The Third Murray Leinster

by Murray Leinster

  Davis whistled.

  “Here’s something pretty!” he remarked. “Take a look.”

  He handed the order to Gerrod and went quickly to the door leading into the workshop attached to the hangar.

  In a few crisp sentences he had ordered the big plane prepared for an extended flight, with provisions and as much fuel as it would carry. He returned to find Gerrod thinking busily.

  “May I come along on this trip?”

  “It’s against regulations, of course,” said Davis, “but no one will kick if you go. You’re privileged.”

  He cried an order or so at the workmen, who were now swarming over the machine.

  Although the wireless message had been sent from the yacht after nightfall, the sun was barely setting on the coast, where the hangar was placed.

  The vessel in distress was some thirty degrees east of the coast, and consequently the sun set two hours before it sank on the coastal line.

  Gerrod phoned a hasty message to his wife and went to Davis’ quarters, where he borrowed heavy flying clothes from Davis’ wardrobe. The mechanics and helpers worked with desperate haste.

  The aëroplane would be flying all night long, but it was desirable that it take off while there was yet some light. The long fuel tank was filled, and the motors run some ten or fifteen minutes, while critical ears listened for the faintest irregularity in their bellowing roar.

  Two engineers and a junior pilot were to go with Davis in the big aircraft, and they were hastily summoned and told to prepare to leave in as short a time as possible.

  It was hardly more than half an hour from the time the telegraphed order was received before Gerrod preceded Davis up the ladder and into the inclosed cabin of the seaplane.

  The motors were cranked—two men tugging at the blade of each of the huge propellers—and the plane slid slowly down the ways and into the water.

  Davis maneuvered carefully until he was clear of all possible entanglements. Then he gave the motors more gas and more. Their harsh bellow rose to a deafening sound, and the long, boatlike body began to surge through the waves with gradually increasing speed.

  For a few yards the spray blew upon and spattered the glass windows of the cabin. Then the planes began to exert their lifting power and the plane began to ride the waves instead of plowing through them.

  The speed increased again, and suddenly the shocks of the waves beating on its under surface ceased. The plane rode upon air with a smooth and velvety motion that was sure and firm.

  Davis rose gradually to five thousand feet and headed accurately to the east. A southerly wind, reported by wireless from a ship at sea, would carry him slightly to the south, and the sum of the two motions should bring him, by dawn, very close to the spot from which the yacht had sent out her wireless call.

  Davis was not pushing the plane to its utmost. He would need light by which to descend, and had no intention of reaching the spot where the Marisposita was in distress until dawn.

  From their altitude the ocean seemed only a dark, unfathomable mass below them. The stars twinkled down from the arch of the sky in all their myriads of sizes and tints.

  There was no moon. Those in the closed car of the big seaplane could only see the star-strewn firmament above them and upon all sides, which sank down, and abruptly was not.

  Save for the cessation of the star clusters, the horizon was invisible. The sea was obscure and mysterious, like some mighty chasm over which they flew precariously.

  The dark wings of the plane stretched out from the sides of the body with a mighty sweep. The plane was over a hundred feet across, and with the powerful motors it possessed was capable of lifting an immense weight. Even now more than two tons of fuel were contained in the huge tanks in the tail.

  Davis drove steadily on through the night for a long time. His face was intent and keen. He made little or no attempt to look out of the windows before him.

  His eyes were fixed almost continuously upon the instruments before him: the altometer, which was a barometer graduated to read in feet and with means for correcting the indication by barometric readings from sea level; the inclinometer, which showed the angle at which the plane was traveling with regard to the earth’s surface, and the compass.

  The compass was one of the very latest developments of the gyroscopic compass and showed the true north without regard for magnetic deviations.

  Davis felt out his machine thoroughly and then turned it over to his junior pilot. The younger man—and to be younger than Davis meant that he was very young indeed—slipped into the driver’s seat, quickly ascertained the course, speed, and altitude, and settled back to continue Davis’ task, while Davis curled himself up in a chair and went instantly to sleep.

  It was chilly in the car, but Davis slept the sleep of the just, ignoring the roaring of the motors outside, which was only slightly muffled by the windows of the car.

  Gerrod had gone to sleep some time before, and one of the two engineers was similarly curled up on the floor of the roomy and comfortable car.

  Hours passed, while the big seaplane winged its way steadily through the night. It roared its way across the vast chasm of the dark ocean below, an incarnation of energy at which the placid stars looked down in mild surprise.

  The exhausts roared continuously, the stays hummed musically, and the great wings cut through the air with resistless force.

  Within the dark body of the plane three men slept peacefully, one sat up sleepily, listening to the motors, and prepared to wake into alertness at the slightest sign of irregularity in the action of any of them, and one man sat quietly at the controls, his eyes fixed on the instruments before him, lighted by tiny, hooded electric bulbs.

  Course, due east. Altitude, five thousand feet. Speed, one hundred and fifteen miles. Twice during the night Davis woke and made sure that all was well.

  In leaving the navigation of the machine to his assistant, he was not throwing the major part of the work on him. The work would come in the morning, when they found the yacht.

  If there were anything in the talk of a sea monster having seized the yacht, Davis would need to be fresh for the search and possible battle that would follow.

  He was taking the most sensible precaution possible. And, in any event, he had driven for the first four hours, during which the younger man had rested.

  The first gray light began to appear in the east. The pilot of the plane had not looked away from his instruments for an hour, and not until a faint light outside called his attention to the approach of dawn did he think to glance through the windows.

  A dimly white glow was showing as an irregular splotch toward the east. The pilot saw it and noticed something odd about its appearance, but did not stop to examine it closely.

  He called Davis, as he had been ordered to do. Davis sat up, rubbed his eyes, and was thoroughly awake.

  “All right?” he asked.

  The pilot nodded.

  “Sunrise,” he said. “You said to call you.”

  “Right you are.” Davis stood up and stretched his muscles. “Here, Teddy, wake up.”

  Gerrod stirred, and in a moment was awake. Davis deftly prepared coffee and sandwiches.

  “Rescuers like ourselves need to be fed,” he observed with a smile. “I wonder what is actually the matter with that person Morrison?”

  “Millionaires are timid folk,” Gerrod agreed. “I’ll bet we’ve had a wild-goose chase.”

  “Funny, though,” said Davis ruminatively. “People don’t usually send out wild wireless messages like that. They probably ran into a big bunch of seaweed.”

  He bit into a sandwich. The two engineers, with complete democracy, were already eating. The man at the controls suddenly uttered an exclamation.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Davis quickly.

  “Look out the window,” sa
id the pilot in a tone indicating that he could not believe his eyes.

  Davis looked, and his month dropped partly open. Before them the white patch of light had turned golden and then yellow. A bank of clouds lay before them, behind which the sun was evidently hidden.

  That had not caused Davis’ exclamation, however. He was not amazed at anything he saw, but at the lack of something he did not see—the ocean. The cloud bank was illuminated by the sun. It covered half of the sky before them, and below them!

  There was no ocean below them. There was no land below them. Above, the rapidly graying sky could be seen. Below them was rapidly graving sky! There was no horizon, there was no land, there was no sea.

  There was only sky. They seemed to be alone in an illimitable firmament, a derelict in open space, adrift in some unthinkable ether in which there was no landing space or any solid thing except themselves.

  Above them and below them, before them and behind them, on their right side and their left side was sky, and nothing but sky. There was not one bit of solid matter visible on either side, ahead or behind, up or down.

  It was as if they had gone aloft, and while they flew the earth had been destroyed. Only the incredibility of such a catastrophe kept them from believing it instantly.

  “Teddy,” said Davis in a moment or two, trying to jest, though his voice was shaking, “you’re our tame scientist. What’s happened to our well-beloved earth? Has it gone off and left us in the lurch? Have we flown off into space?”

  Gerrod was looking with all his eyes. He looked down into a blue bowl that was the exact counterpart of the dome above.

  “Which way is down?” he asked quietly. “Is it that way, or that way?” He pointed over his head and at his feet. “Are we flying right side up, or upside down, or what?”

  The plane banked sharply and side-slipped for a moment before it recovered.

  “Steady!” said Davis to the man at the controls. “Steady—”

  The machine banked again, then shot upward, stalled, and slipped on again.

  “Straighten out!” said Davis sharply. “Up with the joy stick!”

  “I don’t know what’s what,” said the white-faced pilot desperately, obeying as he spoke. “Great God! What’s happening now?”

  The plane seemed to be standing on its tail, and the three men standing in the car slid toward the rear. Davis seized a seat and clambered toward the controls. As he made his way toward the instruments the plane seemed to go mad.

  It twisted, turned, stood upon its head and darted forward, and then seemed to be wallowing in the air. Davis seized the controls, and with his eye solely on the inclinometer worked madly for a moment. The plane stopped its antics and drove on steadily.

  “It’s like driving in a fog,” he said over his shoulder. “All right back there now?”

  “Yes.” Gerrod was answering. “What happened?”

  “With nothing to tell which was up and which down, we lost our level and couldn’t find it again. I’ve flown upside down for five minutes, going through a cloud, and didn’t know it until my barometer dropped upward. We’re all right, but what’s happened to the earth?”

  Gerrod cautiously made his way to a point beside Davis, who was driving with his eyes glued to the instruments. That incredible vastness into which the machine seemed to be boring was appalling. They seemed to be speeding madly from nothingness into nothingness, with nothing below them and nothing above.

  They were alone in a universe of air. Gerrod stared ahead at the cloud bank behind which the sun seemed to be hiding.

  “There’s the sun, all right. What’s our barometer reading?”

  “Eight thousand feet.”

  “Try dipping, by the inclinometer.”

  Davis did so. Though there was not the slightest change in the appearance of the sky that compassed them all about, the barometer quivered from eight thousand feet to seven, and then to six. Gerrod suddenly uttered an exclamation:

  “The sun’s coming out!”

  The fiery disk of the sun peered slowly from behind the edge of the cloud bank.

  “There’s another!”

  From the opposite side of the cloud bank a second sun could be seen, slowly appearing as had the first. The two suns swam away from the fringe of the cloud and glared at each other.

  “I’ve got it!” Gerrod struck his knee with his hand. “What fools we are!”

  “I’m glad we’re only fools,” said Davis mildly. “I’ve been afraid we had gone mad. What’s happened?”

  “Why, the water,” Gerrod said excitedly, “the water is perfectly calm and reflects like a mirror. We don’t see the sky below us. We see the reflection of the sky. And that isn’t a second sun,” he pointed; “that’s the reflection of the sun.”

  “Only, the water doesn’t reflect like that,” said Davis. “At least, not from straight overhead. Open a side window and look directly downward.”

  Gerrod did so, and exclaimed again:

  “I’m right, I tell you! Directly under us I can see the reflection of our plane, flying upside down.”

  Davis took a quick glance.

  “I guess you are right, after all,” he admitted, “but the water doesn’t reflect like that normally. Something queer must have happened.” He was silent a moment, while his eyes swept the distance before them keenly. “Here’s another proof you’re right. There’s the yacht we’re looking for.”

  Far away, its white hull turned to red gold by the first rays of the sun, they saw the yacht, motionless on the water. And in striking corroboration of Gerrod’s hypothesis, they saw every line and every spar reflected in the water below.

  Davis shifted his course to bear for the yacht and dipped down until he was only five hundred feet above the strange, mirrorlike surface of the sea. Below them they could see the spreading wings of their seaplane reflected from the still water.

  They swept up to the yacht and circled above it. The junior pilot unshipped the tiny wireless set of the aëroplane, and it crackled busily for a few moments.

  “All right to alight,” he reported. “They say nothing has happened all night, but they’re still unable to move.”

  The plane swept around the yacht in a wide circle, coming lower and lower. It was quite impossible to judge where the surface of the water might be, but Davis kept his eye on the deck of the yacht, to get the level from that.

  At last he made his decision. Being quite unable to tell exactly where the surface was, he could not land in the usual fashion. He slowed in mid-air until the machine was moving at the lowest speed at which it would keep aloft.

  Then, by a jerk of the joy stick, he headed it upward at an angle it was unable to make at that speed. The result was that the machine stalled precisely like a motor car on an upgrade and, with next to no headway, “pancaked,” sank vertically—downward.

  “Sit tight!” he ordered as the plane sank.

  Next moment every one of them clutched wildly at the nearest object to keep himself from falling. The plane had struck the surface, but instead of skimming forward, as its slight remaining headway made it try to do, it was brought to a sudden standstill as if by a mighty brake.

  Only a miracle kept it from overturning. Davis opened a window of the cabin and shouted:

  “Throw us a rope and haul us alongside!”

  The men on the deck of the yacht heard him, and a rope came hurtling through the air, to fall across one of the wings. Davis scrambled out and made it fast. Those on the yacht hauled, but the plane did not move. Half a dozen men grasped the slender line and threw their united weight upon it. The rope broke with a snap.

  “What the—” exclaimed Davis in astonishment.

  A second rope was thrown. The captain of the yacht called from the bridge:

  “Haul a heavy line to you and make that fast!”

  Won
dering, those on the seaplane obeyed. The sailors on the yacht made the other end of the stouter line fast to a capstan and manned it. Slowly and reluctantly the seaplane was drawn toward the white vessel.

  It was Gerrod who looked behind them. Where the float of the seaplane had been he saw a deep depression in the surface of the water, which, as he watched, slowly filled.

  “The sea is turned to jelly!” he exclaimed, and he was right.

  They found the truth of the matter when they clambered on board the yacht. With the morning, the members of the crew were able to make a more thorough investigation of what had happened.

  They lowered boats, and the boats stuck fast. When oars were dipped into the strangely whitened or silvered water the oars were drawn out coated with a sticky, silvery mass of a jellylike substance.

  From the deck of the yacht the altered appearance of the sea was as remarkable as from the air. All of the ocean seemed to have been changed to a semisolid mass of silver.

  The horizon had vanished or ended into the sky imperceptibly so it could not be distinguished. The captain discussed the matter with them.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said perplexedly. “I’ve been on a ship that traveled two hundred miles on a milk sea, but never anything like this.”

  “What do you think it is?” asked Davis. “Something on the order of a milk sea?”

  The captain nodded.

  “You know a milk sea is caused by a multitude of little animals that color the water milky white. They’re phosphorescent at night. This must be something on that order, only these cluster together until the water is made into a jelly. And they have a queer, slimy smell.”

  “They aren’t phosphorescent,” said Davis.

  “No, of course not.”

  Nita Morrison had joined the little group. Her father was beside her, looking rather worried.

  “Well,” said Nita anxiously, “what’s to be done? How are we going to get the yacht free?”