by Don Wilcox
He tried to turn his head. No, that was no longer possible. But his eyes would turn, and he could see what was happening to him.
A stone structure was forming around him—a sort of doorway that arched over his head and down past his shoulders.
Whenever a building’s stone walls fell in ruins, the dust swirled toward him and swept around in fanciful lines. It caught upon the stones of himself and his ornamental arch. It settled. It stuck. And so the arch grew.
Sometimes the Huns, hurrying past, caught sight of him standing there. A few of them squandered bullets on him. But that made no difference now. In fact, the bullets no longer penetrated his flesh. They simply flattened against his stone.
Miraculously, the big shells and falling bombs missed him. Sometimes he thought they swerved out of their courses to miss him. And so the morning’s heavy action wore on. The village buildings fell into ruins. The ornamental living stone about him grew. And he saw what was gradually coming over him.
The death he had cheated two days before was closing in on him at last. A final numbness was slowly spreading . . . Slowly . . .
CHAPTER V
Ill-Fated Rescue Party
Late that afternoon, high above the ruins of the viaduct, two American soldiers and an English girl baled out of a crippled plane in time to parachute down to safety.
Captain Marchand was gloomy. He would never admit to any superstitions on his own part, but he had entertained an unholy fear, from the start, that this rescue venture would be ill-fated. The smoke of invasion was too high to risk a flight this far inland, even when the man to be rescued was Lieutenant Bill Bradford.
But Helene Danzelle had promoted the plan so ardently that she had won official approval. The truth was that she had a pull. Her curious old uncles were among the most valued scientists in the allied cause.
However, the task was a hopeless one, now that the plane was gone. Lou Wagner had come down out of the sky a casualty. While Helene administered first aid to his torn side, they and Captain Marchand held their council of war. This was enemy-held land. Troops were moving through this valley. There was little hope that Bill Bradford, if living, would show his face in daylight.
“All right, I was all wrong,” Helene Danzelle admitted regretfully. “I shouldn’t have started this rescue. But Lou and I wanted so much to do something for Bill. And if there was any chance that that artificial heart would prove itself as a life-giving invention—”
“I’m afraid it didn’t,” said Lou. “Bill himself seemed convinced that it would only keep him going for a few hours.”
“What are we to do then?”
“Save our own skins,” said Captain Marchand. “Without our plane that’s the only thing to do.”
They slipped along from cover to cover until they reached the ruined village. This, according to their information, would have been Bill Bradford’s point of contact with the Underground. But there was no Underground left. There was scarcely any village.
“No time for sight-seeing, Lou,” Marchand snapped. Then he stared. “What kind of thing is that? It looks like a statue of a paratrooper, built into a little cathedral.”
“It looks like Bill!” Lou exclaimed. They edged along the street cautiously. Lou, with a wounded side, was trying to keep pace without holding the party back. Now they paused and took cover in the ruins of a building. Enemy motorcycles were coming over the hill a half mile away.
“Bill!” Lou shouted. “Bill Bradford. Is that you?”
“Shut up!” Captain Marchand growled. “Get under this.”
He dragged a wide flap of floor matting into the corner, and helped Helene and Lou under it. By raising it to the level of the battered stone window frame they could peek out at the approaching motorcycle corps, without being seen.
The Germans roared through. A few of them turned their heads with curiosity at the sight of a stone structure in the center of the street. It had the ornamental qualities of a cathedral, though it stood only twenty-five or thirty feet high. Its graceful lines all curved in such a way as to point up the one central figure-—the finely shaped American paratrooper standing erect, holding a black pistol in his right hand.
Obviously this was the only structure in the village that hadn’t been damaged by bombs and shells.
This fact must have annoyed one of the last men in the motorcycle parade. He stopped and stared back at the beautiful stonework. The sneer on his face told Lou Wagner that the elegance of the monument struck him as an insult. He drew his pistol and fired three shots.
The shots had no effect on the stone paratrooper. Only the tiniest wisps of dust sprayed from the chest of the stone figure. The Nazi sped on to catch up with his party.
Again Lou and his two companions stared. How could any French sculptor have darned to erect such a statue?
“But is it a paratrooper?” Marchand said. “Let’s take a look.”
They ventured out into the open as far as they dared.
“By God, it’s Bill,” Lou said, “—the very image of him!”
“It’s the first monument to the invasion,” Helene said slowly. “I’m glad it looks so much like someone we know. Look how carefully the clothing has been carved. And that black marble gun—”
“How do you explain it, Helene?” Marchand asked.
“I can’t.”
“If Bill Bradford were here he’d ask you. He gave you credit for seeing through every mystery that came up.”
“He overrated me,” said Helene. “But my uncles—they might figure it out. When the war is over I know they’ll want to see it. I hope—look! The eyes!”
“What happened?”
“I thought they moved,” Helene gasped.
“They did move. I saw them,” Lou declared. “Bill! Bill—it is you, isn’t it! Bill, speak to us!”
From its gray stone shoes to the gray stone of its shirt, the gray face and eyes and eyelashes, it stood as motionless as any tombstone.
“You both better come away,” Marchand said. “You’re seeing things. The resemblance is going to your head. It’s easy to have hallucinations when you’re emotionally upset. Come on away.”
Marchand drove his point home by picking up a small stone and tapping the figure up and down. The clack of rock against rock was the only response he got. He watched the eyes intently for a moment. They were stone eyes, staring straight ahead.
“All right,” said Lou. “It just got the best of me for a moment.” He saw that Helene was weeping.
They scurried for cover again—too late! Five of the soldiers had suddenly walked out of the ruins from the outer edge of the village. Lou reached for his pistol.
Crack! The weapon was shot out of his hands. Five men came on with rifles ready. Marchand started to shoot but must have thought better of it. He dropped his pistol at his feet and raised his hands. Five men came on with wise.
The three of them, then, stood in front of a battered stone wall that might have given them protection if they had been a moment quicker. The two pistols at their feet were no more useful than stones. The Germans marched up, and their spokesman growled in bad English.
“I’ll do the talking,” Marchand muttered under his breath. Then he shouted, “I wouldn’t shoot. If you shoot, you die!”
The big Hun’s face twisted into what was meant for a laugh. “Who dies? Not us. And not the girl. She’s to be my prisoner.”
“Stay where you are!” Marchand snapped. “We’ve got guns on you from three sides.”
The big Nazi snarled. “I can’t stand such lies. Shoot the men. No, I’ll shoot them myself.”
The big man lifted his rifle. Instantly it dropped from his hands. Gunfire from somewhere in the neighborhood of the stone statue caught him in the side of the head. It brought him down like a straw dummy.
Three other soldiers let go their guns and hoisted their hands. The remaining one hesitated to look for the source of the pistol shot. Lou seized a fallen weapon and took care of him. H
e thumped down beside his leader.
In a flash Captain Marchand took command, and the three living prisoners stood ready to do any Allied soldier’s bidding.
“You’ll be useful in helping us get back,” said Marchand. “We’ll start as soon as it’s dark. We’ll have a fighting chance to make it. Meanwhile—by God, where did that shot come from?”
“From the statue,” said Lou. “I’m going back and talk with it . . . You never know how much stone ears may hear.”
“I’ll go with you,” Helene said. “I want to leave a wreath of wild-flowers to—to the men of the invasion.”
THE DEVIL’S PIG
First published in Fantastic Adventures, January 1945
The Himmlers and Hitlers of tomorrow were guinea pigs in a fantastic laboratory of rehabilitation that led to . . . something else!
One year has passed since we began this experiment, and the boss has asked me to jot down a few informal notes to supplement the day-to-day records[*] of the scientists. As chief of the guards, I have accumulated a few ideas about these eighty German prisoners. The boss—that is, the director of the Longevity Department of the Ivanoff Laboratories—believes that these prisoners may live a hundred and fifty years or more. If so, a brief summary, year by year, of their habits of living should be of considerable value.
It is now February 2, 1946. The first of the prisoners was smuggled into the laboratories just a year ago today. This particular German was designated Hitler-22-E. This means that he was an official directly under Hitler, twenty-two places from the top. His mustache resembles Hitler’s and it is obvious that he imitates Hitler’s manner in every way he can. From the first day that we dragged him through the rear entrance and he kicked a panel out of a door, he has been the most savage and obstreperous of prisoners.
Hitler-2 2-E has assumed an air of importance among the other seventy-nine prisoners, partly because of his prison name. Most of the group were directly under Himmler. Of these, Himmler-7-H, who was only seven places removed from that chief of wholesale murder, is a bitter rival of Hitler-2 2-E. It’s a wonder these two haven’t succeeded in murdering one another.
Our prison guards must take credit for coming through this first year with seventy-six of their original eighty still alive. The complete lack of any tools, eating utensils, sticks or stones, has left the inmates with nothing but their bare hands for fighting.
Even so, two of them were killed in a tooth and nail scramble after one of the scientists absent-mindedly tossed a cigaret stub through the bars. Three Boches of the four incarcerated in that particular pen dived for the treasure. The cigaret was stamped out, but the scrap went on. The guards thought they had it under control; but it smoldered as a quarrel for a week. Then one night it broke out with a wild cry and cursing. Before the guards won silence with their guns, one of the Himmler boys had achieved it by his fine art of strangling. We carried out two corpses. After that we arranged for a pen for each prisoner.
The other two dead of the original eighty were suicides. It seems that they heard the rumor from the staff discussions that they were in for a very slow death. So they chose shortcuts.
These four bodies were, of course, given thorough post mortems by the Longevity Department.
This brings me to state what every member of the laboratory staff knows: that the intention is to use these high German officials as guinea pigs.
When they escaped execution at the hands of the Allied War Council, they ran right into the Ivanoff Laboratories’ traps set for them. While they are still being sought all over Europe and elsewhere, we are keeping them here in secret. Undoubtedly our plan was not concocted out of scientific zeal alone. The old motive of revenge is strong with all of us.
And why shouldn’t it be? Several of our biologists and chemists and bacteriologists know the horrors of the old German concentration camp. Several have suffered worse than death at the hands of these very inmates.
“If we could keep them alive for a thousand years,” one of the doctors said during the first month of the experiment, “we couldn’t make them suffer enough to pay for their crimes against the world.”
And that’s the way most of us feel.
The prisoners are being fed on rations and treated to some of the questionable comforts of their own recent concentration camps. They’re being spared the unsanitary conditions and the worms in the food. Their lot is better, on the whole, than the fates of most of our people they imprisoned.
Bui there is one special treatment here. Each inmate is periodically given a shot of this longevity serum prepared from juices from the digestive tract of carp.
The longevity serum may or may not succeed in keeping these prisoners alive one hundred and fifty years or more. The doctors who examined the four corpses found their conditions satisfactory.
Meanwhile, my guards are keeping the remaining seventy-six guinea pigs in solitary confinement and taking no chances.—J.G., Chief of the Guards.
FROM THE SECOND ANNUAL REPORT, Feb. 2, 1947: That most savage of all the prisoners, Hitler-2 2-E, inflicted a severe bite on the hand of a guard six weeks ago. It occurred when three guards were attempting to shave the prisoner’s Hitlerian mustache as a disciplinary measure. Infection resulted from the bite, but the guard is recovering.
The Allied War Council has been apprised of the capture of our original 80 Boche officers, and has granted an approval of the laboratory plan, subject to certain restrictions.
The public, it is agreed, will not be informed, owing to the danger of trouble from other Axis criminals who are still at large.
It was voted, during the past year, that women scientists should be prohibited from approaching the grounds of the secret prison. There is something bestial about most of these seventy-six inmates.
“Heil Hitler,” the old habitual salute, still echoes around these premises. The penalty is to lose a meal; but the parrot-like war cry is still as automatic with some of these boys as their craving for food.
The carp extract which keeps them alive is said to be very potent stuff . . .
—J.G., Chief of the Guards.
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH ANNUAL REPORT, February 1, 2095: As one of the chiefs of guards wrote a century and a half ago, the longevity serum is very potent stuff. Seventy of the original eighty prisoners from the Second World War are still very much alive. Their prison routine apparently agrees with them. There have been no outbreaks of consequence in the past five years.
This low muttering of “Heil Hitler,” akin to a curse in their manner of uttering it, seems impossible to eradicate.
One of the prisoners, 22-E, claims that his name is Hitler. Another, 7-H, insists that he is Himmler; but a score of others likewise claim this name. The staff of the Longevity Department recently reviewed some motion pictures depicting the acts of Hitler, Himmler, and some of their aides.
“Obviously these inmates who call themselves Hitler and Himmler are lying,” our chief of guards said. “There’s no resemblance.”
“They don’t resemble anyone, even themselves,” said one of the doctors. And to prove his point he produced some photographs taken when the prisoners first came to this institution a century and a half ago.
They are changing in appearance, unquestionably. If they live another fifty years—and it seems that they might—their earlier human traits may be completely modified.—R.V.V., Director, Dep’t. of Longevity.
FROM THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIFTH ANNUAL REPORT: February 1, 2100: The gang leader, Hitler-2 2-E, has had to be removed out of hearing of the others. He was keeping up his incessant, “Heil Hitler,” and was aggravating a nervous affliction in one of the other Hitler officers.
The doctors have investigated records in search of the nature of this affliction. They have found that the nervous prisoner, whose official prison name was Hitler-30-E, originally came from the same locality as his tormentor. The “E” of the name stood for a geographical location. But so far this does not explain why 30-E should t
hrow his hands across his face in an attitude of fright whenever he hears anyone shout the old German phrase.
Women scientists have petitioned for the right to visit this secret prison, but their request has not been granted.—R.V.V., Director, Dep’t. of Longevity.
FROM THE THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIFTH ANNUAL REPORT: February 1, 2300. As I pen these lines, my thoughts are full of curious memories in connection with my work in these laboratories. This is the fifty-fifth time that I have written an annual report, for I took over this office more than half a century ago.
I have enjoyed working with these creatures called Boches, in the same sense that a zoo keeper might enjoy feeding and caring for his lions, bears, and monkeys. These Boches always attract big crowds, especially on Sundays. In all modesty, I beg to take credit for changing their routine prison life. As follows:
When I took over the directorship, all sixty-two of them were being kept in solitary confinement, and the public wasn’t allowed to know anything about them.
“The public has a right to be entertained,” I declared to the board of directors. “My first reform will be to throw the gates wide open and let the public come in and see what we are doing.”
The effect of this policy has been to advertise the success of the longevity idea. A great many persons are buying the serum today for their own use.
“If such low semi-human specimens as these Boche officials can be made to live more than three and a half centuries.” wrote the editor of the Moscow Star, “why shouldn’t the best of our young manhood and womanhood be exposed to the same treatment, to enjoy the blessing of a long life?”
The rights and wrongs of this question haven’t been settled as yet. Newspapers, public debates, and television controversies are raging today as to whether such prolonged life is desirable.
“Consider the case of Alex T., the Director of Longevity,” one of the Kiev doctors said in his New Year’s speech. (Alex T. refers to me, the present director.) “If Alex T. had been born in the twentieth century instead of the twenty-third, he would have known all about the war in which these Boches were guilty of perpetrating so much inhumanity against man.
