His reputation was only revived by the publication in 1968 of the present writer’s biography of Fearn, The Multi-Man, which included a detailed bibliography and revealed dozens of pseudonyms for the first time, and in 1970 his widow asked me to take over his representation.
Over the next 45 years, publishers on both sides of the Atlantic began an extensive ongoing reprinting of his novels in all of the genres in which he had worked—this time under his own name.
They are now joined by Venture Press, who as well reprinting the first six “Golden Amazon” novels are issuing new collections of his best early science fiction pulp stories, beginning with The Best of John Russell Fearn in two volumes.
In recent years several posthumous Fearn collections have appeared, but there yet remains a substantial number of Fearn’s early science fiction novelettes that have not so far been reprinted simply because they are now known to be ‘scientifically impossible’ in that they feature Martians and the like, and as such have become fantasy. What was still possible to speculative writers in the past is no longer believable today.
But should such entertaining stories be allowed to slip into oblivion and be entirely forgotten? Cannot such stories, with due allowances made for the time when they were written, still entertain and amuse modern readers willing to suspend their disbelief and simply enjoy these stories in their historical context?
Gathered together for the first time in The Multillionth Chance are two vintage Fearn novellas: the title story, and “Last Secret Weapon.”
I hope you will agree that they still have the power to astonish and entertain!
CHAPTER I
MYSTERY GIRL
Grant Mayson had done the job so many times it had lost all its fascination. Long ago, when he had been a mere apprentice to this huge Transmutation Laboratory, he had gaped in wonder at the crash and crackle of twenty million volts of man-made lightning flashing between anode and cathode spheres as base elements were changed into commercial products, or rare metals, according to the demands of the Government. Now, after twelve years of continuous association with this particular scientific miracle, he was in charge of Laboratory A and not over-thrilled by it either.
Today, as usual, it was the same old routine. He sat with his long, lean body folded up on the tub seat before the control board, deep inside the massive textolite globe which formed the cathode of the twin globes. Through a minute observation slit he saw the opposing globe fifty feet distant, the backdrop of the laboratory equipment behind it.
“Lights out!” he barked into the telephone, and total darkness descended outside his globe.
There were no assistants inside the laboratory: they were in the power-control rooms two blocks away from this centre of vast disturbances to come. Grant Mayson was on his own, lord of the lightning indeed, atom-smashing and metal-mutating brought to such a fine art in these advanced times that the efforts of Rutherford and Van de Graaf of earlier years seemed like the struggles of amateurs by comparison.
Grant narrowed his keen blue eyes through the slit in the spherical wall, and took a last look round. He smoothed back the tumbled dark hair from his forehead, reached out his lean hand and closed the master switch.
Nothing to do now but wait for the dials to tell him when the job was done. Unperturbed, he watched lightning flicker and jump in rapid fire flashes. Green, blue, lavender, violet arrows were presently stabbing to the dark laboratory roof and then down the massive supporting columns to earth…
The electrical fury grew apace, discharging its terrific main load into the giant vacuum tube a few yards away, at the base of which reposed the particular element to be converted. In ten minutes, Grant knew, that cube of crude metal would be gold, its atomic makeup shattered—moulded, and transformed into the precious metal.
Gradually the whole laboratory began to quiver in an eerie glow of streamers and fire-balls as twenty million volts crashed between the globes. Four minutes—five—six—
Ten! The indicator needle quivered on the red line.
Grant shut off the power and the miniature thunderstorm came to a sudden end.
“Lights!” he snapped. He eased his lanky figure out of the chair, mopped his face, then opened the airlock of the dome.
The cold-light arcs were blazing down from the roof now, flooding the wilderness of apparatus. Grant climbed steadily down the metal ladder, smiling at a sensation which once had worried him, that feeling of cramp and of having the hair lifted straight up by the static electricity. The reek of ozone, the smell of hot oil—same old set up.
Humming a tune to himself he crossed the waste of concrete floor towards the vacuum-tube chamber, then half way to it he paused and blinked. His whistling stopped in mid-bar and an expression of astounded wonder settled on his lean young face.
There was something in the centre of the floor that had no conceivable right to be there. A girl! She lay flat on her back, arms flung back over her head, legs stretched out in front of her.
“What the devil!” Grant whispered, moving a step or two closer to look at her.
She was not like any girl one would see around in the ordinary way. For one thing her clothing was unusual. It consisted of a one piece garment with short sleeves, the material radiating light as though sewn with thousands of minute diamonds. Two dainty, sandaled feet were outthrust revealing a shapely turn of ankle. The arms below the sleeves were delicately moulded, the shoulders supple and broad. Blonde hair lay swept back from her wide forehead, partly from natural tendency and partly from electric reaction.
Grant moved directly over her and studied her face. It was oval and intelligent, with rather high cheekbones and delicately pointed chin. The brows were smooth and the nose straight. She had a firm yet womanly mouth.
It suddenly dawned on Grant how utterly impossible the whole occurrence was. The laboratory was tightly locked. Only he and the Chief of Staff had the combination. By no possible means could this girl have entered here—and certainly the place had been empty before he had started up the generators. He recalled his final survey. So?
Although a scientist, he was only thirty-three, and he could not deny he experienced a certain thrill of pleasure as he raised the girl gently in his arms. There was something about the contact of her body. But her eyes remained closed, her arms limp. To all intents and purposes she was out cold. Grant took her across to the nearest bench and laid her down upon it, pulling off his smock and rolling it up for use as a pillow.
A bell shrilled. He turned impatiently to the department telephone. The voice of Balmore, chief of staff, was at the other end.
“Finished with Mutation Forty-two-G, Mayson?” he asked.
“I—er—yes, sir, I’ve finished.” Grant rubbed his head. He was a trifle perplexed.
“Good! What results?”
“Results?” Grant looked towards the vacuum tube and gave a sudden start. “I don’t know yet, sir. I haven’t looked.”
“Haven’t looked!” Balmore exclaimed. “How the devil much longer are you going to be? I’m waiting for your report. Or is there something wrong?”
“Well, not exactly, sir. I just—er—”
“There is something wrong!” Balmore decided. “I’ll come over right away.”
Grant winced and put the receiver back. He realized now that he was in considerable difficulty. Women, unless they were technicians and specially authorized by the Science Council, were utterly taboo in the varied departments. Any infraction meant dismissal. And here was a startling and none too discreetly attired blonde lying out cold on the bench.
Grant was a fast thinker when it came to physics, but in this emergency he was stumped.
In the intervening time he tried to think up half a dozen places where he could conceal the lady, but none of them seemed practicable. He was still trying to make up his mind when the laboratory door lock clicked and Stephen Balmore came in.
He was a small, sharp-featured man, likeable enough in his way, but filled with t
he austerity inseparable from his high position.
“Just what is wrong here, Grant?” he demanded, striding forward. “You’re taking the devil of a—great guns!” He broke off, as he caught sight of the girl.
“That’s the reason, sir,” Grant said uneasily. “I give you my word that I don’t know where she came from. I’d just finished my routine when I found her lying unconscious on the floor.”
“Oh!” Balmore said.
As a man of the world he did not commit himself any further for the moment. He went closer to the girl and stared down at her, stroking his chin, his eyes traveling down the rounded lines of her figure.
“Extraordinary!” he said, and coughed sharply.
Grant said nothing for the moment because he feared the wrong words might pop out.
“You realize this can be very serious, Mayson?” Balmore’s use of the surname showed he was on his high horse. “You know the rules. It is preposterous for you to say that this woman just—just happened. Science is not magic, you know. She must have been hidden here, or something, and the electricity discharge probably drove her out of concealment. Then she was overcome. She looks as though she has come from some kind of social party. The dress, I mean. Amazing material!”
“I don’t agree that she was hidden somewhere, sir,” Grant said, with sudden firmness. “This laboratory was totally empty when I began, and she was here when I’d finished. The only thing that happened between my check-up and discovery of her was the discharge of twenty million volts of electricity. That, under certain conditions, might produce many things!”
“But not a blonde, young man!” Balmore considered, then his sternness relaxed a trifle.
“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, Grant, for if I do you may find yourself without a job. I don’t want that. If you can find a logical reason for this occurrence, I’ll ask the Council to give you a full hearing. For the moment this young lady had—er—better be removed to the hospital.”
Balmore paused and watched sharply as the girl suddenly moved lazily. In fact she would probably have fallen off the bench entirely had not Grant seized her shoulders. Languidly she sat up and opened a pair of very large, steady grey eyes.
Grant looked at her, and Balmore peered over his shoulder.
“Who are you?” Grant demanded. “How did you get here?”
For a moment or two she did not seem to understand. Then she broke into a tumbling succession of strange words. Short little sentences with the words oddly broken off. At the end of two minutes of nonstop gibberish, she looked from one man to the other in plaintive inquiry.
“No good,” Grant shrugged. “We don’t understand you. Do you, sir?”
“Hanged if I do,” Balmore replied. “I’m not bad at languages, but this has me beaten. We’d better get the experts to work. Anyway, Grant, this lessens the charge against you. This girl is not ordinary by any means, either in language, looks, or—hmm!—figure.” He glanced at her keenly.
“Fine girl, confound it,” he growled.
Grant smiled in relief and by motions showed the girl that she was expected to stand up. She nodded her golden head and slid gracefully from the bench. She was about five feet eight tall, with the majestic carriage of a queen.
“This way.” Balmore motioned, taking her arm. He nodded back at Grant. “Get the report of that mutation, Grant, then come along to the hospital. We’ll see what we can do there.”
Grant nodded, bitterly aware of the fact that he dare not show he was jealous of his chief’s monopoly of the mystery girl.
CHAPTER II
THE COUNCIL DECIDES
The inexplicable arrival of a beautiful girl in a physical laboratory at the height of an atom-smashing process was something that captured the rather science-steeped imagination of the mass of people.
Dozens of stories were circulated, printed, radioed, and televised, few of which bore relation to the truth. The Science Council did not like it either, and frowned with ever increasing severity on the hapless young scientist whom they deemed responsible for their sacrosanct laws being broken.
For all the efforts of Stephen Balmore, Grant found himself in an increasingly pre-carious situation. He had a week to find a reasonable explanation or else be dismissed. The fact that the language experts said the girl spoke gibberish did not count. After all, any girl could talk gibberish if she wanted to.
It appeared far more likely that for some reason the studious Grant Mayson had kicked over the traces and somehow gotten himself entangled. The scandal mongers worked overtime on this theory. As for the girl’s clothing, dress designers were of the opinion that it was certainly rare stuff, but it could be an exclusive creation from abroad.
Grant saw the danger lights ahead. He went to visit the girl in her private room at the hospital and struggled valiantly to get some sense out of her. Attired now in the clothes normal to the day and age, she had lost thereby none of her beauty but she had certainly become more bewildered. All she could do to Grant’s impassioned questions was raise her graceful shoulders helplessly, or spread her hands, or—chiefly—just gaze fixedly with her big grey eyes.
“But, Miss Who-ever-you-are, this is awful!” Grant cried, pacing the room in agitation. “What can I do to make you understand? You must have a name, or something?”
“A—name?” she repeated awkwardly.
Grant pointed to himself and said “Grant Mayson” until his throat was dry. The girl gathered the implication finally and said “Iana” several times. Her name was at last established.
“You came here,” Grant said deliberately, sitting down opposite to her. “Nobody knows how—but you do.” Then as she just sat and waited, he sighed and rubbed his hair. “What am I talking about?” he groaned. “I might as well describe the calculus to a baby!”
He paused, his eyes brightening at his own unthinking remark.
“Calculus!” he repeated softly. “Mathematics! Say, maybe I have something. The law of mathematics is universal, according to the savants. Look, Iana, do you understand this?”
He whipped up a piece of paper and put three figures on the sheet—three figure 2’s— drew a line underneath and added “6.” The girl studied it for a moment.
After he had put four 7s she wrote 28 without hesitation. The figures she made were distinguishable, though not entirely normal in outline.
“You understand me!” Grant yelped. “We’ve mathematics in common! What else have you?”
Evidently quite a deal for, as he handed the paper to her, she went to work busily with normal figures, then complicated ones, and finally threw in a problem or two of Euclid for good measure. This done, and satisfied Grant understood, she began the execution of complicated formulae which made Grant, for all his pretty extensive scientific knowledge, frown deeply.
Finally he gave up watching her figuring and instead gazed at her intelligent, mobile features as she worked. He read sharp perception there, a great gift for abstract reasoning, purpose in the chin. This girl was not figuring for amusement, which was one reason why he felt there was deep meaning to the paper of figures she finally handed to him.
“For me?” he asked, pointing to himself.
She nodded promptly, then pantomimed an attitude of deep concentration, pointing at him earnestly.
“For me to study,” he nodded. “Right, I will—though I don’t think it’s going to be a picnic…See you later.”
He left the room quickly and headed straight for the analytical department in his own place of work, where he could have the free run of the mathematical calculators which could do much of the work for him.
It was four in the afternoon when he went in and the staff, though curious, paid no attention to him. They had all gone and it was midnight when he had finished.
He smiled slowly to himself, rubbing his somewhat aching head as he surveyed the figures.
“So that’s it!” he whispered. “She’s told me, through the universal language of figures. I fit i
n the odd parts by my own imagination. The multillionth chance came off! Wow, is this something for the Scientific Council!”
During the following afternoon, in response to his special request that his defence be heard, the Science Council met. They took their seats in the raised tiers and waited for the proceedings to begin. Grant was standing on one raised dais in the centre of the huge room, and the unknown girl was poised majestically on a dais some yards from him.
Silent, some of them grim-faced, the scientists looked down on the two chief figures in the drama. On the one hand was a young man prepared to fight for his position as a scientist, and on the other the fate of an unknown girl was at stake. For unless some definite reason could be given for her presence, both in the laboratory and the city itself, law would demand her removal to a vagrant’s colony, about the worst fate that could befall anybody.
“You have a solution to this—er—puzzling affair?” Balmore asked, as presiding chairman of the Council.
“I have, sir—yes. How much of it you and the gentlemen of the Council will believe depends entirely on your scientific credulity. Yesterday, this girl—who gives her name to me as Iana—handed to me a mass of computations she had worked out. I have definitely established that she is a first class mathematician and—if we could only understand her—she is probably a first class scientist, too. However, I have the original figures here—” Grant waved a sheaf of papers in the air “—and my own studies along with the mathematical machines have worked them out. Iana explains her appearance amongst us as a multillionth chance of Nature. The same kind of chance that might cause a kettle of water to freeze on a fire instead of coming to a boil.”
“What precisely has that to do with it?” asked one member acidly.
“I am not a great scientist, gentlemen,” Grant said quietly. “For that reason I would like to hark back for a moment to a master mind of bygone days—Sir Arthur Eddington. He sums up our case very neatly when he says—‘By a highly improbable, but not impossible coincidence, the multillion particles making up an organic or inorganic body might accidentally arrange themselves in a distribution with as much organization as at an earlier instant. The chance is about one in twenty-seven billion million, which proves that the world is a mass of probabilities, drifting towards greater and greater disorganization and final entropy’.”
John Russell Fearn Omnibus Page 82