Dave felt the lightening effect of the invader’s tidal tug, and wondered vaguely what it might be.
“Damned funny!” he grumbled truculently. Cynic though he was, the shadowy terror of the unknown was upon him. Then he shrugged to dismiss the feeling.
He put his radio receiver in operation, and for a while listened to the catastrophic reports coming from various news-disseminator stations. Now and then he attempted to contact his Uncle Jeff with his transmitter, but he received no reply.
Minutes passed, and hundreds of miles slipped away beneath his keel. The slanting bar of lavender fire ahead thickened and became more distinct, as the distance between him and it was shortened a little. The air, even here in the stratosphere, was growing bumpy. The Moon-silvered clouds, speeding past beneath, were denser than before, and the gray wisps of them boiled and seethed ominously.
Now and then a rift appeared in their texture, through which Dave could look down toward the Earth, far, far below. He could see nothing but inky blackness; yet his imagination was keen enough to picture a little of what would reasonably be taking place under those chaotic clouds—wind and blinding rain, sweeping over white-capped waves—for his odometer told him that he had now progressed far enough to be over the ocean.
And so he kept on, his motor and rocket throttles wide open, racing with the unknown, with the recklessness of the cynical dare-devil he was. At last he reached the summer twilight of the arctic.
Piercing the chaos of the clouds ahead was the pyrotechnic marvel of lavender flame. Dave knew that it slanted down through the atmosphere, contacting the ball at the summit of the Scanlon tower.
MEMBERS of the Scanlon family were supplied with private wavelength code disks, similar in function to those used in public radiotelephone systems for secrecy. As he had done when he had tried to contact his uncle before, Dave inserted his disk into his transmitter, and called “Uncle Jeff!” into the mike. Repeated hails brought no response. This meant nothing, for Jeff might not have prepared to receive a private call now. And because of the rotation of the news-disseminator selector disk, it was impossible to judge what wave lengths Jeff’s outfit could pick up at a given time. Any contact that might be made would be a matter of pure luck.
Meanwhile, considering his next move, he looked again at the great bar of livid luminescence. He judged it to be at least a mile in diameter where it disappeared into the clouds. It slanted toward the east, and gave the impression of tapering away and away into the depths of the sky, until its visible extremity vanished in the distance. It might be of the same diameter throughout all its length; but apparently it was like a huge lavender, silver-tinted spear point directed straight at the white visage of the Moon.
Dave shrugged. He had not the faintest idea of the thing’s meanings. Besides, it was probably best not to waste time just wondering. If he could descend far enough, and get closer to the power plant—
He nosed his plane down sharply, and catapulted toward the churning atmosphere. When he reached the clouds, the furious wind struck his ship like a hammer. But the momentum of its dive, backed up by the thrust of its propellers and the blasts of its rockets, kept the stout little ship on a fairly straight path.
Dave, himself, did not weaken. He clung grimly to the stick, with no thought of turning back. He had nothing to guide him but his instruments, and the foggy path of lavender light shining through the blasts of snow-packed wind. Yet he kept on until he had almost reached the point where that majestic enigma of weird light was rooted in the Arctic Ocean. It was hardly an ocean now, but a maelstrom of all the struggling forces that could convulse tortured air and water.
The scream of the tempest sounded even above the growl of the rockets. The world was a gray blur of whistling snow and booming, ice-flecked waves. And all that inferno seemed to converge upon that inclined pillar of lavender glory that looked like a Gargantuan vortex—like a monster waterspout magnified a billionfold. All about it the scene faded away into the dense gloom of the storm—a gloom that was like the blackness of infinity.
Dave, struggling to keep his plane from destruction, looked toward the base of the vortex, seeking the tower and the island on which it had been built. Neither could be seen. Both were hidden somewhere in the depths of that ethereal colossus that seemed to be sucking up the substance of the sea and of the atmosphere. It had a faint pearly tinge and eerie witch flames sparkling in it slumberously. Could Jeff Scanlon still be alive inside that unholy miracle?
DAVE had no time to consider the primary motive of his arctic adventure; for he felt his plane being pulled by the suction of the vortex. Instantly, he looped the ship upward and half rolled, completing a sloppy Immelmann turn. Then he opened up his motors and his rockets to full capacity, and the tug o’ war began.
For perhaps ten seconds everything hung in the balance; then he began to tear away from the whirlpool-like attraction. Instant by instant his velocity mounted, as he battled his way back toward the calmer regions of the stratosphere. Only the maneuverability and power of his little ship had enabled him to escape from what seemed certain death.
“Whew, that was close!” he growled when he had reached a comparatively safe altitude. “I don’t dare get too near to that—that purple column again, even at this height. It’ll be just too bad for any dumb army pilot who tries to bomb the Scanlon isle!”
Dave’s ship was coated with ice. Once, during his climb, a gust of spraying water, like inverted rain, had struck its metal wings, and had congealed swiftly. The memory of the incident gave Dave an inspiration. Was the flaming vortex perhaps sucking sea water into space for some purpose? Was the pillar of energy projecting it, in the form of finely divided ice crystals, across the etheric desert, together with enormous volumes of air?
Young Scanlon was not a scientist. The efforts of his youth, most of it misspent, had given him only a very mediocre knowledge of such matters. He had little more than a good imagination to back up his guesses. Besides, his main purpose was to try to contact his Uncle Jeff, and to give him what he felt from the start was much-needed help. But the question of aiding Jeff, imprisoned in an armored tower in which devilish forces were obviously at work, had a doubtful aspect.
He did not quite know what he should do; and so, for several minutes, he cruised back and forth through the roughening air of the stratosphere, listening to his news-disseminator. Coastal cities everywhere had ceased to broadcast; and there were few places even far inland whose stations were not dead. Those that were still active, reported dire calamity. A tidal wave, heralded by a mighty hurricane, was sweeping up the Mississippi Valley. A vast volcanic crevasse had opened up in central Nevada, and was spewing flame and smoke. And so it went.
AIRLINERS and freighters, having found temporary safety in the upper atmosphere, were still sending out reports. From the FMZ, a scientific ship, came the information that, according to calculations based on sketchily gathered data, the Earth had slowed on its axis, the time required for it to make a complete revolution having increased by two minutes, since the accident at the Scanlon Tower not so much more than an hour ago. Fleets of bombing planes, sent out by various nations, were speeding north, and might be expected shortly to reach their objective.
And over all the messages whisked through the tortured ether was cast a vindictive note directed at Jefferson Scanlon, so recently hero of a world.
“Damn!” Dave sputtered absently. He didn’t know what to believe. His natural loyalty to his uncle made him angry at every one who denounced him; and yet the seemingly obvious evidence that Jeff was the maker of his own misfortunes was irritating to say the least.
“If the old fool thinks he can get away with universal murder he deserves everything that’s coming to him!” the youth growled savagely.
Then, like a bolt from the blue, the voice of Earth’s newly elected archfiend sounded from Dave’s speaker diaphragm. And the tone of it didn’t sound like the tone of an archfiend at all. Rather contrite, it was—rather ap
ologetic.
“Jefferson Scanlon speaking from the Scanlon Tower,” it said. “To my people everywhere: Believe me, I am not responsible for what has happened. But no, I cannot ask you to believe that. Anyway, it does not matter. There is one thing I must tell you. Soon the Earth will be untenable. Within a matter of hours no one will be able to remain on its surface and live. The upper air is the only safe temporary refuge. Load food supplies aboard every ship capable of flying in the stratosphere. Load other necessities, including apparatus for manufacturing synthetic food. Embark and fly north, all of you who can. Approach the Scanlon Tower, and fly into the energy beam above it.
“This is my advice. You will think the last part of it insane; and you will hesitate to believe me anyway. But the time is not far off when you will be ready to do anything that promises some faint possibility of survival. That is all I will say. If I told you more of how everything that has happened came about, you would be still less inclined to listen to me. I shall not communicate after this, except with members of my own family. I shall be waiting for calls from them on our wavelength code. Good-by, everybody. Good luck!”
Jeff had spoken very calmly, without his usual, halting ahs. And his message was going out over the entire world, the impulses that bore it covering every wave length of the news-disseminator band.
IV.
DAVE’S first reaction to the tones of his uncle’s voice was one of gladness that the older Scanlon lived. Then came doubts and deepened puzzlement. But since there were no available answers to the latter, his thoughts and emotions returned to the practical.
It was simple for him to contact his financier uncle now, with the code disk. He inserted it deftly into his transmitter. He thought of making some caustic remark as an opening to their conversation; but the memory of Jeff’s strange, new humbleness checked the anger inside him. Somehow he was sure that to express it would be extremely unkind.
So he just said: “Hello, Uncle Jeff. This is Hiho. I’m above you with my crate. What’ll I do?”
In making an answer, Jeff tried hard to suppress his joy at hearing the kid’s familiar tones, and he tried to be matter-of-fact; but his voice was wavering and husky, and his words stumbled.
“It seems—ah—sort of queer that you talk just like ordinary, Dave,” he said. “Everything else is—is so changed!”
“We’ll skip that,” Dave responded with a trace of irritation. “I’m here to get you out of your jam. What’ll I do?”
“You heard my message?” the elder Scanlon asked. “And you have food aboard your plane?”
“I heard your message,” the youth stated impatiently. “And I have the usual concentrated emergency rations.”
“Then—ah—do what I said. Fly your ship into the energy beam.”
“What’ll happen to me if I do?” Dave questioned guardedly.
“You’ll be carried to a place where you’ll have a chance to—to live,” Jeff replied. “You can see for yourself that—ah—the Earth is an uncertain place to be.”
“And where is this refuge, may I ask?” young Scanlon demanded.
“Well, you see I’m afraid that you’d think— That is—”
“Uh-huh,” Dave responded. “You think I’d think you were plumb loco if you said right out in plain, clear English that the destination the energy beam takes things to is the Moon. I don’t catch on to much of what this mess is all about yet; and it’s true that I did have some bad moments wondering whether you were quite right or not. But I have faith enough in my own sanity to believe what I see; and I’ve seen plenty in the last little while that I wouldn’t ordinarily take any stock in. For one thing that purple column is pointing straight at old lady Luna, and keeps on doing that, in spite of her change in position.”
“Then you’ll do as I tell you?” Jeff demanded incredulously.
Thus challenged the youth was, for a moment, not quite so sure of himself. Cynical though he was, the unknown still had its terrors. But at heart he was a reckless dare-devil. And the news-disseminator reports of the convulsions that racked the tortured Earth cheapened the value which he placed upon his life.
“You’re going to take your own advice?” he questioned.
“I—I can’t, boy,” Jeff answered solicitously. “I’m trapped inside this tower. Besides, my work is done.”
“Your work is done!” Dave sneered. “Cut the heroics! Do you mean to say that you are just going to sit tight and let all this sneak up on you? Can’t you even try to escape? Don’t you know a few things about your own power plant?”
THE YOUNG MAN was very doubtful of his uncle’s position. But he saw no harm in perpetrating a subtle bluff that might provoke the financier to action.
“There’s something I could try, with your help,” Jeff said. “I don’t have to stay here. There’s a controlling apparatus that takes care of the running of the plant—even keeping the energy beam turned toward the Moon. But I— I’m waiting for a call from your Aunt Bessie. And the planes are coming—the bombers. They can’t do anything to the tower; but if you wait and they see you and find out you’re a Scanlon— Well, you know how the world loves Scanlons.”
Dave, who had been guiding his ship in a wide circle far above the power plant throughout the conversation, forced a grim chuckle. “You bet,” he said. “If glimpsed, I’d probably be burned out of the sky like an unhealthy mosquito, just because I happen to be related to what everybody thinks is a louse. Which proves nothing at all about the justice and good sense of mankind in general. But have you tried to call Aunt Bessie yourself?”
“No,” Jeff responded. “That is, not unless—ah—what I said at the end of my message to the world—about my waiting for calls from members of my family on our private wavelength code, may be construed as such.”
“That was plenty good enough,” said the youth. “I had almost forgotten. If she's still alive and anywhere near a news-disseminator, she knows you’re hoping fatuously for a buzz from her. But if she’s got half the brain I give her credit for, she won’t oblige you. Even wavelength codes can be unsnarled. If she happened to call you, and somebody happened to find out it was she—well, a direction finder would be all that would be necessary to put Bessie Scanlon in a hot spot. She never did like crowds, particularly crowds that booed and threw things.”
Jeff gasped, like one who has just discovered that he has walked unwittingly into a place of grave personal danger. “I—I slipped up,” he muttered raggedly. “I didn’t remember. But you can’t talk like that about my wife, you—you young scamp!”
“Oh, never mind that, Uncle Jeff!” Dave said with placating impatience. “I’m as anxious for Aunt Bessie’s safety as you are. If she’s still one of us mortals—and of course she’s left earthquake-ridden Chicago if she is—she’s probably listening in on us right now. Anyway, the sound of our voices never was so very important to her, even in a pinch. She’s as well able to take care of herself as the average person. We can’t do anything sensible to help her out anyway. I’m getting a little bit tired hanging around up here, and being bumped around by this choppy air. What was that plan you had for getting out of the tower with my help?”
Jeff gulped fearfully, as he thought of the physical hazards of his idea. But when he spoke again his tone was firmer than before. “Wait exactly five minutes, counting from the second we break communication,” he said. “Then fly into the energy beam. As soon as you are inside it you’ll find your plane being thrust upward very powerfully. There’ll be a lot of water and ice and wind around you; but I think that you’re skillful enough to use such impromptu measures as may be necessary to reach the approximate center of the beam.
“Straighten your ship out so that its fuselage is parallel to the path of the beam, with its nose of course pointed upward. Then shut off your motors and open up your forward retarding rockets to cut down speed, meanwhile keeping on the lookout for me. I’ll come sailing up behind you—quite helpless.
“The—ah—important thing
is for you to stay in the center of the beam. If you don’t, you’ll miss me entirely, for the tower is at the center of the beam and I’ll shoot straight along the latter when I escape. The energy path is more than a mile in diameter. There’s plenty of room for a fellow to get lost in it. That’s all, unless you have any questions, boy.”
“Cryptic but sufficient,” Dave responded with a forced curtness, for he was worried for his uncle’s safety, and his nerves were keyed up. “More information would only tend to confuse. And now good luck, Uncle Jeff. Good luck, Aunt Bessie, if you’re listening. I’m looking at my wrist watch. I’m getting ready to—”
“Count!” said Jeff.
Their communication ended with the snap of switches.
JEFFERSON SCANLON, in his mad tower, removed his head from the soundproof box which was used to cover the microphone of his radio when there was any noise to interfere with the exchange of messages. The screech and roar of the inferno that hemmed him in struck his eardrums almost like a physical blow. And his eyes were tortured by their re-exposure to the lancing tracery of stabbing flame. In the box over the microphone only a tiny pilot light had burned.
Weak though he still was, Jeff made his preparations coolly. An old smock, tied into place with a cord, protected his mouth and nostrils. Thus arrayed, he made his way up a spiral runway to a chamber two floors above. The small, portlike windows, set at even intervals in the curve of the trembling walls, were made to open by an arrangement resembling the threaded breech lock of an artillery piece.
Godson of Almarlu: A Collection of Science Fiction Novellas Page 12