“You were prepared for this then, Konda?”
“No. But there have been others whom it was necessary to be rid of in the same quiet way as this. This ship is specially constructed for undesirables....”
He leaned over the switchboard and made adjustments to the complicated mechanism, checked the fuel gauge, then turned an expressionless face.
“The time-switch mechanism is set to start in five minutes,” he said. “It will operate, hurtle the ship well clear of Earth, and will then send it on a straight-line journey. You will travel clear out of the Solar System, will keep on going until the power fails. By then you will be beyond Pluto and will maintain a constant velocity until some cosmic body attracts the ship. If by then you have not starved, you will die, ground to powder, and no man will ever know.”
Lanning could not think of anything to say. The merciless workings of Konda’s mind were beyond his gauging. First it had been Eleanor, because she had spoken the truth. Now it was himself, for exactly the same reason. And he had thought he had found a perfect lever to bring Konda’s kingdom crashing—!
The airlock clicked shut. Lanning stared bleakly at the control board, striving without avail to break the grip of the manacles. He waited through the longest five minutes he had ever known.
Suddenly the crushing pressure of the start was upon him. In his ears was the roar of the rocket jets, and through the ports he saw Earth bathed in pallid morning mist as he climbed into the infinite. Straight as an arrow, perfectly charted, the vessel hurtled into the star-pricked immensity of space
Lanning sat immovable, pinned down, but after a while a sensation of deepening alarm settled upon him as he felt a distant pull of the ship out of its charted direction
The nose was turning, slowly and inexorably, into the field of the titanic solar powerhouse magnet, a field existing between Earth and sun. Lanning found himself wondering what would happen. So far no spaceship had ever been near that deadly line. Paths had been charted to give it as wide a berth as possible...but in his urgency to be rid of his greatest enemy Konda had overlooked that this was only a small ship unprotected by giant rockets able to fire it away from the counter-pull.
The next thing he knew he was in the midst of the mystery-field. He could not analyse what was happening to him. His body was shot through with mind-numbing pain. He was alive and yet dead, caught in a fiery cramp that felt as though each nerve were exploding separately. His brain, right out of tune with his body, made him feel as though he were in two places at once, then the sensation blasted into a white-heat of anguish as his body felt as though it were bulging to breaking point. He stared at hands and arms bloated like balloons save for the narrow necks where the manacles gripped.
A ripping sensation made him scream with pain, but with it his mind returned to normal and the pain stopped. For a second or two he revelled in the sweet langour pervading him. Then he began to look around him. His hands caught his attention. Something was desperately wrong. His hands were like glass! He could see through them! Frightened, he looked down at himself. Everything that clothing did not hide was transparent!
Nor was this all, for with a sudden effort he lifted his hands clean through the manacles! Just as though his wrists were ploughing through cloying dough. Even as he got shakily to his feet he noticed he sank a little into the metal floor, finding solidity at about two inches’ depth It took him a long time to master himself; then terror gave way to scientific curiosity.
Turning to the switchboard he found he had just sufficient solidity in his fingers to move the levers. He cast aside the automatic devices and gave full blast to the rear tubes. Gradually he got the ship pulling away from the magnetic beam. He waited, wondering if he would regain his normal appearance once he was back in free space. His amazement was complete when transparency remained even when clear of the magnetic beam.
Puzzled, he started to think, going back over each of his sensations. Magnetism? Opposing forces. The truth filtered in slowly and made him gasp. The atoms of his body had coordinated! That was it.... Normally, the atoms and molecules of his body—any body—should be chasing hither and yon, the products of disorganized magnetism. Yet each atom and molecule possesses north and south poles. Magnetism. Disorganized. But if a gigantic force. a strange form of magnetism—such as that issuing from Konda’s magnetic powerhouse—were to cause all those atoms to turn their poles in one direction?
“I’d become as a ghost,” Lanning whispered. “Semi-transparent and able to walk through matter. The stray atoms still not turned by magnetism would make for a slight resistance. That is the ‘dough’ effect and the reason why I sink right through the floor. The majority of the atoms and molecules in my body have been turned in one direction, swung by the magnetism from Konda’s power plant. His magnetism reacts on human structure, evidently, but not on the artificially toughened matter of the ship.”
This puzzled him for a moment, but when he came to look closely, he saw that the vessel had also suffered a slight transparency.
“And nothing can put me right except demagnetisation,” Lanning mused. “Any more than an ordinary magnet can lose its magnetism without special treatment.”
Slowly the possibilities began to dawn upon him. He was unkillable, changed by the scientific fluke into a man to whom matter was no barrier, to whom a bullet meant no danger, to whom a death ray meant no more than a flash of light. Vengeance was his to exact at last! There remained—Konda! He had said he would escape to another world. Good! Lanning smiled icily. He would wait for him.
But two days and nights passed without any sign of spaceships leaving Earth. The reason was fairly obvious. The perturbations from onrushing Nemesis were making space itself like a stormy sea. Lanning could feel his own vessel rocking constantly. Time was moving fast. The comet had grown hugely in forty-eight hours.... So Lanning went back to Earth. The moment he was in the atmosphere he was amidst hot vapours, the view hidden in a smoky haze of dust brought about by the meteoric matter streaming ahead of the comet-meteorite itself. At intervals Lanning caught glimpses of men and women coming and going.
He landed at the space port amidst a fiery gloom. Eventually he beheld a spaceport official in the murk and caught hold of him. The man’s eyes stared as though they would drop out.
“Bruce Lanning!” he whispered. “The ghost of Bruce Lanning!”
“Where is Konda?” Lanning demanded.
“Nobody knows. The people got wise to this approaching asteroid and demanded Konda should protect them. He said he couldn’t. He fled into the city somewhere—”
Lanning was on his way, striding into the smoke. He went first to the main centre of the city. Heat-haze was everywhere. Moving, terrified people were too concerned with themselves to notice this hazy ghost of a man who sought revenge. Lanning went on, across bridges, through walls, through sealed doors. On and on until the night fell. Here Lanning paused, took what food he could find—for he still needed it—rested, and then set to again. Night was baleful in its terror. Nemesis was fully visible through the heat-fog, filling half the heavens, rolling and swelling and pouring its insufferable warmth down on the world. So suddenly had it appeared, so completely had Konda suppressed all news of it, there was no time left to avoid it. Four days and nights maybe, then—
Lanning’s jaw tightened. Something like ninety-six hours left in which to find Konda.
Night—and day again. Night again. Day again. Night— And still he searched, and ate, and rested. The heavens were a mass of orange light; the sky a vortex. His endless searching took him through buildings in which were huddles of people praying for deliverance....
The heavens changed to flaming scum. In two hours maybe the atmosphere would ignite. Life would vanish like tinder in a furnace. So Lanning came at last to the great solar powerhouse. Its engines were quiet and the staff had gone. But there was one lone figure with a bald head. Lanning smiled and walked down the main aisleway. Presently Konda caught sight of him and stared i
n frozen horror.
“How’d—how’d you get here?” he whispered. “You’re a ghost!”
“Does that matter?” Lanning demanded. “In a matter of minutes Nemesis will hit Earth. Our atmosphere will go. Tons of liquid rock will crash down into this powerhouse. Only space could have saved you, and you couldn’t get away from the mob. Millions will, die because of you, but at this moment I’m thinking of my wife who died because she told the truth. Damn you, Konda—damn you!”
Lanning’s semi-transparent hands flashed out, seizing Konda’s powerful neck. The fingers sunk further than normal, but at last they found resistance. They crushed, harder and harder, until Konda sank to his knees.
“Lanning!” he choked desperately. “Lanning, a chance!”
Lanning gave no answer. He screwed his fingers until he felt them crack. A faint smile curved his lips as he saw the purpling face and starting eyes....
Suddenly it came. The powerhouse shook. Heat rolled suddenly through the place, as though it had been dipped in molten lead. Walls, floor, ceiling, machines—all began to liquefy. Flames caught the dead Konda’s clothes and set them blazing. Lanning, too, felt the insufferable anguish of heat as the atoms and molecules of his body began to regain their normal haphazard positions under the influence of rising temperature. But to what end?
Hotter—and hotter. He felt himself melting away. But across the tumult of a dying world, there came a faint clear echo.
“I shall be waiting....”
“Leave—not—a—wrack—behind,” Lanning found himself thinking, and the inhuman truth of it blazed across his dying brain.
THREE’S A CROWD
The hour of glory was over, but nevertheless it had been of such an order as to make it unforgettable. The first expedition to an unexplored region of South America had returned intact, bringing with it one more member than had gone on the outward journey—the exquisite Verona, daughter of the ruler of the lost tribe that the explorers had discovered. What made matters all the more astonishing was that her peoples were far from being primitive savages, but had—for reasons that were still being investigated—elected to cut themselves off from civilization for centuries. To her there was now wedded Bruce Langden, leader of the expedition which had discovered her domain, under the expert navigation of Captain Jack Anderson.
Yes, the day of the anthropological world’s acclaim, the curiosity of the media, the interviews and nights of banqueting, were finished. Langden, Captain Anderson, and indeed every member of the expedition, were wealthy for life, mainly from the books they had yet to write upon their discoveries. The real story about the mysterious lost tribe was eagerly awaited by the world—were they really descendants of the long-vanished Incas?
But Bruce Langden was in no hurry to answer the questions. Months of strain and travel had given way now to sweet relaxation, relaxation with Verona at the villa Langden had bought for their honeymoon in the south of France. Here, in the hot sunlight of summer’s height, he and Verona were gradually working out for themselves the pattern of the future.
Yes, Verona was a very beautiful woman, golden-brown skinned like the rest of her race, differing in no way from the normal physical standards attributed to a woman of equatorial South America. Her hair was intensely black, her features regular, and her mouth small. She was tallish in stature and moved with the majestic grace that was her heritage, descended from the ruling clique of her people. Highly intelligent, her ability to learn and master the English language so quickly had been astonishing.
“To me, Bruce dearest,” Verona murmured one evening as they sat in the twilight of your terrace, “everything about your western world seems so orderly, so very—er—self-possessed. It reminds me of a big house, perfectly kept, whereas my own world had everything higgledy-piggledy.”
Bruce laughed. For one thing Verona’s newly acquired English was spoken in delightful halts and lisps; and for another her smiles were more than quaint.
“Big house or not, my dear, it’s yours and mine.” Bruce put his arm about her slender shoulders and drew her to him.
“Yes....” Verona gazed absently at the darkening western sky. “Sometimes, though, I become afraid when I think of how much I have yet to learn—about your people, your customs. Your civilization is much ahead of ours.”
“Just the luck of things,” Bruce murmured. “We have been able to advance our scientific knowledge because our different cultures came together and pooled their discoveries. We’ve even mastered space travel, amongst other things! And medical science can treat almost all known diseases.... Your people seem to have remained isolated for centuries, and so missed out....”
“Which knowledge you are prepared to give to my people?”
“Well—er—it’s not mine to give, Verona. It belongs to our world governments, and it is for them to give the permission. I am quite sure they will. But those deeper commercial issues are not our concern. The future belongs to us.”
Verona was silent. A faint, warm breeze disturbed the soft fairness of her hair. Bruce could dimly see those great eyes of hers gazing westwards. There was a certain wistful sadness about her expression.
“Homesick?” he whispered presently.
“No, it isn’t that. It’s—” Verona hesitated, then rose abruptly. “Let’s go inside, Bruce, it’s getting chilly.”
“Okay. I’d forgotten you’re a hothouse plant!”
Bruce followed her majestic figure across the terrace and into the lounge of the villa. He closed the French windows, switched on the standard lamp, and looked at Verona intently. The little lines of sadness were still there, but it struck him they had taken on an edge of anxiety too.
“What is it, dearest?” he asked in concern, going over to her. “Whatever your problem may be, I’m here to help you. I know you must find it difficult to fit yourself into the pattern of a different world, so—”
“It isn’t that. Bruce. I can’t explain it. It’s something entirely personal.”
“Oh—I see.” Bruce stood awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Verona smiled. “In some things we differ, Bruce dearest—that’s inevitable with our opposite heritages. If I ever seem moody, don’t worry about it—it’s just a part of me.”
“I’ll remember that.” Bruce tried to show unconcern by moving needlessly around the lounge. “Matter of fact, I think this place stuck here in southern France is too quiet for both of us. You need the surroundings of London, and I’m darned sure I do. More life, more gaiety altogether. The others who were with us on the expedition can easily pop in when they want and liven things up. Good old Jack Anderson and the rest of them. Eh?”
Verona nodded absently as she settled slowly on the divan.
“Yes, perhaps that would help.... After all, I cannot get to know your people really well unless I mix with them can I?”
“Of course not!” Bruce, big and clumsy, threw himself down on the divan beside her. With unmeaning roughness he drew her head down towards his shoulders. “The more you mix with them, the happier you’ll be. I’m wondering, though, if I’m not sticking my neck out by having Jack Anderson drop in whenever he wants. He and I ran it pretty close in our devotion for you.”
Verona smiled. “I married you, didn’t I? How much more convincing proof do you want?”
* * * *
Bruce did not waste any time. Within a week he had completed his negotiations for a city home—one of the most modern residences in London, and to here he and Verona moved at the earliest opportunity. Even so, there was still something wrong. Bruce could sense it, and it upset his blunt, forthright nature that he could not immediately pinpoint the trouble. Back of everything he was haunted by the dismal fear that perhaps Verona had grown tired of him. After all, they belonged to different cultures. Was this perhaps an irreconcilable problem?
It became more and more obvious as time passed that the change to city life was not the answer to Verona’s moodiness. T
he constant coming and going of friends—particularly big Jack Anderson, who never seemed to tire of Verona’s company—did not produce much change in the golden-skinned girl. Rather there was the opposite effect, and she began to make excuses to avoid meeting people. Upon which Bruce did the only thing he could. He shut the doors on everybody—at least until he had got to the root of the riddle in his wife’s outlook.
“At least give me some reasonable explanation,” he insisted on the first quiet evening he and Verona were able to have together. “I don’t know whether it’s good form in your society to sit around looking sullen, but it certainly isn’t the thing here!”
Verona gave a brief glance of reproach from her extraordinary eyes, and immediately Bruce felt willing to kick himself.
“Sorry, Verry. I didn’t mean that— I’m just wondering what to do next to try and make you happier. If you’re ill; if you find our climate a burden to you—though I can’t think why you should since there’s not all that much difference—then say so. I’ll see what can be done to have our specialists put you right.”
“I’d be better—a whole lot better—if I were left entirely to myself for about two weeks.”
“Eh?” Bruce said unbelievingly, “But—but I thought you said that you couldn’t get to know my people really well unless you mixed with them. Now you want to be left alone!”
“I do. I’m weighed down with a psychological condition, an aspect of the mind, far too complicated to explain. I’m quite sure it has been caused by my being uprooted from my home. Give me two weeks to commune with myself and I’ll be all right—for all time to come. You see—” Verona’s slim hand moved as she caught at the right phrase. “It’s a matter of adjustment.”
“And I’m in the way!”
“You’re never that, dearest. Please try to understand.”
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