The Golden Age of Science Fiction Novels Vol 02

by Anthology

  Krag stared at him all the time he was speaking, his face gradually resuming its jesting expression.

  "Oh, you will get your twenty-four hours, and perhaps longer, but not much longer. You're an audacious fellow, Maskull, but this trip will prove a little strenuous, even for you.... And so, like the unbelievers of old, you want a sign from heaven?"

  Maskull frowned. "But the whole thing is ridiculous. Our brains are overexcited by what took place in there. Let us go home, and sleep it off."

  Krag detained him with one hand, while groping in his breast pocket with the other. He presently fished out what resembled a small folding lens. The diameter of the glass did not exceed two inches.

  "First take a peep at Arcturus through this, Maskull. It may serve as a provisional sign. It's the best I can do, unfortunately. I am not a travelling magician.... Be very careful not to drop it. It's somewhat heavy."

  Maskull took the lens in his hand, struggled with it for a minute, and then looked at Krag in amazement. The little object weighed at least twenty pounds, though it was not much bigger than a crown piece.

  "What stuff can this be, Krag?"

  "Look through it, my good friend. That's what I gave it to you for."

  Maskull held it up with difficulty, directed it toward the gleaming Arcturus, and snatched as long and as steady a glance at the star as the muscles of his arm would permit. What he saw was this. The star, which to the naked eye appeared as a single yellow point of light, now became clearly split into two bright but minute suns, the larger of which was still yellow, while its smaller companion was a beautiful blue. But this was not all. Apparently circulating around the yellow sun was a comparatively small and hardly distinguishable satellite, which seemed to shine, not by its own, but by reflected light.... Maskull lowered and raised his arm repeatedly. The same spectacle revealed itself again and again, but he was able to see nothing else. Then he passed back the lens to Krag, without a word, and stood chewing his underlip.

  "You take a glimpse too," scraped Krag, proffering the glass to Nightspore.

  Nightspore turned his back and began to pace up an down. Krag laughed sardonically, and returned the lens to his pocket. "Well, Maskull, are you satisfied?"

  "Arcturus, then, is a double sun. And is that third point the planet Tormance?"

  "Our future home, Maskull."

  Maskull continued to ponder. "You inquire if I am satisfied. I don't know, Krag. It's miraculous, and that's all I can say about it.... But I'm satisfied of one thing. There must be very wonderful astronomers at Starkness and if you invite me to your observatory I will surely come."

  "I do invite you. We set off from there."

  "And you, Nightspore?" demanded Maskull.

  "The journey has to be made," answered his friend in indistinct tones, "though I don't see what will come of it."

  Krag shot a penetrating glance at him. "More remarkable adventures than this would need to be arranged before we could excite Nightspore."

  "Yet he is coming."

  "But not con amore. He is coming merely to bear you company."

  Maskull again sought the heavy, sombre star, gleaming in solitary might, in the south-eastern heavens, and, as he gazed, his heart swelled with grand and painful longings, for which, however, he was unable to account to his own intellect. He felt that his destiny was in some way bound up with this gigantic, far-distant sun. But still he did not dare to admit to himself Krag's seriousness.

  He heard his parting remarks in deep abstraction, and only after the lapse of several minutes, when, alone with Nightspore, did he realise that they referred to such mundane matters as travelling routes and times of trains.

  "Does Krag travel north with us, Nightspore? I didn't catch that."

  "No. We go on first, and he joins us at Starkness on the evening of the day after tomorrow."

  Maskull remained thoughtful. "What am I to think of that man?"

  "For your information," replied Nightspore wearily, "I have never known him to lie."

  Chapter 3.

  STARKNESS

  A couple of days later, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Maskull and Nightspore arrived at Starkness Observatory, having covered the seven miles from Haillar Station on foot. The road, very wild and lonely, ran for the greater part of the way near the edge of rather lofty cliffs, within sight of the North Sea. The sun shone, but a brisk east wind was blowing and the air was salt and cold. The dark green waves were flecked with white. Throughout the walk, they were accompanied by the plaintive, beautiful crying of the gulls.

  The observatory presented itself to their eyes as a self-contained little community, without neighbours, and perched on the extreme end of the land. There were three buildings: a small, stone-built dwelling house, a low workshop, and, about two hundred yards farther north, a square tower of granite masonry, seventy feet in height.

  The house and the shop were separated by an open yard, littered with waste. A single stone wall surrounded both, except on the side facing the sea, where the house itself formed a continuation of the cliff. No one appeared. The windows were all closed, and Maskull could have sworn that the whole establishment was shut up and deserted.

  He passed through the open gate, followed by Nightspore, and knocked vigorously at the front door. The knocker was thick with dust and had obviously not been used for a long time. He put his ear to the door, but could hear no movements inside the house. He then tried the handle; the door was looked.

  They walked around the house, looking for another entrance, but there was only the one door.

  "This isn't promising," growled Maskull "There's no one here..... Now you try the shed, while I go over to that tower."

  Nightspore, who had not spoken half a dozen words since leaving the train, complied in silence, and started off across the yard. Maskull passed out of the gate again. When he arrived at the foot of the tower, which stood some way back from the cliff, he found the door heavily padlocked. Gazing up, he saw six windows, one above the other at equal distances, all on the east face--that is, overlooking the sea. Realising that no satisfaction was to be gained here, he came away again, still more irritated than before. When he rejoined his friend, Nightspore reported that the workshop was also locked.

  "Did we, or did we not, receive an invitation?" demanded Maskull energetically.

  "The house is empty," replied Nightspore, biting his nails. "Better break a window."

  "I certainly don't mean to camp out till Krag condescends to come."

  He picked up an old iron bolt from the yard and, retreating to a safe distance, hurled it against a sash window on the ground floor. The lower pane was completely shattered. Carefully avoiding the broken glass, Maskull thrust his hand through the aperture and pushed back the frame fastening. A minute later they had climbed through and were standing inside the house.

  The room, which was a kitchen, was in an indescribably filthy and neglected condition. The furniture scarcely held together, broken utensils and rubbish lay on the floor instead of on the dust heap, everything was covered with a deep deposit of dust. The atmosphere was so foul that Maskull judged that no fresh air had passed into the room for several months. Insects were crawling on the walls.

  They went into the other rooms on the lower floor--a scullery, a barely furnished dining room, and a storing place for lumber. The same dirt, mustiness, and neglect met their eyes. At least half a year must have elapsed since these rooms were last touched, or even entered.

  "Does your faith in Krag still hold?" asked Maskull. "I confess mine is at vanishing point. If this affair isn't one big practical joke, it has every promise of being one. Krag never lived here in his life."

  "Come upstairs first," said Nightspore.

  The upstairs rooms proved to consist of a library and three bedrooms. All the windows were tightly closed, and the air was insufferable. The beds had been slept in, evidently a long time ago, and had never been made since. The tumbled, discoloured bed linen actually preserved the im
pressions of the sleepers. There was no doubt that these impressions were ancient, for all sorts of floating dirt had accumulated on the sheets and coverlets.

  "Who could have slept here, do you think?" interrogated Maskull. "The observatory staff?"

  "More likely travellers like ourselves. They left suddenly."

  Maskull flung the windows wide open in every room he came to, and held his breath until he had done so. Two of the bedrooms faced the sea; the third, the library, the upward-sloping moorland. This library was now the only room left unvisited, and unless they discovered signs of recent occupation here Maskull made up his mind to regard the whole business as a gigantic hoax.

  But the library, like all the other rooms, was foul with stale air and dust-laden. Maskull, having flung the window up and down, fell heavily into an armchair and looked disgustedly at his friend.

  "Now what is your opinion of Krag?"

  Nightspore sat on the edge of the table which stood before the window. "He may still have left a message for us."

  "What message? Why? Do you mean in this room?--I see no message."

  Nightspore's eyes wandered about the room, finally seeming to linger upon a glass-fronted wall cupboard, which contained a few old bottles on one of the shelves and nothing else. Maskull glanced at him and at the cupboard. Then, without a word, he got up to examine the bottles.

  There were four altogether, one of which was larger than the rest. The smaller ones were about eight inches long. All were torpedo-shaped, but had flattened bottoms, which enabled them to stand upright. Two of the smaller ones were empty and unstoppered, the others contained a colourless liquid, and possessed queer-looking, nozzle-like stoppers that were connected by a thin metal rod with a catch halfway down the side of the bottle. They were labelled, but the labels were yellow with age and the writing was nearly undecipherable. Maskull carried the filled bottles with him to the table in front of the window, in order to get better light. Nightspore moved away to make room for him.

  He now made out on the larger bottle the words "Solar Back Rays"; and on the other one, after some doubt, he thought that he could distinguish something like "Arcturian Back Rays."

  He looked up, to stare curiously at his friend. "Have you been here before, Nightspore?"

  "I guessed Krag would leave a message."

  "Well, I don't know--it may be a message, but it means nothing to us, or at all events to me. What are 'back rays'?"

  "Light that goes back to its source," muttered Nightspore.

  "And what kind of light would that be?"

  Nightspore seemed unwilling to answer, but, finding Maskull's eyes still fixed on him, he brought out: "Unless light pulled, as well as pushed, how would flowers contrive to twist their heads around after the sun?"

  "I don't know. But the point is, what are these bottles for?"

  While he was still talking, with his hand on the smaller bottle, the other, which was lying on its side, accidentally rolled over in such a manner that the metal caught against the table. He made a movement to stop it, his hand was actually descending, when--the bottle suddenly disappeared before his eyes. It had not rolled off the table, but had really vanished--it was nowhere at all.

  Maskull stared at the table. After a minute he raised his brows, and turned to Nightspore with a smile. "The message grows more intricate."

  Nightspore looked bored. "The valve became unfastened. The contents have escaped through the open window toward the sun, carrying the bottle with them. But the bottle will be burned up by the earth's atmosphere, and the contents will dissipate, and will not reach the sun."

  Maskull listened attentively, and his smile faded. "Does anything prevent us from experimenting with this other bottle?"

  "Replace it in the cupboard," said Nightspore. "Arcturus is still below the horizon, and you would succeed only in wrecking the house."

  Maskull remained standing before the window, pensively gazing out at the sunlit moors.

  "Krag treats me like a child," he remarked presently. "And perhaps I really am a child.... My cynicism must seem most amusing to Krag. But why does he leave me to find out all this by myself--for I don't include you, Nightspore.... But what time will Krag be here?"

  "Not before dark, I expect," his friend replied.

  Chapter 4.

  THE VOICE

  It was by this time past three o'clock. Feeling hungry, for they had eaten nothing since early morning, Maskull went downstairs to forage, but without much hope of finding anything in the shape of food. In a safe in the kitchen he discovered a bag of mouldy oatmeal, which was untouchable, a quantity of quite good tea in an airtight caddy, and an unopened can of ox tongue. Best of all, in the dining-room cupboard he came across an uncorked bottle of first-class Scotch whisky. He at once made preparations for a scratch meal.

  A pump in the yard ran clear after a good deal of hard working at it, and he washed out and filled the antique kettle. For firewood, one of the kitchen chairs was broken up with a chopper. The light, dusty wood made a good blaze in the grate, the kettle was boiled, and cups were procured and washed. Ten minutes later the friends were dining in the library.

  Nightspore ate and drank little, but Maskull sat down with good appetite. There being no milk, whisky took the place of it; the nearly black tea was mixed with an equal quantity of the spirit. Of this concoction Maskull drank cup after cup, and long after the tongue had disappeared he was still imbibing.

  Nightspore looked at him queerly. "Do you intend to finish the bottle before Krag comes?"

  "Krag won't want any, and one must do something. I feel restless."

  "Let us take a look at the country."

  The cup, which was on its way to Maskull's lips, remained poised in the air. "Have you anything in view, Nightspore?"

  "Let us walk out to the Gap of Sorgie."

  "What's that?"

  "A showplace," answered Nightspore, biting his lip.

  Maskull finished off the cup, and rose to his feet. "Walking is better than soaking at any time, and especially on a day like this.... How far is it?"

  "Three or four miles each way."

  "You probably mean something," said Maskull, "for I'm beginning to regard you as a second Krag. But if so, so much the better. I am growing nervous, and need incidents."

  They left the house by the door, which they left ajar, and immediately found themselves again on the moorland road that had brought them from Haillar. This time they continued along it, past the tower.

  Maskull, as they went by, regarded the erection with puzzled interest. "What is that tower, Nightspore?"

  "We sail from the platform on the top."

  "Tonight?"--throwing him a quick look.

  "Yes."

  Maskull smiled, but his eyes were grave. "Then we are looking at the gateway of Arcturus, and Krag is now travelling north to unlock it."

  "You no longer think it impossible, I fancy," mumbled Nightspore.

  After a mile or two, the road parted from the sea coast and swerved sharply inland, across the hills. With Nightspore as guide, they left it and took to the grass. A faint sheep path marked the way along the cliff edge for some distance, but at the end of another mile it vanished. The two men then had some rough walking up and down hillsides and across deep gullies. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and twilight imperceptibly came on. They soon reached a spot where further progress appeared impossible. The buttress of a mountain descended at a steep angle to the very edge of the cliff, forming an impassable slope of slippery grass. Maskull halted, stroked his beard, and wondered what the next step was to be.

  "There's a little scrambling here," said Nightspore. "We are both used to climbing, and there is not much in it."

  He indicated a narrow ledge, winding along the face of the precipice a few yards beneath where they were standing. It averaged from fifteen to thirty inches in width. Without waiting for Maskull's consent to the undertaking, he instantly swung himself down and started walking along this ledge at
a rapid pace. Maskull, seeing that there was no help for it, followed him. The shelf did not extend for above a quarter of a mile, but its passage was somewhat unnerving; there was a sheer drop to the sea, four hundred feet below. In a few places they had to sidle along without placing one foot before another. The sound of the breakers came up to them in a low, threatening roar.

  Upon rounding a corner, the ledge broadened out into a fair-sized platform of rock and came to a sudden end. A narrow inlet of the sea separated them from the continuation of the cliffs beyond.

  "As we can't get any further," said Maskull, "I presume this is your Gap of Sorgie?"

  "Yes," answered his friend, first dropping on his knees and then lying at full length, face downward. He drew his head and shoulders over the edge and began to stare straight down at the water.

  "What is there interesting down there, Nightspore?"

  Receiving no reply, however, he followed his friend's example, and the next minute was looking for himself. Nothing was to be seen; the gloom had deepened, and the sea was nearly invisible. But, while he was ineffectually gazing, he heard what sounded like the beating of a drum on the narrow strip of shore below. It was very faint, but quite distinct. The beats were in four-four time, with the third beat slightly accented. He now continued to hear the noise all the time he was lying there. The beats were in no way drowned by the far louder sound of the surf, but seemed somehow to belong to a different world....

  When they were on their feet again, he questioned Nightspore. "We came here solely to hear that?"

  Nightspore cast one of his odd looks at him. "It's called locally 'The Drum Taps of Sorgie.' You will not hear that name again, but perhaps you will hear the sound again."

  "And if I do, what will it imply?" demanded Maskull in amazement.

  "It bears its own message. Only try always to hear it more and more distinctly.... Now it's growing dark, and we must get back."