OFF A WAXEN RECORD!
Mr. Thomas Topkins—more familiarly known as Daily-Radio-Newsbeat-Tommy—leaned back in the hopelessly rickety chair provided him by the young German inventor in whose crude basement laboratory, in lower New York, Mr. Topkins sat, and prepared to hear no less than his own words—part of them anyway!—rendered some several hours earlier in the Eclat Club, in upper New York, reproduced. Reproduced, moreover, by an ingenious new device which could—at least as the inventor had informed him—be connected into the circuit of, and onto any home radio-receiver.
Many disputes had Mr. Thomas Topkins had with radio-broadcast stations who had claimed that he had uttered such and such a naughty—or even pseudo-obscene—word during his broadcasts; and seven times had Mr. Thomas Topkins been the object of libel suits; and here, at last, was a simple device by which he could himself ever disprove allegations of captious radio stations—and claims of litigants. When, that is, the allegations were false—or the suers had erred. And so he was interested. And he knew a promoter who, he felt, could promote the device—for the protection of all radio-broadcasters. The device was even of great possible utility in the as-yet-unworked field of so-called deferred-radio-program receiving. Indeed, it might prove to have considerable bearing on the business of so-called re-broadcasting. Though this latter was not of interest to Mr. T. Topkins, holder of many disputes with broadcast stations, and veteran of many libel suits. For his daily feature was an exclusive news-beat—and, once he had broadcasted it, it was a “dead dog”—thanks to the newspapers immediately picking up the fact or facts embodied in it—if, that is, they were worth while.
All around Mr. Topkins, as this moment, on every side, were half-built devices—mechanical and electrical. All he could make of them, in most cases, were that they contained gearwheels—or electrical connections—or both! In front of him, on the crude workbench, was the particular device he himself was now interested in: just a boxlike affair, with, at the top, an ordinary wax record that could revolve—except that over the record could be swung a massive thing, full 8 inches high, and 20 inches across, containing wires and coils and diaphragmatic receivers and, to Mr. Topkins, God knew what else! Its inventor, Carl Shumhofer, young and blond and blue-eyed, fumbled with a connection on it, his face glowing because he was just about to demonstrate it before a man “in the game.”
And, while Shumhofer adjusted several thumbscrews on the device, Topkins slowly folded up the precious brilliant-green Public Enemy Circular which—and the picture thereon—the picture of a man of plainly no more than 30 years of age, nor less than 30—he had just exhibited to the young inventor, at the latter’s request; that circular which—with information garnered clear from Folsom Prison, California—Topkins had this day utilized in a sensational broadcast that, even as it had proceeded, had evolved into dramatic new channels due to wires and messages from his trusted correspondent at Big River.
“And you really mean to say, Shumhofer,” Topkins was asking, “that anybody can hook that thingumajib onto their own home radio-receiver—and take a full permanent record of any broadcast?”
“Ach no!—not anybody can hook it in—no!” said the blond youth. “But it can be hooked in any home receifer—by a man who know how to do it—unt how it vorks. But dot ees not imbortant, Mr. Topkins; vot iss imbortant iss dot you see how goot she hass catch your finest woice-tones.”
He was fumbling with another flexible adjustment on his device now.
“And you took my words—off of where?” asked Topkins.
“From dot leedle cheap $5.50 radio over dere on dot shelf,” said the inventor proudly. “Unt, ven I hat eferding, I rung you, Meester Topkins—knowing dot you have hat moch drouble unt disputes mid radio sdadions, unt—unt lawsuits, unt so voot be inderesded in a werry simple cheap dewice vot could maybe record your daily feature, in your home, for no more cost as 7 cents. Only—I hat defil of a time to get you. For you voss run avay from der Eclat Lonch Glob der minute you vass finish.”
“Oh, yes, I always do. But you did catch me—thanks to my always leaving everywhere the next address where I’m heading for. And, after all, the day’s far from over! It’s not yet 5:30 o’clock in the afternoon New York time—nor 4:30 o’clock Big River time!—nor 3:30 o’clock Denver time—nor 2:30 p.m. Frisco time—or not even today yet in China—say, that’s an odd thing, isn’t it?—that it isn’t even today yet on the other side of the earth—gad!—old man Time doesn’t stand for being twisted about like old Man Space does, by Brother Radio—does he? He—”
“Maybe you dink different in a minute, Meester Topkins! For—but she’s all retty now. I sdard der record. Only I don’d put her down vere you began—for you talked long, long time today. I chust let her drop on your vorts—vere she falls!—oxcept dot I make her fall chust a leedle vays in frond uf dot eenderesding point vere dit come, bei der meekrophone on, in dot club, doc shentlemen, Misder John MacHooray, dot boople-isher vot haf boople-ish so many dousand’ books in his life, unt vot sait, did Misder MacHooray—do you rememper, Mr. Topkins?—speaging apout dot funny boople-ishing game, dot—but hier iss point on vax vere, I know, ve sneak in aheat of Misder MacHooray unt—yah, here iss, I am sure!—unt so I let her fall!”
And the young inventor lowered his device over the revolving wax record, not one whit differently than one swings a phonograph reproducing diaphragm.
For a second, the whirring only of the mechanism sounded—then a scratching—and then, emanating from the machine, Topkins heard the words of no less than T. Topkins. Telling, in a manner of speaking, the rain-marooned audience in the Eclat Club—the while the dance orchestra itself was marooned further up the street!—how easy it ought to be—for one knowing “Actor” Hart’s strange history—to pick him out from a crowd. From any crowd. From even—
And T. Topkins listened—chin in hand.