“Thanks,” Dorman said. “But I’m off that stuff.”
“Hell, one snifter won’t hurt. The ships haven’t gone to the test block yet. There ain’t a chance to get ’em off before midnight.”
Dorman shook his head.
“I just don’t wanna drink, Chick, that’s all.”
CHAPTER IV.
Midnight. Blackness pressing in against five trim fighting ships going up on an emergency order. Five trim fighting ships in the hands of five trusted pilots…pilots eating their hearts out for a chance at action…five cogs in a mighty machine of war.
Dorman’s ears rang with the hum of his motor and for the first time in a month he was conscious of his part in the scheme of things. Major Carew had been right; there wasn’t anything to be gained by beefing. Well, from now on he’d do the best he could and trust to luck…and on and on he flew in that sea of darkness. It seemed as if he were motionless in a great void.
It wouldn’t be long, he reflected, before he’d get his chance. Every squadron in the lines was feeling the sting of the enemy. Every day some crack pilot got knocked down and it stood to reason that soon the depot at Orly would be minus several ferrymen…
Sometime later he noticed he was alone. The yellow rings from the other exhausts had disappeared, and for a moment he was chilled. He checked his compass and looked out again, and as he settled back he had a queer feeling that all was not well. But his bearings were true, so he didn’t worry.
Ahead of him there presently flared the magnesium light of the landing field. It flared only for a moment and then died; and Dorman smiled and put his nose down. Toul. The jump-off place for the squadrons.
As he cut his gun he heard a sullen thump and a great explosion of white far out in front caught his eye. In the closing glare he saw a geyser of dirt and his eyes went up.
Two great black planes hovered above—Gothas.
They had figured the arrival of the replacements perfectly; the hum of the Hispanos had drowned out the roar of their own motors, and they had marked the field by the brief magnesium flare.
With a start Dorman realized the Gothas were closing in and were just about over the neighborhood of headquarters.
There was another bath of light from below as one of the bombers dropped another, and with a shout Dorman snatched at his stick and squared his feet on the rudder bars. He leaned forward in his seat and strained his eyes through the darkness; his motor whined on a rising note and the ship leaped away into the night.
Off to the right there was a dull red puff and the village lighted grotesquely like a toy town in a Christmas window. That would be the Archies.
Dorman climbed until the drone of his motor told him he was nearing a stall, and then he leveled off and picked out the flashes from the exhaust of the Gotha. The big ship was banking wide to evade the Archie fire, but Dorman nosed over and tried his guns.
The crimson and yellow flashes spurted over his hood; he took his finger off the trigger and picked out the Gotha. The gunners of the Boche had located him and he could tell from their fire they were slowly getting him into their range. He banked wide and in a moment the huge black moth was in his nose. His finger raced forward to the trigger and his guns chattered.
Whether he had hit or not he couldn’t tell. The flashes from his guns half-blinded him, so after the first burst he pulled his stick and zoomed. Down below a battery of Archies began their bombardment and bursting shells filled the air.
“You damn fools!” Dorman shouted. “Lay off!”
Both Gothas were below Dorman now, and one of them turned loose with his swivel gun and Dorman saw he was out in front and evidently was headed for home. He came down again in the darkness, figured the speed of the Gotha and his own bus and fired when he thought he should have the bomber centered. He was firing from dead reckoning, but in a moment there was a flame from the big ship. It fanned out and reached along the fuselage hungrily; and made a perfect target out of the enemy.
The Gotha crew evidently realized it was their last stand, for two men could be seen in the front nacelle wrestling with a mounted gun. It spit fire up at him, but he rolled over and got altitude.
The fellow was doomed. Dorman wanted the other one.
He went up to two thousand meters and looked out. The Gotha was blazing through the middle and around its edges he could see the outskirts of Toul. There were many white spots against the black ground; they would be faces.
But where was the other Gotha?
The Gotha itself answered the question. From the left came another blinding white glare as it dropped its bombs, impervious to the fate of its sister ship.
Dorman grinned and kicked his rudder around and was off like a streak for the second bomber. The wind screamed through his wires and tore at his eyeballs. Through his little windshield he could see the tips of his propeller dyed in a dull red circle from the burning Gotha that slowly settled behind.
He was aware too, that on the ground below there was some confusion. Men were swarming around in the darkness, pocket flashes glowed beside a great brown monster that was the hangar. Then he saw a smudge of light as the door opened and a little moth came rolling out; behind it was a second.
Dorman swore aloud into the wind.
Two of the squadron were coming up. They were going to give him a hand. Like hell they were!
Then, in a second, the flashes from the exhaust of the two ships below spat out as they got away. The lumbering Gotha was making straight for the hangar.
It was not difficult to divine their motive. They were racing to destroy the hangar before the American bullets ended their career, and Dorman’s brain leaped under the inspiration and he banged his throttle ahead and nosed down.
He had to get the bomber before it got the hangar.
Already the men below had sensed the same thing, for the lights went out and there was blackness. But the Gotha bombing crew already had the hangar spotted.
Dorman didn’t know exactly his range, but he marked the light exhaust of the Boche machine and opened his guns at four hundred yards. He held them open and slowly nosed down, certain that in that broad sweep he would find his target.
Then before he knew it he was directly over the big machine. It seemed that all hell had caught fire below him; two tourelle guns got into action and he felt the whine of the German lead ripping and tearing through his plane. In half a dozen places in his legs it felt as though someone had jammed hot needles into his skin; and he swore at himself again and circled back to get his victim before the two men from the ground could maneuver into advantageous position.
He came around fast and saw the Boche gunners firing wildly at the point he had disappeared over at the right, and then he dived and fired again. He was so close now he could see a twin stream of fire pouring into the heart of the big fellow; and he zoomed just in time to save his undercarriage.
He climbed on off, his legs stinging like the devil. He could feel something warm inside his pants’ leg trickling down…and he swung over in a quick Immelmann and got ready to come back. He caught sight of the black form below him and went down after it like a hawk.
He had no idea he was close to the ground. Then there was a terrific explosion and a white sheet of flame that seemed to cover the earth. His Spad was caught in the midst of it; it seemed to balloon upward and then he was conscious that both his wings had snapped off.
He threw up his hands to protect his face as his eyes closed.
CHAPTER V.
It was dark. Gradually a light gleamed far away…and came on with the speed of a falling star. Big George Dorman blinked his eyes to clear the mists and made out faces. One of them was Chick Lancaster’s. He dimly remembered the other one…
He tried to move his legs, but they felt funny. His head ached. His mouth was dry.
“Easy,” said Lancaster. He moved closer. “You had a hell of a spill.”
Dorman smiled.
Another face came close. He fought with his brain to tear away the obscurity…and then atop the head that was close to him he saw a silver star gleaming from the little cap.
Then he knew.
That was General Mitchell.
“How do you feel, Dorman?” he asked.
George Dorman licked his lips.
“Okay, sir. I’m okay. What happened?”
The General grinned.
“The Gotha crashed and its bombs exploded. You were a full fifty feet above and got the repercussion.”
“Oh,” Dorman said. He moved his head. “Feels like I been here ten years. Is the war over yet?”
He looked at General Mitchell queerly.
“Not yet,” the General said. “I think it’ll last long enough for you to get in. As soon as you’re in shape you’re coming back to the group. I’ll hold a place for you.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“Those Gothas,” Mitchell went on, “had bombs for the General.” He leaned over and whispered. “I’m recommending you for the D.S.C.” He smiled and bit his lip and went out.
Lancaster sat down on the edge of the bed.
“By God,” he said, “you must have been born with a horseshoe in your mouth.”
Big George Dorman grinned and thumbed his nose at him.
THE EARTHQUAKE GIRL, by Joseph J. Millard
Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, October 1941.
“Here it comes again!” Steve Markham exclaimed. “Can’t you hear it—feel it?”
His secretary, prim, efficient and more than a little frightened, avoided his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Professor Markham, but it’s like all the other days. I—I can’t hear a thing.”
“Good Lord, you must be deaf!”
An expression of irritation crossed his square-set, handsome face. He pressed hands to his ears, wincing.
“That droning—it’s coming from the air, the desk, the walls…everything’s humming like a tuning fork.”
He glanced up at the electric clock. “Exactly the same as last week,” he muttered. “Begins at three minutes to eleven, reaches maximum at eleven and dies away at three minutes past eleven. First, once a month, then once every two weeks, now every week. If that goes on—”
He broke off, staring at his secretary’s averted face.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? But I tell—”
The shrill whirr of the telephone interrupted him. His secretary answered, listened for a moment without comment and then hung up.
“A call from the seismographic labora…”
“Don’t tell me,” Steve Markham interrupted. “I’ll tell you! The seismograph has just recorded another earthquake of six-minute duration, apparently centered somewhere about twenty-five hundred miles southwest of here.”
She nodded wordlessly.
With an exclamation of determination, Markham snatched a bulky file folder from his desk.
“I’ll make that idiot of a Dean Raymond listen to me this time if I have to grab his goatee and ram a seismograph down his dried-up throat.”
He slapped open the hall door with an athletic violence that shook the room, pounded purposefully out into the corridor. He took the old stairs of the Geology Building of Gaylor University three at a time.
At a door labeled CARVER S. RAYMOND, M.S., DEAN OF THE DEPARTMENT OF GEOLOGY, he turned and plunged through at full speed. A thin, spectacled girl looked up at his stormy entrance. Recognition flashed in her eyes. With a bound she was up from her desk, barring the closed inner door. Steve Markham brought up short before her, growling.
“Wait, Professor Markham,” she panted. “Please! You can’t go in there now. Dean Raymond left positive orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed for anything this morn…”
“I know,” Markham said. “He left orders that if that crackpot Markham showed up, to kick him out. Well, sister, I’ve been kicked out for the last time. I’m going in! Raymond is not only going to see me but he’s going to listen to me this time. Step aside and let me—”
The door suddenly opened behind the girl’s fluttering figure.
“I will be glad to listen, Professor Markham,” Dean Raymond said coldly from the opening. “As a matter of fact, I was considering bringing this entire disgraceful matter to a head today. Come in.”
If the wizened scientist expected his young assistant to wilt, he was disappointed. Markham bowed shortly and strode into the Dean’s inner office. He slapped the bulky file folder down on the immaculate desk, jerked a chair to position beside it and sat down.
“Now, Markham,” Dean Raymond began, perching on his padded swivel chair behind the desk. “Let’s have this out. From a mere nuisance, Sir, you have rapidly graduated to a position of actual menace to the dignity of this great institution of learning.”
“Originally, you were given the post of Associate Professorship here because of your unexcelled scholastic record. Frankly, I opposed your appointment at that time on the grounds that you were too imaginative for a calm scientific delineation of natural phenomena. It appears that I was right.”
Steve Markham controlled his anger with a visible effort.
“Dean Raymond, I have only one request. Give me ten uninterrupted minutes in which to tell you and show you what I have found out. If, by that time, I haven’t convinced you that there is great danger,” he spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, “then I shall bow to your decision.”
“Granted!” Raymond snapped curtly and glanced significantly at his watch.
Markham knew Raymond well enough to know that the ten minutes of armistice was an inflexible unit of time. Ten minutes, and not one second more. Nevertheless, he used one precious minute to marshal his story into graphic form. Then, he plunged into his recital.
“You know that my chief interest lies in the field of earthquakes,” he began. “Pursuing my studies, I set out to collect and analyze reports of tremors and quakes from all parts of the world, as far back into history as possible. In this file, for example, are newspaper clippings of all reported quakes during the past ten years.”
“Newspapers,” Raymond interposed dryly, “are not generally considered reliable sources of scientific data.” Markham ignored the jibe.
“Out of that study rose two significant mysteries. In fact, they positively cry out for attention and study. One of these is the matter of earthquakes that never occur. Our own seismograph, and all others as well, repeatedly records hundreds of quakes of destructive intensity that simply never happen. Their location is accurately placed. We wait breathlessly for a report of destruction and death, for often our figures place the tremor in the midst of a densely populated area.
“But no report ever comes. Why? What unknown force could activate our seismographs so violently, yet not even be felt at its point of origin?”
Dean Raymond stirred uneasily, opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Markham opened his file folder, snatched out a small newspaper clipping.
“Here is a clipping dated July 15, 1940. It appeared in nearly every newspaper in the country, reporting Fordham University’s record of a quake of sufficient intensity to cause considerable damage. The origin of the quake was definitely placed in the region of the Aleutian Islands. But inhabitants of those islands have reported neither destruction nor even mild shocks.”
He exchanged that clipping for a second one and rushed on.
“Here is a sample of the second mystery. A few days after the so-called Aleutian quake, there was a mild one felt in California. But—that quake was preceded by a loud droning or roaring noise—”
“Where is the my
stery in that?” Raymond demanded sharply. “Shifting rocks cause earthquakes, and shifting rocks can also cause a roaring sound.”
“Ah!” Markham cried triumphantly. “But have you ever figured the interval of time between the roaring noise and the quake itself? Have you ever calculated the speed of sound waves and the speed of the shock waves themselves to discover how far away such slipping rocks would have to be for such elapsed time? I have. I have computed the time intervals for twenty-three different quakes and I have figures here that—”
Raymond waved his hand irritably. “Never mind. I’ll take your word for the computations. You have exactly five and a quarter minutes in which to finish, Professor Markham.”
“All right. Now, the third and perhaps the linking mystery—my own physical peculiarity. You will recall that six months ago I told you I could feel a queer, ominous vibration in the air—a droning that was more of a feeling than a sound. You will also remember that I reported the same sensation once a month, then once every two weeks and, finally, once a week. Always at exactly the same hour of the day. The sound, or feeling, lasted exactly six minutes.
“Then came my own discovery that every time I felt the vibration, our seismograph recorded a quake of the same duration at the same time. Each of these quakes is more severe than the preceding one. And every quake centers in an unexplored region of the Sierra Madre Mountains, in the state of Sinaloa, in western Mexico.”
Markham paused, bent forward with his clenched fists pressed tight against the desk.
“Such regularity as that can’t be natural. There is something happening down there in Sinaloa that we’ve got to investigate. The quakes themselves haven’t yet reached destructive intensity but that regularity of recurrence could be a hundred times worse. You know how a tuning fork of the right vibration can shatter a glass tumbler. What if those weird vibrations I feel and the seismograph records should happen to hit a vibrational period of just the proper length. They might shatter layers of vital rock strata and set that whole mountain chain to shaking.
The Adventure Novella MEGAPACK® Page 15
