The Onslaught from Rigel

by Fletcher Pratt

  CHAPTER XI

  Capture

  Herbert Sherman had wakened with a vague sense of something wrong andlay back in his seat for a moment, trying to remember. Everything seemedgoing quietly, the machine running with subdued efficiency.... It cameto him with a jerk--he could not hear the motor. With that subconsciousconcentration of the flying man on his ship, he glanced at theinstrument board first, and taking in the astonishing information thatboth the altimeter and the air-speed meter registered zero, he lookedover the side. His vision met the familiar dentilated line of thebuildings surrounding the Jackson Heights airport, with a tree plasteredgreenly against one of them. Queer.

  His sense of memory began to return. There was the night-mail flightfrom Cleveland; the spot of light ahead that grew larger and larger likethe most enormous of shooting stars, the sensation of sleepiness.... Heremembered setting the controls to ride out the short remainder of thejourney with the automatic pilot on the Jackson Heights' radio beam,since he was clearly not going to make Montauk. But what came afterthat?

  Then another oddity struck his attention. He recalled very clearly thathe had been flying over the white landscape of winter--but now there wasa tree in full leaf. Something was wrong. He clambered hastily from thecockpit.

  As he swung himself over the side, his eye caught the glint of anunfamiliar high-light on the back of his hand and with the samestupefaction that Murray Lee was contemplating the same phenomenonseveral miles away, he perceived that instead of a flesh-and-bloodmember he had somehow acquired an iron hand. The other one was thesame--and the arm--and the section of stomach which presently appearedwhen he tore loose his shirt to look at it.

  The various possibilities that might account for it raced through hismind, each foundering on some fundamental difficulty. Practicaljoke--imagination--insanity--what else? Obviously some time had elapsed.But how about the ground staff of the airport? He shouted. No answer.

  Muttering a few swears to himself he trudged across the flying field,noting that it was grown up with daisies and far from newly rolled, tothe hangars. He shouted again. No answer. No one visible. He pounded atthe door, then tried it. It was unlocked. Inside someone sat tilted backin a chair against the wall, a cap pulled over his face. Sherman walkedover to the sleeper, favoring him with a vigorous shake and the word,"Hey!"

  To his surprise the stranger tilted sharply over to one side and went tothe floor with a bang, remaining in the position he had assumed.Sherman, the thought of murder jumping in his head, bent over, tuggingat the cap. The man was as metallic as himself, but of a differentkind--a solid statue cast in what seemed to be bronze.

  "For Heaven's sake!" said Herbert Sherman to himself and the world atlarge.

  There seemed to be nothing in particular he could do about it; the man,if he had ever been a man, and was not part of some elaborate scheme offlummery fixed up for his benefit, was beyond human aid. However therewas one way in which all difficulties could be solved. The sun was highand the town lay outside the door.

  ... He spent a good deal of the day wandering about Jackson Heights,contemplating such specimens of humanity as remained in the streets,fixed in the various ungraceful and unattractive attitudes of life. Hehad always been a solitary and philosophical soul, and he felt neitherloneliness nor overwhelming curiosity as to the nature of thecatastrophe which had stopped the wheels of civilization. He preferredto meditate on the vanity of human affairs and to enjoy a sense oftriumph over the ordinary run of bustling mortals who had alwayssomewhat irritated him.

  In justice to Herbert Sherman it should be remarked that he felt notrepidation as to the outcome of this celestial joke on the inhabitantsof the world. Beside being an aviator he was a competent mechanic, andhe proved the ease with which he could control his new physique bysitting down in a restaurant next to the bronze model of a sleepy cat,removing one shoe and sock and proceeding to take out and then replacethe cunningly concealed finger-nut which held his ankle in position,marvelling at how any chemical or other change could have produced athreaded bolt as an integral part of the human anatomy.

  Toward evening, he returned to the flying field and examined hismachine. One wing showed the effect of weathering, but it was anall-metal Roamer of the latest model and it had withstood the ordealwell. The gasoline gauge showed an empty tank, but it was no great taskto get more from the big underground tanks at the field. Oil lines andradiators seemed all tight and when he swung the propeller, the motorpurred for him like a cat.

  With a kind of secret satisfaction gurgling within him Herbert Shermantaxied across the field, put the machine into a climb, and went forth tohave a look at New York.

  He thought he could see smoke over central Manhattan and swung theRoamer in that direction. The disturbance seemed to be located at theold Metropolitan Opera House which, as he approached it, seemed to havebeen burning, but had now sunk to a pile of glowing embers. The fireargued human presence of some kind. He took more height and looked down.Times Square held a good many diminutive dots, but they didn't seem tobe moving.

  * * * * *

  He swung over to examine the downtown section. All quiet. When hereturned he saw a car dodging across Forty-Second Street and realizingthat he could find human companionship whenever he needed it, which hedid not at present, he returned to the flying field.

  At this point It occurred to him to be hungry. Reasoning the matter outin the light of his mechanical experience, he drank a pint or more oflubricating oil and searched for a place to spend the night. Not beingsleepy he raided a drug store where books were sold, for as much of itsstock as he could use, and arranging one of the flares at the field in aposition convenient for reading, he settled down for the night. In thecourse of it he twice tried smoking and found that his new make-up hadruined his taste for tobacco.

  With the first streaks of day he was afoot again, going over the Roamerwith a fine-toothed comb, since he had no mechanic to do it for him,tuning her up for a long flight. He had no definite purpose in mindbeyond a look round the country. Was it all like this, or only New York?

  Newark attracted his attention first. He noted there were ships at mostof the piers in the river and that none of them bore signs of life.Neither had the streets on the Jersey side of the river any occupantsother than those who were obviously still forever.

  As he flew along toward the Newark airport, a shadow fell athwart thewing and he looked up.

  A big bird was soaring past, flying above and fully as fast as theplane. In his quick glance Sherman caught something unfamiliar about itsflight, and leaned over to snap on the mechanical pilot while he hadanother look. The bird, if bird it was, was certainly a queer specimen;it seemed to have two sets of wings and was using them as though it werean airplane, with the fore pair outstretched and rigid, the hind wingsvibrating rapidly. As he gazed at the bird it drew ahead of the plane,gave a few quick flips to its fore-wings and banked around to pick himup again.

  It was coming closer and regarding him with an uncommonly intelligentand by no means friendly eye. Sherman swung his arm at it and gave ashout--to which the bird paid not the slightest attention. Newark wasrunning away under him. Reluctantly, he resumed control of the stick,put the plane into a glide and made for the airport. It occurred to himthat this would be an awkward customer if it chose to attack him and hemeditated on the possibility of finding a gun in Newark.

  The field was bumpy, but he taxied to a stop and climbed out to lookover the silent hangars before one of which a little sports plane stooddejectedly, with a piece of torn wing flapping in the breeze. As theRoamer came to rest he looked back at the bird. It was soaring away upin a close spiral, emitting a series of screams. Sherman determined tofind a gun without delay.

  Newark was like Jackson Heights; same stony immobility of inhabitants,same sense of life stopped at full tide in the streets. He prowledaround till he found a hardware store and possessed himself of a fine.50-.50 express rifle with an adequate supply of cartri
dges as well as arevolver, added to it a collection of small tools, and stopped in at alibrary to get a supply of reading matter more to his taste than thedrug store could provide.

  As he took off again two specks in the sky far to the north represented,he decided, additional specimens of the peculiar bird life that hadspread abroad since the change. How long it could have been, he had noidea.

  He decided on a flight northwest, following the line of the mail route.There was a chance that the whole country might not be engulfed by thismetal plague, though the absence of life in New York was notencouraging.

  * * * * *

  Port Jervis was his first control point, but Sherman was fond enough ofthe green wooded slopes of the Catskills to run a little north of hiscourse, bumpy though the air was over the mountains. He set theautomatic pilot and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the view.

  Just north of Central Valley something seemed different about thehillside; a new scar had appeared along its edge. He turned to examineit, swooping as he did so and in a quick glance from the fast-movingairplane saw that the great forest trees, maples and oaks, were alldown, twisted, barren and leafless, along a line that ran right up thevalley and across the hill, as though they had been harrowed by somegigantic storm. The line was singularly definite; there were nohalf-broken trees.

  He swooped for another look, and at that moment was conscious of thebeat of swift wings and above the roar of the motor heard the scream ofone of those strange four-winged birds. Half-unconsciously, he put theRoamer into a steep climb and kicked the rudder to one side, just as thebird flew past him on whistling pinions, like an eagle that has missedits plunge, and recovered to rise again in pursuit. Sherman flattenedout, and without paying any attention to direction, snapped in theautomatic pilot and reached for his gun.

  As he bent there came a sharp crack from above and behind him andanother scream right overhead. He looked over his shoulder to see asecond bird clutching at the edge of the cockpit with one giant claw,its forewings fluttering rapidly in the effort to keep its balance inthe propeller's slipstream. With the other claw it grabbed and grabbedfor him.

  Sherman flattened himself against the bottom of the cockpit and fired upand back, once--twice--three times. The plane rocked; the bird let gowith a shrill scream, a spurt of blood showing on its chest feathers,and as Sherman straightened up he saw it whirling down, the wingsbeating wildly, uselessly, the red spot spreading. But he had no timefor more than a glance. The other bird was whirling up to the attackbeneath him, yelling in quick jerks of sound as though it were shoutinga battle-cry.

  The pistol, half-empty, might too easily miss. Sherman sought the rifle,and at that moment felt the impact of a swift blow on the floor of theplane. The bird understood that he had weapons and was attacking himfrom beneath to avoid them! The thought that it was intelligent flashedthrough his mind with a shock of surprise as he leaned over the side,trying to get a shot at his enemy. Beneath the plane he caught amomentary glimpse of the ground again, torn and tortured, and in thecenter of the devastation the ruins of a farmhouse, its roof cantingcrazily over a pulled-out wall.

  The bird dodged back and forth, picking now and then at the bottom ofthe plane with its armored beak. He leaned further trying to get in ashot, and drew a chorus of yells from the bird, but no more definiteresult. Bang! Again. Miss. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the line ofgreen leap into being again. Flap, flap went the wings beneath him.

  Suddenly from below and behind him there rose a deep humming roar, lowpitched and musical. Abruptly the screaming of the bird ceased; itdropped suddenly away, its forewings folded, the rear wings spread,glider-like as it floated to the ground. He turned to look in thedirection of the sound, and as he turned a great glare of light sprangforth from somewhere back there, striking him full in the eyes withblinding force. At the same moment something pushed the Roamer forwardand down, down, down. He could feel the plane give beneath him, but inthe blind haze of light his fumbling fingers could not find the stick,and as he fell a wave of burning heat struck his back and the sound of amighty torrent reached his ears. There was a crash and everything wentout in a confusion of light, heat and sound.

  * * * * *

  When he recovered consciousness the first thing he saw was a blue dome,stretched so far above his head that it might have been the sky save forthe fact that the light it gave had neither glare nor shadow. He puzzledidly over this for a moment, then tried to turn his head. It would notmove. "That's queer," thought Herbert Sherman, and attempted to lift anarm. The hands responded readily enough but the arms were immovable.With an effort he tried to lift his body and discovered that he wastightly held by some force he could not feel.

  Herbert Sherman was a patient man but not a meek one. He opened hismouth and yelled--a good loud yell with a hard swearword at the end ofit. Then he stood still for a moment, listening. There was a sound thatmight be interpreted as the patter of feet somewhere, but no one camenear him, so he yelled again, louder if possible.

  This time the result accrued with a rapidity that was almost startling.A vivid bluish light struck him in the face, making him blink, then wasturned off, and he heard a clash of gears and a hum that might be thatof a motor. A moment later he felt himself lifted, whirled round,dropped with a plunk, and the blue dome overhead began to flow past atrapidly mounting speed to be blotted out in a grey dimness. He perceivedhe was being carried down some kind of a passage whose ceiling consistedof dark stone. A motor whirred rapidly.

  The stone ceiling vanished; another blue dome, less lofty, took itsplace. The object on which he was being carried stopped with amechanical click and he was lifted, whirled round again and deposited onsome surface. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse ofsomething round, of a shining black coloring, with pinkish highlights,like the head of some enormous beast, and wiggled his fingers in angryand futile effort.

  * * * * *

  He was flopped over on his face and found himself looking straight downat a grey mass which from its feel on nose and chin, appeared to berubber.

  He yelled again, with rage and vexation and in reply received a tap overthe head with what felt like a rubber hose. He felt extraordinarilyhelpless. And as the realization came that he was helpless, without anycontrol of what was going on he relaxed. After all, there was no use....Some kind of examination was in progress. There was the sound ofsoft-treading feet behind him.

  After a slight pause he was bathed in a red light of such intensity asto press upon him with physical solidity. He closed his eyes against it,and as he did so, felt a terrible pain in the region of his spine. Wasit death? He gripped metallic teeth together firmly in an effort tofight the pain without yelling (perhaps this was deliberate torture andhe would not give them the satisfaction) and dully, amid the throbbingpain, Sherman heard a clatter of metal instruments. Then the painceased, the light went off and something was clamped about his head.

  A minute more and he had been flipped over on his back, and with thesame whirring of motors that had attended his arrival, was carried backthrough the passage and into the hall of the blue dome. He was stillheld firmly; but now there was a difference. He could wiggle in hisbonds.

  With a clicking of machinery, he was tilted up on the plane that heldhim. A hole yawned before his feet and he slid rapidly down a smoothincline, through a belt of dark, to drop in a heap on something soft.The trapdoor clicked behind him.

  He found himself, unbound, on a floor of rubber-like texture and onrising to look around, perceived that he was in a cell with no visibleexit, whose walls were formed by a heavy criss-crossed grating of somered metal. It was a little more than ten feet square; in the center aseat with curving outlines rose from the floor, apparently made of thesame rubbery material as the floor itself. A metallic track ended justin front of the seat; following back, his eye caught the outline of akind of lectern, now pushed back against the wall of the cell, withs
paces below the reading flat and handles attached. Against the backwall of the cell stood a similar device, but larger and without anymetal track. Beside it two handles dangled from the wall on cords offlexible wire.

  This was all his brief glance told him about the confines of his newhome. Looking beyond it, he saw that he was in one of a row of similarcells, stretching back in both directions. In front of the row of cellswas a corridor along which ran a brightly-burnished metal track, andthis was lined by another row of cells on the farther side.

  The cell at Sherman's right was empty, but he observed that the one onthe left had a tenant--a metal man, like himself in all respects andyet--somehow unlike. He stepped over to the grating that separated them.

  "What is this place, anyway?" he inquired.

  His neighbor, who had been sitting in the rubber chair, turned towardhim a round and foolish face with a long, naked upper lip, and burstinto a flood of conversation of which Sherman could not understand oneword. He held up his hand. "Wait a minute, partner," he said. "Go slow.I don't get you."

  The expression on the fellow's face changed to one of wonderment. Hemade another effort at conversation, accompanying it with gestures."Wait," said the aviator, "_Sprechen Sie Deutsch?... Francais?... HablaEspanol?..._ No? Dammit what does the guy talk? I don't know anyItalian--Spaghetti, macaroni, Mussolini!"

  No use. The metal face remained blankly uninspired. Well, there is onething men of all races have in common. Sherman went through the motionsof drawing from his pocket a phantom cigarette, applying to it animaginary match, and blowing the smoke in the air.

  It is impossible for a man whose forehead is composed of a series oflateral metal bands to frown. If it were the other would have done so.Then comprehension appeared to dawn on him. He stepped across to hislectern, and _with his toes_, pulled the bottom slide open, extractedfrom it a round rubber container and reaching through the bars, handedit to Sherman.

  The aviator understood the difference that had puzzled him in thebeginning. Instead of the graceful back-sweeping curve that sets a man'shead vertical with his body, this individual had the round-curved neckand low-hung head of the ape.