Tesla's Signal (28 page)

Don't try to fly,
Clara had advised him
.
All right, this was far enough. He wrapped his aching legs around a girder and took out the apparatus. They had placed the repeater and transmitter inside a simple cylinder, small enough to be carried 100 feet in a backpack and attached to the top girders of the bridge.

His arms trembled with exhaustion from climbing, and the job took longer than he had planned. The sky began to lighten with approaching dawn as he connected the antenna. The Edison playback device began its message.
Urgent! New Yorkers, we have been invaded,
said Clara's voice, carried on ever-expanding radio waves.
Beware of the Silver Chamber shows...
 

As he started down, doubts assailed him. How long would the message continue? Would the enemy discover the transmitter and figure out its purpose? What were the chances anyone would actually hear the message? He could count the number of people who understood Radio on one hand.  A professor in Columbia, a few physics students at Cornell. If they did hear the broadcast, would it do any good, or was tonight's risky venture merely a wasted effort?

Still, we had to try. And we'll keep on trying, every possible way!

The city was waking up. A garbage scow and a few shipping barges drifted downriver...well, surely they'd never look up and notice a man clinging like a spider to the side of the bridge tower.
Would they?
A carriage came by on the bridge...the lights of an automobile approached.
Early delivery truck
. Surely a driver wouldn't look up either. People never looked up.

He finally made it down to the road surface. He and Clara rushed to pack everything up and he strapped the backpack on.

Clara grabbed his arm. “Look out.”

His stomach tensed as a sturdy red Oldsmobile came chugging by from the Brooklyn side. They saw no other foot traffic.

“Act natural,” Clara said, “like we belong here. A pair of lovers, sneaking home after a night of stolen pleasures.”

He wished she wouldn't say things like that. Hiding his embarrassment, he fixed his gaze on the eastern horizon, where the orange dawn glow reflected from the sea. They walked, far too quickly for lovers.

A large black Model-T Ford approached from the Delancey Street side, slowed and came to a stop just ahead of him. Another car, this one a Packard with white-wall tires, pulled up just behind. A man with mutton-chop sideburns stepped out of the Packard to confront them.

“Good day, sir. Ma'am,” said Mutton Chops. “Mind if we ask a few questions?” Niko caught one glimpse of the man's eyes. A flash of silver...or was that just the rising sun?

“We sorry,” Clara said, “no English.”

Niko looked backward and saw a man in a striped suit, stepping out of the Ford to block his escape. “That's him,” Striped Suit cried. “It's Tesla—the one we want!”

“The Devil!” Niko raised the induction gun and gave the man a stiff burst of voltage, knocking him over. Niko and Clara pushed past him and ran for the bridge tower.

“Stop him!” A voice cried. “He's trying to wreck the bridge!”

Clara turned to fire her sonic umbrella. A single pulse and they fell. More men leaped out of the two cars. “Hands up! Stop or we'll shoot!”

Niko had one foot over the side when the first bullet came.

Clara covered him, her sonic umbrella crackling while she filled the air with Yiddish curses. “Niko! Hurry!” He lowered himself over the railing, trying not to think of how far down it was to the river. His legs flailed about, reaching for the crossbeam. He thanked the architect for the open construction of this bridge...not like the Brooklyn Bridge. He stretched to reach down to the next crossbar as fast as he dared, and Clara came after him. “Knocked 'em all down...” she said between panting breaths. “Hurry...before they get up.”

They made it halfway down before one of the pursuers recovered. Niko saw the man's silhouette, leaning over the side of the bridge for a better shot. Niko scrambled to reach the inner side of the girders where the shots might not reach. He heard shouts—saw the flash of a pistol. More gunshots: another man must have joined the first one. “Come back...bastards...fill you with holes...” The threats echoed from the underside of the bridge, becoming more extravagant when it seemed their quarry would escape. “...crow bait...rat meat...fishes nibble your toes.”

“Don't worry...they can't get a good shot at us.” But he spurred himself to greater speed. A bullet zinged past...another. One foot slipped...he flung his arm around the girder and kept from falling. Below, the dark water of the East River swirled about the concrete abutments.

Clara grunted with the effort of reaching for the cross-girders. She had less weight, but her reach was shorter. “Boat coming,” he heard her say.

It appeared to be a steam-powered tug. “Maybe just a fishing boat,” he muttered.
Not a police patroller...don't be the harbor police...
not while he and Clara were spread out on these girders like flies on a spider's web! If he climbed faster, maybe they could get close enough to the water to jump in and evade the police and the River Authority and whoever else wanted them.

Another shot. Clara gave a sudden cry. “Niko!” She pointed at the boat, but he couldn't hear what she said. Then, “I'm going to jump!” she cried. And she plunged down, landing with a splash in the dark water below.

“Clara!”
What happened? Was she shot?
Without a moment's hesitation, he let go and dove 30 feet to rescue her. The cold East River swallowed him up.

16: The Special Investigator

“Wake up, buddy.” Someone patted his cheek.

He coughed.
What happened? Am I dead?
The  shock of plunging into the cold water must have knocked him out. 

He took inventory and was relieved to discover he still had feeling in all his limbs. He cautiously opened his eyes, to see several rough-looking fellows leaning over him. They wore grimy jackets, low-brimmed hats, and they hadn't shaved recently.

Execution squad,
was his first terrified thought. But he saw no weapons pointed at him; felt no ropes binding him. Other than being soaking wet and chilled to the bone, he seemed to have survived intact.

But Clara...?
Is she dead?
He leaped up, prepared to fight. “Where's Clara? What have you done with—”

“Take it easy, Mister, don't have a conniption. The lady's fine.”

Niko stared at the speaker. This young fellow wore a cap, set at a rakish angle. A cigarette dangled from his lips...an affectation of the street hoodlums. Like Niko, the youth possessed dark hair and thin mustache, though the boy's was a bit more pointed at the ends. Also, like Niko himself, this fellow was tall and slim, and apparently took some pains with his appearance. He wore a silk scarf and a cloth rose in his lapel.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Clara said. “Relax.”

He turned, and there sat Clara wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea. “Clara? What have they—”

Grinning, she handed him the mug. “These gentlemen are my buddies. They pulled us out of the water.”

Niko blinked. The “gentleman” with the silk scarf bent down, held out a hand. “Hello there, Mister. Name's Jake Flint.”

Niko had no choice but to accept the hand being offered to him. “Good day, sir. Uh...I'm Nick. Nick Slate.”

Jake smirked, as if he recognized a fake name when he heard one. “This here's my cousin Davey. We won't hurt ya—if you're with the lady here, you must be okay.”

“Jake here's an old friend of mine,” said Clara. “Ain't ya, Jake?”

Niko wondered why Clara was suddenly talking like one of these roughnecks. “Clara? You know these fellows?”

“I'm the Mayor of the Lower East Side,” said Jake with a crooked grin.

“They're the Landsmen,” Clara explained. “My Uncle told you about them. Local peacekeepers, remember?”

Davey chuckled. “Yeah.
Peacekeepers,
that's it.”

“We're just enterprising Americans,” Jake said. “Those crooked city pols, they want to squeeze us with taxes, bribes, kickbacks and more
taxes.”

“What Jake means,” Clara said, aside to him, “is that they are
smugglers.”

“Hey,” said Jake. “You weren't complainin' when you got your share of the take.”

“Hey yourself!” She pointed an accusing finger. “I needed that money for my experiments. Science doesn't come cheap.”

Niko turned to Clara. “
You
were with these folks?”

Jake laughed. “
Was she with us?
Mister, when this smart
maidele
was runnin' with the Landsmen, usin' her clever gizmos, the tin-badges couldn't lay a finger on us!” The smuggler gazed at Clara with moon-eyed adoration.

“Dear Lord.” Niko recalled how Clara had disposed of Kirk's thugs and the Shoreham cops. It all fit together now—he saw a whole new side of his colleague, the lady genius.

“Mister, the only reason we pulled you out, is 'cause you're with
her.”
Davey turned to Niko with hard challenge. “Hope you're worth it.”

“Of course, sir, and I thank you kindly.” Niko inclined his head in respect, as if he were talking with J. P. Morgan. “If I may ask, where are we headed in this fine vessel?”

“Out by the bay,” Jake told him. “You want to come with us? We can take you somewheres you can lay low for awhile. One of the islands hereabouts.”

Niko thought with longing of the Wardenclyffe lab on Long Island. No, they probably had a whole regiment of lawmen, thugs and Martians camped out there waiting for him. “Thank you, but no. We're not done with our errands.”

“Suit yourself. We'll drop you off at the Grand Street dock.”

The tugboat pulled up to the dock to let Niko and Clara step off. “Mister, I don't know why those goons were after ya,” said Jake Flint, “but we'll look out for ya if ya want.”

“Yeah, if you're with Miss Clara, you must be okay,” Davey added. “You want an escort?”

“Thanks,” Clara said, “but it's better if the gangs don't get mixed up in it. We've got enough trouble already.”

Jake laughed. “Too much trouble even for the Landsmen, eh?”

The ruffian turned to Clara and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Bye now.”Turning to Niko, he added, “you take good care of her, Mister.  Anything happens to her, you'll answer to me.”

“Yes sir,” said Niko, tipping an imaginary hat. He had lost his in the
river.

He watched the boat push off, then turned to Clara. “That gangster gave you a kiss,” he accused.

“What of it? That's more than
you
would do.”

Niko felt himself blushing.

Clara pointed a finger. “I do believe you're jealous,
boychik!”
 

He scowled. “
Me?
Of course not. We have more important things to think about. We've still got to get our message out. I could use some dry clothes, and—I lost my pack full of equipment too,” he realized. “We've got to get back to your uncle's for some spares.”

“All right. Think we can stay out of trouble that long?”

“I hope so. We've just got to catch a streetcar.”

They walked through the grimy riverfront district. “I think we still have a few followers though.” He turned, in time to catch sight of a figure ducking behind the support girder of the elevated tracks.

Clara snuck a look. “You're right. There's someone watching in that window.”

“Where's their Model T Ford?”

“I think it's a different set,” said Clara. “Not those
goniffs
in the fancy cars.”

“Let's take a short cut across the rail yard.” Niko pointed.

They began crossing the expanse of tracks, passed a steam engine that chuffed like a snoring dragon, and dodged around several empty boxcars. “Hurry,” Niko whispered. “There's someone watching up on the platform of the El. If we can get to the trolley line, maybe we can lose them.”

Unless...was the whole city of New York after them? How many people believed those newspaper stories, or had heard Shelia proclaim that Nikola Tesla was the devil and call for his extermination?

They made it across ten tracks, but on the eleventh, Clara fell. “Ow! My foot—it's stuck!”

Panicked, Niko checked and found that Clara had wedged her foot into a hole beneath the rail. She cried out in pain when he tried to free the foot.

“Just go on ahead without me, Niko!”

“What? I won't abandon you to those bastards!”

“I mean it, Niko! Save yourself!” When Niko wouldn't listen, she began shoving him away. “Don't be an ass!
You're
the one they want! Now go—save yourself—save the world!”