February 1931

by Unknown

  Hay cut short his apologies with a laugh. "Rot! I'd've been the same way myself." He glanced rapidly at Lance's plane. "Got it?" he questioned. "I'm a bit late; had a hell of a time getting here without arousing suspicion. We'd best hurry."

  Lance nodded. They hurried to the Goshawk. As they worked, carefully lifting out the Singe beacon, Lance, in crisp, short-clipped sentences, told his companion of Ranth, the spy.

  "You don't know how much he got through?"

  "No," said Lance. "No."

  "Hm-m. Well, we'll have to trust to luck."

  "You know the working of the beacon?" Lance asked. On the other's nod of affirmation he continued: "What's your plan?"

  "Light about five miles this side of Frisco itself, just near the main Slav military base. Anywhere in that territory would do, though. The beacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray; it spreads, diffuses. The squadron of torpedoes will cover some fifty or sixty miles of ground, I believe. They'll utterly demolish the city, and every damned Slav in it." His face, in the darkness, went grim and hard. "And it'll damn well pay them back," he rasped, "for the horrible way they massacred San Francisco's population...."

  * * * * *

  The Singe beacon was in his plane. Hay turned to Lance, stretching out his hand for a farewell clasp. Then Lance asked the question that had been worrying him.

  "Colonel Douglas told me to give you a last handshake for him. Last. Why did he say that?"

  "Because," Hay said smilingly, "I'm staying by the beacon to make sure that nothing goes wrong. I guess that's why he said it, old fellow...."

  Lance gasped: "You're sacrificing your life?"

  "Of course. To save seventy-five million others."

  Then suddenly they both stared above.

  A roar of sound--of purring motors, of props, mixed with the chatter of a dozen machine-guns--had belched with numbing suddenness from the low-hanging clouds.

  Enemy planes! A patrol of them!

  "God!" jerked Lance. "Ranth's warning got through! Part of it, anyway!"

  He leaped for his plane, shouting: "I'll hold 'em off! You get away quick!" and, through a veritable hail of lead, sprang into the cockpit.

  Then, a cold pang at his heart, he sprang out again.

  A bullet had caught Hay!

  * * * * *

  For a moment, the Slav fire ceased, while their planes zoomed up to start another death-dealing dive. And in that moment Lance was at Hay's side, where he had fallen.

  "They--got me," whispered Hay, a stream of blood welling from his gasping mouth. "I'm--I'm going. C-carry me to--to your plane. I've still a--a little strength left. You take the beacon. I--I'll hold them--as--as long as--I can. Put through that beacon, boy! Put it though!"

  His brain a maelstrom, Lance stared at the crumpled figure. It was the only way! He heard the motors above come roaring down again; desperately he carried the blood-choking Hay to his own plane; propped him limply at the controls. Bullets spat through a frenzy of noise. Weakly Hay started the Goshawk's Diesels, and weakly, into Lance's face, smiled, and beckoned him to leave.

  And, as Lance, a grim resolve at his heart, turned, Hay's blood-frothed lips formed the words: "Carry on!"

  Through the raining lead, seeming to bear a charmed life, Lance leaped to Hay's plane, hearing as he did so his own, with a stricken pilot at its controls, hurtle upwards.

  Carry on! For the life of America!

  Carry on!

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes past the hour of nine. A full thousand miles behind the lines, on the wide black field of America's major war base, a small group of men stood, surveying the awesome weapons assembled there.

  Row upon row of huge, dully-gleaming cigar-shaped things stretched away into the darkness before them. There were only one or two faint lights to give illumination, and the night choked in on them, making them terrifying.

  They resembled, more than anything else, half-sized dirigibles, being roughly about one hundred feet long and perhaps as much as thirty feet high. At first sight, they seemed to be numberless; then, as the bewildered eye became more sane, one could count them and see that there were, in reality, about thirty. Their prows were stubby; in the port side of each a tiny trap-door yawned, and standing by every trap-door was the overall-clad figure of a mechanic, waiting for the signal.

  The Commander of the American Air Force looked up from his wrist-watch. At his side was a peculiar gnomelike figure, a figure with hunched, twisted back and huge, over-heavy head. This was Professor Singe, and from that ridiculous head had come the germ which had finally expanded into the torpedoes arrayed before him.

  His eyes were nervous; his crooked face twitched ceaselessly. "Time?" he kept asking. "Time? Is it yet time?" And finally the tall figure of the Commanding Officer turned and rapped: "Time!"

  * * * * *

  An aide-de-camp raised a hand. As if working by some mechanical device, the figure which stood by each torpedo climbed through the trap-doors, jumped out a second later, and came running to the head of the field.

  "About thirty seconds," muttered Singe nervously, eyes alight. "Thirty seconds for their motors to catch the stream. Thirty--ah!"

  For the squadron of man-made horrors had stirred.

  "God pity San Francisco!" murmured the Commanding Officer, and stepped back involuntarily as the whole fleet lifted their glyco-scarzite crammed bellies from the field and, as if moved by some magical, unseen, unheard force, shot up into the darkness with ever gathering speed.

  "God pity it, indeed!" chuckled Singe exultantly. "It'll need it!"

  The C. O. sighed and shook his head slowly. "War!" he mused. "And yet, it's our only chance." For a moment he paused, seemingly unconscious of the macabre little form next to him, still gazing aloft at the now invisible torpedoes, and then muttered:

  "And God pity Basil Hay, who's giving his life to America--a glorious, unselfish hero. God pity Basil Hay!"

  * * * * *

  American flyers never knew of Basil Hay's last fight. Had they, it would have become legendary.

  For Hay fought a grim battle against two foes. One, he could face and conquer, as he had conquered often before. But the other lurked next to his dauntless heart, and it Hay could not subdue.

  It was death.

  Truly, Hay's fight there in the wet clouds above Sola Ranch was an inspired one. He fought almost by instinct alone, instinct twenty years of piloting had planted deep in his veins. He fought for Lance--for America. His eyes, glazing rapidly, could not distinguish the roaring phantoms that laced around his lone plane, but uncannily his bursts of fire went home again and again, while theirs ripped aimlessly over the Goshawk's hell-driven snout.

  Of course it could not last. Gallant spirit alone kept Basil Hay taut at his controls. Spirit alone thrust back the ever-increasing surge of black oblivion that pounded at his heart and brain. Spirit alone sent the pitifully outnumbered plane corkscrewing in peerless maneuverings that baffled the on-passing Slavs and thrust four of them to the sodden ground in flame. Spirit that would not surrender--but had to.

  They could never have conquered Basil Hay in a plane. An ambushing bullet that caught him off guard did that. And finally Hay fell.

  But he had kept them for ten full minutes. Ten minutes--each one a lasting, mute testimony to his unquenchable, unyielding spirit.

  He flung a last salvo from his hot machine-guns, then, heart numbing, jerked back the control-stick and careened high. He slumped down. The plane paused, wallowed crazily for a moment, and then roared earthward, "Carry on!" formed faintly on its dead pilot's bloody lips.

  Basil Hay had fought his last fight.

  Ten minutes....

  Lance hadn't expected that long. He'd thought Hay would die in a few seconds. The man was mortally wounded; could not last.

  Nevertheless, minutes or seconds, he was entrusted with the Singe beacon, and it was his job and his will to put it through.

  He'd climbed the Slav plane up to its ceiling, dri
ven it till it simply refused to go higher, and then roared on towards San Francisco. Each second he expected to see others come hurtling after him. When they did not, he knew how really great Hay's will was. It was an inspiring example.

  But his brain was tortured by a multitude of conflicting doubts. A patrol of Slav scouts had ambushed them. Just how much did the Slavs know, then, about the torpedoes?

  He, Lance, had to guide the Singe beacon. Quickly he reviewed what Hay had told him.

  "Light about five miles this side of Frisco. Anywhere in that territory would do, though. The beacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray; it spreads, diffuses."

  Spreads, diffuses.

  Hay had been clad in Slav uniform, and thus could, with a certain measure of safety, put the beacon machinery on the ground itself. But Lance was in American uniform; if he landed, he ran great risk of being noticed and attacked at once.

  Lance saw immediately that there was only one way out. It was sure death, but Hay had expected death, and so must he.

  His lips set in stern resolve. It meant good-by--farewell to the girl he'd left behind, farewell to life, farewell to everything--but not for a second did he debate the course he would take.

  * * * * *

  Lance glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. The torpedoes were even now on their way, hurtling along miles above the earth. In fifteen minutes they would be over San Francisco. In fifteen minutes the Singe beacon had to meet them.

  He was not familiar with the Slav plane's instruments, but he judged he'd traveled some hundred and twenty-five miles; was nearing the outskirts of San Francisco. The air below would be thick, probably, with enemy scouts, but his appearance should pass unchallenged as long as they didn't glimpse his betraying uniform.

  He set the plane's nose down in a long slanting dive.

  Whipping through the clouds, the guarding search-rays of San Francisco were soon visible. Lance saw a few patrols of enemy scouts; he clung to the clouds, decreased his speed, and began circling over the heart of the metropolis itself.

  Twenty to ten.

  Occasionally a Slav plane flashed by him. Thank God, they didn't challenge! Lance went still lower. Finally, at a thousand feet, he set the helicopter props in motion and hung in mid-air--directly above the very center of the city.

  Sixteen minutes to ten.

  Now!

  * * * * *

  In the American front-line trenches, massed troops crouched expectantly. Clustered on every air base were flights of planes, each one crammed with bombs. Far behind, the Yank gun-crews edged nervously up to their mighty charges, and fingered anxiously the stubby gas shells which soon would be flung through the dripping night.

  And at Base No. 5 a very uneasy Colonel Douglas paced back and forth in his office, muttering: "No news from Lance! No news from Lance! God! He can't have failed! But why doesn't he show up?"

  He had not failed.

  Hovering in the plane over San Francisco Lance squirmed round in his seat, reached back into the fuselage, and pressed rapidly the studs on the Singe beacon. A high whining noise pierced instantly through the plane. And up stabbed the beacon, invisible, deadly--up, up, up to a thin realm miles above, where it flashed into an awesome squadron of terrible shells of steel!

  Shells that, a second later, wavered, staggered, and plunged earthward!

  And Lance tensed in his seat. From above, he caught a tiny whistling noise--a whistling that hurtled into a terrific shriek--that roared ever closer.

  "Carry on!" he muttered. "Carry on!"

  The words froze on his lips, for the world was suddenly consumed, it seemed, by flame and splitting, bellowing thunder.

  * * * * *

  The American guns spoke.

  From every aerodrome long flights of scouts and bombers and transport planes roared upward.

  In the front trenches the troops, still somewhat dazed by the earth-shaking explosion that had just tumbled from the far horizon--a horizon still lit by leaping tongues of awful flame--poured over the top, gas-masks on, repeaters and portable machine-guns at the ready, with a fierce cry on their lips.

  Before that avenging attack the Slavs, their very spine broken, bewildered and confused, already turning in panic, could not stand.

  America swept to the Pacific, and left death in her wake. And when she came to San Francisco, not even the sternest fighting men, still hot from battle, could repress a shudder, so awful was the devastation.

  The Slav invasion was over!

  * * * * *

  In the rebuilt city of San Francisco there is a statue that stands proudly before the magnificent, gleaming city hall.

  It represents two slim, straight-standing figures, clad in the uniform of the American Air Force. Their outstretched arms support a tiny one-seater Goshawk fighting plane.

  Below, as you know, there is a plaque. Men touch their hats as they walk by it; flowers are always fresh at its base. On the plaque are the words:

  To The Everlasting

  Memory Of

  Captain Basil Hay, A.A.F.

  Captain Derek Lance, A.A.F.

  Who, In The War Of 1938, Gave

  Their Lives In Destroying And

  Devastating San Francisco

  That San Francisco And America

  Might Live

  The Tentacles From Below

  A COMPLETE NOVELETTE

  By Anthony Gilmore

  CHAPTER I - "Machine-Fish"

  [Sidenote: Down to tremendous ocean depths goes Commander Keith Wells in his blind duel with the marauding "machine-fish."]

  "Full stop. Rest ready."

  These words glowed in vivid red against the black background of the NX-1's control order-board. A wheel was spun over, a lever pulled back, and in the hull of the submarine descended the peculiar silence found only in mile-deep waters. Men rested at their posts, eyes alert.

  Above, in the control room, Hemingway Bowman, youthful first officer, glanced at the teleview screen and swore softly.

  "Keith," he said, "between you and me, I'll be damned glad when this monotonous job's over. I joined the Navy to see the world, but this charting job's giving me entirely too many close-ups of the deadest parts of it!"

  Commander Keith Wells. U. S. N., grinned broadly. "Well," he remarked, "in a few minutes we can call it a day--or night, rather--and then it's back to the Falcon while the day shift 'sees the world.'" He turned again to his dials as Hemmy Bowman, with a sigh, resumed work.

  "Depth, six thousand feet. Visibility poor. Bottom eight thousand," he said into the phone hung before his lips, and fifty feet aft, in a small cubby, a blue-clad figure monotonously repeated the observations and noted them down in an official geographical survey report.

  * * * * *

  Such had been their routine for two tiring weeks, all part of the NX-l's present work of re-charting the Newfoundland banks.

  As early as 1929 slight cataclysms had begun to tear up the sea-floor of this region, and of late--1935--seismographs and cable companies had reported titanic upheavals and sinkings of the ocean bed, changing hundreds of miles of underwater territory. Finally Washington decided to chart the alterations this series of sub-sea earthquakes had wrought.

  And for this job the NX-1 was detailed. A super-submarine fresh from the yards, small, but modern to the last degree, she contained such exclusive features as a sheathing of the tough new glycosteel, automatic air rectifiers, a location chart for showing positions of nearby submarines, the newly developed Edsel electric motors, and automatic teleview screen. When below surface she was a sealed tube of metal one hundred feet long, and possessed of an enormous cruising radius. From the flower of the Navy some thirty men were picked, and in company with the mother-ship Falcon she put out to combine an exhaustive trial trip with the practical charting of the newly changed ocean floor.

  Now this work was almost over. Keith Wells told himself that he, like Bowman, would be glad to set foot on land again. This surveying was important, of course, but too d
ry for him--no action. He smiled at the lines of boredom on Hemmy's brow as the younger man stared gloomily into the teleview screen.

  And then the smile left his lips. The radio operator, in a cubby adjoining the control room, had spoken into the communication tube:

  "Urgent call for you, sir! From Captain Knapp!"

  * * * * *

  Wells reached out and clipped a pair of extension phones over his ears. The deep voice of Robert Knapp, captain of the mother-ship Falcon, came ringing in. It was strained with an excitement unusual to him.