by Jerry
Inside, the lights were out except for the last corner where the chief physician stood inoculating Dr. Blaisdik and gravely handing the hypodermic syringe to him, at the same time offering his own arm. The two men shook hands and crawled feet first into their cubicles. The last light went out and in a few minutes the faint sounds of breathing grew quieter-finally ceasing altogether.
Picture the world outside, for a moment! Here is London, streets empty and silent. The wharves at night seem haunted by rustlings and creakings and the Thames has its own little noises as though the ghosts of boats were slipping by on the tide. But the only life is the fish in the river and the rats in the pilings. And those mournful howls that echo across Trafalgar Square are from a homeless dog whose gods have died.
New York’s skyscrapers are like specters in the moonlight and her down-town streets as quiet as though it were always Sunday morning—Chicago, San Francisco, Tokio, Shanghai—it is the same everywhere. In Montreal bands of wolves have already chased deer more than once through St. Catherine’s Street. It is a world as devoid of sensible life as those mysterious cities found in the Mayan jungles. Like them, curiously enough, the problem that would face the chance visitor would be—why? And that question remains unanswered today.
Eighty years later Dr. Blaisdik and his physician awoke, they having timed their awakening earlier than for the rest of humanity. Cautiously they tested their muscles and dosed themselves with restoratives. Carefully they selected a working crew for the first food factory—awakened and restored them—fed them from the reserves and set them to work. Then, with supplies on the way, they brought back a few dozen physicians to consciousness and repeated the process until all of France and Spain were in production. It took ten years to bring the last sleeper out of his cubicle, and by that time the cities were again populated as before. Many buildings were in ruins from neglect—most machinery had to be completely replaced with new—but the job had been done and the minds of the curious asked, as we do, why? For no slightest trace of any great happening—dangerous or otherwise—could be found. Surveyors mapped the entire face of the world from the air and compared the results with old photographs. No changes. Chemists tested the atmosphere for signs of poisons—no changes. Communication was restored by mentelepathy with the future and perfected quickly into its present form. No one could be found in the present or the future who knew of the warning, nor who could have given it.
Dr. Blaisdik, somewhat discomfited by a sudden cooling in popular opinion, retired to his observatory and the world hesitantly agreed that the whole affair had been a hoax from beginning to end. Perhaps a few were puzzled as to what possible purpose there could have been in such a cruel joke, but such doubters seldom raised their voices and so the curious incident has passed into history. Our metaphysicians are still discussing which came first: the future knowledge that the race would bury itself in a century of panic, or the actual panic, which might have been sensed vaguely by some future correspondent who mixed up cause and effect. For obviously, the alternative that the hoax might have been entirely unintentional has occurred to many.
Whether due to the shock to his pride, or from truly reasonable causes, Dr. Blaisdik a few years later published the following rather fantastic statement. Nothing came of it, for a month later he died from some undetermined malady in his lonely observatory on the top of Mount Everest.
“. . . I have an altogether different solution to propose. Suppose that the facts be marshalled one after the other and none ignored. First comes a message, presumably from the future. If so, then since all the present world knows the facts, such a warning as was given would be meaningless. To call it a ‘hoax’ is merely another way of calling it absurd. Why not, rather, grant that the intelligence great enough to send mental messages must be great enough to be serious? What do we argue from such a presumption—why, that the message was not from the future at all. But, since it was plainly from a great distance—since this distance was not in time it must have been in space. Now since there are no human beings in space out beyond the solar system, at least none known, what is more natural than to assume that the message came from other than a human being?
“Let us analyze once more this famous message: First there is a vague warning, including a suggestion that poisonous gases or rays may wipe out the human race and, alternately, an alien race of super-beings may land upon the earth and kill all men; second, there is a definite plan of action outlined. This plan of action is made to appear, it is true, like a means of escape. But might it not in reality be simply a thing desired by the sender of the message? He is not Human, remember, and he is from Outer Space. Why has he sent a message at all? He must have a purpose, obviously, and it should be equally obvious that that purpose is to get all of mankind shut away down under the earth for a period of years.
“Why? What purpose could lie have in such a desire? Let us suppose, for the moment, that you who read these words wish to investigate an African jungle filled with lions and elephants and rhinoceroses and other dangerous animals. Might you not wish to get the beasts out of the way before you commence your exploring? Naturally! You would probably do this by means of lines of beaters, smoke bombs, noisy explosions, and rings of fire. The wild animals, in a panic, would rush away and leave the jungle empty so that you could conduct your work in safety.
“And to leap at once to the solution I propose for the entire mystery, I ask you what strange ship may have appeared out of the sky during our eighty years of sleep? What strange creatures may have landed from her ports and scouted through the silent streets of our cities? What mysterious minds may have ordered the sampling of earth, air, water, temperature and solar radiation? And most important of all, what conclusions were drawn?
“Or was this concealed expedition simply to acquire a supply of some element abundant here on earth? I think not. Already our human scientists are close upon the discovery of atomic synthesis. These alien creatures we have deduced upon these pages must be far ahead of us in intelligence and in science. Nor were any traces of new mines or excavations apparent afterwards. No! We can depend upon it that the expedition was sent to explore our planet and what possible reason is there for such exploration save that it might be colonized by these visitors?
“Ah! You say that they went away again. Therefore they probably found that this earth was not suitable to them and we may forget the whole matter as unimportant. In all seriousness, I ask you, supposing the wild beasts in our imaginary jungle returned after the explorers had left, and presuming them capable of even such simple reasoning as this, might they not have said the same? Once African jungles were without civilization. Today almost the entire continent is overrun with cities and factory units. And as for this jungle called Earth, filled with none too bright animals called Men, how soon may we find ourselves driven out from our earthly heritage, acre by acre? “The future? How far ahead have we been able to communicate?—only a few thousand years. And the whole business is under strict control from that dim unknown Future. There is revealed to us only what has been censored for our consumption. By whom? We suppose by our descendants. But supposing they are not human at all? Or suppose that they are the last of the humans—(why can we not reach fifty or even a hundred thousand years into the future?)
“There are too many dangers that may lie concealed behind any of these mysteries for us to sit back quietly and in idleness. Of course, the whole thing may be a fabric of imagination built up upon insufficient evidence, but I for one am not satisfied and I beg that all my readers who may feel as I do will get into communication with me at once.”
With such speculations, history can have little to do. The matter is interesting but still remains a mystery. None the less, we may learn from it as from all history how to better conduct ourselves in the present—which after all is the mother of History, just as it is the father of the Future.
THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES
S.J. Byrne
This is an impressive story of
a heroic sacrifice made out in space. It will be found very absorbing and will hold the readers to the last word.
FOR EIGHT, merciless hours the great space liner had been struggling. Long before, the huge old sun had claimed it as its own. Although the ship was more than sixteen hundred million miles from the red, fiery mass, its vibratory repulsion apparatus had proved itself insufficient. An exhausted crew of one hundred and fifteen dirty, perspiring men toiled constantly at the machinery. Their fatiguing labor was incessant, and every burnt out wire, every blown tube, and every warped plate was replaced. The great electric power wheel was constantly being turned by men stripped to the waist, whose grimy backs glistened in the flaring light of warning sparks emanating from the wires of the huge apparatus. Long since had their movements ceased to be likened to those of humans, but rather, to the movements of lifeless automatons, endlessly bending down and up, down and up, without change. Whole transformers were changed in a few seconds of time, and some of them were hooked up in dangerously powerful relays. The floor of this great room of chaos was strewn with all sorts of heavy, electrical cables, over which struggled many frantic workers stumbling with their heavy loads of extra equipment. Amidst all this, the deep, roaring hum of the mighty transformers became louder, and more menacing, while waving electrical fingers crept further down the non-conductive, insulator stands. A weird atmosphere of horror began slowly to prevail, as outside the ship, so far away and yet so near, the great, red star of the void reached out its titanic, invisible arms, and their silent and terrible power seemed literally to drag that life-bearing mass of luckless metal into its towering flames.
WITH their faces pressed wearily, yet anxiously against the cold glass of the passenger’s promenade, a once merry group of two thousand people strained their eyes downward upon the ruddy death. Beneath their feet the metal trembled with the struggling of the machinery. From two thousand souls issued continuously a single prayer—for deliverance. Above, below, and all about shone the unfamiliar stars, some twinkling, some glowing, like a miscellaneous powdering of large and tiny jewels sprinkled across a limitless expanse of blackest velvet;—yet far away, in vast, immeasurable depths. Each of these now humble souls felt frightfully alone as they looked at the stars of space, and they were oppressed by the manifestations of the colossal powers of nature. Like sheep in a strange wilderness, they drew instinctively closer together.
From the captain’s quarters near by stepped a tall and care-worn man. His once spotless uniform of white, blue, and gold was soiled and wrinkled. His graying hair hung down from under his crunched cap and dangled in his eyes. Silent people gathered about him,—a sea of white faces;—hope, weariness, both expressed,—all tired and strained. He stood motionless amongst them, understanding their silent question. Hundreds of eyes watched the pale lips move as the expressionless words came forth.
“There is only one way,” he said, slowly, “and only one.”
No chorus of voices resulted,—that would have happened hours before. The pale faces merely leaned nearer, and eyes stared. An eternity of silence seemed to follow, while those same, pale lips twitched,—or perhaps they trembled. It was too slight a movement to be definite. This was the only change in the expression of that stern face as the low words were spoken.
“Someone,” he said, “must be willing to sacrifice—his life.”
This time there was a slight, rustling noise which emanated from the mass of figures. The two flashing eyes in the stem face moved slightly back and forth, penetrating each and every mind,—not blaming the silent ones,—but somehow,—hoping. Then a hand was raised, and a silent figure stepped forward. It was the figure of a pale-faced young man. The crowd moved aside. There was no shout of praise, no back-patting, no hand-shaking,—nothing, just eyes. Only one thing expressed the feelings of all towards this brave and generous boy. The tall figure from the captain’s room placed an arm about his shoulders as the two disappeared from view in the mazes of the liner.
THE silvery sides of the ship stretched far away in space and vanished on a metal horizon, where blackness and myriads of twinkling stars commenced. Lines of rivet-heads, and of metal-covered port-holes ran up and down, all over, and into the distance. A heavy door, huge,—silent, slid upwards, revealing a black interior. Within nestled a one man flier. A grim young man sat at the controls. Before him, through his front observation-port, he could see the square opening he was to pass through. It was a square of blinding light to him, for the great sun was directly in his path, like the maw of hell, opened to receive him.
He was hunched tensely over his instruments, waiting for the signal;—the signal of the rockets, which would take his life. His life,—he dwelt yearningly, for a moment, on those words. Then came two greater words. Their lives,—yes, that was it, he thought,—that had to be it! He hadn’t much time to think after that, for the signal came.
A great flash of yellow light flared up against the flames of red before him. There were the rockets! The time had come, he knew. No pausing now,—the thing could not be tried again. Now or never it would be! The young man’s eyes quivered,—his lips were compressed. For a mere fraction of a second, he revolted from his controls and leaned back away from them. Yet, an inner self finally stirred him to press the starting knife-switch into place. As his head was jerked backwards by the tremendous starting force, his mouth was held rigidly agape, and his white teeth shone brightly in the clash of fiery lights about him. The meteor-dodging rockets of the liner flared far into space, striving, like an outstretched hand in a gesture of protection, to push itself up and away. From the ship’s side hurtled the tiny flier, shooting backwards its orange flame with terrific force. Then an equal fire stream pierced the ether from its forward rockets, retarding the small vessel’s forward motion. Thus, for a moment, it hung suspended in space, in relation to the mother vessel, while its great force-stream pushed mightily against that of the liner. With the great ship’s vibratory repulsion apparatus working at its greatest capacity, its rockets pushing powerfully downward, and With the help of the great force stream of the tiny flier by its side, the success of the experiment was soon to be realized. The great, trembling mass backed slowly away from the flier. Faster and faster it disappeared into the blazing jewel fields of Infinity,—free from the monster sun.
A TINY flier fell towards a great, red sun. Space was silent, and dark, but inside the flier a very lonely man pressed his pale cheek against the cold glass of the side observation port. His eyes were closed, and his mouth hung loosely agape. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. His chest rose and fell, accompanied by the sound of laborious gasps for air;—and painfully, futilely, his heart throbbed with ebbing life. As the air of the single compartment became more and more heavily laden with carbon dioxide, his whirling thoughts became proportionately disconnected.
He was wondering, dreaming, and praying, but didn’t dare to hope. He wondered if the liner had successfully escaped. Of course it had, he thought,—the captain said it would. All the crew had stared at him he remembered,—more than the passengers had stared,—as he stepped into the little flier, and while the inner double doors were closing. Now he noticed the absence of all sound,—the intense silence about him. Why wasn’t there any noise?—he thought. Then he wondered how far he had fallen, and if he would suffocate before he burned. He hoped so.
His thoughts became blank for many long minutes. Still the black craft dropped silently toward the terrific furnace, like a meteor; and a strange light, like the zodiacal light of another system he had known, began to glow all about, dimming the stars. Then his thoughts returned,—slowly they passed through his mind.
Again it was the intense silence about him that he noticed. It seemed so heavy a silence as to have substance, and he could almost feel it pouring into, and permeating his wavering soul. There was something about it that almost drew him from his body and floated him in the great Infinity outside. As his thoughts crept more and more into the subconscious,
he began to experience a new sensation. He was not sure, at first, but he thought he could hear faint strains of music. He wondered if this was the proof of the theory that such a sensation usually preceded entrance to the ‘hereafter.’ Gradually, the music became more definite. It was slow and smooth, and more beautiful than he had ever heard. Its outstanding quality was its exquisite harmony, so wondrous as to make him forget his own existence, and to suspend him in a plane where the silence was so perfect as to ring with music. He loved it. Of a sudden, the old words of a great poet were before him.
“Let me silent be,
For silence is the speech of love,
The music of the spheres above.”
Could it be, he thought, that he was actually listening to that great symphony of heaven’s harmony, the music of the spheres? The great strains poured into his soul. He sank softly and peacefully away into restful oblivion.
Two thousand weary but thankful people pressed their faces against the cold glass of the passenger’s promenade of the great space liner. Far away, in the twinkling void, shone a dull, red star. From two thousand weary souls arose two prayers. One was of thanks for deliverance. The other was one that asked for deliverance,—for the deliverance of one who was far away, out there,—alone.
1936
THE MAD WORLD
A.L. Burkholder
l Every seasoned science-fiction fan has read dozens of tales concerning visits from extra-terrestrial beings. They have come in peace, in war, and indifference. Here we have another visit—but what an unusual one! These space-travellers from across the void receive an entirely different welcome than any other story has ever presented.
