The Empty World

by D. E. Stevenson

  “A brandy for me, Frederick, when you are quite ready,” said the newcomer, “I need one.”

  “You’ll have to take it in a cup, sir,” Frederick said. “The glasses are all smashed.”

  “I’ll take it out of the bottle if you like,” was the reply.

  Frederick put the bottle on the table, and went for a cup.

  “If you’re one of the pilots —” Sir Richard began.

  The young man nodded. “I am the chief pilot, sir.”

  “— I am sure we are indebted to you for our lives.”

  The chief pilot smiled in a friendly manner — he had obviously expected a different conclusion to Sir Richard’s remark.

  “Well, perhaps,” he agreed. “I did my best. It was a very nasty few minutes. I never met anything like the force of that storm before, and I’ve been a pilot for six years. There was something dynamic about it. Something positively evil — You two seem quite calm amongst the chaos —”

  Jane smiled at the pilot, she liked the look of him — the sun-tanned face, the hawk eyes, the white teeth which glistened when he laughed. He was rather like a jockey in some ways (only bigger, of course), there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his lithe body, and the fine lines of thigh and calf showed up to advantage in the neatfitting uniform.

  “The second pilot’s on now,” continued the young man. “I told him to climb and he’s climbing like a monkey. We shall have to turn on the oxygen soon — d’you feel at all gaspy, sir?”

  “I’m used to heights,” Sir Richard replied. “So don’t make me your canary. Are you expecting more trouble?”

  “I don’t know what to expect. I never expected that, although, of course, I knew there was too much electricity about to be healthy. That’s why we were so high when it happened, and if we hadn’t been high when it happened —” He threw out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Was it a sort of thunderstorm?” enquired Sir Richard.

  “It was the funniest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen,” he replied. “I suppose you have followed that chap Boddington’s prophecies — or haven’t you?”

  “Whose prophecies?” Jane asked.

  “A professor called Boddington,” Sir Richard said. “He foretold an electrical disaster of vast dimensions, didn’t he?”

  “I was rather interested,” said the pilot. “People are always foretelling disasters, of course, but Boddington is a scientist. His disaster has something to do with that new comet which appeared ten years ago. His idea was that it would touch the earth on its next orbit, and set up a tremendous electrical disturbance. Everybody put him down as a lunatic, but it looks as if there might be something in it. Thanks, Frederick,” he added as he took the cup and poured out his brandy. “I’m T.T. in the air as a general rule, but electrical storms don’t happen every trip, thank God.”

  The dining-saloon began to fill up now. Miss Bright appeared, looking somewhat pale and shaken; she was followed by her manager who looked even paler. They ordered brandy and drank it avidly out of breakfast-cups. Two elderly ladies took their places at a table near the door, and ordered barley-water. The remainder of the passengers were men. They did not look particularly interesting, and Jane scarcely noticed them. She could not foresee the future, or she would have examined her fellowpassengers with more care.

  Jane decided that she had better go and find Maisie, she was fond of Maisie, and the girl might be frightened. She said au revoir to Sir Richard, and found her way to her small cabin which was in the liner’s tail. Maisie was not in the least frightened, she was busy tidying up the cabin and laying out Miss Forrest’s silver-backed brushes on the dressing-table.

  “Oh, Miss Forrest, there you are,” she said with a welcoming smile. “What a storm! It was the worst lightning I’ve ever seen, and you feel so unsafe in the air. You should have seen our dining-saloon after it — like a war.”

  “Yes, it was pretty bad,” Miss Forrest said.

  “Everybody was wondering what it could be,” Maisie continued. “Could it have been a bomb or something, do you think?”

  Jane lay down in her bunk, she was suddenly very tired, perhaps this was the effect of the rarified atmosphere, perhaps it was the reaction from her terrifying experience.

  “Do you think you could go to sleep?” Maisie asked anxiously. “You look a bit done up.”

  “I might later,” Jane said. “Tell me what happened first — was anybody hurt? Who is there in the Second Class dining-saloon?”

  “Nobody was hurt — except just bruises,” Maisie said, sitting down on the edge of the bunk. Her small face shone with excitement, and the delight of retailing her experiences to her adored Miss Forrest. Jane looked at her, and realised that Maisie had enjoyed the whole thing — perhaps not the actual few minutes when they were whirling through space like a wind-blown feather, but most certainly the broken crockery, and the terror of her companions. “There are only three of us in the Second Class,” Maisie continued. “Sir Richard Barton’s valet, Miss Bright’s maid, and me, but the steward dines with us, and the first engineer. He’s Scotch and rather dour, but I like him. I don’t like the steward at all, he went pale green when the storm came — thought it was the Day of Judgment. Mr. Farquhar — that’s the first engineer — said it was the dead that rose on the Day of Judgment — not plates and glasses. I couldn’t help laughing. Miss Bright’s maid laughed too, she’s Irish I think. What is Iris like, Miss Forrest?”

  There was no answer to this, and Maisie, looking round, discovered that Miss Forrest had gone to sleep.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  “No Lights”

  When Jane wakened it was dark. The engines were droning away merrily, a sure indication that all was well. She looked at her watch, which was luminous with radium, and found that it was nine o’clock. She had slept for nearly seven hours. It was very queer that she had slept so long, but she was glad that she had done so, for she felt rested and refreshed. She rose, tidied her hair and freshened herself with radium water. Only three more hours, and they would be at Croydon — what a pleasant thought!

  Jane went along to the dining-saloon with a buoyant step. The air was delightful now, not heavy and hot as it had been when they started, and not the rarified “gaspy” air of the heights.

  Dinner was nearly over when she slipped into her seat, and smiled at Sir Richard Barton.

  “I was thinking of sending out a search-party,” he said. “Thought you must have tumbled overboard or something.”

  “I was asleep,” Jane owned.

  Dinner had been served on a motley collection of china, eked out with cardboard plates. Most of the passengers were drinking coffee, and lighting up cigarettes. They began to drift out of the dining-saloon into the lounge which was next door. Sir Richard was in a silent mood; he lay back in his chair, and drummed upon the table with long thin fingers, while Jane ate her fish.

  “You are worried about something,” she ventured.

  “Well,” he said doubtfully, “I confess I am a little puzzled. I have crossed so often that I know the route very well, and we are not on the route. We ought to be passing the depôts every three hours, and I have not seen one.”

  “We were blown out of our course by the storm,” Jane reminded him.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but wouldn’t we have got back on to our course again by now? And another queer thing is we are cut off from all radio communication.”

  “How do you know?”

  “No news tapes,” replied Sir Richard, “and I heard that tall fellow with the eyeglass — I believe his name is Maule — trying to send off a radio message. They would not accept it, said the set had jammed.”

  “The storm probably did that,” Jane said. “What else could it be?”

  Just then the head waiter came over to their table, and asked Sir Richard in a low voice if he would be so good as to speak to the pilot. “He would like to see you in the observation cabin, for a minute, sir,” Frederick sai
d.

  Sir Richard raised his brows and looked at Jane.

  “Come back and tell me what he says,” said Jane.

  Sir Richard nodded and followed Frederick through the sliding door. He was away for some time. Jane finished her dinner and lit a cigarette. She gazed out at the night, pushing the blind aside to do so more easily. How dark it was! Not a pin-point of light showed anywhere. No ships, no depôts. It was very strange. The last time Jane had crossed the Atlantic she had seen dozens of ships’ lights, and she remembered the depôts — their strong lighthouses threw beams for miles — great glaring white beams that swept the horizon and dimmed the stars. We must be miles off the right course, thought Jane.

  “Well, it is not my business,” Jane said to herself. She was helpless, and therefore not afraid. When you stepped into an aeroplane you put yourself into the pilot’s hands, he accepted the charge of you, and you had no more responsibility for your own body. It was therefore quite useless to worry, and Jane was not worrying. The idea was a strange one, and it had never occurred to Jane before. Now that the idea was here she followed it up. In this modern world your body was nearly always under the protection of somebody. In a train, in a ship, in a car, somebody else was responsible for your safety — not you. Even at home in bed the police cared for you and protected you from harm. This Modern World — how far it had diverged from the Natural World! In the Natural World (and by this Jane meant the world of prehistoric man) each person fought for himself, protected himself from harm by his own strength and cunning.

  ⋆⋆⋆

  Sir Richard returned, followed by the chief pilot — the young man whom Jane had seen at luncheon. They looked round the saloon, saw that it was now empty except for Jane Forrest, and came over to her table.

  “This is Captain Fenemore,” Sir Richard said. “He has agreed to let you into the mystery.”

  “Sir Richard has vouched for you, Miss Forrest,” said the pilot. “I don’t want the other passengers to know that anything is wrong — nothing may be wrong —”

  “But you think there is something.”

  “I can’t understand it,” said the young man anxiously, “and neither can Day — he’s the second pilot and thoroughly experienced — we are both absolutely fogged. Here we are, bang on the right road and not a light to be seen. The place is usually as congested as Regent Street — we should have passed the White Prince some hours ago, flying west — Day suggests that we are really miles off the right course, and that our compass and latitude finders have gone crazy with the storm.”

  “Mightn’t that be the explanation?” Jane asked.

  “We have nosed about a bit, north and south,” the pilot replied, “but there’s not a light to be seen — and those depôts throw beams for miles — there are no stars to be seen and no moon. I never was so utterly bewildered in my life.”

  “And the radio,” prompted Sir Richard.

  “That’s the queerest thing of all. The radio is all right — Sparks swears it is — but there’s nothing coming in. Nothing coming in,” repeated Fenemore, looking from Jane to Sir Richard urgently. “Do you realise how extraordinary that is? We have sent out S.O.S. messages, but there is no answer. There’s not a sound from anywhere. The thing is positively eerie — as a rule the radio goes on all day and all night — the difficulty is to keep it out, nowadays.”

  “Your radio is broken,” Jane said.

  “Sparks declares it is in perfect order,” replied Fenemore; “he’s been over every bit of it, he has linked up a spare one and sent out messages from one to the other, but there’s not a sound from anywhere else. Nothing from London, Berlin, New York, nothing from ships, nothing.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jane asked when she had digested this information, and found it incredible.

  “I’m flying east,” he replied. “At least I imagine that I am. We’re bound to fetch up Europe some time — it’s big enough. I shall lose my ship over this,” he added with a sigh.

  “You will not lose your ship if I can prevent it,” Sir Richard said firmly. “I shall speak to the Directors if necessary.”

  “Thank you, sir — of course, you can prevent it,” Fenemore replied. They all laughed at that, and the tension was relaxed.

  The liner settled down for the night. The passengers were told that the storm had delayed them, and it would be morning before they could hope to reach their destination. Some of them were annoyed, and threatened to complain to the company, others were resigned, but none of them seemed to have any doubts about their ultimate safe arrival. Jane was interested in their reactions to the news; she saw them as so many parcels tied up with paper and string and entrusted to the care of the T.A.L.C. to convey from New York to London. The insides of the parcels were different, of course, but the outsides — except for size and shape — were much alike.

  The man with the eyeglass (whom Sir Richard had said was Mr. Maule) accosted Jane on her way through the lounge, and said, “Queer about the lights, what?”

  “What lights?” enquired Jane innocently.

  “No lights,” he replied. “Queer, what?”

  “Yes,” said Jane.

  “And the radio,” he added. “No messages going out, and no messages coming in. Queer, don’t you think?”

  Jane agreed that it was queer. She tore herself away from Mr. Maule with some difficulty; he wanted to pump her, she felt, and Jane didn’t want to be pumped. He reminded her a little of the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s poem. He was not so loquacious, of course, but he was just as difficult to escape from.

  Jane was hurrying from him when she was button-holed by another man, a big powerful individual with enormous hands and feet, and black hair which grew very low on his forehead and swept straight back to the nape of his neck in glossy waves.

  “Excuse me a moment,” he said politely. “My name is Haviland — I am Miss Bright’s manager. Could you tell me what hour we are likely to arrive at Croydon?”

  Jane looked at him, she did not like him at all. “Weren’t you in the lounge when the hour of our arrival was given out?” she enquired.

  “I was,” replied Mr. Haviland. “But that’s all flap-doodle and you know it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re a pal of Sir Richard the Great, aren’t you?” he said, smirking at her. “You’re in the know, you are.”

  Jane gazed at him with her haughtiest expression, she could not pass him, for his huge bulk was blocking the narrow door.

  “Come now, Miss Forrest, you won’t regret it if you are friendly, and give us a hint as to what’s up. Sim Haviland never forgets his friends. I’m anxious because of Miss Bright, she’s valuable goods and I’m in charge — it’s a big responsibility —”

  “Please let me pass. I have nothing to tell you,” Jane said.

  He moved aside sulkily, muttering that she would regret it, and Jane pushed past him. Her heart was beating uncomfortably, he had frightened her, and Jane was not easily frightened.

  Maisie was in the tiny cabin, clicking away merrily upon her portable typewriter. Jane found the sight reassuring — it was just like Maisie to be working away happily in the midst of chaos. Jane perched herself upon the edge of the bunk, and lit a cigarette.

  “Do you want me for anything, Miss Forrest?” Maisie asked, looking up from her work. “I was just getting our last lecture typed out neatly. There was so little time in America.”

  “No, I don’t want anything,” Jane said. “You had better lie down and have a sleep, but don’t undress.”

  “Very well,” Maisie replied. “I shan’t be sorry to have a sleep — is anything the matter?”

  “We shall be late in arriving,” Jane told her. “I don’t quite know what time it will be. The storm delayed us and blew us out of our course. I’m going to sit up a bit longer — I’m not sleepy. I slept the whole afternoon.”

  She took a book and a warm cardigan out of her bag, and returned to the lounge. It was emp
ty. I suppose everyone has gone to bed, Jane thought. She settled herself comfortably on a divan and opened her book — it was Erewhon by Samuel Butler.

  Jane read for a long time, while the liner sped through the night, and, at last, lulled by the monotonous whirr of the powerful engines, she fell asleep. She dreamt that she had come to a town which was completely empty of inhabitants: — there were no dogs or cats, no birds of any description to be seen. She walked through the deserted place, and the sound of her footsteps echoed drearily in her ears. Presently she came to a tall gateway, she pushed the gate open and went in. She found herself in a most beautiful garden; there were smooth green lawns, and tall shady trees, and there were fountains sending cool jets of silver water high up into the sky. But, best of all, the garden was full of beautiful men and women, tall and stately and glowing with life and health. They welcomed Jane kindly. They took her hand, and led her forward. “Have you come to stay?” they asked her. “I hope you have come to stay.” Jane felt she would like nothing better than to stay in the beautiful garden, she felt happy and at rest. But, after a few minutes, she began to realise that some trouble was weighing on these people’s minds — they were not so happy as she had thought — and it came to her suddenly in her dream that it was because they could not get out of the garden that they were unhappy. They were prisoners in a gilded cage. She rushed to the gate at which she had entered, but the gate had disappeared, and, instead, there was a high wall surmounted with iron spikes. She beat upon the wall with her hands crying that she must get out, she must get out — and then, quite suddenly, she awoke.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  “Land Ho!”

  Jane awoke to see Sir Richard bending over her, his kind face was full of anxiety and distress —

  “You were crying in your sleep,” he said to her.

  “I had a dreadful dream,” said Jane in a dazed voice. “A dreadful dream.” She shuddered as the memory of the dream came back.

  “Don’t think of it,” Sir Richard told her. “Don’t think of it at all, and it will pass away as quickly as it came. Dawn is breaking now — I thought you might like to see it — it is very beautiful.”