Collected fiction, p.200
Collected Fiction, page 200
“Exactly, my boy. And I may say that Helen is not only very charming, but very much in love with Paris. I am having—er—the time of my life. Wow! I’ve no desire to see this war come to a sudden end.”
Pete spluttered indignantly.
“That’s treason! Surrender, or I’ll liquidate the whole works!”
“Pooh. As a man of science, I have the advantage in war as well as in peaceful pursuits. Do your worst, Manx. Ha, ha! . . . And now I must hasten to my fair Helen’s arms. Au ’voir!”
Pete seethed at this insolent treachery.
“So it’s war, hey?” he blazed. “Okay, I’ll wage you a war. Scientific war!” He lashed his horses to a gallop as he rode his careening chariot back to the Greek lines.
Once there, he went into executive session with Agamemnon, claiming the entire Greek nation had been insulted. Once again Agamemnon tried to suggest some plan, but was overruled by Pete.
“What we need is silk, lots of it. Can you manage that, Aggie?”
“Yes, but I think our idea about—”
“Forget it, kid. Rustle me tons of silk cloth an’ send in them builders of mine in a coupla hours. I’ll have another diagram for ’em.”
The incongruity of a mere captain ordering about the commander-inchief did not occur to Pete. He was too deeply immersed in his plans to teach Aker a severe lesson for having broken his promise not to interfere. Though the catapult was not invented till about 400 B.C., Pete could not wait. He decided to invent the thing himself, from his memory of the excellent diagrams in the encyclopedia he had once peddled from door to door.
After starting the workmen on the construction of the massive but simple catapult, Pete himself got bone needles and thread and began working on a huge sheet of silk, attaching a crude harness to it. When the two new weapons were done, Pete, with courage he never knew he had owned, made a personal demonstration.
Rallying the army around to witness the latest revelation of the gods, he exhorted them boomingly. “Hermes, the winged god, came to me in a dream and bade me organize a corps of parachute troops. It will be new to you, but there’s nothing to fear. Behold!”
Pete gathered the parachute loosely in his arms after strapping the harness on, then took his place in the seat of the catapult. A signal to the operator, and—zun-n-ng! Captain Stentor, feeling compressed to about half his normal length, sailed head foremost with the greatest of ease.
Thirty feet into the air he flew in a breathless rush, and almost two hundred feet horizontally. At the height of his flight he cast the parachute folds violently from him. It billowed out satisfyingly, caught Pete’s falling body with a jerk. He came down with a slamming jolt, but entirely uninjured.
AGAMEMNON and the Achaean soldiers were completely dumfounded. Some were frightened, likening Pete to the gods. But most became quite excited over the prospect of flying in the Stentorian manner.
Pete explained his proposed strategy.
“We’ll rig up maybe half a dozen catapults on wheels, an’ make a flock of parachutes. Then one night we’ll roll the catapults up close to Troy—far enough back so’s we can’t be seen in the darkness, but close enough to shoot our troops over the walls into the fort. Twenty or thirty brave comrades oughta be plenty. They’ll parachute into Troy an’ open the gates for the rest of the boys. See?”
The Greek camp was wild about the idea, with volunteers by the hundreds offering to act as parachuters. Pete chose small, light men for obvious reasons, then set his workmen on the tasks of building catapults and sewing parachutes and harnesses. Captain Stentor was but definitely a big shot now, with his special pipeline to Olympus.
Within a week all was ready for the assault at the dark of the moon. Six catapults were rolled into position with the secrecy of a herd of marching elephants, and the foolhardy parachute company lined up for execution. Presently six zun-n-ngs sounded in the night; six dim flowers blossomed in the blackness high above Troy as the practiced catapulters swayed down toward the earth.
But before Pete could express satisfaction, a strange phenomenon occurred. A flaming streak shot into the air, then another, and still others. The fiery bolts struck the billowing parachutes, which caught fire. Quickly the frantic parachutists came down in flames, their only thought to free themselves from the devilish contraptions that threatened to burn them alive. A crimson glow lit up the interior of Troy, as if a furnace had been opened to the sky.
“Fire arrows,” muttered Pete hopelessly. “Injun stuff! Well, that beats me. Darned if I know what to try next.”
The abortive parachute-troop attack having been countermanded by Captain Stentor, the fires within Troy quickly died out. Then the mocking voice of Paris rang out over the black Plains of Ilium.
“Try again, Manx! You are very amusing, my boy. It might make you feel better to learn that none of your parachutists were injured, save for minor burns. But by all means think up another trick. Only don’t reveal your hand by practicing your new stunt in full view of Troy. It makes our defense too easy!” There was a professorial snicker, then silence save for muted sounds of revelry within the fortress.
Pete seethed with frustration, then gave way to despondency. It seemed he was doomed to stay here till the war dragged to its legitimate close. He looked up suddenly.
“Huh? Did you say somethin’ ?”
It was Agamemnon, urging Stentor now to consider that scheme they intended to try some time ago.
“Your own god-like weapons were ingenious, Captain Stentor, but perhaps the gods, having given us the weapons, also gave the proper defense to the Trojans so as not to show favoritism. But my plan can be known to no one, not even the gods. Hence, Troy cannot withstand the strategy.”
“Okay. So what’s the gag?”
“We shall build a mighty wooden horse, fill it with brave warriors, and leave it before the gates of Troy. Then the army shall withdraw from sight. When the Trojans, overcome with curiosity at our gift, drag it inside the fort, at night our men will steal forth to open the gates for the army!” Agamemnon smiled grimly.
PETE groaned.
“The Trojan horse! That tomato is old as the hills! Why—” He paused as realization dawned that here was the original occasion upon which the wooden horse made its mark in history. Yet, irony of ironies, Aker, now carousing with Helen no doubt, would never fall for that trick. “Nope, ’sno use. That guy Paris is wise to the horse business.”
Agamemnon frowned.
“Your words are strange, Captain Stentor. How could that dog Paris possibly know of what is in my mind only?”
Pete opened his mouth, then shut it again. He couldn’t possibly explain the situation.
“Lemme think this over, Aggie,” he said, stalling.
History, Pete knew, recorded the success of the Trojan horse. So perhaps they should go through with it. Yet it was only too obvious that history was going to need some assistance. Aker would know what was in side the horse. The question was: what would he do about it? Pete put himself in Aker’s shoes. No doubt, as Paris, he was the toast of Troy right now because of his military successes. Probably pretty cocky.
When Aker saw the wooden horse, instead of ignoring it, he would in all likelihood drag it right inside and proceed to annihilate the luckless Greeks in an effort to impress himself further upon the populace. How would he liquidate the Greeks? Well, he had been having good luck with fire so far; probably he would give the Trojan horse the hotfoot.
Pete pondered, and finally an idea blossomed in his fertile brain, came to fruition.
“Aggie,” he declared, “the plan is not so bad, after all. But it wouldn’t hurt to have an official okay. So I’ll make a trip to the Delphic Oracle an’ get the lowdown. Meantime, you go ahead and build the horse. By the time you’ve finished, I’ll be back with a message from the Oracle. Okay, kid?”
Agamemnon nodded vigorously, having made some sense out of the strange jargon. The old warrior felt he had a good scheme, and he was just superstitious enough to want a favorable opinion by the Oracle before going ahead.
“Our stores are at your disposal, Captain Stentor,” he said affably.
“Well, I won’t need much. A ship and crew to take me to Delphi—”
“A penteconter will be ready in the morning.”
“And I’ll need a lot of containers—you know, jars, clay bottles, and so on.”
“They shall be placed aboard the ship.”
“And a bicycle pump.”
“Bicycle pump!” Agamemnon drew back in alarm at this strange syllabic outburst.
Pete covered up hurriedly. Evidently they didn’t have bicycles or pumps in these days. “Er—something the gods mentioned to me. I’ll have them artisans of yours help me fix it up. Okay?”
The bewildered Agamemnon agreed and withdrew, thankfully, to his tent.
He was secretly glad to be rid of the dynamic genius of Captain Stentor, even for only a few days.
With help, Pete quickly built his crude pump. The main cylinder was made from a hollowed-out young tree resembling a willow, about an inch in diameter. A plunger was easily carved and greased so as to be airtight. At the lower end a flap-valve, made of reinforced leather, was installed. Just above this, a smaller tube of hollow wood was joined to the cylinder, also with its flap-valve.
It worked perfectly. Raising the plunger filled the pump with air. Pushing down forced the valve shut and made the air escape through the smaller tube into the bottle or other container prepared to receive it. Quite satisfied, Pete boarded the fifty-oared craft and set sail for Delphi, some two hundred miles away, in a straight line, on the Corinthian Gulf.
PETE discovered the Delphic Oracle to be guarded by a Pythian priestess and several prophets, who had quite a racket interpreting the hissings and rumblings that went on inside the famous cave. For a nominal fee, a layman could enter and ask his questions in person. But invariably he came out staggering dizzily, and had to cough up another fee to have the priest explain what went on.
Pete grinned at this brazen trimming of the suckers. He tossed a coin to the chief prophet, chewed the sacred bay, and drank from the spring Cassotis. Then he entered the cavern dragging a huge sack behind him. This was filled with narrow-necked bottles and gourd-shaped pottery.
The cave narrowed down quickly to a series of fissures at the rear, from which came a noticeable draft. Pete took several whiffs from one of these, and the world began to spin. He backed away nodding. His memory had served him well. Not long before this adventure commenced, away ahead in 1940, Pete had read a newspaper article about the Delphic Oracle. It had explained that the Oracle’s cave was filled with carbon dioxide, and other gases in small proportions, coming from fissures leading deep into the earth. Petitioners to the Oracle, entering the cave, became so drugged by the gas that they envisioned all sorts of weird things. Hence the reputation of the Oracle.
Wasting no time, Pete inserted one end of his pump into the gas vent and smaller tube into the slender mouth of one of his clay bottles. Then he began to pump the container full of compressed carbon dioxide to the bursting point. After each container had been filled and stoppered, Pete repaired to the cavern mouth for fresh air before resuming his labors. Eventually all his pots and bottles were full, and he made his way out of the cave again.
The watchful chief prophet accosted him on the way out, demanding suspiciously to know what Pete had within his big sack. Pete looked about mysteriously, and then whispered in awed tones:
“I’ve captured the Delphic Oracle! I’m taking it home with me! With its wisdom, I’ll have all the answers right at hand when my wife asks those embarrassing questions about the night before!”
The prophet, horrified, demanded that Pete disgorge the Oracle at once, if not sooner. Pete took one of his jars, held it up to the prophet’s face, and opened it suddenly. A burst of gas momentarily overcame the holy one. He reeled dizzily, and was a very easy mark indeed for Pete’s nimble fingers. When Captain Stentor departed, his purse jingled merrily. He had never had any scruples against beating a racketeer at his own game.
BACK on the Plains of Ilium, all was in readiness. A tremendous wooden Seabiscuit had been constructed behind the hills out of sight of Troy. It would easily hold dozens of the daring Achaeans who were volunteering to be included in the suicide party.
Pete’s return from Delphi was eagerly acclaimed, and when he said the Oracle had given him the green light, there was great rejoicing. Pete, of course, insisted on leading the daring raid. His insistence that the Oracle had given him some inside tips on how to conduct the campaign insured him the high position. So sixty Greeks and dozens of Pete’s mysterious crocks and bottles were stowed inside the horse.
Pete gave last-minute instructions. Then, at nightfall, the horse was towed to its position before the gates of Troy, and the remainder of the Greek army feigned withdrawal. The die was cast. The wooden Seabiscuit faced the barrier with jockey Manx up.
Came the dawn, and three-score cramped Greeks began to perspire in the stifling confines of the wooden horse. Hours passed, broken by periodic noises outside as the curious Trojans tried to dope out this crazy maneuver. Pete began to have doubts. Had he misjudged Aker’s psychology? Would he suddenly turn cautious and leave the Achaeans and their horse just sitting there on the Plains of Ilium, feeling silly?
Suddenly the mighty contrivance jerked forward. Again it moved, spasmodically, as the Trojans heaved on the lines. Soon it was inside the fort, judging by the altered character of the surrounding noises. Then, just as Pete had counted on, Paris’ taunting voice called out.
“Ah, there, Manx! Are you inside with your playmates? Tut, tut, my boy. How simple-minded you are not to have realized that I would know all about the wooden horse. Dear, dear, I’m afraid there will soon be a hot time in the old town!”
THERE was a thud against the flank of the horse, a wisp of smoke. Pete grinned. Another fire-arrow. He opened the trapdoor nearest the burning arrow, popped his head out and grinned fiercely. A great yell arose, jeering at the Greeks.
“Fire will avail you naught, men of Troy! Hephaestus, god of fire, has taught me to conquer it! Watch, Aker! How’s this for science?”
He thrust out an arm carrying one of his gourd-shaped containers, and unstoppered it. Carefully he turned it upside down above the merrily burning spot on the wooden horse. Nothing, apparently, came out. But the flames snuffed to oblivion in a twinkling. The heavy carbon dioxide gas, of course, was death to fire.
The Trojans fell back in superstitious awe at this manifestation of deific power. Paris’ angry voice exhorted them, and more fire-arrows plunked into the wooden horse. As each one drove home, another trapdoor opened, another bottle was thrust out, and another flame was quenched invisibly.
In short order the Trojans were filled with panic and began to scatter fearfully. At that instant Pete rallied his men, and the Greeks poured out of the mighty horse toward the now poorly defended gates of Troy. Just as Pete turned to fight a rear guard action and protect the men assaulting the gates, his eye fell upon the tall and handsome Paris standing in a nearby doorway, his face black with rage. Beside him was a buxom blonde, definitely of the Mae West type, whose lusciousness would have upset male metabolism in any era. Helen, no doubt, of Troy!
The war, the Time-chair, everything momentarily faded from Pete’s consciousness, and he could scarcely find it in himself to blame Aker. Twenty-eight hundred years before Christopher Marlowe set the words on paper, Pete Manx cried out:
“Is this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss—”
Wham! Helen of Troy leveled on the impudent conqueror with a left hook to the cheek. The world heaved and spun . . .
CLUNK! Pete sat up shaking his head dizzily. He was in the back room of Historical Research, Inc., sharing the oversized Time-chair with an equally dazed Professor Aker.
“Ya-ah, smarty pants,” gibed Pete. “I licked you anyhow, didn’t I?”
“Zeus, what a woman!” Aker murmured dreamily. “I—”
“Was the trip successful? Did you see the fall of Troy?” It was Henry Larose, accompanied by Dr. Mayhem. He displayed genuine eagnerness.
Pete automatically made a slicing gesture of reassurance. “Of course we got back there. Me an’ the prof seen the whole thing. It was like this—”
He stopped short, turned to look at Aker. The latter registered appalled embarrassment. They communed silently for a moment, then simultaneously shook their heads. No, it was no earthly use to tell Henry Larose what really went on before the fall of Troy. They would not be believed. Outraged historians would give them the lie.
Pete sighed, shrugged, and dug deep for five hundred dollars. These he returned to the bewildered Larose.
“Sorry, mister. I guess the new Time-chair was set up in too much of a hurry. It—er—didn’t work just right. Sorry.”
Larose pocketed the money and drifted out in a miasma of despair.
Dr. Mayhem grinned with sardonic knowingness.
“Got things all messed up back there, I’ll bet. What happened?”
“This here traitor—” Pete began.
Aker interrupted. “This meddler as usual tried to arrange things to suit himself—”
Exeunt all, arguing.
REMEMBER TOMORROW
Fate Hurled Sieve Dawson Across the Channel of the Centuries Into the Perfect World of the Future—But He Found a Shadow Orel This Utopia That Made Him Yearn for the Fast!
CHAPTER I
Strange Awakening
STEVE DAWSON was sunk—in more ways than one. Only a thin shell of metal protected him from the tons of water overhead. He was alone, stranded at the bottom of the sea in a tiny bathysphere that was like a bubble in a vacuum.
“I’m going to die,” Dawson told himself hoarsely. He listened to the echoes of his words within the hollow globe, the first human sounds he had heard in thirty hours.
