by Don Wilcox
“That’s good.” Ross didn’t slacken his speed.
The British agent lost ground but kept up his end of the conversation, gasping as he shouted on the run.
“I’ve tried to reason with the doctor. We could spare the castle if we could remove Graygortch. Put him in a safe place behind bars.”
“I suppose the Doc wouldn’t hear of it?” Ross roared back, now half a flight ahead.
“No,” the agent panted. “But he had another idea . . . Keep the old man doped with pills . . . He says it makes the old fellow safe until the effect wears off.”
“I’m doubtful,” Ross said, waiting a moment on the sixth landing for the agent to catch up. “I think that foreign something that lives in Graygortch will find a way of breaking out and doing deadly mischief as long as he lives—and then—”
“Then what?”
“Then—” Ross’ words came down to a fearful whisper, “then—as long as she lives.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the agent puffed.
Ross didn’t explain. But as he came to the last winding flight of stairs such a heaviness of spirit descended upon him that he found himself walking with a slow restrained pace. It might have been Graygortch tottering weakly—but it was Ross Bradford weighted down with a weird fear unlike anything he—or any other man—had ever known.
Half a flight back of him the British agent was saying, “Zimmerman believes the old man will never die. If it wasn’t for that, the government might take over the place for an observation post. You could spot subs for miles from this tower. And I’ve been thinking about that machine you claimed you saw . . . If it’s just a machine—and if this fellow Jimpson you spoke of could put it to work as a war weapon—’M anyway there’s government talk of jailing the old man and confiscating—”
“S-s-sh.” Ross waved back at the agent, then he felt the blood freeze in his finger tips. His hands went stiff on the flashlantern as he shot it across the open tower top.
“Vivian!” he breathed, and the circular walls echoed his whisper. His flashlantern was turned toward the core of the huge disc-shaped instrument.
“Ross—thank God you’ve come!” The girl’s low spoken words were a strange mingling of tragedy and gladness. “Here, Ross, come and sit with us.”
She was kneeling in the center of the room at the semi-circular bench where the stiff old figure of Graygortch lay. The old man’s eyes were half closed. Somehow Ross knew at once that at last Death was taking the old fellow away.
“Vivian, did he—did he keep his threat?”
Ross wished he hadn’t asked, for the girl quickly put her fingers to her lips.
It was Graygortch who spoke, in the slow gentle rumbling voice, no harsher for the state of death that was swiftly engulfing him.
“Is this the young man, Vivian?”
“Yes, Uncle Bill.”
“Come . . .”
Ross advanced under the low ceiling of the death machine, knelt beside Vivian, slipped an arm around her. With the other hand he pressed the gaunt fingers of the mysterious old master of death.
“Yes, you are the one,” Graygortch said softly. “This evil thing that lived in me forced me to marry Vivian to you . . . But I’m thinking that’s one act I’m willing to approve—if you feel the way Vivian does.”
“Yes, your honor,” Ross said eagerly. “Vivian and I are meant for each other. Now that we have your sanction, your honor, we’re man and wife.”
“Good,” the old man breathed. “But I’m not your honor, I’m just Bill Graygortch. It’s gone, now. It’s left me for good. I wish I could see Doc—Doc Zimmerman.”
“I think he’s on his way up,” said Ross.
“I’ll wait,” said Graygortch.
Ross rose, and Vivian stood beside him, her eyes moist, her lips faintly smiling.
“Hank and Sue are here,” she whispered. “They’ll tell you what happened. It’s too terrifying—and I thought you were being killed somewhere out there—”
“Don’t think about it.” Ross kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. “Don’t think at all.”
Turning the flashlantern, he found that Sue and Hank had joined the British agent near the head of the stairs. He went over to them, heard the brief but graphic description of Jimpson’s supreme sacrifice. Sue was talking.
“Jimpson must have guessed the workings of that machine somehow,” she said, “because he was deadly determined to make it up here to the tower before the old man could pass the evil power on to Vivian. He believed it could be done. It sounded screwy to me, but I had seen that power reach clear to Japan. So I said okay, we’d make it up with ropes and hooks or break our fool necks.”
Ross flashed the light up to the lofty rim of stone and saw the loops of rope that had helped them up from the outside. Sue continued, under the admiring but baffled stare of Hank:
“As quick as we got up here and Jimpson saw the instrument go to work his brain was on fire. What that little crippled fellow knew would have uncorked a new world of science. He said he didn’t know how Graygortch could ever have known about this machine; in fact, he couldn’t convince himself that Graygortch did know about it.”
“But the machine?” Ross asked. “That,” said Vivian, “he believed was a device to create new atoms, whose electrons would spin in reverse order. He whispered to me, just a few seconds before he jumped, that if each of those thirteen guns was spraying matter that was organized in reverse, it would account for the disintegration of air or anything else within range of the guns.”
“If the British only had a weapon like that!” the curt young agent muttered.
“Then we saw twelve of the thirteen disciples coming in as if by radio, and their faces just hovered there,” Sue said, “and they seemed to be sharing their secret powers—and the tower was rocking and I was hanging on for dear life—”
“And Vivian,” said Hank, “was calling for you, Ross.”
“And that’s when it happened,” said Sue, rolling her eyes toward the top of the wall. “That nervy little cripple whispered to me, ‘I’ve beat death once, and here’s my chance to blow that machine before it gets her! And I said, ‘Where are you going?’ And Jimpson answered, ‘Maybe to another world—yes, I think this’ll do it!’ And then he jumped, landed across those electrical keys, and went out in a flash of fire.”
“Went out?” Ross repeated.
“Out,” said Hank, “like a light.”
The party moved back to the center of the huge instrument and turned the flashlantern on what had been the table of controls. There was nothing on the table but a scorched surface—The mysteries that had resided in those controls, like the mysteries that had lighted Jimpson’s brain, had departed in one quick flash of fire.
“Here’s Dr. Zimmerman now,” said Vivian, touching the old man lightly on the forehead. “Fantella, too.”
Ross turned the light, but the couple had brought another lantern to guide them up the long ascent. They looked exhausted from their climb, but the Doctor paled still more as he knelt down beside his old checker-playing partner.
“It’s good to see you,” Graygortch whispered, hardly moving his glassy eyes. “Both of you . . . I wanted you to know—it’s gone—for good.”
“Bill!” the silver-haired doctor breathed. “You’re sure it won’t come back.”
“I’m sure . . . I could see it go . . . like a ghost floating off into the sky . . . Oh, Doc . . . you don’t know how glad I am . . . to be able to die . . . like this.”
Within a few minutes life had departed from the old man.
No one grieved as sorrowful people grieve when death is tragic. For this death had been merciful, almost as if it were the willful act of a free man, freed after nine years of imprisonment from some other-worldly power.
“It must have been other-worldly,” Ross said. “The knowledge back of this machine—”
The doctor broke in, speaking with a strained effort to control hi
s voice. “I’ve a confession. I didn’t think he would die. I didn’t think he could . . . Nine years ago I left a little orange bottle of medicine in his study. It was an experimental medicine for prolonging life—”
“Wait a minute,” said Sue Smith. “That couldn’t make him a genius inventor right out of the blue—”
“I’m convinced,” the doctor continued, “that I not only prolonged his life, but that I am guilty of bringing on his awful insanity—”
“Dot’s bumkumb,” Fantella interrupted. “I’fe got der convession too. Dot leedle orange bottle I threw out der vindow der minute you vas gone, my good doctor. Old Bill nefer touched it.”
From the look of relief that came to the doctor’s face, Ross knew that the burden of that man’s life had been lifted.
“Uncle Bill’s word is good enough for me,” said Vivian softly. “If it was something from another world, we can’t hope to understand it—”
“Until Jimpson comes back to us,” said Hank.
Ross took a deep brekth. “Maybe someday we’ll know. But now—well, Vivian—er—Mrs. Bradford—”
“Thank you,” Vivian whispered, snuggling into his arms.
“Mrs. Bradford, would you like to unpack? England’s got a job on her hands. She needs this castle—and us—and the maids and the sailors—who, by the way, have the makings of a crack military force—”
“Pardon us,” said Sue Smith, catching Hank by the arm and leading him toward the stairs. “I’ve got to talk things over with my boy friend. Maybe we’ll stay and help you.”
“Dot’s nice,” Fantella smiled after them, then wrinkled her face in a comical scowl. “But if effer anybody leafs me sitting vor two hours in der rowboat again, in der middle uff an earthquaker, dare’ll be another var—mit broomsticks.”
[*] Apparently a form of hypnosis causes this phenomenon. A patient may be directed, during hypnosis, to carry out certain actions after the “spell” has been broken, and he will do so without himself realizing that he is carrying out an order.
It is also possible here that the old man is under a common delusion of old age, when death has been long-deferred, that he is living in the past. The scenes and memories of the past become real, and the result is a complete obliteration of the present insofar as recognition of its existence is concerned. The mind causes the body to go through actions that are a part of the past. Thus the old man probably really believed there was a fire to warm his hands. Such delusions have led to belief in dual personalities, although this has never been proved.
Fantastic Adventures
January 1943
Volume 5, Number 1
Somewhere in these frozen wastes was a fortune in furs. But guarding them were a girl, a white tiger and a lost world . . .
CHAPTER I
If I could only paint this story, instead of writing it, I wouldn’t have any trouble getting started. I’d paint a wide, green sea full of white icebergs. That would be Baffin Bay. A strip of Greenland coast would show along the right side of the picture, mostly white but with a few patches of bright green verdure. In the center of the picture would be our old two-masted brig, Aurora, skimming along gracefully in a northerly direction through a clear channel.
Those two prominent, fur-clad figures at the rail, gazing at the coastline through pocket telescopes, would be Lady Lucille Lorruth and Captain French, searching for signs of the Lady’s long-lost husband, Lord Lorruth, and his party of fur traders, who entered this wilderness of ice five years ago and failed to return.
The face of Lady Lucille would be reddened with cold; the face of Captain French, dark with whiskers and purplish from too much drink.
A tinge of pink would show in every surface that faced the right of the picture, for the sun of the arctic summer would be somewhere off to the east, skimming low over the mountainous Greenland coast.
I painted many such pictures during the early weeks of our expedition, before the outdoor temperatures went below zero to stay. I was Lady Lucille’s official artist and I relished my work. This would be a lark, and a rare opportunity. And when I returned I would be able to give illustrated lecture tours.
My first surprise was my acquaintance with Lady Lucille. It is one thing to know a famous person by reputation, but quite another to develop an intimate friendship of the sort that must exist on board ship. Lady Lucille Lorruth was exceedingly friendly to me. She had the highest praise for my simplest sketches. With childlike exuberance she went about the deck displaying these works to Captain French and Steve Pound, the mate, and any of the crew members that happened along.
“Our journey is bound to be successful,” she would say, “because we have such a wonderful artist.”
“Very, very excellent,” Captain French would comment with a big hearty laugh. He was quick to share any interest or enthusiasm of Lady Lucille Lorruth.
Soon I found myself more or less subject to the whims of this vivacious lady who headed our expedition. Though I may have spent a full day at work over the drawing board, I would quickly comply if she suggested another sketch or two to be added to my day’s output. Perhaps it was our first glimpse of the northern lights. Perhaps it was a patchwork carpet of ice floes sliding along, forming fantastic designs.
During those early weeks Lady Lucille’s slightest wish, I may say, was my greatest pleasure. But I had not yet been fully disillusioned as to the true character of Lady Lucille Lorruth. It took the loss of a life—the life of Inez, the Lady’s personal attendant. But that comes later. . .
One day, after we had left the coast of Greenland, I found a picture thumb-tacked to my drawing board which I had not drawn. Shorty Barnes, the comical little deck hand with the saucer eyes, popped in the door after awhile, and I asked him about it.
He blinked. “Didn’t you give me strict orders not to destroy no sketches, no matter where I found ‘em?”
“This isn’t one of my pictures,” I said.
“Huh?” he wondered. “Thought it looked like you was slippin’ a bit.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Out by the bulwarks driftin’ along in the wind.”
I stared at the sketch. “I can’t even make out what it is. Looks like a woman riding on a horse—or is it a polar bear?”
“Or a four-legged broomstick ridin’ a witch, or versa vesuvious,” said Shorty. He shrugged and walked away.
Somehow this illustration, crude though it was, must mean something. That was the thought which kept turning over in my mind. I am enough of an artist to know that people don’t draw things without a reason. Even when the school boy sketches faces in the sand with his bare toes he is trying to express something, whether he knows it or not.
That night I feel asleep listening to the irregular bump, bump, bump of the loose ice against the hull of the ship. Our easy sailing might come to an end sooner than we expected.
The next day I thumb-tacked the sketch near the door of the mess room, knowing that everyone on board would see it at some time or another. Then I watched through the noon hour.
Shorty spied it and he pranced around on his bandy bowlegs, lecturing to a crowd of half a dozen sailors about it. He said it was a mystery. Someone must be trying to run competition to the official artist.
“Jim McClurg said it wasn’t his work,” said Shorty.
The sailors didn’t argue that point. They reckoned that when I painted a four-legged object you could tell whether it was meant for a hippopotamus or a saw-horse. And if I painted a girl you’d know it was a girl, not a witch or a mermaid.
One of the fellows thought he might touch the picture up a bit if someone would lend him a pencil. But just then the three burliest, toughest sailors, the Frabbel brothers, came thudding down the deck.
The Frabbels pushed the rest of the crowd away so they could see. The sketch interested them only slightly. They dismissed it with a few obscene remarks and followed the other sailors into the mess room.
An hour later I noticed that the
sketch caught the attention of Lady Lucille. She was being escorted to the Captain’s private dining room for her customary early afternoon dinner. On one side of her was the roly-poly purple-faced captain, on the other was her thin, nervous, red-eyed, thirty-five year old maid, Inez.
Of the three, Lady Lucille was as capable as any of walking the decks unsupported, for her maid was too frail to withstand a strong wind, and the captain had already begun his day’s drinking. But it was a matter of daily ceremony for the two of them to parade her to dinner. It was Captain French’s daily opportunity to remind us that he was a person of great wealth and importance; it was Inez Dorster’s ritual of obeisance to nobility.
The picture caught Lady Lucille’s attention. But half a glance caused her to turn her head haughtily. Her shoulders swayed stiffly through her fur coat as she quickened her pace past the mess room door.
“What was that?” the Captain grumbled, craning back at the picture.
“Something to be removed,” Lady Lucille snapped. “Not now. Take me to dinner.”
She stomped away in angry dignity, as if she were a queen who had been insulted from the streets.
There was no good reason that she should have mistaken the picture for something indecent, although, as I have noted, it was difficult to interpret. But here was a fair sample of Lady Lucille’s behavior—her anxiety to demonstrate that she was a much loftier person than the common mortals around her. She would go far out of her way to exhibit delicacies of taste or temperament. And if she became angry over some trifle, everything would come to a standstill. The captain would have to clamp down on the sailors’ normal harsh talk and profanity from one end of the ship to the other because Lady Lucille was upset. At such times no one dared to indulge in any cursing except Lady Lucille herself.
The sketch hung on the door for half the afternoon. From my drawing board by the deck rail I could watch it. Cedric Peterson, the geographer—“Professor” as the sailors called him—strolled along with an open book in his hands. He raised one of his bristling black eyebrows a trifle, but sauntered on, uninterrupted in his reading.