by Earl
His voice changed to a bark.
“Here—stop that!”
Unseen hands were stamping a rifle butt down on the cans, splitting them open. The invisible fluid vanished into the dirt. Dr. Damon attempted to wrench the rifle away. A hand that could not be seen roughly pushed him away.
Crane clutched at an arm whose position he guessed.
“Listen, Robinhood! Just—”
A fist thudded against his chest, breaking his hold. He almost reeled back against the wall.
For a moment, loud breathing sounded from the invisible man, as though he were a jungle animal over a kill.
“Back!” he grated. “Stay back, or I’ll—”
Suddenly his voice changed, to its usual softness.
“I’m sorry. But I must do this. The secret of invisibility must remain in this valley!”
Crane’s thoughts clicked. The last bits of the puzzle slipped into place.
“I see!” he murmured. “That’s why you didn’t reveal yourself to us right away. You played a lone game. You smashed the radio, so the outside world could not be told of this.
“You chased the deer because you didn’t want Dr. Damon to get blood samples. You wanted neither the fifth column to get the secret, nor Dr. Damon. Nor anybody—except yourself! But what right have you, Robinhood, to deny Dr. Damon, a scientist, his discovery?”
The Invisible Robinhood’s voice came back in deadly earnest.
“No one must have the secret of invisibility—ever! I discovered it by accident, by a physical principle rather than through a hormone. I’ve not misused it. Many others would do good with it, as I have.
But once it got into the wrong hands—chaos! The world would be a madhouse. Invisible deeds of crime! Invisible spies! Invisible armies! Think of those things.
“I know you’re an altruist, Dr. Damon. You probably think of good uses for invisibility—as in crushing crime. But you can’t quite know, as I do, what power it gives a person. You can’t quite know that you’re tampering with dynamite that can blast the world!
“I hope you see my viewpoint. That if it’s within my power to prevent anyone else from having my secret, I must do so!”
Jondra spoke up firmly. “It’s cold, ruthless reasoning. But it’s plain logic!”
The two men glared, still angered, but they made no move as the rifle butt resumed cracking open the cans, spilling the last of the blood samples into the ground.
“There!” It was a deep sigh from the unseen man. The sigh of one who has accomplished a vital mission.
An echoing sigh came from Dr. Damon. His shoulders sagged. He turned away without a word, brokenly.
CRANE could think of no way of consoling a man who had just seen the discovery of a century trickling into oblivion. Nor could he think of any way of denying that the Invisible Robinhood had done right.
He turned to Jondra. He had something to say to her, anyway.
DAWN STRETCHED its rosy fingers across a seared, blackened valley. The four people—one invisible—picked their way to the other end. The fifth columnists’ plane, in its clearing, had freakishly remained unburned, its fuel untouched. The saboteurs had not thought that miracle would happen, or they would have huddled in the ship.
Instead, they had fled. All that remained of them now was scattered somewhere in the black strewing of scorched bones littering the cliff-face. Crane shuddered, at thought of what terror had reigned here the day before.
“Look!”
Jondra’s hand pointed halfway up the cliff-face, along the steep path that led out of the valley. Pierre’s body hung there, against an outjutting stone—visible once again in death. Skin half black, the flames had just reached Pierre. One arm was stiffly outstretched, as if he had been beckoning. The expression on his face was strangely at peace.
The Invisible Robinhood spoke solemnly.
“Have you guessed about Pierre? When he drank too much whiskey that time, delivering Dr. Damon’s letter, he babbled into the ears of a fifth column spy, as I mentioned. The spy took all the conversation down, in a report to Commander Z. I saw the verbatim wording.
“In one place, Pierre had said, in drunken French:
“I just dare the blitzkriegers of Europe to attack our shores! I will lead the invisible dragons out of the valley. They will frighten the enemy. They will stamp the enemy flat. Yes I, Pierre, will save my country from the enemy, for I will lead the invisible dragons against them!”
The invisible man’s voice rose a note.
“I salute you, Pierre! In your own way, you were ready to defend your country and continent against invasion, even if you were mad in the thought. And you did lead the dragons . . .”
CRANE WAS not surprised when the Invisible Robinhood, a while later, made no move to enter the plane.
“I’m staying. Perhaps two or three of the dragons are alive yet. I must hunt them down. And any others of the Unseen Life. Then I must destroy every last vintage of the Unseen Vegetation, with burning gasoline.
“Leave with me, besides food, a rifle, ammunition, the grenades, and a tin of gasoline. Invisibility is a menace. When I leave, this valley will be barren of life. After that”—he paused—“there are many things to do.”
Jondra felt for his arm. “You said before that you loved a girl, and that she’s still alive. You’re wrong in denying yourself—and her—that love, no matter what tasks you set yourself!”
A LOW, almost harsh chuckle sounded. “Look!”
A switch snapped. With startling abruptness, Crane and Jondra saw a tall, lithe young man before them. He was completely sheathed in what looked like fine chain-mail. The gauntleted hands reached up to unfasten the helmetlike hood. Hugh Crane and Jondra Damon gasped in unison.
The face revealed was hideous beyond belief. Great burn-scars obliterated what had once been strong, handsome features. There was little of nose or hair. The lips and jaws were a network of white lines where surgical thread had sewed mangled flesh together. The mouth still looked like an unhealed wound. Only purple folds of lumpy scar tissue remained.
Jondra and Crane stared at this dreadful, once-handsome caricature of a man with horror-stricken eyes.
“I discovered my method of invisibility in a laboratory,” said the Invisible Robinhood. “There was an explosion—”
“Oh, you poor fellow!” Jondra cried and burst into tears.
Again there was a click, and the Invisible Robinhood vanished from their sight.
THEY TOOK off a little later in Crane’s airplane, which had been quickly but efficiently repaired. Three people were in that plane, leaving forever behind them a land which time had truly forgotten—Hugh Crane, Jondra Damon and her scientist father, bitter lines about his mouth in the knowledge that the greatest discovery of all time had come to naught.
Crane looked down. He could see nothing of an invisible man stalking invisible beasts. Somehow, it had all been a horrible dream. Not the least tragic had been that poignant moment when the Invisible Robinhood had figuratively unmasked himself, a splendid young man whose caricature of a face would curse him through all his days.
Curse him, and deny him the fruits of a happy life. But raw courage and high achievement would be his, and Crane knew in his heart that when ugly menace stalked the highways of crime, the Invisible Robinhood would somehow be on hand, ever on the alert against men who would use the marvels of science for their own vicious purposes . . .
Hugh Crane turned to Jondra. Thank heaven, she at least had come out of this all unscathed. And she was entirely visible. In fact, come to think of it, she was a most attractive-looking young lady.
Jondra, with a woman’s intuition, read the message in Crane’s gray eyes.
Her answering smile was the most visible thing Crane had ever seen.
[1] Author Binder here propounds one of the most interesting propositions ever advanced in science fiction. What if, in the great long ago, certain species of mammals and plant-life acquired the power of almost complete invisibilit
y, as a protective coloration against the encroachments of more aggressive animals and more sturdy life-forms?
Even today there are certain species of animal and fish life which, when in danger, can so alter their color as to blend with their natural surroundings, thus confusing their enemies and warding off destruction.
The theory of invisibility has long intrigued science fiction and fantasy writers, and many fine stories on this fascinating theme have been published. All sorts of suppositions have been put forth as to invisibility in man—peculiar bodily makeup, the ability to acquire this strange phenomenon through an outside agency such as secret chemical formulas or intricate atom re-integrated machinery.
But perhaps Nature is wiser than all the wiles of chemistry and electricity, even as Author Binder suggests.—Ed.
[2] In the first story built around this character, (July, 1939) The Invisible Robinhood was built up through the press as the champion of right, and it was the phrase of the day: “Who knows, even at this very minute he may be at your elbow! Think twice before you act!”—Ed.
[3] “Quisling”—the 1940 term for a traitor, a fifth columnist.—Ed.
WE ARE ONE
An alter-ego becomes a physical duplicate.
THE radio announcer’s voice gave staccato news flashes. “Carson City, Nevada. The body of an old prospector was found today, ninety miles south. Apparently burned, his clothing charred, he was within 3 mile of the huge pit that marks the former site of Dry Gulch. This little town, as you’ll remember, was blown sky-high last year, due to the criminal researches of Dr. Bruce Moore in atomic power. Every man, woman and child was killed. Five hundred souls. Also every stick and stone vanished into atoms, in the most gigantic explosion recorded in human history.
“The pit remains, ten miles wide. A heavy mist hangs over it. It is thought that the dead prospector may have wandered in, choked, and staggered a mile out before dying. But why are his clothes burned? Authorities are investigating.
“Chicago—”
Voices rose in comment above the trivial news items which followed.
“Criminal researches is right!” said Dr. Earl Dean, host of the house-party in his Beverly Hills home. “I’m a scientist myself. I believe in the freedom of human thought and study, in the interests of the human race. But for a man to annihilate five hundred human beings by sheer carelessness, in an admittedly dangerous field of science, is worse than criminal. It’s bestial!”
Murmurs agreed. Feeling had run high against the man who had destroyed an entire town, even though a year had gone by.
“I think he should be retried and executed,” Dr. Dean continued. “Like any wanton murderer.”
A quiet voice cut through the affirmative babble.
“I think Dr. Bruce Moore should be exonerated!”
Dean swung in surprise and fastened his eye on his young guest.
“Exonerated, after taking five hundred lives? You don’t mean that, Smith!”
The younger man eyed him steadily. “I do—”
But he got no further. Carroll Dean had grasped his arm.
“Let’s dance,” she suggested hastily, pulling him away.
On the dance floor among other couples, she wagged her head. “Father is great at argument. Especially on that subject. I saved you just in time.”
The girl in Dennis Smith’s arms was young and lovely. A golden tan and brunette hair were offset by a cool white summer gown. Vivacity sparkled from her warm brown eyes. But quite suddenly her flow of light talk halted in mid-sentence.
She looked at her companion with a puzzled expression.
“Dennis,” she began slowly, “father just introduced us an hour ago Yet I feel I’ve met you before. Where?”
Dennis Smith smiled down at her. He was tall, athletically built, under thirty. They made a striking couple together, gliding through the patio. He was aware of that, and tightened his arm about her slightly. But only for a moment. Then he moved away again, keeping a rather exaggerated distance from her supple form.
Curiously, his eyes reflected a hidden pain.
He answered her negatively.
“I’m afraid not, Carroll. I’d certainly remember, if I’d met you before.”
He lifted one eyebrow gravely, to emphasize sincerity.
“There!” The girl almost missed a step, exclaiming the word. “Those little mannerisms! They’re part of a person. I know I’ve met you before . . . . college!”
She gave the last word triumphantly. “Five years ago. Chem class—” Her voice trailed away thoughtfully as she tried to place him.
Dennis Smith’s features stiffened.
“You’re mistaken,” he said almost sharply. “You never heard my name before. We didn’t go to the same college. I went to Northeastern, as I mentioned before. I met your father this afternoon at the library. We both happened to ask for the same reference book. We talked, and he invited me to this party. That’s the first I ever saw of him—or you.”
The girl still looked skeptical.
“Why did you defend Dr. Bruce Moore?” she queried, changing the subject. “Don’t you shudder, as everyone else does, at the terrible thing he caused? Killing five hundred people?”
“Do you?” Smith asked.
She shook her head.
“I pity him,” she said softly. “He isn’t a cold, emotionless scientist, as everyone pictures him. I knew him, you see. At college, where I thought I’d known you. He was sensitive, warm-natured, human. The shame and disgrace must be a bitter load for him to carry.”
“More than you can know!” Dennis Smith muttered.
“You knew him too?” Carroll exclaimed. “Then you must have gone to my college after all!”
She stared at him for a long, searching moment.
“Is your name Dennis Smith?” she asked abruptly. “Or is it something else I’d know?”.
He shook his head wearily.
“Of course we’re Dennis Smith. Why would we masquerade under another name—”
“We!” gasped the girl.
Smith was startled, then grinned sheepishly. “I find myself using the plural at times, for no earthly reason. This music is danceable, isn’t it?”
He had tacitly dismissed the subject. She was still glancing at him often, however, as they whirled around the floor.
“You’re strange somehow,” she breathed. “At times you have a faraway look in your eye.” She hesitated. “Almost as though you’re not really here at all—mentally!”
She laugher at herself.
“I’m being downright silly. First, I try to conjure you up out of my past acquaintances. Now I’m imagining you’re not quite what you seem. Next I’ll be seeing Bruce Moore before me, when he doesn’t dare set foot outside the state of Nevada! But I promise you I won’t. Let’s enjoy the evening.”
Carroll Dean didn’t know how close she had hit to the truth. She didn’t know that at this moment, six hundred miles away, the amiable smile registered by Dennis Smith was born in the mind of a man who was not smiling. . . .
“ENJOY the evening!” Bruce Moore murmured bitterly aloud. “Can I ever enjoy an evening again—except by proxy?”
He sat in a darkened room, before a screen that reproduced in perfect detail the patio in which Carroll Dean danced. Her face was large in the screen. It was being viewed from dose proximity. Prom about the position of one who might be dancing with her.
It was the scene exactly as Dennis Smith saw it. And the sounds that Dennis Smith heard vibrated from the radio-speaker at Moore’s elbow. In effect, through the eyes and ears of “Dennis Smith”, Moore was there in Los Angeles. And through the vocal chords of Dennis Smith, Moore spoke with Carroll Dean.
The girl was in the arms of a proxy, a biological robot!
Dennis Smith did not exist, except as a name—a common, everyday name—that would pass unquestioned among men.
Yes, the name “Dennis Smith” would, but not the name Bruce Moore. If he should dare step
foot himself on that patio floor, a hundred eyes would turn balefully on him. A hundred people would shrink away from him. A hundred voices would call him “MURDERER!”
Worse than that, police would grab him, hustle him to the California courts. In five minutes he would be convicted, sentenced, executed, for a “crime” that had no parallel in history, neither in magnitude nor blind injustice.
Moore’s thoughts flew back.
Back to that grey September morning when he left his laboratory at the outskirts of Dry Gulch. He had picked the small, isolated town because of lurking danger in what he was doing. He had warned his brilliant but erratic assistant not to tamper with the huge cyclotron while he was gone.
Bruce Moore had tentatively broken down silicon atoms into pure energy. He had simply advanced a step from the great researches of Anderson, Laurence, and Urie in that direction. They had broken down Uranium, a radioactive element, into barium and energy. Moore had taken a non-radioactive element, silicon, and split that—into one hundred percent energy!
But only a few atoms of it. If he could split and control larger amounts, he would have what atom-smashers would call dynamic electron-flow.
What the popular press would call “atomic power.”
His car had taken him eastward. He had to order special heavy-duty screens to hold fast the giant of power he wished to liberate.
The explosion had caught him a hundred miles away.
The most appalling explosion of all time, equal to a million tons of guncotton. Perhaps all the mighty energies locked in a gram of matter had burst out at once. Ground-waves had ripped the road before Moore’s car, sending him into a ditch. A blast of sound followed that vibrated his body like a tuning fork. The final wave of concussion had knocked him head over heels into a spiny cactus patch.
All this a hundred miles from the spot.
Anything within that radius had suffered worse. Speeding back, Moore’s hair almost turned grey. All cars along the highway were wrecked. Bewildered passengers were rising from the dust. Some lay moaning with broken bones.
The nearest town, within fifty miles, had apparently been struck by a tornado. Most frame houses were down. Every window in sturdier brick buildings had been shattered. All the streets, paved and unpaved, were in worse condition than if they had been bombed by heavy artillery for hours. There had been dozens of deaths and hundreds of wounded.
