by Jerry
I FELT the blood drain slowly from my face. Santley had not thought of that—that no victim of his drug could wait to be seen! He had not known that there would be no escape from the relentless strength of the strange injection! Dully, I realized that I had been sacrificed unintentionally, only to find, instead of a dangerous criminal, a harmless, half-mad old man! In dazed despair I heard Murdoch’s voice, weak and far away, as he continued.
“I did not discover at first, as you have, that I was irrevocably doomed to this monstrous, unnatural state. I made no attempt to return to the laboratory immediately, but roamed around the city, equipping myself with whatever took my fancy. Money, jewels, clothes, enough to keep me in luxury for life when I returned to my normal state of being. I remember well the day when I began to tire of the splendid excitement—confident and assured in the knowledge of my wealth, I went to the laboratory, prepared to receive the antidote and return to live a life of ease.” He paused, and a dull, pained look crept into his face. “Even then, I could not believe the truth.
“I returned time and again. I forgot the jewels, the money; they were useless to me, as they would be to you. All I desired now was escape, escape from the devilish poison in my blood. But as time passed, and I saw the futility of my position, I became more and more eager to stay here, sheltered by these four walls. Still, the everpresent need for food drove me forth constantly. Each time that I went out, the terrible feeling of frustration became more acute, until, at last, I felt I could no longer bear to see those motionless people—people who I knew were like myself—whose inability to see, to comprehend, drove me into mad, senseless rages, and I hurled myself about In furious fits of insane anger!” His voice dropped. “Thank God—I killed no one—”
I was numb with a nauseated horror. The mysterious attacks which had so puzzled the police were now explained! Coldly, I saw that this would happen to me, too. Would I have the strength of will to control that ghastly frustration, or would I, myself, be the one to commit the very crimes, the murders, I had been sent to forestall? The frightful question engrossed me; I failed to notice that the old man had slumped on the floor. Suddenly a faint murmur drew my eyes in his direction.
“Food . . . food—” His eyes were closed, the lids blue and transparent.
In quick panic I groped around, searching for something to eat, to revive that weak, unearthly voice; but I was unable to find a morsel—the rooms were devoid of food. I hurried back, grasped Murdoch gently by the shoulder.
“Murdoch . . . wait—” I released him suddenly, drew back in fear. His lips moved once, his hand came up slowly, seeking something. The fingers clutched feebly at the air, a faint draft of sound stirred my senses. Murdoch was dead.
MY GAZE returned to the motionless body of the old man, and mv numbed senses dully noted an odd phenomenon. One thin arm was still poised in midair, the palm upward as though beseeching. Suddenly fascinated, I bent over, gazed intently. The arm was rigid—off balance, yet frozen almost erect in the air. In death, Murdoch was free at last of the power of the injection!
Death, then, was the only release!
Blindly. I turned, plunging through those awful rooms out into the night. Through the nightmare city I fled, speeding ever faster in a mad, vain effort to escape the black shadow that paralyzed my thoughts. Mechanically I ate when I became conscious of hunger, then rushed on, through the motionless crowds, wildly hoping to hear a human voice, a laugh—any normal, friendly sound. But the ghastly silence remained unbroken. Gradually my steps slowed. I recognized at last the hideous truth—I was cut off forever from the living world!
An interminable period of time passed. Days—weeks.—months. I was conscious of the slow change of the people and groups I passed, but it was meaningless to me. Helpless, I saw my youth slip away under the constant pressure from within. Mirrors held a morbid fascination.
Once, for a brief period, I attempted to create a life for myself. I frequented museums, libraries; I read extensively. But it was useless. From the image of reality produced by a book, it was increasing agony to return to the silent, lifeless world in which I lived. I gave up reading.
I fell into a sort of apathetic state of being, only to be aroused at times into a raging madman when my thoughts reverted to my fate. At these times I would remove myself far from the crowds, dreading subconsciously the effect these insane outbursts might have on my actions.
Then, one day, I felt the horror coming on. I was in the heart of the city, surrounded on all sides by motionless figures. A sudden feeling of suffocation swept me. I wanted to lash out at the waxen masks, break them, force them to acknowledge my presence!
I screamed! Screamed and no one heard me! My screams were pitched at a frequency too high for the human ear to record! Shaking with sick horror, my legs refused to support me and I sank to the paving. I knew that I was losing my mind—
Slowly, the body of Murdoch came before my eyes, with its rigid, frozen arm. Release! I wondered why I had not thought of it sooner!
WITH EFFORT I arose and entered a nearby drugstore, selected a bottle from the shelves and returned to Murdoch’s house. Subconsciously, I noted that nothing had changed; Murdoch’s body still lay on the floor—decomposition had not begun. I only felt slight wonder; in my mind one thought burned. Escape! I arranged myself in a chair, raised the bottle to my lips and drank.
A burning sensation became immediately apparent in my mouth and throat. My heart slowed gradually and my extremities tingled oddly. I waited dully—aconite, I knew, did not affect the brain; all of my faculties would be with me to the last, the dread suffocation that would attack my respiratory nerves.
Then, a small sound intruded itself into the silence—a ticking, very slow at first, yet seeming to increase in speed. My eye fell wonderingly on the pendulum of the clock—it was moving quite perceptibly! For a moment I did not comprehend, then suddenly I struggled desperately to my feet. Yes! Of course! The action of the poison was to slow tire pulse beat, reduce the flow of blood through the body. Its effect was to decelerate my reactions, to draw me back to normalcy!
A wild hope sprang in my breast. There was a chance—if only I could reach the laboratory!
Madly I rushed from the house out into the street. Already the silence was lifting, the city was coming to life. I detected the sound of a horn—a train whistle. People were moving, the little wax-museum groups were breaking up slowly, yet with increasing speed, and now I realized with quick horror that my strength had already begun to give out!
Hours seemed to pass, and still I struggled on. Dimly, through my agony, I saw with sudden disbelief the building which housed Santley’s laboratory. It seemed impossible that I would ever reach it. Even as I staggered across the lobby I doubted, knowing that every step was torn from the hand of death.
I stood in front of the door and with a final superhuman effort turned the knob and collapsed inside. I saw Santley come toward me swiftly; in my hand was still clutched the bottle of poison, and with a last prayer I dropped it from nerveless fingers. He saw, and a great comprehension came into his face. In a moment I was drinking something, then I felt a tube forced down my throat. My stomach was pumped. The terrible weight on my chest lifted slightly; I felt a jab in my arm, then the room went out of focus as I lost consciousness.
The laboratory was very quiet. A tall, gaunt man was staring at me, his eyes sunken in black sockets. I recognized him finally. It was Santley.
“Where is Murdoch?” he whispered. His voice sounded very clear, yet somehow strange.
I stared at him in amazement. Was it a joke? I searched his face intently, suspiciously.
“Murdoch? Murdoch died three years ago,” I said slowly.
THE LOST HOUR
Alexander Samlman
Earth’s Speed Changes, and the Result Is—
ONE day in March, 1980, Earth’s scientists discovered that the world had lost one hour of time.
Beneath the globe’s surface, a molten mass of ma
tter, which for a century had bubbled and boiled as if stirred by the fires of hell, subsided in its mad upward surge.
Concurrently, fissures on the crust of the Earth closed; there was a change in the eternal rhythm of Earth’s contraction and expansion, and a consequent lowering of its surface.
Local disturbances were reported; however, as the severest shocks were felt at the North and South Poles, and under the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, no general cataclysm took place.
The occurrence was the subject of a lengthy statement by Professor Aldous Grant, world-renowned physicist. Professor Grant was quoted as follows in the Daily Record for March 10, 1980:
“The phenomena which we are witnessing are not unfamiliar to scientists, although they have never been as marked as at present. Because of internal disturbances, our sphere’s rate of rotation, or the length of the terrestrial day, is undergoing a change.
“As early as 1880, astronomers noticed certain irregularities in the motion of the moon. These were inexplicable, and in a strict sense are inexplicable to the present day.
“Irregularities in the motion of the sun were also observed. Checking these against the irregularities of the moon, it was discovered that they coincided. This left no alternative other than the assumption that the true change is in the speed of the Earth, and not in the speed of either sun or moon. At various times in the past, notably in 1790, in 1897, in 1917, and in 1950, the Earth’s speed was subjected to sudden changes.
“These changes have been attributed to contraction and expansion of the Earth’s crust due to altered temperatures within the molten layers. In the nineteenth century the effect of these erratic pulsations was the lengthening of the year by one second. In 1950, it was observed that an opposite effect was obtained, the apparent length of the year becoming shorter by almost a full minute.
“The present disturbances, however, bid fair to break all records. We have been losing time at an unbelievably swift rate. Nothing has as yet been done to adjust ourselves to this acceleration. Nevertheless, it is doubtful whether—”
* * * * *
IN a dark prison cell, a man was preparing to die. Praying fervently, he sought to make peace with his God.
Ralph Frazier knew he was innocent but the circumstantial evidence of the case was all against him. And so he had to die.
The sentence was definite, left no room for doubt. He was in a strange land and thus far nobody had come to his defense.
The words echoed in his tortured mind:
“To be hung by the neck until dead, on the morning of March 11, 1980, at or before five o’clock—”
It was shortly before the fatal hour when they called for Ralph Frazier, and marched him into the prison yard. He looked up at the sky for what he thought would be the last time—and suddenly he gasped. The sun was high in the heavens.
“Look, padre,” he said to the dignified figure at his side. “It is past dawn.”
The guards gaped their astonishment. In the prison yard stood an ancient sundial. Ralph Frazier pointed to it. “It is six o’clock according to that sundial over there,” he declared.
It was true. Although every clock in the vicinity proclaimed the hour of five, the evidence of the sundial could not be denied.
“Our clocks must be out of gear,” said the warden. “But it makes no difference. Let’s go ahead.”
“Ah, no,” spoke the padre. “The young man must not be executed for God has wrought a miracle on his behalf. You must grant him the privilege of a re-trial, according to the laws of this community.”
Benevolently, the padre patted Ralph Frazier’s head.
“My son,” he said, “thank the Lord for this precious chance that has come to you, to prove your innocence.”
Ralph Frazier was conducted back to his cell, where he flung himself upon the stone floor and wept in prayer and gratitude. . . .
* * * *
DR. JAMES HOSKINS was roused from his sleep by the insistent ringing of the telephone. He looked out of the window and saw that it was dawn.
The voice over the wire was anxious and grief-stricken.
“We waited until day came,” the mother spoke nervously, “but the baby’s condition hasn’t improved. He suffered all night and is very feverish now. Oh, Doctor, we don’t know what to do and if you can hurry—”
It meant a long trip across extremely bad roads in the heart of the woods. Dr. Hoskins sighed as he dressed. Life wasn’t easy.
When he arrived at the baby’s bedside he took one look at the flushed face of the tossing infant and rolled up his sleeves and set to work.
“He’ll pull through, all right,” he said comfortingly. “But if you’d waited another ten minutes before calling me it would have been too late.”
* * * * *
THE dictator of a large empire was giving his final instructions to his espionage chief.
“You hold the fate of Esthinia in your hands,” he said gravely. “My people there are ready to overthrow the government—but they need your guidance. Your presence would electrify them, spur them into action.”
“But I can’t reach Esthinia,” said the spy. “Not if, as you say, the mission is so secret that I can’t use a plane. The route is heavily guarded and there’s a price on my head in the intervening territory.”
“Under cover of night, you can work your way through,” the dictator advised. “I order you to go now—and you will be there in time. . . . You must not use a conveyance of any kind, for your preparations would be observed and there’s no one I can trust. This is of the utmost importance.” As he made his way through forest and field in the darkness, the spy realized the vast significance of his mission. Once he presented himself in Esthinia, the spark would be put to the powder keg. Revolution would flame! There would be war and conquest, glory and widespread disaster! But—the Esthinians would not act without him.
The dictator wanted revolt—it would establish him as the ruler, the man of destiny over a much larger empire than he now controlled.
If, however, the spy were stopped before reaching his destination, the threatened uprising would peter out.
Nearer and nearer he came to the border.
The darkness and his own cleverness in avoiding detection were serving him well.
Suddenly he looked up and was startled out of his wits. Had the night passed so quickly? The fingers of dawn Were beginning to paint the sky. . . .
Now the spy became frantic, hastened toward his goal. It was a mad fight against time. Scratched and bruised, he tried to run through bramble and bush, futilely pounded against obstructing trees.
It was no use. Lighter and lighter it grew, and he could no longer hide himself while traveling. If only he had another hour’s time! He crouched under the outspread branches of a protective tree, and it was then a sentry saw and recognized him.
As he was led away to a place of detention, the spy trembled at the thought of the dictator’s mighty wrath.
Today was the day to strike—and he had failed, and another dream of world domination was shattered.
* * * * *
“—doubtful whether,” the report of the learned Professor Grant went on, “the current acceleration of the Earth will have any noticeable influence on the Earth’s population. Perhaps the majority of individuals will be “completely unaware of what has happened. Only the most astute will understand the cosmic occurrence——and even they will be at a loss to explain the amazingly swift, terrific contraction and consequent acceleration of the Earth.
“I predict that though we shall have lost an entire hour by tomorrow, March eleventh, life will go on in much the same way, and people will devote their energies to quite the usual pursuits. Granted, of course, that present calculations are not upset by unforeseen eruptions.
“Though of immense significance from a scientific viewpoint, this phenomenon will pass almost utterly unmarked by, and of no importance whatever to, the hurrying and scurrying beings who make up the major population o
f this globe. They will soon become accustomed to the changed time cycle, and after official action is taken will accept it with the same nonchalance with which they accept Daylight Saving schedules.”
HEAVY PLANET
Lee Gregor
A new author presents a story of a ship that drifted down from space to a strange, dense world—
ENNIS was completing his patrol of Sector EM, Division 426 of the Eastern Ocean. The weather had been unusually fine, the liquid-thick air roaring along in a continuous blast that propelled his craft with a rush as if it were flying, and lifting short, choppy waves that rose and fell with a startling suddenness. A short savage squall whirled about, pounding down on the ocean like a million hammers, flinging the little boat ahead madly.
Ennis tore at the controls, granite-hard muscles standing out in bas-relief over his short, immensely thick body, skin gleaming scalelike in the splashing spray. The heat from the sun that hung like a huge red lantern on the horizon was a tangible intensity, making an inferno of the gale.
The little craft, that Ennis maneuvered by sheer brawn, took a leap into the air and seemed to float for many seconds before burying its keel again in the sea. It often floated for long distances, the air was so dense. The boundary between air and water was sometimes scarcely defined at all—one merged into the other imperceptibly. The pressure did strange things.
Like a dust mote sparkling in a beam, a tiny speck of light above caught Ennis’ eye. A glider, he thought, but he was puzzled. Why so far out here on the ocean? They were nasty things to handle in the violent wind.
The dust mote caught the light again. It was lower, tumbling down with a precipitancy that meant trouble. An upward blast caught it, checked its fall. Then it floated down gently for a space until struck by another howling wind that seemed to distort its very outlines.
