The 38th Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK

by Chester S. Geier

  Incredibly, amazingly, it was true. The city had vanished!

  Reid stared in all directions, his senses whirling in confusion. The Parsec should have been resting upon a gleaming, metal road. Huge, multicolored buildings should have been towering before him.

  But there was no road. There were no buildings. Reid looked out upon an immense plain, covered with waving grasses. At its outer fringes a great, dark forest spread. In the hazy distance, gigantic mountains soared majestically into the green sky.

  Mountain, plain, and forest were as Reid remembered them. He turned his head. Yes—and there was the great curve of the bay, its waters lapping gently at the white sand of the shore. Except for the disappearance of the city, the scene had changed but little.

  For the first time, now, Reid became conscious of the Arkites standing all around him. They were subdued and bewildered, their eyes anxious and questioning. Their glances fell before his shamefacedly.

  “Where’s Norlin?” Reid asked.

  “He ran down there somewhere,” one of the Arkites volunteered. “He came running out of the ship as though he’d gone crazy. When he saw the city was gone, he let out a yell and started running. We called to him but he didn’t stop. After a while we lost sight of him.” The man shrugged.

  “He was a trouble-maker anyway. We shouldn’t have listened to him.”

  Susan’s voice sounded abruptly beside Reid. “John, are you sure this is the exact place where you and Steve saw the city?”

  “No doubt of it,” Reid answered. “There just couldn’t be another place like this on the entire planet. And just before the accident occurred, the city was just beneath the ship, relatively speaking, of course. The field was almost gone, so weak that it just couldn’t have moved the ship for more than a few feet.”

  “But, John, what could have happened? Why did the city vanish like that?”

  Reid’s eyes clouded with thought. “I think I know,” he said slowly.

  The Arkites gathered around him in an eager, attentive circle. He was their leader again. His words were something to heed, and they tried to show, like the children they really were, that henceforth they would heed them. They listened.

  “Doug Lain and I built the warp-generators under terrific pressure,” Reid began. “Almost from beginning to end, it was a constant race against time and the destructiveness of man. It was only to be expected, therefore, that some mistakes should creep in. Just what these were, we’ll never know, now.

  “In some way, our long run through hyperspace here to Alpha Centauri’s system made these mistakes crop out forcefully. They altered the principle of the generators so that they produced a warp which allowed travel not only through hyperspace, but through time also. In what manner the two are linked I can only guess. They may interlock, run in parallel planes, or they may be one and the same thing.

  “Anyway, in the instant upon emerging from hyperspace into Alpha’s system, the intensity of the warp-field was such that the Parsec was snapped through time. Instead of emerging at almost the same period that we first entered, we did so at one which I estimate as being approximately 500 years in the future!”

  Reid looked at the Arkites, and suddenly his eyes were glowing.

  “Listen closely now. You all are aware of the fact that animal life here on New Terra hasn’t as yet reached a very high point of development. This can only mean that the builders of the city were not natives of New Terra!

  “Then who were they? They were intelligent. They resembled us. They built only one city, whereas if they were a race native to this world they’d have had hundreds, in addition to towns and roads. Can you imagine that a race capable of building a city like that wouldn’t also be able to navigate the great oceans and spread out to the other continents? They didn’t do so because of the fact that expansion wasn’t necessary—there weren’t enough of them to make it necessary. In the thousands of years that it takes a race to achieve civilization, could it be possible for their numbers to remain so few as to build only one city, inhabit only one continent?”

  Reid looked at the Arkites. Their eyes were glowing, too. They knew now.

  Reid went on swiftly. “When the Parsec emerged from hyperspace over the city, it was snapped through time once more, to the same extent as previously but in the opposite direction. We were returned to the point in time where we should originally have emerged. As a result, the city had vanished. It hadn’t as yet been built!” His voice became deep and vibrant.

  “That was our city! We are the builders! Through a strange quirk of fate, we saw the crowning result of our work—the work which we will begin now and which our children will carry on after us. Our civilization will not perish after all.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then one of the Arkites ventured timidly:

  “Would it be possible for us to go back to the city?”

  Reid smiled sadly. “The second shake-up not only snapped us back through time, but also strained the engines to the point where their inherent flaws caused them to explode. They’re ruined, utterly and completely. Doug Lain, who might have helped me rebuild them, was killed in the explosion. I could never do the job alone in all the years of life left to me.

  “No, we’ll never be able to return to the city. Let us keep it in mind only as an inspiration. Our work lies clearly before us. The foundation for the city must be laid. That and that alone should henceforth occupy our thoughts.”

  The Arkites looked at the plain and the forests. They looked up at the sky. And Reid knew they saw neither plain, forest, nor sky. They looked through these things with the dreaming eyes of a race, and the vision they saw was one of glittering, sky-high towers and a people grown happy and wise in their greatness.

  One by one, the Arkites went into the Parsec. The women came out with pots and pans and baskets of food. They began clearing spaces for fires. The men came out with axes and saws slung over their shoulders. They moved off toward the forests, and presently there came busy sounds of chopping and sawing.

  Everywhere Reid looked, the Arkites were absorbing themselves in some small task, gladly, willingly. Life for them had suddenly taken on purpose and meaning.

  Reid felt a light touch on his arm; he turned to see Susan looking up at him, her grey eyes shining moistly.

  “John—they’re happy!” she whispered incredulously.

  “A building people are always a happy people, Susan. All the Arkites ever needed was a goal toward which to direct their efforts—something more than merely the dream of one man, something which they could visualize for themselves. They have that, now.”

  “And I’ve found something, too, John.”

  The shining, grey eyes still looked up at him. Reid glanced away, troubled to find that this girl could still make his heart ache in spite of the happiness that had finally come to him.

  “I’m glad,” he said huskily. “This is a new beginning for you, too, I suppose. Steve Norlin will be back, of course, and then you’ll have your own home and—”

  “You are blind, aren’t you, John? And you’re wrong about Steve. No; he won’t be back. He was really in love with himself, you see. Loss of the city meant an end to his hopes of comfort and leisure, and there just wasn’t anything else left for him.” Susan shook her auburn head. “He won’t be back.”

  Reid had a sense of foreboding as he looked into her eyes, wide and dark with the age-old intuition of woman. He was to remember this feeling forcefully several weeks later when Norlin’s body was discovered in the forest, its head blown off by the blast-gun. But at the present it was crowded aside by a sudden, heart-quickening thrill.

  “You—you don’t care?” he cried.

  Her grey eyes smiled again. “No, John. I stopped caring that day I asked you if you wanted me. Oh, you should have seen your face! That was what I learned—real love. You wanted me, but the race came first. And I k
new you were right, John, though I did want to help the Arkites. I realized, then, that what Steve was doing was wrong; I knew that if I had offered myself to him in order to prevent him from going to the city, that he’d have refused me. It was his own wellbeing that concerned him most; he had no real thought for the Arkites.”

  Susan was silent a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft.

  “Well, I’m here if you still want me.”

  “Still want you? Why—” Reid choked inarticulately; the words he wanted to say were so full with affirmation that they stuck in his throat. Music throbbed in his veins. And then, somehow, she was in his arms and his cheek was pressed to her hair, and there was no longer need to say anything.

  SKY IMP

  Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, June 1943.

  Bob Lennox paused at the turn in the road leading to the little group of stone farm buildings in the distance. He looked back over the way he had come, and it was as though he looked back upon some unpleasant memory of the past. He knew, now, just what he had to do. That lonely walk had done him good.

  He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the dust of the road and ground it into lifelessness with a purposeful heel. Then, squaring his shoulders, he went on.

  Lights gleamed from the windows of the farm buildings when Bob Lennox reached them. Evening was deepening swiftly into night, and heavy shadows lay draped over the outwardly peaceful English countryside. Only those who knew would look for the signs of clever camouflaging which hid the fact that the farm buildings and its fields were in reality a British airdrome.

  It was several months before the catastrophe of Pearl Harbor. The Nazi Luftwaffe still swept in vicious waves over English cities and towns. American air fighters were making history in the R.A.F. Bob Lennox was one of the many who had volunteered. But in a sense he was almost isolated here, for he was the only American with the tiny 15th R.A.F pursuit squadron hidden “somewhere” in the north of England. It was this more than anything else which made things so difficult for him.

  Lennox took the flagstone path which led to the Commander’s office in the main building. He strode stiffly now, eyes fixed straight before him, his broad shoulders set defensively.

  Benches were placed along the ivy-covered walls of the main building, and on these sat the pilots of the 15th, their pipes and cigarettes glowing in the shadows. Their drawling British voices were raised in the laughing banter typical of the fighter at ease. But as Lennox passed by a frigid silence fell over them. They sat very still, watching him with hostile, condemnatory eyes. The American’s lips twisted bitterly.

  Lennox had his hand on the door that led into the main building when suddenly one of them spoke.

  “Blimey, did yer see it?” asked a mocking nasal voice, “’is yeller streak even shines at night!”

  “And that’s only the light from ’is backbone,” added another. “Take off ’is British uniform and ’e’d look like ’e’d been dipped in yellow luminol.”

  Lennox winced as though struck a physical blow. He entered quickly, shutting the door against the taunting laughter which followed. His eyes blazing, he walked down a short hall and entered what had once been the farmhouse living room.

  Little of its former quaint, sturdy furnishings were in evidence. The pictures had been taken down from the walls and in their places hung maps, charts, and bulletin boards. The rug had been rolled up and placed in a corner, and the bare boards of the floor were tracked and scuffed. A log burned cracklingly in the stone fireplace. At a desk, once a kitchen table, but covered now with telephones and papers, sat Major James Carewe, squadron commander of the 15th R.A.F air base.

  Carewe looked up as Lennox approached the desk. He was a personification of everything British, from his trimly-tailored uniform to his military mustache and the stubby briar pipe gripped between his teeth.

  “Eh? Oh—Lennox.” Carewe’s manner became abruptly perfunctory and slightly patronizing. He took his pipe from his mouth and leaned back in the chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to make a special request, sir,” Lennox began. “You see, the attitude of the men toward me hasn’t changed ever since that—that Channel incident. And—well, I just can’t stand it anymore. I want your permission to go over the Channel and fight von Thelm.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Lennox. There’s a rule, you’ll remember, forbidding solo flights near enemy territory. Makes it too easy to fall into a Jerry trap.”

  “I know that, sir, but this is a different case. You know that once a week, on a Wednesday, von Thelm flies a little way over the Channel as a challenge to Allied pilots. He’s too self-confident and conceited to make a trap of it, however.”

  “That makes little difference,” Carewe said, smiling wryly. “One of the reasons for the rule was to prevent foolhardy pilots from engaging von Thelm and getting shot down. In some ways it was an official admission of the fact that von Thelm is a better fighter than anyone we have.”

  “But you’ve just got to give me this chance, sir!” Lennox pleaded. “I won’t be able to stay with the squadron if you don’t—or in England, either, for that matter. No one will have anything to do with a man branded a coward.”

  Carewe frowned impatiently. “Oh, come now, Lennox. What you’re asking is a bit too much, you knew. You may be a volunteer American and entitled to special privileges and all that sort of thing, but we have certain rules and regulations which we can’t allow even you chappies to ignore. Besides, General Headquarters would break me if I permitted you to do what you’re asking.”

  Lennox dropped his gaze to his hands, his square, brown face twisted despairingly. Suddenly he looked up again, his eyes agleam.

  “See here, sir,” he said eagerly. “If official permission of my request is impossible, what about unofficial permission?”

  “Eh? I’m rather afraid that I don’t understand you, Lennox.”

  “I mean this, sir. Let me have a ship to go over the Channel and fight von Thelm. It can then be made to look as though I had taken it without your permission.”

  Carewe shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that. Von Thelm hasn’t yet been beaten in a dogfight. You’d be shot down just as surely as you’re standing here now. We might be able to spare the loss of a man, but hardly that of a ship, I’m afraid.”

  Lennox leaned across the desk, his youthful features aged by a savage earnestness. “Major Carewe, put yourself in my place. I’ve become an outcast, a pariah. None of the others will have anything to do with me. They think I’m a coward—that I deliberately ran from von Thelm and his crew of vultures that day over the Channel. I’ve got to prove that I’m not.

  “Look, sir. You’re a fighting man and you know that, second only to his country, a fighting man places his honor and integrity above all else. I know, if such a circumstance should ever occur, that you’d never hesitate to avenge a slight upon your courage. Then suppose you were called a coward because of an incident over which you had no means of control. Wouldn’t you make every effort to reinstate yourself in the eyes of others? Would anything in life ever be the same again if you were denied the opportunity? Surely, the loss of a ship isn’t too great a price to pay for redemption.”

  Carewe was chewing the tip of his mustache, his eyes thoughtful. He rose from the chair and began pacing the floor. Abruptly, he faced the American.

  “I shouldn’t do this, Lennox,” he said. “But you’ve made it a personal question of one fighting man to another. In that way I can’t obstruct your desire for vindication without reflection upon my own honor as a fighting man. I’ll give you your chance—but remember the responsibility for the outcome will be yours and yours alone.”

  “That’s all I ask, sir.”

  “All right, then. Here’s what I’ll do. Tomorrow is Wednesday and von Thelm will, no doubt, be at the usual place. In the morning
I’ll order a plane checked and warmed up for a special flight. While I’m ostensibly giving its pilot instructions, you can climb in and take over. Good luck.” Carewe extended his hand and Lennox gripped it briefly.

  * * * *

  In bed later that night, Lennox found his thoughts peaceful for the first time in weeks. He knew that this night was very likely to be his last, but more than a year of fighting in China and England had given him a warrior’s fatalism. He put his hands behind his head and smiled slightly in the darkness. Well, tomorrow he’d show them something.

  If he had been British, this really wouldn’t be necessary. His explanation would have been accepted readily and without bitterness, for mysterious, inexplicable things were always happening to pilots in the air. But the fact that he was an American and the thing that had happened to him had cost the lives of four British pilots had cast an entirely different light upon the matter.

  The squadron had been returning to base after having, in conjunction with two other pursuit squadrons, successfully chased away a formation of Nazi bombers from a factory district to the south. The 15th had two to their credit, and not having lost a single ship, they were feeling pretty cocky. Then, sweeping in from the Channel, a squadron of Messerschmitts had burst upon them. The vulture insignia on their fuselages announced them to be under the leadership of Eric von Thelm, the cunning, seemingly invincible Nazi ace.

  Air war tactics of the present time are vastly different from what they were during World War I. Where once the fighting was an affair of individual, aerial combats, it is now one of formation, precision teamwork and coordination. At speeds of almost 400 miles per hour, everything happens with lightning-like rapidity, and the slightest mistake in timing can cause the doom of several comrade planes in a matter of seconds. That was what happened to Lennox.

  The favorite maneuver of the 15th was to cruise along in an open V formation, flight commander in the lead, with a top guard flying some 500 feet above and another at an equal distance below. Upon engaging an enemy squadron, top and bottom guards would converge upon the leading enemy planes, their machine guns and wing cannon flaming a leaden hail of death. Usually, these leading enemy ships would go down in flames, and then the rest of the squadron, an actual flying wedge, would sweep into the break, raking with their guns on both sides as they roared by. This usually accounted for several more of the enemy, then the formation would break up into groups of two and go after the survivors—if any cared to remain for further combat, which they seldom did.