The John Russell Fearn Science Fiction Megapack

by John Russell Fearn

  “Victoria Station,” nodded Vass. “So be it.” And with a surprising agility he began to swarm quickly up the rope.

  Yet, as he began to reach its mysteriously supported summit, he seemed to fade, nor was it entirely accounted for by the shadow of Nelson’s Column immediately to the rear. Fainter he became and fainter—then suddenly he had gone! The space at the top of the rope was empty, and less than a second later the rope had gone too, whisked utterly into extinction.

  For perhaps ten seconds a stunned, dead silence rested over the crowd. Nothing like this had ever been known before. It was enough to open Nelson’s blind eye. Then Turner suddenly sprang out of his trance and started the movement out of the Square. Within five minutes u mob of shouting people was streaming down the Mall and through St. James’s Park. Some jumped on ’buses, others ran. Hurried references to an Indian rope trick did little to convince stolid policemen, but on this occasion they were ignored and forced along with the crowd. In the Mall there arose the biggest traffic jam for years as with incredible speed the news passed round.

  Victoria Station was surrounded by a chattering crowd, growing larger with the minutes. A tremendous mob collected round the front entrance, to the despair of those trying to catch trains. But as yet Solivus Vass had not appeared. Here and there rose a cry of disbelief. Then suddenly somebody gave a shout.

  Vass was on view, safe out of reach of the crowd, halfway up the slanting main entrance roof of the station. How he had got there was as mysterious as his rope trick.

  “Friends, my thanks to you!” he shouted, and tossed down the rope with which he had performed his illusion—if such it was. “I have demonstrated to you one facet of Martian mind science. Others will follow. What I have done is not magic, but logical, applied science which, if you are willing, you can all understand. For the moment I leave you, but I shall appear again.”

  Even as he spoke something was happening to him. He was becoming misty.

  “Vass!” bawled Turner, in the forefront of the crowd. “Vass, wait a minute—”

  He stopped, speechless. The space where Vass had been standing was totally empty!

  The sensation caused by Solivus Vass’s single demonstration beggared even the descriptive powers of the reporters, Dave Turner among them.

  In truth, there were no words to describe the thrill that passed through the public’s imagination at the knowledge that a Martian wizard was in their midst.

  Turner, however, still managed to scoop his rivals to a certain extent by writing up colourful stories of the Martians possible future intentions—world bartering with world, salt in exchange for mind science, and similar matters of which his rivals knew nothing. Everything that had ever been written or discovered about Mars was jammed into every newspaper and magazine.

  By newspaper, radio, and word of mouth the amazing feat of the Indian rope trick passed from country to country. America and Europe talked about it in the ensuing week. Scientists and psychologists respectively debated the logical aspects of the affair and finally declared, with exasperating pomp, that the whole thing was impossible and could not be done—that thousands of people had somehow been brilliantly hoaxed.

  The suggestion made Turner boil with fury. He wrote stinging retorts to these so-called super-minds and used his paper as a channel for invective—until suddenly his private war was abruptly terminated by the reappearance of Solivus Vass one morning in Trafalgar Square.

  The instant he heard of the Martian’s return, Turner streaked for the Square, and elbowed his way through the dense crowd to the front ranks. He found Vass had changed his attire now, replaced his black clothes with a flowing affair of red, to be more in keeping, according to his speech, with the colour of his native planet.

  “I come among you to help you,” he said slowly, standing on top of a four-step ladder. “I want you to realise that all the strange things I do are scientific. I want you to follow me in the cult I am trying to establish, that of mind over matter. I want all of you who have troubles to bring them to me and I will do my best to help you.”

  “Are you planning an Utopia?” called a reporter, and Vass shook his enormous head.

  “No. It is not my aim to alter your ways of living, or to try and improve on nature. You can only progress as nature wills it, but I can do much in other directions. In sorting out difficulties, in feats of clairvoyance, even in telling of events taking place thousands of miles away, I can, I think, lay claim to absolute perfection. In time it is my hope to build a temple wherein my science can be entirely revealed to you. Until then I shall remain in the open, as I am now…”

  “Say, if you’re so smart, why don’t you tell us about something that’s happening thousands of miles away at this moment?” demanded a lean-faced man to the left.

  Vass shrugged.

  “Why not?” he agreed. “Your later papers today will bring news of a vast earthquake in Peru; the total wreck of—” He broke off and concentrated for a moment. “Of a transatlantic air-liner called the Euphrates; the death just ten minutes ago of Silas Lattimer, the famous chemist, resident in Australia; and the finding of Dr. Karl Hemfrien, the German explorer, lost over a week ago in a Polar expedition, now safe and sound on an ice pack.”

  A dazed silence followed the words. Vass stood calmly looking round and the people gazed back at him, convinced against their wills that this man was speaking the truth. Somehow he must have knowledge of these events, which so far had not come through even to the newspapers.

  “Are you sure of all this, Vass?” Turner demanded, staring up at him. “Doing a trick like the rope trick is one thing, but just suppose one of these forecasts of yours is wrong?”

  “Mind science is never wrong, friend Turner,” the Martian replied impassively, then glanced across the Square in some irritation as a fire engine came swinging into view, its bell clanging noisily.

  In a moment it had overtaken the flood of traffic eternally swirling round the Square and raced on into the Strand.

  Hardly a moment passed before it was followed by another.

  “Look!” somebody shouted abruptly, pointing. “Fire over there—in the Strand!”

  Faces turned from Vass to a rolling column of smoke drifting on the breeze.

  Instantly a stir passed through the people; there was a general movement out of the Square that Vass watched with bitter eyes.

  “So they find a fire more interesting,” he muttered to Turner, standing immediately below him.

  Turner shrugged. “Can’t blame them, Vass. There’s something about a fire that always gets you. Just can’t help but watch it.”

  “And does that extinguish it?” the Martian asked, climbing down the ladder and folding it up.

  “Of course not. Water or foam does that.”

  “Such antiquated methods.” The mystic sighed. “Come with me. I will give you another aspect of mind control.”

  Puzzled, Turner followed the Martian out of the Square. In a few moments they had emerged into the Strand near Charing Cross Station and were walking amidst a litter of twisting hosepipes, while policemen with linked hands held back the crowds. Beyond, occupying the efforts of half a dozen fire engines, was a furiously-burning old building, untenanted and previously condemned, threatening the safety of the buildings around it.

  There was a little stir in the crowd as the red-clad figure of Vass appeared. Policemen eyed him dubiously; one or two firemen glanced round from clutching their hoses.

  “It’s that conjurer bloke,” one of them audibly muttered, and a little titter went through the people.

  Vass’s green eyes narrowed a little, then with sudden resolve he opened his ladders again, mounted them, and stood over the heads of the crowd.

  “Why do you not use the power of mind?” he demanded fiercely. “Force matter to obey you, as I do? For this occasion I will demonstrate for you; later, perhaps, you will learn for yourselves. Watch!” He held forth his right arm rigidly, fingers pointed at the blazing buildi
ng. In his green eyes was a stare so intense that the people moved away uneasily: it was the intent glare of a hypnotist.

  The firemen went on with their job unconcerned; then, gradually, there arose a general murmur of amazement as it became obvious that the flames round the upper part of the old building were decreasing. Vass still glared at it, and the longer he glared the less the fire blazed. Certainly it was not the firemen’s hoses that were responsible.

  The flames gave way to smoke, thick dense clouds that gradually vaporised and became steam; then finally not even steam. There remained only the smouldering hulk of the building and a great pile of glowing ashes. Utterly bewildered, the firemen continued to play their hoses on the ashes until at last the fire was wholly extinguished.

  Slowly then, they turned with the people to face the coldly smiling Martian. His arm was back at his side now.

  “Now you see?” he asked softly. “Mental science—again.”

  Firemen, sightseers, and policemen forgot their various tasks to group around the Martian and listen to the tale of science allied to mental magic of which he had to tell them. Turner only listened to part of it, then he rushed away to get the story into the Arrow.

  Once again he scooped the board.

  And that same afternoon a thrill of profound wonderment was added to the miracles of Vass as the news began to trickle through of an earthquake in Peru and the wreck of the Euphrates over the middle of the Atlantic, only discovered at 2.30 p.m. by a passing vessel, nearly four hours after Vass had described the occurrences.

  Sure enough, too, the report of Silas Lattimer’s death soon followed, and, much later, a brief report to the effect that Dr. Karl Hemfrien had been found. All widely spaced events, all of them incapable of being known without visiting the actual spots concerned, which Vass certainly had not done. Events as far apart as Australia, the North Pole, and Peru.

  The stock of the Red Magician, as he had become popularly known, soared to fantastic heights. He became a being enshrined.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Disappearing Scientist

  Such an extraordinary person as the Martian magician could not for long remain the exclusive property of England: he was essentially international in appeal.

  After his fire-extinguishing effort and the forecast of world events, he suddenly rocketed to fame in all the newspapers of the world. Vass cults sprang up in several countries. Europeans and Americans came to get a glimpse of the green-eyed, impassive wizard as, for a fabulous salary, he consented to make a tour of the halls and demonstrate his powers.

  Quickly and apparently without knowing it, he turned the whole country inside out. People who asked his aid found it freely given when he was assured that money was a consideration with them; but in the case of the wealthy he charged enormous fees.

  The main demand was for him to discover far-distant relatives, ascertain their state of health and position, which, when supplied with adequate descriptions of the people concerned, he invariably did. Others came with stories of lost articles, and with very few failures Vass stated the exact spot where they could be found.

  One famous shipping magnate enquired if a ship sunk in a certain latitude twelve years ago, below the reach of divers, was worth making an effort to salve. Promptly Vass gave the answer that the vessel had a great deal of gold aboard—and, when the ship was finally brought to the surface, his prediction was found correct even to the number of gold bars.

  Newsreel companies were quickly on the job, and commissioned Vass at tremendous fees to advise them the instant his mind detected an unusual phenomenon anywhere in the world. Not once did he fail, though he often saw occurrences in places inaccessible by human beings, except by tremendous labour.

  Definitely, Vass was a wizard, though he explained it all away as mind power, a fact which caused several famous specialists and psychologists hurriedly to revise all their preconceived notions on the brain and its possibilities. Even though Vass was a Martian, he still had a brain.

  Criminals were in mortal dread of Vass. His uncanny ability to probe unknown places proved an assistance to the law on more than one occasion, particularly in locating fugitives from justice. Crime in all branches began to drop to a surprisingly low ebb as the Red Magician gained power.

  Inevitably he amassed money, opened a suite of rooms in the Strand, and had special hours for consultation. Scientists, psychologists, spiritualists, religionists, Yogi experts, and self-confessed illusionists from all countries spent hours in conversation with him, only to leave as baffled as ever. The illusionists, in truth, were distinctly annoyed. It was next to impossible for them to get a booking on the halls with Vass holding the field.

  Month by month, with a tremendous total of mysteries and discoveries to his credit, Vass slowly mastered the entire interest of the public. He was important enough to oust international relations and air raid precautions from the front pages of the dailies and then, in December, he announced that his tour was going to cease and that he intended to build the Red Temple, to be devoted entirely to the interests of Earthly mankind.

  Vass chose an appropriate site for his temple, the very spot whereon he had destroyed the fire several months before. Following his announcement, he dropped from sight for a time, but Londoners passing the heavily-boarded region near Charing Cross Station, trying vainly to get a glimpse of what was going on beyond, wondered what new secrets the Red Temple would have to offer.

  Dave Turner was one of the reporters who tried to view the Temple while under construction, at first without success for even the roof of operations was covered with tarpaulin. When at length the tarpaulin was removed he beheld nothing unusual, merely a gang of workmen erecting girders across a waste of concrete floor. Of Vass himself there seemed to be no sign, though there was little doubt he was somewhere around directing operations.

  From time to time Turner published long descriptions of the Temple’s progress, complete with photographs. He was, in fact, thoroughly determined to keep the Magician in the public eye, until at length, the Arrow’s editor began to get annoyed.

  “Listen, Turner,” he snapped, one afternoon, after going through the copy, “this stuff about the Temple may interest you, but to the public it’s just getting to be the story of a lot of plaster. At first you turned in good stuff with a human angle, told us all about Vass from babyhood, his life on Mars. You’ve got to do it again or something like it. Get some—some zip into your column. Understand?”

  “Such as?” Turner asked dryly. “I can’t even find him to—”

  “That’s your worry—you’re the reporter. Why don’t you find out how he does his tricks?” The editor stopped, looked up with gleaming eyes.

  “Gosh, that would be something!” he breathed. “He says he does it all by mind force or some such stuff—but just suppose he doesn’t? Suppose he’s a fake, for instance? What a scoop that would make!”

  “A fake?” Turner echoed blankly.

  “After all he’s done?”

  “Well, anyhow, it’s an idea. Find out something or else take another assignment. It’s up to you. And why don’t you ask some of the experts, like Sir Gadsby Brough, what they think about Vass? Haven’t had many outside opinions lately.”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Turner walked out slowly. He felt rather irritated by the fact that a doubt had been born in his mind. A fake? To his ordinary common sense it seemed unthinkable: besides, he rather liked Vass. But to his journalistic sense the idea of proving this supreme wizard to be a charlatan had a spicy appeal. A wild goose chase, probably, but—just suppose?

  With a slow grin on his face Turner made for his office desk and took up the telephone. In a few moments the impatient voice of Sir Gadsby Brough was floating over the wire.

  “Sir Gadsby? This is Turner of the Arrow. Can you grant me an interview to record your opinion of the Red Magician?”

  “I certainly cannot!” came the cold retort. “I have a monograph on inter-spatial tesseracts to finish. So far
as I am concerned the Red Magician is a cheap showman and there is no point in discussing him.”

  “Cheap showman!” Turner cried. “But hang it all, Sir Gadsby, you can’t mean—”

  “Don’t interrupt! I admit the Magician is clever, but I object to him turning the dignified profession of scientist into a cheap music hall entertainment—glorified conjuring tricks!”

  “Well—er—do you believe he’s a Martian?”

  “Lacking evidence to the contrary, I have to. His immovable space machine seems to make that point clear.”

  “But is there any way in which his ship might be moved scientifically? I mean by—well, say, the fourth dimension.”

  “Fourth dimension or otherwise the weight is the same,” Brough snapped. “No known means can yet explain that globe or its complex inner machinery.”

  Turner, scribbling busily on his writing pad, had already got the interview details he needed.

  “How do you account for the Indian rope trick?” he asked.

  “I am not a Hindu fakir, young man.”

  No, Turner reflected, he could hardly imagine the old boy prostrate on a bed of nails. Stifling a sudden desire to laugh, he continued his questioning.

  “I know that, sir,” he said, “but could you—could the Magician—produce the rope trick scientifically?”

  Brough seemed to consider.

  “Well, possibly,” he replied, after a long silence, “by some trick with light waves, but— Look here, Turner, you’re wasting my time. I have work to do.”

  “Sorry,” Turner murmured humbly. “You were saying about light waves—”

  “I’ve no time to go any further. If you’re so anxious to know about light waves, why don’t you read Abel Karton’s observations on them? Your own paper published his views some two years ago, when he tried to interest the War Office in a new invention. Very clever treatise. I have the column filed…”

  Another pause, then, “September 12th was the date. Now goodbye!”

  “Thanks, Sir Gadsby.” Turner rang off, thought for a moment, and surveyed his notes. “September 12th?” he muttered. “Two years ago? That was before I came here—one of Joan Wyngate’s jobs. Abel Karton? Never heard of him.”