Journey to Infinity - [Adventures in Science Fiction 02]

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  Rollers creaked and the ship from Boondrom lost altitude as the tightening nets compressed the gas in the balloon. The airport was very close now, and its moor­ing masts loomed lofty through the acrid mist. But from each of them swayed and lurched a vast, billowing shape. Stray mooring lines, flying loose in the gale, coiled and snapped like whips. On the ground was a crowd of people—dumb, patient, resigned. At a signal from some official they began to move towards one of the masts. The man from Boondrom saw the leading trickle of refugees moving up inside the latticework structure with the slow deliberation of a column of ants on the march.

  The little ship circled lower, and still lower.

  At last one of the airport officials looked up from his work of supervising the evacuation, raised his megaphone and shouted something. Even if the man from-Boondrom had not been deafened he would never have heard—the shrieking gale, the whine of giant turbines and the throb of innumerable propellers would have drowned any sound so puny as that of the human voice.

  The official realized this, and gestured. The meaning of the sweeping motion of his arm was unmistakable. The incoming ship could not be berthed, would have to shift for herself as well as she might. The pilot raised his arm in a gesture of acceptance and farewell. He released the tension on his compressor nets. He rose swiftly, and the gale took hold of him, drove him down upon the unwieldy bulk of a ship already more than half loaded with refugees. Putting his helm hard over, opening the throttle of his starboard engine to its fullest extent, he strove desperately to avoid collision. He was almost successful, but, as he swept past and under the big ship’s port after power unit, the tips of the idling propeller blades barely touched the taut upper surface of his gas bag.

  He did not fall at once. Even when the gas was almost gone from the balloon the wind caught him and held him, drove him parachute-wise over the burning ruins of the city. And it was on one of the few houses—spared by some freak of blast—still standing that he finally crashed. His gondola failed to clear the parapet of the roof, the force of the impact pitched him out and clear. Had it not been for the plot of soft earth, the roof garden into which he was thrown, he would have died there and then. As it was, he lay there, dazed, while above him flapped and crackled the torn rags of silk that had once been his balloon, while the blazing oil from his engine poured down the side of the house and was driven by the screaming wind through the already broken windows.

  ~ * ~

  “He will live, Angara.”

  The aviator could not hear the words, but he looked up through his haze of pain, saw the bearded lips move, dimly guessed what they were saying. The earth beneath him shook violently—and the stabbing pain from his broken legs and arm, bound and splinted as they were, made him cry out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shower of sparks as the last ruins of the gutted house collapsed.

  “But to what purpose, Handrin demanded the other man. “Attrin is dying. Those of us still sound may drag out miserable lives for a few more years—or days. But for him—better the sleep of peace, I say.”

  “Angara is right,” said Linith.

  Magra, the doctor’s wife, said nothing. And Evanee watched out of wide, fear-crazed eyes, clutching the infant Abrel to her breast ever more tightly.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Handrin. He fumbled in his pouch, brought out the little phial in which was the sleep of peace. He withdrew the stopper. His hand went out, reaching for the aviator’s mouth. But the pilot put out a feeble arm, warded off the merciful oblivion.

  “No,” he gasped, “not yet. I must tell my story. You must know what happened—”

  And so, slowly, painfully, he told his tale of the disaster at Boondrom. Told of the alien ship riding down on its wings of fire and thunder, of the fire and thunder that had attended its coming to that evil plain to the west of the volcano. And as he talked, gaspingly, brokenly, the earth tremors grew even more frequent, the earth tremors and the sensation that the whole world was tilting beneath them like the deck of a floundering ship.

  When he had finished he took the deadly draught gladly. His duty was done. He had told his story, given his unnecessary warning. And it is doubtful if he would have survived long had he not been given the sleep of peace. But it made his passing easier.

  “So,” said Handrin, “I think I see. Suppose that there was another deposit of those same minerals that make the Boondrom plain under the hills to the west of Darnala— And suppose that by some subterranean vein, the two were connected—Don’t you see? There is power there—the power that the Loanans used to drive their ship. And when their ship touched down the fire from the exhausts, the fire from some strange machine burning that mineral as fuel, touched off the tons of fuel lying idle at Boondrom. And the spark flashed along the underground vein, like the little spark along the fuse of a blasting charge. And the charge was under the hills just inland from the city—”

  “But what is happening now?”

  “You should know better than I, Angam. You are an engineer.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I should. I know that all Attrin is balanced on the edge of the western deep like houses on a cliff edge. And I know that there is a line of weakness in the earth’s crust running through Boondrom— And what I know frightens me. Handrin! Attrin is sinking like a great ship!”

  “Look !” cried Linith.

  Overhead, rising and falling in their passage, their line ragged yet, considering the adverse weather conditions, surprisingly well kept, came a fleet of great ships. The big passenger liners were there, and the little freighters, each towing astern its string of motorless cargo balloons. But the cargo carried on this last occasion was human lives. Around the fringes of the squadron soared and hovered the tiny pleasure craft, some so heavily laden as to have the utmost difficulty in maintaining altitude.

  The leading ship swung as she passed over the center of the city, bore down for the airport. One by one, sagging to leeward, clawing up into the wind in an attempt to maintain their line, the rest followed. The throbbing of their propellers was loud and insistent above the howling of the gale.

  “From Tirona,” said Handrin. “Tirona is gone,” replied Angam. “And they will find no refuge here.”

  They were still sitting in the garden, finding a little shelter in the lee of the ruins of the house, when the messenger from the City Fathers found them. His hair was plastered flat against his body and he was bleeding from a deep cut over his right eye. He accepted gratefully the flagon of wine passed to him by Linith—she had salvaged some scraps of food and drink from the wreckage of her home. He drank deeply. Then—

  “You are Angam Matangu?”

  “Yes.”

  “The City Fathers send you this, Angam Matangu.”

  Angam drew the roll of fabric from its cylinder. He read it slowly, his lips unconsciously shaping the words as his eye ran down the lines of script.

  “I am ordered aboard Arrak,” he said at last. “I and my family.”

  To the messenger— “Is there any word concerning my friend Dr. Handrin?”

  “I fear not, Angam Matangu. The City Fathers have drawn up a list—they desire to save as many representative technicians as possible so that a new civilization may be set up in the new lands to the east. The quota of physicians and surgeons is already filled.”

  “It is as well,” said Handrin. “With Attrin gone—what remains? Magra and I will sit here among the ruins with our wine and our memories of happiness. And will you share them?” he asked the messenger.

  “It would be an honor—but I would not intrude.”

  “Then one last flagon of wine before we part.”

  And when Angara and his family trudged down the long driveway to the road to the port they did not know whether to pity or envy Handrin and Magra.

  ~ * ~

  Angam was glad that he had not attempted to make the journey by car. The roads were blocked by piles of wreckage, by fallen trees. And great crevasses had opened here and there, deep chasms
from which came a sullen rumbling, the acrid fumes of the pit beneath. In one place a great, roaring geyser was throwing its column of steam and spray high into the air. Down wind its condensation fell as a scalding rain.

  Through the still smoldering ruins slunk lean, tawny shapes—the beasts from the wild country driven to the coast by unknown, half-guessed cataclysms inland. They saw the half-eaten body of a woman with a lioness crouched over it. The great cat lifted its head and snarled as they passed. And when they had left the grisly sight behind they heard a great yelping and snarling—and turned to see a pack of wolves disputing for the bodies of both hunter and victim.

  Evanee was stumbling and whimpering so, without a word. Angam lifted Abrel from her grasp. The child set up a thin, dismal howling. “Let me,” said Linith. In her arms the infant was quiet.

  Long before they got to the port the water was over their ankles. As they came down the broad road to the quays it was knee deep. Some of the smaller craft had been righted, had been brought far inland. It was fantastic and terrifying to see ships among what was left of the houses.

  But Angam had no eyes for any of these things. He was trying to follow the once familiar road to the Dirnig Mole—a road now feet deep beneath the swirling waters. Ahead, her tall funnel a beacon through the spray and driving rain, lay Arrak. Her derricks had been lowered, as far as the inexperienced Angam could see at this distance she was ready for sea. A plume of white steam grew suddenly from her funnel, but the deep booming note of her whistle was lost in the clamor of wind and water.

  Angatn realized that he wanted to be saved. The drive, the savage will to live, was singularly absent from the make-up of his race—but now, to him, Arrak was Attrin. She was all that remained of the fair civilization that had stood on the threshold of maturity. She was that civilization—and would carry its seeds to whatever strange land chance and storm might bring her.

  Putting his head down he waded on stolidly. Behind him came Evanee, and behind her Linith, the child still in her arms, He no longer troubled to feel his way with caution—Captain Noab could not afford to hang on much longer. He had already stayed at his berth far longer than was prudent, And far more was at stake than his ship, the lives of his passengers and crew.

  Neck high the water swirled around Angam as he reached for the ropes at the foot of the gangway. Holding on with his left hand lie helped Evanee on to the platform. Linith handed Abrel up to Evanee, then hoisted herself tip after the child. She and the sailor on duty seized Angam—pulled him up to the grating where he lay gasping like a landed fish.

  An officer came down, consulted a list.

  “Twenty more to come,” he said, “but we can’t delay much longer.”

  Together with his women Angam clambered to the upper deck. The wide expanse was crammed with refugees. Scorning the warmth and the dryness below they were here to see the last of their home, their world. The wind buffeted them and the rain stung and bruised them with its countless driving arrows— yet they could not bring themselves to seek shelter below decks.

  To the west, beyond the gutted city, the low line of hills spouted flame and smoke. It seemed that those hills were lower than of old, that they were sinking, slowly but surely as the land of Attrin foundered and tilted, heeled to the west as it sank into the unplumbed depths of the western ocean. The hills were lower—soon the flaring volcanoes were only a low line of fire along the horizon—red and menacing below the black pall of smoke.

  Some of the smaller ships, their decks packed tight, cast loose from their improvised moorings and nosed out to the sea. They passed over the place where the breakwater had been, turned their blunt noses to meet the steep, vicious waves. Doggedly they plunged into the weather, spray and green water sweeping over their superstructures until only their flaring funnels were visible. The refugees aboard Arrak watched them go--and watched with horror the great wall of water that came roaring in from the east.

  Steep it was, and towering high beyond any seaman’s experience. The line of foam along its crest was like the snow along the peaks of some mountain range. The little ships reared to meet it with the gallantry of the very small—reared and slid their sterns under.

  From the bridge came a deep and urgent bellowing as Noab shouted orders to his officers on stations. The wind took his words, shredded them and tossed them wide in useless, unintelligible fragments. But the crew at bow and stern had anticipated such an emergency, knew as well as their captain what they must do. Axes gleamed dully in the lurid light, fell upon the bar-taut mooring lines. Arrak shuddered and stirred, heaved and lifted to the smaller seas that were running before the monster sea like foothills before a mountain range.

  Now only one hawser remained, a rope running aft from the forecastle head, its eye over a deep submerged bollard on the invisible quay. Noab came ahead on his engine. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the stern came away from the wharf. Now the onrushing wall of water was broad on the starboard bow—now it was coming ahead. More orders from the bridge—and again the axes gleamed. The last rope parted with an explosive crack, the ends sprang back and cut him who had wielded the a) almost in two. But Arrak was free. Using his stern power Noab swung her to meet the seismic wave.

  As had done her sisters—Arrak reared to meet the monster. Her bows lifted, steeper and ever steeper. On deck was a scene of terrible confusion as that tightly packed mass of people fought to keep their footing, slithered helplessly aft on the wet, slippery planking. Stout rails—designed to stand under almost any weight but this, snapped under the strain, bodies fell into the sea or tumbled from the upper deck to crash, maimed and broken, on to the after hatches.

  From below came the fear-crazed bellowing of the cattle.

  But Arrak fought like a thing alive, her screws bit deep and strong, held the enormous weight of the ship against that fatal, sternward plunge. On her bridge Noab himself had the wheel, conscious that should he allow Arrak to sag to port or starboard she would be doomed. As she would be doomed if one of the two thin pipes running from wheelhouse to steering engine, the hydraulic system by which the motion of his wheel was imparted to his rudder, should break or burst.

  Over the bow loomed a watery cliff. It broke and tumbled, surged aft along the foredeck in a boiling cascade. It hit the bridge structure like something solid—and Noah found himself sprawled, with his officers and quartermasters, against the after bulkhead of the wheelhouse. The broken wheel was still in his hands. Before he could regain his feet Arrak’s bow clipped, sickeningly, dreadfully. Thirty thousand tons deadweight — she slid down the seaward slope of the ocean mountain with uncontrolled, uncontrollable acceleration. When she reached the trough it was as though she had been driven ashore at full speed. Pipes burst, rivets rattled around her decks and compartments like machine gun fire. To the general tumult was added the hissing roar of escaping steam.

  Only a few of those aft saw the end of Attrin. The hills to the west of Darnala subsided, and over them poured the full weight of the western ocean. Seismic wave from the east met seismic wave from the west—and the pillar of water and steam and wreckage surged bellowing to the low clouds, licking down such few airships as still hovered over the scene of the tragedy, as had not been blown west to perish in the hell of steam and whirlwind and atomic fire over Boondrom.

  And like a crippled beast Arrak moved over the face of the waters —aimless, riding out the storm, a ship without a haven.

  ~ * ~

  In his plain, solidly furnished stateroom Noab sat at the head of his table. Around him were his officers—reflecting their master’s mood of grave concern. At the lower end of the table were the representatives of the refugees.

  “But where are we, Noab?” It was Angam who spoke, an Angam much older than the man who had boarded Arrak on the Day of the Ending. His pelt was liberally sprinkled with silver—and yet a bare thirty days had passed since he had come aboard the ship.

  “I wish that I knew, Angam Matangu. Since the sky cleare
d we have obtained accurate latitudes. As you know—longitude cannot, unless we can devise a clock that is a perfect timekeeper, be determined. And it has been impossible to estimate what easting we have made since The End. It is possible that the indraught into the gulf where Attrin once was has more than canceled the distance steamed from Attrin.

  “But I intend to steer east. We cannot steer west for obvious reasons—it would mean passing over the grave of our homeland and, for all we know, the volcanoes are still active. On this course we must find land sooner or later.

  “Now— Food and water. Regarding these the situation is good. So great has been our death roll that we have now a bare half of the two thousand originally provisioned for.

  “Fuel— That is the problem. We have enough for about ten days steaming at reduced speed. I need hardly tell you gentlemen—most of you are engineers—that the consumption varies, roughly, as the cube of the speed. To put it crudely I intend to go a long way in a long time.