On to the girl’s side he ran, glancing over his shoulder at the approaching monster. They were hemmed in. Ahead was the sea, filled with dangers even more fearful than this theropod. Behind rose the ridge. And flanking the sea in both directions, the jungle. Their only alternative was the sandy shore which stretched far into the distance. But Jimmy and Eve knew that before they had covered two hundred yards of that shore the hideous thing behind them would have closed in and made its attack.
The reporter seized the girl’s arm. “Run!” he cried. “I’ll keep the thing’s attention until you’ve got a start.”
She hesitated.
“Run!” he repeated. “We wouldn’t have a chance together.”
Face white, lips drawn, she broke into a quick, jerky stride and raced down the beach.
Jimmy whirled, poised his second rock and looked at the monster. The theropod, moving kangaroo-like on its hind legs, was only a few feet away now. Its mouth was open, showing the dead, white interior. Its eyes were gleaming like hot coals, and the tail was lashing from side to side.
Again the reporter drew back his arm and let fly the stone. Brain filled with only one thought, the safety of the girl who had cast herself on this horrible planet to quicken his rescue, he watched the heavy object smash full force on the armored skull.
But the theropod only shook its head clumsily at the concussion. It paused an instant, then came on at renewed speed.
For a fleeting instant despair shot through the reporter like a bolt. Then he darted aside, thrust his body out of the theropod’s path and circled completely around the reptile. It was a trick of counted seconds, and he accomplished it with only the scantest of margin.
Heart racing, he ran twenty feet before the theropod was aware of the maneuver. Then he turned and hurled a third rock. The heavy missile caught the monster a crashing blow in the left eye, drew instant blood and half blinded it.
Now was the momentary advantage Jimmy had been waiting for, and with a frantic lunge he shot past the reptile, threw caution to the winds, and ran headlong down the shore.
Far ahead he could see Eve standing motionless, waiting for him to join her. The girl had seized a wooden cudgel, a dead branch from a tree, and was urging him on. Behind, though he did not look back, he could hear the theropod thundering in pursuit.
As he ran, turmoil pounded through the brain of the reporter. How long would they have to fight against these hideous dangers? How long before Professor Hilliard became aware of his niece’s action and took steps to rescue her?
And then suddenly as if in answer to his thoughts, a mighty shadow leaped down from sky to earth. A low, droning roar, tingling his whole body with its vibrations, sounded above. From somewhere in the upper reaches of the heavens that same cone-shaped tube of steel descended to eclipse the whole eastern horizon.
Down toward the water’s edge it came; resting on a wider patch of sand, a few yards from the shore.
With an exultant shout Jimmy increased his speed. “The projector!”
The theropod seemed to sense what was happening. A quick glance behind showed Jimmy that it was advancing at a terrific rate now.
Could he make it? The reporter made a frantic survey of the distance that lay between him and the entrance of the projector. He waved his arm at the girl, motioned her forward. But stubbornly she refused to move until he was abreast of her. Then silently, side by side, they raced toward the safety that seemed so near yet so far away. Twenty yards from the steel opening Eve tripped over a submerged stone and plunged headlong. The reporter bent downward, seized the girl and with the added weight continued onward in his flight.
But at length they were in the wider patch of sand, the projector rising up like some geometric inverted mountain before them. With one last lunge Jimmy shoved the girl into the opening and slipped in beside her.
Instantly blackness closed in on him, and a great roaring like the fury of a hundred maelstroms smote his ears. He had a momentary feeling of the projector leaping upward at sickening speed, of his body being hurled into the upper reaches of the tube by some unseen power…
* * * *
Scot Hilliard was seated in one of the stiff-backed metal chairs in his laboratory.
His face was white and drawn, his eyes glazed and bloodshot. For ten minutes he had sat there in silence, staring across at the trim figure of his niece, Eve Manning, and at the reporter, Jimmy Blane.
At length he rose heavily; paced forward and extended his hand.
“I—I deserve no consideration,” he said haltingly. “But will you accept my deepest regrets and apologies, Mr. Blane? I’m sorry. I must have been mad, out of my mind. I didn’t realize the terrible thing I was doing when I placed you on that planet. It took the courage of my niece to show me what a fiend I was. If there is any way in which I can make amends, anything I can do—”
The Star-Telegram reporter looked at Eve and smiled. “Bygones are bygones,” he replied. “We came back safely, that’s all that matters. But what are you going to do with the globe, the little world in the glass case?”
Hilliard started and shook his head. For a moment he stood there, gazing blankly into space. “The globe,” he repeated. “Ah, yes, the globe. I have extinguished the arc-sun, Mr. Blane, turned off its heat and light. The little globe is no longer a living world. Until I choose to stop it, it will continue to rotate on its axis and revolve in its orbit, but it is as lifeless and cold as the moon.”
MACHINE RECORD, by Theodore R. Cogswell
“Good Heavens” said the disreputable political affairs researcher, “you must be a madman!”
“Exactly,” said the mad scientist, his eyes glittering with insane cunning.
“But…but what does this manifestly evil machine do?”
“Isn’t it evident?” The scientist cackled gaily. “It’s designed to conquer the world for me. What else?”
“Of course. What else?”
“It is made of indestructible materials, has wheels, jointed legs, tractor treads, and seven death rays of different frequencies. It draws its energy from a little atomic engine, the size of your thumb nail, which produces about the same potential as Grand Coulee Dam.”
“Remarkable,” said the researcher, looking at his thumb nail.
The machine was, indeed, a sight to inspire dread. Pear- shaped, its gleaming body was topped with bristling, odd-angled radar-like antenna. A few feet above its complex underpinnings was a double row of formidable looking muzzles, pointing in all directions. On one side was a small, push-button switch of insidious portent. Here, in this high vaulted dungeon of an ancient, blood-stained castle, high on a storm- beset mountain, in a small European principality, the effect was incredibly sinister.
The political affairs researcher, unscrupulous as he was, gasped with ill-concealed alarm.
“And what, sir,” he said, “have I to do with all this?”
The scientist’s eyes glittered. “You,” he said, “are to help me organize my conquests into an empire.”
“Good heavens,” the other man said again. “And you have brought me here to this dank dungeon to ask my assistance in a fiendish plot to conquer the world?” His imagination had not as yet assimilated the grandeur of the scheme.
“It’s not dank,” the scientist said, waving his hand impatiently. “This dungeon is quite properly air-conditioned.” And so it was. The mad savant had, in a moment of rare lucidity, equipped his castle cellar with a remarkably efficient air conditioning machine, together with do-it-yourself asphalt tiling, and a portable bar that played “The Last Rose of Summer” when you pressed the hidden button that brought it swinging out from its artful concealment behind a bookcase.
“That’s beside the point,” said the other. “I’m not altogether certain that I approve of your plot. Anyway,” he added primly, “I’m making forty a week where I’m working now.�
��
The scientist snapped his fingers, with a carefree, yet macabre laugh. “I’ll double it,” he said. “What’s more, I have a beautiful daughter.”
The researcher peeped at the machine out of the corner of his eye. “When do we turn it on?”
“As soon as you work out a campaign for me,” said the other. “I want to assume complete political control with a minimum of fuss and bother. A few days perhaps?”
The researcher stared at him blankly. “Where,” he said, “have you been for the past ten years?”
“Here,” said the scientist, rubbing his hands together, “perfecting my designs. Is something wrong?”
“Well…I rather thought you planned to just kill everybody.”
“Everybody?” A new glint flickered momentarily in the madman’s eye and he licked a speculative tongue over his lower lip. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It would be so much simpler.” The other’s tone was ingratiating.
The scientist thought for a moment, grinning evilly. Then he shook his head, which, I forgot to mention, sat somewhat crookedly upon his shoulders. “No,” he said, “no, I’m afraid not. That way my empire would be a little shabby. Nobody to rule,” he shook his head, “nobody to torture and all that. No, just work out a simple way for me to run things.”
“Hmm,” said the researcher, who was, I also forgot to say, portly, bespectacled, and wearing a gravy-spotted vest “this will take some thought.”
“Well take it,” said the scientist, “but don’t dawdle. I’m getting impatient.” His eyes took on a dreamy look. “I want to have a harem, and a movie made about my life, The Arnspiegle Story—that’s my name, Arnspiegle—starring Larry Parks and with Gordon Macrae’s voice dubbed in. I also want an orchid-colored Rolls-Royce and a pear-shaped swimming pool.”
“That’s reasonable,” said the researcher, “but it’s going to take a little doing.” He frowned. “You’ll have to give me a few days before we start blasting away.”
“If it’s absolutely necessary,” said the mad scientist petulantly, his voice registering his annoyance. He walked over and patted the monstrous machine with affection. “I’m going to have Liberace play at all my weddings,” he murmured.
Two weeks passed while the mad scientist tinkered with his machine, perfecting its lethal powers, and while the shabby political affairs researcher worked in a freshly Kemtoned upstairs chamber, surrounded by political research materials: editorial pages from The Christian Science Monitor, Pravda, and The Boston Evening Transcript. Every evening, glued to the short-wave receiver, with bated breath he listened to Edward R. Murrow.
Finally one day the mad scientist burst in on him, overflowing with impatience. “How’s it going, Alfred?” he asked. The researcher’s name was Alfred.
“Complete political control, did you say?” said Alfred evasively.
“Obviously. As Emperor of the World I have to have some simple central system for tax collection and young-virgin tribute and all. Why?”
“It’s a tougher job than I thought,” mumbled the other. “Or maybe I’m slipping. I used to be able to whip up a foolproof world government between the second and third Martini.” His voice suddenly became pleading. “Look,” he said, “let’s just kill everybody.”
“No,” the scientist said “definitely not. I’ve thought it all out and I’ve decided that it’s all or nothing with me.” He looked shyly at the great map of the world that covered the far wall. “I guess that’s just the kind of a guy I am.”
Two more weeks passed, and this time it was Alfred who came down to see the mad scientist. He found him busily installing a woofer in the far wall, trying obviously, for a greater fidelity on the low notes on his Liberace records.
His eyes lit up with their old evil gleam when he saw Alfred. “Ready?” he asked excitedly.
“Well…” Alfred said, “not exactly. I think maybe, while I’m ironing out the last few wrinkles, that there’s some reading you ought to do. You ought to pick up a little background from this Emperor business. You know, administrative problems and all that.”
“Oh.” The mad scientist’s voice was filled with disappointment.
The political researcher took him upstairs, where he presented him with copies of selected works of Marx, Freud, Darwin, Mary Baker Eddy, Veblen, and David Reisman. Also a considerable pile of clippings from Westbrook Pegler, Joseph Alsop and Dr. Brady; biographies of Joseph Stalin, I. V. Lenin, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Bridey Murphy, Mao Tse-Tsung, Mahatma Gandhi, Joseph McCarthy, Chiang Kai-Chek. On top of the pile he placed a copy of The Power Of Positive Thinking. There was also an assortment of books on metaphysics, cybernetics, phrenology, hydrostatics, the Rosicrucians, the destiny of Man, the meaning of history, the meaning of life and the meaning of poetry.
“These will do for a starter,” he said, throwing in a copy of The Reader’s Digest for good measure.
“Hmmm,” said the mad scientist.
Six weeks later a far wiser mad scientist purposively mounted the castle steps to Alfred’s room. He found the portly gentleman beside the short wave set, listening to Gabriel Heatter, a look of abject horror on his face.
“Turn that thing off and come with me!” he commanded. Alfred followed him down to the dungeon. It was dank; the air conditioner had blown a tube. Books, pamphlets, and newspaper clippings were scattered all over the asphalt tile floor. Broken Liberace records lay everywhere. A rat scurried away, into the bowels of the hi-fi set, at their approach.
“Good heavens, man,” said Alfred. “What happened?”
The mad scientist looked at him and laughed a wicked, insane little laugh. “The scales,” he said, “have dropped from my eyes.”
“How’s that?”
“I have become politically enlightened.”
“It’s about time,” said Alfred. His gambit had paid off.
The mad scientist seemed hardly to hear him. His eyes had become focused sternly on some distant horizon. “I think what the situation calls for is a different approach.”
“Like turning on the machine?”
“Of course not!” The mad scientist’s voice fairly oozed authority. “It’s merely that there seems to be more to this thing —world-government-wise, that is—than I had suspected.” He waved a hand dramatically over the clutter of magazines, books, and badly mimeographed pamphlets that littered the floor. “I’m beginning to see that what you need, Alfred, is a fresh approach. A positive one. A totally new concept. You’ve been too much of a research man—not enough of a creative thinker.”
Alfred began eyeing him suspiciously. “So?” he said.
“I’ve decided that what we need is a middle man. Someone to handle the annoying administrative details.” The mad scientist inserted his thumbs under his suspenders and began rocking back and forth on his heels, still gazing at the unseen horizon. He looked very important. “Why go to all the trouble of setting up a new political machine when there’s one already in existence that is admirably suited to our purpose?”
Alfred began to look uneasy. The mad scientist fished an old fashioned coin purse from his pocket and took out a crumpled wad of bills. “Here,” he said, “go and buy yourself a Homburg. And a briefcase.”
* * * *
“Well?” said the mad scientist.
“Defeat,” said the disreputable political affairs researcher, dusting his Homburg with the sleeve of his grey flannel suit.
“Did you present my ultimatum to the U.N.?”
“Well, I did finally get in to see the sub-secretary of the sub-secretary of a very important sub-secretariat.”
“Wouldn’t believe you, heh?” The mad scientist bristled angrily and took a step toward the monster. “I think I’ll wipe out Liechtenstein. That’ll show them we mean business!”
“Oh, he believed me all right,” said Albert hastily. �
��I told him that if the U.N. didn’t do what he wanted, we’d be forced to destroy the world.”
“So?”
“The trouble is I got there a little late. It seems that in the last six months fourteen major powers have delivered the same ultimatum.”
Two days later the mad scientist emerged from his crypt, red-eyed from lack of sleep but with his lips curled in a sneer of cold command. He had been thinking positively and it had paid off.
“The solution is obvious,” he said curtly. “We’ll just back one of the big countries. Shop around and see who’ll make us the best offer.”
* * * *
When Alfred got back he found the mad scientist waiting impatiently by the drawbridge.
“What was Washington’s offer?”
The disreputable political researcher didn’t answer until they reached the dungeon. When they did, he set down his attaché case and then made a decisive thumbs-down gesture.
“The Secret Weapons Division was so secret that nobody knew where it was. I did finally get in to see the President’s Advisory Council on Weapons for Peace though. They were all very pleasant but they turned me down flat. They pointed out economic implications that we hadn’t realized.”
“Such as?” demanded the mad scientist.
“Well, as they explained it, if they let one little machine take over the whole job, they’d have to abandon the National Defense Effort, and if they gave up the National Defense Effort, they wouldn’t be able to continue Deficit Financing, and without Deficit Financing to Keep the Wheels Turning, there would be Mass Unemployment and Rioting in the Streets.” He took a long pause to get his breath back. “And Rioting in the Streets might reflect on the Present Administration. And the NATO countries don’t want to give up NATO because of discounts and things.”
“Never Say Die,” said the mad scientist, capitalizing without realizing it. “If the “haves’ don’t want us, we’ll just have to try the ‘have nots.’ There must be some little country left somewhere that still has mad dreams of empire—and can’t raise the price of an H-bomb.” He wandered over to the large wall map and eyed it reflectively. Suddenly his face lit up and his forefinger stabbed down on a little purple blotch in the Arabian peninsula.
The Mad Scientist Megapack Page 43
