February 1930

by Unknown

  "The boys in the planes risked it," said Thurston quietly. "They got theirs." He stopped for a broken fragment of steel. "Try one with a fan on; it hasn't a detonator."

  The men pried at the slim thing. It slid slowly toward the open port. One heave and it balanced on the edge, then vanished abruptly. The spray was cold on their faces. They breathed heavily with the realization that they still lived.

  * * * * *

  There were days of horror that followed, horror tempered by a numbing paralysis of all emotions. There were bodies by thousands to be heaped in the pit where San Diego had stood, to be buried beneath countless tons of debris and dirt. Trains brought an army of helpers; airplanes came with doctors and nurses and the beginning of a mountain of supplies. The need was there; it must be met. Yet the whole world was waiting while it helped, waiting for the next blow to fall.

  Telegraph service was improvised, and radio receivers rushed in. The news of the world was theirs once more. And it told of a terrified, waiting world. There would be no temporizing now on the part of the invaders. They had seen the airplanes swarming from the ground--they would know an airdrome next time from the air. Thurston had noted the windows in the great shell, windows of dull-colored glass which would protect the darkness of the interior, essential to life for the horrible occupant, but through which it could see. It could watch all directions at once.

  * * * * *

  The great shell had vanished from the shore. Pounding waves and the shifting sands of high tide had obliterated all trace. More than once had Thurston uttered devout thanks for the chance shell from an anti-aircraft gun that had entered the funnel beneath the machine, had bent and twisted the arrangement of mirrors that he and MacGregor had seen, and, exploding, had cracked and broken the domed roof of the bulb. They had learned little, but MacGregor was up north within reach of Los Angeles laboratories. And he had with him the slim cylinder of death. He was studying, thinking.

  Telephone service had been established for official business. The whole nation-wide system, for that matter, was under military control. The Secretary of War had flown back to Washington. The whole world was on a war basis. War! And none knew where they should defend themselves, nor how.

  An orderly rushed Thurston to the telephone. "You are wanted at once; Los Angeles calling."

  The voice of MacGregor was cool and unhurried as Thurston listened. "Grab a plane, old man," he was saying, "and come up here on the jump."

  The phrase brought a grim smile to Thurston's tired lips. "Hell's popping!" the Secretary of War had added on that evening those long ages before. Did MacGregor have something? Was a different kind of hell preparing to pop? The thoughts flashed through the listener's mind.

  "I need a good deputy," MacGregor said. "You may be the whole works--may have to carry on--but I'll tell you it all later. Meet me at the Biltmore."

  "In less than two hours," Thurston assured him.

  * * * * *

  A plane was at his disposal. Riley's legs were functioning again, after a fashion. They kept the appointment with minutes to spare.

  "Come on," said MacGregor, "I'll talk to you in the car." The automobile whirled them out of the city to race off upon a winding highway that climbed into far hills. There was twenty miles of this; MacGregor had time for his talk.

  "They've struck," he told the two men. "They were over Germany yesterday. The news was kept quiet: I got the last report a half-hour ago. They pretty well wiped out Berlin. No air-force there. France and England sent a swarm of planes, from the reports. Poor devils! No need to tell you what they got. We've seen it first hand. They headed west over the Atlantic, the four machines. Gave England a burst or two from high up, paused over New York, then went on. But they're here somewhere, we think. Now listen:

  "How long was it from the time when you saw the first monster until we heard from them again?"

  * * * * *

  Thurston forced his mind back to those days that seemed so far in the past. He tried to remember.

  "Four days," broke in Riley. "It was the fourth day after we found the devil feeding."

  "Feeding!" interrupted the scientist. "That's the point I am making. Four days. Remember that!

  "And we knew they were down in the Argentine five days ago--that's another item kept from an hysterical public. They slaughtered some thousands of cattle; there were scores of them found where the devils--I'll borrow Riley's word--where the devils had fed. Nothing left but hide and bones.

  "And--mark this--that was four days before they appeared over Berlin.

  "Why? Don't ask me. Do they have to lie quiet for that period miles up there in space? God knows. Perhaps! These things seem outside the knowledge of a deity. But enough of that! Remember: four days! Let us assume that there is this four days waiting period. It will help us to time them. I'll come back to that later.

  "Here is what I have been doing. We know that light is a means of attack. I believe that the detonators we saw on those bombs merely opened a seal in the shell and forced in a flash of some sort. I believe that radiant energy is what fires the blast.

  "What is it that explodes? Nobody knows. We have opened the shell, working in the absolute blackness of a room a hundred feet underground. We found in it a powder--two powders, to be exact.

  "They are mixed. One is finely divided, the other rather granular. Their specific gravity is enormous, beyond anything known to physical science unless it would be the hypothetical neutron masses we think are in certain stars. But this is not matter as we know matter; it is something new.

  * * * * *

  "Our theory is this: the hydrogen atom has been split, resolved into components, not of electrons and the proton centers, but held at some halfway point of decomposition. Matter composed only of neutrons would be heavy beyond belief. This fits the theory in that respect. But the point is this: When these solids are formed--they are dense--they represent in a cubic centimeter possibly a cubic mile of hydrogen gas under normal pressure. That's a guess, but it will give you the idea.

  "Not compressed, you understand, but all the elements present in other than elemental form for the reconstruction of the atom ... for a million billions of atoms.

  "Then the light strikes it. These dense solids become instantly a gas--miles of it held in that small space.

  "There you have it: the gas, the explosion, the entire absence of heat--which is to say, its terrific cold--when it expands."

  Slim Riley was looking bewildered but game. "Sure, I saw it snow," he affirmed, "so I guess the rest must be O.K. But what are we going to do about it? You say light kills 'em, and fires their bombs. But how can we let light into those big steel shells, or the little ones either?"

  "Not through those thick walls," said MacGregor. "Not light. One of our anti-aircraft shells made a direct hit. That might not happen again in a million shots. But there are other forms of radiant energy that do penetrate steel...."

  * * * * *

  The car had stopped beside a grove of eucalyptus. A barren, sun-baked hillside stretched beyond. MacGregor motioned them to alight.

  Riley was afire with optimism. "And do you believe it?" he asked eagerly. "Do you believe that we've got 'em licked?"

  Thurston, too, looked into MacGregor's face: Riley was not the only one who needed encouragement. But the gray eyes were suddenly tired and hopeless.

  "You ask what I believe," said the scientist slowly. "I believe we are witnessing the end of the world, our world of humans, their struggles, their grave hopes and happiness and aspirations...."

  He was not looking at them. His gaze was far off in space.

  "Men will struggle and fight with their puny weapons, but these monsters will win, and they will have their way with us. Then more of them will come. The world, I believe, is doomed...."

  He straightened his shoulders. "But we can die fighting," he added, and pointed over the hill.

  "Over there," he said, "in the valley beyond, is a charge of their explosive and a litt
le apparatus of mine. I intend to fire the charge from a distance of three hundred yards. I expect to be safe, perfectly safe. But accidents happen.

  "In Washington a plane is being prepared. I have given instructions through hours of phoning. They are working night and day. It will contain a huge generator for producing my ray. Nothing new! Just the product of our knowledge of radiant energy up to date. But the man who flies that plane will die--horribly. No time to experiment with protection. The rays will destroy him, though he may live a month.

  "I am asking you," he told Cyrus Thurston, "to handle that plane. You may be of service to the world--you may find you are utterly powerless. You surely will die. But you know the machines and the monsters; your knowledge may be of value in an attack." He waited. The silence lasted for only a moment.

  "Why, sure," said Cyrus Thurston.

  * * * * *

  He looked at the eucalyptus grove with earnest appraisal. The sun made lovely shadows among their stripped trunks: the world was a beautiful place. A lingering death, MacGregor had intimated--and horrible.... "Why, sure," he repeated steadily.

  Slim Riley shoved him firmly aside to stand facing MacGregor.

  "Sure, hell!" he said. "I'm your man, Mr. MacGregor.

  "What do you know about flying?" he asked Cyrus Thurston. "You're good--for a beginner. But men like you two have got brains, and I'm thinkin' the world will be needin' them. Now me, all I'm good for is holdin' a shtick"--his brogue had returned to his speech, and was evidence of his earnestness.

  "And, besides"--the smile faded from his lips, and his voice was suddenly soft--"them boys we saw take their last flip was just pilots to you, just a bunch of good fighters. Well, they're buddies of mine. I fought beside some of them in France.... I belong!"

  He grinned happily at Thurston. "Besides," he said, "what do you know about dog-fights?"

  MacGregor gripped him by the hand. "You win," he said. "Report to Washington. The Secretary of War has all the dope."

  * * * * *

  He turned to Thurston. "Now for you! Get this! The enemy machines almost attacked New York. One of them came low, then went back, and the four flashed out of sight toward the west. It is my belief that New York is next, but the devils are hungry. The beast that attacked us was ravenous, remember. They need food and lots of it. You will hear of their feeding, and you can count on four days. Keep Riley informed--that's your job.

  "Now I'm going over the hill. If this experiment works, there's a chance we can repeat it on a larger scale. No certainty, but a chance! I'll be back. Full instructions at the hotel in case...." He vanished into the scrub growth.

  "Not exactly encouraging," Thurston pondered, "but he's a good man, Mac, a good egg! Not as big a brain as the one we saw, but perhaps it's a better one--cleaner--and it's working!"

  They were sheltered under the brow of the hill, but the blast from the valley beyond rocked them like an earthquake. They rushed to the top of the knoll. MacGregor was standing in the valley; he waved them a greeting and shouted something unintelligible.

  The gas had mushroomed into a cloud of steamy vapor. From above came snowflakes to whirl in the churning mass, then fall to the ground. A wind came howling about them to beat upon the cloud. It swirled slowly back and down the valley. The figure of MacGregor vanished in its smothering embrace.

  "Exit, MacGregor!" said Cyrus Thurston softly. He held tight to the struggling figure of Slim Riley.

  "He couldn't live a minute in that atmosphere of hydrogen," he explained. "They can--the devils!--but not a good egg like Mac. It's our job now--yours and mine."

  Slowly the gas retreated, lifted to permit their passage down the slope.

  * * * * *

  MacGregor was a good prophet. Thurston admitted that when, four days later, he stood on the roof of the Equitable Building in lower New York.

  The monsters had fed as predicted. Out in Wyoming a desolate area marked the place of their meal, where a great herd of cattle lay smothered and frozen. There were ranch houses, too, in the circle of destruction, their occupants frozen stiff as the carcasses that dotted the plains. The country had stood tense for the following blow. Only Thurston had lived in certainty of a few days reprieve. And now had come the fourth day.

  In Washington was Riley. Thurston had been in touch with him frequently.

  "Sure, it's a crazy machine," the pilot had told him, "and 'tis not much I think of it at all. Neither bullets nor guns, just this big glass contraption and speed. She's fast, man, she's fast ... but it's little hope I have." And Thurston, remembering the scientist's words, was heartless and sick with dreadful certainty.

  There were aircraft ready near New York; it was generally felt that here was the next objective. The enemy had looked it over carefully. And Washington, too, was guarded. The nation's capital must receive what little help the aircraft could afford.

  There were other cities waiting for destruction. If not this time--later! The horror hung over them all.

  * * * * *

  The fourth day! And Thurston was suddenly certain of the fate of New York. He hurried to a telephone. Of the Secretary of War he implored assistance.

  "Send your planes," he begged. "Here's where we will get it next. Send Riley. Let's make a last stand--win or lose."

  "I'll give you a squadron," was the concession. "What difference whether they die there or here...?" The voice was that of a weary man, weary and sleepless and hopeless.

  "Good-by Cy, old man!" The click of the receiver sounded in Thurston's ear. He returned to the roof for his vigil.

  To wait, to stride nervously back and forth in impotent expectancy. He could leave, go out into open country, but what were a few days or months--or a year--with this horror upon them? It was the end. MacGregor was right. "Good old Mac!"

  There were airplanes roaring overhead. It meant.... Thurston abruptly was cold; a chill gripped at his heart.

  The paroxysm passed. He was doubled with laughter--or was it he who was laughing? He was suddenly buoyantly carefree. Who was he that it mattered? Cyrus Thurston--an ant! And their ant-hill was about to be snuffed out....

  He walked over to a waiting group and clapped one man on the shoulder. "Well, how does it feel to be an ant?" he inquired and laughed loudly at the jest. "You and your millions of dollars, your acres of factories, your steamships, railroads!"

  The man looked at him strangely and edged cautiously away. His eyes, like those of the others, had a dazed, stricken look. A woman was sobbing softly as she clung to her husband. From the streets far below came a quavering shrillness of sound.

  The planes gathered in climbing circles. Far on the horizon were four tiny glinting specks....

  * * * * *

  Thurston stared until his eyes were stinging. He was walking in a waking sleep as he made his way to the stone coping beyond which was the street far below. He was dead--dead!--right this minute. What were a few minutes more or less? He could climb over the coping; none of the huddled, fear-gripped group would stop him. He could step out into space and fool them, the devils. They could never kill him....

  What was it MacGregor had said? Good egg, MacGregor! "But we can die fighting...." Yes, that was it--die fighting. But he couldn't fight; he could only wait. Well, what were the others doing, down there in the streets--in their homes? He could wait with them, die with them....

  He straightened slowly and drew one long breath. He looked steadily and unafraid at the advancing specks. They were larger now. He could see their round forms. The planes were less noisy: they were far up in the heights--climbing--climbing.

  The bulbs came slantingly down. They were separating. Thurston wondered vaguely.

  What had they done in Berlin? Yes, he remembered. Placed themselves at the four corners of a great square and wiped out the whole city in one explosion. Four bombs dropped at the same instant while they shot up to safety in the thin air. How did they communicate? Thought transference, most likely. Telepathy between those great brains, on
e to another. A plane was falling. It curved and swooped in a trail of flame, then fell straight toward the earth. They were fighting....

  * * * * *

  Thurston stared above. There were clusters of planes diving down from on high. Machine-guns stuttered faintly. "Machine-guns--toys! Brave, that was it! 'We can die fighting.'" His thoughts were far off; it was like listening to another's mind.

  The air was filled with swelling clouds. He saw them before the blast struck where he stood. The great building shuddered at the impact. There were things falling from the clouds, wrecks of planes, blazing and shattered. Still came others; he saw them faintly through the clouds. They came in from the West; they had gone far to gain altitude. They drove down from the heights--the enemy had drifted--they were over the bay.

  More clouds, and another blast thundering at the city. There were specks, Thurston saw, falling into the water.

  Again the invaders came down from the heights where they had escaped their own shattering attack. There was the faint roar of motors behind, from the south. The squadron from Washington passed overhead.

  They surely had seen the fate that awaited. And they drove on to the attack, to strike at an enemy that shot instantly into the sky leaving crashing destruction about the torn dead.

  "Now!" said Cyrus Thurston aloud.

  * * * * *

  The big bulbs were back. They floated easily in the air, a plume of vapor billowing beneath. They were ranging to the four corners of a great square.

  One plane only was left, coming in from the south, a lone straggler, late for the fray. One plane! Thurston's shoulders sagged heavily. All they had left! It went swiftly overhead.... It was fast--fast. Thurston suddenly knew. It was Riley in that plane.

  "Go back, you fool!"--he was screaming at the top of his voice--"Back--back--you poor, damned, decent Irishman!"

  Tears were streaming down his face. "His buddies," Riley had said. And this was Riley, driving swiftly in, alone, to avenge them....

  He saw dimly as the swift plane sped over the first bulb, on and over the second. The soft roar of gas from the machines drowned the sound of his engine. The plane passed them in silence to bank sharply toward the third corner of the forming square.