A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  It checked the beast in mid-spring. The homoid landed on all fours. At the doorway, where others had fought through and were jammed in the entrance, the screams of rage changed to a whimper of fear. Tahgor was speaking:

  “The homoids will be new to you. In our laboratories we created them. The gene is the basis of life from the monogenic species of bacteriophage to the polygenic species of the primate man. By influencing the gene, and by the transposition of chromosomes and subtler bodies within the fertile cell, we have evolved a new breed. There were failures, many of them—monstrosities, others which could not reproduce—but the homoids breed true to type. They have been——”

  Tahgor’s strident tones went on, and Coyne, standing rigid beside the cabinet, dared not move lest he break the spell. Then the first homoid straightened.

  The big she stared at the cabinet, then howled a wordless cry of derision. She knew it was only a voice—and now Coyne had played his last card.

  HE HAD failed—it would be only a moment now—and his failure meant death to the last of his race on Earth. Lorell would die; with the others she would throw herself into the lake. Coyne, picturing that, knew suddenly that silence had come again.

  Tahgor’s voice had ceased; yet, close before Coyne, reaching, almost touching him, the homoid stood rigid with terror. She was staring past him. Back of her the others broke and ran. Insane with fear they screamed and fought in the entrance, then were gone. The hands near Coyne’s face jerked away; this big beast, too, flung herself backward, and with a second leap had vanished.

  Silence then, utter soundlessness within the great sphere. Slowly Coyne turned. Not three feet away, arrayed in all the regal splendor of his kingly robes, Tahgor himself was standing.

  Tahgor! His yellowed, sardonic face was drawn into sneering lines. He was not looking at Coyne; he was staring past him, apparently at nothing at all. His lips moved—he was speaking:

  “By means of the tridimensional projection of my image I, Princeps Tahgor, come now——” Then Coyne understood.

  For a moment he went limp. To be saved now! To be saved by Tahgor, himself! But he knew that he was looking through the image and seeing faintly the lights of the wall beyond.

  Tridimensional projection—marvelous! Then he was snatching up the great lamp from the floor.

  He leaped through the doorway. Back in the magically lighted room the three-dimensional image of a dead ruler strode across the floor, speaking measured but meaningless words. Coyne did not hear; his ship waited below him in the night; he was running. And later, only minutes later, though each minute seemed hours in passing, he was checking the terrific speed of the plane that ripped the air to protesting shrillness as it shot up and over the great crags of the valley rim.

  The little valley was below as he circled and dropped. Above encircling mountains a full moon had crept and was pouring a golden flood down the slopes. It showed tiny man-shapes running frantically down from the pass; a dark blur of figures near the lake was breaking into smaller units that raced toward the water. And at one side, sweeping down from the hills, poured a dark, solid sea—the homoids, from another quarter, had broken through.

  They stormed down from the hills, leaping across the bare fields as he shot past them and ahead. He landed on the shore of the lake, almost crushing blue-robed women and girls who fled in panic from this new threat. But above their cries Coyne heard one glad voice.

  “Koh-een!” Lorell was calling. “My dear, my dear! I knew you would come!”

  But Coyne was busy. Carefully and methodically he was lifting the great signal lamp to the ground, working with tense, trembling lamps at a snarl in the cables until he cleared it and flung the cable ends back into the cabin.

  Inside the ship he tore loose the two cables that led into the motor.

  Their ends were frayed copper; he twisted them with the cable ends he held, sliced them, made sure that they hung clear of any contact with the metal ship; then he switched the rheostat on full before he threw himself outside.

  He had expected a red glare; instead the lamp was dark. One cable had pulled loose from the lamp. It spat orange fire as it lashed the ground. He leaped upon it.

  Shrill cries of terror filled the night. Women, the hoarser voices of men, and over all the dreaded scream of the homoid pack. Men and women were fleeing wildly; unreal, moonlit figures on which huge snarling she-things leaped and bore them to the ground. Pandemonium! A hell of sound and fury! Yet Coyne, reaching for the cable, knew that some one was beside him—one person had not fled.

  Then Lorell’s voice reached him: “It is the end. I love you, Koh-een. Let me die saying it. I love you, I——”

  But even then Coyne did not answer. He was on the ground, face down. He held the insulated cable in one hand. It crackled with white flame when the end brushed the lamp, but he saw the socket where that end belonged, and his other hand steadied the lamp as he rammed the cable terminal home.

  At its first contact a shock tore through him and jerked his whole body into a hard ball. His hand had slipped over the bared terminal; it was wrapped instantly in flame. But, above him, shooting out like a crimson scourge, was a red beam of light; and Lorell, grasping the big lens, was swinging it around and around.

  Leaping, agonized figures—she-things, contorted and horrible! His bulging eyes saw them. Their screams rolled over him in a torrent of sound. Then came silence but for Lorell’s sobbing voice.

  She still swung the big lens, but at last she threw herself beside Coyne and tore him away.

  “My dear—my brave one—you are not dead—you must not die! Don’t leave me now! Koh-een! Oh, Koh-een!”

  It was the last Coyne remembered.

  X.

  TO COYNE there came then a new experience. He could not describe it, nor understand it. He merely knew it was so.

  A rushing—soundless, yet he heard it. A sense of being hurled at incredible speed—yet he was unmoving. Motion that had nothing to do with space! A paradox! And then he knew.

  Beyond any doubt of his mind he knew that he was moving along a new dimension—moving in time. He breathed, and the tang of oxygen bit in his nostrils; and, after an interval not to be measured in hours but in days, centuries, he opened his eyes. He was in no way surprised to see the face of Professor Mellinger above him.

  Again Coyne was lying in the casket. Mellinger stood beside it. Another man’s face came into view—a doctor, Coyne thought.

  The newcomer smiled as he said: “Congratulations, Professor Mellinger!”

  Mellinger snorted. “The adrenaline did it—then the oxygen. You understand, don’t you, Coyne? I refused to be a party to your deliberate suicide.”

  Coyne did not move. He said very quietly: “Not suicide. But you are a party to it—you shall be—you have been. Tenses, past, present, and future, they are all one.”

  “Raving!” Mellinger said.

  The doctor leaned down. “Wake up,” he said, “but lie still. You’ll be all right now. Mellinger told me what you were trying—but this isn’t a bad time to live right now. Besides there may be a fortune in this discovery of yours—who knows!”

  Coyne said slowly, “I know,” and smiled. How unimportant it all seemed! Then he looked at Mellinger.

  “Listen,” he said; “I will tell you what has happened—what will happen a thousand years hence——”

  And after that he talked steadily on.

  “The big lamp,” he concluded, “had the same generating crystal as the little light. That means that the homoid menace is ended; the world will belong to humanity once more.”

  But his last words held a wistful note: “I would have liked to help; I would have liked once more to have seen—Lorell——”

  “Nonsense! Hallucinations!” It was the doctor sputtering. “But remarkable, really, in the clarity of detail.”

  Then Mellinger broke in. “Coyne!” he said. “I—I almost believe! Just as you came to, it seemed for an instant as if you were wrapped i
n a robe—golden. I rubbed my eyes. Then it vanished.”

  For a moment Mellinger stood looking down, staring unseeingly, thinking. He said slowly: “I grant you, Coyne, the possibility of synchronous existence of all events—the possibility, I say. Past, present, future—all one. And we, moving along the dimension called time, intersect them. I can’t grasp it. But I can’t deny it. If only there were proof——”

  Proof! Coyne thought of the countless tangible evidences, and not one of them had come back with him. Proof! He was conscious suddenly of a puckered feeling in the flesh of his left arm.

  He raised his two hands. His right tore at the left sleeve of his coat and at the shirt beneath it. He rolled the sleeves back and stared. Hopefully, fearfully—then he saw it was there. He raised his arm so those beside him might see.

  He gasped: “The homoid brand! Z-10 put it there. Look quick—it can’t last!”

  A circle—Mellinger saw it; the doctor saw it—and within the ring the mark of the beast. It was burned into the flesh. Yet, even as they watched, the flesh smoothed out, and only Coyne’s strong unmarked young arm was held tremblingly aloft.

  He let his hand fall. He said: “I am going—going back!” Already the room about him was blurring. Mellinger’s face grew dim.

  Then the doctor was bending above. He said harshly: “Wake up, I tell you! If you go under again we——”

  Then Mellinger threw the man aside. “It’s all right, Coyne!” Mellinger was shouting. “I’ll go through with it! Can you hear me?”

  Coyne spoke with difficulty through the haze that enveloped him. “You will need—to recharge—the oxygen——” Then darkness, and a rushing sound that he felt rather than heard.

  “Coyne!” Mellinger was calling. “Can you hear me, Coyne? I’ll follow instructions——” His voice, fading, became merged with another—until the new voice grew strong:

  “KOH-EEN!” the new voice said. A choking, heartbroken voice. It was calling to him—calling——

  “My dearest one! You came to me out of the past. You can’t leave me now. We need you so, Koh-een. We all need you. And I—I need you most of all——”

  Her face was close above him when he dared to breathe, and his own cheeks were wet with her tears.

  In all the moonlit world was silence. Men stood near, but did not speak; women and children were clustered about. Motionless, silent—all but one who stood apart and wrapped his robe of gold about him while he wept as a strong man weeps, with terrible, throat-tearing sobs.

  Coyne took one long breath of the cool night air, then raised his arms, where, on one, the homoid brand was seared. He drew Lorell’s lovely face close and whispered softly.

  But even Lorell could not have grasped the real meaning of his words; even Lorell could never know how far distant he had been.

  “It is good,” Coyne said, “so very good, my dear—to be back.”

  SHOT INTO SPACE

  Isaac R. Nathanson

  This is a very interesting story of what might happen in the future to a highspeed rocket plane. A runaway horse is really a pretty serious thing in many cases, but he covers his mile at a mere fraction of the rate of a rocket plane, and this story tells us the adventures of some brave men who were rocketed off into space.

  ROOSEVELT FIELD was a scene of buzzing excitement. A vast multitude had gathered to witness the daring pioneers take off in their new rocket-plane on the widely heralded flight to “Europe in three hours.”

  From all sides they came; on foot and by motor, by train, by airplane and every other conveyance; crowding the highways and byways and every approach to the famous landing-field, eager and curious to be on hand for the epochal event. An army of guards were heroically battling to keep the turbulent masses from overrunning the entire field. Itching fingers, idle hands were with difficulty kept at a proper distance from the precious plane.

  Three hours to Europe! A combination rocket-plane under full control, that was to cleave through the rarified atmosphere twenty to fifty miles above the earth’s surface at unheard of speed!

  It had never been tried before. Could they do it? Would they burst to pieces? Would they land alive? On every hand doubts and wonder were freely expressed; the tense excitement attaining a high pitch, as the moment for the great takeoff drew near.

  At one end of the field, carefully cleared of all obstructions, rested the Meteor, her shining wings proudly poised like some huge bird ready for flight; on her glistening sides emblazoned the confident legend, “America to Europe in Three Hours.” Near the entrance stood the two men who were about to make history: Joshua Malcolm, inventor and pilot of the Meteor, and his aid and copilot, Edward King.

  The great moment had arrived; everything was in readiness. With a wave of the hand to the expectant multitude, the brave aviators stepped inside and closed the hermetically sealed entrance to the double-shelled body. The faint hum of the air-conditioning machinery inside could be heard; the two aviators at the controls were visible through the quartzite ports. A strange silence fell on the immense multitude.

  At the signal, the propellers began to spin. The Meteor moved forward, gathered momentum, took off lightly as a feather; and, engines roaring, sailed away.

  A thousand feet up and rising steadily, her stern rocket tubes suddenly flared. Up, up and away the Meteor shot, leaving behind a long blazing trail from her fiery rockets; and soon disappeared into the azure deeps of the sky.

  Fifty miles up, the powerful liquid propellant, hissing from the rocket tubes with explosive force, was driving the vessel toward its goal in distant France at a speed of upwards of twelve hundred miles per hour. Soon they were far out over the billowing Atlantic; the steady thrust of their rocket tubes speeding them on and on, higher and faster than any human being had ever gone before.

  They had been on the way half an hour, Josh Malcolm and Ed King, as they sat at the controls, thrilling at their success so far. Inside their vessel everything was perfectly comfortable; the means for controlling the air pressure and temperature necessary to withstand the conditions which obtain at such extreme heights were operating perfectly.

  Suddenly a frightful explosion shook the machine. As if some giant hand had all at once picked them up, they felt themselves hurled forward like a shot. The two men were thrown headlong, stunned into blank unconsciousness.

  FOR a long time they were totally oblivious to all that was transpiring. Had an observer been present, he would have thought both had been killed by the sudden shock.

  Josh Malcolm was the first to come to his senses. Dazedly he stirred and looked about him out of blood-shot eyes. A fearful bump showed on his forehead. Blood was oozing from an ugly gash in the scalp, head aching abominably, an excruciating pain in his right shoulder. He found it hard to collect his thoughts, and strove to rise, but fell back with a groan.

  Gradually his senses came back; he remembered. He sat up, supporting himself unsteadily and looked around. Heaven, what had happened! Everything inside the Meteor seemed as before. His eyes roved to where Ed King was lying all in a heap, still unconscious—or dead. To Malcolm’s dazed senses, the position in which the other lay struck him as ludicrous in the extreme; face turned sideways on the floor, knees grotesquely drawn up under him; his position against the corner of the wall preventing him from rolling over. A pool of blood trickled on the floor.

  Collecting himself, Josh tried to walk toward his fallen comrade; felt himself queerly light, swayed dizzily and fell featherlike to the floor. Everything was swimming and turning. Yet, oddly enough, he had a sensation of utter calm and rest, as if they had landed somewhere.

  He closed his eyes for a few moments; then, feeling better, raised himself to a sitting position and looked around. He was strangely puzzled by what greeted his eyes. Outside, the sky was a dead black, brilliantly studded with stars that blazed as he had never seen them blaze before. And yet—and this puzzled him the more—brilliant sunshine was streaming in through the quartz-glass ports on the
startboard side. Otherwise, outside of the soft purring of the air-conditioning machinery, everything was quiet as a tomb.

  Still puzzled, and wondering whether he was still in the flesh or only in the spirit, he made his way unsteadily, with a feeling of utter weightlessness, to where his companion lay. Ed was breathing. From a frightful gash on his head and from battered mouth, blood was flowing. Quickly as he could Josh stanched the flow. The unconscious man slowly revived, his eyes rolling wildly with pain and fright.

  Presently with clearing minds, they took stock of themselves. Both were still weak and dizzy from the shock and loss of blood; but otherwise they suffered from no broken bones nor serious injury.

  Upon looking out of the ports, they beheld an amazing sight. Aft of the Meteor, looming indescribably large, was a brilliant globe, many times larger than the full moon; the wanly shining lunar orb by its side dwarfed and paled into insignificance by the size and brilliancy of the larger globe. In unbelieving amazement they stood and gazed on the wonderful spectacle; the truth beginning to dawn on their surprised senses.

  “Heavens!” exclaimed Josh Malcolm; “it looks as if we have shot away from the earth altogether!”

  A STRANGE unlooked for thing had happened indeed. Something had gone wrong, causing an enormous amount of the liquid propellant to explode all in one charge instead of firing steadily and under control, hurling the speeding Meteor far out into space away from the earth. The terrific force of the explosion tore away a large portion of the stern, including some of the rocket tubes, but fortunately leaving intact the air-tight cabin and other vital parts.

  Experienced scientist and navigator that he was, it did not take Josh Malcolm very long to calculate within fairly close limits, their true position in space, and whither they were going—and they were not heading for the earth!