[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sykes died, and after two years they tracked Gordon Kemp down andbrought him back, because he was the only man who knew anything aboutthe death. Kemp had to face a coroner's jury in Switchpath, Arizona,a crossroads just at the edge of the desert, and he wasn't too happyabout it, being city-bred and not quite understanding the differencebetween "hicks" and "folks."
The atmosphere in the courtroom was tense. Had there been greatwainscoted walls and a statue of blind Justice, it would have beenmore impersonal and, for Kemp, easier to take. But this courtroom was acrossroads granger's hall in Switchpath, Arizona.
The presiding coroner was Bert Whelson, who held a corncob pipe insteadof a gavel. At their ease around the room were other men, dirt-farmersand prospectors like Whelson. It was like a movie short. It needed onlya comedy dance number and somebody playing a jug.
But there was nothing comic about it. These hicks were in a positionto pile trouble on Kemp, trouble that might very easily wind up in thegas chamber.
The coroner leaned forward. "You got nothin' to be afeard of, son, ifyour conscience is clear."
"I still ain't talking. I brought the guy in, didn't I? Would I of donethat if I'd killed him?"
The coroner stroked his stubble, a soft rasping sound like a rope beingpulled over a wooden beam.
"We don't know about that, Kemp. Hmm. Why can't you get it throughyour head that nobody's accusing you of anything? You're jest a fellerknows something about the death of this here Alessandro Sykes. Thiscourt'd like to know exactly what happened."
He hesitated, shuffled.
"Sit down, son," said the coroner.
That did it. He slumped into the straight chair that one of the menpushed up for him, and told this story.
I guess I better go right back to the beginning, the first time I eversaw this here Sykes.
I was working in my shop one afternoon when he walked in. He watchedwhat I was doing and spoke up.
"You Gordon Kemp?"
I said yes and looked him over. He was a scrawny feller, prob'ly sixtyyears old and wound up real tight. He talked fast, smoked fast, movedfast, as if there wasn't time for nothin', but he had to get on tosomethin' else. I asked him what he wanted.
"You the man had that article in the magazine about the concentratedatomic torch?" he said.
"Yeah," I told him. "Only that guy from the magazine, he used an awfullot of loose talk. Says my torch was three hundred years ahead of itstime." Actually it was something I stumbled on by accident, more orless. The ordinary atomic hydrogen torch—plenty hot.
I figured out a ring-shaped electro-magnet set just in front ofthe jet, to concentrate it. It repelled the hydrogen particles andconcentrated them. It'll cut anything—anything. And since it gotpatented, you'd be surprised at the calls I got. You got no idea howmany people want to cut into bank vaults an' the side doors of hockshops. Well, about Sykes....
I told him this magazine article went a little too far, but I did havequite a gadget. I give him a demonstration or two, and he seemedsatisfied. Finally I told him I was wasting my time unless he had aproposition.
He's lookin' real happy about this torch of mine, an' he nods.
"Sure. Only you'll have to take a couple of weeks off. Go out West.Arizona. Cut a way into a cave there."
"Cave, huh?" I said. "Is it legal?" I didn't want no tro