by Don Wilcox
We reasoned that as soon as their food supply had run out they would still hover over the bones. That would be the chance to catch them all in a body.
Already the stream of purple leading to the hermit was thinning down; and now as the gray of dawn spread across the skies, rendering the yappers nearly invisible, we caught on film the awesome picture of the Mad Hermit—a changed creature—a huge bulbous mountain of swollen flesh sitting motionless below us, apparently half asleep.
I crept away silently. With the aid of growing daylight we were soon again over the mountain top and back to the dreaded cavern. The horror of what we had seen clung in our minds. It was plain to us that the Mad Hermit had somehow stumbled upon a hideous means of subsistence unlike that of any other human being.
So that was why he killed; that was why he could live in a barren cove by the sea where the dead fish washed up to let the feasting yappers pass their nourishment on to him. These skeletons, then, had somehow fallen victim to his knife; and after he had killed them and placed them in the yappers’ cavern, the deadly insects had done the rest. And all the while the superstition about the yappers had protected him in his ghastly business.
We paused before the cavern entrance. We told ourselves that we had looked upon the Mad Hermit for the last time in our lives. Never, we thought, would that repulsive bestial face ever confront us again. For now we would apply the torch to the yappers and be on our way. We would report our findings to the authorities and they could deal with the mad murderer and his trophies as they saw fit.
We steeled ourselves to look upon the remains of the unfortunate Meriwether once more. The little purple beasts had made swift work of him. Already he was scarcely more than a barren skeleton.
Even as we entered, I was still half-consciously gripped by the feeling that there had to be a passage somewhere in this cavern that would let the hermit through from the other side. We had failed to find it, but the presence of Meriwether’s skeleton, and the others—The yappers began to scramble for places over the surfaces of the bone. Their food was nearly gone. The outgoing stream of light ceased; the incoming stream was coming to an end. Though the blackness of the cave was fading to dull gray, the floor still blazed with purple light. A pool of thousands of illuminated dominoes. Here was our chance to catch them all together.
Before Monty lit the torch I made sure that Lucia still had the glass jar of specimens.
Then Monty marched in toward the pool of purple light with a burning stick. “Yeeple, yeeple, yeep, yeep, yeeple!” The ravenous creatures set up a sharp chorus as the last of the food vanished. Louder and louder, like survivors from a famine clamoring to be fed.
Strange illusion, I thought, the way that yapping was echoing through the cavern, but it did sound to me as if the loudest yeeple of all was coming from a point at the farther end of the rock-walled room, not far from the big open entrance. That single voice was so loud and harsh that I glanced in that direction. Something in the formation of the rocks, half visible in the dawn, told me that I should have searched there for the hidden passageway. I wondered—but I saw no yappers.
All that I saw was Lucia standing just outside the cavern, her lithe figure silhouetted against the pink sky, the jar of specimens in her hand. Then—
Crackle! Crackle! Bang! Pop! Poppety! Pwoo-o-o-of!
The flame touched the purple mass, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the deadly yappers were a thing of the past. A horrid stench rose out of the cloud of smoke, and Monty and I rushed out for fresh air.
I heard a frantic scream. Lucia’s scream. It paralyzed me with terror. I froze to the spot, but only for an instant. Then I saw what her wild eyes were seeing—a mountain of bloated human flesh hovering over me—two great mad yellow eyes coming down upon me—a bloody blade swishing through the air.
There could be only an instant of time between that falling blade and my death. It was a lucky instant for me. A sharp wham! and the upraised steel swerved. Glass crashed against the cavern wall as the specimen jar glanced off the blade and flew to its destruction. In that flash I was out of reach.
The huge body charged at Monty. He ducked out of reach and fled. The fumes were so dense that I lost sight of the Mad Hermit for the next moment. Then I saw him bolt out of the cloud of smoke toward Lucia.
The girl did not scream. She ran—almost flew—but her third step was fatal. Her foot slipped on a stone, she went down. Two more steps and the Mad Hermit would be over her. My revolver went into action—once, twice, three times.
With each bark of the gun the mammoth form drew up straighter. The knife slipped from the upraised hand and slithered down over the back. The bloated form slumped backwards with an unearthly groan. The last sounds to pass the contorted lips were “Yeeple, yeeple!” the high pain-stricken call to the vanished yappers.
The Mad Hermit was done.
ROBOTCYCLE FOR TWO
First published in Amazing Stories, September 1942
Here it was, the invention that would overcome his blindness—and that of the girl he loved. Then suddenly sight came back!
CHAPTER I
Dave Melbourne took it with his chin up. The first shock was painful, of course; but he grounded it with stubborn determination. He would go into blindness as one might go into war, courageously, defiantly.
His friends marveled at his strength. They tried to hide the hurt they felt; they couldn’t hide their admiration.
“Snap out of it!” Dave cracked as they talked things over in Strob Rezabek’s den. “After all, this isn’t a funeral.”
Eddie Biddle drew a deep breath, set his teeth, and turned to the wall. He appeared to study the blueprints that hung there. He and Strob couldn’t look at Dave now without visualizing him as he soon would be.
“You’ve got to go on with these inventions, fellows,” Dave insisted. They mustn’t hang back on his account.
“It takes three of us,” Strob protested. “That’s the way we’ve always worked. We’re going to keep on that way.”
“After all,” said Eddie, “it might have been any of us as well as you, Dave.”
David Melbourne knew that was true. He had acquired this rare affliction in the Near East on an expedition for the World-Wide Electric Company. All three of them had gone. There was no rhyme or reason why he and none of the others had become a victim of this singular malady.
But that was beside the point. The doctors were powerless to prevent the tragic course the disease always took. Blindness would come.
“Cheer up, fellows! The world isn’t as black as you think! Look!” Dave drew a letter from his pocket. A bank draft with some handsome figures on it tumbled out. Eddie picked it up with a low whistle.
“Wow! Is it real?” It was from President Stratton of the World-Wide Electric Company.
“Pretty decent,” Strob grunted. “You sure deserve it, though. After all, you saved the expedition . . .” They poured over the letter. It carried sympathy and appreciation: “The executives . . . have made up this purse for you . . . Since you have a few months of sight yet before you, this will enable you to see some more of the world, if you care to do so; or enjoy yourself any way you wish. . .”
“Swell!” Eddie Biddle grinned. “Almost wish I could trade places with you! I’d jump on the next boat to Hawaii. Hula girls! Hotcha!”
“I’d go to Alaska,” said Strob, “and Iceland—and then—but gosh! You’ll get around to fifty dozen places on that dough! Have you decided where—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said
Dave, smiling. “I’m staying here and getting ready.”
“Ready?” Eddie was still thinking of Hawaii.
“For what’s coming,” said Dave. “I prefer to go into blindness with my eyes open.” His words brought them back to reality with a thud. “First I want a place to live, built so I can take care of myself. Next, if you fellows still want to go on with the inventions we’ve planned—”
“Of course we do!�
��
“Then part of this check goes into a laboratory and shop—for the three of us. I won’t promise to do my full third of the work, but I’ll do all I can.”
Then Dave turned to the third expenditure on his agenda. He drew a paper from his pocket. The rough sketch he laid before them looked at first glance like a basketball on a roller skate.
“Don’t laugh,” he said, “but here’s the very latest thing in transportation. My own scheme for blind men and absent-minded professors—in other words, a robot wheeled chair to help me around on the streets.”
Eddie Biddle’s eyes bugged out. The inventive wheels in his head began to whirl. Strob, always on the lookout for flaws, blinked and mumbled, “maybe.”
“Think it over,” said Dave. “I’m going out south for the day. There’s a private institution in one of the suburbs, I’ve heard, with a few blind inmates. Maybe I can get next to them.” David Melbourne’s train clacked along the shore of Lake Michigan. He caught himself memorizing sights here and there. Wild black waves wrought up by the March wind. Swirling smoke from the Illinois Central roundhouses. Sights were precious gems now, even things often called sordid: brilliant billboards, blue-gray apartment houses settling into decay, WPA workers plodding at the earth, brown-roofed factories.
MOTHER RAFFERTY’S HOME.
The dilapidated sign hung over the front portico of the great rambling old mansion.
Dave rang. He waited at the door, listened to the soft music of an old-fashioned organ from within.
The door opened. A small crippled boy said he would go call Miss Yost.
Dave strolled into the reception room. At his footsteps the girl at the organ stopped abruptly, half turned.
“Please don’t let me interrupt,” Dave said casually.
“Oh! ” the girl breathed. “You frightened me. That is, I thought you were Mr. Sleem.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dave, puzzled by her agitation. Her fingers trembled slightly as they returned to the keys. Then she lost herself in her music.
Here was another picture to remember, Dave thought: a beautiful girl at an old-fashioned organ. A face and figure of rare loveliness. Rather shabbily dressed, but that seemed unimportant. The music surged with feeling.
“I’d better go,” said the girl when the number was done. “He won’t like it if he finds me practicing.”
“Who?” Dave asked, watching the girl’s graceful hands brush along the wainscoting as she crossed the room.
“Mr. Sleem,” she answered with a hint of fear in her voice. “I’m supposed to finish another basket for him today.” There was a slight smile in the girl’s half-closed eyes. As she went out of the room it came to Dave with a shock of horror that she was blind.
At length a middle-aged matron in a white uniform entered.
“So you wish to talk with some of our blind,” she said pleasantly, referring to his letter. Dave explained his reasons. A note of restraint came into the matron’s voice. Mother Rafferty’s Home was simply a private institution, and she must warn him at the start that Mr. Sleem did not look kindly upon visitors. “But I’ll be glad to help you if I can.”
The name of Sleem began to have meaning. “Is Mr. Sleem the superintendent?”
“Officially, no. He’s the occupational director.” And before Miss Yost knew it she had plunged into the troubled history of Mother Rafferty’s Home, which meant nothing to Dave. It was no concern of his that Mother Rafferty was bedfast, that Mr. Sleem usurped more and more authority, that Mr. Sleem found it easier to whip the youngsters than reason with them. Then Dave recalled the girl at the organ and his interest leaped.
“Surely he doesn’t mistreat the older ones—such as this young lady I saw at the organ?”
Fire showed in the matron’s eyes, but that was the only answer Dave got. Miss Yost held her tongue and turned the subject to the story of the young organist. The story was by no means all tragic; a personal enthusiasm for the girl showed in the matron’s eyes. For Linda LeFraine was a girl with spirit.
The one source of tragedy was that the girl would never see again. Her optic nerve had been permanently injured in an automobile accident. Her parents had been killed. Some of her relatives were friends of Mother Rafferty. They had sent her here. That was two years ago.
“She’s very talented. She’s tried so hard to be happy here, but—well, she’ll finish her courses and leave in a few months, but heaven knows what she’ll do.”
Dave took a long breath. A cloud of hopelessness hung black and threatening whenever he dared look at it.
“Must be tough to get work when you’re blind. I shouldn’t think there’d be much demand for handmade stuff in this age of machines.”
Miss Yost flashed a warning look. “Better not say that to Mr. Sleem. Baskets are his long suit. Between baskets and musical programs he’s raised his salary and got himself a chauffeur.” She blazed with indignation.
The door swung open and a stocky, well-dressed man strode in.
“Here’s Mr. Sleem now,” said the matron, narrowing an eye at Dave.
The man marched to the desk, a strong air of importance in his bearing. He gave Dave a passing glance through his pince-nez, drew the tight lines about his mouth a little tighter, twisted his narrow mustache a trifle. He picked up the afternoon mail, slid it through his puffy fingers, looked up at Dave again, then at the matron.
“I’ll take care of this man,” he smacked through his thick lips. “You may go back to work.”
The matron went.
“Now, what is it?”
Dave sauntered toward the desk.
He knew by now that Sleem was no man to grant favors. There was no reason why Dave shouldn’t walk out of this hotbed as abruptly as he had walked into it. But something held him—perhaps it was sympathy for the beautiful girl who had already entered the world of darkness that awaited him. At any rate he was in no mood to retreat. But how to get his hooks through this man’s ice? He wondered.
“I’m David Melbourne,” he said. “I’m going blind in a few months. I wrote you—
“Yes, you wanted advice. We’ve no free advice to give anyone. We’re too busy. If there’s nothing further—” The word “free” gave Dave his cue. He caught the gleam of a diamond stick pin, the flare of a sapphire ring. With these reassurances he struck for Sleem’s vital spot.
“Do you teach braille here, Mr. Sleem? I want the best course that money can buy.”
Money. A glimmer of interest showed through Sleem’s spectacles. The stocky man’s lips clicked. “Braille is one of my specialties. However—” he scrutinized Dave with calculated reserve, “I cater to a very select clientele, as my time is limited . . . All tuitions are payable in advance. I could perhaps accommodate one more student at this time.”
Dave arranged his schedule, paid his fees, and left. As he waited for a train back to the city he noticed an advertisement of a local music program “featuring Miss Linda LeFraine, the blind organist.”
A lovely picture of her was on the placard. It clung in Dave’s mind, and with it the item that read: “All proceeds to go to Mother Rafferty’s Home.”
CHAPTER II
Braille and Blueprints
“By gollies, our busiest piece of equipment is the wastebasket,” said Eddie Biddle as he dashed three more designs into oblivion, “but before we get done Dave’s going to have the handiest house ever built.”
“Yeah,” Strob grunted as he labored over his drafting table.
“And that robot vehicle. We’ve got something there. Funny no one’s ever got busy on that before.”
Strob was skeptical as usual. “It’ll make trouble for him—more than it’s worth.”
“I dunno. He may hit some snags, but if it works out, every blind man in the country will want one. Think what that will mean for the firm of Melbourne, Rezabek, and Biddle!”
Strob preferred to be pessimistic, but he couldn’t help turning the matter over in his mind. “Robotomobiles for t
he blind, eh?”
“With plenty of electronic mechanisms to guide them and avoid bumps. Dave talked it over with the patent department at the library. They said after all the changes they’ve seen in recent years, they wouldn’t be surprised if something like this would come in.”
“It’s a sure cinch the electric eye hasn’t begun to find its place,” Strob declared. “But Dave’s scheme for audible indicators—that sounds like trouble to me. By the time he has ten or fifteen tones ringing in his ears at once he won’t know whether to throw ’er into high or turn on his siren and cry for help. But that isn’t all I’m worried about.”
“Yeah?” said Eddie, as if he suspected as much.
“This house we’re planning is for one blind occupant.”
“What of it?”
“Suppose the contractors get it set up and we get all our automatic equipment in, and Dave suddenly takes a notion to get married?”
Eddie snorted. “Dave wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You heard what he said the other day, didn’t you? Blind people have no business getting married. That’s what he said.”
“Yeah?” Strob threw his pencil down and faced Eddie. “What made him say it?” Eddie offered no answer except wide eyes and a gulp. Strob pursued, “Tie’s said it because it’s on his mind. I’ve got a suspicion it’s been on his mind ever since he started taking braille lessons with that blind girl out at Mother Rafferty’s Home. Did you know he bought a little radio for her the other day?”
“I wouldn’t give it a thought,” said Eddie, and for the rest of the afternoon he thought of nothing else.
The braille class at Mother Rafferty’s Home was late getting started that afternoon. The handful of blind students, all younger than Linda and Dave, huddled together in their classroom, clung to their thick braille primers, and chuckled because Mr. Sleem was late.
Mr. Sleem was busy administering discipline to “Dusty,” the half-witted boy who couldn’t talk. Dusty had smashed the mail box on the front porch. A good thing to do, Dusty thought, for he was a creature of action. There was no accounting for Dusty. Most of the inmates laughed at him, though the blind children often feared him. Since he was speechless, they never knew when he was around or what violence he was up to until it was over.
