It had vanished, disappeared into thin air. In its place was a deep gorge, from which boiling vapors seethed up.
“It is annihilated,” Nak said quietly. “But it will come again, as it has always come. And eventually the power of the ray will be gone. Then——”
He did not finish. He touched the switchboard, and the picture faded. Again he faced Blake.
“Don’t you understand? I have told you this—shown you the Doom—because you can help us.”
“Help you?” Blake said hoarsely. “God—if I could! But we had no science compared to yours——”
“You can move in time. If we had known the secret of the annihilating ray when the Doom first came to earth—when the meteor first struck in Australia—we could have destroyed the seed before the infection had a chance to spread.”
“And I can take you back in time,” Blake interrupted. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I can take you back to the day when the meteor struck, and you can destroy it with your ray! But can I transport the ray——”
NAK brought out a gleaming metal cylinder from his mesh garment. “This projector has sufficient power. The meteor was a small one. You will do it, then?”
“Of course! Get what you need, and we can go—now.”
The dwarf smiled. “I need nothing but this projector,” he said as he came to the platform. Awkwardly he clambered through the railing.
Blake, his finger on the bakelite lever, hesitated. Nak glanced at him inquiringly. “Is something wrong?”
Blake had remembered the plunge into the other dimension, where physical laws were so strangely altered or suspended. He was not sure, now, that he could find his way back to his own time. He explained the problem to Nak.
The dwarf chuckled. “Can you open this platform—show me the machinery?” he asked.
Blake nodded. He lifted a panel in the metal flooring, and Nak peered down. After a moment he nodded, thrust an arm through the gap, and made a hasty adjustment.
“That will do it,” he said. “Simply move the lever. Your machine is remarkably simple in its construction and theory. I cannot understand why we have no record of successful time-travel.”
“Ready?” Blake asked.
The dwarf, clutching the metal cylinder tightly, nodded. Blake moved the lever.
Instantly the dead blackness of the other dimension closed around him. Although he had expected the metamorphosis, he shuddered nevertheless.
“Nak!” he called. “Can you hear me?”
There was no sound. Blake extended a tentative hand, groping in the darkness. But he could not find the dwarf. As he hesitated he felt the bakelite lever move under his hand, snap back into its former position. Light blinded him.
And at that moment a curious darting pain went through Blake’s head. He had an utterly indescribable feeling of change, as though some strange metamorphosis had taken place within him. Then it was gone.
He heard Jepson Norwood’s voice finishing the sentence he had begun when the lever had been moved to fling Blake forward in time. The familiar walls of the laboratory were around him.
“——the laws of nature. They can’t be set aside, Ken. And you can see that the machine doesn’t work—in the past or the future.”
“I can’t understand it,” Blake heard himself saying. “It should work, Jep. But—it doesn’t.”
“I think I understand why you can’t go into the past,” Norwood said. “The past can’t he changed, and you can’t do an impossibility. You can’t go back before you existed—or even back a few years or a few minutes, because if you could, you’d remember seeing yourself spring out of empty air on the Time Machine. And you haven’t any such memory.”
“But the future?” Blake asked. (The strange ache in his head—the odd feeling of something lost—was disappearing.) “Your argument doesn’t apply there.”
Norwood shook his head. “I don’t know. But the universe has its laws, Ken—and they can’t be broken.”
“The law of compensation,” Blake said softly, and then stared at Norwood. “I wonder—could it be possible that I have gone into the future—and can’t remember it, simply because memories were erased when I returned to a time-sector previous to the time when those memories were recorded on my brain? After all, one can’t remember a thing before it’s happened. Why”—his eyes were suddenly bright with interest—“I may have gone into the future, brought back someone with me—or tried to and failed, because he couldn’t exist in a time prior to his birth! I’ve the most curious feeling that I have forgotten something—something vitally important——”
And then Kenneth Blake shrugged and vaulted the rail of the Time Machine.
“Oh, it’s rot, of course, Jep,” he said, dapping Norwood affectionately on the Shoulder. “It’s too fantastic for belief. If I had gone into time I’d have remembered it. We’ve failed, that’s all. Our theories were right, but they didn’t work. There may be no such tiling as time traveling, after all!”
THE SHADOW ON THE SCREEN
A weird story of Hollywood, and the grisly horror that cast its dreadful shadow across the silver screen as an incredible motion-picture was run off
TORTURE MASTER was being given a sneak preview at a Beverly Hills theatre. Somehow, when my credit line, “Directed by Peter Haviland,” was flashed on the screen, a little chill of apprehension shook me, despite the applause that came from a receptive audience. When you’ve been in the picture game for a long time you get these hunches; I’ve often spotted a dud flicker before a hundred feet have been reeled off. Yet Torture Master was no worse than a dozen similar films I’d handled in the past few years.
But it was formula, box-office formula. I could see that. The star was all right; the make-up department had done a good job; the dialogue was unusually smooth. Yet the film was obviously box-office, and not the sort of film I’d have liked to direct.
After watching a reel unwind amid an encouraging scattering of applause, I got up and went to the lobby. Some of the gang from Summit Pictures were lounging there, smoking and commenting on the picture. Ann Howard, who played the heroine in Torture Master, noticed my scowl and pulled me into a corner. She was that rare type, a girl who will screen well “without a lot of the yellow greasepaint that makes you look like an animated corpse. She was small, and her hair and eyes and skin were brown—I’d like to have seen her play Peter Pan. That type, you know.
I had occasionally proposed to her, but she never took me seriously. As a matter of fact, I myself didn’t know how serious I was about it. Now she led me into the bar and ordered sidecars.
“Don’t look so miserable, Pete,” she said over the rim of her glass. “The picture’s going over. It’ll gross enough to suit the boss, and it won’t hurt my reputation.”
Well, that was right. Ann had a fat part, and she’d made the most of it. And the picture would be good box-office; Universal’s Night Key. with Karloff, had been released a few months ago, and the audiences were ripe for another horror picture.
“I know,” I told her, signaling the bartender to refill my glass. “But I get tired of these damn hokumy pics. Lord, how I’d like to do another Cabinet of Doctor Caligari!”
“Or another Ape of God,” Ann suggested.
I shrugged. “Even that, maybe. There’s so much chance for development of the weird on the screen, Ann—and no producer will stand for a genuinely good picture of that type. They call it arty, and say it’ll flop. If I branched out on my own—well, Hecht and MacArthur tried it, and they’re back on the Hollywood payroll now.”
Someone Ann knew came up and engaged her in conversation. I saw a man beckoning, and with a hasty apology left Ann to join him. It was Andy Worth, Hollywood’s dirtiest columnist, I knew him for a double-crosser and a skunk, but I also knew that he could get more inside information than a brace of Winchells. He was a short, fat chap with a meticulously cultivated mustache and sleeky pomaded black hair. Worth fancied himself as a ladies’ man, and spent a
great deal of his time trying to blackmail actresses into having affairs with him.
That didn’t make him a villain, of course. I like anybody who can carry on an intelligent conversation for ten minutes, and Worth could do that. He fingered his mustache and said, “I heard you talking about Ape of God. A coincidence, Pete.”
“Yeah?” I was cautious. I had to be, with this walking scandal-sheet. “How’s that?”
He took a deep breath. “Well, you understand that I haven’t got the real lowdown, and it’s all hearsay—but I’ve found a picture that’ll make the weirdest flicker ever canned look sick.”
I suspected a gag. “Okay, what is it?”
“Eh? No—though Blake’s yam deserved better adaptation than your boys gave it. No, Pete, the one I’m talking about isn’t for general release—isn’t completed, in fact. I saw a few rashes of it. A one-man affair; title’s The Nameless. Arnold Keene’s doing it.”
WORTH sat back and watched how I took that. And I must have shown my amazement. For it was Arnold Keene who had directed the notorious Ape of God which had wrecked his promising career in films. The public doesn’t know that picture. It never was released. Summit junked it. And they had good cause, although it was one of the most amazingly effective weird films I’ve ever seen. Keene had shot most of it down in Mexico, and he’d been able to assume virtual dictatorship of the location troupe. Several Mexicans had died at the time, and there had been some ugly rumors, but it had all been hushed up. I’d talked with several people who had been down near Taxco with Keene, and they spoke of the man with peculiar horror. He had been willing to sacrifice almost anything to make Ape of God a masterpiece of its type.
It was an unusual picture—there was no question about that. There’s only one master print of the film, and it’s kept in a locked vault at Summit. Very few have seen it. For what Machen had done in weird literature, Keene had done on the screen—and it was literally amazing.
I said to Worth, “Arnold Keene, eh? I’ve always had a sneaking sympathy for the man. But I thought he’d died long ago.”
“Oh, no. He bought a place near Tujunga and went into hiding. He didn’t have much dough after the blow-up, you know, and it took him about five years to get together enough dinero to start his Nameless. He always said Ape of God was a failure, and that he intended to do a film that would be a masterpiece of weirdness. Well, he’s done it. He’s canned a film that’s—unearthly. I tell you it made my flesh creep.”
“Who’s the star?” I asked.
“Unknowns. Russian trick, you know. The real star is a—a shadow.”
I stared at him.
“That’s right, Pete. The shadow of something that’s never shown on the screen. Doesn’t sound like much, eh? But you ought to see it!”
“I’d like to,” I told him. “In fact, I’ll do just that. Maybe he’ll release it through Summit.”
Worth chuckled. “No chance. No studio would release that flicker. I’m not even going to play it up in my dirt sheet. This is the real McCoy, Pete.”
“What’s Keene’s address?” I asked.
Worth gave it to me. “But don’t go out till Wednesday night,” he said. “The rough prints’ll be ready then, or most of them. And keep it under you hat, of course.”
A group of autograph hunters came up just then, and Worth and I were separated. It didn’t matter. I’d got all the information I needed. My mind was seething with fantastic surmises. Keene was one of the great geniuses of the screen, and his talent lay in the direction of the macabre. Unlike book publishers, the studios catered to no small, discriminating audiences. A film must suit everybody.
Finally I broke away and took Ann to a dance at Bel-Air. But I hadn’t forgotten Keene, and the next night I was too impatient to wait. I telephoned Worth, but he was out. Oddly enough, I was unable to get in touch with him during the next few days; even his paper couldn’t help me. A furious editor told me the Associated Press had been sending him hourly telegrams asking for Worth’s copy; but the man had vanished completely. I had a hunch.
IT WAS Tuesday night when I drove out of the studio and took a short cut through Griffith Park, past the Planetarium, to Glendale. From there I went on to Tujunga, to the address Worth had given me. Once or twice I had an uneasy suspicion that a black coupe was trailing me, but I couldn’t be sure.
Arnold Keene’s house was in a little canyon hidden back in the Tujunga mountains. I had to follow a winding dirt road for several miles, and ford a stream or two, before I reached it. The place was built against the side of the canyon, and a man stood on the porch and watched me as I braked my car to a stop.
It was Arnold Keene. I recognized him immediately. He was a slender man under middle height, with a closely cropped bristle of gray hair; his face was coldly austere. There had been a rumor that Keene had at one time been an officer in Prussia before he came to Hollywood and Americanized his name, and, scrutinizing him, I could well believe it. His eyes were like pale blue marbles, curiously shallow.
He said, “Peter Haviland? I did not expect you until tomorrow night.”
I shook hands. “Sorry if I intrude,” I apologized. “The fact is, I got impatient after what Worth told me about your film. He isn’t here, by any chance?”
The shallow eyes were unreadable. “No. But come in. Luckily, the developing took less time than I had anticipated. I need only a few more shots to complete my task.”
He ushered me into the house, which was thoroughly modem and comfortably furnished. Under the influence of good cognac my suspicions began to dissolve. I told Keene I had always admired his Ape of God.
He made a wry grimace. “Amateurish, Haviland. I depended too much on hokum in that film. Merely devil-worship, a reincarnated Gilles de Rais, and sadism. That isn’t true weirdness.”
I was interested. “That’s correct. But the film had genuine power. Man has nothing of the weird in him intrinsically. It is only the hints of the utterly abnormal and unhuman that give one the true feeling of weirdness. That, and human reactions to such supernatural phenomena. Look at any great weird work—The Horla, which tells of a man’s reaction to a creature utterly alien, Blackwood’s Willows, Machen’s Black Seal, Lovecraft’s Color Out of Space—all these deal with the absolutely alien influencing normal lives. Sadism and death may contribute, but alone they cannot produce the true, intangible atmosphere of weirdness.”
I had read all these tales. “But you can’t film the indescribable. How could you show the invisible beings of The Willows?”
Keene hesitated. “I think I’ll let my film answer that. I have a projection room downstairs——”
The bell rang sharply. I could not help noticing the quick glance Keene darted at me. With an apologetic gesture he went out and presently returned with Ann Howard at his side. She was smiling rather shakily.
“Did you forget our date, Pete?” she asked me.
I blinked, and suddenly remembered. Two weeks ago I had promised to take Ann to an affair in Laguna Beach this evening, but in my preoccupation with Keene’s picture the date had slipped my mind. I stammered apologies.
“Oh, that’s all right,” she broke in. “I’d much rather stay here—that is, if Mr. Keene doesn’t mind. His picture . . .”
“You know about it?”
“I told her,” Keene said. “When she explained why she had come, I took the liberty of inviting her to stay to watch the film. I did not want her to drag you away, you see,” he finished, smiling. “Some cognac for Miss—eh?”
I introduced them.
“For Miss Howard, and then The Nameless.”
At his words a tiny warning note seemed to throb in my brain. I had been fingering a heavy metal paperweight, and now, as Keene’s attention was momentarily diverted to the sideboard, I slipped it, on a sudden impulse, into my pocket. It would be no defense, though, against a gun.
What was wrong with me, I wondered? An atmosphere of distrust and suspicion seemed to have sprung out of nothing.
As Keene ushered us down into his projection room, the skin of my back seemed to crawl with the expectation of attack. It was inexplicable, but definitely unpleasant.
KEENE was busy for a time in the projection booth, and then he joined us. “Modern machinery is a blessing,” he said with heavy jocularity. “I can be as lazy as I wish. I needed no help with the shooting, once the automatic cameras were installed. The projector, too, is automatic.”
I felt Ann move closer to me in the gloom. I put my arm around her and said, “It helps, yes. What about releasing the picture, Mr. Keene?”
There was a harsh note in his voice. “It will not be released. The world is uneducated, not ready for it. In a hundred years, perhaps, it will achieve the fame it deserves. I am doing it for posterity, and for the sake of creating a weird masterpiece on the screen.”
With a muffled click the projector began to operate, and a title flashed on the screen: The Nameless.
Keene’s voice came out of the darkness. “It’s a silent film, except for one sequence at the start. Sound adds nothing to weirdness, and it helps to destroy the illusion of reality. Later, suitable music will be dubbed in.”
I did not answer. For a book had flashed on the gray oblong before us—that amazing tour de force, The Circus of Doctor Lao. A hand opened it, and a long finger followed the lines as a toneless voice read:
“These are the sports, the offthrows of the universe instead of the species; these are the weird children of the lust of the spheres. Mysticism explains them where science cannot. Listen: when that great mysterious fecundity that peopled the worlds at the command of the gods had done with its birth-giving, when the celestial midwives all had left, when life had begun in the universe, the primal womb-thing found itself still unexhausted, its loins still potent. So that awful fertility tossed on its couch in a final fierce outbreak of life-giving and gave birth to these nightmare beings, these abortions of the world.”
Collected Fiction Page 28
