by Earl
Then I tore the earphones off my head, smashed them against the panel with all my strength, and dashed out of the room. I remembered seeing the other operator—the one who had taken my calls—popping his eyes out. Then I was out in the cool air, panting like I had been running for hours.
So it is that I wonder if I shouldn’t escape it all—tossing nights, cold sweats of stark terror, a tortured, fevered brain? It would be so easy: a dark night, real dark, you know, so no one would see me and try to stop me, then the cool water to moisten my feverish brow—nice cool water, inviting water—just one little splash, not a noisy one—no one would know—no one would care—no one would understand—just one splash—and then peace.
My friends tell me not to take on so over the death of my one and only pal. They do not know the story. I have told no one. My friends, they tell me there is a haunted look in my eyes, that lines are deepening in my face. They tell me to buck up, to face life squarely.
But I can’t. I simply can’t. I’ll tell you why. After that night when I ripped out the earphones and blew a fuse in the station by short-circuiting a switch on the panel (I found that out later) I went back in answer to a call from Hegstrom. He was very kind and sympathetic. Wanted to know what had caused me to act so strangely the night before—also wanted to know what had caused Ross’s suicide. Hegstrom is sharp. He saw the connection. But I clamped my jaws together and refused to say anything.
Then Hegstrom asked if the thing he held in his hand had anything to do with Ross. I took the paper. Then I think I gasped or screamed or something. It was a paper filled with some of that balderdash that Ross had written that night. He must have filled two sheets, and I only destroyed one.
I left Hegstrom as mystified as ever, but I had that paper in my pocket. I had a plan to save my sanity. I took the paper to a professor at a college—a professor famous as a language specialist, ancient and modern. I gave him the paper and one hundred dollars (he afterwards returned the money) and asked him to find out from what country or place it came from.
I got my answer a week later.
There was no such language in either the modern or recorded ancient times!
THE GREEN CLOUD OF SPACE
l You will undoubtedly claim this to be Mr. Binder’s best science-fiction story. You have read stories of plagues and scourges that wipe out the earth’s population before, but this one is decidedly different. A tale such as this is what makes an editor’s job a pleasure. The author creates a masterful ending to this tale, which will leave a lasting impression upon your memory. The last two pages are as powerful as an entire story in themselves. This is one of those tales which are so logical and plausible and human, that the reader lives with its characters and is oblivious of all else.
l “Eleven miles a second!” cried George Craft, his voice carrying a tone of incredulity.
“Exactly, George,” answered Dick Palmer, his youthful companion, in whose laboratory the two were at the moment. Dick was busy before a table covered with glass retorts, beakers, flasks, and other paraphernalia, stretching the entire length of the room. It was unmistakably the workshop of a chemist and biologist.
He continued speaking to the other as he worked. “Not only that, but try to visualize the grand picture, presuming you were far enough away to see it all: the earth whirling around the sun at a mean rate of about eighteen miles per second; the other planets likewise with their respective speeds. And then the whole solar system, in all its inconceivable magnitude, moving rapidly around the center of the galaxy at a tremendous rate.
Dick turned toward his seated companion, a beaker in each hand, his eyes sparkling as his imagination vividly visualized the grandiloquent scene. George betrayed astonishment—and admiration.
“It must be wonderful to have an education such as you have, Dick, and to know and understand the wonders of the universe,” said Craft, drawing in a deep breath. Since the youth standing before him had rented the large barn on his father’s place eight months ago, he had been thrilled by endless wonders. Then, too, he had come to think Dick Palmer a prince of fellows. The young chemist, on the other hand, had taken to the quiet country lad and had found him enthusiastic, if somewhat unbrilliant, and a willing helper in detail that would otherwise have wasted much of Dick’s time.
“Yes, it is wonderful, and then again, it’s this very education that has cost me the loss of my home, my parents, and friends. Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps in civic finance. When he saw my lack of interest in business, we clashed and had it out. I went my way and with what little money I had, equipped this laboratory. I have a small income from an estate my grandmother left me and it’s just enough to keep me living and my lab going.”
“Then your father disinherited you?”
“You guessed it. The heir of the illustrious Palmers was kicked out bag and baggage to spend his days as a ‘putterer,’ as dad put it. So here I am.” Dick turned back to his work with a grin hiding whatever deeper feelings were aroused in thinking of his family troubles.
The other sat silent for a moment, then spoke up. “But, Dick, what can you gain by all this? You’ve thrown away a huge fortune, social prestige, and a lot of other things just to follow a hobby. Do you know, I think you’re stubborn.”
Dick Palmer whirled from the table, his face reddened with a shade of anger. “Listen, George, that is exactly what dad threw up to me. Is that all people think about in this world—wealth and power? If so, I must be a misfit. To me it doesn’t mean a thing to have a lot of money, except as a means to an end. What does dad gain by acquiring a fortune? Nothing that in my mind is important. I told him, just as I’m telling you now, that if his wealth couldn’t be used to benefit humanity, it was of no earthly good. If this thing is looked at in a light of reason, can you still call me stubborn?”
Again a look of admiration shone from George’s eyes. Dick certainly stood on his own two feet. George was sorry he had ever credited him with stubbornness. He said so in as many words and they lapsed into silence. Then George spoke again.
“Then your theory, Dick, is that the strange epidemic of a year ago was caused by some dust-cloud or cosmic fog through which the earth traveled on its way around the galaxy, accompanied by the entire solar system?”
“Right.” Dick’s voice radiated confidence.
“Then, what is the use of experimenting any longer for a serum to cure this malady or trying to isolate the germ?”
At the young biologist’s questioning look, he continued, “Since the solar system is rushing through space, the earth will pass beyond the cosmic disease-cloud in due time.”
Little lines of tiredness appeared on Dick’s face as he spoke. He had driven himself relentlessly the past few months. “George, there is one thing in particular that I want to bring out. You remember that the epidemic lasted only a short time; about four months it raged and then suddenly vanished. Yet in that period of time, its ravages were so deadly that people throughout the world died by the thousands. Now, my contention is that we had just a tiny taste of what may yet turn out to be a terrible catastrophe: a sort of warning of what could happen in a greater scale to this world as it speeds through the void. We—the whole world—do not take this seriously enough.” Dick looked grave.
“How did you arrive at your conclusions?”
“Not conclusions, George—suppositions. Preparedness is my whole idea. The whole thing was entirely too short, ended too abruptly, to suit me. It made me think. Suppose by some chance that the germ-cloud that brought the epidemic was a mere offshoot, a small portion of an original cloud that may be a thousandfold larger. If so, then sooner or later we will strike this death of the void in its full strength on the roadway of space. It may be waiting for us like a crouching tiger. Just think what it would mean if we passed through a germ-cloud that lasted not four months, but several years! Think of it—more than 200,000,000 corpses in a round coffin!”
George Craft paled. The horror of the thing struck h
im speechless. He suddenly realized that the man before him was not a mere “putterer.” Apparently, he alone of earth’s vast population thought of a grim, tragic anti-climax to the mysterious plague of the previous year—the plague that had dumbfounded, terrorized the world, only to be smilingly forgotten when it died out of its own accord. And he had cast aside security and wealth to face a problem for which he would he labeled “fool,” should the world hear about it.
Low Funds
l From that moment on, George Craft was Dick’s slave. He would help to the limit of his ability in a cause that could have enslaved no Middle Ages Crusader’s heart more than it captured his heart. Even when Dick emphasized the fact that the whole theory and all its pendent suppositions might conceivably be baseless conjecture, it shook George’s inner resolves not in the least. Come what may, it was worth his effort, just in case the world was being waylaid by more of the plague. He had seen, himself, the ghastly green blotch beside the right ear of those who had been contaminated; the horror on the faces of those not marked with the sign of death, but who could not know when their turn would come; the pitiful stare of helplessness of those whose loved ones were afflicted, knowing that no earthly power could save their lives.
Those months of the plague had been Hell for the whole world. The best medical minds were stunned and powerless. Its origin and cure utterly defeated their titanic efforts to check the epidemic. A professor of Columbia University was the first to suggest the idea of the earth passing through a cosmic cloud of germs. But theories of origin helped not a whit to isolate the germ or cure the stricken.
And yet—George found it a curious thought—after the icy fingers of that ghastly green death had ceased clutching the world, all was forgotten. It was gone; sighs of relief echoed from pole to pole; and mankind firmly, joyously, put the dread thought of the now-extinct plague from its collective mind. It was over and forgotten, one of those events of history. All had forgotten, had been glad to forget—all except Dick Palmer, a youth who spent all of his hours trying to isolate the Green Germ from cultures he had preserved, and to find a serum to kill it.
It was several weeks after this that George Craft, having done his chores about the farm, dropped in to see Dick, as was his custom. As he stepped into the homely laboratory, he saw his friend’s face agleam with exultation. Dick whirled about.
“George, I’ve got it!” he fairly screamed.
“Honest?” gasped George, stupid with surprise.
“So help me. A toxin from that sheep—you know. Inoculated yesterday. Mixed in my bacteriophage, threw it in the culture, and in ten hours it was absolutely non-virile. Of course, the serum is weak. I should be able to produce one that will purge a human being, but—”
“But what?” asked George, surprised that the other should intimate hesitancy now that complete success was within reach.
Dick’s face relaxed, and the tired lines reappeared. “It would take a good deal more money than I have at present. In fact, more than I can hope to get together. This is just a beginning. From these results on, I must gradually produce the true specific that will check the Green Plague’s ravages on the human race, should it appear again.”
“How much money will you need?”
Dick looked sharply at his friend. He knew that the Craft family, although comfortably situated, were not well-to-do. “Several thousand dollars,” he said mechanically.
“What are your plans?”
“Simple under the circumstances, George. I can do perhaps a week’s work yet before I need funds. Then—why, then, I suppose I’ll have to go out and attempt to raise the money somehow, or perhaps maybe some medical institution will listen to me and boost me along.”
But George could detect in his voice as he uttered the last thought, that such a possibility was remote. And then Dick, being young, having done a great thing, would like nothing better than to complete the work himself.
“Well, anyway,” finished Dick, “I’ll have to go out soon for funds or help of some sort.”
“Dick!” cried George eagerly. “Let me do that! Let me try to raise that money. I want to help you—this is my chance!”
Dick, candidly, was startled. What connections could this poor country lad have? How would he ever—? He looked at his eager young face, aglow with enthusiasm. After all, it was no time to refuse aid, futile as it might seem on the face of it.
“That’s splendid of you, George. You’ve been helping me immeasurably ever since I came here; if you can get that money—well, really—you’re a swell friend.”
“I can’t promise you, Dick, but, by Heaven, I’m going to do my best.”
They shook hands silently.
Then for many hours, they talked, the conversation hinging around the Green Plague. Dick told of other biologists who more than suspected that many earthly plagues originated in the void; a plague—like the terrible Black Plague of the Middle Ages—suddenly devastating the whole world. Wasn’t it plausible to assume that they came from space, existed in huge clouds into which the earth would plunge in its eternal fall through the ether? Or couldn’t they spring from the many meteorites that ceaselessly bombard the world? Authorities, tracing the outbreak of the influenza epidemic, found it originated in the state of Kansas, a healthy state with plenty of sunshine, good weather, and blamelessly clean. Had a germ-laden meteorite fallen there and spewed forth the deadly influenza germ which had killed more Americans than the foreign armaments had American soldiers? There had been many other plagues and epidemics down through the pages of history that came swiftly and suddenly to leave behind a trail of corpses. Luckily, none of them had been of sufficient duration to wipe out humanity.
“But this Green Plague of our times,” finished Dick, “somehow strikes me as something more vicious, more ultimately dangerous than any epidemic of the past If it should return—if Earth should plow into a vaster cloud of that disease which is far more deadly than any previous one that has visited our world, mankind would become a memory. The lower animals would inherit the earth and all upon it. With the serum, however, we have at least a fighting chance. I thank a Higher Power that my puny hands and my unworthy brain have been the vehicle of Fate, preparing mankind for another siege of the Green Plague.”
Admiration expanded and became worship in George Craft’s heart. It had been his privilege to be the stick upon which the savior of the world leaned. Whether or not Dick Palmer would ever become the savior of the world, mattered nothing. It was the spirit of the act that counted.
CHAPTER II
Securing Capitol
l Wesley Palmer looked up from his massive mahogany desk. Before him stood a young man. He seemed nervous and out of place in the splendor of the private office of the city’s wealthiest financier. Slowly, the big cigar was extracted from his mouth as he carefully scrutinized the visitor.
“Well, young man, you must have imperative business at hand to be so persistent in wanting to see me. My secretary tells me that you wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I’m a very busy man, so be brief.” He folded his arms across the orchid-tinted blotter pad.
The visitor seemed at a loss how to begin. Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “Mr. Palmer, your son. . . .”
The man behind the desk leaped to his feet, grave concern on his face. “What’s happened to him?”
“Why—why—there is nothing wrong, Mr. Palmer,” stammered the lad, taken aback by the other’s vehemence.
Wesley Palmer sank back into his chair and seemed to be aware suddenly that he had forgotten to breathe, for he took one vast breath before he spoke. “Go on, young man. What about my son?”
“You see, Mr. Palmer,” began George Craft again, “Dick is on the verge of a great discovery. It is so important that it will make him famous forever. His research work in biology”—the cigar in Wesley Palmer’s mouth was now traveling back and forth from one corner to the other furiously—“has resulted in great success. There should be no obstructions to his continu
ed progress. He has worked without sleep for nights and all that—”
“Fool that he is!” burst in the business man. “Meddling child with his glass toys and poisons. My son—a putterer!” George Craft lost his tongue from embarrassment, stared with flushed face at the man who could not see the true light.
“And it’s money he needs?” growled Palmer after a racking silence. “Y-yessir.”
“Did he send you?”
“N-no sir.” This more firmly.
“He didn’t!” bellowed the angered business man in disbelief. “Well, you tell him, whether he sent you or not, that he will not get one single cent from me until he stops that—that puttering of his and comes home. Why, the brazen nerve of him, sending you here.”
“But he didn’t send me, Mr. Palmer,” George mustered up enough courage to say.
“I’ll reserve my own opinion about that. Good day, young man.”
But George Craft didn’t leave. He was frightened, but suddenly anger—righteous anger—flooded him. “Mr. Palmer, you might be sorry for this some day!”
The other’s head shot up. His cold blue eyes flinted angrily. His lips puckered to thunder words that came out like shells from a cannon. “Get out!” he screamed with the added emphasis of a heavy fist crashing to the desk.
That was enough for George Craft.
When he got back to the farm, he straightforwardly told Dick that so far he had been unsuccessful, without divulging, however, to whom he had gone with the quest. “But I’m not through, Dick,” finished George hastily. “I’m going to keep on trying, and sooner or later I’ll get a loan.”
As he finished, an automobile horn blew. George looked at his watch. “Miss Nash is early tonight.”
“How would you like to come along for a nice cool ride, George?”
“No, thanks. Three’s a crowd. Besides, I still have some work to do before dark. Dad might disinherit me if I don’t get those fruit trees pruned before the week is over.” He ran out and waved to Miss Nash as he strode to the house.
