by C. Daly King
‘You have me there, I’m afraid,’ Lord had to admit. ‘Who was Charles Fort, and what did he do?’
‘He collected evidences – and drew the obvious conclusions. Obvious, that is, to any unhypnotised person. Of course, the vast majority are always hypnotised by some system of primitive beliefs. For a thousand years the Church did it, with a gentilised Hebrew religion out of Genesis; we were just treated to the arguments of one of the last survivors. That’s on the way out now, but the scientific superstition is on the way in. Unless the whole western show goes to pot, we shall have some hundreds of years of as dark taboos and as rigid orthodoxy as priests ever fostered. Priests and scientists are blood brothers underneath, really.
‘Charles Fort collected evidences. He put a lot of them together in the Book of the Damned a. number of years ago. The “Damned,” of course, are all those phenomena, fully reported and amply witnessed, which are deliberately deleted by the orthodox. I have heard it said that science is selective, but that is only true in a passive sense. Actively, science doesn’t select, it damns and disregards; it deletes from the evidence everything that won’t fit its childish little theories, and what is left is therefore “selected.” You will find some hundreds of the deleted items in the Book of the Damned. I’ll give you one.
‘Einsteinism is a current fad in the general superstition called science. Prof. Freundlicher reported to the Physics Association at Berlin in 1931 that the displacement of the stars during the 1929 eclipse was quite other than would accord with the Einstein equations. Deleted. There is, of course, much more actual evidence, mathematical, physical, astronomical, against Ein-steinism than for it. Deleted. Authorities find it very easy to be believed. I’ll wager you believe them yourself, Lord – take them on superstitious faith.
‘Another of Fort’s books is Lo; but that wouldn’t interest you particularly. In that one he mines the astronomers and touches off the mine. But Wild Talents is right to the point; it reports scores of authenticated instances of what we had on the ’plane this morning. Abilities, mostly unsuspected, held by particular persons, with definite results. The man they couldn’t hang, the dog they couldn’t stop howling, the inventor whose machine would only function in his own presence. Transmediumisation; a Fortean term meaning the passage of phenomena from one medium of existence to another. For example, from mind-matter to matter-mind, the essence of the situation being not a passage at all, but merely a change of emphasis, since all phenomena are hyphenised anyhow.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Lord as the novelist paused to adjust his grip more firmly on his chair. ‘I don’t believe you, but I think I shall obtain one of those books.’
‘Of course you don’t believe me,’ Craven agreed good-naturedly. ‘Hypnotised. I recommend Wild Talents to you. I would especially direct attention to the many cases of objectified hatreds recorded there. People burned to death while fully clothed and their clothes not singed. Bodies burned in beds, and the bedclothes not even discoloured by the smoke. Murder at a distance. Visualisations that worked. Most of these abilities to project visualisations objectively are probably unconscious, but I doubt that all of them are. They are not much mentioned, however. Science is as ardent in hunting out and persecuting “witch-craft” to-day as ever religion was three hundred years ago.
‘Well, there’s my case, Captain. Consciously or unconsciously Wotan Mann has been projecting strangulation, suffocation, some violent form of asphyxiation upon Cutter. I would say consciously, in view of the correspondence in time between threat and execution; and, by the way, I should look upon the other brother’s illness with some suspicion, too. Wotan Mann’s energy is tremendous, but in our case here it was not quite sufficient to produce real-unreal effects under usual circumstances, that is, when Cutter was breathing ordinarily; but the sudden change in Cutter’s nostrils from ordinary air to whatever is in these bulbs was the catalyst that precipitated the phenomenon Mann was visualising. Or maybe not. Maybe the bulb part really was coincidence, coming just at the threatened time . . . Cutter died, but you will never solve this murder, Captain, and if you did, you could never bring Mann into any court for prosecution, unless you wanted to lose your job. Imagine bringing this kind of murderer before a judge who is paid every month to uphold the final absurdities of orthodoxy and to denounce the deleted with as much noise as he can muster.’
Craven chuckled. Then, ‘Y’know, old chap, I shall have to turn around and strap myself in here . . . This isn’t funny any longer . . . There’s my solution. Don’t forget those books.’
‘I won’t,’ Lord assured him. He looked up the cabin, to see almost everyone holding to their seats with various grasps, despite the safety belts. The operation of the ’plane was becoming definitely erratic. It plunged and swayed, steadied for a few moments, bumped, rose, dropped. Tinkham, emerging from the lavatory, just managed to get into his chair and fasten the belt. The passengers were shaken out of any further possibility of conversation. Marjorie Gavin, the stewardess, sat strapped in one of the vacant seats, a smile that was too obviously a set one stamped across her pretty face.
6058 FEET
The Amalgamated dispatcher in the Control Room at Cheyenne sat at his desk, with intermittent glances at the airway clock and the Teletype tape. Out of the black night voices came to him from North Platte, Ogallala, Bushnell, from Laramie and Parco and Rock Springs. Along the tape ran word from all these places, and from others.
Suddenly the dispatcher bent forward over his desk, and strain crept into his features. He beckoned to the assistant manager, who crossed the room with quick, light strides. ‘90 is in trouble south-west of Medicine Bow.’
The manager sucked his breath in a swift intake. ‘How bad?’
‘Don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard.’ The dispatcher held up a silencing hand . . . ‘Okay, 90. Cheyenne Amalgamated standing by. You are calling Medicine Bow, calling Medicine Bow. Go ahead, “Happy.” ’
The dispatcher lowered the transmitter from his mouth, turned to the manager. ‘They are in a snow storm. Lannings reports line squalls and estimates their position about over McFadden. Medicine Bow has just reported snow over the tape, and Parco reports heavy snow, with a gale. No visibility at Parco, and ceiling 1500 at Medicine Bow. No visibility from 90; they have lost sight of their escort ’plane, which is not equipped for blind flying. Lannings is keeping in touch with escort ’plane by radio, but the snow is freezing on his wings and interfering with radio transmission. He is losing altitude at about 100 feet per minute.’
‘What’s their altitude?’
‘10,600.’
‘My God, and the worst place on the whole route, just this side of the Continental Divide. Elk Mountain just ahead of them, over 11,000; the Laramie Mountains on the other side. Christ!’ he cried bitterly. ‘When will we ever learn anything about weather? I could have sworn it was nothing but a few snow flurries, and here’s a nasty storm. Too damn nasty.’
The dispatcher’s hand went up again . . . his voice was harsh even before it reached the microphone. ‘Cheyenne Amalgamated calling Lannings in 90, calling Lannings in 90, calling Lannings in 90. Could not get message, “Happy,” could not get message. Repeat message, 90, repeat message. This is Cheyenne Amalgamated.’
‘What the hell?’ The manager’s voice tensed abruptly.
‘Something about Medicine Bow. Faded. Couldn’t get it.’
The manager snapped, ‘Clear the air . . . ! Clear the tape!’
‘Cheyenne Amalgamated calling all ships. Cheyenne Amalgamated calling all ships, calling all ships. Amalgamated 90 in trouble south-east Medicine Bow. Clear the air for ten minutes, clear the air for ten minutes; for ten minutes! This is Cheyenne Amalgamated, Cheyenne Amalgamated.’
With his right hand the dispatcher reached toward the Teletype machine and tapped out on it the repeated symbol for ‘Clear.’ For thirty seconds the incoming machine chattered on. There was a final click; silence.
For thirty seconds more the Contr
ol Room was dead quiet, as the dispatcher pressed the earphones against his head. The third occupant of the room, a pilot who had just come in from Colorado Springs, walked softly across to stand beside the manager, questions in his eyes.
Then, ‘Okay, 90. This is Cheyenne Amalgamated. You cannot get Medicine Bow. We are telling them to floodlight on the tape, to floodlight on the tape. We are telling Medicine Bow to floodlight on the tape. Go ahead, 90.’ His hand tapped rapidly against the Teletype keys.
Out of the side of his mouth the dispatcher spoke to the men beside him. ‘90 is stil losing altitude. Now 10,200. Can’t get any answer from Medicine Bow, and want the field floodlighted. Have to land; no out now. Position undetermined, due to line squalls for last half-hour. The air is cleared, but that last call was so faint I hardly got it.’
Silence once more closed over the Control Room. To north and south and west other pilots, themselves careening through the black void, were listening tensely. The knuckles of the manager’s hands gleamed whitely under the lights.
10,100 FEET
‘What do you say, Lovett? Shall we take a chance? We only have four of them.’
There was no hesitation in the junior pilot’s voice. ‘Sure, take it. The poor bastard’s escorting us, isn’t he?’
Lannings pressed the button. ‘90 calling Philips, calling Philips. We are releasing parachute flare, releasing parachute flare. Watch out, Philips. This is Lannings in 90.’
He pulled one of the little levers between the sticks and, a few seconds later, a brilliant glare burst brightly several hundred feet below the transport. Hotly it burned in the midst of swirling snowflakes, spreading its light in all directions, yellow to white to grey to dark grey, merging finally with the darkness. A globe of brilliance in the stormy skies.
‘ . . . Okay, Philips, you think you saw us. We are proceeding direct north-west from here, direct northwest from here. Landing at Medicine Bow if we can find it, landing at Medicine Bow if we can find it. You will follow direct north-west. Okay, Philips.’
Danger was in the cockpit, danger surrounded the ’plane; but the pilots’ expressions, while serious, showed no touch of panic. Lannings muttered, ‘Hell, we’re below Elk Mountain, falling below Laramie Peak. This damned ice . . . Cheyenne estimates the wind at fifty to sixty, west . . . Can you get the directional beacon, Hal?’
‘Nope.’
Lannings listened intently. The directional signal came only intermittently, fading out almost as he caught it. ‘D-a-s-h . . . dot . . . d-a-s-h . . . dot . . . d-a – ’
‘Port rudder, Hal,’ murmured Lannings, and listened.
Nothing. Then, ‘D–a–s–h, d–a–s–h,’ fading almost at once into, ‘Dot . . . d-a-s-h . . . dot . . . d-a-s-h . . . dot . . . d-a-s-h.’
‘Starboard rudder. Oh, hell, never mind; we’re away off the course, anyhow, nine chances out of ten. The beacon may take us smack into Elk Mountain . . . We ought to be in the valley. If we’re not . . . Give her the works, Hal, north-west, and watch for the field. They’re floodlighting it over the tape.’
9000 FEET
Not all the swaying in the cabin was due to the elements. Every now and then the junior pilot banked the ’plane to port or starboard to get a better view below. Blackness everywhere. Lannings reached behind him, opened the door to the cabin. ‘Lights out,’ he said calmly. ‘All belts. We will be landing soon.’ He closed the door. ‘I hope,’ he said to himself.
And blackness everywhere. ‘I’m taking over the ship,’ said Lannings quietly. ‘Turn off the instrument lights, will you, Hal?’
‘The instrument lights? You mean that?’
‘Yep. Can’t bother about anything now except landing. We’ve got to find that field.’ He took a last look at the compass and the altimeter. They vanished. Blackness . . . The motors droned steadily and powerfully, drawing the ’plane across the wind, cutting a way through air that tore at the ship, tossing it to starboard, pushing it down, boosting it in senseless zooms . . . To the straining eyes in the cockpit came blackness . . . Nothing else . . .
Both of them saw it at once. ‘Is that – ?’ ‘Try it, it looks – ’
The faintest suggestion of a tiny glimmer, almost beneath. Then the wind threw the port wing up and forward, and the ship dived; he pushed it to the left, extending his right foot against the rudder with all his force. The ’plane responded, circled downward.
Yes, it was somthing. It was different from the universal blackness. ‘It’s light!’ Lovett cried, excitement in his voice for the first time. Suddenly came a flash; they were lower now, they could almost glimpse a suggestion of red, following the flash. ‘That’s the field!’
Lannings said, ‘Give him another. We’ll go up some, if we can.’
Lovett said, ‘Sure,’ and brought the transmitter to his lips. ‘90 calling Philips, calling Philips. The field is below us. Wait a minute, Philips.’ He switched the instrument lights on and off. ‘This is 90, 90. Medicine Bow Field below, our altitude, 9000. We will climb if we can and give you another flare, another flare. Say when ready, we will give you another flare . . . Okay, Philips, here she goes.’ He pulled the lever.
Nothing on the earphones. The flare burst out below them, was carried rapidly to the east, dwindled into darkness. The seconds passed . . .
‘Hell, we can’t leave him,’ ground out Lovett. ‘This is 90 calling, Philips. Did you get it, Philips? . . . Okay, Philips, you didn’t get it. Try flying west for a minute and a half, then circle. We will release another flare in two minutes, in two minutes. Our altitude now 9100. This is 90 calling, 90 calling. Okay, Philips.’
It was a long two minutes. Lannings murmured, ‘Hell, I’ve lost it . . . Ah, got her again. We can’t go any higher, even if we wanted to ... ’ Lovett pulled the lever.
They waited, bearing westward, thrown east as they circled. A little too far before they turned and the oblong glow below faded into nothing almost instantaneously . . . ‘Okay Philips, you got it. This is 90, our altitude now 8900. Field just west the flare. We will go a little west and drop another-our last flare, our last flare. You must land with this, Philips. Hurry up, Philips, hurry up. This is 90.’
The transport tossed ahead until the light beneath had almost vanished. Lovett pulled the lever for the fourth time. They banked and scudded back. They watched.
Suddenly between the two glows, the one from the ground and the one slipping rapidly eastward, a small shadow flitted. As the junior strained his vision through the hail-marked glass, it dived, straightened, zoomed abruptly into an Immelmann. It crossed between the transport and the falling flare. It banked and dived once more, its little wings outlined for an instant as it passed into the parachute light . . . Five seconds ... A tiny shadow crossing into the glow from the ground . . . Not reappearing.
‘He’s down.’
The transport flew eastward with motors partially cut. Then they roared, opened full, as it banked and headed west again, diving for the light . . . Now they were nearer; the glow loomed brightly through snow-filled air. Suddenly Lovett closed the landing-lights switch, and brilliant twin swathes, joining beyond the snout, cut through the whiteness ahead. A gust pushed them to starboard and Lannings gave her port rudder. There, there were the green border lights, faintly at the edges of the field, the big floodlight streaming brightness almost directly ahead. He pushed the stick forward . . . Bump! The wheels hit hard; the transport recoiled into the air, and bumped again. They were racing across the field, diagonally. The border lights approached, braking wouldn’t stop the ’plane in time. Port rudder, starboard ailerons, depressed elevators. It slewed to port, starboard wing up, port wing-tip scraping the ground; the tail swept round in a great skid. Headed east once more, with brakes clamped tightly, the transport shuddered to a shaking stop.
Over the Teletype into the Cheyenne Control Room came a ‘PX.’ ‘Amalgamated 90 landed apparently without damage, 8.28. Escort ’plane landed first. (Signed) Medicine Bow.’ The assistant manager wi
ped the perspiration, hitherto unnoticed, from his forehead. He groped behind him for a chair and sat down limply.
6200 FEET
For some minutes the passengers remained quiet in the darkness of the cabin. They were jarred and shaken; they had also had a first-class scare. The lights of the field played strangely through the windows, showing drawn faces, peculiar shadows in the closed fuselage. In the cockpit the pilots were looking over the instruments while the motors idled, deciding not to take the ’plane up the field.
Marjorie Gavin was the first to recover in the cabin. As the propellers went dead, she undid her belt, got up and turned on the cabin lights from the rear partition. She rubbed her left arm where it had been bruised when she had turned them off.
Michael Lord was next. He opened the cabin door, to find the army flyer already outside. Lieutenant Philips looked green with cold, but Lord had no time to stop for that.
‘Hello, Lieutenant. See that no one leaves the ’plane except the pilots and the stewardess, will you, please? I mean that; no one else, and, yes, here’s a message for a man in New York. Would you see that one of the pilots gets it when he comes out – to be sent off right away? The name is Gesell; I think the rest of it legible.’ He hurried off into the scurrying flakes.
Around the nose of the ’plane. Under the port wing, into the shadow it threw along the side of the fuselage. Lord fumbled with his keys; the lock of the baggage compartment door was small, and at first he couldn’t fit the key into it. Then the cold struck his fingers. It was numbing cold; he must get the key fitted before his fingers became useless.