The John Russell Fearn Science Fiction Megapack

by John Russell Fearn

  “Then—this girl—?” Milton hesitated and looked at her as she leaned forward interestedly.

  “I think,” Nelson said, “that she comes from a place fairly identical to our own, only with a Positivist outlook which is totally differ­ent. She proves that an external world is only sensory impression. Her race has schooled itself into believing that a certain aggregate of atoms and molecules represent a stone instead of a plant, a skin instead of a fabric. To them it is real: to us it is false. Onia’s conceptions of colour are different from ours. She has an added advantage of being able to see beyond the limits of the spectrum… In other words, a different evolution entirely but, in its own way, just as accurate as ours.”

  “But where is this place?” Milton insisted. “Never mind the Positivist conception! Let’s have facts!”

  Nelson shook his head dubiously. “We can’t get at that all in a few minutes, Milton. It may take a long time—may even mean opening up fields of science hardly suspected. You can take it for granted, though, that I’ll find Onia’s world if it’s the last thing I ever do. With her knowledge of mathematics it may be an easier job than it looks.”

  “Which means another delay,” Milton sighed, rising to his feet. “Still, I appreciate the circumstances. Let me know the moment you discover anything… And now I must be getting along.”

  He bowed formally to the thoughtful girl and took his departure, leaving three independent minds wrestling with a most complex problem.

  * * * *

  It was one thing to attempt to mathematically trace the origin of Onia and distinctly another to do it practically. Though her mathematics were without flaw, evidencing the high scientific knowledge of her race, she was constantly at a disadvantage because her out­look was so completely different.

  Distances, colours, aspects of time, under­went variations which placed them hopelessly out of true with normal conception—or at least so-called normal conception. She toiled with a tireless energy, spurring both Nelson and Eric to achievements in figures which surprised even themselves.

  Even a line of self-analysis was tried, tracing back in the true Positivist fashion into the girl’s own history, determining which particular inci­dents in her life had led her to certain convic­tions and actions—but none of them led any­where. Her world was too much at variance to provide a convincing basis.

  At the end of a fortnight of feverish endeavour, with nothing to show for it except a mass of brilliant but useless calculations. Nelson was decidedly irritated. He paced his laboratory, abstractedly fingering the row of pencils in his breast pocket and scowling at the floor.

  Eric and the girl were both seated in thought, all lines of reasoning temporarily exhausted.

  “You are sure your father used some sort of mosaic?” Nelson demanded at length, halting. “It really was a device that somehow altered the paths of atoms and molecules?”

  “Of course,” the girl replied quietly. “That is why I cannot understand why my figures do not work out correctly. I know most of the metals he used and all their specific atomic weights—yet all we get out of it is a mathe­matical jigsaw! It’s all so completely—”

  “Say, wait a minute!” Eric exclaimed sud­denly, his face brightening. “Suppose you are right, Onia, and we are wrong? Suppose you have been working on the figures of your atoms and molecules—not ours. The figurative basis is different in our respective worlds.”

  “What are you driving at?” Nelson asked curtly.

  “I’m suggesting that the Positivist outlook has been letting us down. Onia has tried to work from her viewpoint in this world. That’s all wrong. She’s not been educated to under­stand our atomic bases. We’ve got to undergo a complete reconstruction of figures and find the corresponding ones. Translate her figure con­ceptions into our meanings.”

  “I believe you’re right,” the girl herself said. “I also begin to think that my world and this one exist in the same place.”

  “That’s impossible!” Eric protested. “Two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

  “Why not?” Onia asked. “Between the atoms of apparent solids there are spaces as comparably vast as those between this world and the nearest galaxy. How do we know that my world or your world are the only ones? Suppose Nature has ordained it that the atoms of countless worlds fit exactly into the spaces which are left between? A great interlocking process.”

  Nelson’s face was beaming with delight. “In­deed, why not! Rutherford and Nils Bohr have both proved that solids are, paradoxically, all space! If we assume that other atoms fit into the spaces in flawless mathematical symmetry it means that there is no space at all in the Uni­verse—only one vast composite of solids.”

  “But oughtn’t we to be able to see the aggre­gate effect of those other atoms?” Eric asked, puzzled.

  “Anything but it!” Onia exclaimed, taking up the scientific thread with sudden eagerness. “The very fact that your world seems insane to me—that I look incredible to you—is be­cause our outlooks are so utterly at variance. That very fact proves that we are limited to the fundamental conceptions of our particular worlds. We only see that which sensory im­pression directs: beyond that we cannot go. I could no more see this world from my own than you can see mine from here. The whole out­look is changed; that’s why… If we do start to work by transposing my figures into your own mathematical principle we may be able to get somewhere.”

  “No question about it!” Nelson declared, and snatching out a green pencil from his pocket he began to compute rapidly, to be presently joined by Eric with the girl herself as exponent of the examples…

  From that moment onwards the former diffi­culties were entirely absent. Equations began to balance, though Nelson and Eric could only guess at their ultimate meaning. Their task was solely to transcribe the girl’s calculations into normal meaning. Once this was done she continued her own activities, ultimately produc­ing the basis of a machine which she averred was identical with the one her father had con­structed.

  The actual assembly of the strange machine took two months’ time in which Dr. Milton bobbed fitfully in and put, usually snorting im­patiently and demanding to know how much longer. He could see neither sense nor object in the oddly fashioned metal apparatus grow­ing in the laboratory, nor did a gigantic oval of composite metals—a flawless mosaic—convey anything tp him. Not that Eric or Nelson were much the wiser either until the machine was finally finished and linked up to the control panel. Then Onia took it upon herself to ex­plain.

  Milton, taking a morning off from the hospital in order to be present, stood in critical silence, too independent to admit he was completely at sea. Nelson was dusty and sceptical; Eric thoughtfully interested. He was perfectly satis­fied in his own mind that Onia could not do anything wrong.

  “Through this mosaic we can, I think, gain entrance to my world,” the girl explained slowly, walking round it. “It is a replica, as far as my memory serves me, of the device my father made. If we accept the theory of our worlds being interlocked it is obvious that we can only cross from one to the other by re-patterning the atomic configurations existing between. This mosaic is made up of the basic elements of my world, all of which exist here but under dif­ferent mathematical meanings. A field of force passed through the mosaic will cause the various metal atoms to change their configurations into the order existing in my world.”

  “Why?” Milton asked bluntly. “How do you know that will happen?”

  “Because the force will be mathematically predetermined in both effect and efficiency to duplicate the force used by my father. Force is the same in any space; only the method of using it is different. Now we have our figuring straightened out the matter presents no com­plexity. These mosaic atoms will be compelled to undergo great changes.”

  “Then what?” Nelson questioned.

  “Then, unless I’m tremendously out in my reckonings, we shall be able to step from one plane to the other. The barrier betwe
en will be temporarily broken down.”

  “Sounds rather too good to be true to me,” Eric commented. “Besides, if that really be the case, how is it that your own particular mosaic wasn’t visible to you when you came through it? Surely it ought to have been? Like a doorway in the air?”

  Onia’s face clouded a little. “That is the part I cannot quite understand,” she confessed, her voice troubled. “Of course, I got here through an accident of my own making. The machine might have been destroyed. On the other hand…” She stopped and shrugged, as though afraid to say what she really thought. “I have often considered it rather strange that my father did not build another mosaic and try to find me.”

  There was an awkward silence; then Milton coughed himself into being noticed.

  “This—mosaic,” he said, wandering round {be skilfully constructed oval, suspended by shining metal brackets to the main framework of the contrivance. “When exactly do you in­tend to use it?”

  “Now,” Nelson replied promptly. “Why else do you think we summoned you so urgently? Onia’s mind is made up and every­thing is set to go. Isn’t it?” He glanced at her enquiringly.

  “Everything,” she agreed, hovering before the switchboard, and she indicated a haversack of provisions, water flask, and revolver on a nearby chair. “I’m all prepared, you see. There is no knowing how far I may have to travel when I get to the other side. Granting I ever do, that is.”

  “You are quite sure you wouldn’t prefer us to come with you?” Nelson urged.

  “Not until I have proved that my figures are right, otherwise I might plunge you into some kind of atomic chaos from which there would be no escape. Once it is definitely established that we can pass between worlds without trouble—or at least between planes—the great step will have been made… Now let us see how things are.”

  Her hand closed the switch which started the generators. The massive gauge tubes on top of the switchboard suffused with a curious multi­-coloured energy, predominated by twisting streaks of vermillion. With a dull crackling roar the intricate wiring of the amazing mosaic came into life, setting each little facet glowing with different colours as the atomic construc­tion underwent sudden and extreme changes.

  In complete silence the four watched, their gaze fixed to the amazing display as colour interwove with colour in a fashion both beauti­ful and incredible. The heavy smell of ozone began to permeate the electrically-charged air.

  “It’s melting!” Milton exclaimed suddenly, his bony face outthrust.

  “Not melting,” Onia corrected him. “Just changing its composition.”

  Again silence fell. Nelson stood tightly clutching the pencils in his pocket, perspiration glistening on his bald head. Eric was all eyes, half crouching.

  The multicolours swirled and twisted off into apparent vapours. From the extreme diamond-pointed centre of the mosaic the queer effect spread in a rippling circle through every facet, leaving finally a misty oval with a perfectly solid frame around it. And beyond that oval there was no sign of the laboratory fittings—only a blank, incomprehensible grey, uninviting and mysterious.

  “Is that your plane?” Milton jerked out at last, glancing towards the girl.

  “My world—my plane—lies beyond that mist,” Onia replied soberly. “Or at least I hope it does. Beyond the mist should be the daylight of my own plane. Since it is morning here it will be morning there. The times corres­pond.”

  She turned about suddenly and slipped the haversack and flask over her shoulder. Then she took up the revolver into her right hand.

  “Well, I’m going to try it!” She said the words quite simply, as though she were trying to disguise a certain deep-felt regret. “I can only repeat my eternal thanks to you for the help you have been to me. You won’t go un­rewarded if this works out right, believe me…”

  With a faint smile she turned and moved to­wards the oval, only to pause as Eric jumped forward and gripped her arm. She turned in surprise.

  “Listen, Onia, I can’t let you walk out just like this!” Eric’s voice was quiet but deter­mined. “It’s meant something so different to me to have you around and— Well, I can’t picture myself going on working once you have gone!”

  “Silly!” she chided, colouring a little.

  “I mean it, Onia! I want to come with you… Suppose you should walk into a world which isn’t your own? Just think what you might be up against! You might need a man beside you who can tackle things.”

  “I had never thought of the possibility of not finding my own plane, Eric, but now you men­tion it—”

  “Look. Eric, I don’t agree with this at all!” Nelson strode forward, his face concerned. “There’s a lot of work to be done once Onia’s gone. You just can’t walk out on me.”

  “I’m afraid I can, even though I apologize for it. Laboratory assistants are ten a penny, sir, and there’s only one Onia. That’s how I look at it. If there are dangers I want to share them with her. If there are not—well, all the better for both of us.”

  Milton laughed shortly. “Great heavens, the man’s in love! Better let him go, Nelson. The scientist who lets romance upset his emotions won’t be a scrap of use.”

  Nelson said nothing. He thrust his hands in his jacket pockets and looked at the two young people moodily. They looked back at him, then at the sardonically smiling Milton.

  “Ready?” Eric asked finally, taking the gun from the girl’s hand. Her response was to step forward into the oval, and instantly she dis­appeared. Eric did not hesitate a moment. He strode forward into the unknown—following her, and at that same moment he found himself punched and pummelled with unknown forces, finally pull up short and discover the girl was only a yard or so away.

  Her beautiful face was distraught, pale with worry, as she surveyed the rocky, unfamiliar wilderness into which they had come. The sky was green, to Eric anyway, and the morning sun bluish.

  Eric turned stupidly. To the rear there was no sign of the mosaic through which they had come. They had irrevocably burned their bridges behind them.

  “Is—is this your plane?” Eric whispered at last, his arm about the girl’s shoulders.

  She shook her head in dismay. “No! No such wilderness as this is in my plane. Some­where there must have been an error— It means,” she continued, thinking, “that there must be others! Maybe tens of millions of planes all parallel in the spaces between the atomic aggregates, and to find one amidst them all would perhaps take a lifetime. Perhaps, even, it can never be accomplished!”

  Eric was silent. Then he tried to smile. Onia gave him a hopeless look.

  “No way back, Eric. Only forward! No chance of trying again for my own plane unless we find mathematicians in this plane.”

  “We have no choice but to try,” he murmured, holding her against him. “We’re in this together, Onia. We’d better see what we can find.”

  They began moving and overhead the blue sun blazed down in impartial brilliance…

  LATER THAN YOU THINK

  The clock had never stopped before and its mechanism was undamaged. Why then would it not go?

  Martin Wilson had been repairing clocks for as long as he could remember. He was quite sure he would always be repairing clocks. He did not mind if he died repairing clocks.

  His small shop in a street off one of London’s busiest thoroughfares was inconspicuous, even medieval. It had windows that belonged to a forgotten time. They bowed out and were small-paned, like something Dickensian. Behind them was a conglomeration of clocks, some going, some not, but all of them valuable for their very antiquity.

  Had he wished, Martin Wilson could have netted a small fortune from his collection, but money simply did not interest him. All he wanted was to make and repair clocks, to fondle them, to take them apart and put them together again. From the busy little ticking of a watch to the stately beating of a lordly grandfather he knew every pulse and throb. The sound of clocks comprised his world, his everything. His customers
brought clocks to him for two reasons: some because they were—quite mistakenly—sorry for the grey-haired old man who was apparently too frail to make a living any other way; others because of his superb workmanship.

  This September night he was, as usual, busy, and also—as usual—he had forgotten to draw the blinds over the window or lock the door. Outside, it was drizzling gently and the air was stifling warm with a hangover from summer. The few lamps that lighted the narrow street were casting back from the glare of wet flagstones. At the far end of his shop Martin Wilson worked under an electric bulb hanging low from a length of flex, putting the finishing touches to a recalcitrant marble timepiece. He smiled as he wound it and then listened attentively to its steady ticking.

  He glanced up at the master-clock on the opposite wall. The master­-clock’s big pendulum was swinging deliberately. It was exactly ten. Martin Wilson adjusted the hands of the marble clock and then stood it amongst the half dozen other timepieces he had repaired during the day.

  For a moment there was something unexpected. Martin Wilson felt as though he were not looking at clocks but at something dark. It was like a shadow interceding between the clocks and the electric bulb. Their bright, burnished glitter faded and became opaque and meaning­less. The clicking and ticking and tocking faded into a jumble of sounds, which became discord… Then everything was back as it had been.

  Martin Wilson was puzzled. He leaned forward in curiosity, press­ing hard against the edge of his workbench. He felt something grind in his pocket but he was too confused for the moment to pay heed.