Unquestionably, Graham Doone’s personality had had a lot to do with his present uprising. Successfully hiding himself from Marden and Dodd, he had gathered together an army of pretty formidable proportions which had taken over vast quantities of fighting material from the new regime, even though it had demanded a small war in itself to accomplish it.
Abel Dodd, so intent had he been on gratifying his own vicious desires, had not the time to marshal together his own army. He had labored under the idea that he was impregnable. He got the shock of his life when Graham Doone’s first onslaught by bombing airplanes and guns caught him utterly unprepared.
Determined to defend what he believed was the only right form of Government until the end, Marden himself went on with the organizing, became commander of his hastily gathered armies and launched a counter attack.
By January 12 America was in the throes of a desperate civil war, the battleground covering the entire area from New York to Los Angeles, the air thick with hurtling planes as brother man hurled himself against brother man, as demoniac forces blasted innocent thousands to destruction, thousands who only knew the whole business had started because two factions could not somehow agree. True, that was the basic cause, but in the fashion of all wars the upheaval rapidly degenerated into filthy slaughter and destruction in which the vast majority lost all idea of what they were fighting for. Only Marden and Doone, on opposite sides of the fence, knew that—and each was determined to win.
Marden had the hardest task. For one thing, Abel Dodd was dead with a bullet through his brain: that deprived Marden of a good field expert, one that he had not the time to replace if even he could have found the right man. Doone for his part was well supplied with experts, master minds of business whose job it was to organize and plan—and, in wartime with devastating results on the enemy.
Then toward the close of January something peculiar happened.
A whole day’s hand to hand fighting in the civil war failed to produce a single casualty on either side! People who had been trapped in fires had walked out unburned: those directly fired at with rifles had not been scratched.
Nor was the astounding happening limited to unhappy America: the whole world reported the mystery over the radio. Only in cases where absolute smashing of a body had occurred had death resulted. Otherwise, thousands of everyday accidents the world over had failed to produce any deaths or serious injuries.
When Marden received the news, he did not know what to think. For his own part he felt no different; a little tired perhaps, but that was not to be wondered at. And yet, there was a subtle difference, now he came to ponder it. Alone in his great office, pondering over the vast map from which he was planning his attack, he took a few seconds from harassing details to study himself. His gaze dropped to his hands. They were changed in some way—the skin was thicker and darker than it had been—coarser.
Frowning, he got to his feet and pressed the light switch, flooded the room with a brilliance that paled the single desk light. He went to the mirror and stared at the grim face reflected to him. Undoubtedly there was a change! For several weeks he had hardly been outside—even when he had only met the icy cold of the New York winter. Yet now he was as brown as though he had been exposed to free ultra violet radiation. Again there were the evidences of coarsened skin. Puzzled, he rubbed his cheeks. They were curiously sensationless.
He shrugged, felt unable to cope with the intricacies of his condition. More important matters demanded his attention. Baffled, he went back to the map, switched on the visiphone and issued further instructions to the field of action.
But little by little both he and Doone began to realize they were up against an inexplicable problem. For unless they scored direct hits at human beings—and that with high explosive—their efforts were useless. Bullets made no effect whatever. For some unknown reason all human beings were getting incredibly tough and resistant to attack. Everywhere it was the same.
The death toll from the civil war dropped amazingly: armies fought against armies with little result beyond waste of time and money. Neither side accomplished anything. War was suddenly and mysteriously stalemated. There was nothing for it but to declare a truce, so for the first time, on the evening of February 2, Marden and Doone met face to face in the former’s office.
In silence, both surrounded by their respective experts, the two men faced each other. Marden stood stiffly at his desk, his ruggedly chiseled face turned into a mask of shadows by the desk lamp. Appraising him stood Doone, thirty-two years old, dark headed, even handsome, carrying his powerful frame with all the erectness of still youthful purpose. His black eyes, the deep set eager eyes of a dreamer and doer, stared coldly back across the desk.
“Marden,” he said quietly, “it’s time to end this carnage. Time we reasoned the thing out like sane men. I’d have done so long ago only you—”
“I have always been open to negotiation,” Marden answered curtly. “Isn’t it rather strange that you arrive at this time with the idea of a truce, when the real reason is that war is becoming impossible for both of us? How can there be war when human beings are becoming invulnerable. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?”
Doone hesitated briefly, then nodded his dark head.
“Yes, I guess it is. The only thing we can do now is cooperate—even as we should have done in the first place. We must begin again on a new footing. You and I must work together for the common good, pool our respective ideals.”
“Possibly that can be arranged,” Marden conceded, thinking. “And I want you to understand right now that I never agreed with this civil war. I intended to cooperate in the very manner you have now suggested—but power was not altogether in my hands. Abel Dodd, for instance. He did untold harm to the cause. When you justifiably fought back, the only thing to do was to hold my ideals above all else and retaliate. You understand?”
Doone slowly nodded. “I think I do—and I believe we can get together. In any event hostilities must cease forthwith and an immediate investigation of this strange deathlessness must be instituted…” He paused, looked at Marden long and earnestly, then added, “Tomorrow the terms of the new deal will be officially drawn up. Then, if we can, we will try and write a better page in American history…”
Marden’s stiffness relaxed a little. He gave the slightest of acknowledging bows, watched in silence as Doone turned suddenly and departed with his advisers.
* * * *
The world breathed more freely with the end of the American Civil War. The danger of incidents and international complications were removed. Trade restarted: America turned to the task of rebuilding after the struggle. By degrees, Marden and Doone, working in collaboration, achieved a satisfactory basis of understanding. Even as early as the close of April, 1960, a definite balance of relations was being established.
And still the world faced its new problem—the still ever present mystery of deathlessness. Through the months following the close of the war the strange transformation of humanity had gone on—that slow, hardly perceptible thickening of the skin, a general toughening of all organs, a metamorphosis in the epidermis of men and women alike which had gradually given them the power to defeat death itself, except in cases of violent accident.
Nor was that all. Newly born children possessed the same peculiarity! Disease and death in the ordinary sense had mysteriously evaporated from the world. Death only existed in circumstances where an entire body was destroyed. Injuries healed with incredible rapidity and minimum of blood loss. Births were unchanged in number, but the death rate dropped 75 per cent below normal.
Scientists the world over began to study the problem industriously, but beyond producing highly technical treatises on skin thickening arrived at no convincing conclusion. Governments began to urge them to investigate more closely. The absence of normal death rate was beginning to have grave effects. Population was increasing by leaps and bounds all over the world.
Doone and Marden, co-Presidents of
America, were faced with this same problem. Day by day the special census returns revealed the startling increase in humanity. There were dozens of births to only one death. Marden, at his wits’ end to know how to tackle the mystery, suddenly remembered Janice Milford.
“I believe,” he said thoughtfully, as he and Doone pondered the matter, “that she’s the one person to get to the root of the mystery. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”
“Few people haven’t,” Doone answered quietly. “But I’m also remembering the brutal treatment she got by your former Minister of Control because she wouldn’t give away secrets. What makes you think she’ll help now?”
Marden shrugged. “I can only put the question to her. I think she realizes I had no part in her torture. In fact I had her immediately released on the outbreak of war, and during that time she did a great deal of good in the nursing line, invented the most amazing remedies for our fighters. However, no harm in seeing what she can do for us.”
He switched on the visiphone, said briefly, “Send a fast car over to Miss Janice Milford’s place and ask her to be good enough to come here immediately.”
He switched off, turned to resume his study of the situation with Doone. Some twenty minutes passed, then they glanced significantly at each other as the clerk announced the girl. Janice Milford came in quietly, attired in a neat blue costume and bewitching hat.
“I believe you wanted me, gentlemen?” She looked from one to the other with her clear blue eyes.
“I sent for you, Miss Milford.” Marden held out a chair for her, dismissed the clerk. “There are one or two matters afoot which I feel only you can understand,” he added smoothly.
“Such as?” The girl’s voice was by no means compromising; rather it was cold and unyielding. Clearly the memory of Abel Dodd and his cruelty had by no means departed.
“We believe,” Marden said slowly, sitting down again and clasping his hands on the desk, “that you can solve the present world mystery of deathless-ness where other scientists have failed.”
The girl was silent for a time, unaware of the unwavering gaze of admiration she was getting from Doone. From the instant she had entered the room he had never taken his eyes from her lovely face.
“You really mean that because all other scientists have failed to solve the mystery I’m about the last resort?” she asked dryly, her lip curling. “Very flattering, gentlemen. Last time, as I remember it, there was no such request. I was ordered to assist you and because I refused I was tortured. Perhaps I hardly need to add that such brutality is not easily forgotten?” she finished bitterly.
“Of course not.” Marden coughed a little. “But—but, Miss Milford, that was the work of Abel Dodd: you must realize that. I had you released. In these days you are back where you were—a much respected scientist. All we ask is your aid. Whatever you desire will be given in return for your services, be it honors, money—Whatever you wish! A crisis is rapidly approaching through this steady increase in population, and we have got to have a solution somehow. Please believe that I speak truth.”
The girl’s perfect face softened a little: she even smiled faintly. Curious, Doone reflected, how little changed she seemed compared to other people. There was on her skin no trace of the thickening effect so noticeable in others. He remarked too the perfection of her manicured nails, remembered they had once been charred. He frowned a little, felt a slow surge of hatred against Marden who was, at the root, the cause of that brutality.
And suddenly the girl’s eyes were upon him, studying him silently. He smiled at her, rather uncertainly. That seemed to decide her. She turned suddenly back to Marden.
“Very well, I’ll believe you,” she said briefly. “I’ll get to work and see what I can find out. Probably by tomorrow morning I will have arrived at some conclusion. One or other of you had better come round to my laboratory. It’s so much easier to explain there, with all the instruments around me—”
“I’ll come!” Doone interrupted eagerly, as Marden was about to offer. “About what time?”
“Oh…” She demurred. “About ten tomorrow morning. I’ll be expecting you…”
“We cannot thank you enough, Miss Milford,” Marden said, shaking her slim hand. “Rest assured that I have always admired your powers, and still do—that I had no part in that recent dreadful business. And now, whatever your fee may be for—”
“I rather think the fee can be arranged at the close,” the girl broke in softly, smiling in an enigmatical fashion. “I have my own ways of working, you know, and probably I’ll be amply repaid in the end…even without money.” She paused, turned to the door. “Tomorrow at ten?”
“Without fail!” Doone eagerly held the door open for her, was rewarded by her quiet, feminine smile as she passed out into the corridor. Once he had closed the door he turned.
“There, Marden, is a woman!” he declared in admiration, dark eyes shining. “Brains, beauty, poise—”
“She’s a scientist,” Marden said curtly. “And we are working for the good of the people. Don’t start mixing your ideals with other emotions or we’ll soon find trouble…Come and sit down, man; see if we can’t figure this matter out.”
Doone sat down, but for the rest of the day he was curiously listless. His mind was definitely not on his work. He simply could not get Janice Milford out of his thoughts. Every woman he had met or handled up to now had failed to make his heart alter its rhythm in the slightest, but now…
Janice Milford was definitely a woman!
CHAPTER III
The Mystery of Janice Milford
At 10:00 next morning Doone presented himself in the huge research laboratory attached to the girl’s rebuilt New York home. The laboratory astounded him with its completeness, its air of clean activity, the men and women in spotless overalls moving to and fro amongst benches and machinery. In silence he looked along the rows of great windows, with their automatic steel shutters for producing artificial darkness when necessary, gazed round on the instruments catching the bright spring sunshine.
Then he turned with a little start as a soft voice fell on his ears.
“Good morning, Mr. Doone! Right on time, I see…”
The girl was behind him, the sunlight turning her golden hair to a halo. If anything, the white belted smock she was wearing served to enhance the soft curves of her figure, reflected an added light to the perfection of her features. Doone was aware as he eagerly greeted her that the cynical light in her blue eyes had disappeared. He read only friendliness as he shook her small but capable hand. He rather wished he was not a co-President with business ideals. A laboratory technician’s post would have suited him much better.
“Well, did you find anything?” he asked quickly, trying to remember the dignity his position demanded.
“I think so,” she nodded briefly, and turning led the way along the laboratory to yet another department, entirely empty of assistants but filled with a mass of highly polished, intricate machinery. Doone followed her into the place, glanced at her in puzzlement as she closed the door.
“I guess you’ve enough assistants and apparatus in here to run a high powered business,” he commented. “Am I asking you to betray secrets if I ask what it’s all for?”
“Not at all,” she smiled back. “Science happens to be my business, that’s all. It was my work before the war, and it is now. Back of almost all patent medicines, drugs, health tonics, new electrical gadgets, explosives, and so forth, you will find the name of Janice Milford. I am, I suppose, the head of a great supply factory. Most of the things are my original invention, perfected and manufactured by this trained staff of men and women chemists and scientific experts. Finally the ideas are marketed through the appropriate channels. That I suppose is the blessing of having a good brain,” she finished enigmatically.
She turned aside suddenly, paused before a glass globe filled to the brim with a curious sticky fluid. Floating within it was a mass of tissue-like substance which made Doone stare i
n amazement.
“What on earth is it?” he gasped, somewhat horrified.
“Synthetic flesh,” Janice replied calmly, eyeing it critically. “It is simple enough to manufacture. The hard part comes in when you try to infuse it with life. I haven’t done that, of course, but as it lies there in the fluid it reacts—by very reason of the fluid—far more quickly than normal flesh to external stimuli. Look at it closely. See anything wrong with it? It was manufactured and put in the globe yesterday afternoon after my talk to you and Marden.”
Doone studied it thoughtfully. “Looks kind of—of thick,” he said at last. “The difference between this stuff and ordinary flesh is about the same as that between raw and cooked meat.”
“Exactly. In other words, it is in a state of progressive anabolism. There is no normal breaking down of cells with consequent age and finally death. The same thing is happening to it as is happening to all living things in this world.
“Anabolism alone is present, and the opposite state of cell breakdown—ketabolism—has disappeared entirely. What is the result? Skin thickens upon itself: there is no breakdown of cells. Little by little flesh and blood beings—in fact all living things—are becoming invulnerable in a shell of hardness through which not even a bullet can pierce. Hence no ordinary accidents can cause injury: only direct hits to a vital center, and that with great force. Even normal death rate is down because death is normally the outcome of ketabolism in its final stages. Is that clear?”
“Clear enough,” Doone nodded. “But the reason is not!”
“The reason,” the girl said slowly, “is almost incredible. I can give it in a few words—cosmic rays have ceased!”
“But how can—”
“So far,” the girl went on steadily, “scientists have concerned themselves with studying the mystery by examining human beings. They have neglected to look at outside sources. I have examined the problem from the interstellar angle, have found that Wilson cloud chambers reveal no sign of cosmic rays emanating from outer space. Normally, as you know, the cosmic rays produce a shower of electrons and positrons when stopped by matter. The Wilson chamber traces these showers individually and the energies of production can be measured…But now there is absolutely nothing. That in itself explains the mystery of the sudden deathlessness sweeping the earth.”
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