Ardath adjusted the controls. Sighing, he turned away. The ship was back in its orbit, circling the Earth. It would not deviate from that course for centuries, until the moment Ardath's hand moved its controls.
He picked up a small metal box, stepped out of the laboratory and closed the panel. On the floor at his feet lay the unconscious forms of Zana and Thordred. Ardath set down the box.
This would be a new experiment, one that he had never tried. He could not speak the language of these Earthlings, nor could they speak his. But knowledge could be transmitted from one brain to another. Thought patterns were a form of energy, and that could be transferred, just as a matrix may stamp out duplicates. First, the man…
Ardath opened the black box, took out a circular metallic band and adjusted it about the sleeping Thordred's head. A similar band went about his own. He pressed a switch, felt a stinging, tingling sensation within his skull.
He removed the metal bands, replaced them and waited patiently. Would the experiment work? His lips shaped unfamiliar syllables. He had learned Thordred's language—but could the undeveloped brain of the Earthling be equally receptive?
Thordred groaned and opened his eyes. He stared up at Ardath. Into those amber eyes came a curious look that might have been amazement, but which was certainly not fear.
"You are not hurt," Ardath said in Thordred's harsh, primitive language. "Nor will you be harmed."
The Earthling stood up with an effort, breathing hoarsely. He took an unsteady step, reeled, collapsed with a shattering crash upon the thought transference apparatus. He lay silent and unmoving, an utterly helpless strong man.
No expression showed on Ardath's face, though the work of weeks had been ruined. The device could be built again, though he did not know if it should be. Had it been successful?
Thordred shuddered, rolled over. Painfully he rose and leaned weakly against the wall. His amber eyes rested puzzledly on Ardath as he asked a question in the Kyrian's soft language, which grated from his crude throat.
"Who are you, a god or a demon?"
Ardath smiled with satisfaction, for all was going well. He must explain matters to this Earthling to calm his fears. Later, he would rebuild the machine and teach Zana his own tongue. Then the three could sleep, for centuries if necessary.
But Ardath did not know that his device had worked too well. It had transferred knowledge of his own language to Thordred's brain, yet it had transferred more than that. All of Ardath's memories had been transmitted to the mind of the Earthling!
At that moment, Thordred's wisdom was as great as that of his captor. Though he had not Ardath's potentiality for learning more, unearthly, amazing wisdom had been impressed on his brain cells. Thordred had smashed the machine, not through accident, but with coldly logical purpose. It would not do for Zana to acquire Ardath's wisdom also. With an effort, Thordred kept an expression of stupid wonder on his face. He must play his role carefully. Ardath must not yet suspect that another man shared his secrets.
Ardath was speaking, carefully explaining things that his captive already knew. While Thordred seemed to listen, he swiftly pondered and discarded plans. Zana must die, of course. As for sleeping for centuries— Well, it was not a pleasant thought. Ardath must be slain, so Thordred could return to Earth, with new knowledge.
"The giants you saw in the sky," said Ardath, "were not real. They were three-dimensional projections, enlarged by my apparatus. I recorded the originals of those beings ages ago, when they actually lived and fought cave-bears and saber-toothed tigers."
No, they were merely images, but men had seen them and remembered. The panic in the city below had died. In its place grew superstitious dread, fostered by the priests. Time passed, and neither Zana nor Thordred returned. New rulers arose to sit upon the black throne.
But on the Mountain of the Gods, men toiled under the lash of the priests. Monstrous images of stone rose against the sky, gap-mouthed, fearsome images in crude similitude of the devils who had come out of the sunset.
"They may return," the priests warned. "But the stone giants on the mountain will frighten them away. Build them higher! They will guard our city."
On the peak the blind, alien faces glared ever into the sunset. And the days fled into years, and the dark centuries shrouded Earth. Continents crumbled. The eternal seas rose and washed new shores.
But the blind gods stayed to guard that which no longer needed guarding. And still they watch, those strange, alien statues on Easter Island.
CHAPTER IV
Growth
New Year's Day, 1941, was a momentous hour for Stephen Court. Most of December, 1940, he had spent in his laboratories, engrossed with a task the nature of which he explained to no one. The great Wisconsin mansion, where he lived with his staff, had been metamorphosed into a fortress of science, though from the outside it resembled merely an antique, dilapidated structure. But nearby villagers viewed with suspicion the activity around Court's home.
The local post-office was deluged with letters and packages. At all hours automobiles arrived, carrying cryptic burdens for Court.
Slyly the villagers questioned Sammy, for he often wandered into the combination store and post office, to sit by the stove and puff great, reeking fumes from his battered pipe. Sammy had not changed much with the years. His hair had turned white, and there were merely a few more creases in his brown face. Since moving to Wisconsin, Stephen had relaxed the anti-liquor restriction, but Sammy had learned the value of moderation.
"What's going on up at your place?" the storekeeper asked him, proffering a bottle.
Sammy drank two measured gulps and wiped his lips.
"The Lord only knows," he sighed. "It's way beyond me. Stevie's a swell boy, though. You can bet on that."
"Yeah!" retorted somebody, with an angry snort. "He's a cold-blooded fish, you mean. The boy ain't human. He's got ice-water in his veins. Comes and goes without so much as a howdy-do."
"He's thinking," Sammy defended sturdily. "Got a lot on his mind these days, Stevie has. He gets about two hours' sleep a night."
"But what's he doin'?"
"I don't know," admitted Sammy. "Inventing something, maybe."
"More than likely he'll blow us all up one of these fine days," grunted the storekeeper. The loungers around the stove nodded in agreement. "Here's the tram coming in. Hear it?"
Sammy settled himself more comfortably. 'There ought to be a package for Stevie, then."
There was. The old man took the parcel and left the station. He stood for a time, watching toe train disappear into the distance. Its whistle sang a seductive song that aroused nostalgia in Sammy's bosom. He sighed, remembering the old days when he had been a hungry, carefree bindle-stiff. Well, he was better off now—well fed and cared for, without any worries. But it was nice to hear a train whistle- once in awhile…
He climbed into the roadster and zoomed off toward the mansion. Ten minutes later he let himself into the hall, to be met by an anxious-eyed girl in a white uniform.
"Did it come?" she asked.
"Sure, Marion. Here it is."
He gave her the parcel. Holding it tightly, she turned and hurried away.
Since her arrival three years ago, Marion Barton had become a fixture in the house. She had been hired, at first, as a temporary laboratory assistant, during the absence of the regular one. But she had interested Court who saw surprising capabilities in her.
The fact that Marion was altogether lovely—slim, brown-eyed, dark-haired, with a peach complexion and remarkably kissable lips—meant nothing at all to Court. He merely catalogued her as a perfect physical specimen, thoroughly healthy, and concentrated on the more interesting occupation of investigating her mind. What he found there pleased him.
"She's intelligent," he told Sammy, "and she is meticulously careful. I've never seen her make a mistake. She's such a perfect assistant for me that we work in complete harmony. The girl seems to know exactly what I want, whether to hand m
e a scalpel or a lens, and she's completely unemotional. I shall keep her on, Sammy, and train her."
"Uh-huh," said the old man, nodding wisely. "She does all that, and she's completely unemotional, eh? Well, maybe so. Sure she ain't in love with you, Stevie?"
"Rot!" Court snapped, but it made him think it was necessary to warn Marion. "I'll pay you well," he explained to her, "and give you an invaluable training. But I have no time for emotional unbalance. I cannot afford distractions. Do you understand me?"
"Well," Marion observed with desperate levity, "I'll wear horn-rimmed glasses if you want, and hoop-skirts if my legs distract you."
"Not at all. I merely mean that there must be no question of any—well—infatuation."
Marion was silent for a moment, though her eyes sparkled dangerously.
"All right," she said quietly. "I won't fall in love with you, Mr. Court. Is that satisfactory?"
"Quite," Court said.
He turned away, obviously dismissing the subject, while Marion glared at his retreating back…
She was remembering this scene now as she went into Court's laboratory. He was bent over a table, one eye to a microscope, his lips tensely pursed. Marion waited till he had finished his count. He straightened and saw her.
"Got it?" he asked calmly. "Good."
Court ripped open the package and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook. Hastily he flipped through the pages. His strong, tanned face darkened.
"Wait a minute, Marion," he called as the girl moved to leave. "I want to talk to you."
"Yes?"
"Er—this is New Year's Eve, I know. Had you planned on doing anything tonight?"
Marion's brown eyes widened. She stared at Court in amazement. Was he trying to date her?
"Why, I did plan on—"
'I should appreciate it," he said, without a trace of embarrassment, "if you would stay and help me with some research tonight. I regret having to say this, but it's rather important. I want to verify certain tests."
"I'll stay," Marion assented briefly, but she flushed.
"Good. Stain these slides, please."
For several hours the two worked in silence. Court engrossed with his microscope, the girl busy dyeing the samples. Finally Court exhausted a small tank and conducted experiments in the vacuum he had created.
Time dragged on, till the huge old house was utterly still. The chill of a Wisconsin winter blanketed it, making frost patterns on the window panes. Inside the room it was warm enough, though snow lay thickly on the ground outside.
Presently Marion slipped out of the room and returned bearing a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She set it on a table and glanced at Court. Standing by a window, he was idly smoking a cigarette.
"Mr. Court—"
"What is it?" he asked, without looking around. His face was upturned to the quiet night outside as he spoke again, not waiting for her answer. "Come here."
Marion obeyed. She was astonished to see that Court's face was drawn and haggard, actually gray around the lips. But his eyes were feverishly bright.
"Up there," he said, pointing. "Do you see anything?"
The cold stars glittered frostily in an abyss of empty black. Some icy breath of the unknown seemed to blow down from the frigid, airless seas between the planets. Marion shuddered.
"I see nothing unusual," she said.
"Naturally. No one has. There's nothing visible, and yet—" Wearily he rubbed his forehead. "It's impossible that my experiments have lied."
"Drink some coffee," Marion urged.
Court followed her to the table and sat down. As she poured the steaming liquid, his somber eyes dwelt on her face.
"Are you game for an airplane trip into Canada?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes. When?"
"As soon as I can arrange it. There's a man I must see, a— a patient."
Court gulped down untasted coffee and bunked tiredly.
"You should get at least a little sleep."
"Not yet. I don't know—" He came to a sudden decision. "Marion, you don't know anything about this experiment I'm working on. No one knows about it yet, except me. All this data I've been collecting lately has been for a purpose. You haven't any idea what that purpose is, have you?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well," Court declared, with curious calm, "it's simply this —I have reason to believe that the Earth is going to be destroyed. Wait a minute!" he cried hastily. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned this till I was absolutely certain. But I want to talk to someone."
His unrealized loneliness showed naked for an unguarded second on his face. He caught himself, and was once more impassive.
"The Earth is going to face a plague that will destroy civilization. Of that, at least, I am certain."
"A plague," she breathed.
"I call it that, for lack of a better term. Every being on this planet will be affected by it."
Marion looked at him sharply. Her lovely eyes narrowed.
"Affected? Don't you mean destroyed?"
Court pushed back his chair and rose.
"No," he whispered. "I don't." His grave lips went hard. 'Come here, Marion. Look at this."
He strode to a safe in the wall, opened it, and withdrew a small oblong box of lead. Set in one face was a round, transparent disc.
"Look through the lens," he commanded. "Don't get too close to that thing, though."
Marion obeyed. Through the tiny pane, she could see within the box a shining lump of matter, no larger than the nail of her thumb.
"It's phosphorescent," she said. "What is it—an ore?"
"A specimen of flesh taken from the thigh of a man named Pierre Locicault, a French-Canadian."
"Flesh?" The girl peered again at the object. "Was he exposed to radium?"
Court replaced the box in the safe.
"No, nothing like that. Locicault lived in a little settlement in a valley in the wilderness. A month ago he staggered into the nearest town, emaciated and nearly dead. His story was just about unbelievable. He claimed that one day a heavy fog—abnormally heavy—blanketed his valley, and affected the inhabitants peculiarly.
"They became incredibly hungry, ate enormous meals. Their skin became hot to the point of high fever. And they grew so old that most of them died. Locicault went for help, but nobody recognized him when he arrived in town. He looked thirty years older. What does that suggest to you, Marion?"
"Increased metabolism," she said unhesitatingly.
"Exactly. A rescue party was sent out. They found the corpses of a dozen old men and women in the valley, but no sign of what killed them. There was no sign of a fog, nor anything dangerous. Meanwhile, Locicault was luckily put into an isolation ward in the hospital. He ate tremendously. It was noticed that his skin emitted radiation. In the dark, his body actually shone."
Court lit a cigarette for a few abstracted puffs before continuing.
"His nurse caught the contagion. She killed herself. Locicault is kept in utter isolation now, for there isn't a doctor or a nurse who dares to get near him. When Doctor Granger wired me, I suggested lead insulation, so he could obtain this specimen for me to study. I want to see Locicault and make further experiments upon him."
Marion frowned. "You have other evidence, of course?"
"Naturally. Similar cases have been reported to me. This isn't anything new. Do you remember, about seven years ago, a newspaper story about a valley in France where the inhabitants were killed by a heavy fog? It was attributed to poison gas. Do you remember that West Indian island where life was wiped out overnight, without any explanation at all? People talked about volcanic gas.
"My files are full of apparently meaningless items like that. Freaks and sports bom to animals and humans. So-called ghost stories about apparitions that shone in the dark. There are dozens of other examples."
The girl shuddered as she thought of the tag of flesh she had seen.
"And do you think this is the beginning of a plague?"
"My graphs and charts show an upward swing. These occurrences happen more frequently as time goes on. Whatever causes them is growing more powerful."
"But what could cause such a thing?" the girl asked. "No virus could—"
"Not a virus. Filterable or not, they could not cause cellular radioactivity. This menace—this unknown X—is certainly not a virus. I don't know its nature, nor where it comes from. Till I know those factors, I can do nothing."
"Could it be a weapon of war?" Marion suggested.
"You mean— Well, scarcely! Once it's started, it's completely uncontrollable. X isn't man-made, for its record goes back too far for chemistry. It's a natural phenomenon, and our only clue is fog."
"A gas?"
Court nodded, and his eyes grew distant with thought.
"Where does it come from—under the Earth? That's possible, of course, but hardly any of these cases have occurred in volcanic country. I think X comes from the interstellar void."
Marion's eyes widened in horrified recollection.
"That's why you've been getting those observatory reports! Photographs and spectra."
Court grunted impatiently. "They showed nothing, and that's what I can't understand."
"Maybe the conditions aren't right," Marion suggested. "Phosphorescence isn't visible in daylight. Perhaps X isn't visible in space."
Court didn't move, but his fingers broke his cigarette in two.
"What was that?" he demanded, startled. Before the girl could reply, he whistled sharply and turned to the window.
Of course, a catalyst! Some element in our atmosphere makes X visible, and perhaps dangerous as well. In outer space it can't be seen, but when it comes in contact with some element in the air—I think you've got it, Marion!"
He stared grimly at the dark sky.
"Up there, yet it's invisible. Perhaps a cosmically huge cloud of it is drifting eternally through space. We're probably on the outer fringes, so we've touched only a few tiny, scattered wisps. When Earth plunges into the main body—"
Court lifted a clenched fist, furious because he was such a tiny, insignificant figure against the mighty concourse of the starry void.
The Creature from Beyond Infinity Page 3
