Alien Invasion

by Flame Tree Studio

  Then silence and darkness dropped embraced upon the valley of the blue poppies.

  Chapter II

  The Sigil on the Rocks

  Dawn came. Drake had slept well. But I, who had not his youthful resiliency, lay for long, awake and uneasy. I had hardly sunk into troubled slumber before dawn awakened me.

  As we breakfasted, I approached directly that matter which my growing liking for him was turning into strong desire.

  “Drake,” I asked. “Where are you going?”

  “With you,” he laughed. “I’m foot loose and fancy free. And I think you ought to have somebody with you to help watch that cook. He might get away.”

  The idea seemed to appall him.

  “Fine!” I exclaimed heartily, and thrust out my hand to him. “I’m thinking of striking over the range soon to the Manasarowar Lakes. There’s a curious flora I’d like to study.”

  “Anywhere you say suits me,” he answered.

  We clasped hands on our partnership and soon we were on our way to the valley’s western gate; our united caravans stringing along behind us. Mile after mile we trudged through the blue poppies, discussing the enigmas of the twilight and of the night.

  In the light of day their breath of vague terror was dissipated. There was no place for mystery nor dread under this floor of brilliant sunshine. The smiling sapphire floor rolled ever on before us.

  Whispering little playful breezes flew down the slopes to gossip for a moment with the nodding flowers. Flocks of rose finches raced chattering overhead to quarrel with the tiny willow warblers, the chi-u-teb-tok, holding fief of the drooping, graceful bowers bending down to the little laughing stream that for the past hour had chuckled and gurgled like a friendly water baby beside us.

  I had proven, almost to my own satisfaction, that what we had beheld had been a creation of the extraordinary atmospheric attributes of these highlands, an atmosphere so unique as to make almost anything of the kind possible. But Drake was not convinced.

  “I know,” he said. “Of course I understand all that – superimposed layers of warmer air that might have bent the ray; vortices in the higher levels that might have produced just that effect of the captured aurora. I admit it’s all possible. I’ll even admit it’s all probable, but damn me, Doc, if I believe it! I had too clearly the feeling of a conscious force, a something that knew exactly what it was doing – and had a reason for it.”

  It was mid-afternoon.

  The spell of the valley upon us, we had gone leisurely. The western mount was close, the mouth of the gorge through which we must pass, now plain before us. It did not seem as though we could reach it before dusk, and Drake and I were reconciled to spending another night in the peaceful vale. Plodding along, deep in thought, I was startled by his exclamation.

  He was staring at a point some hundred yards to his right. I followed his gaze.

  The towering cliffs were a scant half mile away. At some distant time there had been an enormous fall of rock. This, disintegrating, had formed a gently-curving breast which sloped down to merge with the valley’s floor. Willow and witch alder, stunted birch and poplar had found roothold, clothed it, until only their crowding outposts, thrusting forward in a wavering semicircle, held back seemingly by the blue hordes, showed where it melted into the meadows.

  In the center of this breast, beginning half way up its slopes and stretching down into the flowered fields was a colossal imprint.

  Gray and brown, it stood out against the green and blue of slope and level; a rectangle all of thirty feet wide, two hundred long, the heel faintly curved and from its hither end, like claws, four slender triangles radiating from it like twenty-four points of a ten-rayed star.

  Irresistibly was it like a footprint – but what thing was there whose tread could leave such a print as this?

  I ran up the slope – Drake already well in advance. I paused at the base of the triangles where, were this thing indeed a footprint, the spreading claws sprang from the flat of it.

  The track was fresh. At its upper edges were clipped bushes and split trees, the white wood of the latter showing where they had been sliced as though by the stroke of a scimitar.

  I stepped out upon the mark. It was as level as though planed; bent down and stared in utter disbelief of what my own eyes beheld. For stone and earth had been crushed, compressed, into a smooth, microscopically grained, adamantine complex, and in this matrix poppies still bearing traces of their coloring were imbedded like fossils. A cyclone can and does grip straws and thrust them unbroken through an inch board – but what force was there which could take the delicate petals of a flower and set them like inlay within the surface of a stone?

  Into my mind came recollection of the wailings, the crashings in the night, of the weird glow that had flashed about us when the mist arose to hide the chained aurora.

  “It was what we heard,” I said. “The sounds – it was then that this was made.”

  “The foot of Shin-je!” Chiu-Ming’s voice was tremulous. “The lord of Hell has trodden here!”

  I translated for Drake’s benefit.

  “Has the lord of Hell but one foot?” asked Dick, politely.

  “He bestrides the mountains,” said Chiu-Ming. “On the far side is his other footprint. Shin-je it was who strode the mountains and set here his foot.”

  Again I interpreted.

  Drake cast a calculating glance up to the cliff top.

  “Two thousand feet, about,” he mused. “Well, if Shin-je is built in our proportions that makes it about right. The length of this thing would give him just about a two thousand foot leg. Yes – he could just about straddle that hill.”

  “You’re surely not serious?” I asked in consternation.

  “What the hell!” he exclaimed, “Am I crazy? This is no foot mark. How could it be? Look at the mathematical nicety with which these edges are stamped out – as though by a die –

  “That’s what it reminds me of – a die. It’s as if some impossible power had been used to press it down. Like – like a giant seal of metal in a mountain’s hand. A sigil – a seal –”

  “But why?” I asked. “What could be the purpose –”

  “Better ask where the devil such a force could be gotten together and how it came here,” he said. “Look – except for this one place there isn’t a mark anywhere. All the bushes and the trees, all the poppies and the grass are just as they ought to be.

  “How did whoever or whatever it was that made this, get here and get away without leaving any trace but this? Damned if I don’t think Chiu-Ming’s explanation puts less strain upon the credulity than any I could offer.”

  I peered about. It was so. Except for the mark, there was no slightest sign of the unusual, the abnormal.

  But the mark was enough!

  “I’m for pushing up a notch or two and getting into the gorge before dark,” he was voicing my own thought. “I’m willing to face anything human – but I’m not keen to be pressed into a rock like a flower in a maiden’s book of poems.” Just at twilight we drew out of the valley into the pass. We traveled a full mile along it before darkness forced us to make camp. The gorge was narrow. The far walls but a hundred feet away; but we had no quarrel with them for their neighborliness, no! Their solidity, their immutability, breathed confidence back into us.

  And after we had found a deep niche capable of holding the entire caravan we filed within, ponies and all, I for one perfectly willing thus to spend the night, let the air at dawn be what it would. We dined within on bread and tea, and then, tired to the bone, sought each his place upon the rocky floor. I slept well, waking only once or twice by Chiu-Ming’s groanings; his dreams evidently were none of the pleasantest. If there was an aurora I neither knew nor cared. My slumber was dreamless.

  Chapter III

  Ruth Ventnor

  The dawn,
streaming into the niche, awakened us. A covey of partridges venturing too close yielded three to our guns. We breakfasted well, and a little later were pushing on down the cleft.

  Its descent, though gradual, was continuous, and therefore I was not surprised when soon we began to come upon evidences of semi-tropical vegetation. Giant rhododendrons and tree ferns gave way to occasional clumps of stately kopek and clumps of the hardier bamboos. We added a few snow cocks to our larder – although they were out of their habitat, flying down into the gorge from their peaks and table-lands for some choice tidbit.

  All that day we marched on, and when at night we made camp, sleep came to us quickly and overmastering. An hour after dawn we were on our way. A brief stop we made for lunch; pressed forward.

  It was close to two when we caught the first sight of the ruins.

  The soaring, verdure-clad walls of the canyon had long been steadily marching closer. Above, between their rims the wide ribbon of sky was like a fantastically shored river, shimmering, dazzling; every cove and headland edged with an opalescent glimmering as of shining pearly beaches.

  And as though we were sinking in that sky stream’s depths its light kept lessening, darkening imperceptibly with luminous shadows of ghostly beryl, drifting veils of pellucid aquamarine, limpid mists of glaucous chrysolite.

  Fainter, more crepuscular became the light, yet never losing its crystalline quality. Now the high overhead river was but a brook; became a thread. Abruptly it vanished.

  We passed into a tunnel, fern walled, fern roofed, garlanded with tawny orchids, gay with carmine fungus and golden moss. We stepped out into a blaze of sunlight.

  Before us lay a wide green bowl held in the hands of the clustered hills; shallow, circular, as though, while plastic still, the thumb of God had run round its rim, shaping it. Around it the peaks crowded, craning their lofty heads to peer within.

  It was about a mile in its diameter, this hollow, as my gaze then measured it. It had three openings – one that lay like a crack in the northeast slope; another, the tunnel mouth through which we had come. The third lifted itself out of the bowl, creeping up the precipitous bare scarp of the western barrier straight to the north, clinging to the ochreous rock up and up until it vanished around a far distant shoulder.

  It was a wide and bulwarked road, a road that spoke as clearly as though it had tongue of human hands which had cut it there in the mountain’s breast. An ancient road weary beyond belief beneath the tread of uncounted years.

  From the hollow the blind soul of loneliness groped out to greet us!

  Never had I felt such loneliness as that which lapped the lip of the verdant bowl. It was tangible – as though it had been poured from some reservoir of misery. A pool of despair –

  Half the width of the valley away the ruins began. Weirdly were they its visible expression. They huddled in two bent rows to the bottom. They crouched in a wide cluster against the cliffs. From the cluster a curving row of them ran along the southern crest of the hollow.

  A flight of shattered, cyclopean steps lifted to a ledge and here a crumbling fortress stood.

  Irresistibly did the ruins seem a colossal hag, flung prone, lying listlessly, helplessly, against the barrier’s base. The huddled lower ranks were the legs, the cluster the body, the upper row an outflung arm and above the neck of the stairway the ancient fortress, rounded and with two huge ragged apertures in its northern front was an aged, bleached and withered head staring, watching.

  I looked at Drake – the spell of the bowl was heavy upon him, his face drawn. The Chinaman and Tibetan were murmuring, terror written large upon them.

  “A hell of a joint!” Drake turned to me, a shadow of a grin lightening the distress on his face. “But I’d rather chance it than go back. What d’you say?”

  I nodded, curiosity mastering my oppression. We stepped over the rim, rifles on the alert. Close behind us crowded the two servants and the ponies.

  The vale was shallow, as I have said. We trod the fragments of an olden approach to the green tunnel so the descent was not difficult. Here and there beside the path upreared huge broken blocks. On them I thought I could see faint tracings as of carvings – now a suggestion of gaping, arrow-fanged dragon jaws, now the outline of a scaled body, a hint of enormous, batlike wings.

  Now we had reached the first of the crumbling piles that stretched down into the valley’s center.

  Half fainting, I fell against Drake, clutching to him for support.

  A stream of utter hopelessness was racing upon us, swirling and eddying around us, reaching to our hearts with ghostly fingers dripping with despair. From every shattered heap it seemed to pour, rushing down the road upon us like a torrent, engulfing us, submerging, drowning.

  Unseen it was – yet tangible as water; it sapped the life from every nerve. Weariness filled me, a desire to drop upon the stones, to be rolled away. To die. I felt Drake’s body quivering even as mine; knew that he was drawing upon every reserve of strength.

  “Steady,” he muttered. “Steady –”

  The Tibetan shrieked and fled, the ponies scrambling after him. Dimly I remembered that mine carried precious specimens; a surge of anger passed, beating back the anguish. I heard a sob from Chiu-Ming, saw him drop.

  Drake stopped, drew him to his feet. We placed him between us, thrust each an arm through his own. Then, like swimmers, heads bent, we pushed on, buffeting that inexplicable invisible flood.

  As the path rose, its force lessened, my vitality grew, and the terrible desire to yield and be swept away waned. Now we had reached the foot of the cyclopean stairs, now we were half up them – and now as we struggled out upon the ledge on which the watching fortress stood, the clutching stream shoaled swiftly, the shoal became safe, dry land and the cheated, unseen maelstrom swirled harmlessly beneath us.

  We stood erect, gasping for breath, again like swimmers who have fought their utmost and barely, so barely, won.

  There was an almost imperceptible movement at the side of the ruined portal.

  Out darted a girl. A rifle dropped from her hands. Straight she sped toward me.

  And as she ran I recognized her.

  Ruth Ventnor!

  The flying figure reached me, threw soft arms around my neck, was weeping in relieved gladness on my shoulder.

  “Ruth!” I cried. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Walter!” she sobbed. “Walter Goodwin – Oh, thank God! Thank God!”

  She drew herself from my arms, catching her breath; laughed shakily.

  I took swift stock of her. Save for fear upon her, she was the same Ruth I had known three years before; wide, deep blue eyes that were now all seriousness, now sparkling wells of mischief; petite, rounded and tender; the fairest skin; an impudent little nose; shining clusters of intractable curls; all human, sparkling and sweet.

  Drake coughed, insinuatingly. I introduced him.

  “I – I watched you struggling through that dreadful pit.” She shuddered. “I could not see who you were, did not know whether friend or enemy – but oh, my heart almost died in pity for you, Walter,” she breathed. “What can it be – there?”

  I shook my head.

  “Martin could not see you,” she went on. “He was watching the road that leads above. But I ran down – to help.”

  “Mart watching?” I asked. “Watching for what?”

  “I –” she hesitated oddly. “I think I’d rather tell you before him. It’s so strange – so incredible.”

  She led us through the broken portal and into the fortress. It was more gigantic even than I had thought. The floor of the vast chamber we had entered was strewn with fragments fallen from the crackling, stone-vaulted ceiling. Through the breaks light streamed from the level above us.

  We picked our way among the debris to a wide crumbling stairway, crept up it, Ruth flitting
ahead. We came out opposite one of the eye-like apertures. Black against it, perched high upon a pile of blocks, I recognized the long, lean outline of Ventnor, rifle in hand, gazing intently up the ancient road whose windings were plain through the opening. He had not heard us.

  “Martin,” called Ruth softly.

  He turned. A shaft of light from a crevice in the gap’s edge struck his face, flashing it out from the semidarkness of the corner in which he crouched. I looked into the quiet gray eyes, upon the keen face.

  “Goodwin!” he shouted, tumbling down from his perch, shaking me by the shoulders. “If I had been in the way of praying – you’re the man I’d have prayed for. How did you get here?”

  “Just wandering, Mart,” I answered. “But Lord! I’m sure glad to see you.”

  “Which way did you come?” he asked, keenly. I threw my hand toward the south.

  “Not through that hollow?” he asked incredulously.

  “And some hell of a place to get through,” Drake broke in. “It cost us our ponies and all my ammunition.”

  “Richard Drake,” I said. “Son of old Alvin – you knew him, Mart.”

  “Knew him well,” cried Ventnor, seizing Dick’s hand. “Wanted me to go to Kamchatka to get some confounded sort of stuff for one of his devilish experiments. Is he well?”

  “He’s dead,” replied Dick soberly.

  “Oh!” said Ventnor. “Oh – I’m sorry. He was a great man.”

  Briefly I acquainted him with my wanderings, my encounter with Drake.

  “That place out there –” he considered us thoughtfully. “Damned if I know what it is. Thought maybe it’s gas – of a sort. If it hadn’t been for it we’d have been out of this hole two days ago. I’m pretty sure it must be gas. And it must be much less than it was this morning, for then we made an attempt to get through again – and couldn’t.”

  I was hardly listening. Ventnor had certainly advanced a theory of our unusual symptoms that had not occurred to me. That hollow might indeed be a pocket into which a gas flowed; just as in the mines the deadly coal damp collects in pits, flows like a stream along the passages. It might be that – some odorless, colorless gas of unknown qualities; and yet –