Collected short fiction, p.33
Collected Short Fiction, page 33
In five more minutes their car had whipped up to the base of another building, in the business section, where there was no room for parks between the mighty structures that held the unbroken glass roofs two hundred stories above the concrete pavement.
An elevator brought them up a hundred and fifty stories. Eric led Nada down a long, carpeted corridor to a wide glass door, which bore the words:
COSMIC EXPRESS
stenciled in gold capitals across it.
As they approached, a lean man, carrying a black bag, darted out of an elevator shaft opposite the door, ran across the corridor, and entered. They pushed in after him.
They were in a little room, cut in two by a high brass grill. In front of it was a long bench against the wall, that reminded one of the waiting room in an old railroad depot. In the grill was a little window, with a lazy, brown-eyed youth leaning on the shelf behind it. Beyond him was a great, glittering piece of mechanism, half hidden by the brass. A little door gave access to the machine from the space before the grill.
The thin man in black, whom Eric now recognized as a prominent French heart-specialist, was dancing before the window, waving his bag frantically, raving at the sleepy boy.
“Queek! I have tell you zee truth! I have zee most urgent necessity to go queekly. A patient I have in Paree, zat ees in zee most creetical condition!”
“Hold your horses just a minute, Mister. We got a client in the machine now. Russian diplomat from Moscow to Rio de Janeiro . . . Two hundred seventy dollars and eighty cents, please . . . Your turn next. Remember this is just an experimental service. Regular installations all over the world in a year . . . Ready now. Come on in.”
The youth took the money, pressed a button. The door sprang open in the grill, and the frantic physician leaped through it.
“Lie down on the crystal, face up,” the young man ordered. “Hands at your sides, don’t breathe. Ready!”
He manipulated his dials and switches, and pressed another button.
“Why, hello, Eric, old man!” he cried. “That’s the lady you were telling me about? Congratulations!” A bell jangled before him on the panel. “Just a minute. I’ve got a call.”
He punched the board again. Little bulbs lit and glowed for a second. The youth turned toward the half-hidden machine, spoke courteously.
“All right, madam. Walk out. Hope you found the transit pleasant.”
“But my Violet! My precious Violet!” a shrill female voice came from the machine. “Sir, what have you done with my darling Violet?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, madam. You lost it off your hat?”
“None of your impertinence, sir! I want my dog.”
“Ah, a dog. Must have jumped off the crystal. You can have him sent on for three hundred and——”
“Young man, if any harm comes to my Violet—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll appeal to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!”
“Very good, madam. We appreciate your patronage.”
The door flew open again. A very fat woman, puffing angrily, face highly colored, clothing shimmering with artificial gems, waddled pompously out of the door through which the frantic French doctor had so recently vanished. She rolled heavily across the room, and out into the corridor. Shrill words floated back:
“I’m going to see my lawyer! My precious Violet——”
The sallow youth winked. “And now what can I do for you, Eric?”
“We want to go to Venus, if that ray of yours can put us there.”
“To Venus? Impossible. My orders are to use the Express merely between the sixteen designated stations, at New York, San Francisco, Tokyo, London, Paris——”
“See here, Charley,” with a cautious glance toward the door, Eric held up the silver flask. “For old time’s sake, and for this——”
The boy seemed dazed at sight of the bright flask. Then, with a single swift motion, he snatched it out of Eric’s hand, and bent to conceal it below his instrument panel.
“Sure, old boy. I’d send you to heaven for that, if you’d give me the micrometer readings to set the ray with. But I tell you, this is dangerous. I’ve got a sort of television attachment, for focusing the ray. I can turn that on Venus—I’ve been amusing myself, watching the life there, already. Terrible place. Savage. I can pick a place on high land to set you down. But I can’t be responsible for what happens afterward.”
“Simple, primitive life is what we’re looking for. And now what do I owe you——”
“Oh, that’s all right. Between friends. Provided that stuff’s genuine! Walk in and lie down on the crystal block. Hands at your sides. Don’t move.”
The little door had swung open again, and Eric led Nada through. They stepped into a little cell, completely surrounded with mirrors and vast prisms and lenses and electron tubes. In the center was a slab of transparent crystal, eight feet square and two inches thick, with an intricate mass of machinery below it.
Eric helped Nada to a place on the crystal, lay down at her side.
“I think the Express Ray is focused just at the surface of the crystal, from below,” he said. “It dissolves our substance, to be transmitted by the beam. It would look as if we were melting into the crystal.”
“Ready,” called the youth. “Think I’ve got it for you. Sort of a high island in the jungle. Nothing bad in sight now. But, I say—how’re you coming back? I haven’t got time to watch you.”
“Go ahead. We aren’t coming back.”
“Gee! What is it? Elopement? I thought you were married already. Or is it business difficulties? The Bears did make an awful raid last night. But you better let me set you down in Hong Kong.”
A bell jangled. “So long,” the youth called.
Nada and Eric felt themselves enveloped in fire. Sheets of white flame seemed to lap up about them from the crystal block. Suddenly there was a sharp tingling sensation where they touched the polished surface. Then blackness, blankness.
THE next thing they knew, the fires were gone from about them. They were lying in something extremely soft and fluid; and warm rain was beating in their faces. Eric sat up, found himself in a mud-puddle. Beside him was Nada, opening her eyes and struggling up, her bright garments stained with black mud.
All about rose a thick jungle, dark and gloomy—and very wet. Palm-like, the gigantic trees were, or fern-like, flinging clouds of feathery green foliage high against a somber sky of unbroken gloom.
They stood up, triumphant.
“At last!” Nada cried. “We’re free! Free of that hateful old civilization! We’re back to Nature!”
“Yes, we’re on our feet now, not parasites on the machines.”
“It’s wonderful to have a fine, strong man like you to trust in, Eric. You’re just like one of the heroes in your books!”
“You’re the perfect companion, Nada . . . But now we must be practical. We must build a fire, find weapons, set up a shelter of some kind. I guess it will be night, pretty soon. And Charley said something about savage animals he had seen in the television.
“We’ll find a nice dry cave, and have a fire in front of the door. And skins of animals to sleep on. And pottery vessels to cook in. And you will find seeds and grown grain.”
“But first we must find a flint-bed. We need flint for tools, and to strike sparks to make a fire with. We will probably come across a chunk of virgin copper, too—it’s found native.”
Presently they set off through the jungle. The mud seemed to be very abundant, and of a most sticky consistence. They sank into it ankle deep at every step, and vast masses of it clung to their feet. A mile they struggled on, without finding where a provident nature had left them even a single fragment of quartz, to say nothing of a mass of pure copper.
“A darned shame,” Eric grumbled, “to come forty million miles, and meet such a reception as this!”
Nada stopped. “Eric,” she said, “I’m tired. And I don’t believe there’s any rock here, anyway. You’ll have to use wooden tools, sharpened in the fire.”
“Probably you’re right. This soil seemed to be of alluvial origin. Shouldn’t be surprised if the native rock is some hundreds of feet underground. Your idea is better.”
“You can make a fire by rubbing sticks together, can’t you?”
“It can be done, I’m sure. I’ve never tried it, myself. We need some dry sticks, first.”
They resumed the weary march, with a good fraction of the new planet adhering to their feet. Rain was still falling from the dark heavens in a steady, warm downpour. Dry wood seemed scarce as the proverbial hen’s teeth.
“You didn’t bring any matches, dear?”
“Matches! Of course not! We’re going back to Nature.”
“I hope we get a fire pretty soon.”
“If dry wood were gold dust, we couldn’t buy a hot dog.”
“Eric, that reminds me that I’m hungry.”
He confessed to a few pangs of his own. They turned their attention to looking for banana trees, and coconut palms, but they did not seem to abound in the Venerian jungle. Even small animals that might have been slain with a broken branch had contrary ideas about the matter.
At last, from sheer weariness, they stopped, and gathered branches to make a sloping shelter by a vast fallen tree-trunk.
“This will keep out the rain—maybe—” Eric said hopefully. “And tomorrow, when it has quit raining—I’m sure we’ll do better.”
They crept in, as gloomy night fell without. They lay in each other’s arms, the body warmth oddly comforting. Nada cried a little.
“Buck up,” Eric advised her. “We’re back to nature—where we’ve always wanted to be.”
With the darkness, the temperature fell somewhat, and a high wind rose, whipping cold rain into the little shelter, and threatening to demolish it. Swarms of mosquito-like insects, seemingly not inconvenienced in the least by the inclement elements, swarmed about them in clouds.
Then came a sound from the dismal stormy night, a hoarse, bellowing roar, raucous, terrifying.
Nada clung against Eric. “What is it, dear?” she chattered.
“Must be a reptile. Dinosaur, or something of the sort. This world seems to be in about the same state as the Earth when they flourished there . . . But maybe it won’t find us.”
The roar was repeated, nearer. The earth trembled beneath a mighty tread.
“Eric,” a thin voice trembled. “Don’t you think—it might have been better—You know the old life was not so bad, after all.”
“I was just thinking of our rooms, nice and warm and bright, with hot foods coming up the shaft whenever we pushed the button, and the gay crowds in the park, and my old typewriter.”
“Eric?” she called softly.
“Yes, dear.”
“Don’t you wish—we had known better?”
“I do.” If he winced at the “we” the girl did not notice.
The roaring outside was closer. And suddenly it was answered by another raucous bellow, at considerable distance, that echoed strangely through the forest. The fearful sounds were repeated, alternately. And always the more distant seemed nearer, until the two sounds were together.
And then an infernal din broke out in the darkness. Bellows. Screams. Deafening shrieks. Mighty splashes, as if struggling Titans had upset oceans. Thunderous crashes, as if they were demolishing forests.
Eric and Nada clung to each other, in doubt whether to stay or to fly through the storm. Gradually the sound of the conflict came nearer, until the earth shook beneath them, and they were afraid to move.
Suddenly the great fallen tree against which they had erected the flimsy shelter was rolled back, evidently by a chance blow from the invisible monsters. The pitiful roof collapsed on the bedraggled humans. Nada burst into tears.
“Oh, if only—if only——”
Suddenly flame lapped up about them, the same white fire they had seen as they lay on the crystal block. Dizziness, insensibility overcame them. A few moments later, they were lying on the transparent table in the Cosmic Express office, with all those great mirrors and prisms and lenses about them.
A bustling, red-faced official appeared through the door in the grill, fairly bubbling apologies.
“So sorry—an accident—inconceivable. I can’t see how he got it! We got you back as soon as we could find a focus. I sincerely hope you haven’t been injured.”
“Why—what—what——”
“Why I happened in, found our operator drunk. I’ve no idea where he got the stuff. He muttered something about Venus. I consulted the auto-register, and found two more passengers registered here than had been recorded at our other stations. I looked up the duplicate beam coordinates, and found that it had been set on Venus. I got men on the television at once, and we happened to find you.
“I can’t imagine how it happened. I’ve had the fellow locked up, and the ‘dry-laws’ are on the job. I hope you won’t hold us for excessive damages.”
“No, I ask nothing except that you don’t press charges against the boy. I don’t want him to suffer for it in any way. My wife and I will be perfectly satisfied to get back to our apartment.”
“I don’t wonder. You look like you’ve been through—I don’t know what. But I’ll have you there in five minutes. My private car——”
* * * *
Mr. Eric Stokes-Harding, noted author of primitive life and love, ate a hearty meal with his pretty spouse, after they had washed off the grime of another planet. He spent the next twelve hours in bed.
At the end of the month he delivered his promised story to his publishers, a thrilling tale of a man marooned on Venus, with a beautiful girl. The hero made stone tools, erected a dwelling for himself and his mate, hunted food for her, defended her from the mammoth saurian monsters of the Venerian jungles.
The book was a huge success.
THE END.
1931
The Birth of a New Republic
IN these days of standardized comforts and minimized dangers in living and traveling, we find ourselves—those of us, at least, who have a hankering for the unusual—trying to dig out stories of the old colony days, or, more recently, of the frontier days of the Golden West, in order to add a little romance and adventure to this work-a-day world. But such pleasure must, at best, diminish in intensity as the stories become more familiar and anecdotes are repeated. And even if the thrill of new adventure must remain vicarious for an uncertain length of time, tales of pioneering on different planets or other bodies entirely separated from the earth, with its absolutely strange and necessarily conjectural dangers and difficulties, if presented realistically and with plausibility, must be absorbing indeed. A yarn by either of these authors would promise much. The combination of Breuer and Williamson leaves little to be desired.
CHAPTER I
The New Frontier
NOW, in the last year of the twenty-fourth century, I am setting out to devote the final years of a long and active life to the writing of a narrative of my small part in the historic period just closing, which was perhaps the most important in human history. During my lifetime, the human colonies on the moon have grown from weak, scattered cities to the powerful and prosperous Lunar Corporation. I was in the midst of the terrible struggle in which the autonomy of that corporation was won; and it is my purpose to write what I saw of that greatest of wars as simply and justly as I can.
My story must begin with my father.
He was born in Pittsburgh in the year 2276. Even at that time, now over a century past, the United States of America, in common with the other political organizations that once had ruled the world, had ceased to have any real power over the people within its ancient boundaries. Pittsburgh was a stronghold of the Metals Corporation, one of the most powerful of the half-dozen huge trusts that now ruled the world.
It was typical of my father that he should decide to migrate to the colonies on the moon. His pioneering spirit rebelled at the complex, well-ordered life of the earth. He was a deep thinker, in an original way; he had spent much of his youth roaming the earth in quest of an outlet for his restless energies of spirit. Far too much of a philosopher he was, to get any satisfaction out of the mockeries and superficialities of life in the great cities of earth.
Father was not the man to shut himself up back of a desk in a little glass cage for eight hours of every day, to provide himself with a golden fringe to his tunic and take his wife out to fashionable gatherings, where they would chatter of the latest risqué shows and bet on the rocket races, squander a working man’s fortune at cards and dance themselves ragged to blaring jazz, to go home tipsy with “2,200 port.” My parents were not that kind of people at all.
It is natural that they thought of emigration to the moon.
There was a new world waiting. There, beyond a quarter of a million miles of space, hardy pioneers had opened up a new frontier, two centuries after the last frontier had vanished on earth. Life was simple there and hard. Men were free from convention and artificial restraint. They lived close to nature. They fought for what life gave them, depending upon their hands instead of their purses. On the earth’s satellite was a new field for men with initiative and independence, men who could live and work beyond the protection of the machine. On the moon a man was not a mere cog in the vast, clumsy wheels of society. When he had fought for a home and had won it, he could feel that it was truly his own.
Father was a trained engineer as well as a skilled workman with his hands. He was employed in the great laboratories of the Metals Corporation in Pittsburgh, in which were designed the automatons which each year did more of the routine work of earth, leaving men more time for vicious idleness and inane recreation. His position was an enviable one in the eyes of his fellow’s. There was opportunity for advancement, for a salary that would enable his family to take a high place in the artificial society life of the corporation’s capital, perhaps even an opportunity, if he showed executive and financial ability, for him to win a place on the Board of Directors.
