by Anthology
“Well”—he finished the low-voiced discussion with Wilson—“we’re agreed. I’ve already set the ship in its new course. If anyone is seeking a rendezvous with us on the basis of secret knowledge of our planned course, they’ll have to look again. I—”
He stopped, as the cockpit door tilted open, and the semibald head of Lord Laidlaw was outlined in the gloom of the door’s shadow.
“Er,” said his lordship, “that fellow has come back into the passenger cabin. You said you had put him in irons, so I thought I’d better mention it.”
Clair spun out of his seat. “By God!” he flared, “that fellow’s hands mustn’t actually be any larger than his wrists. He’s been selected for this job, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
His fury sustained him, as he hurried along the aisle. But it died abruptly as he paused, and stood, frankly nonplused, staring down at the fellow. The vague wish came that the moon would go behind a cloud, so that he might get a really good look at the interloper.
Before he could narrow his complex thoughts into words, the stranger said in an astoundingly stern voice:
“I hope you have sufficient imagination to be convinced that you cannot imprison me. I assure you that time is short.”
Clair sank down in the seat beside the other. “Look here,” he said in his most reasonable voice, “you don’t seem to realize the seriousness of your actions. Now tell me, how did you get out of those irons?”
Through the unnaturally radiant reflections of the crescent moon, Clair saw that the stranger was staring at him steadily. The man said finally, slowly:
“Squadron Leader Clair—you see, I know your name—I am aboard this ship to save it from what will be, without my aid, certain destruction. There are two ways in which I can do that. The first is, if you remain ignorant of my identity and allow me, when the enemy comes, to operate one of your machine guns. This is by far the best method because it involves no mental contortions on the part of you or your passengers. You simply continue to accept me automatically as a physical entity. Do anything you please to protect yourself; keep pistols trained on me—anything; but in the final issue, do not try to stop me from using a machine gun.”
“Look here”—Clair spoke wearily—“you’ve already undermined my career simply by being aboard. I’ll have to explain my negligence in not discovering you before we took off, and I can just see myself adding that I substituted you for Colonel Ingraham on one of the machine guns.”
He stared at the other with earnest conviction in his mind that he was persuading an unbalanced person.
“I’m putting it that way,” he said, “so that you will see my side, and realize the impossibility of your request. You’ve got some idea that we have a valuable cargo aboard. You’re mistaken. You—”
He had intended to turn again to persuasion, but a new thought brought him to frowning pause: If he could slowly change the subject and—He said swiftly:
“By the way, what do you think we have aboard?”
The man told him quietly; and Clair changed color. He sat for a moment as still as death, all purpose forgotten before the tremendous fact that the man actually did know. Then, white and grim, he said:
“I admit it’s a valuable load, but only in the narrow sense of the word. Its value is little more than a hundred thousand dollars. I can’t see the German Air Command wasting time trying to trap a plane whose take-off time they could not possibly know, especially when their interceptor planes would be so much better occupied trying to sink the ships of that convoy we passed half an hour ago.”
He grew aware that the stranger was staring at him with a melancholy sardonicism. The man said:
“Squadron Leader Clair, there has never been a more valuable cargo shipped. Its destruction changed the course of world history.”
“Its destruction!” echoed Clair; then he caught himself. He gathered the realities of his situation back into his brain. There was no longer any doubt: here beside him was a raving madman and—The man was speaking again:
“In searching me, your friend refrained from removing a book which is in my right coat pocket. I had this book printed under great difficulties in what used to be New York City; and I would like you to glance at Page 27, and read there part of the description of the flight of this ship, and what followed when it was shot down, and lost with all on board.”
Clair took the book, and there was not a thought in his head, as he stared down at it. There was a feeling in him that he was dreaming; and the unreal effect was augmented by the way he had to bring the book close to his eyes, and hold it just so to let the moonlight fall on it.
Page 27, he saw, was heavily underscored. The first paragraph, so marked, read:
“The two-engined transport, NA-7044, left its Newfoundland airport at 9:00 P.M., November 26th, and was shot down at 4:12 A.M. the following morning, both times being Greenwich, and in the year 1942 A.D., which was in the curious, old chronology. The chief pilot was Squadron Leader Ernest William Clair, a very practical and conscientious young man. The passengers included Thomas Ahearn, admiralty agent, John Leard Capper, American government physicist, Lord Laidlaw, who was returning to England after having failed in his mission to—”
Clair tore his gaze from the page; his thought scurried madly back to the phrase that had struck him like a blow. “Good God!” he gasped. “Where did you get that plane number? No one knew definitely which plane was going out until late last night.”
“You poor fool!” the stranger said sadly. “You still think in terms of your reality. If you continue so blind, there is no hope.”
Clair scarcely heard. He was jerking up his wrist, peering at the watch that was strapped there. He felt a strange heady shock, as he saw the time.
It was exactly three minutes after four.
For Clair, the strange thing in that tensed, startled moment was that he became aware of the throbbing of the engines. The sound, so long subdued by familiarity that it scarcely ever touched his consciousness, was a whine that sawed along his nerves. His brain twanged with that poignant and ceaseless roar.
Through the fury of the beating motors, he heard himself say coldly:
“I don’t know what your game is, but the very elaborateness of your preparations proves that the most drastic measures are in order. Therefore—”
He paused wildly, stunned by the dark and deadly intention in his brain: to shoot, not to kill, but to incapacitate.
The stranger’s voice cut across his stark hesitation :
“All this that you have seen and heard; and it means nothing to you. Does your mind simply reject the very intrusion of a new idea? What is there about Good that, at certain stages of its development, it falters, and stands trembling and blind on the edge of the abyss, while Evil, ablaze with a rejuvenated imagination, strides to its dreadful victory?
“I can see now that for me, here, success in the great way is impossible. But try, try to lift your mind above this binding sense of duty and—let me handle the machine gun. Will you promise?” “No!” Clair spoke with the distinct finality of one who was utterly weary of the subject. Squadron Leader Ernest William Clair, D. F. C., went on: “You will refrain from further attempts, please, to embellish on this fantastic story. When we reach England, I shall have you arrested as a spy, and your explanation will have to be very good indeed if you hope even to account for what you have already revealed. It will be assumed—and it is you who will have to prove otherwise, that your purpose aboard this ship was destructive and—”
His voice faded. Clair swallowed hard, and the thought that came was like a black tidal wave that swept him to his feet with a cry. He drew his gun, and backed hastily along the aisle, holding it tense.
From the corners of his eyes, he saw heads jerk up, and passengers twist in their seats. He had their attention, and he said swiftly, in a clear, ringing voice:
“Gentlemen, we have a stowaway aboard; and, as I am unable to obtain a coherent story from him,
I must assume that he might have smuggled a bomb aboard. He keeps repeating that this ship is to be destroyed within fifteen or twenty minutes—the exact hour he mentions is twelve minutes after four—so it could be a time bomb.
“Hunt for that bomb! Everyone, out of your seats! This is no time for niceties. Down on your knees, search every corner, every compartment—and someone scramble into the tail. Use flashlights, but keep them pointed at the floor. Now, hurry!”
An officer with a deep voice said quietly: “Sirs, let us make this thorough. Civilians and military are about equally represented aboard. The civilians take the rear, the soldiers the front.” Clair added swiftly: “I suggest a cursory search of one minute, followed by a detailed examination. Is that satisfactory, Colonel Ingraham?” “Excellent!” said the colonel.
It was the strangest thing in the world, standing there in that swift, darkened plane, half watching the shapes of the men, as they crawled around, peering under seats, poking into bags, examining racks—half watching the stranger, who sat like a graven image, face turned into the flood rays of the moon, which was farther to the rear of the ship now, its strong, refulgent light pouring in through the windows at a distinct angle.
The man said slowly, without bitterness, but with infinite sadness:
“This futile search, when all you have to do is to look in your own minds. The seeds of your destruction are there. If this ship is lost, freedom goes with it. There are no other key points in our time. Once more: will—you—let—me handle that machine gun?”
“No!” said Clair; and there was silence between them in that hurtling, moonlit ship.
The white moonlight made a network of dim light, casting long shadows across the dark cabin, doing distorting things to the straining faces of the men, as they searched. Flashlights glowed cautiously at brief intervals, peering into dark corners, glaring hard against shiny surfaces.
Three—then five minutes; and they were all back in the cabin. They formed a dark cluster around Clair, where he stood, his revolver trained on the interloper. Their faces, out of the direct line of moonlight that streamed through the faintly shuddering windows, formed a series of roughly circular light splotches.
Only the stranger was in the light, and he was silent. Clair explained briefly what had happened, and what precautions he had taken; he finished:
“So you see, we had him in irons twice; and each time he came out here. Did you examine them, Lord Laidlaw, when you were in the baggage room, as I suggested?”
“Yes.” The nobleman spoke briskly. “They were still locked. I should say that we have here one of those curious people who can contract their palms to the size of their wrists.”
“In my opinion,” said Colonel Ingraham, “this man is mad. The story he told you is definitely that of an unbalanced person. The solution is to put the irons on him out here, and have him under guard till we land.”
“There’s one point,” interrupted a very clear, incisive voice. “This is Ahearn speaking, by the way, Thomas Ahearn of the admiralty—one point: You mentioned that he showed you a book, and that it contained—what?”
Clair handed the volume over quietly. “If you’ll bend down toward the floor,” he suggested, “you can use your flashlight on it.”
Men pushed past him to get around the admiralty man; then a light gleamed; then—
“Why, it contains some queer account of the flight of this plane, with all our names.”
“Is my name there?” came a new voice from the back of the mass. “Brown—Kenneth Brown!” “Yes, it’s here.” It was Ahearn who answered. “But that’s impossible!” Brown ejaculated. “I didn’t know until two hours before we left that I would be on this plane. How could anybody find that out, write it up, and publish a book about it—and, for Heaven’s sake, why would they want to?”
Clair stood very still; and the queerest feeling came that he was listening to his own voice saying these shallow, useless words, making protests about the impossibility of it all, crying out to the idolatrous god of logic with a parrotlike fanaticism, and never once thinking about—anything.
He glanced automatically at his watch, tensed a little, and said tautly:
“Gentlemen! If you will allow me, I shall ask the prisoner one question.”
It took a moment for silence to settle, but he needed the time to frame the incredible question that was in his mind. He said finally:
“Stranger, when did you come aboard this ship? I said—when?”
The man’s eyes were steady pools; his face grew noticeably more distinct. “I heard you, Squadron Leader Clair. To you alone, for your consideration, I say: I came aboard about forty minutes ago. Think of that; think it through; don’t let it go.”
Exclamations blurred across his last words; then Colonel Ingraham snapped angrily:
“Sir, we haven’t time to bother with this person. Let us iron him, and set a guard over him.”
Clair’s brain was like rigid metal. The stiff feeling came that he ought to turn and apologize to the others for his utterly ridiculous question. But there was a fascination in his mind that held him spellbound; and finally a thought that was a twisting, irresistible force; he said:
“What is your real reason for being aboard this ship?”
The reply was a shrug; then: “I’m sorry; I see I was mistaken about you. I’ve already told you in effect that this is a key flight in history. It must get through; it can only get through with my help.”
He shrugged again, finished: “I notice that you have shifted the course of the ship. That is good, that is something. It has already broken the hard thrall of events, and the attack will be delayed. But that delay will be small—out of all proportion to the extent of your change of course. Seven, eight minutes at most.”
For a second time, Clair was silent. The thought came that the shadows of the early morning and the dazzling, crescent moon were affecting his mind. For incredibly, he was not rejecting a single word; for him, for this moment, this man’s every word formed a species of reason and—And, he’d better be careful; or he’d be out of the service for being a credulous fool. He, whose nickname at training school had been Solid-head Clair, credulous!
So swiftly came revulsion. He shook himself, and said, striving for coldness:
“Now, that we have verified that there are no bombs aboard, I think Colonel Ingraham’s suggestion is the best: In irons, under armed guard, out here. Colonel Ingraham and Major Gray, I suggest you man the machine guns to which you were previously assigned—”
His voice trailed off, for the stranger was staring at him with a bitter anguish.
“You blind fool. I can only exist if you sustain the illusion that is me with your minds; and that illusion would collapse instantly if I had to sit out here in chains, under guard. Accordingly, I must leave; and the first hope, and the best, is gone. Now, you must know my identity. When you need me, call—but there will be no answer unless you call with understanding. Good-by.”
For an instant, so determinedly did Clair’s mind refuse to accept the absence of the form that had been there, that he blinked.
Then the thought came that the moon was too bright, and that dazzling reflections of its white, too white rays were playing tricks with his eyes, And then—
Reality penetrated the absence, the utter absence, of the stranger.
They searched the ship, as the dawn in the east grew noticeably stronger, casting its pale, wan glow over all the sky ahead and all the forward sea. Only the west behind them remained dark; and the moon was there, a shining, hurtling shape, yielding not yet to the brightness of the new day.
And it was exactly four twelve by the glowing hands of Clair’s wrist watch, as the men grudgingly gave up their vain search.
“Funniest thing that ever happened!” a voice tilted against the dimness. “Did we dream that?”
“I could swear he dived for the floor just before he vanished,” said a second voice. “He must be somewhere. If we could shift so
me of that baggage—”
“At least”—it was the man, Brown—“we’ve still got his book.”
Twelve minutes after four.
Clair raced along the aisle to the cockpit. “Anything?” he said to Wilson. “See anything—any planes?”
He stared with Wilson, and with Major Gray, who was at the port machine gun, into the brightening world. But there was nothing, not a speck, nothing but the sky and the sea and the—moon!
It glittered at him, and hurtled along through the blue-dark heaven; and the thought came to
Clair: the silvery crescent moon—creating—reflections—
4:14 A.M.
And he felt no relief; for he had changed the course, and the man had said it would mean only infinitesimal delay.
Minutes, and then—bullets crashing into them all, a terrible fusillade that would burn and tear and destroy the whole world—unless—
Unless he called with understanding of identity! But how could he ever understand? There were no clues, nothing but a scatter of meaningless words, nothing but—death.
A man whose hands flicked out of handcuffs, who talked of key points in history, who had a book that described this flight, and the destruction of all on board, described it as a past event. The book—
He was out in the dimness that was the cabin. “The book!” he called. “Who’s got the book that chap left?”
“Right here,” said the man, Kenneth Brown. The passengers were all in their seats. “I’ve been reading out passages. Damnedest, queerest book I ever laid eyes on. It’s actually got my name in it”—he couldn’t seem to get over the wonder of it—“my name, imagine that. You’ve got to give these Germans credit—”
The funny thing, Clair thought—no, the incredible tragedy of all this, was that their minds wouldn’t accept what their eyes had seen. Something shaped like a human being had come into their midst, then vanished before their eyes—and their brains simply skittered over the impossible event; and now they sat here like so many spectators who had been entertained by a magician, wondering in a thrilled, unworried fashion how the devil the trick had been worked.
