The Time Exiles were spreading out along the base of the pale blue barrier now. Above them hovered the Keeper in a transparent gray globe. When all were in position—the strangest army ever assembled—they stepped into the misty wall as one man.
“My forces are ready.” The thought reached the three watchers. “From here I shall superintend the attack. Now the phantom army forms.”
Among the ice hummocks suddenly appeared the ghastly horde of the dead, led by the revolting creatures of cold light and blackness. They were motionless, awaiting the departure of the Time Exiles from the city.
Suddenly the watchers saw the Black Brains, countless specks drifting far up in the crimson sky, high above the assembled armies, waiting like vultures to flash with the speed of thought through the opened barrier.
Now the Time Exiles were rising through the blue wall. To Don Steele their progress seemed maddeningly slow. The ghastly phantoms began creeping toward them. The men reached the top, stepped out on the ice—and suddenly, within the room, came a blinding flash of light and a thunderous crash! The scene on the wall vanished in darkness!
An instant of stunned silence—then the thought of Gorg Merlo came to Don and Peter. “Light, quick!”
Mechanically Don pressed the back of the black tube in his cap, filling the room with radiance. Dazedly he stared around.
The ruler of the Black Brains was gone, exploded into atoms. A strange electrical tension hung on the air; the roar still reverberated in the distance; and Gorg Merlo held a little black tube in his hand.
“Thunder of God!” cried Peter Northam. “Thunder of God!”
Abruptly Don Steele realized that another change had taken place . . . The control of the Thought King was gone; it had vanished with the Black Ruler. They had to fight their own way now. His attention was taken up, in all probability, by the fight that must be in progress out on the ice.
“H’rry!” The little man’s piping voice galvanized them into action. “We’re ‘lone now, b’t th’r’s still much t’ do!” With one accord they sprang through the opening in the black wall.
CHAPTER VI
The Battle of the Brains
THE Black City seemed empty, lifeless as a tomb on Resurrection Day. The shadowed, winding streets were lined by deserted shells, bodies from which evil souls had flown. Even the lurking phantom monstrosities had vanished with their creators.
Hawk-eyed, Don Steele stared around, his automatic tight-clutched in his hand. Peter Northam crouched at his side gripping the hilt of his sword.
“Seems deserted,” Don remarked. “Thought I might have the fun of blasting a couple of the black babies into Kingdom Come.”
“Verily,” the Englishman groaned, “this place is accursed of God and the devil! Seems I cannot keep my muscles free; they grow old and stiff from inaction.”
“Perhaps, brothers, you will have more chance for action than you imagine.” Gorg Merlo was grave. “At least, more danger lies before us. And we have need of haste!”
Running as swiftly as his short legs could carry him, he started through the dreary city, his disintegrator ready in his hand. Keeping pace with him, Don’s brilliant lamp lighting the way, the other two followed. After a few moments of running, the giant Englishman exclaimed:
“I have a better plan—we can go faster if I carry you.” And without waiting for his consent, he swung Gorg Merlo up on his broad back. They increased their speed perceptibly. And from his vantage point the little man guided them.
On and on they ran, winding in and out endlessly, on and on through a city that was dead. After a time their pace began to slow down and their breath came heavily. Their long walk on the preceding night, and their lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. Finally Peter gasped:
“Whither are we going, brother Gorg? What must we do? My legs grow weary.”
“I believe we are almost there. We have to reach the inside wall of this place and cut a way out—and we must do it before any Black Ones return!”
They ran on in silence, their eyes alert for sight of the wall. The thought of its nearness spurred them on to extra effort.
“There it is!” Don cried at last as his beam rested on a great expanse of dull black rock. “And it’s as welcome as the flowers in May!”
They stopped short, Peter Northam lowering the little man to the floor. Without delay the latter trained his weapon upon the wall directly before them, pressed on its end—and from the crystal globe poured a hurricane of lightning flashes, blasts of annihilating energy that crumbled to nothingness the substance of the wall! Volley after volley struck it, a veritable hail of fiery destruction. Blinded and deafened, Don and Peter watched the flaming torrents cleave the side of the hollow mountain.
Rapidly the aperture widened, biting deeper into the black rock. Interminably that lightning hurricane poured forth; interminably the chaotic clamor continued—and suddenly the brilliant glare was dimmed by the light of day as it streamed in through the gigantic rift in the rock!
The blasting ceased. Don and Peter turned to Gorg Merlo; saw that he was staring fixedly at the ugly cleft. Their gaze followed his—simultaneously they uttered a startled exclamation. The rain of lightnings had stopped—yet the aperture was still growing!
“THUNDER of God, Gorg! What A has happened?”
“By gad, you—it hasn’t gotten out of control, has it?”
The little man shook his massive head. “No; as I told you before, this rod sets up rapid disintegration in matter. It sends forth a charge that automatically adjusts itself to the frequency of any form of solid, literally shaking it to the impalpable dust of its molecules. And once that disintegration is started, it will continue in that particular form of matter until the entire mass is consumed, regardless of its size. The Brains, White and Black, can stop its action with their control over matter—and that is one reason why haste was necessary. There is a further cause for speed even now—we must go through that opening before the mountain crashes down on us! Now!”
“But, m’ lord Gorg,” Peter Northam objected, “will it not affect us?”
“No; hurry!”
Together they dashed toward the opening, far larger now than it had been a few moments before. Don saw that wall was vanishing with unbelievable speed; its destruction seemed to be accelerating. The floor of the cleft was in constant motion, sinking deeper and deeper into the earth, as its matter vanished.
They were out on it now, running frantically over a surface that fell rapidly away beneath their feet. It seemed as though the dizzying flight would never end. Finally, however, they clambered out on the other side to the safety of the ice.
They looked back. Unless something interfered in a very few moments the Black City was doomed . . . But what—Suddenly Don pointed. “Look at the ice—it’s going too!”
“Yes; I had to cut through both, and the ice is disintegrating just like the rock. But we need not fear that. The White Ones will stop it before it can do any great damage. But there is one thing we should fear—the fleeing Blacks. If they check the destruction, our work will have been useless—unless they are so weakened that their wills can form no obstacle to those of the Whites. And if they see us, they will destroy us instantly.”
“Then, brother Gorg,” Peter cried, “use that thunder rod of yours on yon scurvy knave. He comes on apace!”
Gorg Merlo whirled, paused a fraction of a second, then fired. A lance of light cut the air—a clap like thunder—and where a Black Brain in a transparent black globe had been flashing toward them, was—nothing! Not a moment too soon had he acted, for about them had appeared the nebulous form of a solid sphere—a sphere that had vanished with the being that conceived it!
From behind them came a dull rumble—then the crash of tons of falling rocks! Whirling, they saw the hollow shell of the mountain crumble and fall into an enormous crevice. That steady disintegration continued hungrily.
“We’re too close,” Gorg Merlo flashed the thought to
his companions. “Out on the plain!”
They turned and ran rapidly across the field of ice. When they thought they had reached a position of safety they halted.
Suddenly Don pointed upward.
“They’re coming thick and fast now. The whole battle’s moving our way.” It was true. The Black Brains were retreating toward them, fighting with every power at their command each foot of the way. Already they had come a great distance, else they would not have been visible. Like a great cloud their globes hung together—the combined power of a race of giant evil intellects. Driving them were the myriads of White Brains in similar white globes—a glittering cloud. And between them—the battlefield of the Brains! The air was rent and torn by forces and powers beyond the comprehension of at least two of the watchers. Globes of searing fire, red, yellow, and blue, mingled with irregular masses of blackest shadow; stabbing beams of radiance crossed rays of lurid fire, swords of giant duelists; solids formed and vanished again and again—crushing, rushing, battering rams of matter. Other things—intense heat, frigid cold; whirling, blades, grinding metal jaws; storms of dust, rains of slime—were formed as needed, then were forgotten. Horrible creations came and went endlessly, impotent in this roaring aerial amphitheatre of hell. And all was mingled in a chaos of indescribable sound, a din like that of warring worlds.
RAPIDLY the ranks of the Black Brains were thinning. Even now, they were falling more and more on the defensive, and their numbers seemed to be decreasing steadily; they had less than half the power of their destroyers. A sudden maneuver, rapid as thought—and the White Brains ringed the Blacks in a wide circle, pouring in upon them all the tremendous strength of their gigantic intellects! Before that onslaught the battle became an utter rout, black spheres with bewildered occupants darting back and forth helplessly Suddenly, without semblance of order they tried to flee—but only stragglers escaped from that engulfing ring.
“Thunder of God! Why can’t we get into that battle?” Peter Northam’s eyes sparkled with exciterrient. “Though I fear ‘The Smiter’ would be rather useless,” he added dolefully.
“At least, I can do something!” Gorg Merlo raised his black rod. Again and again, when a Black Brain came within range, it flashed a lance of lightning that blasted them into nothingness.
Don Steele ground his teeth impotently. His automatic was in his hand—but what could he do with so puny a weapon!
Unbidden, a question occurred to him. What of the Time Exiles? Surely the Blacks no longer gave thought to their fearsome hordes; they needed all their mental power for their own battle. It seemed likely that those unfortunates from out of the ages were wandering bewildered over the ice—unless they had started fighting among themselves! Well, if there were any survivors, the King of Thought would probably return them to their own time, when this was over.
Suddenly, cutting short his soliloquy, there flashed out of the mass of darting globes an object that was strangely familiar. It sped directly toward Don, Gorg and Peter, something vengeful in its attitude. The Gray Brain! And from it leaped beam after beam of lurid flame!
As one the three fell back—and abruptly the ice gave way beneath their feet, ice that was disintegrating rapidly, destruction that had crept upon them in utter silence! The beam passed harmlessly over their heads. Falling, Don pointed his automatic upward and fired into a fitting gray shadow . . . Beside him, a lance of lightning flashed skyward—and as the Keeper of the Time Sphere fell, he vanished! Annihilated!
Striving helplessly to right themselves on dangerously sloping ice that shrank steadily away, Don and Gorg felt powerful hands clutch them and drag them to safety.
“I’ God’s name, run!” It was the Englishman. “Look—yon mount is completely gone!”
They glanced behind them—saw a vast, empty pit that grew wider with each passing instant. Without thought of the battle that still raged in the sky, they dashed across the ice, away from the silent menace.
As they drew near to the battle zone, they felt the powerful fingers of a newly formed wind clutch at them. Always there was wind on the ice—but now it had increased beyond all precedent. Those hurricane forces in the sky above had destroyed the normal balance of things. Whirling eddies of frigid air mingled with currents heated to torrid warmth; rapidly, as they advanced, that wind arose to the proportions of a gale. But they ran on unheeding, away from the edge of the disintegrating ice.
Abruptly the aerial battlefield shifted, as the Black survivors made a final attempt for freedom. They were above the three—and at that instant a roaring cyclone caught them and whirled them upward and away at a mad pace! Don caught a fleeting glimpse of his two companions, being borne away, the great arms of Peter Northam about diminutive Gorg Merlo—then he saw nothing but a madly gyrating world of jagged ice and red-tinted sky. Mile on mile he whirled—a dead leaf in a gale.
The blood was roaring in his ears—a terrible nausea racked him—and he knew he was losing his senses!
A shattering roar in the background somewhere; flashing spangles of light; an agony of numbing pain—and complete extinction blotted out the consciousness of Don Steele.
CHAPTER VII
A Broken Window Pane
“GOOD night! Did yuh see him skid? Hit that pole like nobody’s business!”
“Yeh. Wonder if it killed him—goin’ through a big winder like this! But, say, did you ever see anybody dressed so funny? All over silver—or somethin’ ! Must be goin’ to a party.”
“Sure is nutsy.”
Dimly, as through a haze, Don Steele heard voices—childish voices athrill with curiosity. He opened his eyes, blinked dazedly, then as sudden recollection flashed through his mind, he sat up.
He remembered now—that wet, slippery street, his car skidding—and he had gone through this plate glass window! It was a miracle he hadn’t been killed! Splinters of broken glass lay here and there amid a confusion of scattered women’s apparel.
He rose slowly to his feet; gingerly touched a long gash in his cheek. Queer—clotting blood had already closed it! He hesitated, then stepped through the jagged hole in the glass, out on the wet pavement. A fine drizzle was falling, and through the night, in his direction, ran a blue-coated figure swinging a club.
“Are—are yuh hurted, mister?” It was one of the boys.
Don shook his head. “No, sonny, I’m all right.” He stared at the wreckage of his open car, glanced through the store window, then surveyed his own figure—and gasped audibly. A suit of woven metal, like finest chain mail!
In a flash he remembered; the metal costume was the key to complete recollection. The Time Channel . . . Peter Northam and Gorg Merlo in the world of ice . . . White Brains and Black . . . The battle, the cyclone, and this . . . He wondered what had happened to Peter and Gorg!
The policeman had almost reached him now. He’d have to snap out of his daze. What should he do?
“What’s goin’ on here?” the heavy paunched figure asked gruffly. “Drivin’ while drunk, hey? An’ what’s the big idea wearin’ iron clothes—think it’s Hallowe’en? . . . An’ a gun! Hmmm! Breakin’ the Sullivan law!”
Don’s jaw thrust out at a pugnacious angle. He didn’t like that truculent tone. “Nothing much going on,” he said slowly, “but there will be!” And with a vicious snap, his fist lashed up and collided with the blue-coat’s jaw.
He sank heavily to the pavement. A squeal of delight from the boys, then Don Steele was dashing along the dark, deserted street. People were approaching from the other direction, drawn by the disturbance. He didn’t want to see them. His home was only a square away; he’d explain things tomorrow when he felt more like explaining. They’d trace him by means of the car, of course. But he didn’t care. He’d plead temporary insanity, or something.
Tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, meant a humdrum existence behind the teller’s bars in a bank! To hell with it all! He wanted to be somewhere in the future beside a little man with a big head, and a brawny, blond-ha
ired giant—Gorg Merlo and Peter Northam, his fellow Exiles in Time.
THE END
THE METEOR MINERS
It is some years since our readers have been favored with a story by this author. Mr. Eshbach is definitely a highly approved author, especially in the realm of science-fiction. While the title of this story suggests interplanetary travel, it is not the old version of wars fought in outer space, and is suggestive to the extent of describing the utilization of meteors for the obtaining of iron. The iron deposits on the earth cannot last forever.
IN the Earth, Venus and Mars Transportation Lines, Inc., men come and go, and are forgotten—many of them in the course of years. But some are remembered—and old Steve Anders is one of them. Men of the E.V. & M. smile when old Steve is mentioned—understanding, respectful smiles, full of admiration for a brave man.
Steve Anders was a meteor miner, one of the first in space—and, in his prime, one of the best. The E.V. & M. was still a dream in the mind of a lad named H.C. MacDonald, as Steve shipped on his first dangerous cruise into the void. At that time, a group of venturesome young men came to the conclusion that there were vast possibilities in salvaging the countless tons of almost pure iron that were flashing through space as iron meteors[1], and which could be had for the taking. They had organized The Meteoric Iron Co. Derisively they had been called “meteor miners”—and the name had stuck. Steve Anders was their second employee.
A dangerous job it was, a job for brave men—but it isn’t for that that Steve is remembered. Other brave men in other dangerous jobs have long since been forgotten. Forty eventful years passed before Steve Anders won his place in the hearts of his fellow workers.
Forgotten Fiction Page 40
