Then and Now : A Collection of SF

by Raymond Z. Gallun

  And so, at last the tardy dawn began to creep up in the east, making everything look unreal and wraith-like in the ashy half-light. An occasional light puff of breeze blew against Sandhurst’s perspiring body, causing him to shiver with cold. The bonfires which had given illumination through the night had died down to red embers which sent up thin pencilings of gray smoke. A freight train drawing many loaded flatcars came hooting into town, and stopped on a nearby siding. And still the slaves labored on.

  The result of the night’s work was an immense circular pit fully a thousand yards in diameter, and uniformly a little more than ten feet deep. Men were already coating the northern portion of the level floor with some whitish substance, probably a kind of cement. Around the rim of the huge excavation, webby girders of some silvery metal were rising, arcing up toward the sky. It appeared that when this strange structure or machine was finished, the girders would meet at an apex many hundreds of feet above ground, forming a vast cone of metal latticework.

  Sandhurst saw that the hours of toil were already taking their toll from among the ranks of slaves. Here and there among the tortured humans that thronged the pit, dead bodies were carelessly being tossed into dirt trucks and into the cars of the light railway. Many of the workers, particularly the women and children, seemed on the point of dropping, but there were plenty of fresh recruits to take their places.

  The scientist’s suspicions were confirmed. The invaders had so many chattels that there was no need to bother about feeding them or giving them rest. It was simpler to force them to work until death came, and then to replace them.

  Sandhurst had been watching his two companions. Vance Pierre, gifted with a resilient toughness belied by his frail appearance, had, like the savant himself, stood up fairly well, but the girl, he could see, had almost reached the limit of her endurance. She had won no freedom from the compulsion wave.

  A fresh truck had just rolled into position beside them. From somewhere out of the graying eastern sky there came a low droning. Sandhurst and Pierre detected it almost simultaneously. For long moments between spasms of work they resisted the controlling entity to stare upward, searching for the source of the sound.

  Presently they found it; a tiny speck that glinted goldenly far to the east, for at the lofty altitude at which it rode, the sun was already shining. The speck was moving rapidly toward Ishbel, and after a few seconds it took on the lines of an airplane—not some fantastic creation of the invaders, but a machine such as earthmen were wont to fly.

  Sandhurst’s eyes widened with amazement when he saw that the wings and fuselage of the ship were gilded. He had seen only one plane so painted; it belonged to old Mac, his assistant, and had been kept at the laboratory. Could McLennan have found some way of shielding himself from the compulsion waves? Was he coming over to attempt to rescue his chief? The old fool! Yet, even though he sputtered inwardly, Sandhurst’s heart quickened at the thought of the idea. Or was a slave of the invaders, perhaps Mac himself, controlling the plane? Sandhurst felt with a bitter twinge that this was more likely.

  The ship continued to approach until it was directly overhead. There it circled and banked about appraisingly, as though whoever piloted it were interested, perhaps maliciously so, in the things that were going on down on the ground. It seemed to be acting a lot like Mac’s crate after all.

  Meanwhile the invaders in their flying globes were showing signs of uneasiness. They darted this way and that with increased rapidity like alarmed dragon-flies. Then, simultaneously, as though by some prearranged signal, all but one of them shot straight upward toward the airplane.

  While the majority of the slaves were physically incapable of taking any notice of the impending air battle, Sandhurst always managed to keep his eyes turned toward the golden plane.

  The pilot was not to be taken unawares. He dipped his craft sharply, and then from its nose there darted twin streams of lead that bored straight through the swarm of belligerent invaders. Four spheres burst with a peculiar plopping sound like the cracking of an electric light bulb, and their fragments, and the fragments of their occupants twisted and gyrated groundward.

  It was Mac alright—no mistaking it now. He always was a scrapper. Sandhurst felt an impulse to cheer. But the doggoned old nit-wit ought to be more careful!

  The invaders never wavered in their steady ascent, and all the way up, the machine guns of the plane kept peppering them; ripping them out of the sky.

  CHAPTER III

  The Juggernaut

  LIKE a swift cloud of destruction the swarm of angry globes poured over the golden aircraft. Several flashes of incandescent fire, like bolts of lightning, darted in their midst, and flickered like flaming whip lashes against the fuselage and wings of the machine. A few pieces of torn fabric floated slowly downward.

  The motor roared with a sudden gunning, and the plane went into an almost vertical power dive. For a moment Mac managed to free himself from his enemies; however, it was soon evident that their speed was superior to the best efforts of his ship. They caught up with him, and again jagged tongues of flame zigzagged through the craft's empennage.

  With set jaw, Sandhurst watched it waver, and then go into a tail spin. Three short bursts chattered from the machine guns into the closely-packed invaders, who milled and gyrated all about. Evidently old Mac was still conscious and in the fight.

  Several globes came too close to the whirling propeller of the craft, as it followed its crazy spiral course downward. The steel blade snarled angrily, and scattered glass and bits of chewed flesh.

  For the first time the invaders hesitated, allowing their prey to pull clear of them. Doubtless they thought that McLennan was using some unheard-of weapon against them.

  Promptly the plane righted itself, and made off toward the east in the direction of the laboratory. It was limping unsteadily, and the discordant sound of the motor and propeller told plainly that the blades had been warped and were vibrating badly.

  Reassured by their enemy’s weakened condition, the globes presently renewed the attack. This time they seemed determined to end the life of the presumptuous Earthman who dared to fight them. The last Sandhurst saw of his old friend’s plane, it was spinning down rapidly toward a grove of trees about a mile and a half outside of Ishbel. He could not be sure that it was out of control, but he guessed that such was the case. Mac was lying in that woods, amid a tangle of wreckage, probably either dead or seriously injured. Sandhurst felt a peculiar tightening of his muscles. It was the natural preparation for acts which incurred great physical risk.

  He glanced around toward his two companions. When he saw them his pulse throbbed with mingled pity and rage. The hot blood hissed and tingled to the tips of his blistered fingers, making them clutch and unclutch spasmodically. Worked to the limit of her endurance the girl had lost consciousness. Vance stood with his arm about her waist, supporting her.

  Sandhurst was ready for action. Every moment of delay made the infinitesimal chance of escaping grow slimmer. To wait resignedly for death went against his grain; it was cowardly. Besides, Mac was out there.

  The lone invader guard could not see Sandhurst, for he was hidden behind the truck. He gestured to Vance, waving toward the cab of the big vehicle.

  “Come,” he said. The real test of their ability to defy the compulsion waves had begun.

  Picking up the unconscious girl, step by step they fought their way back to the truck. Tortured nerves lashed tortured muscles to sluggish action. The two men were winning, but no one could hope to stand up under such strain for long.

  They climbed into the cab; Sandhurst slipped behind the wheel. The driver had deserted his post to help load. Clumsily the scientist turned on the ignition; his foot pawed unwillingly at the starter. The powerful motor caught immediately.

  There was a clear roadway which led up a gently inclined ramp that rose to the edge of the pit. Sandhurst steered wobblingly along it. Luck was aiding him with the shifting. The occupant of the gl
obe above, was seemingly unaware of what was happening.

  The truck had climbed out of the excavation now, and was gaining speed. Sandhurst was peering anxiously ahead, and he had ordered Vance to watch the rear. The road they were traversing was rough and tortuous, winding in and out among vast heaps of earth.

  Twice they narrowly escaped a crash, but after a few moments they were clear of the dumping grounds, and were zigzagging painfully but with dangerous speed, along a street which led east.

  Sandhurst had noted the approximate location of the woods where McLennan’s plane had fallen. It was close to the highway which led back toward the laboratory. If they could reach the plane—there was just a chance that it wasn’t too badly damaged—

  His thoughts were cut short by the appearance of a globe directly ahead. It must have been one of the party that had downed Mac—probably its pilot was an introspective individual who had felt the urge for a quiet jaunt all by himself, and had deserted his companions for a few minutes before returning to the vicinity of the pit.

  BUT the creature was unmistakably interested in the erratic course of the truck! He flashed nearer, and hung close beside the cab. Both Sandhurst and the youth strove valiantly not to appear to notice his presence; yet, out of the corner of his eye, the scientist was watching the invader closely.

  With a chilly, crawly feeling tightening his skin, he saw the monstrous thing’s many-faceted eyes inspect him minutely, critically. Its long tubular mouth set deep in the fleshly folds of its ovoid body, twitched in a way that was reminiscent of one of the habits of an unpleasant old professor whom Sandhurst had known in his youth. A crazy idea to pop into one’s head at such a time, he thought. The thing’s spindly limbs were fumbling with a pair of tiny levers.

  Was the creature going to bring the weapon that had been used against Mac, into play? No, a cool, scientific mind would not inflict death upon interesting subjects without first investigating the cause for their peculiar actions, he decided. Instinctively he sensed what was about to happen. Jabbing fiercely at the accelerator, he sent the big truck careening along at even greater speed.

  Sandhurst had noted the pistol dangling in its bolster just beneath the dashboard. Almost automatically it brought a brief sharp command to his lips:

  “The gun, Vance—if necessary use it!”

  The youth drew the heavy Colt and released the safety catch.

  The sidewalks along the street they were traversing, were thronged with human slaves of the invaders. In response to some act on the part of the occupant of the globe, a full hundred of them rushed out in front of the truck waving their arms wildly and screaming like demons. What they meant to do was perfectly clear, and Sandhurst never hesitated. Now was no time to be ruled by squeamish qualms when the very existence of the human race was at stake. Though the thought that his act might cause the deaths of dozens of poor wretches, was repugnant to him, he urged the heavy vehicle to its topmost speed.

  The group of slaves loomed closer, seemed literally to hurtle toward them. With a thudding vibration the crash came. The truck rocked, skidded; only its great weight kept it from turning over. Bodies were bashed and torn, and went under the heavy tires.

  But there were no screams of agony, only discordant screeches more expressive of insane triumph. The faces of the stricken slaves remained as blank and expressionless as ever. Their cheeks whitened a trifle, that was all. And their demoniac persistence was appalling, horrible. With broken bloody fingers they clutched at the truck, its headlights, its fenders, anything they could grasp, seeking to bring it to a stop.

  The truck was grinding its way deeper into the densely-packed mob. It had lost the force of its initial momentum and was slowing down. The crowd of slaves was thickening rapidly, reinforced by those who stood along the sidewalks.

  Sandhurst clutched madly at the wheel, striving to hold the truck in the road, and to keep himself from being hurled through the windshield. These would have been hard things to do even under normal circumstances when he was in full possession of all his powers; but now the sight of blood and death, and the jangling, irrelevant shouts of the slaves, were unnerving him. He felt himself weakening; the compulsion waves were winning.

  The truck swerved, and a crash with a car parked at the side of the street seemed unavoidable. The adventure would have ended then and there if Vance had not grasped the wheel and swung the heavy vehicle back into its proper course.

  More slaves poured in ahead of them, choking the street and blocking the way with their mangled bodies. The racing wheels of the truck screeched ineffectually against the pavement. Men leaped to the running-boards and, mechanically, without feeling, Vance shot them down. Instinctively his arm tightened about the unconscious girl who had been placed between him and the scientist.

  For the first time in perhaps twenty seconds they caught sight of the presiding genius of this gory inferno. The invading sphere dipped low, circling the cab, and its nightmare occupant seemed to chuckle and sneer at them in fiendish glee.

  “Try to get the invader, Vance! Everything may depend on your aim!” Sandhurst cried.

  Though he was inexperienced, and was tremendously handicapped by the compulsion waves which would certainly batter down his resistance in a short time, Pierre raised his gun and fired at the zigzagging, elusive enemy. Luck favored the youth, for the first bullet told. Amid a tinkling shower of broken glass from the sphere, the invader’s mangled form tumbled, kicking and writhing among the closely packed forms of its slaves.

  The results were immediate. No longer under the local influence of the invader who had caused them to attempt to capture the fugitives the slaves fell back to their original positions at the edge of the street, where they awaited the next command which the compulsion waves would give them.

  The truck plowed over the mangled bodies of the dead and wounded and raced away toward Ishbel along the concrete highway which led in the direction of Murgatroyd Laboratory.

  BUT it was impossible to expect that it would get far.

  Sandhurst had not hoped to reach the laboratory; he only sought to get to the woods where Mac’s plane had fallen. There was a slim chance that Mac would be alive, and could help them.

  The woods seemed tantalizingly near. The short sideroad which turned north and led past it was barely a hundred yards farther on. But Sandhurst realized now that they would never make it.

  To add to their difficulties, they were being pursued. Sandhurst caught sight of a cluster of specks which he knew were invading globes. At the rate they were coming, it was not hard to guess that they would presently be darting down upon him and his companions with vengeance in their hearts.

  It was the realization of pursuit that was the immediate cause of the next event. The attention of the two men was distracted from the task of guiding their vehicle. With a series of shattering jolts the truck left the highway, broke through a barbed-wire fence, rushed down a considerable slope, and plunged into a narrow and rapidly flowing river.

  Though the truck was badly damaged and almost completely submerged, its occupants escaped without serious injury. The men crawled out of the flooded cab, carrying the limp form of the girl with them. The cold water momentarily refreshed them.

  Sandhurst’s eyes fell upon a small boat moored several yards from where he squatted on top of the cab. Simultaneously he remembered that Snake River ran through the woods where McLennan was! Climb aboard, draw in the anchor stone, and float down stream—simple. It was worth trying anyway.

  Presently they were drifting with the current, under arching willow branches, and around a sharp bend.

  Not long after they had passed out of sight the globes came to the scene of the accident. The invaders made a tentative inspection of the wreck, and then hurried back in the direction of Ishbel. Evidently they had decided that the fugitives were dead, or they had dropped the pursuit as too pointless to waste time upon.

  However, the position of the occupants of the small boat was still far fr
om pleasant. The compulsion waves had again all but conquered them. They could no longer move of their own free will; they could only lie in the bottom of their craft and clutch madly at its gunwales to prevent their muscles from obeying the mysterious commands that were coming to them—telling them to go back toward Ishbel.

  And at last even that freedom was gone. Now they were in the depths of the woods. Wearily Sandhurst and Pierre guided their craft to the right bank of the river, and clambered ashore, leaving Fay behind.

  They were walking back toward the road when a deep bass voice hallooed through the grove:

  “Hey, Chief!”

  It was Mac. Good old Scottie! Sandhurst turned about to face him; but his act had not been directed by his own will, nor was the attitude his body assumed, his own—a cat-like crouch with muscles tensed—that was the way to meet a deadly foe, not a friend.

  Mac wore a queer kind of armor which covered him from head to foot. It was made of a fabric woven from fine wires of a dull grayish metal. Since only his eyes showed through the immense goggles of his fantastic hood, he was recognizable only by his voice, but this was unmistakable. Plainly it was the suit of shielding material that gave him his immunity from the compulsion waves.

  Fifty yards away was the wreck of McLennan’s plane which had pancaked through the tree-tops.

  Sandhurst wanted to greet his assistant in a boisterous manner, but this he could no longer do; that crazy body of his was edging forward to attack.

  McLennan never hesitated. He rushed his chief and sent a hard fist crashing into his jaw. The scientist, his vital forces already nearly drained, dropped unconscious to the ground. Vance was only a moment in following suit.

  “Sorry, lads,” Mac muttered, “I had to do it. You see, like most everybody else, you’re a bit batty now.”

  He investigated the boat and found Fay. Then, one by one, he lugged the three of them up a slope, through a grove of scrub oaks, and into the entrance of a deserted iron mine which had not been worked for almost a century. The mine was a gallery which led straight into the heart of the hill. Mac chose a side passage in which to deposit his burdens. With materials from his first-aid kit, he disinfected and bandaged the raw blisters on their hands.