Weird Tales volume 36 number 02

by McIlwraith, Dorothy

  "They may be rocket cylinders," said Carruthers, shading his cyos against the setting sun, "except for the fact that they're pointed on both ends. Certainly, they're man-made."

  "They certainly are," agreed Vignot. "But made by what race of men? Aaron, this is the most astounding and fabulous . . ."

  "They're falling this way," Carruthers broke in. "The magnetic attraction is . .. Oh! They're out of it. And now they're falling vertically."

  They waited and watched with fear-expanded eyes. One of the shining things disappeared into the lake behind the power-station dam. A second nosed hiss-ingly into the still smoldering crevasse down the mountainside.

  A miracle preserved the third and last from destruction. It struck the tops of a dense growth of pine trees glancingly. Their great, arching trunks bent but did

  not break. Small branches snapped. Needles showered to the ground. But the force of the metal object's speed had been slowed to such an extent that it remained intact and scarcely dented when it finally slithered through the branches to the ground less than a hundred feet from where the two men stood watching it.

  They need toward it. The shining thing, a metallic cylinder at least eight feet in length, gleamed and sparkled in the fading sunlight. But before they reached it something happened that checked their impetu-ousness. Carruthers felt his breath snag deep down into his throat.

  A section of the cylinder was opening slowly as if on hinges. The last, lingering rays of the setting sun revealed what at first seemed a dazzling apparition—an angel without wings, crowned with a golden aura of flame. And then the goddess from another world stepped from the cylinder.

  Out of the dim recesses of his mind, from some memory ceils that seemed to have been dormant for a thousand years, arose a cloudy picture that Carruthers knew had always been there. This girl was no stranger. He had seen her before. She was a part of some past experience as elusive as dancing shadows. Within his heart stirred a lively breeze. It was as though the creator had returned to him something he had loved and lost in the mouldy centuries of another existence.

  SHE stood for a time on the daintiest slippered feet, clothed in soft, transparent clinging garments that followed every curve of her splendid, unashamed body. Her golden hair was gathered into a knot at the nape of her bare neck. Her eyes, indefinite as to color, were startled as a fawn's. She seemed poised for instant flight as she stood just outside the door to the cylinder.

  Neither man made any motion to come

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  81

  closer to her for they did not want to frighten her. Never had Aaron Carruthers been so stirred emotionally by any earth being as he was by this exquisite creature from outer space. His eyes were grave as he searched her face for some sign that she was the one he had known in the dim, ageless past. He smiled reassuringly, but he could not recall when and where he had known her.

  Fear had vanished from her eyes. She had glanced only casually at the bearded chemist. Her attentioa was centered wholly on the other earth being. Long and searchingly she watched him. noting his shoulders, his chin, his deep-set eyes, and the high, intelligent forehead.

  Suddenly her chin quivered. She raised both hands to her mouth. For a moment she seemed undecided as to what to do. Some poignant memory was shining in her eyes. She took a slow, uncertain step forward, then broke into a run, both arms outstretched.

  Carruthers was conscious of but one thing as her arms encircled him and he felt the warmth of her body pressed close to his own. This girl was no figment of his imagination. He had known and loved her in the post. She was his—she would always be his. She was real. She was as real as the sun's afterglow glinting on her hair, and the quickening beat of his heart that matched the beat of her own.

  She raised her face to his and he kissed her tenderly. But her face was troubled. She pointed upward and spoke in a tongue that was strange to his ears.

  He ahook his head. He didn't know how to explain to her what had happened to the rest of the cylinders that had been ejected from the Mass. He pointed toward the spot where the sun had vanished. "Sun," he explained. He indicated the wide sweep of heavens. "Sky." Downward he pointed. "Earth." Then, pointing at himself: "Aaron."

  "Ar—ron," she repeated. Her eyes brightened responsively. "Ishtar," she added in a musical voice.

  His eyes were bewildered.

  She pointed at herself as she had seen him do and seemed afraid that he would not understand. But his smile reassured her. She backed from his arms, her eyes once more straying aloft into the sky as if searching for something in the red sunset. After a moment they clouded with disappointment and tears.

  Carruthers again held out his arms. She came into them sobbing and trembling in her grief. And he held her tightly, possessively.

  "Bah!" rumbled the bearded chemist.

  And the sound seemed to set the mountain tumbling and crashing about the young scientist's ears in a splitting orgy of sound and confusions. Violet lightnings stabbed his brain, numbing it with soothing anaesthesia.

  He could feel himself falling—falling— falling!

  THE white walls of the laboratory reappeared before his eyes. Against this background he could see the Time Projector whose potent power had carried him ten years into the future. He removed the metal helmet from his head. Vignot and Danzig had likewise recovered and were following his example.

  Carruthers, himself, broke the first silence. "Do either of you remember all that happened?"

  "Only the last three days," said Danzig. "I was working alone in a strange power-Station which had been abandoned. That's all I seem to remember."

  "And you, Vignot?"

  "My memory is cloudy. I recall seeing a calendar dated 2017. Also I had an interest in seismograpliic disturbances. I also recall that I was hungry, that I could obtain only food capsules, and that I was

  WEIRD TALES

  very uncomfortable during those last few days."

  "And nothing else?"

  "Oh yes. The Mass was destroyed by a bombardment of heavy neutrons. It disintegrated completely."

  "And you can't recall any details of the annihilator machine?"

  "It was your invention."

  "I seem to have forgotten.''

  "But you haven't forgotten that the Mass was destroyed, and the world saved from a fate that hung over it for ten years?"

  "No."

  "Or the shining things that come showering down from the sky?"

  "No."

  George Vignot snorted and rumpled his hair. "You've got ten years in which to perfect that annihilator machine again. And you'll do it. Can't help it. You've already done it. That much is settled even if wc can't prove it. I'm going back to my classes. When you need help, call on me and I'll come. But don't expect too much. I'm only a messy chemist. I'm not a miracle worker."

  He left the laboratory and was shortly followed by Danzig, leaving the young scientist to solve the problems that were to face him in the future.

  Carruthers walked to the quartz-glass window and stared into the twilight en-

  compassing the city. But his mind was not on the problem of destroying the Mass that would eventually threaten the earth. He was thinking of those last, precious minutes on Thunder Mountain.

  "Ten years," he breathed, as if talking to someone far off in space, "is a long time to wait for you again, Ishtar—a long time to await your second coming since you first appeared out of the void of outer space. Where are you now, and what are you doing?"

  He waited patiently, but no answer came out of the present. It lay in the future— ten years of research and toil.

  The lights winked on in the teeming caverns of city streets one hundred floors below his window. The throb of the underground turbines beat familiarly against his ears as if to bring him back to a more normal way of life.

  But nothing would ever be normal from now on. Nothing would ever be quite the same. Nothing would ever erase the memory of her from his mind. For
he knew that no matter what might happen during the next decade, the pattern of his life would flow on to its ultimate conclusion. That Ishtar. the girl from outer space, would come rocketing down from the sky in the shining thing. And he would hold her again in his arms. This was his Alpha and Omega. The beginning, and the end.

  *No! No!" he babbled, M no( tbat!**

  G

  hameleon Man

  By HENRY KUTTNER

  He was a changeable sort of fellow — and on occasions resembled a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone entirely ignorant of anatomy!

  TIM VANDERHOF wavered. He stood ten feet from a glass-paneled door, his apprehensive gaze riveted upon it, and swayed back and forth like a willow. Or, perhaps, an aspen. He wasn't sure. Yes, it was an aspen—a quaking aspen. His ears seemed to twitch gently as he listened to the low rumble of voices from the inner office of S. Hor-ton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop, Fifth Avenue's snootiest establishment for

  supplying exclusive models of dresses, lingerie, and what-not.

  Let us examine Mr. Vanderhof. He did not, at the moment, look like a man who, within a very short time, was going to turn into what amounted to something rather like a chameleon. Nevertheless, mentally and spiritually, Tim Vanderhof was a mere mass of quivering protoplasm, and no great wonder, after the interview he had just had. He wasn't bad looking, though

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  slightly pallid. His features were regular, his face a bit chubby, and his eyes held the expression of a startled fawn. They were brown, like his hair, and he had a pug nose.

  He shivered slightly as the glass-paneled door opened. A Back appeared. Under it were two short, slightly bowed legs, and it was surmounted by a scarlet billiard-ball of a head. There was no neck. The Bade was draped in tweeds, and a strong smell of tobacco, brandy, and horses emanated from it.

  The Back extended a large, capable hand, clenched it into a fist, and shook it warningly at someone inside the office.

  "Gad, sir!" a deep voice boomed, "Gad! This is the last straw! Mrs. Quester will be furious. And I warn you, Walker, that I shall be furious too. I have stood enough of your trifling. Twice already you promised exclusive models of a dress for my wife, and then failed to deliver."

  "But—■" said a Voice.

  "Silence!'' bellowed the Back, and the Voice was cowed. "You have promised Model Forty-Three to Mrs. Quester. If you dare to exhibit it at your fashion show this afternoon, I shall call upon you with a riding-whip. I shall be here after the show, and you will have the dress ready for me to take to Mrs. Quester. You have had enough time to make alterations. Gad, sir—in Burma I have had men broken— utterly broken—for less than this."

  The Voice, with a faint spark of antagonism, rallied. It said, "But."

  "But me no buts, damn your eyes! This isn't Burma, but you will find that Colonel Quester still knows how to use his fists— you tradesman! I shall be back this afternoon, and— brrrrmph!"

  "Yes, Colonel," the Voice assented weakly, and the Back turned, revealing to the watching Vanderhof a round, crimson face with a bristling, iron-gray mustache, and beetling brows from beneath which

  lightning crackled menacingly. Brrmph-ing, Colonel Quester moved like a mastodon past the quaking Vanderhof and vanished through a door that seemed to open coweringly of its own accord at the man's advance. Vanderhof immediately turned and started to tiptoe away.

  The Voice detected the sound of his departure. "Vanderhof!" it screamed. "Come here!"

  Thus summoned, the unfortunate official halted, retraced his steps, and entered the inner sanctum. There he paused like a hypnotized rabbit, watching the Voice, who was also known as S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.

  A HARD man, S. Horton Walker. As a child.he had pulled the wings off butterflies, and maturity had not improved him. He looked like a shaved ape, with a bristling crop of blue-black hair and a gleaming, vicious eye that was now engaged in skinning Vanderhof.

  "UIp," the later remarked, in a conciliatory tone.

  "Don't give me that," Walker growled, crouching behind his desk like the gorilla he resembled. "I told you to keep that so-and-so out of my office. Well?"

  "I said you were out," Vanderhof explained. "I—I—"

  "You—you—■" Walker mocked, pointing a stubby sausage of a finger. "Bah! And, again, bah! What the hell are you, a man or a jellyfish?"

  "A man," Vanderhof said hopefully.

  Walker's grunt was profoundly skeptical. "You"re a weakfish. A non-entity. By God, when I was your age I had twenty-nine men under me. By sheer force of personality I made myself what I am today. And I like men with drive—push—get-up-and-go."

  Vanderhof, seeing an opportunity of escape, began to get-up-and-go, but relapsed at Walker's furious yelp. "Why, do you

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  8?

  realize that Colonel Quester would have punched me in the eye if I hadn't impressed him with my personality? He's an outrageous person."

  "You did promise those exclusive models to his wife though."

  "We get a better price elsewhere," Walker said, and pondered. "But Model Forty-Three will be ready for him when he calls this afternoon. A dangerous man, the colonel. Where was I? Oh, yes. "You're a fool, Vanderhof."

  Vanderhof nodded and looked like a fool. Walker groaned in exasperation.

  "Haven't you any personality at all? No, you haven't. You're a—a—a chameleon, that's what. I've noticed that before. When you're talking to a ditch-digger, you act like one yourself. When you're talking to a banker, you turn into a banker. You're a mirror, that's what!"

  It was unfortunate that Vanderhof did not leave at that moment. After his interview with the excitable Colonel Quester, he was mere protoplasm, and somewhat too receptive to suggestion. It was, of course, true, that Vanderhof had little character of his own. He had lost it, after years of associating with the virulent Walker. He was a complete yes-man, and needed only a catalyst to complete a certain chemical reaction that was already taking place.

  "You're a chameleon/' Walker said, with emphasis, and his eyes bored into Vanderhof's.

  It was at that precise moment that Mr. Tim Vanderhof turned into a chameleon.

  Not physically, of course. The metamorphosis was far more subtle. Adept for years at assuming the traits of others, Vanderhof was rather shockingly receptive. Though all he did was to sit down in a chair opposite his boss.

  Walker stared, frowned, and hesitated.

  Vanderhof stared, frowned, and didn't say anything.

  Walker lifted a large hand and pointed accusingly.

  Vanderhof lifted a smaller hand and also pointed accusingly.

  Walker flushed. So did Vanderhof. The president of The Svelte Shop rose like a behemoth from his chair and growled, "Are you mocking me?"

  Then he stopped, amazed, because Vanderhof had risen and said exactly the same thing.

  "You—you—you—" Walker's face was purple. Vanderhof guessed what was coming. With a mighty effort he asserted what little remained of his will-power.

  "D-don't go on!" he pleaded frantically. "P-please—"

  "You chameleon!" S. Horton Walker thundered.

  "You chameleon.'" Vanderhof thundered.

  Such bare-faced, impudent mockery was unendurable. Walker quivered in every muscle. "You're fired!" he said. "What's that? What did you say? What do you mean, I'm fired? Stop imitating me, you stupid clown. Don't call mc a stupid clown! Nrrghf"

  "—nrrgh!" Vanderhof finished, not quite realizing what was happening to him. Walker sat down weakly. He was shaken a little, but his natural malignancy was still undimmed. A natural snake, S. Horton Walker.

  "I—" said Vanderhof.

  Walker bellowed, "Shut up!" And, so strong was his will, for the moment Vanderhof remained perfectly quiet.

  "Are you going to get out?" he asked at length, in a low, deadly voice. "Damn it, stop mocking me! I'll have you thrown out! What? Have me thrown out of my own office?"

  Goade
d to insensate fury by the fact that Vanderhof was repeating perfectly everything he said and did — and, curiously

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  enough, at exactly the same time he said and did it—Walker stuck out his thumb to press a button on the desk. It collided with Vanderhof's thumb.

  Walker sat back, palpitating, a mute-Vesuvius. Obviously Vanderhof had gone mad. And yet—

  "I wish you'd go and drown yourself," said the president, meaning every word. He was somewhat astonished when Tim Vanderhof quietly arose and left the office. He would have been even more surprised had he seen Vanderhof walk down 42nd Street to Times Square, and then board the Brighton Beach subway train bound for Coney Island. Somehow, it is doubtful whether Walker would have regretted the incident or recalled his words. He was evil to the core, and a hard man, as has been mentioned previously. He turned back to his preparations for the exclusive fashion show that afternoon, while the metamorphosed Tim Vanderhof hurried off to go and drown himself.

  NOW Tim was really a nice guy. He shot a fair game of golf, had once made ten straight passes while shooting craps at a stag party, and was kind to dogs, blind men, and small children. He explained the latter eccentricity by stating that he had once been a small child himself, which was no doubt true enough. Under other circumstances, Mr. Vanderhof might have achieved a genuine personality of his own, but he had the misfortune always to be associated with rats tike Walker. Self-riadc men invariably contend that they had to fight their way through obstacles, so they create new obstacles for those under them, probably with the best intentions in the world. The fact remains that Walker had provided the ultimate catalyst for Tim Vanderhof, who got off the subway at Coney Island—it had now, by some strange metamorphosis, been transformed into an elevated—and wan-

  dered along the boardwalk, peering contemplatively at the ocean.