzgerald's feet. But this was not all. The drier door, having disposed of one threatening revolver, slammed violently against the wall. The wall was merely a thin partition, neatly paneled on the office side, but with shelves

containing cleaning and dyeing supplies on the other. The impact shook the partition. Dust fell from the shelves and supplies. The hood, who hadn't lost his gun, sneezed so violently that his hat came off. He bent nearly double, and in the act he jarred the partition again. Things fell from it. Many things. A two-gallon jar of extra special detergent, used only for laces, comped him and smashed on the floor before him. It added to the stream of fluid, already flowing with singular directness for the open double back door of the workroom. The hood staggered, sneezed again, and convulsively pulled the trigger of his gun. The bullet hit something which It was solid heavy metal, ricocheted, ricocheted again, and the second hood howled and leaped

wildly into the air. He came down in the flowing flood of spilled detergent, flat on his stomach, and with marked forward momentum, he slid. The floor of the plant had recently been oiled to keep down dust. The coefficient of friction of a really good detergent on top of floor oil is remarkably low, somewhere around .009. Hood No. 2 slid magnificently on his belly on the superb lubrication afforded by detergent on top of floor oil.

The first hood staggered. Something else fell from the shelf. It was a carton of electric light bulbs. Despite the protecting carton, they went off with cracklings like gunfire. Technically they did not explode but implode, but the hood with the revolver did not notice the difference. He leaped and also landed in the middle of the wide streak of detergent over oil, which might have been arranged to receive him. He remained erect, but he slid slowly along that shining path.

His relatively low speed was not his fault, because he went through all the motions of frenzy flight. His legs twinkled as they ran, but his feet slid backward. He moved with a sort of dignified salarity, running fast enough for ten times the speed upon a surface which had a frictional coefficient far below that of the smoothest possible ice. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald gaped. His mouth dropped open and his gun held laxily in a practically nerveless hand. The thing developed splendidly. The prone gunman slid out of the wide double door, pushing a bough wave of detergent before him.

He slid across the cement just outside into the open garage, whose delivery truck was absent, and slammed with a sort of deliberate violence into a stack of four cardboard drums of that bone black which is used to filter cleaning fluid, so it can be used over again in the dry cleaning machine. The garage was used for storage, as well as shelter for the establishment's truck. The four drums were not accurately piled. They were three and a half feet high and two feet in diameter. They toppled sedately, falling with a fine precision upon the now hatless running sliding hood. One of them burst upon him, a second burst upon the prone man, who had budded through the cardboard of the bottom one on his arrival.

There was a dense black cloud which filled all the interior of the garage. It was bone black, which cannot be told from lamp black or soot by the uninitiated. From the cloud came a despairing revolver shot, was pure reflex by a man who had been whamped over the head by a hundred and fifty-pound drum of yielding, in fact, bursting material. There was a metallic clang, then silence. In a very little while the dust cloud cleared. One figure struggled insanely.

Upon him descended from an oil-drum of cylinder oil stored above the rafters, a tranquil, glistening rod opalescent cylinder oil. His last bullet had punctured the drum. turned the bone black upon him into a thick, sticky goo, which instantly gathered more bone black to become thicker, stickier, and gooier. He fought it, while his unconscious companion lay with his head in a crumpled cardboard container of more black stuff. The despairing, struggling hood managed to get off one more shot, as if defying even fate

and chance. The bullet, likewise, found a target. It burst a container of powdered dye stuff, also stored overhead. The container practically exploded, and its contents descended in a widespread shower, which coated all the interior of the garage with a lovely layer of bright heliotrope. Maybe the struggling hood saw it. If so, it broke him utterly. had happened was starkly impossible. The only sane explanation was that he had died and was

in hell. He accepted that explanation and broke into sobs. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald had witnessed every instance of the happening, but he did not believe it. Nevertheless, he said in a strange voice, I'll phone for the paddy wagon. It'll do for an ambulance in case of need. He put away his unused surface revolver, thinking strange, dizzy thoughts of twitching eyelids and plastic scraps, and starkly incredible happenings, he managed to call for the police patrol. When he hung up, he gazed blankly at the wall. He gazed, in fact, at a spot where a peculiar small machine with no visible function reposed, somewhat dusty, on a shelf.

Brink stepped over briskly and closed the door between the scene of catastrophe and the immaculate shop. Somehow, none of the mess had spilled back through the doorway. Then he came in, frowning a little. The fight's out of them, he said cheerfully. One's got a bad cut on his head, the other is completely unnerved. Tisk, tisk. I hate to have such things happen. Sergeant Fitzgerald shook himself, as if trying to come.

come back to a normal and reasonable world. Look, he said in a hoarse voice, I saw it, and I still don't believe it. Things like this don't happen. I thought you might be lucky. It ain't that. I thought I might be crazy. It ain't that.

What has been going on? Brink sat down. His air was one of wry contemplation. I told you I had a special kind of luck you couldn't believe. Did your eyelids twitch any time today?" Fitzgerald swallowed. They did, and I stopped short in something that should have knocked my cranium down my windpipe, missed me by inches.

And again, but no matter, yes. Maybe you can believe it, then, said Brink. Did you ever hear of a man named Hieronymus? No, said Fitzgerald in a numbed voice. Who's he? He got a patent once, said Brink, matter-of-factly. On a machine he believed detected something he called eloptic radiation. He thought it was a kind of radiation nobody had noticed before.

He was wrong. It worked by something called Cy. Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head. It still needed clearing. Cy isn't fully understood, explained Brink. but it will do a lot of things. For instance, it can change probability as magnetism can change temperature. You can establish a scy field in a suitable material,

just as you establish a magnetic field in steel or alnico. Now if you spin a copper disk in a magnetic field, you get any currents. Keep it up, and the disc gets hot. If you're obstinate about it, you can melt the carbon. copper. It isn't the magnet as such that does the melting. It's the energy of a spinning disk that is changed into heat. The magnetic feel simply sets up the conditions for the change of motion into heat. In the same way—' am I boring you?" "'Confusing me,' said Fitzgerald. Maybe. But keep on. Maybe I'll catch a glimmer

presently. "'In the same way,' said Brink, You can try to perform violent actions in a strong sigh field, a field made especially to act on violence. When you first try it, you get something like eddy currents, warnings. It can be arranged that such sye eddy currents make your eyelids twitch. Keep it up, and probability changes to shift the most likely consequences of the violence. This is like a spinning copper disc getting hot. Then, if you're obstinate about it, you get the equivalent of the copper disk melting. Probability gets so drastically changed that the violent thing you're trying to do

become something that can't happen. You can't spin a copper disk in a magnetic field when it melts. You can't commit a murder in a certain kind of scyfield when probability goes hog-wild. Any other thing can happen to any problem. to you, for example, but no violence can happen to the thing or person you're trying to do something violent, too. The scy-feel has melted down ordinary probabilities. The violence you intend has become the most improbable of all conceivable things, you see?

I'm beginning, said Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald Dissaly. I'm beginning to get a toehold on what you're going to. you mean. I'd hate to have to testify about it in court, but I'm receptive. So my special kind of luck, said Brink, comes from anti-violence, sigh feels, set up in psi units of suitable material. They don't use up energy any more than a magnet does, but they transfer it like a magnet does. My brother-in-law thought he had to lose his business because Big Jake threatened violent things. I offered to take it over and protect it, with SI units. So far I have. When four hoods intended

to shoot up the place and move to do it, they were warned. Sciety currents made their eyelids twitch. They went ahead. Probability changed. Quite unlikely things became more likely than not. They were obstinate about it, and what they intended became perhaps the only thing in the world that simply couldn't happen. So they crashed into a telephone pole. That wasn't violence. That was accident. The detective blinked, and then nodded.

Somehow painfully. I see, he said uncertainly. Somebody set a bomb in my delivery truck, added Brink. I'm sure his eyelids twitched, but he didn't stop. So probability changed. The explosion of that bomb. in my truck became the most unlikely of all possible things. In fact, it became impossible. So some electric connection went bad and it didn't go off. Again, when Giacaro intended to plant a time

fire bomb to set the plant on fire, why? His eyelids must have twitched, but he didn't give up the intention. So the SI unit naturally made the burning of the plant impossible. For it to be impossible, the firebomb had to go off where it could do next to no harm. Jakaro lost his pants. He stopped. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald swallowed carefully. I don't question it, he said dizzily. Even if I don't believe it,

will you now tell me that what just happened was a sigh something keeping violent things from happening? That's it, agreed Brink. The sigh unit made the dryer door fly. fly off and knock a pistol out of a man's hand. If they dropped the idea of violence, that would have ended the matter. They didn't. "'I accept it,' said Fitzgerald. He gulped, because I saw it. A court wouldn't believe it, though, Mr. Brink. Well—' "'I've been trying for months,' said Fitzgerald in sudden desperation,

to find a way to stop what Big Jake's doing, but he's tricky. He's organized. He's got smart lawyers. Mr. Brink, if the cops could use what you got, then he stopped. It'd never be authorized, he said bitterly. They'd never let a cop try it. No, agreed Brink. Until it's believed, it can only be used privately for private purposes.

Like I've used it. Or, hmm, do you fish or bowl or play golf, sergeant? I could give you a scy unit that it'd help you quite a bit in such a private purpose? Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald shook his head. Dry-fly fission's my specialty. He said bitterly, but no, thank you. When I'm pitting myself against a trout,

it's my private purpose to be a better fisherman that he's a fish. Using what you've got would be like dynamiting a stream. No sport in that. No, but this big Jake, he doesn't act sporting with the... the public. I'd give a lot to stop him. You'd get no credit for it, said Brink, no credit at all. It'd get the job done, said Fitzgerald indignantly. A man likes credit, but he likes a lot better

to get a good job done. Brink grinned suddenly. Good man, he said approvingly. I'll buy your idea, Sergeant. If you play fair with a trout, you play fair with a crook. and an irishman anyhow has a sort of inheritance i'll give you what help i can and you'll do things your grandfather would swear was the work of the little people and for a first lesson what big jake discourages me said brink so i'll call him up and say i'm coming to see him i'll say if he wants this business i'll sell it to him at a fair price but i'll say otherwise i'll tell the newspapers about his story he'll say otherwise i'll tell the newspapers about his threats, and the four of his hoods in the hospital, and the two others on the way there. Want to come along? Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald reached his hand to where his service revolver reposed in its holster. Then he drew it away.

He's a very violent man, he said, hopefully. I wouldn't wonder he tried to get pretty rough, him and the characters he has on his payroll. If they have to be stopped from being violent by—what is it, sigh units? Sure, I'll come along. It ought to be most edifying to watch. There was a clanging outside. Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald delayed while the two unnerved, hapless, and formerly immaculate gunmen were loaded into the paddy wagon and carried away to the hospital that already held four of their ilk.

Then Brink called Big Jake on the telephone. Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald listened with increasing appreciation as Brink made his proposition and explained, matter-of-factly, what had happened to Big Jake's minions who should have wrecked the Ely cleaners and dryers. When Brink hung up, Fitzgerald had a look of zestful anticipation on his face. He said to come right over, said Brink, but he was grinding his teeth. "'Ah,' said Fitzgerald pleasurably, "'I'm thinking of the cab drivers and truck drivers that have been beat up.

I'm thinking of property smashed and honest people scared. Do you know? I'm terribly afraid Big Jake's too much in the habit of violence to stop, even if it's eyelids twitch. It's deplorable. But on a strictly personal basis, I think I'll enjoy seeing Big Jake and his hoods discouraged by—what is it—signot's? Yes. And he did. Big Jake's eyelids undoubtedly did twitch while he was preparing a reception for Brink and Detective Sergeant Fitzgerald. But he did not heed the warning. He did not even

think of the legal aspect of violent things attempted against his visitors. So he tried violence—he and his associates. They started out with fists and—and clubs, regardless of discretion, they tried to beat up Brink and Fitzgerald. From that they went on to sought off shotguns. Their efforts were still unsuccessful. Then they went to extremes. Fitzgerald wore an expression of pious joy, as Big Jake Connors and his aides, obstinately attempting violent actions were prevented by Psy units.

when it was all over the ambulance had to make two trips end of part three end of the ambulance made two trips by murray