The E. Hoffmann Price Fantasy & Science Fiction

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “And finally, Wade and I will clear this up legally. In Paris or Manila, I don’t know where, but somewhere.”

  “Drink to it,” Harmon proposed cheerily.

  Voerhaven reached for a glass. Kirby snatched Lorella’s wrist when she would have followed suit.

  “Don’t be silly!” Harmon said. “We’ll take the two left after you’ve had your choice. It all came from the same bottle.”

  Kirby gulped and grimaced. “This has shaken us.”

  “What do you suppose,” Harmon said, “your doings, weeks ago, did to me? But I told you I’m not griped and I mean it. No unkindness meant, Lorella, but all I can say is I’m just lucky. You and I could never have picked up where we left off, not even if we’d wanted to. Not after that straitjacket proposition.

  “Eileen’s right. We’ll disappear, she and I, take new names if it’ll make you feel better. You can stake us to my half of the property and income and rights and the like she’s inherited from me. I’m making myself so much a party to fraud and all the other legal violations that I’d not dare do other than shoot square. Wake up, Dave! Can’t you see I’m not resentful, that you’ve given me a big break?”

  Dave Kirby got up. He thrust out his hand. “We’ll meet you all the way. It took us awhile to believe you’d trust us or leave your work in our hands. Now that there’s so little to do but routine.”

  Voerhaven said, “Harmon, you and Eileen come to my house. Mr. and Mrs. Kirby—ah—they’re bound to be embarrassed otherwise. Let me help you with your luggage.”

  “Come on, Lorella,” Eileen said, “help me finish packing. I’d already started. Dave, round up the servants. Now that all’s under control they’ll come back. We might as well have dinner together before Wade and I move on to our next station.”

  Packing had scarcely reached the halfway stage when Dave Kirby came back from the kampong. “The natives,” he said, “are hauling out, bag and baggage. And with baskets of seed-rice. The volcano has them worried silly. And we’d better follow their example. They’ve got an instinct for such things.”

  His voice had a note in it which brought the entire group together in the living room. They followed him to the veranda. There, thanks to the several bays of copper screening, they got a true picture of how much the situation had changed during the short time since the arrival of Voerhaven and the honeymooners.

  The fumes were more dense and acrid than any Wade Harmon had ever before observed. The wind was hot and charged with fine particles of pumice. The hissing had become ominous—the underground muttering and mumbling had increased in volume.

  There came a tremor that made the ground of the garden surge and billow. The bungalow creaked and groaned and rattled for what seemed an endless period. A table skated on its casters, smashing against the buffet. When the shock tapered off there persisted an unbroken vibration as though, far beneath the plantation shelf, jolt after jolt kept the foundations of the island in motion.

  Smoke rose from the jungle beyond the rice-fields. The luxuriant growth had caught fire from the lava-flow. Clouds of steam rose from the bed of a small stream. Deer came racing into the open.

  “Getting bad,” Harmon said. “The less dallying, the better.”

  “Lava over that way,” Voerhaven pointed out. “Judging from the steam there must be a big surge from a fresh crack.”

  “If the road’s blocked,” Kirby said, “we’re in a pretty mess.” After loading their goods in the jeep Voerhaven drove, with the others plodding after the vehicle. They had not gone far when he pulled up. The road was blocked by lava. In the shadow of the trees it had a dull red glow. The second wave, flowing over the first, was not cooling as rapidly. It glowed a much brighter red.

  “She’s slopping over,” Voerhaven said. “We’ll get out with nothing except what we can carry. I’ll run the jeep up on high ground, where it’ll have a better chance of not being swamped.”

  Kirby’s voice cracked a little when he said, “Lucky if we get out with our hides.”

  Harmon turned on him angrily. “Shut up! Pull yourself together. I’ll go up to high ground, where I can see far enough to pick a way and keep us from wasting any more time barging into dead ends.”

  His confidence quieted incipient panic. Eileen took his hand.

  “Come on, Wade,” she said, “let’s go. You know every inch of ground around here.”

  “No, darling—you stay here. It’s going to be pretty rough where I’m heading.” He grinned. “Be nice if you twisted an ankle and I had to carry you.”

  He could not tell Eileen that he was now certain Agni was bent on destroying her—that she, of all the party, should come no nearer the cone than absolutely necessary. On the heels of this dreadful knowledge came that which told him why these people hemmed him in. They knew by instinct that he had reason for not fearing as they feared. He was not surprised when they refused to wait for him to reconnoiter.

  “Don’t try to get shed of us,” Kirby cried and Voerhaven said, “We’re going to be right on hand so we can go through the minute you pick a clear way.”

  Though the sun was now low it did not even make a red blob. The curtain of steam and dust was quite too dense and there was an ever-thickening pall of smoke from trees that burned as lava girdled them.

  “One puff of hot gas and you’re knocked out for keeps,” he warned them. “For one to risk it is enough.” Nevertheless they persisted in following him. When he came to the edge of the old lava flow he repeated his warning. Lorella cried hysterically, “Don’t let him get away! He wouldn’t be here now if he didn’t have some trick with that volcano. He must have a power!” Her panic infected the men. They seized him by the arms before he could resist. During the futile attempt to shake them off the pistol in Harmon’s pocket jammed against Kirby, who cried. “Don’t you try to use that gun!” and dipped in, taking it. “Twist his wrist!”

  “Oh, take it, you damned fool!” Harmon said quietly and relaxed. “I don’t mind. You’d not use it on me regardless.”

  They released him. Kirby let the weapon slide back into Harmon’s pocket. He looked shamefaced and embarrassed.

  “Listen, you!” Harmon said. “The both of you. And you, Lorella. Why would I run out on you?”

  “Because—because of what we did.”

  “Would I leave Eileen here?” He stepped to the girl’s side. She had stood apart, the calmest by far of the four who had come with Harmon. “There is a way out, my dear,” he said to her. “But I have to pick it myself. I have to get close to the flow before I can climb up to where I can see the way and give you all the direction.

  “It’ll be tough going. I can’t have you all milling around. It may be touch-and-go. I’ve been over the ground so often I know every inch of it—but you, any or all of you, might kill yourselves in one flash of panic.”

  “I understand,” Eileen said quietly.

  She thought she understood, though he knew she actually was far indeed from understanding. And to him the knowledge was very good.

  “Try to keep those fools off my heels!” he said.

  He went to a vantage point much nearer than the one to which he had told them he must go. Actually that spot, just within sight of the dunes, was high enough for his purpose, high enough for him to see that there was but one way out. Yet that one way was something he could not possibly explain to them.

  On the face of it there seemed to them no good reason why they could not all climb up the cone until they were far above the vents at the base, from which the fumes and lava came, and then circle until they could descend to that portion of the shelf which, as far as he could tell, was not lava-flooded.

  As far as he could tell—by his five senses, that was, or by anyone else’s—yet he was sure that the logical route was no longer open. Even if it were a single upsurge could and surely would block it. The ever-widening reach of
the viscous red flow he did see told him of all the unseen possibilities.

  Only by the grace of Agni Deva could any of his companions escape. The lady of fire was stalking them. She had weapons other than mere lava. A blast of gas, hot as the earth’s very heart, could accomplish her will. Any attempt to outwit her would fail from the very start. But she would meet fair dealing with a fair answer.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Harmon retraced his steps. “Wait right here,” he said easily. “I have a hunch but before I play it I have to go pretty high up on the cone to make sure I’m not leading you into a pocket.”

  “You think we’re crazy?” Kirby shouted. “Wasting all that time while you come back to tell us?”

  “I’ll wave—I’ll beckon you up.”

  “Well, why wait? We’re taking no chances.”

  Lorella cried, “You’re trying to get even with us! You’re going to talk to Merah and have us all killed. You do have a power! You quieted her before—why don’t you do it again? You’re working against us. We’re staying so close to you that whatever happens to us will happen to you.”

  She caught him with both hands, clawing him by the shirt, digging her fingers into his shoulders. She went on, “Take Eileen with us, grab her! He won’t let her get hurt.”

  Tainted by Lorella’s frenzy, Kirby and Voerhaven snatched Eileen by the arms. She did not resist. Harmon sat down, taking Lorella with him.

  “Then you’ll have to carry me,” he said. “You don’t have the manpower for that.” Shaking himself loose from Lorella he got out a cigarette and with steady hand touched light to it. “You’re all in more of a hurry than I am. Do as I say or take your chances.”

  They released Eileen and stepped well away from her. Harmon went to her, caught her hand, drew her close. He lowered his voice, though there was hardly any need of this because of the incessant hiss and rumble. Great lumps of incandescent lava, blown up from the spreading pools by surges of gas, rocketed up, and dropped back, splashing fiery liquid.

  “Don’t follow me,” he said. “Whatever else you do, don’t follow. You’ll be awfully scared when they all flock after me but trust me. I know what I’m doing. Stay right where you are. You’ll come out of it—I promise you that.”

  “You are going to talk to Merah,” Eileen said. “You’re going to bring her a gift. Offer her one from me. Tell her that if she spares you I’ll go away. You and I will never see each other again. We’ll always have our beautiful few days and nights to remember. But you forget them if Merah wants you to. She can’t care at all what I remember.”

  Eileen pressed close. Her kiss was unlike any of all the lovers’ kisses they had exchanged. Harmon stood back, his hands lying for a moment on her shoulders. “Just wait and don’t worry. And stand fast.”

  Harmon turned to climb. As he expected Lorella and the two men crowded on his heels. He bent into the zigzagging course, following the tracks he had made in the past. Finally, stopping for breath, he looked back to wave to Eileen. She returned the gesture but kept her place.

  He said to the others, “We’re getting close, too close. Stay here! With my game leg ready to let me down, how the hell can I get away from you?”

  He looked back again. Eileen had left her place. Explosions showered a fiery rain about her, driving her from what had been a safe spot. She stumbled and lurched to her knees.

  “Fumes are getting her,” Harmon said. “But she’ll be all right when the wind changes.”

  Kirby let out a strangled cry. “You told her—come on, Dirk! We’ve got to give her a hand!”

  Harmon knew that his moment had come. He looked up toward the crater’s rim. “Agni Deva!” he called. “I’m coming back to take the way of fire—the way of no returning!”

  As if to challenge him, there came from the thus-far quiet crater great plumes of flame, which rose and then bowed their crests. They lapped over the rim and down, reaching like many eager arms. The heat was such as Harmon had never imagined. The colors covered the entire range of the spectrum. There were bands of blankness, as though composed of colors that passed beyond what the human eye could perceive.

  He stretched out both arms. He took another step and despite the blasting breath which reached far beyond the tips of a million wavering fingers he found the breath to call, “Agni Deva! I come to take the way of fire—the way of no returning!”

  He fancied he could smell the scorching of his hair and his garments though he was not sure of this. But there was flame on his head. He took another step with legs fresh and strong and unwearied. “Agni Deva—I come to take…”

  Then there was coolness and flame lapped him like rippling of water. Where there had been voids in the bands of color he now perceived the octaves beyond violet and the octaves below red—zone after zone, color after color for which he had no name, of which no human had ever had experience, even in dreams.

  In that vortex of fire stood Agni Deva, all splendid and smiling. The first touch of her fingers, as he took her outstretched hand, was intolerably painful. He experienced at once heat and cold and shock of lightning. Then he was beside her and at ease.

  “There is no returning,” Agni Deva said. “And you will never wish to return for now you see me without veils. You know what fire is by direct knowledge.”

  Harmon said out of his contentment, “And know how being goes far beyond doing.”

  What he had done, he now knew, was trifling compared to what he had become. Being so nearly one with Agni Deva he could not be sure whether it was her thought or his own that next came to him—that there was no separateness between them at all.

  Agni Deva said, “Look back, look down, and see that I did not hurt her nor the rice either.”

  He saw Eileen plainly. He did not ask what had happened to Lorella and Kirby. Voerhaven was safe and Harmon was glad for this, glad also that Eileen’s lurking surmises had blossomed into knowledge during their final moment together, so that while she could never know all, she knew enough.

  “She knows,” Agni Deva said, “and she has accepted. She will remember but she cannot mourn for she knows—as much as she need.” And then, as they made for the dark bulwarks of the crater, she added, “This will be good, Wade, and better than you think. There’ll be the rice to watch and ever so much more. Because being isn’t a matter of standing still at all, it’s an everlasting becoming.”

  Harmon smiled reminiscently and said, “The Gods were once what man now is and man one day will be what Gods now are.”

  THE SHADOW OF SATURN

  Originally published in Weird Tales, March 1950.

  What I have to say about the Siamese triplets will have nothing at all to do with any linking together of physical bodies. The bond which connected Dick Wayland, and Benson’s wife, Diane, was an invisible one.

  Of the three, Wayland was the first I met. His upper eyelids, lurking beneath overhanging brows, betrayed their existence only by the lashes. His eyes had a purpose more important merely than looking and seeing. Except to a person of considerable self-assurance, they could have been intolerable whenever he chose to make them so. Now, however, they were amiable and winning as his voice.

  “Why won’t you tell me how long I have to live, Mr. McQuoid?”

  “If your health worries you, why not see your doctor instead of an astrologer?”

  The man’s will drew back like a well-trained leopard, to remain poised behind the persuasiveness of smile and eyes. The nose, neither straight nor aquiline, added to his expression of power consciousness.

  “There used to be a time,” he retorted, “when no doctor worth his salt was ignorant of astrology, and no astrologer ignorant of medicine. Just why won’t you tell me how many years I have ahead of me?”

  “In the first place, to do so would be a violation of professional ethics.” I fingered the letter and the check which he had sent a few days
previously. “In the second place, when you wrote me the minute and hour and date of birth, and the town also, you left out something quite important.”

  “What was that?”

  “You did not tell me that this is another man’s birth data, not your own. If only because you tried to trick me, I wouldn’t deal with you!”

  “Do you mean,” he demanded, “that you believe you can judge at first sight whether I am older or younger than the date indicates?”

  “The horoscope I set up describes a man taller and heavier than you are, Mr. Wayland. He has a squarish face. He is ruddy, he has thick hands and a thick neck, and is probably on the way to being bald. He loves spotlight. You prefer being the power behind the throne. Next time you try to pull a fast one, send data to fit.”

  Wayland, however, was persistent. He wagged his head appreciatively and countered, “That was to see whether you knew your business. You said, he. That happens to be a woman’s birth data.”

  “You never can get your fill, can you? Only a male could have been born when the degree corresponding to that time was rising. This cannot be a woman’s birth time. Here is your check. There is no charge. Whatever you are up to, I don’t want to deal with you.”

  “Oh, all right, Mr. McQuoid! There are three of us in this. He and she and I. It is one of those situations.”

  “And it’s important for you and her to outlive him?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “First time in my life that anything ever has been really important.”

  Whether I wanted it or not. I had a client, three clients, in fact. Although I did not for a moment feel that Wayland would use pistol or poison to reshape things to his taste, it was clear that something deadly was developing.

  “Give me your birth data, and hers.” When he did so, I opened the 1890-1930 ephemeris to his birth month and glanced at the positions of the planets on his day. Usually one has to draw a map of the heavens, the twelve-spoked Wheel of Fate, to see what influences ruled a man. Wayland’s stars on the contrary were so conspicuously aspected as to shout from the page. And a glance at the Table of Houses clinched it.