Denton, of course, knew both Carruthers and Susan. But the body of Smith, the foreign agent, was in plain sight on the floor, and yet Denton had ignored the man. Why? Curiosity would be the natural reaction, one would think. But Denton did not seem to see Smith.
Purposely Blake said nothing. Instead, he found a map and made careful adjustments. Then he turned to the radio. In code, he wirelessed a brief account of what had happened, and requested an armed force to meet him at Keith’s farm. The foreign agents might still be there, waiting.
Then all his attention was focused on the task of guiding the ship. It was not easy, for if the Borer burst out of the ground under the farmhouse, the result would be catastrophic.
Luck was with Blake. Presently the Borer came to a halt, half buried in the earth, its nose aimed at the sky. Blake opened the door and blinked into the red sunset. His eyes adjusted themselves.
Flashlight bulbs popped and glared. At least a hundred people were in sight, reporters, cameramen, and police. They came rushing toward the ship like a wave. There were delighted shouts.
“There he is! There’s the Borer!”
“Keep back! Back—”
Something, a subtle instinct of danger, made Blake turn suddenly. Through the roar of the mob he had heard a faint, ominous click. The click of a gun’s hammer being drawn back—
A shot thundered deafeningly within the control room.
Blake sprang aside, pulling the door shut, a burning pain searing along his ribs. He stared with wide eyes at the sight of a gun—Smith’s heavy Luger—hanging unsupported in empty air a few feet away. The trigger was contracting slowly.
One of the invisible Erdtmann was in the ship!
Susan and Denton cried out at the same time. The latter dived past Blake toward the door. Carruthers, cursing softly, sprang at the gun.
Blake was trying to keep Denton from reopening the door. The latter was frantic with terror, mouthing hysterical, meaningless words as he fought to escape. “Don’t open the port!” Blake shouted, trying to watch Denton and the gun at the same time. He knew that, even though the Erdtmann was armed, he was at least within the ship. But once he got out, it would be impossible to locate him.
The gun boomed again. A shriek of agony burst from the bound Smith. The foreign agent’s body arced convulsively against the floor and then went limp. Blood spurted from his chest.
The Luger went sailing across the room. It clattered metallically on the floor. Carruthers was wrestling with something invisible, and seemingly getting the worst of it. His lips were retracted in an agonized grin. Blake let go of Denton and sprang to help his friend.
His hands touched a sinuous body, feathery and strange. Simultaneously a burning pain in his palms made him cry out involuntarily. From outside the ship, a voice shouted a question.
Denton swung open the port and leaped out. The feathery form in Blake’s grip writhed free and was gone. Feet pattered lightly on metal.
Blake snatched the gun and leaped out of the ship. In the gathering dust he saw wondering faces staring at him. The mob was pressing closer.
There was a sharp, surprised cry. A reporter went spinning sidewise, to crash heavily to the ground. Behind him, another man reeled and just saved himself from falling.
“Stop him!” Blake shouted, realizing how futile were his words even as he said them. “He’s invisible—stop him, quick, before he gets away!”
Useless! Every eye was turned toward Blake. Voices asked insistent questions.
It would have taken minutes to explain. And by that time the Erdtmann would have made good his escape. Blake groaned and plunged forward through the mob.
Hands gripped him, halting his rush. He fought desperately, hopelessly, to free himself. For a moment the crowd thinned, and Blake saw the meadow stretching empty toward the distant fence.
Empty? The high grass rippled, and then the gate swung open and closed again, though apparently nothing touched it. It might have been the wind, but Blake knew it was not.
He relaxed. “All right. It’s too late now. Who’s in charge of the police here?”
A ruddy-faced man with a bristling white moustache pushed forward. “I am. Inspector Donovan’s my name. What’s wrong, Mr. Blake?”
But Blake didn’t answer immediately. He was looking down at the trampled ground. What was wrong? An invisible savage was at large, a savage who could use a gun. An alien being whose body emitted an enzymic secretion that could eat away a man’s skin and flesh as easily as it could crumble solid rock. Blake’s palms were still aching painfully . . .
A chill wind blew in the gathering dust. Blake felt as though he had turned into ice as he looked down at a monstrous footprint in the dusk—a three-toed, clawed print that might have been made by a giant bird.
Death was walking unseen upon the earth.
THE newspapers printed long columns about the subterranean rescue, but said little anent the Erdtmann. They were skeptical, and inclined to treat Blake’s story as an attempted hoax. Even when Susan, Carruthers and Denton added their testimony, the papers preferred to wait, rather than spread such a fantastically sensational story over their front pages. The authorities were even warier. Blake spent an angry hour with the Mayor and the District Attorney, and finally televised the Governor. But skepticism and red tape were too strong for him.
“There is such a thing as mass hypnotism,” the Mayor had said pontifically. “I am not doubting your word. But I think we had better wait until—well—”
“Until somebody’s murdered?” Blake said, with hot anger. “I tell you, this is the time to move, while the Erdtmann is still confused by finding himself in a new world.”
But it had been hopeless. Only Inspector Donovan felt convinced that Blake was telling the truth, and he was overruled by his superiors. He had taken Blake aside later.
“My hands are pretty well tied,” he said softly, pulling at his white moustache, “but I’m going to keep some men ready. If anything happens, give me a call, and we’ll be along.”
“Thanks.” Blake shook the strong brown hand. “I may need you.”
But so far he had not. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed, and there had been no sign of the invisible Erdtmann. Blake sat in his office, smoking and waving a lean finger at Carruthers.
“There are several possibilities. The Erdtmann’s in a totally different environment now, and exposed to direct solar radiation. It may blind him. It may kill him, or even make him visible.”
Carruthers nodded glumly. “Denton says he’s sure the Erdtmann is Vardu, the chief, though he won’t say why. Maybe—”
The door opened. Susan Morley came in, a suspicious pinkness about her eyes. Blake got up.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Has Vardu—”
The girl bit her lip nervously. She was looking remarkably pretty nevertheless, in a gray tailored dress and a small blue hat from which golden hair cascaded.
“Bob,” she said without preamble, “I’ve got to do something—break my uncle’s will. He left everything to Joe Denton, and—” She paused at sight of the look in Blake’s eyes. A warm flush mantled her cheeks. “Don’t be a fool, Bob! I don’t want a cent. I can earn my own living, but—don’t you see—Uncle Horace left the Borers to Joe. And he’s trying to sell them to some foreign power!”
“Eh?” Blake leaned forward, frowning. “How d’you know?”
“I saw him just now—I listened outside the door, and he was talking to a foreign agent. A man who looked like that fellow Smith who tried to kill you yesterday. I opened the door and told Joe what I thought of him—”
“And?”
“He told me to mind my own business.” Susan’s small jaw set firmly. “I—”
“Uh-huh.” Blake turned to the televisor. “Get me Joe Denton.” Presently the face of Denton grew on the screen.
Without preamble Blake snapped, “Are you trying to sell the Borer to a foreign country?”
Denton’s boyish face twisted in sur
prise; then it went darkly sullen. “That’s my own affair,” he said. “I can dispose of my own property as I see fit.”
“Sure you can. I just want to remind you, Denton, that no European power can attack America as long as the Atlantic is a barrier. But a fleet of Borers can drive under the Atlantic and smash every city from here to the coast. Did you think of that?”
“It’s got nothing to do with me,” Denton growled. “If I want to sell the Borer, that’s that. I’m selling it to a private concern.”
Blake felt hot anger rising within him. “Sure a private concern that takes orders from some European dictator. Damn it, Denton, you’re an American, after all. You can’t—”
There was no humor in Denton’s vicious grin. “I won’t be an American long. I’m sailing for Europe within the week.”
Blake struck at the switch, effacing Denton from the screen. His voice shook with repressed fury as he said to the operator, “Get me the D.A.”
“I can’t stop Denton,” he said over his shoulder, “but I can hold him up for a while, Susan. Maybe the D.A. doesn’t believe there’s an Erdtmann, but this is something different. I’ll have an injunction clapped on Denton. Legally, he doesn’t inherit till Keith’s will is probated. Meanwhile I’ll tie him up as tight as I can, and give Washington a chance to move in.” He gave swift orders into the televisor. Presently he shut it off and nodded reassuringly at Susan. “That’s fixed, for a while. It’s up to Washington now . . .
Carruthers rose from his seat. “You haven’t had anything but coffee since last night, Bob. Come along. You too, Susan. We can plan while we eat.”
Blake was conscious of an emptiness in his stomach. “Good idea,” he said . . .
THE big restaurant was crowded. They found seats, however, and ate heartily. After a time Blake paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Funny,” he said, listening intently.
“What?”
“Don’t you hear it? Somebody’s whistling Loch Lomond.”
“What of it?” Carruthers asked, adjusting his monocle. Blake pushed back his chair, conscious of a mounting tension within him.
“Keith used to whistle Loch Lomond just like that. With those funny little trills—look out!”
There was a flash of gleaming light. A knife rose from the table, hesitated in mid-air, and then sped forward. Blake hurled himself backward, going down with a crash in the ruins of his chair. He felt a heavy weight smash on his body. Desperately he shouted, “Andy!”
Carruthers dived across the table. Blake struggled to free himself from the muscular, feathery body that oppressed him. His hands were burning with the hot fires of hell as the Erdtmann’s vitriolic body-fluids ate into his skin. Carruthers swung a vicious, sledgehammer blow that halted suddenly in empty air. The invisible Erdtmann made a harsh grunting sound—and was gone.
“Vardu!” Susan cried. “It’s Vardu!”
Questioning faces were turned toward the group. Suddenly a chair rose and flew at Blake, who was scrambling to his feet. He dodged it. The table was overturned; plates and service shattered and crashed.
Blake snatched up a knife and stood staring around, every muscle tense. Good God! How could he cope with this invisible savage—this horror who might spring upon him unawares at any moment? The Erdtmann might be behind him even now, with murderous talons tensed to strike.
There was a small puddle of spilled coffee on the carpet, and both Carruthers and Blake, at the same moment, saw a footprint appear near the spot—threetoed, bird-like prints. They moved toward Blake.
The two men jumped forward at the betraying marks. The Erdtmann toppled under the impact. All around diners were rising in startled amazement from their tables. Susan was hovering near by, a steak-knife clutched in her hand.
It was difficult to hold the sleek, feathery body that seemed to burn the skin like fire. Vardu slipped free and was gone. The next moment a window burst open, and soft footsteps died away.
Carruthers rose, dusting himself and replacing his monocle. “It looks like our friend’s after your scalp, Bob,” he said grimly.
Blake nodded. “Yeah . . . there’s some angles I can’t quite figure out. Why should he concentrate on me? And his whistling Loch Lomond the way Keith did—”
“Keith made friends with him for a while, Denton said.”
“I know. That’s why I think I’ve got a hunch. Listen, Andy, we can’t let that devil roam loose around here. There’d be murder sooner or later. Go phone Inspector Donovan and ask him to bring as many men as he can. I’m going to set a trap for Vardu.”
He did not need to mention the nature of the bait.
For Blake himself would be the bait to draw the invisible Erdtmann into the trap . . .
LUCKILY, Transplanet Newsreels was a competent company, and its resources were immediately available. Within half an hour a studio was prepared, Blake, Carruthers, Susan, and Inspector Donovan entered it, followed by a dozen competent-looking officers.
“You’re taking a long chance, Blake,” Donovan said, letting his hand touch the heavy service-pistol at his belt. “This creature may kill you before we can do a thing.”
“It’s the only way. I can’t let Vardu roam around loose. Put those lamps here.” Blake turned to superintend the placing of a battery of portable, odd-looking lights that stood on wheeled tripods. Cords trailed from them.
“What are those for?” Donovan asked.
“Ultra-violet lamps,” Blake explained. “Vardu’s invisible in normal light, but a faster light-vibration might hit him.”
He peered up into the shadowy depths of the ceiling. “Got those cameras ready?” An answer floated back. “Good . . . You see, Donovan, even if the ultraviolet lamps don’t work, the cameras may catch Vardu on specially sensitized film. I’m trying to plug all the loopholes. Like these nets.” Each of the officers was carrying a net of strong wire-mesh.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Donovan muttered.
Blake nodded with a reassurance he didn’t feel. There was a sick, cold emptiness in his stomach. This wasn’t pleasant, being the live bait for an invisible killer who could strike from nowhere . . .
“All set,” he said evenly. “When I give the word, close the doors and make sure they stay shut. And turn on the ultra-violet lamps at the same time.”
Carruthers’ round face was drawn with anxiety. “Listen, Bob,” he said abruptly. “Let me stay with you. Back to back, both of us will have a better chance—”
“No. Vardu might not show up unless I’m unarmed and alone. Wait till he walks into the trap, Andy.” Blake gripped the little man’s hand and squeezed it hard. “Thanks anyway.”
Without a word Carruthers turned away, his lips thin and whitened with strain. Blake picked up a box of corn-flakes, used for snow scenes, and sprinkled them in inwardly spiraling lines, till he stood in the center. “All set,” he called.
The doors were opened. The officers withdrew from sight. The huge sound-stage seemed deserted. Far overhead the rafters and platforms were bleak shadows in the diffused light. A moving camera-crane was a grotesque, angular monster near by. The sunlight that crept in through the doorways made cubistic patterns on the soundproof floor.
Blake stood motionless. Determinedly he fixed his gaze on the floor and tried to make his mind blank.
Every sense was keenly alert. When Vardu came, the imitation snow would crackle betrayingly, and there would be a chance to brace himself before the monster sprang . . .
Blake cursed silently. Such thoughts were dangerous. Already his nerves were jolting in the dead stillness. He fought down an impulse to call out to the others, to reassure himself that they were still there, ready to lend their aid. Try and relax. Breathe naturally, slowly, deeply . . . but in spite of himself Blake found himself breathing in shallow gasps. He was perspiring, he realized.
Calm down. Relax. Think of something else . . .
What was that?
The faintest of crackl
ings . . . imagination. But imagination does not leave taloned footprints in the pseudo-snow!
“Now!” Blake shouted, and sprang aside. He was too late. A muscular body smashed against him, and he was hurled back, to crash down on the floor. His hands groped for and found a feathery hide beneath which giant muscles surged and rolled. The doors rolled shut with clanging thunder.
Midnight black blanketed the sound-stage. Then, abruptly, the ultra-violet lamps flared—invisibly. They shed no light. But the body of Vardu sprang out in shimmering brilliance!
Nothing else could be seen. Against a curtain of inky darkness the alien form was outlined, shimmering with radiance. Blake found himself staring up at a curious, owl-like face, with saucer eyes and a fleshy, soft beak. Ear-tufts stood up on the misshapen head.
Little glistening droplets gleamed on the monster’s feathers—the vitriolic enzyme that could eat away solid rock. Blake gasped in sudden agony as the deadly secretion bit through his clothing and sent flaming daggers ripping into his flesh. Frantically he tried to hurl the Erdtmann away.
The fleshy beak gaped. The saucer eyes stared blankly. The mighty forearms squeezed Blake’s torso till his ribs cracked. Helpless, he could only kick up at the monster with his knees, and that did no good.
FOOTSTEPS came drumming across the floor, crunching in the artificial snow. Carruthers’ voice said hoarsely, “Hold him, Bob!” and the Erdtmann’s stifling weight was flung aside. His middle portion seemed to vanish as Carruthers came between Blake and Vardu. Weird conflict of black shadows with a shining horror that could be seen only in the dark!
Carruthers tried to fling his wire-mesh net, but Vardu sprang away. He stood as though waiting, the feathery head swaying slowly to and fro. Blake stared.
The Erdtmann’s body was anthropoid, but covered with those shining soft feathers that rippled as he breathed. His arms were singularly human, like his hands, though the latter were scaled and clawed. The short, crooked legs were bird-like, ending in mighty talons. And the owl-like head, with its domed brain-case, indicated that Vardu was not a beast—he must be intelligent. Blake noticed something dark half-concealed among the feathers of the creature’s neck.
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