The Penultimate Trump
By R. C. W. ETTINGER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, March 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Harley D. Haworth had been a doughty warrior in the American manner.Many a powerful Wall Street foe had bowed to his strength and thousandsof innocent victims had cursed his name. But that was many a misty yearago.
Now even his son was an aged philanthropist and H.D. himself wasrelegated almost to legend. But at ninety-two the old battler waslocked in his most desperate struggle, vainly trying with his failingstrength to beat off the grimmest, most relentless of all antagonists.
If the man in the street ever heeded or mentioned this struggle, it wasto disinter a corny, dog-in-the-manger joke.
"Old Harley D. Haworth," he would say patronizingly, "is such a guy—ifhe can't take it with him, he just don't go."
But he was going all right, battle by battle, losing his war. Not thathis forces were small—two billion greenbacked stalwarts comprised hisarmy. The resources of the planet were his. Only his generals, theworld's fanciest physicians, were incompetent to maneuver these forcesto advantage.
They gave him gland extracts, they gave him vitamins, they gavehim blood transfusions. They gave him false teeth, eyeglasses,arch-supports. They cut out his varicose veins, his appendix, one ofhis kidneys. And in the end the learned doctors held a conference andthis was the sum of their wisdom—eat crackers-and-milk.
At this juncture there was a shake-up in the high command. The newChief of Staff was not a physician but an engineer named Jones.
"What man can imagine, man can do." So runs the optimistic saw. Theboy, Garibaldi Jones, had had firm faith in said saw, and imaginedhimself a great lawyer and famous statesman. With the passage of time,however, there gradually came to Garibaldi, as to many another beforeand since, the suspicion whoever said that was kidding.
Now Baldy Jones had long since conceded that his imagination, atleast, far outran his capabilities. He had settled down, when herealized he lacked the persuasive gift, to being a reasonably competentmechanical engineer.
An ordinary slip-stick jockey, that was the work-a-dayJones. But sometimes, on a Sunday, Jones thegeneral-statesman-scientist-prophet-and-all-around-wiseacre wouldhold forth from his armchair on life, love, art, literature, science,religion, politics and various other manifestations of nature that aredignified by names.
On a certain portentous Sunday in the summer of 1947, about the timethe doctors were prescribing crackers-and-milk as a specific for seniledebility, Garry had found a particularly depressing article in hisSupplement. Goodwife Nancy was relaxed with the Women's Section.
Garry wiped the perspiration from his gleaming head of skin andproceeded to her instruction.
"Listen, dear, it says here some scientist thinks the human race isgoing to be wiped out. It's too dumb to survive, or too smart. I thinkthat's crazy but he's got a lot of points. Listen, he says—
"'To date there has been no indication whatever of any barrier to theindefinite extension of the frontiers of science. It is breath-takingto think what this means. It means that so far as we know thescientific method is capable of carrying humanity to any conceivableheights and beyond.'"
"Garry, stop talking so loud and let me read this, 'Fun WithFish—Hints for