Collected Tales (Jerry eBooks)

by Leslie F Stone

  Hardly aware of what had saved him so providentially, the man sought to rise only to bang his head sharply against the low ceiling of the chamber in which he found himself, bringing kindly oblivion. He awakened to a new sense of motion to find he was being dragged along the low tunnel into which the crumbling wall had catapulted him, for his cave turned out to be a tunnel running at right angles to the one in which he had fought. Even now the ants were trying with feet and mandibles to widen the tunnel mouth for their bulky bodies, but the passage proved too low and narrow for them. The ant, who had been behind Mike when he fell, even now lay crushed by the numbers in the opening behind it, and the others were trying to remove it piecemeal.

  For a moment the darkness here seemed blacker than in the tunnel he had just left behind, but after a few moments of concentration, Mike managed to make out the shapes of the creatures dragging him. They seemed a smaller edition of the ants he had left behind. One had him by the hair, the other had caught its mandibles in the shoulder strap of his overalls. The pain of being dragged by the hair had restored him to consciousness. With a mighty effort he managed to twist his body around so that he could put his hands upon the floor of the tunnel even though the movement caused him frightful pain, and he was ready to do battle again. But he was saved that. The first ant dropped its hold upon his hair at his first upheaval, and the other little fellow was frantically trying to tear its mandibles from the shoulder strap. It succeeded just as Mike gained his hands and feet, and he could hear the pair running hurriedly from his proximity.

  Carefully Mike felt the tunnel walls about him, and learned that nowhere was the diameter of the tunnel more than two feet. It meant he would have to crawl on hands and feet its entire length, but considering the inclination of the floor, he gathered that the passage eventually rose to the surface. He guessed that he was safe from his erstwhile six-foot enemies, but it was a back-breaking task to crawl along for what seemed hours on hands and knees. Twice he came to cross-tunnels, and he grew aware of small creatures scurrying away from his lumbering approach. Only their antlike appearance gave him clue to what his rescuers were, but he knew too little of ant-life to guess at how the tiny robber-ant constructs its nest to dovetail with that of the large red ant. Like the mice preying on a human household, these tiny foragers made their excursions into the storerooms and granaries of their unwilling hosts, fleeing to their narrow tunnels where the larger ants could not follow when their thieving proclivities were discovered.

  As he continued upward, Mike noticed the tunnel growing brighter as light filtered in from some source far ahead. Then he thought he descried a pin-point of gray light, and it gave him new life. The pin-point of light grew steadily larger and at last he reached an opening. A guardsman ant stood in the entrance, but it scurried away at his approach, and he was free to step into the green world of the mountain top. The robber tunnel had led him directly up to the plateau of the mountain-range!

  Before him lay a wide land beyond which he could see a mighty forest of every sort of tree and plant imaginable bedecked with flowers and swept by sweet fresh clean breezes. Paradise after Hell!

  Cautiously he crawled forth, peering on every side for lurking enemies. His first thought was a weapon. A round dry stick lay close to the tunnel opening and this he quickly appropriated. A small, round stone that fitted to his hand tempted him next, and he dropped it into his pocket for safe-keeping. He saw that here again the air was filled with falling rocks, fibrous woody sticks of debris, blocks of solid metal. The forest offered protection from the attack from the skies, but it was a long way off. Still there was no reason to linger here, and he feared that the nest of the red ants might have their exit somewhere near.

  The way across the barren-lands, as he named the space lying between him and the forest, was exceedingly difficult. The ground was spongy under foot, and the landscape almost mountainous. He had to pick his way carefully, usually following an arroyo that seemed the remains of a dry water-course, using every out-jutting promontory as a protection from the raining skies.

  He was hungry, thirsty and weak from his past experiences and loss of blood. At times, everything went black before his eyes, he grew dizzy and went reeling and stumbling along, not caring what should happen. Then when he thought he could not take another step, when his tongue felt like flannel-cloth in his mouth, he came upon a bed of moss in which grew a bush covered with red and yellow berries like those he had found on the mountain side. Again he feasted ravenously and thought of lying down for some sleep, but twice when he sought rest he had been attacked by the horrible beasts of this terrible world, and besides there was no cover from the skies, and he had to go on, on to the trees.

  Climbing to the top of a tor, or small hill that stood higher than the surrounding country to take his bearings, he was suddenly elated by the sight of a monstrous statue set alone in all this wilderness. It reminded him of the leaning pillar that had interested him back on the plains. There was no path leading to it, but he felt that, if he could reach it, many things would be explained.

  The statue represented an ugly, foreign, yellow face with squinty almond-shaped eyes. Its garments were strange, foreign looking, and there was something familiar about it. He tried to remember where he had seen a like statue. A vague glimmering of the truth assaulted his brain, but again he was unable to trace out its meaning; his mind seemed to refuse to function past a certain point. The statue, however, was a sign, a sign that there must be creatures somewhere around who had built it. He climbed to the pedestal and gazed in all directions, and thus he caught a gleam of water in the distance, and a great high bridge crossing it! Now far beyond the water, lay the outpost of the forest.

  He started to run toward the lake, but his muscles rebelled, so he was forced to take it at a walk that was hardly more than a crawl, as he was creeping painfully around the obstructions that filled his path, sometimes losing his direction, continually dodging the debris from the skies. Then he came to the lake.

  Chagrined, he stared with popping eyes. It wasn’t a lake after all, but a hard clear surface that reflected his image. He gazed at himself in disappointment. What a sight he was. An inch long stubble covered his face, his hair was a sweaty mass caked with dried blood, dirt streaked his face and hands where they were not scratched and bruised, his jeans were in tatters, hanging to him by threads. His face was thin, haggard.

  Getting to his feet, he stared at the bridge crossing the mirror lake. He sneered. What sort of people were they who built a bridge over a surface of such a type. He disdained to use the bridge and stepped upon the imitation lake instead. It was not so smooth as it appeared at first glance; it was bumpy with irregularities in its surface, bubbles showed just under the skin, and it was difficult to walk upon, like ice. But anything was better than the surrounding country, and he wanted to reach the trees. Sky debris fell upon the mirror as on everything else, adding to his difficulties; pebbles rolled under his feet as he walked.

  The mirror-lake did not reach to the edge of the woods, and carefully he began picking his way anew over the rough, uneven ground. There it was he heard the first call.

  “Help, Help. For God’s sake, someone, save me. Mike! Mike!”

  A voice, a living voice! And wonders and wonders he knew the voice. It was calling him. “Mike, Mike, save me!”

  “Mary, I’m coming, I’m coming!” He was surprised to hear his own voice answer.

  It came from the middle of the trees ahead. Mary needed him. He did not stop to question who Mary was. He knew. Mary was part of him; Mary was his, and she needed him.

  He was running now between hillocks, unconsciously dodging the falling fragments from the sky. Everything was forgotten. His weariness was of the past; he forgot his lame foot. He reached the trees, great, thick-stalked trees many times his own girth, that had queer, straight branches out of which grew giant leaves many yards across. Then there were strange blade-like growths rising straight from the ground to unguessed heights
. Gargantuan flowers topped the strange trees, and filled him again with a sense of his own puniness, but this was not the time to consider such things.

  “MIKE, Oh Mike, will you never come?”

  “I’m coming, I’M COMING!”

  Here the trees were at well spaced intervals, but as he hurried on toward the voice, he found himself plunging into a wild tangle of rank undergrowth—the like of which he had never seen. Saw-toothed grasses, taller than his own head, brambles, spine-covered vines tore at him, held him back, and every step he took was a fight in itself. He had only made a few feet of progress toward the moaning voice, when a great shadow swept over him and the air was filled with a roaring thunder of sound.

  He ducked to the left without looking, into a thicket of brambles that cut him cruelly, but the brambles were better than the death swooping upon him in the shape of a long, snake-shaped body upheld by twin pairs of wide transparent wings, iridescent wings, each yards across. He cowered among the thick, fleshy leaves of the bramble-bush, realizing he was safe from the monstrous flying thing. It seemed ages before the dragonfly gave up hope of an easy meal and departed with an ear-crushing whoosh of its lovely wings.

  Mike did not climb from the brambles for several minutes after the fly was gone, then he painfully extracted himself from the thorns, leaving a good part of what remained of his clothing adhering to the vicious spikes. Again he heard the beckoning, terrified voice calling. And he renewed his efforts to push through the clinging jungle.

  Then he saw her. She was almost in his path, and at first glance he thought she was merely standing there, looking at him, but the second glance showed her a prisoner, a strange, shapeless bundle, hanging in a cocoon within a foot or so of the ground, wrapped around with thick heavy cords, as thick as his thumb. There were other ropes, dirty white ropes caught to the leaves and branches of two great trees, and he traced them upward to a spot high above him, where they seemed joined in a hub with innumerable other ropes coming from all directions. On one of the ropes, high above the hub, was the round, black, eight-legged figure of the owner of the web. He knew it for a spider immediately and realized that Mary was the spider’s prisoner.

  She saw him as soon as he saw her, and tears sprang into her eyes. “Mike, where have you been? Come, get me out of here before that devil from hell comes this way. I . . . I . . .” she began to sob pitifully, uncontrollably.

  The man’s heart was full at the sight of her. He wanted to take her in his arms, to soothe her fears, but first she must be freed. He came to her side and grasped one of the ropes to try its strength, only to find it horribly sticky so his hand adhered to it. It took real effort to pull the hand away. If only he had a knife! But in lieu of that, he looked for a sharpened stick. The ropes he found were quite elastic, their real strength lying in their sticky covering.

  “He’s coming, he’s coming. Quick, Mike, he will stab me again!”[1]

  He looked up to see the spider hurrying down a rope towards them. It had felt the shaking of the rope and was coming to investigate. Mike remembered the stone in his pocket and let it fly at the oncoming arachnid. The missile seemed to stun the creature for a moment, but again it came on. Mike espied a long pole lying in a tangle of brambles. He could use it as a spear to keep the spider away from Mary at least. Mary was moaning, then suddenly she was filling the air with one prolonged shriek after another.

  PROFESSOR DUNCAN TRENT ushered his eminent friend and guest, Dr. Yowell Morely, entomologist, into his pleasant laboratory after the long drive from the station. Dr. Morely had hurried from New York to see his friend on receiving a note, requesting his presence there in regard to a new ray Trent had just discovered. They came into the bright room laughing and talking, wholly unprepared for the sight to meet their eyes.

  “My T-Ray Lamp!” It was Trent who cried out as he pointed a shaking finger at the spot where his latest invention lay on the floor beside a fallen chair. His friend was forgotten as he rushed to pick up the lamp, examining it to see if it were damaged.

  “Someone’s been using it,” he ejaculated; “the bulb is still warm, though it has burnt out. They were here less than ten minutes ago, for the ray burns out the filament in that time. Oh, the vandals, the . . . oh Mike, Mike! MIKE!” And calling the name of his man-of-all-work, the professor ran out of the laboratory. Morely could hear his voice resound throughout the house. Then it came from the garden.

  The doctor left to his own devices, shrugged his shoulders, smiling a little to himself. He bent over and picked up the fallen chair that lay against one of the window flower-boxes. He dropped into the chair and sat there, his eyes ranging over the flower-boxes so artfully arranged. Pains had been taken to make the box appear like a Japanese garden with little men and women, pretty bridges and what not set about among the plants. With the aid of a small mirror a lake had been formed. A dragon fly hovered over some blossoms and there was the open door of an ant-hill to be contemplated by the entomologist. An ugly little weed caught his eye, and reaching down, he removed it. Then there was something else that drew his wandering attention.

  He saw a tiny, newly constructed spider’s web stretching across two small ferns, amid a tangle of some more weeds that had been neglected. He could make out the agitation of the web’s tiny owner, and, because his vocation was also his hobby, he drew out his magnifying glass to see what troubled the tiny home-maker. He brought it close to the scene, taking place there among the weeds, and a whistling exclamation escaped his lips.

  At that moment Professor Trent reentered the room half-talking to himself. “Can’t find that confounded fellow anywhere, or his wife either. Well, of all the blankety-blank . . .” Coming in through the French window he had not noticed where he was going and the air was suddenly blue, as the man of science shook water out of his shoes. He had stepped on the edge of one of the fallen water cans, tipping the remaining water over his feet.

  “Dune, old man, come here. You had better identify these . . .”

  Trent recognized the excitement in his friend’s voice and the next instant was peering with unbounded wonder at the spectacular drama taking place under the lense of the magnifying glass. He saw an incredibly tiny man battling what to him must have seemed a monstrous spider, while in a cocoon in the spider’s web hung an hysterical woman.

  “Good Lord! Mike and Mary. The ray! A complete success! But whatever possessed Mike to . . .”

  Morely interrupted as he drew forth a pair of pincers from an inner pocket. “No matter why they’re there, we’ve got to rescue them. He’d never kill that spider with that straw!” As he spoke, he picked the spider from the nest with his pincers and crushed it. “A piece of paper, please,” he added to Trent as carefully now he drew the threads of the spider silk away from around the woman. A few moments later, he was placing the frightened, almost microscopic woman on the broad expanse of white paper Trent had brought. The man was placed beside the woman and under the magnifying glass, the two saw the tiny man take the woman’s fainting form into his arms.

  Carefully transferring the paper to a table-top nearby, the doctor looked at Trent with twinkling eyes. “Indubitably, my friend, your new rays are a success, but have you the means of returning these unusual specimens of homo sapiens to their original size?”

  “That will be simple. You see, I perfected the s-ray, or enlarging ray, before I ever thought about this reducing ray at all. In fact, the t-ray is simply a by-product of the s-ray I have already mentioned to you. But what I can’t understand, is what led Mike to do such a thing. He’s a steady sort of a fellow. Never did a prank like this before in his life.”

  Morely inclined his head toward the spilled watering cans. “I’d hardly attribute this ‘prank’, as you call it to the man. According to the position of the ray-lamp and the chair and that can over there, I should suppose the man was in the act of rescuing his wife when he fell, carrying everything to the floor with him. You see . . .”

  “By George, you’re right.
But Mary is supposed never to come in here. She has none of the intelligence of Mike, and I don’t like her fussing around in my laboratory.”

  “Has she a touch of rheumatism or something of the sort?”

  “Why, perhaps. I’ve never inquired,” said Trent stiffly, not seeing where this questioning was leading to.

  “But haven’t you noticed, my friend, that you have mounted the t-ray apparatus in a lamp shade similar to those sold on the market for dispensing the beneficial ultra-violet ray? If I’m not mistaken, there’s its mate in the corner!”

  “By George, that is a sun-ray lamp over there. I used it on some cultures with which I wanted to prove my experiment to you . . .”

  “Um, and your Mary must have gotten them mixed.”

  “You’re right. I see it all now. Here, help me rig up this s-ray paraphernalia. Better put them on the floor, hadn’t we?” As the pair discoursed, Trent had been putting together an odd-looking machine with which he intended to “bring back” Mary and Mike.

  IT was a matter of minutes before the now unconscious man and woman were almost back to their original size. Morely watched them grow with a scientific eye, exclaiming at their rapid return to normalcy, noticing that as they grew larger their bodily growth seemed to slow down correspondingly.

  “There,” exclaimed Trent, “that seems to be about right. I think that is Mike’s normal size. Don’t want to make a giant of him,” and he turned off the red ray of the apparatus from the pair.

  Morely sucked in his breath. “Your man looks like very much of a tramp, Dune. I think he might shave occasionally. And what a slattern his wife is.” The pair still under the coma induced by the ray, could not hear his biting slander.

  “What’s that? Why, they are a sight, aren’t they? But Mike was clean-shaven this morning, and I’ve never before seen Mary with a hair out of place, let alone a soiled apron. By George, of course. Let me see. You remember I said the bulb of the t-ray was still warm when I picked it up. That means that they were under the influence of the ray not ten minutes before we appeared on the scene, but think of it, Yo, those two had endured all sorts of hardships in that few minutes. What seems minutes to us must have been days, if not weeks, to them in their reduced state, for naturally with the reduction of size, came the speeding up of heart-beats and of bodily actions. That accounts for Mike’s unshaven appearance. And look, how tired and haggard he looks. I bet he’s lost some weight, too.”