The Pulp Fiction Megapack

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  “Inspector Brice,” he said quietly. “Monsieur Foulet. Lieutenant Ainslee. We are glad to welcome you.” His words were courteous, but something in his tone sent a tingling chill down my spine. It was cold, as soulless as the clink of metal. It was dull, without life or inflection. But there was something else—something I could not name.

  I was nearest the door and scrambled out first. To my surprise it was not dark. We were enveloped by a radiance, rosy as the broad ray had been, but fainter, like the afterglow of a sunset. By this light I could make out, vaguely, our surroundings. We seemed to be on a plateau; a great flat space probably an acre in extent, surrounded by a six-foot wall. Behind us there was a wide gateway through which our airplane had just come and across which workmen were dropping bars made of some material like cement. Before us, dotting this acre or so of plateau, were small, domed structures made of the same cement-like material. In the center of the plateau rose a larger domed building with a segment of its roof open to the stars and through this opening I could see the shadowy suggestion of a great lamp. There was the source of that powerful magnetic ray!

  Foulet and Brice scrambled out and stood beside me. They said never a word, but I knew that every sense was alert.

  “If you will follow me,” that same cold, expressionless voice murmured. I turned to look at the man. He was not bad looking, clean shaven, well tailored. He swung his eyes to meet my gaze and as he did so that same chill fled along my spine. His eyes—what was the matter with them? They were dark—brown or black—and as shiny as shoe buttons. But there was no gleam of expression in them. Their shine was the glitter of polished glass.

  Without a word we followed him across the small cleared space where our airplane stood, past a row of the small, domed structures to a low door cut in the white wall of the great central building. At the doorway he turned.

  “I am taking you to the Master,” he said; then, over his shoulder he added. “There is no means of escape—we are two thousand feet above the earth!” And he laughed—a quick, short cackle of crazy laughter. I felt the breath catch in my throat and the short hairs prickle at my neck. Foulet gripped my arm. Through my coat I could feel the chill of his fingers, but his grasp steadied me.

  We walked on, following our guide. Down a narrow passageway, through a low arched door into a small room, evidently an ante-chamber to a larger room beyond. Without a word our guide left us, passing through another door which he closed after him.

  Brice and Foulet and I exchanged looks, but we were silent. It might be we were watched. It might be that the very walls had ears. We could trust nothing.

  Our guide returned. “The Master,” he said and flung open a wide door.

  We found ourselves in a large room filled with paraphernalia of all sorts: wires, lights, laboratory tables cluttered with test tubes and apparatus—and in the midst of this ordered chaos stood a man, his gleaming eyes watching us fixedly.

  At first I was conscious of nothing but his eyes. Large, coal black and shiny with that peculiar, expressionless gloss I had noted in the eyes of our guide. Later I realized that he was of slight build, meticulously neat, with a tiny black waxed mustache and a carefully trimmed Van Dyke beard.

  “Welcome to my floating island,” he said gravely, never swerving those shiny eyes for an instant. “We have hoped long for your coming.” He paused, noiselessly rubbing his hands, and watching us. We stared back, fascinated by that glossy, fixed gaze. “There is much to tell you,” he went on, “and to ask you.” He permitted himself a slow smile that spread his lips but failed to reach his eyes. “During your stay here,” he continued, “which I hope will be both long and profitable, you will become my slaves and will know me as Master. But before you come under my domination you may know my name.”

  For the first time he moved his eyes. His glance swept the room as if to assure himself we were alone. He stepped, as swiftly and softly as a cat, over to the door through which we had entered, opened it, spoke to our guide who was waiting in the ante-room, closed it and returned. He faced us, his lips smiling and his eyes as blank as polished agate.

  “My name,” he said softly, “is Algernon—Frederick—Fraser!” He paused and watched us. Behind me I felt Foulet start; I heard Brice’s quickly suppressed gasp. My own throat closed on words that might have been fatal. Algernon Frederick Fraser! Was it possible? Could it be?

  Five years before Fraser had suddenly burst on the world of science. He had made some amazing discoveries regarding the power of light; discoveries that would reorganize the living conditions of the world. For a week or two the papers were filled with the man’s amazing genius; then no more was heard of him. Had he died? What was the story?

  * * * *

  Two years passed and even the name of Fraser was forgotten. Then suddenly it burst forth again in the headlines of the world. Fraser had disappeared! Fraser had vanished! But not as a brilliant genius of science; he had gone as an escaped lunatic! After his amazing burst of fame his mind snapped. Somehow the story had been kept out of the press.

  Fraser was incarcerated in a quiet, very private asylum, and that was all. All—until he escaped. When that happened the story couldn’t be hushed any longer. The press was informed, the people were warned. He became known as the Mad Menace. The police and secret service organizations of the world searched for him. His name became a byword. Where had he gone? What would he do? What was his scheme? For he was still the astounding scientific genius. That portion of his mind was untouched. At the time of his escape the physicians in charge of the case assured the press that Fraser’s scientific mind was every bit as sound as ever.

  And that was all. Aside from his god Science he was a maniac—inhuman, cruel, unreasoning. What would such a man do loosed in the world? What might he not do? Was it possible that it was this man who stood before us now with his eyes fastened upon us so intently and his lips spread in that little, empty smile? Suddenly I knew! Those eyes! Those eyes were the shiny, vacuous, soulless eyes of a madman!

  “I see,” he said softly, “that you have heard of me. But it is three years since your world has seen me—yes?” He laughed—a low laugh that seemed to freeze the air around him. “They call me mad.” His smile faded, his eyes bored through us like steel needles. “I am not mad! No madman could do what I have done in three years!” For the first time an expression flickered in his eyes—a crafty gleam of vanity that flared instantaneously. “Would you like to see?” He leaned toward us. We bowed, but it was Brice who spoke.

  “Very much, Doctor Fraser—”

  “Don’t call me that!” The man whirled like a tiger ready to spring. “Don’t call me that! I am Master here! Call me Master! Say it.” His voice rose to a shriek. “Say it—Master!”

  I clamped my teeth against the bloodless horror of that maniacal voice. It chilled my veins. Again I felt the hair rise on my scalp. Brice bowed quietly; and his eyes, serene and blue, met Fraser’s fairly.

  “Of course, Master.” His low English voice soothed the bristling silence. “I am sure I speak for Monsieur Foulet and Lieutenant Ainslee when I say that we would be most deeply interested in your achievements.”

  Fraser was placated. He relaxed. He softly rubbed his hands while a smug, crafty smile flitted across his lips. “You will follow me,” he murmured.

  He led the way back through the ante-room and down the passageway till we stood again under the stars, and again I was struck by the strange light, warm and faint and rosy like a sunset afterglow. As if he read my thought Fraser turned to me.

  “I will show you first the source of this rosy light; that, I believe, will explain a great deal.” He led the way down one of the narrow pathways between the low, domed houses—if they could be called houses, for they were little larger than kennels. At the six-foot wall that surrounded this plateau he paused. “Would you like to look over the wall?” he asked.

  For the space of a breath we hesitated. Was this a trap? Through my mind flashed the words of the
man who had guided us to Fraser. “You are two thousand feet above the earth,” he had said. Was that true? And if it were, might not Fraser push us over the wall? But instantly logic came to my rescue. Fraser had brought us here, and he could have brought us for but one thing: to question us. Would he be apt to do us harm before those questions were asked? And besides, would Fraser’s brilliantly subtle mind stoop so low as to destroy enemies by pushing them over a wall?

  “Thank you,” we murmured simultaneously. “This whole achievement is of tremendous interest to us,” Foulet added.

  Fraser chuckled. “It will be of greater interest—later,” he said, and his blank, glittering eyes rested on first one of us, then another with a cold, satisfied gleam. Then he lifted his hand and opened a square door in the wall about the size of a port-hole. To my surprise the little door swung back as lightly as a feather and made scarcely a sound as it slammed against the wall itself. Again Fraser answered my unspoken thought.

  “It has only substance,” he said with his vain smirk. “No weight whatever. This entire platform together with its huts is lighter than air. If I should tear loose this little door it would float out of my hands instantly and go straight up to the stars. The substance—I have called it Fleotite—is not only lighter than air but lighter than ether.”

  “But we are not floating,” said Brice; “we are stationary. Is the lightness of your Fleotite counteracted by the weight of the men and machines?”

  Fraser shook his head. “Not entirely,” he said. “But first look through this little window. Then I will explain.”

  Eagerly we pressed forward. Our danger was almost forgotten in our interest. This was amazing—stupendous! Together, shoulder to shoulder, we gazed through the aperture. We were suspended in space! Above us shone the blue-black Arabian night, and beneath us—far, far beneath—lay the sands of the desert looking rosy and warm in that same dull red glare of light that, to a fainter degree, gave us the effect of afterglow. But we were not floating; we were anchored as securely as a ship riding in a calm harbor.

  We turned back to Fraser, amazed, awed, bursting with questions. Madman he might be, but he had wrought a miracle.

  “I will explain,” he said and his eyes gleamed with pride. “Of course you know of my tremendous discoveries connected with the power of light. At any rate, five years ago, the scientific world on earth thought they were tremendous. In reality that was nothing to my amazing strides in the past three years. There is nothing that cannot be done with light! Nothing!” For the first time Fraser’s eyes became alive. They were illumined. His whole body seemed to radiate light and fire and genius. We listened, fascinated.

  “Take, for instance,” he continued eagerly, “that ray with which I drew you and your plane to me. That ray is the pure power of magnetism. At full strength it will draw anything to it instantly. Fortunately the power can be regulated: I can switch a lever in my laboratory and draw things to me, via the ray, at any speed I wish—one hundred, two hundred, a thousand miles an hour.”

  “How far can you throw the ray?” asked Foulet, and I knew he was thinking of that glider that rose from the roof-tops of Constantinople. Fraser also knew he was thinking of that.

  “I did not draw the glider,” he said quietly. “The airplane I sent did that. My airplanes carry batteries of this ray. In the beginning I found gliders to be more practical for my purposes than airplanes. For one thing they were silent. My only problem was that of getting them off the ground. Once they were in the air I could manage everything. It was this problem that inspired this discovery and perfection of the ray. But, you asked how far I can throw the ray? This main lamp, that I operate myself from here, is effective at two hundred miles. At one hundred miles it enjoys its full power.”

  “And you can draw anything to you,” asked Brice, “within the radius of the magnetic ray?”

  “Anything in the air,” answered Fraser. “But of course I must use caution. Great caution. If I drew planes to me indiscriminately I would draw attention to myself; my secret and my location here would leak out. No. That must not be. So the only planes I bring are my own—and yours.” He paused and his black eyes, again glassy, swept over us. “It is a compliment I pay you,” he said finally. “You have become too troublesome. You know too much. Sooner or later the time would come when you would combine your forces. That would be a nuisance. So I decided to bring you here.”

  “Suppose,” asked Foulet curiously, “we hadn’t fallen into your trap? Suppose we had turned back before reaching the point where your ray is effective?”

  Fraser shook his head and that smug, offensive smile appeared again. “You were trapped from the beginning, though you didn’t know it,” he said. “The plane you were following was equipped with batteries of the ray which, while not as powerful as the lamp I have here, were still powerful enough to hold you to the course we choose you to run. But enough of the ray,” he added impatiently. “There are one or two other things I want to explain and then—” he paused and the pause, somehow, was alive with menace. What was he going to do after he had finished treating us as honored guests? For the third time he answered my unspoken question. His eyes narrowed till they were black, glittering slits. His voice, as he leaned toward us, was no more than a hissing whisper.

  “Slaves!” he said, and his lips twisted. “How will you like to be slaves of Mad Algy Fraser?” He laughed—a chuckle that started in his throat and rose and rose till it seemed to shatter my ear-drums. I felt my teeth grinding together and my nails bit my palms in my effort to control my nerves against the strain of that maniacal glee. Suddenly he sobered. His laugh died instantly like a radio that had been snapped off. “Listen and I will tell you. I will tell you everything because it is necessary for you to know so that you may work for me intelligently and you will remember better and be of greater use to me if I tell you now while you are yet—sane!”

  “Sane!” The exclamation sprang from the three of us simultaneously. I felt a cold chill start between my shoulder blades. For an instant my breath choked in my throat. My heart paused—and then raced. What did he mean? What was he going to do to us? What scheme had he evolved in his crazed brain?

  “I have perfected a serum”—his tone was professional, cold; he might have been talking to a class in a lecture room—”a serum that robs the patient of every vestige of human emotion—and therefore sanity. All his intellect, his memories, however, remain, to serve him in carrying out my orders. He loses all his will to live and resist, and becomes nothing but an automaton, whose complete mental equipment is at my command.”

  There was silence. His glassy black eyes, blank and soulless, swept over us. His mouth curled in that smug, complacent smile. He had us with our shoulders to the floor. He knew it—and he knew we knew it. There was no possible way we could escape. We were two thousand feet above the earth. Our plane wouldn’t get a quarter of a mile before the magnetic ray would bring it back. Parachute? Even supposing we could get parachutes where would we go? Drop two thousand feet into the middle of the Arabian Desert?

  My brain raced. Never before had I been in such a tight place. And soon—if Fraser had his way—I wouldn’t even have a mind to think with! I felt choked, stifled. Was there no way out? It seemed to me that a blanket—a soft, terrible blanket of uncontrollable circumstance—was being folded around me, robbing me of the use of my limbs, paralyzing me, numbing me. And out of this terrible helplessness came again Fraser’s voice.

  “I have told you enough,” he said suavely, “so that you may have a faint idea of my power. I will send you now to Doctor Semple who will administer the serum and place you under the ‘nourishment ray.’ This is another of my discoveries,” he added casually. “It is a ray which allows the patient to absorb, through the shell of the skin, sufficient nourishment, both solid and liquid, to last for twenty-four hours.”

  * * * *

  Five minutes later we stood in a small room that might have been the office of an up-to-date physici
an anywhere in the world. Across the polished top of a mahogany desk Dr. Semple stared at us, his eyes, like the eyes of our guide and Fraser, polished and expressionless. But now we understood. Those eyes were expressionless because there was nothing to give them expression. I tried to force my mind to comprehend the almost incomprehensible. We were among men who were not men! We were fast in the power of human beings who possessed no trace of humanity, who had become nothing but scientific Robots even though they still had bodies of flesh and blood! It was unbelievable! My hands grew cold and my brain hot at the thought. Yet, gazing into the bright, enamelled eyes of Dr. Semple, I knew it was true.

  Carefully, scientifically, we were prepared for our injections. And with every mechanical move of the doctor my mind seemed to take on fresh speed as it raced toward some solution to our terrible problem. My eyes flew around the tiny office searching for some means of escape. Doctor Semple turned to prepare the syringe. Behind his back Brice gestured frantically. Somehow I understood. In my pocket was a flask—a flask I had filled with drinking water in Constantinople. Bewildered, I handed it over to him.

  The doctor turned, swabbed a patch of iodine on our arms, reached for the syringe. As he leaned over, Foulet thrust forward a foot. The doctor tripped, sprawled full length on the floor. Foulet and I quickly stooped to pick him up, standing between him and Brice—shielding his eyes so that he could not see. We fumbled to give Brice time. We apologized and soothed. Out of the tail of my eye I could see Brice working like lightning—emptying out the syringe of that villainous liquid, filling it with clear water.

  * * * *

  It was done! We raised the doctor to his feet; gave his clothes a final brush. But as we stood back I know my hands were trembling and I had to clamp my teeth to keep them from chattering. Were we out of danger yet? Would the doctor discover our ruse? And, if we got out of his office without receiving the terrible injection, could we successfully fool Fraser and his “slaves” into believing we were mad? Fool them until we got a chance to escape? Could we simulate that glassy stare? Were we sufficiently good actors to get away with it? The questions pounded and raced through my brain in that instant when Doctor Semple turned again to his desk and picked up the syringe.