He tried to think what he must do. Neither Helen nor Jack must know that he was living, and that meant that no one in the city must know. He must get out of the town to some other place, take up life under some other name.
But he would need help, money, to do that. Where was he to get them? Barred as he was from calling on his wife or son, to whom could he tum for help without letting his return become generally known?
Howard Norse!
The name came at once to Woodford's lips. Norse had been his employer, head of the firm where Woodford had held a position for many years. Woodford had been one of his oldest employees. Howard Norse would help him to get a position somewhere else, and would keep his reappearance secret.
He knew where Norse’s residence was, several miles out in the country. But he couldn’t walk that far, and he had no taxi or trolley fare. He would have to telephone Norse.
Woodford walked back toward the city’s central section, head bent against the piercing cold wind. He succeeded in finding an all-night lunchroom whose proprietor allowed him to use the telephone. With cold-stiffened lingers he dialed Norse’s number.
Howard Norse’s sleepy voice soon came over the wire. “Mr. Norse, this is Woodford—John Woodford," he said quickly.
There was an incredulous exclamation from Howard Norse. "You’re crazy! John Woodford’s been dead and buried for a couple of weeks!"
"No, I tell you it’s John Woodford!" insisted Woodford. "I’m not dead at all, I’m as living as you are! If you’ll come into town for me you’ll see for yourself."
"I’m not likely to drive to town at two in the morning to look at a maniac," Norse replied acidly. "Whatever your game is, you’re wasting your time on me."
"But you’ve got to help me!" Woodford cried. “I’ve got to have money, a chance to get out of the city without anyone knowing. I gave your firm my services for years and now you’ve got to give me help!"
"Listen to me, whoever you are," snapped Norse over the wire. "I was bothered long enough with John Woodford when he was living—he was so inefficient we’d have kicked him out long ago if we hadn’t been sorry for him. But now that he’s dead, you needn’t think you can bother me in his name. Good-night!"
The receiver clicked in Woodford’s unbelieving ear.
He stared at the instrument. So that was what they had really thought of him at the firm--there where he had always thought himself one of the most highly valued of employees!
But there must be someone upon whom he could call for help; someone he could convince that John Woodford was still living; someone who would be glad to think that he might be living.
What about Willis Grann? Grann had been his closest friend next to Curtis Dawes. He had lent money more than once to Woodford in the past, and certainly should be willing to do so now.
Hastily Woodford called Grann’s number. This time he was more careful in his approach, when he heard the other’s voice.
"Willis, I’ve got something to tell you that may sound incredible, but you’ve got to believe, do you hear?" he said.
"Who is this and what in the world are you talking about?" demanded Grann’s startled voice.
"Willis, this is John Woodford. Do you hear, John Woodford! Everyone thinks I’m dead but I’m not, and I’ve got to see you."
“What?" cried the other’s voice over the telephone. “Why, you must be drunk. I saw Woodford lying in his coffin myself, so I know he’s dead."
"I tell you, it’s not so, I’m not dead!" Woodford almost screamed. "I’ve got to get some money, though, to get away from here and you must lend it to me! You always lent it to me before, and I need it now worse than ever I did. I’ve got to get away!"
"So that’s it!" said Willis Grann. "Because I used to help Woodford out you think you can get money from me by just calling me up and pretending that you’re he. Why, Woodford himself was the biggest pest in the world with his constant borrowings. I felt almost relieved when he died. And now you try to make me believe that he’s come back from the dead to pester me again!"
“But he never died—I’m John Woodford really—" Woodford protested vainly.
“Sorry, old top," returned Grann’s mocking voice. "Next time pick a living person to impersonate, not a dead one."
He hung up. John Woodford slowly replaced the receiver and made his way out to the street.
The wind was blowing harder and now was bringing with it clouds of fine snow that stung against his face like sand. He shivered as he stumbled along the streets of dark shops, his body freezing as his mind was frozen.
There was no one from whom he could get help, he saw. His paramount necessity was still to get out of the city, and to do that he must rely on himself.
The icy blasts of the snow-laden wind penetrated through his thin coat. His hands were shaking with the cold.
A sign caught Woodford’s eye, the illuminated beacon of a relief lodging-house. At once he made his way toward it. He could at least sleep there tonight, get started from the city in the morning.
The shabby men dozing inside in chairs looked queerly at him as he entered. So did the young clerk to whom he made his way.
“I’d—I’d like to stay here tonight," he said to the clerk.
The clerk stared. "Are you trying to kid me?"
Woodford shook his head. "No, I’m penniless and it’s cold outside. I’ve got to stay somewhere."
The clerk smiled disdainfully. "Listen, fellow, no one with duds like yours is that hard up. Scram before I call a cop.”
Woodford looked down at his clothes, his frock coat and stiff white shirt and gleaming patent-leather shoes, and understood.
He said desperately to the clerk, "But these clothes don’t mean anything. I tell you, I haven’t a penny!"
"Will you beat it before I have you thrown out of here?" the clerk demanded.
Woodford backed toward the door. He went outside again into the cold. The wind had increased and more snow was falling. The front of Woodford’s coat was soon covered with it as he pushed along.
It came to him as a queer joke that the splendor of his funeral clothes should keep him from getting help now.
He couldn’t even beg a passer-by for a dime. Who would give to a panhandler in formal clothes?
Woodford felt his body quivering and his teeth chattering from sheer cold. If he could only get out of the blast of the icy wind! His eyes sought desperately along the street for a hallway where he might shelter himself.
He found a deep doorway and crouched down inside it, out of the wind and driving snow. But hardly had he done so when a heavy step paused in front of him and a nightstick rapped his feet smartly. An authoritative voice ordered him to get up and go home.
Woodford did not try to explain to the policeman that he was not a drunken citizen fallen by the way. He got wearily to his feet and moved on along the street, unable to see more than a few feet ahead for the whirl of snow.
The snow on which he was walking penetrated the thin shoes he wore, and his feet were soon even colder than the rest of his body. He walked with slow, dragging steps, head bent against the storm of white.
He was dully aware that the dark shops beside him had given way to a low stone wall. With a sudden start he recognized it as the wall of the cemetery which he had left but hours before, the cemetery containing the vault from which he had escaped.
The vault! Why hadn't he thought of it before? he asked himself. The vault would be a shelter from the freezing wind and snow. He could stay there for the night without anyone objecting.
He paused, feeling for a moment a little renewal of his former terrors. Did he dare go back into that place from which he had struggled to escape? Then an extra—strong blast of icy air struck him and decided him—the vault would be shelter and that was what his frozen body craved more than anything else.
Stiffly he climbed over the low stone wall and made his way through the cemetery’s whitened monuments and vaults toward the one from which he had esc
aped. The driving snow covered his tracks almost as he made them, as he trudged toward the vault.
He reached it and tried its iron doors anxiously. Suppose he had locked them when he left! But to his relief they swung open, and he entered and shut them. It was dark inside, but he was out of the wind and snow now and his numbed body felt a little relief.
Woodford sat down in the corner of the vault. It was a shelter for the night, at least. It seemed rather ironic that he had had to come back here for shelter, but it was something to be thankful for that he had even this. In the morning, when the storm was over, he could leave without anyone seeing and get out of the city.
He sat listening to the wind and snow shriek outside. The stone floor of the vault was very cold, so cold that he felt his limbs stiffening and cramping, and finally he stood up unsteadily and paced to and fro in the vault, chaffing his arms and hands.
If he had only a blanket, or even a heavy coat, to lie upon! He’d freeze there upon the stone floor. Then as he turned in his pacing he bumped into the coffin on the shelf and a new idea was born in his mind.
* * * *
The coffin! Why, the interior of it was lined deep with silk and satin padding. It would be warm in the coffin.
He could sleep in it far better than on the cold stone floor. But did he dare to re-enter it?
Again Woodford felt faintly the former terrors he had experienced when he had awakened in it. But they meant nothing, he told himself. He would not be fastened in, this time, and his frozen flesh yearned for the warmth of the coffin’s lining.
Slowly, carefully, he climbed up and lowered himself into the coffin and stretched out. The silk and padding he sank into had a grateful warmth. He lowered his head upon the soft little pillow with a sigh of relief. This was better.
He experienced an almost luxurious comfort now; but after he had lain for a little while he felt that the top of his body was still cold, where the cold air came into the open coffin’s top. That cold air entering kept him from being completely warm. If the lid above him were just closed to keep out the cold air—
He reached up and got the edge of the heavy metal lid, then let it down upon himself. He was completely in the dark, now, inside the closed coffin. But he was warm, too, for the lid kept out the cold air. And he was getting warmer all the time, as his body warmed up the interior.
Yes, it was far more comfortable with the lid closed. An even, warmth now pervaded his whole being, and the air inside the coffin was still getting warmer and thicker. He felt a little drowsy now, as he breathed that warm air, felt luxuriously sleepy as he lay on the soft silk.
It was getting a little harder to breathe, somehow, as the air became thicker. He ought really to raise the coffin lid and let in some fresh air. But it was so warm now, and the air outside was so cold, and he was more and more sleepy.
Something dim and receding in his fading consciousness told him that he was on the way to suffocation. But what if he was? was his sleepy thought. He was better off in here than back in the world outside. He had been a fool ever to fight so hard before to get out of his warm, comfortable coffin, to get back to that outside world.
No, it was better like this, the darkness and the warmth and the sleep that advanced. Nobody would ever know that he had awakened at all, that he had been away from here at all. Everything would be just as before—just as before. And with that comforting assurance, John Woodford was swept farther and farther down the dark stream of unconsciousness from which this time there would be no returning.
THUNDERING WORLDS
INTRODUCTION
While Weird Tales has the reputation today of being a horror magazine, it actually published a variety of genre stories. The editorial stance of WT, particularly under Farnsworth Wright, took the attitude that the word "weird" in the title referred to fiction that would be too strange for readers of "straight" fiction magazines. This editorial policy allowed the magazine to cover a wide gamut of fiction-from straight horror to the Lovecraftian mythos, Howard's style of sword and sorcery and even science fiction.
Hamilton was an wonderfully creative writer and the Weird Tales environment provided fertile ground for him to practice his craft: 16 of his first 20 stories appeared in the magazine. While his first story, The Monster God of Mamurth, is an adventure story involving ancient civilizations (with a nasty beastie thrown in) the majority of his other early work for Weird Tales tends to be science fiction with horrific elements, or straight science fiction.
One of the nicknames given to Hamilton in the early years was "World Wrecker" and reason for that appellation is quite evident in the story you are about to read, as rockets and planets fly easily, and quickly, through space, with the ending a fitting wrap-up to hints laid in the beginning of the tale. Yet, there are numerous creative bits sprinkled throughout the story that make it wholly Hamilton and not one of his contemporaries. The alien worlds encountered, along with the aliens themselves (let alone the basic concept of the story), may not be what we may one day find out in space, but their inclusion is a trademark of Hamilton's work. I've long felt that most writers would be happy to come up with just one of the concepts that Hamilton dispenses as throw-away bits of business and it is that creative, and original, writing style that makes this story still readable some 75 years after it first appeared.
Thundering Worlds originally appeared in the March, 1934 issue of Weird Tales.
THUNDERING WORLDS
1
Standing with Hurg of Venus at the window, I pointed up at a number of dark, long shapes sinking out of the gray sky. "There come our fellow Council-members," I said.
Hurg nodded. "Yes, Lonnat—that first ship looks like that of Tolarg of Pluto, and the next two are those of Murdat of Uranus and Zintnor of Mars."
"And the last one is that of Runnal of Earth," I added. "Well, the solar system's peoples will soon know how we of the Council decide on the plan, whether it's accepted or rejected."
"Most of them are praying it will be accepted," Hurg said. "If it were not for Wald of Jupiter and your enemy, Tolarg of Pluto, I would be sure it would be accepted, but as it is—"
He lapsed into thoughtful silence and I too was silent with my thoughts as we gazed out of the window. The panorama that stretched before us was enough to make any man think.
We were gazing across the city of dome-shaped metal buildings that completely covered the planet Mercury. Many flyers, torpedo-shaped craft propelled by atomic blasts, swarmed over the city, rising from or descending into the heat-locks at the tops of the buildings. In the snow-sheathed streets between the buildings no people at all were to be seen. Long ago Mercury had grown too cold for life in the open.
Mercury cold? Mercury, the innermost of the sun's nine planets, that had once been heated almost to furnace-temperatures by the blazing sun? That had been many ages before, though, when the sun was hot and yellow and in the full tide of its middle-life. It was not such a sun that hung in the gray heavens over Mercury now. No, the sun above us was a huge sullen blood-red disk, a darkening crimson sun which gave forth little heat and light. It was a sun that was dying! Yes, our sun was dying! It no longer cast out a flood of heat and light on its nine planets, and the others were even icier and colder than this one of Mercury. Long ago in the past. men had journeyed out from the planet of their origin, the world Earth, to the sun's other worlds.
They had colonized all the nine planets from Mercury to Pluto, until each held a great human population. Their inter-planetary ships filled the ways between the worlds, and the whole system was ruled by a Council of Nine in which each member represented the planet of which he was the head.
This stable civilization of man in the solar system had lasted for ages upon ages. It had seemed that nothing could ever threaten it. But it was threatened at last and by a most awful menace. The sun was cooling! It was changing from yellow to red, following the course that every sun follows, and as it cooled, its planets became colder and colder. Their peoples were f
orced to live in cities of artificially heated dome-buildings, and move about in enclosed, warmed flyers. And still the sun cooled until men saw that in the near future it would become completely dead and dark, and that life upon its worlds would then be impossible in the awful cold.
The Council of Nine considered this situation. Julud of Saturn, ranking member of the Council and as such its chairman called on the scientists of the solar system to suggest a way to save humanity. Many plans were proposed, and finally one plan, a stupendous one, was put forward as the one way by which humanity's continued life could be assured. It was verified in every detail by the scientists. Now we of the Council were going to vote on whether or not the plan should be followed, and I, Lonnat of Mercury, meant to cast my world's vote in favor of it. So did my friend Hurg of Venus and most of the other members, but one or two of the nine were doubtful.
Hurg was looking up now at the enormous dull-red sun that swung overhead. In the gray sky around it shone the bright points of the nearer stars, now visible by day.
"We've got the one real answer to that dying sun," I said "if all the Council's members will see it!"
"They must!" Hurg exclaimed. "In this crisis we've got to forget our individual worlds and think only of the whole nine!"
"I fear we won't do that while Tolarg and Wald are of us," I said "But enough—here come the others now."
They were coming down into the round, metal-walled Council chamber in which we two were. These other members of the Council were clad like Hurg and me in sleeveless tunics and knee-length shorts, each wearing on his shoulder the insignia of his planet, the arrow of Mars or square of Uranus, and so on.
* * * *
JULUD of Saturn and Runnal of Earth were the first to reach our side. Julud, our chairman, was a thin, white-haired old man with a noble face. Runnal of Earth was tall and forceful, and in his gray eyes shone the audacious humor characteristic of his world's people.
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