Free Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb by D. R. Martin

closer to getting to the root of the etherist-killing conspiracy.
    That’s why Johnny agreed to go downtown with Mel and Uncle Louie on a beautiful Saturday morning that deserved something better than sitting in a musty old office. He figured that Managing Agent Crider of the National Police Bureau had some important news for them. Maybe, Johnny hoped, they had found the evil mastermind behind the conspiracy. Because there had to be an evil mastermind somewhere, just as there always was on the Captain Justice Adventures radio show.
    So, at about ten o’clock, Johnny found himself sitting in, well, a musty old office. Next to him were Uncle Louie and Mel. Crider, standing by his desk with arms crossed, had a wind-burned face that gave nothing away. Assistant Director Santangelo of the Ministry of Etheristics sprawled in Crider’s own chair behind the desk, his piggy eyes narrowed, a sneer on his lips. His left hand was still twitching.
    Johnny couldn’t put his finger on why, but Santangelo practically smelled of trouble.
    A few minutes late, Carlton Cargill swept in as if he owned the place. “Well, Crider,” he managed to bark, even with the unlit cigar in his mouth, “here I am.” He nodded at Johnny, Mel, and Uncle Louie, and briefly studied the agent and the stranger. “What’s this all about then?”
    “I’d like you to meet Ministry of Etheristics Assistant Director Santangelo,” said Crider. “Santangelo, Carlton Cargill, editor-in-chief of the Zenith Clarion .”
    The two men said their how-do-you-dos, reached across the desk, and shook hands—quickly, as if neither enjoyed it.
    “So,” Mr. Cargill said, plopping down in the empty chair next to Uncle Louie, “what’ve you found out about the Night Goose attack? Got any new leads?”
    “Actually, Cargill,” said Santangelo, “that’s not why we’ve asked you here.”
    Johnny groaned. They wasted my morning!
    Uncle Louie frowned and shushed him. Johnny was tempted to frown back, but didn’t.
    Mr. Cargill raised his eyebrows, then gently set his unlit cigar on the edge of the desktop.
    Santangelo cleared his throat and tented his fingers under his chin. “It’s come to our attention—”
    “Meaning who, exactly?” Mr. Cargill snapped.
    “The Ministry of Etheristics, Mr. Cargill. It’s come to our attention that your newspaper and Zephyr Lines intend to mount a little aeroboat expedition to investigate the Hausenhofer Gesellschaft murders.”
    Johnny and Mel looked at each other in surprise. How had Santangelo found out?
    “And what of it?” the editor asked.
    “We are fortunate,” Santangelo began, sounding like an orator starting on his favorite topic, “that ghosts who engage in the human sphere almost always perform functions that are constructive, vital, affirmative. From nursemaid to street sweeper to—”
    “No speechifying, if you please, Mr. Santangelo,” Mr. Cargill grumbled. “Get to the point.”
    Johnny grinned. If there was anyone who could handle this character, it was the chief.
    Santangelo untented his fingers—half of them twitching—and glowered back at the editor. “My point is that ghostly crime is exceedingly rare. No one among my colleagues can recall a ghost crime of the magnitude of the Night Goose attack. No one.”
    “Practically a military operation,” said Mr. Cargill.
    “Yes. Practically.”
    “That’s why it’s an awfully big story,” Johnny blurted, unable to contain himself.
    Mr. Cargill chuckled and nodded. “The boy’s right. An awfully big story.”
    “So I take it you are contemplating an expedition of some sort?” Santangelo asked.
    Johnny noticed for the first time that Santangelo had perfectly sharp little canine teeth. Like a vampire—not that anything as unbelievable as vampires actually existed.
    “I’m officially informing you that the investigation into the Night Goose attack is now in the hands of the Ministry of Etheristics,” Santangelo said. “I would hope that we