A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Bond’s only hope now was that it might not destroy too much other property in its fall. He had been furiously busy in helping to clear the adjoining buildings. He had been on his feet all night, but he did not feel either cold or fatigue. Only he decided at this stage to telephone to his wife, who must he in a state of extreme anxiety, for she had sent two or three messenger hoys to find him during the night.

  The nearest telephone happened to be in the store of a piano-dealer in the next block. The proprietor, like most of his neighbors, had remained down town all night, and was just sitting down to a tray from a restaurant when Bond entered.

  As he opened the telephone cabinet something snapped loudly with musical ring in the shop. Bond, whose nerves were at concert pitch, jumped, and the proprietor swore.

  “Another string gone!” ejaculated the dealer. “Every blessed piano in this shop, I believe, has snapped its B-flat string since last evening. It’s the noise from that cursed building of yours.”

  Getting up, he fingered half a dozen keyboards till he found one still intact, and struck the B flat sharply. The note was exactly attuned to the vast hum from the shaking skyscraper. A moment later and this string also flew asunder.

  “The Platte Building is tuned to B flat,” observed the musician, dryly. “Every piece of metal has its musical note, you know. If you struck this note inside your building it would set every frame vibrating. You haven’t had any brass bands playing there lately, have you?”

  Bond’s mind caught the idea like a flash. He recollected some elementary experiments in physics, and the laws of vibrations. He thought hard for a half minute, and then hurried back to the street, without having touched the telephone.

  As he returned toward the skyscraper he glanced up, and his heart misgave him. The risk was too great. The enormous dismantled framework seemed to sway till it almost overhung the adjoining buildings. But, mustering his nerve, he went on, pushing roughly through the packed crowd. The police, recognizing him, let him through the lines, but when they saw him approach the crumbling doorway, they ran after him, shouting. But by that time he was already upon the stair.

  Bond had not been used to much violent exercise lately, but he went up the eight flights of the circular stairway at a run, without noticing them. The jar and sway of the floors was like the sickening heave of an earthquake. Through the broken walls the light poured freely, mingling with the glow of electricity in the halls. The floors were littered with every sort of office supply—the doors were splintered and swinging. The building looked as if it had been shelled and afterwards looted.

  On the topmost floor the motion was so violent that he was obliged to lean against it to keep his balance. The wreckers had not ascended so high, and all the doors were still shut and locked along the hall. In fact, few of the rooms on this floor had even been rented, and it was used mostly for storage.

  At the extreme end of the hall a door bore the gilt sign:—

  GOTTHARD KLEIN, VIOLIN MAKER.

  MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS REBUILT AND REPAIRED.

  The door was locked, but Bond burst it open with his shoulder. There was a bright outer office, with several glass cases, badly damaged, containing beautiful violins. Beyond this a door stood ajar into a room, from which proceeded a clear, musical tone.

  Bond rushed towards it. The inner room was fitted up as a workshop, and was half open to the outer air by the fall of the masonry. On an elaborate viol, and upon it a peculiarly shaped bow ran regularly to and fro across two strings, with a, monotonous iteration of sound. This bow was attached to a flexible steel rod that played from a purring electric motor beside the instrument.

  Bond scarcely knew what he had expected to find, but he was astonished. There was no one in the room. But he brought a hammer smashing down upon the whole musical apparatus, and the ceaseless B-flat drone was silent. Then after a glance about the place he went down-stairs again, sliding most of the way on the banister rail.

  For half an hour after he reached the sidewalk again there was no visible change in the condition of the skyscraper. It still reeled and tottered. Then, by minute degrees, the oscillations grew slower and weaker. In an hour and a half it was plain that the building was regaining its balance. It was then nearly eight o’clock.

  Bond thereupon looked up the address of Gotthard Klein in a city directory, and started to find him, with cold rage in his heart. The place turned out to be a pretty suburban cottage, with early smoke rising from the chimney. The door was opened by Mrs. Klein herself, a middle-aged, fresh-faced woman, with a faint German accent.

  “Is Mr. Klein in? I must see him,” demanded Bond, sternly. “I am the owner of the Platte Building, where he has his office. You know, of course, what has been going on there?” he added, at the woman’s look of bewilderment.

  “No,” she said, doubtfully. “I have no time to read the papers. Gotthard is here, yes,—but so sick! He will not know you. The doctor says it is pneumonia. He should not have worked yesterday. He had to come home and go to bed at three o’clock. I have not closed an eye this night.”

  She led Bond in, and gently opened a door into an adjoining bedroom. There lay the violin-builder, flushed with fever, his eyes shut, but muttering incoherent German words. Sobered by this sight, Bond stepped back and softly closed the door again.

  “Your husband builds violins. Does he do anything else?” he asked.

  “He makes also guitars, sometimes, and mandolins. And he invents, oh! wonderful things. He is working now on a violin to play itself, like the machines to play pianos. But I ought not to tell you of this. It is not finished.”

  “Hum!” said Bond, meditating. “Do you know that he went away yesterday and left the electric power turned on and his invention running?”

  “No—heavens! Will he have to pay for all this time? Is it running yet?” she ejaculated, horrified in all her thrifty soul.

  “No,” said Bond. “I turned it off.”

  A STAR FELL

  L.J. Beeston

  PART I.

  MAN PROPOSES.

  (Letter, dated September 22nd, 2004, from Professor James Clinton-Grey to Wilhelm von Beaulieu, of Berlin.)

  MY DEAR VON BEAULIEU,—Here’s a clatter about my unfortunate ears! I am assailed on all sides. Will the time never come when a man with a new idea will obtain an attentive hearing, and abuse afterwards—if he deserve it?

  You have seen the papers, of course. The mildest term applied to your poor friend is that of visionary. I am assured that if I had lived in the past century, in the so-called “advanced” days of the seventh Edward, I should have been reckoned amongst the mad ones of that period. Possibly. Well, hard names hurt nobody. I believe that my idea will grow, will become a hypothesis, then a thesis. I am prepared to test my own opinions, I am ready to attempt to carry out this stupendous experiment.

  As was anticipated even in the slow times of the Victorian era, the rise and progress of the power of electricity has been steady and assured. To-day we find only pleasure craft upon the sea. Our great liners traverse the air, racing the swallows. The steam locomotive is a thing forgotten—that panting, unwieldy piece of mechanism. And still this power holds out the most gigantic possibilities, one of which is now within my grasp. I will explain.

  My claim is the discovery of a new application of the electric fluid whereby I may attain so enormous a speed as to practically annihilate space. A prophet has no honour in his own country, and the State has declined to help me to evolve my model into the great dimensions of the airship which I propose to build. The German government, whose feelers are all over the world, offered to buy my services—and my secret. It was a temptation, and only a certain love of country held me back from it. As of old, England and Germany are to-day prepared to spring at one another’s throats, and my airship would involve the destruction of any present-day aerial navy. Fortunately, friends have come forward to assist me. The work is progressing. The time is at hand—that time so dreamed of in all ages—whe
n the planets shall become our stepping-stones (I use the word advisedly); when man, who has conquered so many things, shall conquer space also. . . . I feel my blood burn as I write this. I can scarcely contain myself. Do you wonder?

  I am thinking of making a very serious move. You know Oppenheim, the German inventor? He is an extremely clever fellow, and has some good ideas in these matters. I have a mind to suggest to him that we combine our intelligences. He can help me, I can help him. In so stupendous a venture as my forthcoming flight through space it is hardly wise to rely upon a single brain. Can I trust him?

  And now I am going to revert to that word “stepping-stones,” which I used just now, for it sent to me the strangest idea, which has brought a storm of criticism upon my head. Our span of life upon this third planet from the sun is some seventy years. The conditions that surround us here will not permit of a longer tenure. I hold it possible that life, as we know it, once removed to another planet, might be extended in so changed an environment, might be renewed indefinitely; and so this question of immortality, which has so long distracted the minds of thinkers, becomes a solved problem. Inaction is death, always has been. But if we move from sphere to sphere we may attain our full heritage, the ultimate aim of our existence.

  Are you laughing, my friend, as you read this? Well, all the world is laughing. I shall act.—Yours,

  JAMES CLINTON-GREY.

  (From the same to the same.)

  MY DEAR VON BEAULIEU,—A most extraordinary incident has occurred. I am the subject of a charming adventure. A pretty woman has offered to accompany me on a voyage across twenty-six millions of miles of space.

  One moment. I received your letter, in which you warn me concerning Oppenheim. Your terms of “unscrupulous” and “unprincipled” render me uneasy. I had asked his help. He seemed enormously pleased; but I shall now back out of it, as best I can. Now for my adventure.

  I was at Brighton on the Wednesday of last week. A century ago they used to run, to this seaport, their wretched little excursion trains; but the town is now almost a suburb of London. Near to it is my house, built on a quiet spot in the Sussex Downs. It was evening, and I strolled on to the pier, which was almost deserted.

  The wind that had been blowing all day had spent its strength.

  The sea also appeared to be resting. The sun was sinking, dragging after it the young moon, that showed itself only to retire. The waves rolled shoreward in long, languorous swells, falling with a melancholy sound upon the beach, and uttering deep sobs as they rose and fell through the iron stages of the pierhead. As I walked on the pier, watching the death of that autumn day, I perceived the mammoth airship, the Fireball, as it showed for an instant through a break in the cumulus clouds.

  She was bound for Sydney, and she came and went like a sigh!

  Suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

  “Am I not addressing Professor Grey?”

  I turned and saw a lady looking at me.

  She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. I likened her to the spirit of the mournful autumn evening. She was certainly very beautiful, my dear von Beaulieu. I bowed. We exchanged a few remarks.

  “I believe in you,” she said frankly. “Yes, while others scoff, I believe in you, heart and soul.”

  I made a deprecatory gesture, but I was immensely pleased.

  ” I will introduce myself,” she went on, with a sad smile. “I am a Miss Alexandra Porteous. I am deeply interested in aerial navigation.”

  There was a moment of silence, then she continued:

  “Your forthcoming great venture possesses a fascination for me. That you will reach the planet Venus is my earnest wish. How fast do you propose to travel?”

  “As the extent of my journey will be some twenty-six millions of miles, you will understand that the rate of progression must be enormous. I shall rise with comparative slowness until above the atmosphere, then my flight will become meteoric.”

  “But why slow at first?”

  “Because, my dear lady, I do not wish to transform myself and my machine into a meteor—a shooting-star. That would be an apotheosis not desired.”

  “I must confess that I do not altogether understand.”

  “It is simple. The meteorite is a small body weighing a few pounds or a few tons—at any rate, quite minute when compared to the earth. It revolves round the sun, as we do. On an occasion it gets too near to the earth, which draws it from its orbit by gravitation. It is a fatal moment. Nearer and nearer to our great world it comes, rushing harmlessly through the airless fields; but when it plunges into the atmosphere which extends so far above us, then friction is instantly developed by the tremendous flight of the missile. It becomes hot—red hot—white hot—and finally is fused into a glowing vapour. You have observed the process a hundred times, for the meteorite is just a shooting star. Very well, you will perceive that if I compel my machine through the upper air at its full velocity, which is immense, it will become fused, driven off into glowing vapour, by the friction.” She thanked me charmingly for the explanation, and said, “Why do you choose this star out of so many?”

  “Because its size is much the same as that of the earth, so that I need not fear a gravitation to which I am unaccustomed. And as it is much nearer to the sun than we are, its climate is probably distinctly warmer, from which I infer that life there is more highly developed.”

  She turned her superb eyes full upon me. “Oh,” said she, her voice tremulous, “I have read—read a score of times—your articles in which you argue for a practical immortality; in which you state with force and daring that when man commands the spheres he will command death itself.” Her excitement troubled while it thrilled me, and I deemed it wise to gently remonstrate. “Pardon, my dear lady,” I replied; “my articles are not so much statements of fact as hints at possibilities. So much depends upon the atmosphere of other worlds. Though compressed oxygen may serve while we travel thither, yet——” I finished the sentence with a shrug of my shoulders.

  At that instant we saw the racing airship Orion pass far over Brighton. It was then quite dark. Her arc lights extended into the upper gloom like enormous, white, gleaming swords. She flashed underneath the stars, and was out of sight ere one might count three.

  Miss Porteous turned to me with the strangest look in her eyes. She said, in a low voice:

  “How terrible night is! It always makes me afraid. They try to illumine it; the light creeps a few yards into space and is lost. Can anything be more pitiful?”

  I was somewhat surprised by this remark, which seemed to show a neurotic temperament. I replied, tamely enough, “Yet the night is not without charm?”

  I shall not readily forget her answer, which ran through me as a cold shudder. Placing a hot hand upon mine, she said:

  “Since the world was born night comes to remind us of the lasting dark. Yes, night has its beauty, but death has no beauty—none.”

  I read her meaning instantly, and, strangely enough, I read her intention. This emotional creature feared above all things the King of Terrors; feared time, which must rob her of her beauty, sap her youth, wear down her ideals and enthusiasms; fetared death, which she called—quite wrongly, of course—the lasting dark. And she was ready to risk the present on one great throw! Believing utterly in my hypothesis, she was prepared to leave this earth, which is filled with graves!

  Truly, my dear von Beaulieu, it is well to be careful of one’s words, well to conceal our opinions until we are sure of them. I was greatly troubled.

  By this time you have probably guessed the rest. I fell in love with Miss Porteous that autumn evening. Within three days I told her so. Does she love me? It is my hourly prayer. Anyhow, she is with me in this venture. All London knows it. All England execrates me. There is even tack of persuading the authorities to interfere in the expedition. You know me too well to believe that I shall change my mind. We shall be married in less than a month, and shall start directly afterwards, if possible.—Yours, JAMES CL
INTON-GREY.

  (From Wilhelm von Beaulieu to Professor Clinton-Grey.)

  MY DEAR FRIEND,—I have just received your letter, which has filled me with astonishment and apprehension. My affection must justify my plain speaking. I am jealous for your honour, anxious for your success; and when I hear of a woman in your purpose I can but lift my hands in horror. What! you in love? Fiddlesticks! I will not hear of it. You must disencumber yourself of this stupidity.

  For the venture that lies before you you will need concentrated energy, nerve, stamina, immense courage.

  Marriage is not for you.

  Understand that. It is a luxury which you must forego for the present.

  Do I speak my mind too freely? Pardon me; you have made me so hot.

  Concerning Justus Oppenheim. I am watching this man. I shall be surprised if I do not find that he is a spy in the pay of the German Government.

  He is extremely jealous of you. In Berlin the general opinion of you is very high. It is believed that if there is a man living capable of destroying the superb German aerial squadrons that man is yourself. They want your secret, which will render present-day airships slow-moving as snails.

  Oppenheim wants your secret to perfect his clever ideas, and will not stick at a trifle to obtain it. Be careful, be suspicious, and fling this sentimentality to the winds.—Your affectionate friend,

  WILHELM VON BEAULIEU.

  (From Alexandra Porteous to Justus Oppenheim, of Berlin.)

  THERE is a statement in your latest communication which astonishes, though it does not frighten me. You say, “If you play false the worst possible consequences will befall you.” I suppose you mean that I shall die suddenly. It is a pity that you should use these threats, for I must throw myself on the protection of the man whom I love.

  Yes, I love him. I disregard your bitter sneer. After all. I have wronged you; but by so doing I righted myself. You came to me with your tempting offers; you suggested that if I would play the spy under you who are also a spy, that if I would discover the secret of that application of the electric forces whereby Professor Clinton-Grey hopes to attain his great speed, that if I would betray to you this secret (you in turn to sell it to the German Government) you would give me any price which I might care to name. And I wanted money, and I closed with the offer, and I became acquainted with the Professor, and I acted a part, and I lied to him, and I learned all that you wish to know, and then—ah! if you knew how impossible it is for me to work him so deep an injury, so great a wrong!