by Henry Hasse
And HEX—R’s trail led right up to the lip of this brink.
FEARFULLY Ral peered below, knowing that if HEX—R had gone here Chyana must have gone before. Gradually his gaze penetrated the darkness and he saw that the drop was about fifteen feet. He slid backward over the brink, held by his hands for a moment and dropped, alighting with a force that jarred his teeth.
Above him Mech peered over the edge and cried. Ral called to him to come, but Mech wouldn’t make the jump into the dark.
“All right, Mech, I’m sorry,” Ral said to him. “I may never see you again. Wish you’d come, but I can’t wait.”
Mech cried again but Ral moved away in the darkness, feeling his way along what seemed to be a rough, narrow tunnel. For perhaps fifty yards he moved, then the tunnel was suddenly blocked with stone that seemed to have come down upon it from above.
There was sudden fear in Ral’s heart at the thought that Chyana might be lying just beyond him, crushed. For an hour he worked feverishly in the dark, clearing his way through. Just as he got through he came upon HEX—R, twisted and battered. His heart was light again, for this meant Chyana must have barely got through before the collapse caught HEX—R behind her. Ral felt a moment of sadness for the faithful tilelayer, and a pang of regret that he would probably never know the secret of its bizarre attachment to Chyana.
He felt a current of fresh air ahead of him now, and pushed hurriedly forward. He saw a pale gleam of light that increased as he advanced. A few hundred yards further the tunnel opened abruptly into a wide grotto. On the opposite side of the grotto was another wide opening through which he could see the red setting sun. He could also see the vast black plain stretching out far below. He knew he was somewhere beneath the cliff.
But these details were of little importance just then, for he also saw, standing there waiting for him—Chyana.
CHYANA released herself from Ral’s frantic embrace. “Yes, I’m all right,” she said in answer to his anxious inquiries, “except I got an awful bump on the head when I fell into the tunnel back there!” She rubbed it ruefully. “That was sometime last night. I’ve been here all day heaving rocks down the side of the cliff!”
Ral Vahn looked startled, and Chyana laughed bitterly. “I’ll show you what I mean,” she said. “I’ve found what we were looking for!” She led Ral over to the opening overlooking the black plain. “Down there,” and she pointed down the side of the cliff.
Ral peered over the edge. About fifty feet below, but far over to the left, he saw what was undoubtedly the destructive weapon. It rested solidly on a wide, smooth promontory about halfway down the side of the cliff. That section of the cliff overhung it slightly, which had prevented them from spotting it from above. As to the weapon itself, all Ral could see was a huge convex lens that must have been twenty feet across. Behind it he could see hundreds of metal filaments that converged into thick cables. These led back into the cliff out of sight. The whole thing rested on a free-swinging pivot. At the present moment the huge lens was directly facing the reddening sun, which was very low in the west.
“It turns with the sun,” Chyana said. “The lens is directly facing the sun all the time. When I first saw it this morning it was far over this way, and I could see it slowly turning as the sun moved across the sky.”
“Yes, I can see how it works,” Ral replied. “But we’ve got to smash it! We haven’t much time!”
Chyana laughed a bit hysterically. “Oh, yes, we’ve got to smash it! What do you suppose I’ve been doing here all day?” She pointed to a little pile of broken stone and masonry. “That pile was nearly as high as my head. I hauled it all here from down the tunnel where the cave-in occurred. Then I spent hours heaving it all down to hit that lens. My arms are nearly dead! When it was facing in this direction I could hit it part of the time, but the stones simply glanced off. Now it’s almost impossible!”
“Poor Chyana,” Ral said. “But I’ll try it. This is an awkward angle, but we’ve got to keep at it. It’s our only chance!”
RAL TRIED leaning as far out over the cliff as he dared. He clutched at the wall with his left hand; with his right he heaved the stones in a huge arc, much as a shot-putter might. But out of every dozen attempts he could only score four or five hits, and these only glanced off of the lens harmlessly and hurtled to the plain far below. Meanwhile Chyana, despite her weariness, hurried back and forth down the tunnel bringing more ammunition.
“Bring the largest and heaviest pieces you can find!” Ral called.
But he soon saw it was to no avail. They ceased their efforts out of sheer collapse and despair.
“Then this is the end,” Ral groaned. “To be so near, and yet so far! To be within the very sight of it—”
“We can go back above,” Chyana cried, “and get something to lower one of us down there—some vines—”
But Ral pointed to the sun, now almost touching the horizon. “Too late. We’ve only a few minutes at most.” Again he surveyed the face of the cliff that dropped sheer below them. This time he saw something he had overlooked before. About twenty feet below their opening, a narrow ledge jutted out from the cliff. It was hardly two feet wide, and became gradually narrower as it extended to the left. The point where the ledge disappeared entirely was directly over that lens, about thirty feet above it.
A sudden hope flooded over Ral. But then he saw that what he was thinking would be a desperate, even a foolhardy attempt. If he held by his hands and dropped to that ledge, there was a fifty-fifty chance that he would lose his balance and plunge the remaining hundred and fifty feet below. If he did gain the ledge safely, Chyana might toss him some of the heavy stones, and from his closer position he might smash the lens.
But even as these frantic thoughts raced through his brain he knew it was impossible. He could never get close enough. And by the time they could have a makeshift rope ready, it would be too late. The sun was very near to setting now . . .
“Listen!” Chyana said. They heard a sudden clattering sound from far down the tunnel, then Mech came running out of the tunnel into the grotto. But he was hobbling rather than running, for one of his rear metal legs was hopelessly bent. Evidently this had happened when Mech, overcoming his fear, had leaped down into the dark tunnel. He did not seem to mind it, however, or even notice it. He barked joyfully when he saw Chyana and Ral. He came over to Ral, who spoke to him tonelessly.
Mech stood at the cliff edge and looked out at the reddening sun. He lifted his head and howled mournfully.
“You see, he remembers!” Vahn said. “Yes, Mech old boy, it’s going to happen again. But just once more, I’ll guarantee you that.” In a last desperate attempt Vahn heaved a few more stones.
Mech remembered indeed! He looked at the sun, then at Ral, and cried again pitifully. He ran aimlessly back into the tunnel a short distance, then came back to where Ral was standing. It was as though he were trying to escape from what he knew was coming, but realized it was no use. He looked down at the ledge below. His front legs stiffened, then he drew back instinctively. He looked up at his master and cried again, plaintively. Again he approached very close to the brink and looked down. He made several little hesitating movements.
Ral suddenly cried, “Don’t, Mech—don’t!” He made a frantic grab at Mech.
But it was too late. Mech had disappeared over the edge.
THEY SAW him strike the narrow ledge below. For a breathless moment, his bent and useless leg slipped over the edge. He clung there perilously for a moment, then clawed frantically and regained his footing. Breathlessly Ral and Chyana watched. Chyana whispered in an awed, but excited voice: “I remember, Ral! Now I remember!” But Ral scarcely heard.
Very carefully Mech moved along that ledge toward the lens below. Then the ledge narrowed and he could move no further. As Mech hesitated, they heard a click and saw the huge lens swing back to center. At the same time there came a smooth, humming sound as of huge dynamos in operation. T
hey saw the filaments begin to glow beneath the lens. The glow brightened. They knew that in a few seconds those blue waves of torture would burst forth again . . .
Mech must have known it too. They heard him cry deep in his throat. He tried to turn back and look up at them, but the ledge where he stood was too narrow. He barked once, sharply—then leaped far and accurate. The metal body formed an arc reflecting the dying rays of the sun. It hit the lens truly in the center, and crashed through. There was a single, tremendous flash of blue, a sputter of fused and molten metal, then—silence.
CHYANA WAS crying softly, but Ral Vahn was not. He hadn’t liked Mech in his new metal body; but in Ral’s soul now, at the thought of Mech’s sacrifice, there was only a vast singing quiet too deep for tears.
Chyana was clinging to him, and through her tears she was saying again—but reverently:
“I remember it now—I remember it all. That’s the way it happened. It was all true, then, not a myth!”
Ral Vahn was suddenly very, tired, but as he sank down upon the floor he managed to ask, “What do you remember, Chyana? What’s that about a myth?”
“The book I was telling you about! The book I read, which the Council of Scientists pronounced as preposterous. I thought all of this reminded me of it, but in a vague, distorted way. Not until that final act of Mech’s was I sure. That brought it all back!”
Chyana was very excited now, but Ral was so tired he could only ask wearily, “What about Mech?”
“He was in the book! It was exactly like that! All the rest of the book was interpreted, and misinterpreted, and exaggerated through the thousands of years, until it became a legend which was finally disbelieved. There was no mention of a history or a civilization before the legend; the legend was supposed to be the beginning! It told of two persons who somehow came from thousands of years apart, and met each other in a twilight place, and through this miracle the race was born . . .”
Gone was Ral Vahn’s weariness as the realization burst on him. “Thousands of years apart! A twilight place! But Chyana, that’s us! This is the twilight of my race . . .”
“And the dawn of mine, Ral Vahn. Yes, it’s a miracle in time. The Council of Scientists had to send me back here, or they could never have existed! By sending me back they unknowingly caused the beginning of the new race. And I remember something else about that legendary book, Ral Vahn!”
“What is that?” asked Ral, his mind just beginning to grasp the tremendous thought of all that lay ahead.
“I remember the title of that book. It was The New Beginning. And I remember the author! Although the story changed through translations, and gradually became legend, the name of the author remained, and the name was—”
“Yes?”
“Ral Vahn!”
The End
*******************************
The Missing Day,
by Henry Hasse
Super Science Stories May 1942
Novelette - 9865 words
Chained by the shackles of the infinite it stood, a city of the living dead . . . until a man from Mars dared pierce the fatal veil that could make an astounding end to the day when the world stood still!
CHAPTER I
Symphony of the Immobile
The world does not know of the missing day. And perhaps that is best, after all, for there would be many uneasy minds, despite the virtual fact that such a thing will not occur again. Only three persons know—four, if you count Rac. And, but for the fortunate circumstance of Rac’s presence, it might have easily been a year, or a hundred years, or all eternity . . . instead of that grotesque day.
Rac has returned home now, having become homesick despite his very enjoyable visit. It was inevitable that the good-natured and inquisitive little fellow should become a favorite with Earth’s populace.
How very much more would he have been honored and feted and idolized had they known the fate from which he delivered them!
But behold:
The night of July 31, 1981. Mike Bessini, big-shot racketeer and gambler, sat in the private office of his Aero Club, one hundred stories above New York’s streets. Mike was counting some of the night’s receipts.
Standing with his back to the door, only casually interested, was Mike’s bodyguard. Such things were hardly a necessity any more, but Mike Bessini was romantic. He had read that bodyguards were an institution forty years ago, so he liked to have Joe around. From the casino beyond the private door came faint strains of the latest dance tune.
Presently Mike asked, without looking up, “Full house out there tonight, Joe?”
“Not quite, boss, but it’s early yet.” Joe glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Only one minute to twelve now.”
Joe lit a cigarette, glanced idly around the room.
Suddenly he grew tense, shivered a little. “Say, boss, am I imagining things? It seems to be getting cold in here! That’s funny! “
Bessini had thrust the receipts into a drawer and was making notations in his ever-present black book.
“Boss, I’ve got a funny feeling! There’s something—something wrong tonight.”
Joe’s tone made Bessini look up, and he too sensed something wrong, something about the night itself. With a bound he was at the open window, looking out at the city below.
A strange peace had come over the city. A stillness that was eerie. Not a sound—nothing.
Nothing, that is, but a thin, transparent blanket of palest yellow that rose up from the world below. Simply a color spreading upward and outward almost with the speed of light. And all was cold, a strange and sudden cold for July 31st.
“Gas! It’s a raid!” Mike shouted inanely as he staggered back from the window. “They can’t do this; I’ve been paying off regular! They can’t get away with—”
But this was no gas, and those were Mike Bessini’s last words. The rush of atmospheric color had reached the hundredth floor and spread on out toward the blackness of space. In the merest fraction of a second Mike Bessini became as one frozen. He stood poised grotesquely in mid-step, one arm raised in futile gesture. His eyes were open but unseeing; his mouth was open too, the last of his frantic words unspoken.
Joe, halfway across the room, remained a statue of suddenly arrested motion. His look of bewilderment was now frozen permanently on his face. Even the smoke from his cigarette had become a part of the weird effect. It now remained motionless, in beautifully spiraled patterns of blue against the pale atmospheric yellow . . .
Out in the casino the phenomenon had struck as suddenly. The dance tune had stopped in mid-note. The orchestra leader stood motionless with baton half raised in now nerveless fingers. Out on the floor, in their main number, the internationally famous dance team of Olandra and Leon had been halted in the process of a particularly intricate step. They now remained frozen in the circle of the spotlight, perfection in postural grace.
But none were there who could appreciate this perfect symphony of the immobile. The patrons at the tables were all a part of it. Some had glasses half raised. Others were quietly intent on the dance number. But all occupants of the large room were rigid and unmoving now, all eyes were fixed and unseeing. The white spotlight stabbed eerily through the pale, clear yellow which had invaded the atmosphere so instantaneously.
Motors purred softly as the huge passenger liner slipped swiftly through the sky enroute from New York to San Francisco. In the pilot’s seat Carl Bowman peered ahead at the tiny cluster of lights that was the city of Cincinnati. Never, he thought, had he seen so clear and so dark a night. But suddenly the dark sky far off to his left seemed to shiver, to grow pale, to move! Startled, he looked around him. The entire sky behind had become a vast shimmering blanket of palest yellow, seeming to reach from the earth up to the stars. Even as he looked, the color seemed to leap swiftly toward him, swallowing up the sky! Instinctively Bowman reached out to make sure the gravity control was on.
But the swift color fr
om behind reached and swallowed up the air-liner when the pilot’s hand was still two inches from the control—and there his hand remained. The purring of motors ceased. The liner stopped in its forward motion as though a huge invisible hand had grasped it from behind. Then it plummeted earthward, carrying fifty-two persons to their death.
Through some mechanic’s oversight the gravity control had not been on.
Miss Della Jones noticed nothing unusual about the stranger who entered Ye Nifty Tasty Shoppe. He was tall and well dressed and rather good looking. He ordered coffee, which she served him. He lingered over it, and she wished he would hurry, for it was nearly midnight and she wanted to lock up. He finished finally, came slowly over to the cash register, and said calmly, “Don’t scream; this is a hold-up.”
She looked up into the muzzle of a very large revolver. She felt her legs suddenly become weak, like wet macaroni. Foolishly she opened her mouth to scream, but the scream never issued—for at that moment it was midnight.
The girl’s eyes remained wide and frightened; her mouth remained open; and the revolver in the hand of the stranger remained leveled as they faced each other fantastically across the counter, there in the suddenly motionless silence. . .
In the control room of the spaceship Terra, Vee Deering glanced up from the charts she had been studying. She suddenly laughed at what she saw.
“Heavens, Bob, look at Rac now! Did you ever see him more excited? Not even the time when you gave him the flashlight for his very own!”