Jandron looked at the girl. Her beauty, haloed with ruddy gold from the firelight, was a pain to him as he answered:
“Yes, I do. And dangerous life, too. I know what I’ve seen, in the North Country. I know what I’ve seen!”
Silence again, save for the crepitation of the flames, the fall of an ember, the murmur of the current. Darkness narrowed the wilderness to just that circle of flickering light ringed by the forest and the river, brooded over by the pale stars.
“Of course you can’t expect a scientific man to take you seriously,” commented the Professor.
“I know what I’ve seen! I tell you there’s Something entirely outside man’s knowledge.”
“Poor fellow!” scoffed the journalist; but even as he spoke his hand pressed his forehead.
“There are Things at work,” Jandron affirmed, with dogged persistence. He lighted his pipe with a blazing twig. Its flame revealed his face drawn, lined. “Things. Things that reckon with us no more than we do with ants. Less, perhaps.”
The flame of the twig died. Night stood closer, watching. “Suppose there are?” the girl asked. “What’s that got to do with these prints in the rock?”
“They,” answered Jandron, “are marks left by one of those Things. Footprints, maybe. That Thing is near us, here and now!” Marr’s laugh broke a long stillness.
“And you,” he exclaimed, “with an A.M. and a B.S. to write after your name.”
“If you knew more,” retorted Jandron, “you’d know a devilish sight less. It’s only ignorance that’s cock-sure.”
“But,” dogmatized the Professor, “no scientist of any standing has ever admitted any outside interference with this planet.”
“No, and for thousands of years nobody ever admitted that the world was round, either. What I’ve seen, I know.”
“Well, what have you seen?” asked Mrs. Thorburn, shivering. “You’ll excuse me, please, for not going into that, just now.”
“You mean,” the Professor demanded, dryly, “if the—hm!—this supposititious Thing wants to—?”
“It’ll do any infernal thing it takes a fancy to, yes! If It happens to want us—”
“But what could Things like that want of us? Why should They come here, at all?”
“Oh, for various things. For inanimate objects, at times, and then again for living beings. They’ve come here lots of times, I tell you,” Jandron asserted with strange irritation, “and got what They wanted, and then gone away to—Somewhere. If one of Them happens to want us, for any reason, It will take us, that’s all. If It doesn’t want us, It will ignore us, as we’d ignore gorillas in Africa if we were looking for gold. But if it was gorilla-fur we wanted, that would be different for the gorillas, wouldn’t it?”
“What in the world,” asked Vivian, “could a—well, a Thing from Outside want of us?”
“What do men want, say, of guinea pigs? Men experiment with ’em, of course. Superior beings use inferior, for their own ends. To assume that man is the supreme product of evolution is gross self-conceit. Might not some superior Thing want to experiment with human beings, what?”
“But how?” demanded Marr.
“The human brain is the most highly organized form of matter known to this planet. Suppose, now—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted the Professor. “All hands to the sleeping-bags, and no more of this. I’ve got a wretched headache. Let’s anchor in Blanket Bay!”
He, and both the women, turned in. Jandron and Marr sat a while longer by the fire. They kept plenty of wood piled on it, too, for an unnatural chill transfixed the night-air. The fire burned strangely blue, with greenish flicks of flame.
At length, after vast acerbities of disagreement, the geologist and the newspaperman sought their sleeping-bags. The fire was a comfort. Not that a fire could avail a pin’s weight against a Thing from interstellar space, but subjectively it was a comfort. The instincts of a million years, centering around protection by fire, cannot be obliterated.
After a time-worn out by a day of nerve-strain and of battling with swift currents, of flight from Something invisible, intangible—they all slept.
The deeps of space, star-sprinkled, hung above them with vastness immeasurable, cold beyond all understanding of the human mind.
Jandron woke first, in a red dawn.
He blinked at the fire, as he crawled from his sleeping-bag. The fire was dead; and yet it had not burned out. Much wood remained unconsumed, charred over, as if some gigantic extinguisher had in the night been lowered over it.
“Hmmm!” growled Jandron. He glanced about him, on the ledge. “Prints, too. I might have known!”
He aroused Marr. Despite all the journalist’s mocking hostility, Jandron felt more in common with this man of his own age than with the Professor, who was close on sixty.
“Look here, now!” said he. “It has been all around here. See? It put out our fire—maybe the fire annoyed It, some way—and It walked round us, everywhere” His gray eyes smouldered. “I guess, by gad, you’ve got to admit facts, now!”
The journalist could only shiver and stare.
“Lord, what a head I’ve got on me, this morning!” he chattered. He rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand, and started for the river. Most of his assurance had vanished. He looked badly done up.
“Well, what say?” demanded Jandron. “See these fresh prints?”
“Damn the prints!” retorted Marr, and fell to grumbling some unintelligible thing. He washed unsteadily, and remained crouching at the river’s lip, inert, numbed.
Jandron, despite a gnawing at the base of his brain, carefully examined the ledge. He found prints scattered everywhere, and some even on the river-bottom near the shore. Wherever water had collected in the prints on the rock, it had frozen hard. Each print in the river-bed, too, was white with ice. Ice that the rushing current could not melt.
“Well, by gad!” he exclaimed. He lighted his pipe and tried to think. Horribly afraid—yes, he felt horribly afraid, but determined. Presently, as a little power of concentration came back, he noticed that all the prints were in straight lines, each mark about two feet from the next.
“It was observing us while we slept,” said Jandron.
“What nonsense are you talking, eh?” demanded Marr. His dark, heavy face sagged. “Fire, now, and grub!”
He got up and shuffled unsteadily away from the river. Then he stopped with a jerk, staring.
“Look! Look a’ that axel” he gulped, pointing.
Jandron picked up the axe, by the handle, taking good care not to touch the steel. The blade was white-furred with frost. And deep into it, punching out part of the edge, one of the prints was stamped.
“This metal,” said he, “is clean gone. It’s been absorbed. The Thing doesn’t recognize any difference in materials. Water and steel and rock are all the same to It.”
“You’re crazy!” snarled the journalist. “How could a Thing travel on one leg, hopping along, making marks like that?”
“It could roll, if it was disk-shaped. And—”
A cry from the Professor turned them. Thorburn was stumbling toward them, hands out and tremulous.
“My wife—” he choked.
Vivian was kneeling beside her sister, frightened, dazed.
“Something’s happened!” stammered the Professor. “Here—come here—!”
Mrs. Thorburn was beyond any power of theirs to help. She was still breathing; but her respirations were stertorous, and a complete paralysis had stricken her. Her eyes, half-open and expressionless, showed pupils startlingly dilated. No resources of the party’s drug-kit produced the slightest effect on the woman.
The next half-hour was a confused panic, breaking camp, getting Mrs. Thorburn into a canoe, and leaving that accursed place, with a furious energy of terror that could no longer reason. Upstream, ever up against the swirl of the current the party fought, driven by horror. With no thought of food or drink, paying no heed to landmarks, la
shed forward only by the mad desire to be gone, the three men and the girl flung every ounce of their energy into the paddles. Their panting breath mingled with the sound of swirling eddies. A mist-blurred sun brooded over the northern wilds. Unheeded, hosts of black flies sang high-pitched keenings all about the fugitives. On either hand the forest waited, watched.
Only after two hours of sweating toil had brought exhaustion did they stop, in the shelter of a cove where black waters circled, foam-flecked. There they found the Professor’s wife was dead.
Nothing remained to do but bury her. At first Thorburn would not hear of it. Like a madman he insisted that through all hazards he would fetch the body out. But no—impossible. So, after a terrible time, he yielded.
In spite of her grief, Vivian was admirable. She understood what must be done. It was her voice that said the prayers; her hand that—lacking flowers—laid the fir boughs on the cairn. The Professor was dazed past doing anything, saying anything.
Toward mid-afternoon, the party landed again, many miles up-river. Necessity forced them to eat. Fire would not burn. Every time they lighted it, it smouldered and went out with a heavy, greasy smoke. The fugitives ate cold food and drank water, then shoved off in two canoes and once more fled.
In the third canoe, hauled to the edge of the forest, lay all the rock-specimens, data and curios, scientific instruments. The party kept only Marr’s diary, a compass, supplies, fire-arms and medicine-kit.
“We can find the things we’ve left—sometime,” said Jandron, noting the place well. “Sometime—after It has gone.”
“And bring the body out,” added Thorburn. Tears, for the first time, wet his eyes. Vivian said nothing. Marr tried to light his pipe. He seemed to forget that nothing, not even tobacco, would burn now.
Vivian and Jandron occupied one canoe. The other carried the Professor and Marr. Thus the power of the two canoes was about the same. They kept well together, up-stream.
The fugitives paddled and portaged with a dumb, desperate energy. Toward evening they struck into what they believed to be the Mamattawan. A mile up this, as the blurred sun faded beyond a wilderness of ominous silence, they camped. Here they made determined efforts to kindle fire. Not even alcohol from the drug-kit would start it. Cold, they mumbled a little food; cold, they huddled into their sleeping-bags, there to lie with darkness leaden on their fear. After a long time, up over a world void of all sound save the river-flow, slid an amber moon notched by the ragged tops of the conifers. Even the wail of a timber-wolf would have come as welcome relief; but no wolf howled.
Silence and night enfolded them. And everywhere they felt that It was watching.
Foolishly enough, as a man will do foolish things in a crisis, Jandron laid his revolver outside his sleeping-bag, in easy reach. His thought—blurred by a strange, drawing headache—was:
“If It touches Vivian, I’ll shoot!”
He realized the complete absurdity of trying to shoot a visitant from interstellar space; from the Fourth Dimension, maybe. But Jandron’s ideas seemed tangled. Nothing would come right. He lay there, absorbed in a kind of waking nightmare. Now and then, rising on an elbow, he hearkened; all in vain. Nothing so much as stirred.
His thought drifted to better days, when all had been health, sanity, optimism; when nothing except jealousy of Marr, as concerned Vivian, had troubled him. Days when the sizzle of the frying-pan over friendly coals had made friendly wilderness music; when the wind and the northern stars, the whirr of the reel, the whispering vortex of the paddle in clear water had all been things of joy. Yes, and when a certain happy moment had, through some word or look of the girl, seemed to promise his heart’s desire. But now—
“Damn it, I’ll save her, anyhow!” he swore with savage intensity, knowing all the while that what was to be, would be, immitigably. Do ants, by any waving of antennae, stay the down-crushing foot of man?
Next morning, and the next, no sign of the Thing appeared. Hope revived that possibly It might have flitted away elsewhere; back, perhaps, to outer space. Many were the miles the urging paddles spurned behind. The fugitives calculated that a week more would bring them to the railroad. Fire burned again. Hot food and drink helped, wonderfully. But where were the fish?
“Most extraordinary,” all at once said the Professor, at noonday camp. He had become quite rational again. “Do you realize, Jandron, we’ve seen no traces of life in some time?”
The geologist nodded. Only too clearly he had noted just that, but he had been keeping still about it.
“That’s so, too!” chimed in Marr, enjoying the smoke that some incomprehensible turn of events was letting him have. “Not a muskrat or beaver. Not even a squirrel or bird.”
“Not so much as a gnat or black fly!” the Professor added. Jandron suddenly realized that he would have welcomed even those.
That afternoon, Marr fell into a suddenly vile temper. He mumbled curses against the guides, the current, the portages, everything. The Professor seemed more cheerful. Vivian complained of an oppressive headache. Jandron gave her the last of the aspirin tablets; and as he gave them, took her hand in his.
“I’ll see you through, anyhow,” said he. “I don’t count, now. Nobody counts, only you!”
She gave him a long, silent look. He saw the sudden glint of tears in her eyes; felt the pressure of her hand, and knew they two had never been so near each other as in that moment under the shadow of the Unknown.
Next day—or it may have been two days later, for none of them could be quite sure about the passage of time—they came to a deserted lumbercamp. Even more than two days might have passed; because now their bacon was all gone, and only coffee, tobacco, beef-cubes and pilot-bread remained. The lack of fish and game had cut alarmingly into the duffel-bag. That day—whatever day it may have been—all four of them suffered terribly from headache of an odd, ring-shaped kind, as if something circular were being pressed down about their heads. The Professor said it was the sun that made his head ache. Vivian laid it to the wind and the gleam of the swift water, while Marr claimed it was the heat. Jandron wondered at all this, inasmuch as he plainly saw that the river had almost stopped flowing, and the day had become still and overcast.
They dragged’ their canoes upon a rotting stage of fir-poles and explored the lumbercamp; a mournful place set back in an old “slash,” now partly overgrown with scrub poplar, maple and birch. The log buildings, covered with tar-paper partly torn from the pole roofs, were of the usual North Country type. Obviously the place had not been used for years. Even the landing-stage where once logs had been rolled into the stream had sagged to decay.
“I don’t quite get the idea of this,” Marr exclaimed. “Where did the logs go to? Downstream, of course. But that would take ’em to Hudson Bay, and there’s no market for spruce timber or pulpwood at Hudson Bay.” He pointed down the current.
“You’re entirely mistaken,” put in the Professor. “Any fool could see this river runs the other way. A log thrown in here would go down toward the St. Lawrence!”
“But then,” asked the girl, “why can’t we drift back to civilization?” The Professor retorted:
“Just what we have been doing, all along! Extraordinary, that I have to explain the obvious!” He walked away in a huff.
“I don’t know but he’s right, at that,” half admitted the journalist. “I’ve been thinking almost the same thing, myself, the past day or two—that is, ever since the sun shifted.”
“What do you mean, shifted?” from Jandron.
“You haven’t noticed it?”
“But there’s been no sun at all, for at least two days!”
“Hanged if I’ll waste time arguing with a lunatic!” Marr growled. He vouchsafed no explanation of what he meant by the sun’s having “shifted,” but wandered off, grumbling.
“What are we going to do?” the girl appealed to Jandron. The sight of her solemn, frightened eyes, of her palm-outward hands and (at last) her very feminine fear, const
ricted Jandron’s heart.
“We’re going through, you and I,” he answered simply. “We’ve got to save them from themselves, you and I have.”
Their hands met again, and for a moment held. Despite the dead calm, a fir-tip at the edge of the clearing suddenly flicked aside, shrivelled as if frozen. But neither of them saw it.
The fugitives, badly spent, established themselves in the “barroom” or sleeping-shack of the camp. They wanted to feel a roof over them again, if only a broken one. The traces of men comforted them; a couple of broken peavies, a pair of snowshoes with the thongs all gnawed off, a cracked bit of mirror, a yellowed almanac dated 1899.
Jandron called the Professor’s attention to this almanac, but the Professor thrust it aside.
“What do I want of a Canadian census-report?” he demanded, and fell to counting the bunks, over and over again. The big bulge of his forehead, that housed the massive brain of him, was oozing sweat. Marr cursed what he claimed was sunshine through the holes in the roof, though Jandron could see none; claimed the sunshine made his head ache.
“But it’s not a bad place,” he added. “We can make a blaze in that fireplace and be comfy. I don’t like that window, though.”
“What window?” asked Jandron. “Where?”
Marr laughed, and ignored him. Jandron turned to Vivian, who had sunk down on the “deacon-seat” and was staring at the stove.
“Is there a window here?” he demanded.
“Don’t ask me,” she whispered. “I—I don’t know.”
With a very thriving fear in his heart, Jandron peered at her a moment. He fell to muttering:
“I’m Wallace Jandron. Wallace Jandron, 37 Ware Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. I’m quite sane. And I’m going to stay so. I’m going to save her! I know perfectly well what I’m doing. And I’m sane. Quite, quite sane!”
After a time of confused and purposeless wrangling, they got a fire going and made coffee. This, and cube bouillon with hardtack, helped considerably. The camp helped, too. A house, even a poor and broken one, is a wonderful barrier against a Thing from—Outside.
Strange Ports of Call Page 7