The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  Krag was waiting for him on the island raft. He threw a stern glance at Nightspore.

  "Have you seen everything?"

  "The struggle is hopeless," muttered Nightspore.

  "Did I not say I am the stronger?"

  "You may be the stronger, but he is the mightier."

  "I am the stronger and the mightier. Crystalman's Empire is but a shadow on the face of Muspel. But nothing will be done without the bloodiest blows.... What do you mean to do?"

  Nightspore looked at him strangely. "Are you not Surtur, Krag?"

  "Yes."

  "Yes," said Nightspore in a slow voice, without surprise. "But what is your name on Earth?"

  "It is pain."

  "That, too, I must have known."

  He was silent for a few minutes; then he stepped quietly onto the raft. Krag pushed off, and they proceeded into the darkness.

  * * *

  Contents

  THE PANCHRONICON

  By Harold Steele MacKaye

  CHAPTER I

  THE THEORY OF COPERNICUS DROOP

  The two sisters were together in their garden.

  Rebecca Wise, turned forty and growing slightly gray at the temples, was moving slowly from one of her precious plants to the next, leaning over each to pinch off a dead leaf or count the buds. It was the historic month of May, 1898, and May is the paradise of flower lovers.

  Phoebe was eighteen years younger than her sister, and the beauty of the village. Indeed, many declared their belief that the whole State of New Hampshire did not contain her equal.

  She was seated on the steps of the veranda that skirted the little white cottage, and the absent gaze of her frank blue eyes was directed through the gate at the foot of the little path bordered by white rose-bushes. In her lap was a bundle of papers yellowed by age and an ivory miniature, evidently taken from the carved wooden box at her side.

  Presently Rebecca straightened her back with a slight grimace and looked toward her sister, holding her mold-covered hands and fingers spread away from her.

  "Well," she inquired, "hev ye found anythin'?"

  Phoebe brought her gaze back from infinity and replied:

  "No, I ain't. Only that one letter where Isaac Burton writes her that the players have come to town."

  "I don't see what good them letters'll do ye in the Shakespeare class, then."

  Rebecca spoke listlessly--more interested in her garden than in her sister's search.

  "I don't know," Phoebe rejoined, dreamily. "It's awful funny--but whenever I take out these old letters there comes over me the feelin' that I'm 'way off in a strange country--and I feel like somebody else."

  Rebecca looked up anxiously from her work.

  "Them sort o' philanderin' notions are foolish, Phoebe," she said, and flicked a caterpillar over the fence.

  Phoebe gave herself a little shake and began to tie up the papers.

  "That's so," she replied. "But they will come when I get these out, an' I got 'em out thinkin' the' might be somethin' about Shakespeare in 'em for our class."

  She paused and looked wistfully at the letters again.

  "Oh!" she cried, "how I do wonder if he was among those players at the Peacock Inn that day! You know 'players' is what they called play-actors in those days, and he was a play-actor, they say."

  "Did he live very far back, then?" said Rebecca, wishing to appear interested, but really intent upon a new sprout at the foot of the lilac-bush.

  "Yes, three hundred years ago. Three of these letters has a date in 1598 exactly."

  There was a long silence, and at length Rebecca looked up from the ground to ascertain its cause. She frowned and drew her aching back stiffly straight again.

  "Everlastin'ly lookin' at that pictur'!" she exclaimed. "I declare to goodness, Phoebe Wise, folks'll think you're vain as a pouter pigeon."

  Phoebe laughed merrily, tossed the letters into the box and leaped to her feet. The miniature at which she had been gazing was still in her hands.

  "Folks'll never see me lookin' at it, Rebecca--only you," she said.

  Then with a coaxing tone and looking with appealing archness at her sister, she went on:

  "Is it really like me, Rebecca? Honest true?"

  The elder woman merely grunted and moved on to the next bed, and Phoebe, with another laugh, ran lightly into the house.

  A few moments later she reappeared at the front door with consternation on her face.

  "Land o' goodness, Rebecca!" she cried, "do you know what time it is? Near onto one o'clock, an' I've got to be at the Shakespeare class at half past. We'll have to dish up dinner right this minute, and I don't see how I can change my dress after it an' help with the dishes too."

  She whisked into the house again, and Rebecca followed her as rapidly as possible.

  She was very proud of her baby sister, proud of her having been "clear through high school," and proud of her eminence in the local literary society. There was certainly something inspiring in having a sister who was first corresponding secretary of the Women's Peltonville Association for the Study of Shakespearian History and Literature; and it was simply wonderful how much poetry she could repeat from the pages of her favorite author.

  * * * * *

  Peltonville Center, New Hampshire, was one of those groups of neatly kept houses surrounding a prettily shaded, triangular common which seem to be characteristic of New England. Standing two miles from the nearest railway station, this little settlement possessed its own combined store and post-office, from whose narrow veranda one might watch the rising generation playing Saturday base-ball on the grassy triangle.

  The traditional old meeting-house stood on the opposite side of the common, facing the store. The good old days of brimstone theology were past, and the descendants of the godly Puritans who raised this steeple "in the fear of the Lord," being now deprived of their chief source of fear, found Sunday meetings a bore, and a village pastor an unnecessary luxury.

  Indeed, there seemed little need of pastoral admonition in such a town as Peltonville Center. There was a grimly commonplace and universal goodness everywhere, and the village was only saved from unconsciousness of its own perfection by the individual shortcomings of one of its citizens. Fortunately for the general self-complacence, however, the necessary revealing contrast was found in him.

  Copernicus Droop was overfond of the bottle, and in spite of the prohibition laws of his State, he proved himself a blessed example and warning by a too frequent and unmistakable intoxication in public. He was gentle and even apologetic in his cups, but he was clearly a "slave of rum" and his mission was therefore fulfilled.

  On this first of May, 1898, a number of idle young men sat in a row on the edge of the store veranda. Some were whittling, some making aimless marks in the dust with a stick. All leaned limply forward, with their elbows on their knees.

  It was clearly not a Sunday, for the meeting-house was open, and from time to time, one or perhaps two young women together passed into the cool and silent room. The loungers at the store let none escape their notice, and the name of each damsel was passed down the line in an undertone as its owner entered the church.

  A lantern-jawed young farmer at the end of the row slowly brushed the shavings from his clothes and remarked:

  "Thet's the secon' meetin' of the Shekspeare class this month, ain't it?"

  "Yep, an' there'll be two more afore the summer boarders comes up----"

  The second speaker would have continued, but he was here interrupted by a third, who whispered loudly:

  "Say, fellers, there goes Copernicus."

  All eyes were raised and unanimously followed the shabby figure which had just emerged from behind the church and now started into the road leading away from the common toward the north.

  "Walks pretty straight fer him, don't he?" snickered the first speaker.

  "He's not ben tight fer two days."

  "Bet ye a jack-knife he'll be spreein' it fer all he's wuth t
o-morrow."

  Fortunately these comments did not reach the ears of their object, who, all unconscious of the interest which he inspired, made good his way at a fairly rapid pace.

  Presently he stopped.

  With muslin skirts swaying, hair rumpled, and fair young face flushed with exertion, Phoebe Wise was hurrying toward the common. She was almost running in her haste, for she was late and the Shakespeare class was a momentous institution.

  "Oh, say, Cousin Phoebe," was the man's greeting, "can you tell me ef yer sister's to home?"

  The young girl came to a sudden full stop in her surprise. This cousinly greeting from the village reprobate was as exciting and as inexplicable as it was unheard of.

  "Why, Mr. Droop!" she exclaimed, "I--I--I s'pose so."

  The truth was the truth, after all. But it was hard on Rebecca. What could this man want with her sister?

  Droop nodded and passed on.

  "Thank ye. Don't stop fer me," he said.

  Phoebe moved forward slowly, watching Copernicus over her shoulder. She noted his steady steps and pale face and, reassured, resumed her flying progress with redoubled vigor. After all, Rebecca was forty-two years old and well able to take care of herself.

  Meanwhile, Rebecca Wise, having carefully wrung out her dishcloth, poured out the water and swept the little sink, was slowly untying her kitchen apron, full of a thankful sense of the quiet hour before her wherein to knit and muse beside the front window of her little parlor.

  In the centre of this room there stood a wide, round table, bearing a large kerosene-lamp and the week's mending. At the back and opposite the two windows stood the well-blacked, shiny, air-tight stove. Above this was a wooden mantel, painted to imitate marble, whereon were deposited two photographs, four curious Chinese shells, and a plaster cross to which there clung a very plaster young woman in scant attire, the whole being marked "Rock of Ages" in gilt letters at the base.

  Horse-hair furniture in all the glory of endless "tidies" was arranged against walls bedight with a rainbow-like wilderness of morning-glories. The ceiling was of white plaster, and the floor was painted white and decked here and there with knitted rag-carpets, on whose Joseph's-coated surfaces Rebecca loved to gaze when in retrospective mood. In those humble floor-coverings her knowing eyes recognized her first clocked stockings and Phoebe's baby cloak. There was her brother Robert's wool tippet embalmed in loving loops with the remnants of his wife's best Sunday-go-to-meetin' ribbons. These two had long been dead, but their sister's loving eyes recreated them in rag-carpet dreams wherein she lived again those by-gone days.

  Rebecca had just seated herself and was unrolling her work, when her eyes caught a glimpse of a man's form through the window. He had passed into her gate and was approaching the door. She leaned forward for a good look and then dropped back into her chair with a gasp of surprise.

  "Copernicus Droop!" she exclaimed, "did you ever!"

  She sat in rigid astonishment until she heard his timid knock, followed by the sound of shoes vigorously wiped upon the door-mat.

  "Well, come! Thet's a comfort!" she thought. "He won't muss the carpet"--and she rose to admit her visitor.

  "Good mornin'," said Droop, timidly. "I seen Cousin Phoebe a-runnin' down the road, an' I sorter thought I'd run in an' see how you was."

  "Come right in," said Rebecca, in non-committal tones. She shut the door and followed him into the parlor.

  "Here, give me yer hat," she continued. "Set right there. How be ye?"

  Droop obeyed. In a few moments the two were seated facing each other, and Rebecca's needles were already busy. There was an interval of awkward silence.

  "Well, what did ye come fer?"

  It was Rebecca who broke the spell. In her usual downright fashion, she came to the point at once. She thought it as well he should know that she was not deceived by his polite pretence of casual friendly interest.

  Droop settled forward with elbows on his knees and brought his finger-tips carefully and accurately together. He found this action amazingly promotive of verbal accuracy.

  "Well, Cousin Rebecca," he began, slowly, "I'm lookin' fer a partner." He paused, considering how to proceed.

  The spinster let her hands drop in speechless wonder. The audacity of the man! He--to her--a proposal! At her age! From him!

  Fortunately the next few words disclosed her error, and she blushed for it as she lifted her work again, turning nearer the window as if for better light.

  "Yes," Droop proceeded, "I've a little business plan, an' it needs capital an' a partner."

  He waited, but there was no response.

  "Capital an' a partner," he repeated, "an' intelligence an' ambition. So I come to you."

  Rebecca turned toward him again, scarcely less surprised now than before.

  "To me! D'ye mean to say ye've me in yer mind fer a partner--with capital?"

  Droop nodded slowly and compressed his lips.

  "Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, helplessly.

  "Oh, I know you ain't overly rich right now," said Droop, apologetically; "but it warn't no secret thet ye might hev hed Joe Chandler ef ye hadn't ben so shifty in yer mind an' fell betwixt two stools--an' Lord knows Joe Chandler was as rich as--as Peter Craigin down to Keene--pretty nigh."

  Again Rebecca blushed, but this time in anger.

  "See here, Copernicus Droop--" she began.

  "Oh, I don't mean nothin' mean, now," he insisted, earnestly. "I'm jest leadin' up to the pint sorter natural like--breakin' the thing easy, ye know."

  "What air you a-drivin' at?"

  Droop shifted uneasily in his seat and ran his finger around inside of his collar before he replied:

  "Ye see, it's sorter hard to explain. It's this way. I hev a mighty fine plan in my mind founded on a mixin' up of astronomical considerations with prior inventions----"

  "Mister Droop!" exclaimed his hostess, gazing severely into his eyes, "ef you think I'll let you go to drinkin' rum till----"

  "Honest to goodness, Miss Wise, I've not teched a drop!" cried Droop, leaping to his feet and leaning forward quickly. "You may smell my breath ef----"

  A violent push sent him back to his chair.

  "Thet'll do, Mr. Droop. I'll undertake to believe ye fer once, but I'll thank ye to speak plain English."

  "I'll do my best," he sighed, plaintively. "I don't blame ye fer not takin' to it quick. I didn't myself at first. Well--here. Ye see--ye know----"

  He paused and swallowed hard, gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. Then he burst out suddenly:

  "Ye know the graphophone an' the kodak and the biograph an' all them things what ye can see down to Keene?"

  Rebecca nodded slowly, with suspicion still in her eye.

  "Well, the's a heap o' things ben invented since the Centennial of 1876. Don't you s'pose they've made hills o' money out o' them things--with patents an' all?"

  "Of course."

  "An' don't you s'pose that ef anybody in 1876 was to up an' bring out sech inventions all at once he'd be bigger than all the other inventors put together!"

  Rebecca slowly pushed her needle through her hair, which was a sign of thoughtfulness.

  "Wal, o' course," she said, at length, "ef anybody hed aben smart enough to've invented all them things in 1876 he'd aben a pretty big man, I guess."

  Droop edged forward eagerly.

  "An' s'posen' that you hed married Joe Chandler back in 1876, an' you was rich enough to back up an inventor like that, an' he come to you an' offered to give you half ef you'd up an' help him put 'em on the market, an' s'posen'----"

  "What the land sake's the use o' s'posin'?" Rebecca cried, sharply. "This is 1898, an' I ain't married, thanks be to goodness!"

  "Ah, but ye could be, ef we was in 1876! There, there--I know what you want to say--but 'taint so! What would ye say ef I was to tell ye that all ye've got to do is jest to get into a machine I've got an' I can take ye back to 1876 in next to no time! What would ye say----"

>   "I'd say ye was tighter'n a boiled owl, Copernicus Droop."

  "But I ain't, I ain't!" he almost screamed. "I tell ye I hevn't teched liquor fer two days. I've reformed. Ef ye won't smell my breath----"

  "Then you're plum crazy," she interrupted.

  "No, nor crazy either," he insisted. "Why, the whole principle of it is so awful simple! Ef you'd ben to high school, now, an' knew astronomy an' all, you'd see right through it like nothin'."

  "Well, then, you c'n explain it to them as hez ben to high school, an' that's sister Phoebe. Here she comes now."

  She went at once to the door to admit the new-comer. Her visitor, watching the pretty younger sister as she stepped in, rosy and full of life, could not but remark the contrast between the two women.

  "Twenty-two years makes a heap o' difference!" he muttered. "But Rebecca was jest as pretty herself, back in 1876."

  "Look, Rebecca!" cried Phoebe, as she entered the door, "here's a new book Mrs. Bolton lent me to-day. All about Bacon writing Shakespeare's plays, an' how Bacon was a son of Queen Elizabeth. Do you s'pose he really did?"

  "Oh, don't ask me, child!" was the nervous reply. "Mr. Droop's in the parlor."

  Phoebe had forgotten her short interview with Droop, and she now snatched off her hat in surprise and followed her elder sister, nodding to their visitor as she entered.

  "Set down, both o' ye," said Rebecca. "Now, then, Mr. Droop, perhaps you'll explain."

  Rebecca was far more mystified and interested than she cared to admit. Her brusque manner was therefore much exaggerated--a dissimulation which troubled her conscience, which was decidedly of the tenderest New England brand.

  Poor Copernicus experienced a sense of relief as he turned his eyes to those of the younger sister. She felt that Rebecca's manner was distinctly cold, and her own expression was the more cordial in compensation.

  "Why, Miss Phoebe," he said, eagerly, "I've ben tellin' your sister about my plan to go back to the Centennial year--1876, ye know."

  "To--to what, Mr. Droop?"