The 22nd Golden Age of Science Fiction

by Robert Moore Williams

  Far off in the sky Craig could see what the officers had on their minds. A series of tiny black dots. They were so far away they looked like gnats. Jap bombers. Big fellows. Four-engined jobs.

  The notes of the call to action stations were still screaming through the ship. The Idaho, at the touch of the magic sound, was coming to life. Thirty-five thousand tons of steel was going into action. Craig could feel the pulsation as the engines kicked the screws over faster. The ship surged ahead. Fifteen hundred men were leaping to their stations. The guns in the big turrets were poking around, hoping that somewhere off toward the horizon there was a target for them. The Idaho was a new ship. She was lousy with anti-aircraft. The black muzzles of multiple pom-poms were swinging around, poking toward the sky.

  An officer was peering through a pair of glasses. “Seventeen of them, sir,” he said. “I can’t be certain yet, but I think there is another flight following the first.”

  * * * *

  The Idaho was part of a task force that included a carrier, cruisers, and several destroyers. Craig could see the carrier off in the distance. She had already swung around. Black gnats were racing along her deck and leaping into the sky. Fighter planes going up. Cruisers and destroyers were moving into pre-determined positions around the carrier and the Idaho, to add the weight of their anti-aircraft barrage to the guns carried by the big ships.

  “Three minutes,” somebody said in a calm voice. “They’ve started on their run.”

  The anti-aircraft let go. Craig gasped and clamped his hands over his ears. He had left the Navy before the advent of air warfare. He knew the roar of the big guns in their turrets but this was his first experience with the guns that fought the planes. The sound was utterly deafening. If the fury of a hundred thunder-storms were concentrated into a single area, the blasting tornado of sound would not be as great as the thunder of the guns. The explosions beat against his skull, set his teeth pounding together. He could feel the vibrations with his feet.

  High in the sky overhead black dots blossomed like death flowers blooming in the sky.

  The bombers kept coming.

  The anti-aircraft bursts moved into their path. Death reached up into the sky, plucking with taloned fingers for the black vultures racing with the wind. Reached and found their goal. One plane mushroomed outward in a burst of smoke.

  Craig knew it was a direct hit, apparently in the bomb bay, exploding the bombs carried there. Fragments of the plane hung in the sky, falling slowly downward.

  Up above the anti-aircraft, midges were dancing in the sun—fighter planes. They dived downward.

  Abruptly a bomber fell out of formation, tried to right itself, failed. A wing came off. Crazily the bomber began spinning.

  Black smoke gouted from a third ship. It began losing altitude rapidly.

  The others continued on their course.

  Michaelson suddenly appeared on the bridge.

  How he got there, Craig did not know, but he was there, jumping around and waving his notebook in the air. Michaelson was shouting at the top of his voice.

  “—Danger!—Must get away from here—”

  Craig caught the shouted words. The thundering roar of the anti-aircraft barrage drowned out the rest.

  No one paid any attention to Michaelson. They were watching the sky.

  The planes had released their bombs.

  For some reason they were not attacking their normal target, the carrier. Perhaps a second flight was making a run over the carrier. The first flight was bombing the battleship.

  The Idaho was their target.

  * * * *

  Craig could feel the great ship tremble as she tried to swerve to avoid the bombs. A destroyer would have been able to spin in a circle but 35,000 tons of steel do not turn so easily.

  The bombs were coming down. Craig could see them in the air, little black dots growing constantly larger. Fighter planes were tearing great holes in the formation of the bombers. Few of the Jap ships would ever return to their base. But their job was already done.

  The bombs hit.

  They struck in an irregular pattern all around the ship. Four or five were very near misses but there was not one direct hit. Great waterspouts leaped from the surface of the sea. A sheet of flame seemed to run around the horizon. It was a queer, dancing, intensely brilliant, blue flame. It looked like the discharge from some huge electric arc.

  Even above the roar of the barrage, Craig heard the tearing sound. Somehow it reminded him of somebody tearing a piece of cloth. Only, to make a sound as loud as this, it would have to be a huge piece of cloth and the person tearing it would have to be a giant.

  The blue light became more intense. It flared to a brilliance that was intolerable.

  At the same time, the sun jumped!

  “I’m going nuts!” the fleeting thought was in Craig’s mind. He wondered if a bomb had struck the ship. Was this the nightmare that comes with death? Had he died in the split fraction of a second and was his disintegrating mind reporting the startling fact of death by telling him that the sun was jumping?

  The sun couldn’t jump.

  It had jumped. It had been almost directly overhead. Now it was two hours down the western sky.

  Tons of water were cascading over the bow of the ship. Waves were leaping over the deck. The Idaho seemed to have sunk several feet. Now her buoyancy was asserting itself and she was trying to rise out of the sea. She was fighting her way upward, rising against the weight of the water.

  A wind was blowing. There had been almost no wind but now a gale of hurricane proportions was howling through the superstructure of the ship.

  A heavy sea was running. The sea had been glassy smooth. Now it was covered with white caps.

  The bombs had exploded, a blue light had flamed, a giant had ripped the sky apart, a gale had leaped into existence, the sea had covered itself with white capped waves, and the sun had jumped.

  Craig looked at the sky, seeking the second flight of bombers. The air was filled with scudding clouds. There were no bombers in sight.

  The anti-aircraft batteries, with no target, suddenly stopped firing.

  Except for the howl of the wind through the superstructure, the ship was silent. The silence was so heavy it hurt the ears. The officers on the bridge stood without moving, frozen statues. They seemed paralyzed.

  The ship was running herself.

  “W—what—what the hell became of those Jappos?” Craig heard a dazed officer say.

  “Yeah, what happened to those bombers?”

  “Where did this wind come from?”

  “There wasn’t any wind a minute ago.”

  “Look at the sea. It’s covered with white caps!”

  “Something happened to the sun. I—I’m almost positive I saw it move.”

  Dazed, bewildered voices.

  “What the devil became of the carrier?” That was the voice of Captain Higgins.

  “And the rest of the force, the cruisers and destroyers—what became of them?”

  Craig looked toward the spot where he had last seen the carrier. She had been launching planes.

  He did not believe his eyes.

  The carrier was gone.

  The cruisers and destroyers that had been cutting foaming circles around the carrier and the battleship—were gone.

  The surface of the sea was empty. There weren’t even any puffs of exploding shells in the sky.

  * * * *

  The Idaho plunged forward through strange seas. From horizon to horizon there was nothing to be seen. The task force to which the ship belonged and the attacking Jap planes had both vanished. The group of officers responsible for the ship were dazed. Then, little by little, their long training asserted itself and they fought off the panic threatening them. Captain Higgins ordered the ship slowed until she was barely m
oving. This was to protect them from the possibility of hitting submerged reefs or shoals. The first question was—what had happened? Captain Higgins ordered radio silence broken. The ship carried powerful wireless equipment, strong enough to reach to the mainland of America, and farther.

  The radio calls brought no response. The radio men reported all they could get on their receivers was static. No commercial and no radio signals were on the air. This was impossible.

  In growing bewilderment, Captain Higgins ordered a plane catapulted into the air, to search the surrounding sea. Meanwhile routine reports from all parts of the ship showed that the Idaho had suffered no damage of any kind from the bombing. She was in first-class shape. The only thing wrong with her was the men who manned her. They were bewildered. Defeat in battle they would have faced. They would not have flinched if the ship had gone down before superior gun power. They would have fought her fearlessly, dying, if need be, in the traditions of their service.

  Craig was still on the bridge with Captain Higgins and the other officers. Although he did not show it, he was scared. Right down to the bottoms of his bare feet, he was scared. He watched the scouting plane catapulted into the air, and the grim thought came into his mind that Noah, sending forth the dove from the ark, must have been in a similar position. Like Noah, Captain Higgins was sending forth a dove to search the waste of waters.

  Besides Craig, there was another civilian on the bridge, Michaelson. Nobody was paying any attention to him. Normally, if he had intruded without invitation to this sacred spot, he would have been bounced off so fast it would have made his head swim. But the officers had other things to think about besides a stray civilian who had popped out of nowhere. Michaelson, after fluttering vainly from officer to officer and getting no attention, turned at last to Craig. Michaelson was waving his note book.

  * * * *

  “These men will pay no attention to me,” Michaelson complained, nodding toward the officers.

  “They got troubles,” Craig said. “They’ve run into a problem that is driving them nuts.”

  “But I could help them solve their problem!” Michaelson said, irritation in his voice.

  “Aw, beat it—Huh? What did you say?” Craig demanded.

  “I can tell them what happened, if they will only listen. I was trying to warn them, before it happened, but I was unable to reach the bridge in time.”

  “You—you know what happened?” Craig choked.

  “Certainly!” Michaelson said emphatically.

  Craig stared at the little man. Michaelson did not look like he had much on the ball but he spoke excellent English, and even if he was a queer duck, he seemed to be intelligent. Craig remembered that Michaelson had been trying to reach the bridge just before the bombers struck, also that the man had been trying to get in touch with the captain just before the warning sounded that the bombers were approaching. Craig turned to the officers.

  “Captain Higgins,” he said.

  “Don’t bother me now, Craig,” the captain snapped.

  “There’s a man here who wants to talk to you,” Craig said.

  “I have no time—” For the first time, the captain saw Michaelson. “Who the devil are you?” he snapped. “What are you doing on my bridge?”

  “He’s the man who wants to talk to you,” Craig explained. “His name is Michaelson.”

  Michaelson smiled shyly. “You may have heard of me,” he said.

  “Are you Michaelson the scientist, the man who is called the second Einstein?” Higgins demanded.

  Michaelson blushed. “I am a scientist,” he said. “As for being a second Einstein, no. There is only one Einstein. There can be only one. But it may be that I can help you with your problem.”

  Craig saw the attitude of the officers change. They had heard of Michaelson. It was a great name. Until then they had not known that he was on their bridge. They became respectful.

  “If you can help us, shoot,” Higgins said bluntly.

  “I will try,” the scientist said. He pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “If you are familiar with geology you unquestionably know something about ‘faults’. ‘Faults’ are unstable areas on the surface of the Earth, places where, due to joints or cracks in the underlying strata of rocks, slippage is likely to take place. There is, for instance, the great San Andreas Rift, in California, which is a ‘fault’.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Michaelson,” Higgins interrupted. “If you’ve got something to say, say it, but don’t start giving us a lecture on geology.”

  “In explaining the unknown, it is best to start with what is known,” the scientist answered. “Earth faults are known. When I talk about them, you will understand me. However, there is another kind of fault that is as yet unknown, or known only to a few scientists who suspected its existence—” He paused. “I am referring to the space-time fault.”

  * * * *

  The faces of the officers registered nothing. Craig frowned, but listened with quickened interest. A space-time fault! What was Michaelson talking about?

  “You will not find a space-time fault mentioned in any scientific treatise,” Michaelson continued. “There is no literature on the subject, as yet. Certain erratic phenomena, of which the apparent slowing of the speed of light in certain earth areas was the most important, led a few scientists to speculate on the existence of some strange condition of space and time that would account for the observed phenomena. The speed of light is regarded as being constant, yet in certain places on earth, for no apparent reason, light seemed to move slower than it did elsewhere. What was the reason for this strange slow-down? Investigation revealed the existence of what I have called a space-time fault.”

  “Please, Mr. Michaelson,” Captain Higgins spoke. “We are not scientists. With all respect to your ability, I must request you to come directly to the point.”

  “Very well,” the scientist said. “We have fallen into a space-time fault. I have been conducting certain researches in and near this area in an effort to locate the boundaries of what I had hoped would be called—since I discovered it—the Michaelson Fault. Under ordinary circumstances the ship would, in all probability, have passed directly through the fault, though I suspect, from certain data of ships that have disappeared mysteriously, that all ships have not always passed through the fault. In our case, the explosion of the bombs was sufficient to cause a momentary dislodgment of the space-time balance in this area, with the result that we were precipitated through the fault.”

  He paused and looked expectantly at his audience. It was his impression that he had made a complete explanation of what had happened. He expected the officers to understand. They didn’t understand.

  Craig, watching in silence, caught a vague glimpse of what the scientist was saying. He felt a cold chill run up and down his spine. If he understood Michaelson correctly—

  “We were precipitated through the fault?” a lieutenant spoke. “I don’t follow. What do you mean, sir?”

  “Mean?” Michaelson answered. “I mean we passed through the fault.”

  “But what does that mean?”

  “That we have passed through time!”

  Craig was aware of a mounting tension when he heard the words. Then he had understood Michaelson correctly! He had been afraid of that. He saw from the faces of the officers that they either did not comprehend what the scientist had said, or comprehending, were refusing to believe.

  “Passed through time!” somebody said. “But that is ridiculous.”

  Michaelson shrugged. “You are thinking with your emotions,” he said. “You are thinking wishfully. You hope we have not passed through time. Therefore you say it is not true.”

  “But,” Captain Higgins spoke, “if we have passed through time, how far have we gone, and in what direction?”

  “How far I cannot say,” Michaelson answered. “There is little qu
estion of the direction: We have gone back. A space-time fault can only slip back. It cannot slip forward, or I cannot conceive of it slipping forward. As to the distance we have gone, in space, a few feet. In time, the distance may be a hundred thousand years. It may be a million years, or ten million.” He tapped his notebook. “I have much data here, but not enough data to determine how far we have gone.”

  * * * *

  Craig was cold, colder than he had ever been in all his life. They had passed through time! Desperately he wanted to doubt that the scientist knew what he was talking about. His eyes sought the reassurance of the battleship. Surely such a mass of steel could not pass through time! But—the sun had jumped, a hurricane of wind had roared out of nowhere and was still roaring through the rigging of the ship. The calm sea had become storm-tossed. And—the radio was silent.

  Was Michaelson right? Or was he a madman? Craig could not grasp completely the reasoning of the scientist. A space-time fault sounded impossible. But there was no question about the existence of earth faults. Craig had seen a few of those areas where the foundations of the Earth had crumpled. If the inconceivable pressures of the planet could crush miles of rock like he could crush a playing card in his hands, why could not the more tenuous fabric of space-time be crushed also?

  The faces of the officers reflected doubt. Craig saw them steal uneasy glances at each other, saw them glance at the bulk of the battleship for reassurance. The ship was their world.

  Out of the corner of his eyes Craig saw something coming across the sea. At the same time, in the forepeak, a lookout sang out.

  “I’m afraid,” Craig said, pointing, “that now there is no doubt that Mr. Michaelson is right. Look there.”

  Sailing down the wind was a gigantic bird-lizard. With great fanged beak out-stretched, it was flapping through the air on leathery wings. It was a creature out of the dawn of time.

  It proved, by its mere existence, that Michaelson was right.