Few monsters had reappeared since the last outbreak. The Colossi, apparently, were not using their strange ray. But how long the respite would last it was impossible to say.
More than a score of ships lay uselessly in their cradles, like fantastic growths on the high, broad roof.
The Manhattan, though, Eberle’s commandeered ship, was loaded and ready for the take-off. The rocket jets had been plugged, and the new space drive apparatus installed. For the sake of secrecy, Eberle made the last connections with his own hands. Prior to doing so, he turned over to military authorities the formula he had perfected. Food, scientific apparatus, and Powell’s invaluable earners were stored in the craft’s capacious belly.
It wasn’t a large ship, really. It was built for speed, a sleek, streamlined tornado of a ship, red as fire, with beautiful lines and high maneuverability. With the new space drive it would be even easier to handle. Powell knew, vaguely, that it was based on some sort of atomic reaction, with quantum energy as the motive power; but he knew little more than that.
He stood now leaning on the roof’s parapet and staring thoughtfully out over New York. The port was nearly deserted. It was eight-thirty p. m. But the gray, silvery light still glowed from the depthless skies.
Behind Powell, a few workmen moved here and there. The cameraman was struck with the odd silence. Never, in any of the twenty-four hours, had New York failed to roar its theme song into his ears as a greeting.
But now New York was hushed. Brooding, ominous, strange, a pall of silence veiled the city. It lay precariously in the infinite void of an enigma, a familiar bit of the Earth ripped away and isolated in another Universe. Beyond the skycraper towers no ocean loomed; the cities and hills of New Jersey were vanished.
The blanketing, immeasurable grayness prisoned the lost city.
A few cars moved slowly. There was only one pedestrian in sight. In a window across the street, he could see a stenographer typing busily, a paunchy man behind her investigating the contents of a filing cabinet. Futile pretense of “business as usual!” Signs bearing that legend had appeared in many windows. But only the iron grip of martial law had so far saved the city from stark, suicidal panic. How long could the grip maintain its hold?
Not long, if the ray of the Colossi probed out again. Not long if the monsters reappeared.
SO much was gone, Powell thought, his gaze sweeping across roof gardens, now deserted, where orchestras had only lately played to capacity audiences. Suddenly the life that had vanished seemed very close to the cameraman. The many little, unimportant parts of it assumed significance and dearness.
Limousines used to ride proudly down Fifth Avenue. Remember the slum kids, naked under the hydrants? Harlem? The subway shops? The great boats were dreams slipping through the flat waters of the Hudson. The old arch of Washington Bridge . . . the enthusiastic shoeshine lads . . . Drinks and dinners in the Village by candelight were struggling memories.
“Oh, damn!” Powell said softly. “This is getting me.”
He climbed the gangplank quickly, swung open the port, and entered. He was in the control room. He went aft, into the compartment, his senses registering but not consciously realizing that a soft, quick sound had come to his ears.
Gray light filtered through the ports. The room was filled with bales and cases securely strapped and chained. Powell touched one, leaped back. He switched on the light.
Out of the shadows sprang a man. The glare revealed him. Like a fat Buddha he plunged forward, lashless black eyes distended, red lips twisted. It was Dr. Max Owen.
He gripped no weapon. But his vast bulk crashed against the photographer. Powell fell against the doorjamb. Agony bit into his back. Cursing, he writhed aside.
Owen’s gross face was expressionless, a glistening, hairless mask. Silently he whirled, surprisingly agile despite his bulk, and swept out a huge arm in a crushing blow. Powell ducked under it and continued to give back warily.
What was Owen doing here? How much did he know about the Eberle space drive—and Eberle’s plan?
There was little time to speculate. And less room to fight, in that crowded compartment. If they closed, the advantage would be with the heavier man. Powell was unarmed. He decided offense was the best defense, and smashed a blow into Owen’s middle, following it up with a right to the chin.
The scientist lumbered back, grunting. He reeled across the threshold into the control room. As Powell leaped to follow, Owen wheeled, slammed the door shut.
Powell’s shoulder drove against a wall of metal. He yanked vainly at the lock.
“Owen!” he shouted.
There was no response.
Had anyone else heard the noise of the fight? It seemed doubtful. But, spurred by the thought, Powell turned to the nearest porthole. He shot back the fastening, to swing the port open and shout for help.
He was too late. A shudder shook the ship. It lifted, settled back briefly, and rose again. This time it continued to mount.
It fled up from New York!
POWELL saw the city dwindle and vanish below. The terrific acceleration of Eberle’s space drive shot the ship up like a meteor. New York dwindled. It jerked aside out of Powell’s range of vision.
He saw fog, gray emptiness. Cursing, he turned again to the door. Repeated shouts and knocks brought no answer. Powell sank down helplessly.
Owen was no registered pilot. How could he maneuver the craft in an unknown world? What was his motive in stealing the ship? How much did he know of Eberle’s theory? What would it gain him? Powell had an answer for only one question.
In the control room were charts, painstakingly plotted by Eberle, showing the course the ship must follow in order to escape from the laboratory of the Colossi.
Powell had studied those charts, made from telescopic photographs. He knew that in one wall of the huge laboratory was an opening, and that across this opening lay a shimmering, glowing curtain of light.
Spectroscopic analysis had showed it to be a death ray, a radiation capable of destroying cellular tissue. Because of this, the entire surface of the Manhattan had been plated with protective, resistant armor, and the glass of the ports fitted with similar shields.
If Owen followed the charts, he could take the ship through the ray barrier. A child could operate Eberle’s space drive after a brief instruction.
But what lay beyond? No one could guess that. The enemies of the Colossi, perhaps. Certainly an alien world—a world of giants, in which human beings would be ant-size.
Powell thought it all over very carefully. Whatever Owen’s motive was, he was unquestionably the winner.
Mike drifted to the port and stared out hopelessly. The gray emptiness was still there, unbroken and changeless. It was, perhaps, due to some strange element in the atmosphere, though the air was breathable enough, at least in New York. Within the ship, of course, purifying apparatus released oxygenated, washed air at regular intervals.
Powell wondered if the Colossi would notice the flight of the ship. To them it would be smaller than a fingernail, if they had fingers or nails. Certainly they could smash the craft with one blow. Its speed would be of no aid in escaping such an attack.
And yet the speed was tremendous, faster than Powell had ever traveled before. His eardrums and a peculiar, hot, tingling sensation in his body told him that. There was nothing by which he could judge the speed, but Powell was not surprised when a faint glow lit the mists far ahead.
The craft slanted toward the dim light. Out of the depths loomed a perpendicular barrier that stretched away limitlessly to all sides. The wall was broken by a veil of greenish luminescence, rippling down like a waterfall.
Toward the emerald cascade, the ship drove.
Shields dropped over the ports, shutting off outside vision. A sudden, grinding vibration shook the ship; it dropped like a wounded bird. Then it recovered and rushed on.
The Manhattan flashed out of the great laboratory, into the unknown!
CHAPTER
XVI
Chat with the Enemy
PORT-SHIELDS remained in place. Powell stared at them with an intense longing to see beyond. Owen, in the control room, could guide the ship by telescreens operated photo-electrically, but the cameraman had no way of knowing what this new, outside world was like.
The thought of the vessel driving more or less blindly on its uncharted course frightened Mike. Nevertheless, he searched for a weapon. He found a compact, needle-beamed Jahvert, one of the best heat-guns made, and some extra clips, which he pocketed. After that there was nothing else to do but wait.
A long while after that, the Manhattan grounded. Time passed, and still nothing happened. The ports remained blinded. Did Owen intend to leave his prisoner here permanently? Starvation was no menace, nor the air supply, unless it was shut off. It was the unknown that made him anxious. Powell examined the door speculatively. Could he bum off the lock? Scarcely. It was tough beryllium steel.
Such a drastic course proved unnecessary. The door opened.
“Well, come out,” Owen said, almost pleasantly. “What are you waiting for?”
Powell’s gun was ready. He saw, across the threshold, the fat man standing unarmed, hands open at his sides. Owen’s gross face, sweat-shining, was still expressionless.
A touch of apprehension chilled Powell. Why was the scientist so confident? What ace had he up his sleeve?
“Come in and sit down. I think an explanation is in order.”
The cameraman gingerly crossed the threshold, but remained upright, leaning against the wall, his weapon ready. His gaze searched the control room. Guns were in their places in the wall racks. Owen had not even troubled to unload them, apparently.
“Explanations can wait,” Powell said. “We’re going back to New York. Now!”
“Well,” grunted the other, “that’s feasible.” He nodded at a graph on a revolving drum. “Our course is charted. We can find our way back by that. But the ship won’t move. I’ve taken care of that.”
“You wrecked it?” Powell cried accusatively.
“Of course not,” Owen snapped. “I’ve simply removed certain parts of the space drive motor and hidden them—most ingeniously, I might add. The ship won’t run without those parts. And unless you do as I say, you’ll never get back to New York.” He followed the direction of Powell’s gaze. “Oh, the wireless. I’ve dismantled that, too. It seemed safer.”
THE cameraman stood quietly. But his mind was active. Eberle would no doubt rebuild another rocket ship and fit it with his space drive. He would come to the rescue. Whether or not he could find the Manhattan was a moot question. It would depend on how certain delicate instruments worked in this strange environment. He’d need time, though.
“Spill it,” Powell said grimly. “I’m listening.”
“Very well.” The low voice was velvety. “You know, by now, that I have been in the employ of the First—the robot. I have been for some time. And now, I’m on my own.”
Owen’s black pupils glared dangerously.
“You’ve found out a good deal. But I’ve found out even more. Too much! I am a scientist, Powell, and no credulous fool. I worked for the First because it meant power and wealth, and because the First was a scientist greater than I. Greatest in the world—as I thought.
“So I obeyed. I arranged the kidnaping of Eberle to secure his space drive. I did other things. But, in the meantime, I theorized. That was natural. I came to certain inescapable conclusions.”
“Well?” Mike pressed.
“The First’s intelligence is not that of a robot. The First is a man, directing the automaton by remote control, perhaps. Who that man is I cannot say. But I am a psychologist. I have studied the case histories of many criminals. The behavior pattern of the First, as I charted it, checks with one man. That man is the Spacehawk.”
“The Spacehawk’s dead,” Powell interjected.
“His body was not recovered. Also, the man had tremendous vitality. I don’t know.” Owen made a vague gesture with his pudgy hands. “As I say, I don’t really know the First’s identity. But I discovered that he had limitations, and that, for me, was nearly fatal.
“When New York was transported into this other continuum, I began to wonder. The First declared that he had been responsible for that experiment.
I couldn’t believe him. I had investigated, you see, and had come to certain conclusions. The First was the result of a mutation, a form of energy which developed the potential characteristics of his brain.”
“That was Eberle’s idea,” Powell said.
“Eberle is shrewd. No doubt we came to the same conclusions. I realized that the First was simply the result of an experiment, and that he was a man, a human being. He was not unique. The potential ray might affect others similarly.
“I resented the part I had played in the matter. I felt duped. That was why I utilized beam-finders to locate the First’s laboratory. It was vacant, but the robot arrived soon after, and there was—an argument.” The red lips twisted wryly. “I had found out too much, therefore I was a menace to the First’s plans. So I was made a prisoner. Eventually I escaped.”
Powell nodded, remembering the pile of knotted ropes he had seen in the passage beyond the robot’s laboratory.
“After that, I was in constant danger. I had no idea who the First was. You can’t hide from a man you don’t know.
“Besides, I was wanted by the IIB. You were responsible for that, Powell. Consider my predicament. Where could I hide, in a city under martial law, a city from which nobody can escape?”
“You’ve escaped all right,” the cameraman said.
“To save myself. I do not intend to remain here. New York must be returned to Earth. The First must be destroyed. I have no idealistic motives in this. I’m only trying to protect myself.
“So I snatched at Eberle’s idea of entering this new world in order to find a weapon I could use to kill the robot. Undoing the effects of this monstrous experiment will also benefit me. I want to find a certain element—the element that activates the ray of this race of giants. That is the key to the problem, I believe.”
OWEN leaned back, interlacing his fat fingers over his large, solid, bulging stomach.
“I could have killed you, but this is no doubt a dangerous world I must search. You are young, strong, and capable. You can help me. If you do not wish to do so, the decision is in your own hands.” The scientist shook his head vigorously. “But you can’t move the Manhattan. We’re working for the same end, and personal feelings should not enter into it. Well?” Powell considered. The other’s words were supremely logical. Putting personal emotions aside, there was no reason for refusing to comply. What other course was left? Powell could only remain locked in a powerless ship, waiting while Owen explored this new world. More important, the cameraman was burning with curiosity to see and film the mystery outside the Manhattan’s insulated walls.
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll probably doublecross me without hesitation at the first chance, I suppose.”
“Doublecross you?” Owen’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why not? As long as we are working for the same end, we can help one another. But if our goals conflict, I must be logical.” His bulky figure stirred uneasily. “Unseal the ports, then. I couldn’t see much on the telescreens.”
Powell obeyed, conscious of a feeling of unbearable anticipation. A world on which human eyes had never looked lay outside the ship. What would it be like?
The shutters clicked back. Disappointment struck the cameraman. He frowned at swirling grayness. Owen was at another port, eyes narrowed, lips retracted.
“Look,” he said quietly. “The fog is opening up.”
A wind swirled the vapor away. Flaming, blinding light, with a faintly bluish undertone, dazzled the men. Powell recoiled, squeezing his eyes shut. He grabbed for the lever that shut the port-shields.
“Goggles,” Owen ordered. “There is considerable ultra-violet in that light. Did you notic
e the sun?”
“Notice it? Hell!”
“Very large and very bright. This is not an old world, in cosmic terms. Its sun has not yet burned down to a yellow star like our own. That may account for this strange element of mutation. The fires of creation have not yet died in this system.”
Powell had found protective goggles. He handed a pair to Owen and donned one himself.
“We will need protective suits, too, or we’ll be burned alive. You have some?”
Powell nodded and began to search through cases.
“Could this ray emanate from the sun itself?” Owen mused audibly. “Perhaps the giants concentrated its radiation in their laboratory. Yet there was no trace of such a device. I wonder—”
With considerable difficulty, he squeezed his huge frame into a lightweight, pliable protective suit, and slid the transparent hood over his head.
“Now the ports again.”
Once more the shutters clicked. The two men looked out into a world where the sunlight, though no longer blinding, was dazzlingly bright.
THEY saw a rising plain at the foot of which the ship lay. The slope rose gradually for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then jutted up sharply to a precipitous cliff that towered hundreds of feet above them. The rim of the barrier glittered flashingly. The hogback’s silhouette seemed to stir and move strangely, evanescent and flickering, like the shifting of the Borealis. “Funny,” Powell said.
“Look closer!” Owen commanded. The rising slope was not bare. Great plants grew on it, hundreds of bizarre forms. About each growth a nimbus of fog hung.
The things were perhaps sixty feet tall, built like coral growths, with a single upright stem as thick as a man’s body, from which dozens of straight, rigid branches grew out.
Down on a wind came glittering star-specks. They fell on bare, grayish, sunbaked ground. And suddenly, they jumped to full size.
With supernal brilliance, bright crystals rose and budded and reached up, gleaming in all colors of the rainbow. Polyhedrons, triangles, quadrilaterals, all shining geometrical figures sprang up from the earth and in a moment formed an irregular dome forty feet high.
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