The John Russell Fearn Science Fiction Megapack

by John Russell Fearn

  But that was not all. His principal worry was his increasing inability to concentrate or understand his own sci­entific machinery! It was a trouble that had spread to all his men and women and to the children of those whom he had ordered to mate. For some reason they were losing their grip.

  Of the fifty couples who had mated and borne children, each child revealed distinctly atavistic tendencies, was far less intelligent than the parents them­selves. Razak began to feel the grim portents of an impending Nemesis catching him up on this young, horrible planet spawning now with life.

  It was typical of him that the trouble lasted for months before he finally con­descended to notice it. Then he went into a close study of the problem and finally summoned all his people, children included, in the main room of the power­ful, weather-insulated city.

  “My friends,” he said steadily, look­ing round on their obviously degenerate faces, “we are faced with the profound problem of fading intelligence. I see it in your faces; you see it in mine. Our achievements are crumbling about our ears. We hardly understand our sci­ence any longer. I have at least man­aged to solve the mystery, but there is no cure for it. You have all known how for these ten years we have labored unceasingly against gravitation, that one terrific power we cannot overcome.

  “Pathologically, as you know, the blood stream is entirely responsible for the condition of the brain. A poor blood stream begets a poor brain, and a good one produces brilliance. On our own microcosmic world of Disep the gravi­tation was normal for our bodies—even as it was on Mars. The atmosphere, too, was correct. Here the atmosphere is filled with unexpected toxics, in many cases from the rampant growths we our­selves started. The gravitation pulls perpetually on our bloodstream and prevents an easy flow to the brain. We struggle in the midst of incongruous conditions for which there must be a price. One is inevitably molded to en­vironment. Atavism, mental and phys­ical, has set in. It means the doom of our science; that much we must realize. Maybe it is retribution for the destruc­tion of Mars’ rightful inhabitants.”

  “But can we not leave this planet and find another?” demanded one of the men.

  “We could, but as we said before it is doubtful if it would be of any advantage. It would mean constant traveling through space, deprivation of essen­tials of atmosphere, living in a tiny world for unnumbered years. Besides, our numbers are greater now. There are children; there will be children’s children—the very nucleus of a mighty race to come. Little by little they will atavise to a final point and become al­most like the brutal, apelike beings that were the ancestors of our own race; then evolution will take its course and they will gradually ascend the ladder again, molded by the new environment, able to be happy in this world by the process of adaption. Finally, they will become intelligent thinkers; but throughout their life on this world they will never equal our own past brilliance. This world will not give that.”

  “Then—then our race is ended?” demanded another.

  Razak nodded sadly. “Ended in one phase, but just commencing in another. We know that this city cannot stand much longer against the mad storms that rage and fume over this world; ulti­mately it will be sent to the very bottom of the ocean that is seeking to sunder the two continents. We must scatter to all parts of this planet, live as best we can on the rank fruits these trees of ours bear. The art of consuming nourish­ment from the air is now unhappily a lost one. We must forget all this. Some of us may last long enough with our de­vices to build cities in other lands to keep science alive for a while. But finally fate will catch up. Our children’s children will be cavemen and women, seeking escape from the cold that is to come. Our city will be at the bottom of the ocean—”

  Razak paused and mused. “Strange indeed,” he muttered. “Future man will find our remains and not know that he himself had us for ancestors—will in­vent reasons for life on his planet, invent reasons for the three giant comet-like objects that will appear at recur­rent intervals in the heavens, all un­aware that it is the life energy of the projected men of Mars still circling their eternal orbits. He will ponder on lost civilizations, on the markings of Mars, and its waterless surface, upon, perhaps, strange ruins in far-off lands. It would, perhaps, have been better had we never dabbled.”

  He looked through the broad window at the raging ocean so near the plateau’s eroding coast line.

  “Will even wonder if a city lies beneath the sea,” he concluded musingly. Then, with a shrug, he drew himself up, became the commander again.

  “We scatter—and part, with our chil­dren,” he announced. “Come!”

  Silently, the men, women and chil­dren followed him to the exterior. Un­der his directions they formed into a star with eight radiating points, then set off in eight different directions, bear­ing with them small mechanical devices for the possible construction of future habitats.

  Some went toward the northern con­tinent, some to the southern, others to­ward the mountains and still others to­ward the jungles. And as they went the ocean thundered and raged on the solitary plateau, strove with life-crawl­ing brine to reach the deserted stone city, indescribably lovely amidst the tumult that had so long eluded it.

  Only once did Razak look back, a si­lent and lonely figure in the lashing wind. His eyes took in the whole panorama—the far-distant vision of his men, women and children vanishing in the coming dark.

  “To the future!” he muttered. “Someday man may understand—”

  Then he turned and strode steadily into the night that yawned before him.

  THE VOICE COMMANDS

  After twenty years of wrongful imprisonment two men return to “civilization” to find it in ruins, yet populated by odd, childlike people who nonetheless seem to possess an amazing scientific skill…

  CHAPTER I

  After Twenty Years

  “For such men as you,” said the Administrator of Justice deliberately, “there can only be one punishment. You knew when you undertook scientific espionage that you were gambling with death. You stand trial now for treason as a direct consequence of that gamble.”

  Neither Arthur Cassell nor Hartley Moss said a word. The former was fair and thoughtful—plainly a scientist; but his colleague stood half a head taller, aggressive, his big fists beating a silent rhythm on the dock rail. Hartley Moss was a fighter, every inch of him, but because the game of scientific espionage demands both men of physique and scientific knowledge he and Cassell had worked together. And now…

  “This day, on the verge of world war,” the Administrator continued, “your activities stand in a revolting light. It is the judgment of the Tribunal that you sold our country—your country too!—into conflict. Tomorrow at midnight, September 19th, 1960, the world will be at war because of you. You will both be exiled to Atlantic Island for life.”

  Moss opened his lips to speak, but Cassell nudged him gently and shook his head. With an effort Moss remained silent; then he and Cassell both had to submit to being led from the packed hall, afterwards to take their place in the line with other offenders against the State…

  * * * *

  Atlantic Island, prison settlement of synthetic rock owned by America, created in 1958 by vast engineering enter­prise, was definitely no place from which to try and escape. Around the mighty grey walls of the penitentiary itself was nothing but jagged rock eternally pounded by the ocean. The nearest land was a thousand miles away. It was Britain’s boast that no criminal had ever been known to escape.

  But the government did not hold itself responsible for the inhuman methods used on the island. Criminals of a higher order were themselves warders—grim, bitter men as relentless as the stormbound surroundings they ruled. They instituted their own inexorable laws and found a good use for the dungeons deep under the penitentiary itself.

  Into one of these dungeons went Cassell and Moss. That they went together was the only leniency permitted them, and this happened because one cell was vacant.

  Thus they were left, tot
ally ignored, save for the badly-cooked food and the flat-tasting water which was brought to them at intervals.

  At first they hoped for last-minute release, but it never came. Hope gradually died. The beards grew on their faces; their hair crept into their necks. Arthur Cassell spent a lot of time thinking. Moss did little but rave—at first.

  “Even if we had told the truth at the trial we wouldn’t have got anywhere,” Cassell said one day. “Who there would believe the truth of what we found—that the instigator behind the world war was a Venusian disguised as an Earthman? The fantasy of it! And yet the truth! No Tribunal would ever have believed it without proof, and that we could not give. If only Maralok had not escaped us as he did at the last moment!”

  “But he did!” Moss growled, from the shadows. “Mara­lok will finish his plans to create world war, though heaven knows what idea he has back of it. Seems senseless to me!” They fell silent again, lost in thought. The sea and the wind roared. Outside, a thousand miles away, a world gone mad had forgotten the two supposed traitors on Atlantic Island. War had become a reality. War to the death…

  1960… 1970… 1980…The parade of endless years of insufferable carnage. Nation against nation.

  1981. A cold inhuman peace brooded over the earth…

  Far out on the Atlantic a solitary synthetic rock still stood, its mighty construction unharmed by the attempts of bombers to destroy it. Warders and criminals alike still lived, had for­gotten anything existed save their own bitter little world. Deep down in the dungeons men still stirred, half starved, only given food when a provision ship happened to crash against the rocks and spewed forth its valued cargo.

  Yes, deep down in the dungeons two men especially still lived, kept alive by the fire of vengeance. Twenty years of hardship and pent hatred was carved into their bearded faces. Their eyes were smoldering pools as they stared at the warder standing in the open doorway of their cell.

  Open! Not for the usual exercise round the gaunt yard—but wide open! And that was not all… The guard was grin­ning, almost vacantly, his usually stone-like countenance split from ear to ear. His keys jangled in his hand.

  “Well?” asked Moss’ deep, bitter voice at length.

  “You can go,” the man chuckled. “We can all go. No sense in stopping here now a rowing boat’s been thrown up from a wrecked ship. Might as well go out and play…”

  “Play?” repeated the voice of Arthur Cassell. He got slowly to his feet. His hair and beard were still blond. “Did you say—play?’

  “Sure!” The guard grinned again, then tossed his keys away. “We’re all free. Your cell was the last one; no use for the keys anymore. Let’s go!” He turned away whistling.

  The two men stared at each other stupidly. Then suddenly Moss started to laugh until the tears ran down his bearded cheeks.

  “Play!” he screamed, pounding the wall. “My God—play! After twenty years of this he—”

  “Take it easy, Hart,” Cassell snapped, gripping his friend’s rag-covered arms. “Don’t go off half-cocked! This is a miracle all right, and we’re going to take advantage of it. Something screwy about it all the same. Come on.”

  Together they limped out of the cell into the gloomy cor­ridor. Other prisoners, bearded and melancholy, glanced at them but said nothing. In silence they all trooped upwards to the open reaches of the prison yard, and so finally out onto the wild, spume-swept ridge that gave access to the sea.

  The prisoners shivered a little in the cold, bracing blast, did their best to get into what sunshine there was. Cassell and Moss kept together, and at last Moss said:

  “Take a look at that! They’re nuts, I think.” Cassell did not answer. Certainly something was wrong with the guards. They were singing songs—and incredible though it was, those songs were old-fashioned nursery rhymes! As they sang, they walked skippingly towards the steps leading down the cliff face. The grim-faced prisoners followed, stared down the dizzying stretch at the rowboat anchored far below.

  “Certainly act as though they’re crazy,” Cassell admitted at last, frowning. Then he stared down at the boat. “Thousand miles in that, huh? Well, I guess it’s better than stopping here… Near as I can figure it, it’s summer time, so maybe we’ll make it.”

  He started down the steps with Moss behind him, and presently they had joined the others—as bewildered as they were by their incredible good fortune. But most baffling of all was the asinine behavior of the warders—men who had been cruelty itself now as cheerful and considerate as it was pos­sible to be. They seemed to take an actual delight in proving that the boat had some food and water enough to see them all through, if they shared alike…

  The prisoners glanced at each other and gave it up. Then rowing began. Little by little the boat pulled away from that forbidding pile. The guards still whistled and laughed among themselves; the prisoners pulled on their oars, their faces set and hard within their beards, their exposed skin as white as a fish’s belly.

  Once or twice Cassell gazed at the sky and frowned. There was something queer about it. It was a paler blue—and he could see one or two stars despite the sunlight. He wondered if his eyesight was defective from so much enforced gloom.

  “No, it is paler, and there are one or two stars,” Moss con­firmed, as the matter was put to him. “Can’t quite figure it out.” He paused in his rowing and stared around on the heaving waste of waters. “Odd there are no ships around,” he muttered. “Wonder if the war ended, or if they’re still at it?”

  Nobody attempted to answer his question, the guards least of all…

  More rowing. Endless rowing. Occasional sleep, occasional food. On and on, over the heaving deep…

  CHAPTER II

  A City in Ruins

  Neither Cassell nor Moss remembered how many days and nights elapsed on the ocean. At times squalls hit them, but in the main, the weather was warm and sunny. Food, carefully rationed, lasted out—and the reckless gen­erosity of the guards was a thing of wonder…

  Then at last there hove from out of the blurred horizon that line they all longed to see—the coastline of America, grow­ing slowly more distinct as the minutes passed.

  Rowing went on harder than ever, with the desperation that only returning exiles can command. But the more they rowed the more puzzled they became… The coastline became clearer.

  “That isn’t America!” breathed Moss at last, staring under his shading hand. “Or is it? England perhaps? No—not Eng­land…” He broke off, mystified. The guards too had ceased their singing and were frowning in perplexity.

  “We ought to see the coastline of New York, Philadelphia, or Boston if we’ve followed the route correctly,” Cassell mut­tered. “And I guess we have. But—”

  Silence again. More slap of the oars in water; then at length the coastline was quite close. It was America, yes, but the exiles stared now in dazed silence at where New York should have been. But instead of the towers of Manhattan were skel­eton buildings, the shattered shells of once mighty edifices, fallen into utter disuse! The harbors were choked with rusting seacraft. Some of the vessels were half broken up in the mud. One giant transatlantic liner was a mass of barnacles and rust, a rag of a flag flapping in the breeze.

  The moment they came within jumping distance of a de­serted jetty, neither Cassell nor Moss waited for the others. They leapt out of the boat, swam the intervening few feet of water, and finally climbed to the jetty top, waved their arms to the little boatload as it continued its journey to the actual shore.

  “Empty… Shattered!” whispered Moss in an awed voice.

  Stupefied, they stared around them, at the smokeless re­mains of chimneys, the boulder-strewn streets, the grass crawl­ing up the buildings, the collapsed subways, the twisted elevateds…

  Without a word, they started to walk slowly forward. Beyond the slightest doubt, the old New York had gone. In fact, nearly all traces of civilization itself had disappeared. Everywhere the two moved were enormous craters, p
resum­ably from bombs, and tumbled masonry…

  Then, turning a corner, they came uport something totally unexpected… Right in the middle of a square—its actual name and location forgotten—were people—men and women in makeshift clothes. Some of the men were heavily bearded with crudely-cropped hair; the women’s hair hung to their waists. Savages, apparently—and yet they were toiling upon a massive mechanical device of almost unbelievable complex­ity, whilst near to them was a one-time factory hastily re­stored, from the interior of which came the steady clangor of industry.

  “War survivors; children of those who fought, perhaps,” Moss said thoughtfully. “Can’t be anything else…”

  “But look what they’re building!” Cassell cried, pointing. “It looks to me like a projector of some sort… Guess we’d better look into this.”

  He strode forward and touched one of the men on the arm as he turned to head towards the factory. Immediately he looked around, revealed a fresh, youthful face with honest blue eyes. A downy incipient stubble furred his chin and upper lip. For a moment he seemed a little surprised at the sight of the two bearded men in front of him—then he gave a broad, welcoming smile.

  “Hello!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Come to play with us?”

  “Huh?” Cassel said amazedly; then the memory of the guard’s words on Atlantic Island came back to him. He gave a puzzled frown and shook his head.

  “No; we’re not playing. What’s that you’re building there?”

  “Oh, that? Nothing much. We’re just building because we want to, that’s all. Might as well. We get tired of just playing, you know.”

  “Yeah; I suppose so.” Cassell scratched his matted head and the man turned away, went with a walk that was very close to a trip, towards the factory.

  “They’re nuts!” Moss said flatly, clenching his fists. “They start on building a machine so complex we can’t understand it, and say they do it as a relief from playing… Art, there’s something mighty screwy going on around here!”