Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  The men backed slowly in a solid body; and somebody said: “That’s funny. I thought I heard the elevator.”

  “Elevator!” Morton echoed. “Are you sure, man?”

  “Just for a moment I was!” The man, a member of the crew, hesitated. “We were all shuffling our feet‌—‌”

  “Take somebody with you, and go look. Bring whoever dared to run off back here‌—‌”

  There was a jar, a horrible jerk, as the whole gigantic body of the ship careened under them. Morton was flung to the floor with a violence that stunned him. He fought back to consciousness, aware of the other men lying all around him. He shouted: “Who the devil started those engines!”

  The agonizing acceleration continued; his feet dragged with awful exertion, as he fumbled with the nearest audioscope, and punched the engineroom number. The picture that flooded onto the screen brought a deep bellow to his lips:

  “It’s pussy! He’s in the engine room‌—‌and we’re heading straight out into space.”

  The screen went black even as he spoke, and he could see no more.

  It was Morton who first staggered across the salon floor to the supply room where the spacesuits were kept. After fumbling almost blindly into his own suit, he cut the effects of the body-torturing acceleration, and brought suits to the semiconscious men on the floor. In a few moments, other men were assisting him; and then it was only a matter of minutes before everybody was clad in metalite, with anti-acceleration motors running at half power.

  It was Morton then who, after first looking into the cage, opened the door and stood, silent as the others crowded about him, to stare at the gaping hole in the rear wall. The hole was a frightful thing of jagged edges and horribly bent metal, and it opened upon another corridor.

  “I’ll swear,” whispered Pennons, “that it’s impossible. The ten-ton hammer in the machine shops couldn’t more than dent four inches of micro with one blow‌—‌and we only heard one. It would take at least a minute for an atomic disintegrator to do the job. Morton, this is a super-being.”

  Morton saw that Smith was examining the break in the wall. The biologist looked up. “If only Breckinridge weren’t dead! We need a metallurgist to explain this. Look!”

  He touched the broken edge of the metal. A piece crumbled in his finger and slithered away in a fine shower of dust to the floor. Morton noticed for the first time that there was a little pile of metallic debris and dust.

  “You’ve hit it.” Morton nodded. “No miracle of strength here. The monster merely used his special powers to interfere with the electronic tensions holding the metal together. That would account, too, for the drain on the telefluor power cable that Pennons noticed. The thing used the power with his body as a transforming medium, smashed through the wall, ran down the corridor to the elevator’ shaft, and so down to the engine room.”

  “In the meantime, commander,” Kent said quietly, “we are faced with a super-being in control of the ship, completely dominating the engine room and its almost unlimited power, and in possession of the best part of the machine shops.”

  Morton felt the silence, while the men pondered the chemist’s words. Their anxiety was a tangible thing that lay heavily upon their faces; in every expression was the growing realization that here was the ultimate situation in their lives; their very existence was at stake and perhaps much more. Morton voiced the thought in everybody’s mind:

  “Suppose he wins. He’s utterly ruthless, and he probably sees galactic power within his grasp.”

  “Kent is wrong,” barked the chief navigator. “The thing doesn’t dominate the engine room. We’ve still got the control room, and that gives us first control of all the machines. You fellows may not know the mechanical set-up we have; but, though he can eventually disconnect us, we can cut off all the switches in the engine room now. Commander, why didn’t you just shut off the power instead of putting us into spacesuits? At the very least you could have adjusted the ship to the acceleration.”

  “For two reasons,” Morton answered. “Individually, we’re safer within the force fields of our spacesuits. And we can’t afford to give up our advantages in panicky moves.”

  “Advantages! What other advantages have we got?”

  “We know things about him,” Morton replied. “An right now, we’re going to make a test. Pennons, detail five men to each of the four approaches to the engine room. Take atomic disintegrators to blast through the big doors. They’re all shut, I noticed. He’s locked himself in.

  “Selenski, you go up to the control room and shut off everything except the drive engines. Gear them to the master switch, and shut them off all at once. One thing, though‌—‌leave the acceleration on full blast. No anti-acceleration must be applied to the ship. Understand?”

  “Aye, sir!” The pilot saluted.

  “And report to me through the communicators if any of the machines start to run again.” He faced the men. “I’m going to lead the main approach. Kent, you take No. 2; Smith, No. 3, and Pennons, No. 4. We’re going to find out right now if we’re dealing with unlimited science, or a creature limited like the rest of us. I’ll bet on the second possibility.”

  Morton had an empty sense of walking endlessly, as he moved, a giant of a man in his transparent space armor, along the glistening metal tube that was the main corridor of the engineroom floor. Reason told him the creature had already shown feet of clay, yet the feeling that here was an invincible being persisted.

  He spoke into the communicator: “It’s no use trying to sneak up on him. He can probably hear a pin drop. So just wheel up your units. He hasn’t been in that engine room long enough to do anything.

  “As I’ve said, this is largely a test attack. In the first place, we could never forgive ourselves if we didn’t try to conquer him now, before he’s had time to prepare against us. But, aside from the possibility that we can destroy him immediately, I have a theory.

  “The idea goes something like this: Those doors are built to withstand accidental atomic explosions, and it will take fifteen minutes for the atomic disintegrators to smash them. During that period the monster will have no power. True, the drive will be on, but that’s straight atomic explosion. My theory is, he can’t touch stuff like that; and in a few minutes you’ll see what I mean‌—‌I hope.”

  His voice was suddenly crisp: “Ready, Selenski?”

  “Aye, ready.”

  “Then cut the master switch.”

  The corridor‌—‌the whole ship, Morton knew‌—‌was abruptly plunged into darkness. Morton clicked on the dazzling light of his spacesuit; the other men did the same, their faces pale and drawn.

  “Blast!” Morton barked into his communicator.

  The mobile units throbbed; and then pure atomic flame ravened out and poured upon the hard metal of the door. The first molten droplet rolled reluctantly, not down, but up the door. The second was more normal. It followed a shaky downward course. The third rolled sideways‌—‌for this was pure force, not subject to gravitation. Other drops followed until a dozen streams trickled sedately yet unevenly in every direction‌—‌streams of hellish, sparkling fire, bright as fairy gems, alive with the coruscating fury of atoms suddenly tortured, and running blindly, crazy with pain.

  The minutes ate at time like a slow acid. At last Morton asked huskily:

  “Selenski?”

  “Nothing yet, commander.”

  Morton half whispered: “But he must be doing something. He can’t be just waiting in there like a cornered rat. Selenski?”

  “Nothing, commander.”

  Seven minutes, eight minutes, then twelve.

  “Commander!” It was Selenski’s voice, taut. “He’s got the electric dynamo running.”

  Morton drew a deep breath, and heard one of his men say:

  “That’s funny. We can’t get any deeper. Boss, take a look at this.”

  Morton looked. The little scintillating streams had frozen rigid. The ferocity of the disintegrators
vented in vain against metal grown suddenly invulnerable.

  Morton sighed. “Our test is over. Leave two men guarding every corridor. The others come up to the control room.”

  He seated himself a few minutes later before the massive control keyboard. “So far as I’m concerned the test was a success. We know that of all the machines in the engine room, the most important to the monster was the electric dynamo. He must have worked in a frenzy of terror while we were at the doors.”

  “Of course, it’s easy to see what he did,” Pennons said. “Once he had the power he increased the electronic tensions of the door to their ultimate.”

  “The main thing is this,” Smith chimed in. “He works with vibrations only so far as his special powers are concerned, and the energy must come from outside himself. Atomic energy in its pure form, not being vibration, he can’t handle any differently than we can.”

  Kent said glumly: “The main point in my opinion is that he stopped us cold. What’s the good of knowing that his control over vibrations did it? If we can’t break through those doors with our atomic disintegrators, we’re finished.”

  Morton shook his head. “Not finished‌—‌but we’ll have to do some planning. First, though, I’ll start these engines. It’ll be harder for him to get control of them when they’re running.”

  He pulled the master switch back into place with a jerk. There was a hum, as scores of machines leaped into violent life in the engine room a hundred feet below. The noises sank to a steady vibration of throbbing power.

  Three hours later, Morton paced up and down before the men gathered in the salon. His dark hair was uncombed; the space pallor of his strong face emphasized rather than detracted from the outthrust aggressiveness of his jaw. When he spoke, his deep voice was crisp to the point of sharpness:

  “To make sure that our plans are fully coordinated, I’m going to ask each expert in turn to outline his part in the overpowering of this creature. Pennons first!”

  Pennons stood up briskly. He was not a big man, Morton thought, yet he looked big, perhaps because of his air of authority. This man knew engines, and the history of engines. Morton had heard him trace a machine through its evolution from a simple toy to the highly complicated modern instrument. He had studied machine development on a hundred planets; and there was literally nothing fundamental that he didn’t know about mechanics. It was almost weird to hear Pennons, who could have spoken for a thousand hours and still only have touched upon his subject, say with absurd brevity:

  “We’ve set up a relay in the control room to start and stop every engine rhythmically. The trip lever will work a hundred times a second, and the effect will be to create vibrations of every description.

  There is just a possibility that one or more of the machines will burst, on the principle of soldiers crossing a bridge in step‌—‌you’ve heard that old story, no doubt‌—‌but in my opinion there is no real danger of a break of that tough metal. The main purpose is simply to interfere with the interference of the creature, and smash through the doors.”

  “Gourlay next!” barked Morton.

  Gourlay climbed lazily to his feet. He looked sleepy, as if he was somewhat bored by the whole proceedings, yet Morton knew he loved people to think him lazy, a good-for-nothing slouch, who spent his days in slumber and his nights catching forty winks. His title was chief communication engineer, but his knowledge extended to every vibration field; and he was probably, with the possible exception of Kent, the fastest thinker on the ship. His voice drawled out, and‌—‌Morton noted‌—‌the very deliberate assurance of it had a soothing effect on the men‌—‌anxious faces relaxed, bodies leaned back more restfully:

  “Once inside,” Gourlay said, “we’ve rigged up vibration screens of pure force that should stop nearly everything he’s got on the ball. They work on the principle of reflection, so that everything he sends will be reflected back to him. In addition, we’ve got plenty of spare electric energy that we’ll just feed him from mobile copper cups. There must be a limit to his capacity for handling power with those insulated nerves of his.”

  “Selenski!” called Morton.

  The chief pilot was already standing, as if he had anticipated Morton’s call. And that, Morton reflected, was the man. His nerves had that rocklike steadiness which is the first requirement of the master controller of a great ship’s movements; yet that very steadiness seemed to rest on dynamite ready to explode at its owner’s volition. He was not a man of great learning, but he “reacted” to stimuli so fast that he always seemed to be anticipating.

  “The impression I’ve received of the plan is that it must be cumulative. Just when the creature thinks that he can’t stand any more, another thing happens to add to his trouble and confusion. When the uproar’s at its height, I’m supposed to cut in the anti-accelerators. The commander thinks with Gunlie Lester that these creatures will know nothing about anti-acceleration. It’s a development, pure and simple, of the science of interstellar flight, and couldn’t have been developed in any other way. We think when the creature feels the first effects of the anti-acceleration‌—‌you all remember the caved-in feeling you had the first month‌—‌it won’t know what to think or do.”

  “Korita next.”

  “I can only offer you encouragement,” said the archeologist, “on the basis of my theory that the monster has all the characteristics of a criminal of the early ages of any civilization, complicated by an apparent reversion to primitiveness. The suggestion has been made by Smith that his knowledge of science is puzzling and could only mean that we are dealing with an actual inhabitant, not a descendant of the inhabitants of the dead city we visited. This would ascribe a virtual immortality to our enemy, a possibility which is borne out by his ability to breathe both oxygen and chlorine‌—‌or neither‌—‌but even that makes no difference. He comes from a certain age in his civilization; and he has sunk so low that his ideas are mostly memories of that age.

  “In spite of all the powers of his body, he lost his head in the elevator the first morning, until he remembered. He placed himself in such a position that he was forced to reveal his special powers against vibrations. He bungled the mass murders a few hours ago. In fact, his whole record is one of the low cunning of the primitive, egotistical mind which has little or no conception of the vast organization with which it is confronted.

  “He is like the ancient German soldier who felt superior to the elderly Roman scholar, yet the latter was part of a mighty civilization of which the Germans of that day stood in awe.

  “Yotli may suggest that the sack of Rome by the Germans in later years defeats my argument; however, modern historians agree that the ‘sack’ was an historical accident, and not history in the true sense of the word. The movement of the ‘Sea-peoples’ which set in against the Egyptian civilization from 1400 B. C. succeeded only as regards the Cretan island-realm‌—‌their mighty expeditions against the Libyan and Phoenician coasts, with the accompaniment of viking fleets, failed as those of the Huns failed against the Chinese Empire. Rome would have been abandoned in any event. Ancient, glorious Samarra was desolate by the tenth century; Pataliputra, Asoka’s great capital, was an immense and completely uninhabited waste of houses when the Chinese traveler Hsinan-tang visited it about A. D. 635.

  “We have, then, a primitive, and that primitive is now far out in space, completely outside of his natural habitat. I say, let’s go in and win.”

  One of the men grumbled, as Korita finished: “You can talk about the sack of Rome being an accident, and about this fellow being a primitive, but the facts are facts. It looks to me as if Rome is about to fall again; and it won’t be no primitive that did it, either. This guy’s got plenty of what it takes.”

  Morton smiled grimly at the man, a member of the crew. “We’ll see about that‌—‌right now!”

  In the blazing brilliance of the gigantic machine shop, Coeurl slaved. The forty-foot, cigar-shaped spaceship was nearly finished. With a
grunt of effort, he completed the laborious installation of the drive engines, and paused to survey his craft.

  Its interior, visible through the one aperture in the outer wall, was pitifully small. There was literally room for nothing but the engines‌—‌and a narrow space for himself.

  He plunged frantically back to work as he heard the approach of the men, and the sudden change in the tempest-like thunder of the engines‌—‌a rhythmical off-and-on hum, shriller in tone, sharper, more nerve-racking than the deep-throated, steady throb that had preceded it. Suddenly, there were the atomic disintegrators again at the massive outer doors.

  He fought them off, but never wavered from his task. Every mighty muscle of his powerful body strained as he carried great loads of tools, machines and instruments, and dumped them into the bottom of his makeshift ship. There was no time to fit anything into place, no time for anything‌—‌no time‌—‌no time.

  The thought pounded at his reason. He felt strangely weary for the first time in his long and vigorous existence. With a last, tortured heave, he jerked the gigantic sheet of metal into the gaping aperture of the ship‌—‌and stood there for a terrible minute, balancing it precariously.

  He knew the doors were going down. Half a dozen disintegators concentrating on one point were irresistibly, though slowly, eating away the remaining inches. With a gasp, he released his mind from the doors and concentrated every ounce of his mind on the yard-thick outer wall, toward which the blunt nose of his ship was pointing.

  His body cringed from the surging power that flowed from the electric dynamo through his ear tendrils into that resisting wall. The whole inside of him felt on fire, and he knew that he was dangerously close to carrying his ultimate load.