But his head turned away from her and he stared anxiously up at the open rocket chamber.
He heard the bodies of the monster and the dog slam against the inner side of the chamber, and then he saw the door of the rocket close. He knew that the automatic mechanism must have been touched in the battle.
And even as the thought ran through his mind he heard a sudden roar of flaming sound. The night lit up in a sheet of brilliant light and a wave of flame spread out from the base of the rocket.
Trent pulled the girl away from that blinding sheet of exploding energy, and his eyes stared in grim fascination as they ran.
He saw the rocket shudder in its cradle and then lift slowly. It was as if time had turned back and he were watching an identical scene that had happened earlier that day.
Only it wasn’t the same scene. It was now a scene of horror. For he knew that the monster and the dog were in that rocket. The rocket that would shoot skyward in moments, even as its companion had done. Would reach into the outer fringes of the Earth’s atmosphere where the cosmic rays would envelop it, would react upon the animals inside it.
And a terrible dread spread through Trent at the thought. For if the first change had been terrible enough, what would happen now?
And as he thought, he saw the rocket lift slowly from its cradle and gather speed as it shot upward into the night.
* * * *
The blinding light of the exploding rocket fuel lit the proving grounds like a huge beacon of incandescence, and Trent was aware of shouts ahead of him, and running feet.
Then he was surrounded by men from the project, and he caught the glint of alert weapons and uniforms.
He felt arms grab him and the girl and heard questions pounding at him.
But then he saw a face he knew. And he tore away from the arms of the guards and shouted.
“Dr. Mathieson! Listen to me!”
The scientist stepped up to him and Trent gripped his arm in the fading light of the vanishing rocket.
“What’s happened here?” the scientist demanded. “Aren’t you one of the newsmen—”
Trent interrupted him. He poured out a string of words. Words that told what had happened. And as he talked he saw the eyes of the scientist widen in disbelief. And he heard the guards grow silent around him. Felt every ear listening with awe to his words.
And when he had finished there was a long moment of silence. And then Joan Drake moved tremblingly up beside Trent and she spoke:
“It’s true, doctor! Every word Fred said is true!”
And one of the guards broke in:
“The word just came in from post four. The fence was torn to pieces—and Giddings has been murdered—just as they said!”
Then the silence again. And the face of Mathieson was grim as Trent broke through the quiet:
“—Doctor—that monster who was Gaddon—he’s up there now! When the cosmic rays change him and the dog and the chamber is released.…”
The scientist shook his head slowly, a look of awe in his eyes.
“It won’t release, Trent,” he said.
Fred Trent looked at him questioningly.
“Gaddon must have forgotten one thing,” the scientist continued. “That rocket was also an experimental project. But not for the same purpose. It was to test a new type of explosive.…”
Mathieson’s voice trailed off and silence closed over the small group then.
There was no need to say anything further. There was only the tension of waiting, the tension that showed in every eye.
And the girl moved closer to Trent, her body trembling against his.
They waited. The seconds passed like moments in eternity. Slowly they marched by, one by one. And then a minute. And the tension grew.
They heard it then. Off in the distance. Out in the waste of the open desert land. A thundering sound. An explosion that rolled in a wave of sound.
And with it a flash of brilliant light. Light that seared through the night in a terrible wave. And with it the thunder of the explosive warhead.
And then silence.
After a long moment the voice of Mathieson came through the quiet night wind.
“…It’s over. Gaddon is—dead. Poor fool, he fumbled with the tools of creation, tools that man is not ready to wield.…”
And Trent heard one of the soldiers gasp, “What a story! What a story!”
But he knew, as he held the girl against him, felt her body relax beside his, that it was a story he didn’t want to write.
He wanted only to forget.…
TINKER, by E. Nesbit
My name is Stumps, and my mistress is rather a nice little girl; but she has her faults, like most people. I myself, as it happens, am wonderfully free from faults. Among my mistress’s faults is what I may call a lack of dignity, joined to a desire to make other people undignified too.
You will hardly believe that, before I had belonged to her a month, she had made me learn to dance and to jump. I am a very respectable dachshund, of cobby build, and jumping is the very last exercise I should have taken to of my own accord. But when Miss Daisy said, “Now jump, Stumps; there’s a darling!” and held out her little arms, I could not well refuse. For, after all, the child is my mistress.
I never could understand why the cat was not taught to dance. It seemed to me very hard that, when I was having those long, miserable lessons, the cat should be allowed to sit down doing nothing but smile at my misfortunes. Trap always said we ought to feel honored by being taught, and the reason why Pussy wasn’t asked to learn was because she was so dreadfully stupid, and had no brains for anything but the pleasures of the chase and the cares of a family; but I didn’t think that could be the reason, because the doll was taught to dance, though she never learned, and I am sure she was stupid enough.
Another thing which Miss Daisy taught me to do was to beg; and the action fills me with shame and pain every time I perform it, and as the years go on I hate it more and more.
For a stout, middle-aged dog, the action is absurd and degrading. Yet, such is the force of habit, that I go through the performance now quite naturally whenever I want anything. Trap does it too, and says what does it matter? but then he has no judgment, and, besides, he’s thin.
But one of the most thoughtless things my little mistress ever did was one day last summer when she was out without me. I chose to stay at home because it was very hot, and I knew that the roads would be dusty; and she was only going down to the village shop, where no one ever thinks of offering a dog anything to drink. If she had been going to the farm, I should, have gone with her, because the lady there shows proper attention to visitors, and always sets down a nice dish of milk for us dogs. Besides, I was a little unwell just then; the family had had duck for dinner, and I always feel a little faint after duck. All our family do. So I stayed at home. Well, Miss Daisy had gone out with only Trap and her hoop. I wish I had been there, for Trap is far too easy-going, and a hoop never gives any advice worth listening to. Trap told me all about it as well as he could. Trap can’t tell a story very well, poor fellow!
It seems that, as Miss Daisy went across the village green, she saw a crowd of children running after a dog with—I hardly like to mention such a thing—a tin saucepan tied to his tail! The dog bolted into the empty dog-kennel by the blacksmith’s shop, and stayed there, growling.
“Go away, bad children,” said Miss Daisy; “how dare you treat a poor dear doggie so?”
The children wouldn’t go away at first. “Very well,” said Miss Daisy; “I shall tell Trap what I think of you all.”
Then she whispered to Trap, and he began to growl so fiercely that the children dared not come nearer. Anyone can growl. Presently the children got tired of listening to him, and went away. Then Miss Daisy coaxed the unpleasant, tin-tailed creature out of the kennel, and untied the string, and took off the pan. Then, if you’ll believe a dog of my character (and of course you must), she carried that low dog home in her arms
, and washed him, and set him down to eat out of the same plate as Trap and myself! Trap was friends with him directly—some people have no spirit—but I hope I know my duty to myself too well for that. I snarled at the base intruder till he was quite ashamed of himself. I knew from the first that he’d be taught jumping and begging, and things like that. I hate those things myself, but that’s no reason why every low dog should be taught them. Miss Daisy called him Tinker, because he once carried a tin pan about with him, and she tried very hard to make me friendly to him; but I can choose my own friends, I hope.
Every one made a great fuss about one thing he did, but actually it was nothing but biting; and if biting isn’t natural to a dog, I should like to know what is; and why people should be praised and petted, and have new collars, and everybody else’s share of the bones, only for doing what is quite natural to them, I have never been able to comprehend. Besides, barking is as good as biting, any day, and I’m sure I barked enough, though it wasn’t my business.
Miss Daisy had gone away to stay with her cousins in London, and she had taken Trap with her. Why she should have taken him instead of me is a matter on which I can offer no opinion. If my opinion had been asked, I should have said that I thought it more suitable for her to have a heavy middle-aged dog of good manners than a harum-scarum young stripling like Trap. Trap told me afterwards that he thought the reason he was taken was because Miss Daisy would have had more to pay for the dog-ticket of such a heavy dog as I am; but I can’t believe that dogs are charged for by the weight, like butter. As I was saying, Miss Daisy took Trap with her, and also her father and mother; and Tinker and I were left to take care of the servants. We had a very agreeable time, though I confess that I missed Miss Daisy more than I would have believed possible. But there was more to eat in the kitchen than usual, and the servants often left things on the table when they went out to take in the milk or to chat with the gardeners; and if people leave things on tables, they have only themselves to thank for whatever happens.
There was a young man who wore a fur cap, and who used to call with fish; and I was more surprised than I care to own when I met him walking out with cook one Sunday afternoon, for I thought she had a soul above fish; yet when the servants began to ask this young man to tea in the kitchen, I thought, of course, it must be all right, but Tinker would do nothing but growl the whole time the young man was there; so that at last cook had to lock us up in the butler’s pantry till the young man was gone. I had not growled, but I was locked in too. The world is full of injustice and ingratitude.
Now one night, when the servants went to bed, Tinker and I lay down in our baskets under the hall table as usual; but Tinker was dreadfully restless, which must have been only an accident, because he said himself he didn’t know what was the matter with him; and he would not go to sleep, but kept walking up and down as if he were going to hide a bone and couldn’t find a good place for it.
“Do lie down, for goodness’ sake, Tinker,” I said, “and go to sleep. Anyone can see you have not been brought up in a house where regular hours are kept.”
“I can’t go to sleep; I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he said gloomily.
Well, I tried to go to sleep myself, and I think I must almost have dropped off, when I heard a scrape-scraping from the butler’s pantry. I wasn’t going to bark. It wasn’t my business. I have often heard Miss Daisy’s relations say that I was no house-dog. Still, I think Tinker ought to have barked then, but he didn’t: only just pricked his ears and his tail; and he waited, and the scraping went on.
Then Tinker said to me—“Don’t you make a noise, for your life; I am going to see what it is;” and he trotted softly into the butler’s pantry. It was rather dark, but you know we dogs can see as well as cats in the dark, although they do make such a fuss about it, and declare that they are the only creatures who can.
There was a man outside the window, and I tapped Tinker with my tail to show him that he ought to bark, but he never moved. The man had been scraping and scraping till he had got out one of the window-panes. It was a very little window-pane, only just big enough for his hand to go through; and the man took out the window-pane and put his hand through, making a long arm to get at the fastening of the window; and just as he was going to undo the hasp, Tinker made a spring on to the window-ledge, and he caught the man’s hand in his mouth, and the man gave a push, and Tinker fell off the window-ledge, but he took the man’s hand with him; and there was the man’s arm dragged through the window-pane, and Tinker hanging on to his fingers.
The man broke some more panes and tried to get his other hand through, and if he had he would have done for Tinker, but he could not manage it; and now I thought “This is the time to bark,” and I barked. I barked my best, I barked nobly, though I am not a house-dog, and I don’t think it’s my business.
In less than a minute down came the gardener and the under-gardener: and Tinker was still holding on, and they took the man, and he was marched off to prison, and it turned out to be the man in the fur cap. But though they made fuss enough about Tinker’s share in the business, you may be sure it didn’t make me think much more of him.
I should never have had anything to say to him but for one thing. Early one morning we three dogs—it’s all over long ago, and I hope I can be generous and let bygones be bygones; he is one of us now—went out for a run in the paddock by the wood, and while Trap and I were trotting up and down chatting about the weather, that Tinker dog bolted into the wood, and in less than a minute came out with a rabbit.
I saw at once that he could never get it eaten before Miss Daisy came out, and I knew that, if he were found with it, his sufferings would be awful. So I helped him to eat it. I know my duty to a fellow-creature, I trust. It was a very young rabbit, and tender. Not too much fur. Fur gets in your throat, and spoils your teeth, besides. We had just finished it when my mistress came out. Trap would not eat a bit, even to help Tinker out of his scrape, but I have a kind heart.
Well, after that I thought I might as well consent to be friends with Tinker, in spite of his low breeding. You see, I had helped him out of a dreadful scrape, and one always feels kindly to people one has helped. He has caught several more rabbits since then, and I have always stood by him on those occasions, and I always mean to. I am not one to turn my back on a friend, I believe.
So now he has a collar like ours, and I hardly feel degraded at all when I sit opposite to him at the doll’s tea-parties.
PHANTOM DOGS, by Elliott O’Donnell
Though dogs are, perhaps, rather more alarmed at the Unknown than cats, I do not think they have a keener sense of its proximity. Still, for the very reason that they show greater—more unmistakable—indications of fear, they make surer psychic barometers. The psychic faculty of scent in dogs would seem to be more limited than that in cats; for, whereas cats can not only detect the advent and presence of pleasant and unpleasant phantoms by their smells, few dogs can do more than detect the approach of death. Dogs make friends nearly, if not quite, as readily with cruel and brutal people as with kind ones, simply because they cannot, so easily as cats, distinguish by their scent the unpleasant types of spirits cruel and brutal people attract; in all probability, they are not even aware of the presence of such spirits.
It would seem, on the face of it, that since dogs are, on the whole, of a gentler disposition than cats, that is to say, not quite so cruel and savage, the phantasms of dogs would be less likely to be earth-bound than those of cats; but, then, one must take into consideration the other qualities of the two animals, and when these are put in the balance, one may find little to choose—morally—between the cat and the dog. Anyhow, after making allowance for the fact that many more cats die unnatural deaths than dogs, there would seem to be small numerical difference in their hauntings—cases of dog ghosts appearing to be just as common as cases of cat ghosts.
Apropos of phantom dogs, my friend Dr. G. West writes to me thus:—
“Of
the older English Universities many stories are told of bizarre happenings—of duels, raggings, suicides, and such-like—in olden times; but of K., venerable, illustrious K. of Ireland, few and far between are the accounts of similar occurrences. This is one, however, and it deals with the phantom of a dog:—
“One evening, towards the end of the eighteenth century, John Kelly, a Dean of the College (extremely unpopular on account of his supposed harsh treatment of some of the undergraduates), was about to commence his supper, when he heard a low whine, and looking down, saw a large yellow dog cross the floor in front of him, and disappear immediately under the full-length portrait that hung over the antique chimney-piece. Something prompting him, he glanced at the picture. The eyes that looked into his blinked.
“‘It must be the result of an overtaxed brain,’ he said to himself. ‘Those rascally undergraduates have got on my nerves.’
“He shut his eyes; and reopening them, stared hard at the portrait. It was not a delusion. The eyes that gazed back at him were alive—alive with the spirit of mockery; they smiled, laughed, jeered; and, as they did so, the knowledge of his surroundings was brought forcibly home to him. The room in which he was seated was situated at the end of a long, cheerless, stone passage in the western wing of the College. Away from all the other rooms of the building, it was absolutely isolated; and had long borne the reputation of being haunted by a dog, which was said to appear only before some catastrophe. The Dean had hitherto committed the story to the category of fables. But now—now, as he sat all alone in that big silent room, lit only with the reddish rays of a fast-setting August sun, and stared into the gleaming eyes before him—he was obliged to admit the extreme probability of spookdom. Never before had the College seemed so quiet. Not a sound—not even the creaking of a board or the far-away laugh of a student, common enough noises on most nights—fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing, unnerving; he could only associate it with the supernatural. Though he was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing before him, he could feel the room fill with shadows, and feel them steal through the half-open windows, and, uniting with those already in the corners, glide noiselessly and surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was under the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him curiously, and delighted beyond measure at the sight of his terror.
The Dog Megapack Page 19