Chapter Fourteen

FOR five days Doctor Thorpe did very little besides sit at his desk and watch the reports stack on Doughface Jack. It was no longer necessary to clip the news stories but only to preserve the papers. A major depression was beginning on the wings of panic. No man knew what would happen within the next hour.

Rockford Sims of steel fame had died, suddenly and abruptly. Two cabinet members were being buried on this day, a senator on that.

And across the entire land there stalked the shadow of a beautiful woman, the Witch Girl, which name was no longer limited to the tabloids.

At first it had seemed impossible that anything drastic could happen other than a presidential assassination. No one had dreamed that the reins of government would actually be picked up and no man had been able to guess that there would be men more than willing to work for such a leader. Yet there were such men. They had been in minor offices where the work had been hard, the pay small and the bosses officious. And now they were only too glad to take allegiance and settle their own scores.

Democracy, in five mad days, had crumbled to a scrap of paper, and become what it had been in the beginning, merely an abstract idea. And now it was done. This was not monarchy, nor was it dictatorship. It was worse. The whims of a woman were deciding the policies of state and the personal animosity of a woman was passing the death sentence on every person who had ever offended her—and the offenders of a blind beggar are many.

Minority “isms” had fallen swiftly into line. Chaos had begun. A machine had arisen like a beast and would shortly be so powerful that nothing would ever be able to prevail against it. To the whims of the woman would be added the hates of lesser officers. Prejudice and jealousy and opinionation would rule the day. A system was rising and shortly that system would be too huge to be stopped.

The market had already crashed. Banks were closing every hour. Wild, insane rumors fled like tattered ghosts up and down the land. Men blew out their brains, bringing death before the death itself would come.

Thorpe watched his clock. He had watched that clock for five days and how slowly the second hand ran, how much more slowly moved the minute hand and the hour hand not at all.

For five days he had viewed and reviewed that operation, checking every step he had made, searching, searching, searching to be certain that there had been nothing forgotten, nothing left undone.

His buzzer rang and a nurse’s voice said, “Doctor Thorpe. Doctor Pellman has just regained consciousness. He is asking for you.”

Thorpe leaped up and, with shaggy locks streaming, raced down the corridor to the private room. He entered silently and stood, not daring to believe his eyes.

Pellman was sitting up with pillows at his back. He was smiling and, if it had not been for the bandages around his head, no one would have believed him ill.

“Come in,” said Pellman.

“Jim!” said Thorpe hoarsely. “Then I didn’t kill you after all.”

“Kill me? I feel fine. How long have I been out?”

“Five days,” said Thorpe, shakily. He approached Pellman’s side. “But I don’t understand. If you just became conscious, how is it that …?”

“Same thing happened to Doughface,” said Pellman cheerfully. “He couldn’t heal himself all the way but he could come out of almost anything in jig time. What’s been happening?”

“Jim, it’s awful.”

“You mean I was right? He went to Washington after all?”

“Yes,” said Thorpe.

“The fools,” growled Pellman. “I knew the police and Army would make that happen. They had to be bigger than either police or Army to keep alive. And what have they done?”

“It isn’t so much what they’ve done,” said Thorpe, “but there are others with plenty of petty scores to settle in blood. Plenty of others. And every agitator, every malcontent in the country, is swinging into line for them. It’s the woman that’s doing it. She had some grudges of her own and now all these others … Jim, I give the United States about two more days and then we’ll make Russia look like a paradise. Pogroms, secret firing squads, espionage everywhere …”

“Then it’s a case of stopping Doughface. What happened to him?”

“It isn’t Doughface Jack. He’s just the weapon of that woman. He wouldn’t have the brains to do this,” stated Thorpe. “Even I know that.”

“Have they tried to shoot the girl?”

Thorpe nodded. “They posted a sniper on the top of the Department of the Interior and he used a telescopic sight. He hit her too. In the back. But the next morning she was out again and the sniper … he vanished. It wasn’t Doughface that got him. They have the nucleus of an O Gay-Pay-Oo already. Men are going to them begging to be accepted. She ordered the release of all prisoners from the jails there and is going to release all other prisoners in the nation and, of course, they’ll swing in. We’re in for a reign of terror, Jim.”

“I see,” said Pellman slowly. “Do you think it can still be stopped?”

“As long as Doughface can kill men on sight he can’t be caught. The president is held hostage and so the White House can’t be bombarded. He got a message out requesting it anyway but the Army still won’t act—what’s left of the Army.”

“What’s left of it?”

“Certainly. The ranking officers are dead. They tried to hold conference and reach a settlement and the girl had them shot. There’s nothing that can be done. Over twenty men have sacrificed their lives attempting to kill Doughface and his power seems to grow stronger. The president wouldn’t believe there was any danger of this and now see what has happened!”

“Maybe it’s not too late,” said Pellman.

“It will be shortly,” said Thorpe bitterly. “Business has stopped. Small officials have rocketed themselves to the top and everything in sight is being confiscated. Criminals will soon occupy the top positions in everything, and with their thirst for revenge against society …”

“How about the people that Doughface nailed before he left New York?” asked Pellman.

“Still about four hundred and fifty-odd alive.”

Pellman threw the covers back.

“You can’t get up!” said Thorpe, aghast. “After an operation like that you can’t risk it! Why I took the top of your skull off.”

“Doughface Jack’s injury was complicated with trauma. Mine isn’t. I’m all right, Thorpe. Get my clothes. Call all the hospitals and tell them to have those victims ready. We’ve got to make this fast.”

“But wait,” said Thorpe. “You’re running a long chance! You may have a relapse!”

“Never mind that,” said Pellman. “Get my clothes.”

Miss Finch came in hurriedly, just having gotten the news. She saw Pellman starting to get out of bed.

“Jim!” she cried in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting up,” stated Pellman. “Don’t stand there gaping at me. Get my clothes!”

“But,” cried Thorpe, “we don’t even know if it works with you.”

“You don’t, huh?” said Pellman with a sudden grin. “Go look in the mirror.”

Thorpe glanced distractedly toward the one behind him and then started to say something. Suddenly he registered. He whirled around and bent over and studied his face.

“Why, why …” he stammered, “I … I look like … I look like a kid!”

“Get my clothes,” said Pellman decisively.