His mind was darkening and everything was spinning around. It was as though he whirled in a black funnel, and was being sucked down into its depths, yet he could still hear voices of those bending over him.
“Khal Kan!” That was Golden Wings, he knew.
He tried to speak up to them out of the roaring darkness that was engulfing him.
“Jotan—safe now, with Egir gone. The kingship to Brusul. Golden Wings—”
He could not form more words. Khal Kan knew that he was dying. But he knew, at last, that Thar was not a dream, for even though his own life was passing, nothing around him was vanishing. But, his darkening brain wondered, if That had been real all the time—
But then, in a flash of light on the very verge of darkness, Khal Kan saw the truth that neither he nor the other had ever imagined.…
Henry Stevens lay dead upon his bed in the neat bedroom of his little suburban cottage. And in the room, his sobbing wife was trying to tell her story to the physician and the psychiatrist.
“It was all so sudden,” she sobbed. “I awoke, and found that Herry was clenching his fists as though in a convulsion and was shouting—something about Jotan being safe now. And then—he was dead—”
The physician was soothing her as he led her to another room. When he came back, his face was keen as he looked at Doctor Thorn.
“You heard her story?” he said to the psychiatrist. “I telephoned you because I understood he’d been consulting you. I can’t understand this thing at all.”
He pointed to Henry’s motionless figure. “The man had nothing organically wrong with him, as I happen to know. Yet he died in his sleep—as though from terrible mental shock.”
“You’ve hit it, Doctor,” nodded Doctor Thorn thoughtfully. “If my guess is right, he was dreaming, and when his dream-self was killed, Henry Stevens died, also.”
He went on to tell the physician of the case.
The practitioner’s face became incredulous as he heard.
“The poor devil!” he ejaculated. “He had that dream and dreamlife all his life long, and when his dream-self died, he died too by mental suggestion.”
“I am not sure that that other life of his, that world of Thar, was a dream,” Doctor Thorn replied soberly.
“Oh, come, Doctor,” protested the other. “If Henry Stevens and Earth were real, and we know they were, Thar and Khal Kan must have been only his dream.”
“I wonder,” replied the psychiatrist. “Did you ever hear of mental rapport? Cases where two people’s minds are so tuned that one experiences the other’s feelings and thoughts, when his own mind is relaxed and quiescent? There have been a good many such provable cases.
“Suppose,” Thorn went on, “that Henry Stevens was a unique case of that. Suppose that his mind happened to be in rapport, from the time of his birth, with the mind of another man—another man, who was not of Earth but of some world far across the universe from ours? Suppose that each man’s subconscious was able to experience the other man’s thoughts and feelings, when his own consciousness was relaxed and sleeping? So that each man, all his life, seemed each night to dream the other man’s life?”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the practitioner. “If that were true, both Henry Stevens and Khal Kan were real, on far-separated worlds?”
Doctor Thorn nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, and the two men would be so much in rapport that the death of one would kill the other. It’s only a theory, and we can never know if it’s true. Probably he knows, now—”
Henry Stevens, lying there, seemed to be smiling at their speculations. But it was not his own smile that lay upon his face. It was the reckless, gay, triumphant smile of Khal Kan.
THE CITY AT WORLD’S END
CHAPTER I
Cataclysm
Kenniston realized afterward that it was like death. You knew you were going to die someday, but you didn’t believe it. He had known that there was danger of the long-dreaded atomic war beginning with a sneak punch, but he hadn’t really believed it.
Not until that June morning when the missile came down on Middletown. And then there was no time for realization. You don’t hear or see a thing that comes faster than sound. One moment, he was striding down Mill Street toward the plant, getting ready to speak to the policeman coming toward him. The next moment, the sky split open.
It split wide open, and above the whole town there was a burn and blaze of light so swift, so violent, that it seemed the air itself had burst into instantaneous flame. In that fraction of a second, as the sky flared and the ground heaved wildly under his feet, Kenniston knew that the surprise attack had come, and that the first of the long-feared super-atomic bombs had exploded overhead.…
Shock, thought Kenniston, as his mouth crushed against the grimy sidewalk. The shock that keeps a dying man from feeling pain. He lay there, waiting for the ultimate destruction, and the first eye-blinding flare across the heavens faded and the shuddering world grew still. It was over, as quickly as that.
He ought to be dead. He thought it very probable that he was dying right now, which would explain the fading light and the ominous quiet. But in spite of that he raised his head, and then scrambled shakily to his feet, gasping over his own wild heartbeats, fighting an animal urge to run for the mere sake of running. He looked down Mill Street. He expected to see pulverized buildings, smoking craters, fire and steam and devastation. But what he saw was more stunning than that, and in a strange way, more awful.
He saw Middletown lying unchanged and peaceful in the sunlight.
The policeman he had been going to speak to was still there ahead of him. He was getting up slowly from his hands and knees, where the quake had thrown him. His mouth hung open and his cap had fallen off. His eyes were very wide and dazed and frightened. Beyond him was an old woman with a shawl over her head. She, too, had been there before. She was clinging now to a wall, the sack of groceries she had carried split open around her feet, spilling onions and cans of soup across the walk. Cars and street-cars were still moving along the street in the distance, beginning erratically to jerk to a halt. Apart from these small things, nothing was different, nothing at all.
The policeman came up to Kenniston. He looked like a young, efficient officer. Or he would have, if his face had not gone so slack and his eyes so stunned. He asked hoarsely:
“What happened?”
Kenniston answered, and the words sounded queer and improbable as he said them. “We’ve been hit by a bomb—a super-atomic.”
The policeman stared at him. “Are you crazy?”
“Yes,” said Kenniston, “I think maybe I am. I think that’s the only explanation.”
His brain had begun to pound. The air felt suddenly cold and strange. The sunshine was duskier and redder and did not warm him now. The woman in the shawl was crying. Presently, still weeping, she got painfully down upon her thick old knees and Kenniston thought she was going to pray, but instead she began to gather up her onions, fumbling with them as a child does, trying to fit them into the broken paper bag.
“Look,” said the policeman, “I’ve read stuff about those super-atomic bombs, in the papers. It said they were thousands of times more powerful than the atom-bombs they used to have. If one of them hit any place there wouldn’t be anything left of it.” His voice was getting stronger. He was convincing himself. “So no super-atomic bomb could have hit us. It couldn’t have been that.”
“You saw that terrific flash in the sky, didn’t you?” said Kenniston.
“Sure I did, but—” And then the policeman’s face cleared. “Say, it was a fizzle. That’s what it was. This super-atomic bomb they’ve been scaring the world with—it turned out to be just a fizzle.” He laughed noisily, in vast relief. “Isn’t that rich? They tell for years what terrible things it’s going to do, and then it just makes a big fizz and flash like a bad Fourth of July firecracker!”
It could be true, Kenniston thought with a wild surge of hope. It could be true.
&nbs
p; And then he looked up and saw the Sun.
“It was maybe a bluff, all the time,” the policeman’s voice rattled on. “They maybe didn’t really have any super-atomic bomb at all.”
Kenniston, without lowering his gaze, spoke in a dry whisper. “They had them, all right. And they used one on us. And I think we’re dead and don’t know it yet We don’t know yet that we’re only ghosts and not living on Earth any more.”
“Not on Earth?” said the policeman angrily. “Now, listen—”
And then his voice trailed away to silence as he followed Kenniston’s staring gaze and looked up at the Sun.
It wasn’t the Sun. Not the Sun they and all the generations of men had known as a golden, dazzling orb. They could look right at this Sun, without blinking. They could stare at it steadily, for it was no more than a very big, dull-glowing red ball with tiny flames writhing around its edges. It was higher in the sky now than it had been before. And the air was cold. “It’s in the wrong place,” said the policeman. “And it looks different.” He groped in half-forgotten high-school science for an explanation. “Refraction. Dust that that fizzle-bomb stirred up—”
Kenniston didn’t tell him. What was the use? What was the good of telling him what he, as a scientist, knew—that no conceivable refraction could make the Sun look like that. But he said, “Maybe you’re right.”
“Sure I’m right,” said the policeman, loudly. He didn’t look up at the sky and Sun, any more. He seemed to avoid looking at them.
Kenniston started on down Mill Street. He had been on his way to the Lab, when this happened. He kept on going now. He wanted to hear what Hubble and the others would say about this.
He laughed a little. “I am a ghost, going to talk with other ghosts about our sudden deaths.” Then he told himself fiercely, “Stop that! You’re a scientist. What good is your science if it cracks up in the face of an unexplained phenomenon?”
That, certainly, was an understatement. A super-atomic bomb went off over a quiet little Midwestern town of fifty thousand people, and it didn’t change a thing except to put a new Sun into the sky. And you called that an unexplained phenomenon.
Kenniston walked on down the street. He walked fast, for the air was unseasonably cold. He didn’t stop to talk to the bewildered-looking people he met. They were mostly men who had been on their way to work in Middletown’s mills when it had happened. They stood now, discussing the sudden flash and shock. The word Kenniston heard most often was “earthquake.” They didn’t look too upset, these men. They looked excited and a little bit glad that something had happened to interrupt their drab daily routine. Some of them were staring up at that strange, dull-red Sun, but they seemed more perplexed than disturbed.
The air was cold and musty. And the red, dusky sunlight was queer. But that hadn’t disturbed these men too much. It was, after all, not much stranger than the chill and the lurid light that often foreshadow a Midwestern thunderstorm.
Kenniston turned in at the gate of the smoke-grimed brick structure that bore the sign, “Industrial Research Laboratories.” The watchman at the gate nodded to him unperturbedly as he let him through.
Neither the watchman nor any of Middletown’s fifty thousand people, except a few city officials, knew that this supposed industrial laboratory actually housed one of the key nerve centers of America’s atomic defense setup.
Clever, thought Kenniston. It had been clever of those in charge of dispersal to tuck this key atomic laboratory into a prosaic little Midwestern mill town.
“But not clever enough,” he thought.
No, not quite clever enough. The unknown enemy had learned the secret, and had struck the first stunning blow of his surprise attack at the hidden nerve center of Middletown.
A super-atomic, to smash that nerve center before war even started. Only, the super-atomic had fizzled. Or had it? The Sun was a different Sun. And the air was strange and cold.
Crisci met Kenniston by the entrance of the big brick building. Crisci was the youngest of the staff, a tall, black-haired youngster—and because he was the youngest, he tried hard not to show emotion now.
“It looks like it’s beginning,” said Crisci, trying to smile. “Atomic Armageddon—the final fireworks.” Then he quit trying to smile. “Why didn’t it wipe us out, Kenniston? Why didn’t it?”
Kenniston asked him, “Don’t the Geigers show anything?”
“Nothing. Not a thing.”
That, Kenniston thought numbly, fitted the crazy improbability of it all. He asked, “Where’s Hubble?”
Crisci gestured vaguely. “Over there. He’s had us trying to call Washington, but the wires are all dead and even the radio hasn’t been able to get through yet.”
Kenniston walked across the cluttered plant yard. Hubble, his chief, stood looking up at the dusky sky and at the red dull Sun you could stare at without blinking. He was only fifty but he looked older at the moment, his graying hair disordered and his thin face tightly drawn.
“There isn’t any way yet to figure out where that missile came from,” Kenniston said.
Then he realized that Hubble’s thoughts weren’t on that, for the other only nodded abstractedly.
“Look at those stars, Kenniston.”
“Stars? Stars, in the daytime—?”
And then, looking up, Kenniston realized that you could see the stars now. You could see them as faint, glimmering points all across the strangely dusky sky, even near the dull Sun.
“They’re wrong,” said Hubble. “They’re very wrong.”
Kenniston asked, “What happened? Did their super-atomic really fizzle?”
Hubble lowered his gaze and blinked at him. “No,” he said softly. “It didn’t fizzle. It went off.”
“But Hubble, if that super-atomic went off, why—”
Hubble ignored the question. He went on into his own office in the Lab, and began to pull down reference volumes. To Kenniston’s surprise, he opened them to pages of astronomical diagrams. Then Hubble took a pencil and began to scrawl quick calculations on a pad.
Kenniston grabbed him by the shoulder. “For Christ’s sake, Hubble, this is no time for scientific theorizing! The town hasn’t been hit, but something big has happened, and—”
“Get the hell away from me,” said Hubble, without turning.
The sheer shock of hearing Hubble swear silenced Kenniston. Hubble went on with his figures, referring often to the books. The office was as silent as though nothing had happened at all. Finally, Hubble turned. His hand shook a little as he pointed to the figures on the pad.
“See those, Ken? They’re proof—proof of something that cannot be. What does a scientist do when he faces that kind of a situation?”
He could see the sick shock and fear in Hubble’s gray face, and it fed his own fear. But before he could speak, Crisci came in.
He said, “We haven’t been able to contact Washington yet. And we can’t understand—our calls go completely unanswered, and not one station outside Middletown seems to be broadcasting.”
Hubble stared at his pad. “It all fits in. Yes, it all fits in.”
“What do you make of it, Doctor?” asked Crisci anxiously. “That bomb went off over Middletown, even though it didn’t hurt us. Yet it’s as though all the world outside Middletown has been silenced!”
Kenniston, cold from what he had seen in Hubble’s face, waited for the senior scientist to tell them what he knew or thought. But the phone rang suddenly with strident loudness.
It was the intercom from the watchman at the gate. Hubble picked it up. After a minute he said, “Yes, let him come in.” He hung up. “It’s Johnson. You know, the electrician who did some installations for us. He lives out on the edge of town. He told the watchman that was why he had to see me—because he lives on the edge of town.”
Johnson, when he came, was a man in the grip of a fear greater than Kenniston had even begun to imagine, and he was almost beyond talking. “I thought you might know,” he sa
id to Hubble. “It seems like somebody’s got to tell me what’s happened, or I’ll lose my mind. I’ve got a cornfield, Mr. Hubble. It’s a long field, and then there’s a fence row, and my neighbor’s barn beyond it.”
He began to tremble, and Hubble said, “What about your cornfield?”
“Part of it’s gone,” said Johnson, “and the fence row, and the barn… Mr. Hubble, they’re all gone, everything…”
“Blast effect,” said Hubble gently. “A bomb hit here a little while ago, you see.”
“No,” said Johnson. “I was in London last war, I know what blast can do. This isn’t destruction. It’s…” He sought for a word, and could not find it. “I thought you might know what it is.”
Kenniston’s chill premonition, the shapeless growing terror in him, became too evil to be borne. He said, “I’m going out and take a look.”
Hubble glanced at him and then nodded, and rose to his feet, slowly, as though he did not want to go but was forcing himself. He said, “We can see everything from the water tower, I think—that’s the highest point in town. You keep trying to get through, Crisci.”
Kenniston walked with him out of the Lab grounds, and across Mill Street and the cluttered railroad tracks to the huge, stilt-legged water tower of Middletown. The air had grown colder. The red sunshine had no warmth in it, and when Kenniston took hold of the iron rungs of the ladder to begin the climb, they were like bars of ice. He followed Hubble upward, keeping his eyes fixed on the retreating soles of Hubble’s shoes. It was a long climb. They had to stop to rest once. The wind blew harder the higher they got, and it had a dry musty taint in it that made Kenniston think of the air that blows from deep rock tombs with dust of ages in them.
They came out at last on the railed platform around the big, high tank. Kenniston looked down on the town. He saw knots of people gathered on the corners, and the tops of cars, a few of them moving slowly but most of them stopped and jamming the streets. There was a curious sort of silence.
Hubble did not bother to look at the town, except for a first brief glance that took it all in, the circumference of Middletown with all its buildings standing just as they always had, with the iron Civil War soldier still stiffly mounting guard on the Square, and the smoke still rising steadily from the stacks of the mills. Then he looked outward. He did not speak, and presently Kenniston’s eyes were drawn also to look beyond the town.
The Edmond Hamilton Megapack: 16 Classic Science Fiction Tales Page 16