“What are you doing?”
“Digging.” Mrs. Cardotti paused for a moment, and then said something that brought Powell to his feet, wide-eyed.
“Digging,” she said. “With my claws . . .”
Claws! With natural human egotism, Powell had unconsciously assumed the mysterious aliens were anthropomorphic. Intelligence and homo sapiens went together. But, the cameraman smiled crookedly, why? Life in another continuum would not necessarily follow terrestrial patterns. Indeed, all the chances would be against that. Yet a vague horror crystallized suddenly in Powell’s brain as he listened.
“What do you look like?” Eberle urged. “Can you see yourself?”
“I must obey. I must work. We have almost conquered. The giant ones are not far away. Soon we shall penetrate their walls and slay them all.” Mrs. Cardotti shuddered convulsively. She fell back, gasping and choking. Mike ran off for water. Deftly, he made the woman drink it.
BUT she could add nothing else when she recovered. Her memory seemed temporarily gone, at least her remembrance of the strange voices. After futile attempts to arouse some cogent memories in her mind, Eberle shrugged and nodded toward the door. The three men left, puzzled and wondering. They took a taxi downtown.
“I want to see those birds, or whatever they are, at the Battery,” the scientist said. “My theories seem fantastic but they are being confirmed.”
“How does Mrs. Cardotti tie up with it?” Powell asked. “Did you find out anything?”
“I did. She said something extremely interesting. Remember?”
“ ‘We have almost conquered’ ?”
“That, and the reference to giants. Mrs. Cardotti is getting thoughts from beings in this new world into which we’ve come. She has become a true telepath, under a certain unknown stimulus. But—Giants!” Eberle scratched his mop of iron-gray hair. “I wonder! The shadows we saw in the sky are shadows of giants. If Mrs. Cardotti is getting their thoughts, there’s a race of inconceivably hugs giants in this world as well. But I don’t think so. I believe she’s receiving the thoughts of smaller beings who are attacking these Colossi.”
“Smaller beings?”
“Larger than we, perhaps. Small compared to the Colossi. I have an idea, Powell, a theory that’s pretty incredible. But it’s supremely logical. Perhaps—”
The taxi jerked to a stop. “End of the line, I guess,” the driver turned to say. “The street’s blocked off.”
A rope was stretched before them. From the distance came the sound of shots and a shrill, high whistling that puzzled Powell. He got out, paid the cabman, and hurried toward a National Guardsman who stood, rifle in hand, at the barrier.
“Can’t pass,” the fellow said. “Here’s my ticket,” Powell grunted, exhibiting his well worn press card, and ducking swiftly under the rope.
“Okay. Got a gun?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll need it,” the guardsman said ominously. “Better keep out of sight. I haven’t seen the things myself yet, but I hear they’re plenty bad.”
“Got your camera, Hector?” Powell asked. “Keep it handy.”
The Martian tapped a compact kit strapped to his belt. Eberle was already hurrying impatiently down the street.
“The street’s blocked down a ways,” the guardsman called after them.
It was. A hastily constructed barrier of furniture and packing-cases rose in a low wall from sidewalk to sidewalk.
NO one was in sight, but the chatter of machine-gun fire came louder. The three men squeezed through gaps in the ramp.
They rounded a corner and saw a small band of soldiers slowly retreating, rifles barking. Beyond them something came running.
A gray, leathery-skinned horror larger than an ostrich, it raced on legs like an ostrich’s, with reverse knees. Its serpentine, skinny neck curved in an S. The tiny head was flattened and V-shaped, with the tubular muzzle of a sea-horse. Atrophied, featherless wings beat the air as the thing charged.
“Get it, Hector!” Powell snapped. The Redlander bent over his camera. Eberle was staring, open-mouthed.
Some of the soldiers were wearing gas masks. The need for this became evident as a mist sprayed suddenly from the bird-thing’s muzzle, a yellowish vapor that shot out for twenty feet and more. One of the khaki-clad men, unprotected by a mask, screamed and fell writhing to the street.
“There’s more of ’em,” Powell said, unlimbering his gun. He took a shot at the bird’s head and missed. Whistling shrilly, the creature ran on. Behind it, emerging from a side street, came three more.
Slowly, in good order, the soldiers retreated. But in the face of those charging juggernauts they had little chance. Powell saw the dull red flare of a heat-gun blast, and realized that the weapon’s charge was almost exhausted. He searched anxiously for shelter.
Before he could find it, hell broke loose. From a window overhead the murderous rattle of a machine-gun stammered viciously. The soldiers, having led their opponents into a trap, dived for cover in convenient doorways, whence they poured a murderous fire on the birds.
But the monsters were hard to kill. Apparently their leathery bodies were not easily vulnerable. It was almost impossible to hit the tiny, darting heads. Yet one of the bird-creatures was felled. It lay, kicking convulsively, poison spray fountaining from its muzzle.
A giant bird broke past the barrier of gun-fire, charged straight for Powell and his companions. Its clawed feet pounded on the pavement toward them like the drumming of doom.
CHAPTER XII
Death and the Law
THE street exploded into a blinding blur of action. Powell had a confused vision of men running frantically, of gunsmoke clouding up from nowhere, shouts, cries, the freaks’ screaming hisses.
Dwarfing everything else, the ungainly body of the monster rushed upon him, with the mechanical, relentless charge of a machine.
The thing could not be stopped! Those huge legs pumped inexorably, inevitably. The neck stretched forward viciously.
Powell could see the leathery grayness of the skin, the lines and wrinkles that marred it. Black, glittering, gemlike eyes glowered at him. Shrill in his ears came the menacing hiss . . .
He was surprised to feel his gun jolt against his palm. A reflex action had leveled and fired the weapon.
Strangely, he didn’t feel like Mike Powell, who was standing here in the path of the monster. He was a disinterested spectator, someone who heard the tumult and witnessed the chaos from a far distance. Only two things existed: this stranger who was firing Mike Powell’s gun, and the great gray bird that towered gigantically above him.
Again the gun kicked his hand. The monster shrilled, banged its stumpy wings against its sides, scrambling furiously at him not fifteen feet away. From its muzzle shot spray.
Simultaneously, Powell’s third finger contracted; his index finger lay along the barrel of the gun to steady it. The weapon cracked and jerked up. Smoke coiled from the bore.
The bird’s flat head was shattered. The serpentine neck writhed and lashed. Blood spurted from it.
Still the thing charged on. As Powell leaped aside, a crushing blow from one of the featherless wings smashed him down. He fell heavily on his side against the curb. Coughing and choking, still gripping the gun, he lay there, an acrid odor strong in his nostrils.
Hands were on his shoulders, dragging him away. He was half carried into a doorway and up stairs. The room in which he found himself swayed dizzily; then it steadied. He looked around.
Hector, Eberle, and a soldier in khaki were at the window, looking down. Powell joined them. The street below was a shambles. All the birds lay dying, kicking and struggling. A few human figures were there, motionless. Yellowish, tenuous gas drifted before the wind and dissipated.
Gunfire came from the south.
“God Almighty,” the soldier said.
HIS young face was white. He began to curse the birds, softly, dispassionately.
Eberle squinted at Powel
l. “You’re all right. Got a whiff of the poison, that’s all. We can go down now. The gas is about gone.”
Powell shook his head dizzily. “Hector—” he began.
“Yeah, Boss. I canned it.” The Martian patted the camera at his belt. “Okay. Let’s get some close shots.” In the street the soldiers were already reforming and heading south.
Hector, Powell, and Eberle remained to examine the dead birds. The scientist’s eyes held an excited gleam.
“It’s the ray at work,” he said, his stubby fingers probing at a shattered, grayish head. “These were birds once. Sparrows, for all we know.”
“Sparrows!” Powell’s voice was horrified.
“Birds and reptiles, they’re akin, you know. This is a combination of both.”
“But—”
“What about the pterodactyl? And the archoeopteryx? Prehistoric, of course, but combinations of bird and reptile. These things were once ordinary birds. Not so long ago, either. They had in them certain potentials—growth, and the development of glands manufacturing venom. Like the ringhals, the spitting cobra. The ray that’s bathing New York let these potential factors develop. I have seen enough. I want to go to the Tower now. Their telescope will help me.”
“All right,” Powell assented. “I’ve enough pix, anyway.”
But on the way uptown he had a better idea. He paused long enough to phone the Tower and request certain information be sent to the Summit offices.
Back at headquarters, Powell sent his new films to be developed, ran off the reel of the robot on the televisor screen, and checked over several messages that had been sent in. One of them was from Martin, the ex-burglar, who, at Powell’s instructions, had watched Dr. Owen’s apartment. He was on the track of the electro-physicist. He said he’d call in and report shortly.
Meanwhile, the Tower observatory had delivered a package for Eberle. The scientist unwrapped it, removed dozens of large photographs, and spread them out on the floor, fitting them together like a jigsaw puzzle. Powell watched him speculatively.
“It’s a sky map,” Eberle explained, crawling about rapidly on hands and knees. “Let’s see. Number seven belongs here. Yes. Only there isn’t any sky, of course. These are photographs taken through the telescope. If we’re in a giant world, as I am compelled to think, this will show what it’s like.”
BUT Powell was disappointed at the result. The photographs were hazy and indistinct. Pieced together, they obviously showed something, but refraction and other adverse conditions were a serious handicap. Yet certain objects were distinctly visible, and certain blurs were suggestive.
“Moving objects. The Colossi, I suppose. Can’t you imagine it as a vast room, Powell? Say, a sort of laboratory?
“These could be walls. These brighter patches, like nebulae, are lights in a ceiling tremendously far above us. This thing blotting out a quarter of the sky might be a microscope, focused on New York. And these—Machines.”
Eberle fell into a brown study, abstractedly jotting down notes on the back of an envelope. He looked up at last.
“I need a calculating machine. And paper, plenty of it.”
“You mean you can make something out of that hodgepodge?” Powell said.
“More than you’d think. The ray developed my brain tremendously, you know.” Eberle’s blue eyes hardened. “The science of these Colossi can’t be so alien. All science is necessarily founded on similar natural laws. And this picture has given me a clue.” Hector yelled for Powell to come to to the televisor in the adjoining room. It was Gwynn, the boss of Summit.
“Did you get the bird pictures, Mike?” he asked. “Good. They’ve all been killed, by the way. But there’s some new creatures popped up. Everyone’s been ordered off the streets. Where in hell is all this going to wind up?”
Powell moved his shoulders helplessly and switched off. Eberle, at work on the calculators, had no use for him at the moment. So Mike wandered to the great televisor exchange where machines took calls from all over the city. Grimly he watched and listened.
The birds were dead. But there were other menaces. A blue, pulpy, enormous thing had crawled up from the dry bed of the Harlem River and was pouring like a tidal wave downtown, jamming Broadway from sidewalk to sidewalk.
Huge centipedes were creeping through the streets. They were twenty feet in length, covered with nearly invulnerable chitin, and only the dangerous resource of poison gas could kill them. Gas masks were being issued to the populace.
The monsters grew—and hungered!
Toy aquariums were sources of immediate menace. Frightful life sprang from them—plants that burst up and withered with equal speed.
The guardsmen fought fire with fire. Armed with riot guns, they fired CN or tear gas shells. They used the CN-DM candles which caused more destruction than grenades. The streets became hell.
The monsters could be destroyed, but at the expense of civilization. When it was least expected, a respite came. The abrupt influx of the terrors ceased. The ones raging in the streets were killed. New York prayed against more, but it had little hope.
The Colossi had shut off their ray, Powell thought. But for how long? Manhattan could not survive many such attacks. His helplessness sickened him.
A message came from Martin, the exburglar. He had located Dr. Owen and had trailed him to a house near Central Park. He was televising from a drugstore near by. What should he do now?
“Wait,” Powell said. “I’ll be along pronto. Keep your eye on him!”
Hurrying along the hall, he met Eberle, whose ruddy jowls were quivering with excitement.
“I need a ship, Powell,” the scientist cried. “A rocket ship!”
“They’ve all been grounded.”
Eberle gestured that aside.
“This is important! I need a ship, and a crew to make repairs.”
Powell wrote a note on a scrap of paper.
“Take this to Gwynn. He’ll fix you up—if you talk fast enough to convince him. I’ll be back. Adios!”
But in the street he ran into more trouble. The happy, excited voice of Sue Clark cried out triumphantly. “There he is! Grab him!”
Somerset, the IIB ace, gripped Powell’s arm. “You’re under arrest,” he snapped. “For murder!”
CHAPTER XIII
Lair of the Robot
POWELL didn’t move. He looked around slowly. Sue Clark was standing there. The radium snapped in her green eyes, and her red hair was windblown. Beside her, round-faced Lynn Plumb stood trying to suppress a grin. Somerset had no expression at all on his sunburnt countenance, but his icy blue eyes were knife-sharp. Being arrested by the man who had killed the Spacehawk gave Powell an unpleasant tightening of the throat.
“Murder?” he asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Man named Haverhill,” Somerset said. “At the Sun Sanatorium. Poison. Why did you duck out?”
“But Haverhill poisoned himself!” Powell blurted. “Did you look at that ring on his finger? He committed suicide!”
“He wasn’t wearing any rings,” the IIB man responded. “Somebody fed him poison.”
Powell’s eyes went to Sue. She winked and looked seraphic. The cameraman nodded slowly.
“I see. Just out of curiosity, Somerset, tell me something. Did this dame get there before you did?”
“Yes. Why?”
Mike knew she had pocketed the ring. Why? To hang a murder charge on him? Hardly that. But if Powell was locked up on suspicion, that would leave a clear field for Sue Clark and her stooge, Plumb. They would pick up the trail where Powell left off and scoop him. That must be it!
“You doublecrossing little chiseler,” the cameraman grated. “You’ll get yours for this.”
“Why, Brain!” the girl said sweetly. “You shock me. It’s a clear case, isn’t it, Mr. Somerset?”
The IIB man pushed out his lower lip. “That’ll be proved or disproved later. Powell, where’s Eberle and your Martian friend?”
Mike hesi
tated. He made a quick decision. It meant taking a long chance, with Sue and Plumb within hearing, but the minutes were passing too swiftly.
“Somerset, I’m on the trail of this super-criminal of yours now. If you jerk me off to jail, I’ll lose Owen, and I’ve just found him! I can prove I’m innocent of Haverhill’s murder.”
“Where’s Eberle?” Somerset repeated stolidly.
“Will you listen to me a minute? For God’s sake—”
“All right,” the IIB man said without emotion. “Make it fast.”
In a rush of words, Powell told his story, leaving out all but the essentials. Sue and Plumb listened avidly. Somerset’s brown face was expressionless.
“Sorry,” he said at last. “You’ve got to come down to headquarters.” He nodded toward a sleek black car at the curb. “Get in.”
Powell’s heart sank. He looked around desperately, but the street was empty. If only Hector would appear!
Somerset suddenly held a gun in his hand. Rapidly he searched the cameraman and removed his automatic. He gestured toward the car.
“You’ll drive.”
Powell sullenly swung under the wheel.
“We’ll go along, if you don’t mind,” Sue said. Sue put her hand on the door handle.
SOMERSET was clambering somewhat stiffly into the front seat beside Powell.
“Sorry,” he said. “This is official business.”
“But you’ll need witnesses.”
“We’ll get in touch with you,” the IIB man said, and laid his gun crosswise in his lap, pointing at Powell. “Start her up.”
Angrily, the camerman touched the starter.
“Don’t move, Mr. Somerset,” Sue ordered tensely. “Careful!”
“For God’s sake, Sue!” Plumb gasped. “What’re you doing?”
“Shut up!” the girl snapped. “Put up your hands, slowly. Leave that gun in your lap.”
Powell jerked his head around, saw that Sue held a tiny, pearl-handled heat-gun in one hand. It was pointed unerringly at Somerset’s ribs.
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