CHAPTER V

_A Desperate Act_

The ship that Chet Bullard and Harkness had designed had none of the

instruments for space navigation that the ensuing years were to bring.

Chet's accuracy was more the result of that flyer's sixth sense--that

same uncanny power that had served aviators so well in an earlier day.

But Chet was glad to see his instruments registering once more as he

approached a new world.

Even the sonoflector was recording; its invisible rays were darting

downward to be reflected back again from the surface below. That

absolute altitude recording was a joy to read; it meant a definite

relationship with the world.

"I'll hold her at fifty thousand," he told Harkness. "Watch for some

outline that you can remember from last time."

There was an irregular area of continental size; only when they had

crossed it did Harkness point toward an outflung projection of land.

"That peninsula," he exclaimed; "we saw that before! Swing south and

inland.... Now down forty, and east of south.... This ought to be the

spot."

Perhaps Harkness, too, had the flyer's indefinable power of

orientation. He guided Chet in the downward flight, and his pointing

finger aimed at last at a cluster of shadows where a setting sun

brought mountain ranges into strong relief. Chet held the ship steady,

hung high in the air, while the quick-spreading mantle of night swept

across the world below. And, at last, when the little world was

deep-buried in shadow, they saw the red glow of fires from a hidden

valley in the south.

"Fire Valley!" said Chet. "Don't say anything about me being a

navigator. Wait, you've brought us home, sure enough."

"Home!" He could not overcome this strange excitement of a home-coming

to their own world. Even the man who stood, pistol in hand, behind him

was, for the moment, forgotten.

Valley of a thousand fires!--scene of his former adventures! Each

fumerole was adding its smoky red to the fiery glow that illumined the

place. There were ragged mountains hemming it in; Chet's gaze passed

on to the valley's end.

Down there, where the fires ceased, there would be water; he would

land there! And the ship from Earth slipped down in a long slanting

line to cushion against its under exhausts, whose soft thunder echoed

back from a bare expanse of frozen lava. Then its roaring faded. The

silvery shape sank softly to its rocky bed, as Chet cut the motor that

had sung its song of power since the moment when Schwartzmann had

carried him off--taken him from that frozen, forgotten corner of an

incredibly distant Earth.

* * * * *

"Iss there air?" Schwartzmann demanded. Chet came to himself again

with a start: he saw the man peering from the lookout to right and to

left as if he would see all that there was in the last light of day.

"Strange!" he was grumbling to himself. "A strange place! But those

hills--I saw their markings--there will be metals there. I will

explore; later I return: I will mine them. Many ships I must build to

establish a line. The first transportation line of space. Me, Jacob

Schwartzmann--I will do it. I will haff more than anyone else on

Earth; I will make them all come to me crawling on their bellies!"

Chet saw the hard shine of the narrowed eyes. For an instant only, he

dared to consider the chance of leaping upon the big, gloating figure.

One blow and a quick snatch for the pistol!... Then he knew the folly

of such a plan: Schwartzmann's men were armed; he would be downed in

another second, his body a shattered, jellied mass.

Schwartzmann's thoughts had come back to the matter of air; he

motioned Chet and Harkness toward the port.

Diane Delacouer had joined them and she thrust herself quickly between

the two men. And, though Schwartzmann made a movement as if he would

snatch her back, he thought better of it and motioned for the portal

to be swung. Chet felt him close behind as he followed the others out

into the gathering dark.

* * * * *

The air was heavy with the fragrance of night-blooming trees. They

were close to the edge of the lava flow. The rock was black in the

light of a starry sky; it dropped away abruptly to a lower glade. A

stream made silvery sparklings in the night, while beyond it were

waving shadows of strange trees whose trunks were ghostly white.

It was all so familiar.... Chet smiled understandingly as he saw Walt

Harkness' arm go about the trim figure of Diane Delacouer. No mannish

attire could disguise Diane's charms; nor could nerve and cold courage

that any man might envy detract from her femininity. Her dark, curling

hair was blowing back from her upraised face as the scented breezes

played about her; and the soft beauty of that face was enhanced by the

very starlight that revealed it.

It was here that Walt and Diane had learned to love; what wonder that

the fragrant night brought only remembrance, and forgetfulness of

their present plight. But Chet Bullard, while he saw them and smiled

in sympathy, knew suddenly that other eyes were watching, too; he felt

the bulky figure of Herr Schwartzmann beside him grow tense and rigid.

But Schwartzmann's voice, when he spoke, was controlled. "All right,"

he called toward the ship; "all iss safe."

Yet Chet wondered at that sudden tensing, and an uneasy presentiment

found entrance to his thoughts. He must keep an eye on Schwartzmann,

even more than he had supposed.

Their captor had threatened to maroon them on the Dark Moon. Chet did

not question his intent. Schwartzmann would have nothing to gain by

killing them now. It would be better to leave them here, for he might

find them useful later on. But did he plan to leave them all or only

two? Behind the steady, expressionless eyes of the Master Pilot,

strange thoughts were passing....

* * * * *

There were orders, at length, to return to the ship. "It is dark

already," Schwartzmann concluded: "nothing can be accomplished at

night."

"How long are the days and nights?" he asked Harkness.

"Six hours," Harkness told him; "our little world spins fast."

"Then for six hours we sleep," was the order. And again Herr

Schwartzmann conducted Mademoiselle Delacouer to her cabin, while Chet

Bullard watched until he saw the man depart and heard the click of the

lock on the door of Diane's room.

Then for six hours he listened to the sounds of sleeping men who were

sprawled about him on the floor; for six hours he saw the one man who

sat on guard beside a light that made any thought of attack absurd.

And he cursed himself for a fool, as he lay wakeful and vainly

planning--a poor, futile fool who was unable to cope with this man who

had bested him.

Nineteen seventy-three!--and here were Harkness and Diane and himself,

captured by a man who was mentally and morally a misfit in a modern

world. A throw-back--that was Schwartzmann: Harkness had said it. He

belonged back in nineteen fourteen.

Harkness was beyond the watching guard; from where he lay came sounds

of restless movement. Chet knew that he was not alone in this mood of

hopeless dejection. There was no opportunity for talk; only with the

coming of day did the two find a chance to exchange a few quick words.

The guard roused the others at the first light of sunlight beyond the

ports. Harkness sauntered slowly to where Chet was staring from a

lookout. He, too, leaned to see the world outside, and he spoke

cautiously in a half-whisper:

"Not a chance, Chet. No use trying to bluff this big crook any more.

He's here, and he's safe; and he knows it as well as we do. We'll let

him ditch us--you and Diane and me. Then, when we're on our own, we'll

watch our chance. He will go crazy with what he finds--may get

careless--then we'll seize the ship--" His words ended abruptly. As

Schwartzmann came behind them, he was casually calling Chet's

attention to a fumerole from which a jet of vapor had appeared.

Yellowish, it was; and the wind was blowing it.

Chet turned away; he hardly saw Schwartzmann or heard Harkness' words.

He was thinking of what Walt had said. Yes, it was all they could do;

there was no chance of a fight with them now. But later!

Diane Delacouer came into the control-room at the instant; her dark

eyes were still lovely with sleep, but they brightened to flash an

encouraging smile toward the two men. There were five of

Schwartzmann's men in the ship besides the pilot and the scientist,

Kreiss. They all crowded in after Diane.

They must have had their orders in advance; Schwartzmann merely

nodded, and they sprang upon Harkness and Chet. The two were caught

off their guard; their arms were twisted behind them before resistance

could be thought of. Diane gave a cry, started forward, and was

brushed back by a sweep of Schwartzmann's arm. The man himself stood

staring at them, unmoving, wordless. Only the flesh about his eyes

gathered into creases to squeeze the eyes to malignant slits. There

was no mistaking the menace in that look.

* * * * *

"I think we do not need you any more," he said at last. "I think, Herr

Harkness, this is the end of our little argument--and, Herr Harkness,

you lose. Now, I will tell you how it iss that you pay.

"You haff thought, perhaps, I would kill you. But you were wrong, as

you many times have been. You haff not appreciated my kindness; you

haff not understood that mine iss a heart of gold.

"Even I was not sure before we came what it iss best to do. But now I

know. I saw oceans and many lands on this world. I saw islands in

those oceans.

"You so clever are--such a great thinker iss Herr Harkness--and on one

of those islands you will haff plenty of time to think--yess! You can

think of your goot friend, Schwartzmann and of his kindness to you."

"You are going to maroon us on an island?" asked Walt Harkness

hoarsely. Plainly his plans for seizing the ship were going awry. "You

are going to put the three of us off in some lost corner of this

world?"

Chet Bullard was silent until he saw the figure of Harkness struggling

to throw off his two guards. "Walt," he called loudly, "take it easy!

For God's sake, Walt, keep your head!"

This, Chet sensed, was no time for resistance. Let Schwartzmann go

ahead with his plans; let him think them complacent and unresisting;

let Max pilot the ship; then watch for an opening when they could land

a blow that would count! He heard Schwartzmann laughing now, laughing

as if he were enjoying something more pleasing than the struggles of

Walt.

* * * * *

Chet was standing by the controls. The metal instrument-table was

beside him; above it was the control itself, a metal ball that hung

suspended in air within a cage of curved bars.

It was pure magic, this ball-control, where magnetic fields crossed

and recrossed; it was as if the one who held it were a genie who could

throw the ship itself where he willed. Glass almost enclosed the cage

of bars, and the whole instrument swung with the self-compensating

platform that adjusted itself to the "gravitation" of accelerated

speed. The pilot, Max, had moved across to the instrument-table, ready

for the take-off.

Schwartzmann's laughter died to a gurgling chuckle. He wiped his eyes

before he replied to Harkness' question.

"Leave you," he said, "in one place? _Nein!_ One here, the other

there. A thousand miles apart, it might be. And not all three of you.

That would be so unkind--"

He interrupted himself to call to Kreiss who was opening the port.

"No," he ordered; "keep it closed. We are not going outside; we are

going up."

But Kreiss had the port open. "I want a man to get some fresh water,"

he said; "he will only be a minute."

He shoved at a waiting man to hurry him through the doorway. It was

only a gentle push; Chet wondered as he saw the man stagger and grasp

at his throat. He was coughing--choking horribly for an instant

outside the open port--then fell to the ground, while his legs jerked

awkwardly, spasmodically.

Chet saw Kreiss follow. The scientist would have leaped to the side of

the stricken man, whose body was so still now on the sunlit rock; but

he, too, crumpled, then staggered back into the room. He pushed feebly

at the port and swung it shut. His face, as he turned, was drawn into

fearful lines.

"Acid!" He choked out the words between strangled breaths.

"Acid--sulfuric--fumes!"

* * * * *

Chet turned quickly to the spectro-analyzer; the lines of oxygen and

nitrogen were merged with others, and that meant an atmosphere unfit

for human lungs! There had been a fumerole where yellowish vapor was

spouting; he remembered it now.

"So!" boomed Schwartzmann, and now his squinting eyes were full on

Chet. "You--you _schwein!_ You said when we opened the ports there

would be a surprise! Und this iss it! You thought to see us kill

ourselves!"

"Open the port!" he shouted. The men who held Chet released him and

sprang forward to obey. The pilot, Max, took their place. He put one

hand on Chet's shoulder, while his other hand brought up a

threatening, metal bar.

Schwartzmann's heavy face had lost its stolid look; it was alive with

rage. He thrust his head forward to glare at the men, while he stood

firmly, his feet far apart, two heavy fists on his hips. He whirled

abruptly and caught Diane by one arm. He pulled her roughly to him and

encircled the girl's trim figure with one huge arm.

"Put you _all_ on one island?" he shouted. "Did you think I would put

you _all_ out of the ship? You"--he pointed at Harkness--"and

you"--this time it was Chet--"go out now. You can die in your damned

gas that you expected would kill me! But, you fools, you

imbeciles--Mam'selle, she stays with me!" The struggling girl was

helpless in the great arm that drew her close.

Harkness' mad rage gave place to a dead stillness. From bloodless lips

in a chalk-white face he spat out one sentence:

"Take your filthy hands off her--now--or I'll--"

Schwartzmann's one free hand still held the pistol. He raised it with

deadly deliberation; it came level with Harkness' unflinching eyes.

"Yes?" said Schwartzmann. "You will do--what?"

* * * * *

Chet saw the deadly tableau. He knew with a conviction that gripped

his heart that here was the end. Walt would die and he would be next.

Diane would be left defenseless.... The flashing thought that followed

came to him as sharply as the crack of any pistol. It seemed to burst

inside his brain, to lift him with some dynamic power of its own and

project him into action.

He threw himself sideways from under the pilot's hand, out from

beneath the heavy metal bar--and he whirled, as he leaped, to face the

man. One lean, brown hand clenched to a fist that started a long

swing from somewhere near his knees; it shot upward to crash beneath

the pilot's out-thrust jaw and lift him from the floor. Max had aimed

the bar in a downward sweep where Chet's head had been the moment

before; and now man and bar went down together. In the same instant

Chet threw himself upon the weapon and leaped backward to his feet.

One frozen second, while, to Chet, the figures seemed as motionless as

if carved from stone--two men beside the half-opened port--Harkness in

convulsive writhing between two others--the figure of Diane, strained,

tense and helpless in Schwartzmann's grasp--and Schwartzmann, whose

aim had been disturbed, steadying the pistol deliberately upon

Harkness--

"Wait!" Chet's voice tore through the confusion. He knew he must grip

Schwartzmann's attention--hold that trigger finger that was tensed to

send a detonite bullet on its way. "Wait, damn you! I'll answer your

question. I'll tell you what we'll do!"

In that second he had swung the metal bar high; now he brought it

crashing down in front of him. Schwartzmann flinched, half turned as

if to fire at Chet, and saw the blow was not for him.

With a splintering crash, the bar went through an obstruction. There

was sound of glass that slivered to a million mangled bits--the sharp

tang of metal broken off--a crash and clatter--then silence, save for

one bit of glass that fell belatedly to the floor, its tiny jingling

crash ringing loud in the deathly stillness of the room....

It had been the control-room, this place of metal walls and of

shining, polished instruments, and it could be called that no longer.

For, battered to useless wreckage, there lay on a metal table a cage

that had once been formed of curving bars. Among the fragments a metal

ball that had guided the great ship still rocked idly from its fall,

until it, too, was still.

It was a room where nothing moved--where no person so much as

breathed....

Then came the Master Pilot's voice, and it was speaking with quiet

finality.

"And that," he said, "is your answer. Our ship has made its last

flight."

His eyes held steadily upon the blanched face of Herr Schwartzmann,

whose limp arms released the body of Diane; the pistol hung weakly at

the man's side. And the pilot's voice went on, so quiet, so hushed--so

curiously toneless in that silent room.

"What was it that you said?--that Harkness and I would be staying

here? Well, you were right when you said that, Schwartzmann; but it's

a hard sentence, that--imprisonment for life."

Chet paused now, to smile deliberately, grimly at the dark face so

bleached and bloodless, before he repeated:

"Imprisonment for life!--and you didn't know that you were sentencing

yourself. For you're staying too, Schwartzmann, you contemptible,

thieving dog! You're staying with us--here--on the Dark Moon!"

(_To be continued._)

If The Sun Died

_By R. F. Starzl_

[Illustration: Crack! Again Mich'l's fist caught him.]

[Sidenote: Tens of millenniums after the Death of the Sun there comes

a young man who dares to open the Frozen Gate of Subterranea.]

By our system of time we would have called it around 65,000 A. D., but

in this cavern world, miles below the long-forgotten surface of the

earth, it was 49,889. Since the Death of the Sun. That legendary sun

was but a dim racial memory, but the 24-hour day, based on its

illusory travel across the sky, was still maintained by uranium

clocks, by which the myriads who dwelt in the galleries and maze of

the under-world warrens regulated their lives.

In the office of the nation's central electro-plant sat a young man.

He was unoccupied at the moment. He was an example of the marvelously

slow process of evolution, for, to all outward appearances he differed

little from a Twentieth Century man. Keen intelligence sat on his

fine-cut, kindly young face. In general build he was lighter, more

refined than a man of the past. Yet even the long, delicately colored

robe of mineral silk which he wore could not detract from his obvious

virility and strength.

His face flashed in a smile when a girl suddenly appeared in the

middle of the room, materializing, so it seemed, out of nowhere. She

resembled him to some extent, except that she was exquisitely

feminine, dark-haired, with a skin of warm ivory, while he was blond

and ruddy. Her tinkling, silvery voice was troubled as she asked:

"Have I your leave to stay, Mich'l Ares?"

The look of adoration he gave her was answer enough, but he answered

with the conventional formula, "It is given." He rose to his feet,

walked right through the seemingly solid vision and made an adjustment

on a bank of dials. Then he walked through the apparition again and,

standing beside his chair, looked at her inquiringly.

"You haven't forgotten, Mich'l, this is the day of the Referendum?"

Mich'l smiled slightly. It would be a day of confusion in Subterranea

if he should forget. As chief of the technies he was in direct charge

of the tabulating machines that would, a few seconds after the vote,

give the result in the matter of the opening of the Frozen Gate. But

the girl's concern sobered him instantly. On the decision of the

people at noon depended the life work of her father, Senator Mane. And

it was now nine o'clock.

"I am sure they will order the Gate opened," he said instantly. "All

the technies are agreed that your father is right, that the Great

Cold was only another, more severe ice age--not the death of the Sun.

The technies--"

* * * * *

Just as the girl had seemingly materialized, a young man now stood

beside her. In appearance he was a picture of pride, power, arrogance,

and definite danger. His hawk-like, patrician features were smiling.

This olive-skinned, dark young rival of Mich'l was Lane Mollon, son of

Senator Mollon, ruthless administration leader and bitter opponent of

Senator Mane's Exodus faction.

Lane looked at Mich'l insolently.

"Have I your leave to stay, Mich'l Ares?" he asked.

"It is given," said Mich'l without enthusiasm.

"I'm not calling on you of my own will, Mich'l," the apparition of

young Mollon said contemptuously, "but Nida had the telucid turned on

as I stepped into the room."

"It's as well for you that you're not here personally," Mich'l replied

promptly. "The last time we met I believe I was obliged to knock you

down."

Lane Mollon flushed, with a sidelong glance at Nida. The girl gave

Mich'l a frightened look.

Lane interpreted her concern rightly.

"Ordinarily it's not safe to try anything like that with me. I could

have you executed in half an hour. But I don't have to call on the

State to punish you. Nida, you'll admit I'm taking no unfair advantage

of him?"

"Oh, I do, Lane, but--"

Lane reached out his hand to the dial, invisible to Mich'l, which

operated the telucid apparatus, and immediately the apparitions

vanished. Mich'l looked at his own telucid, its great unwinking eye

set in the wall. But he did not project his own illusory body to the

girl's home. He was a technie--one of the pitifully few trained men

and women who kept the intricate automatic machinery working. On them

rested the immense, stupid civilization of the caverns, and there was

work to do. Mich'l felt that on this morning of her father's greatest

trial Nida would pay scant attention to Lane.

* * * * *

Mich'l was testing some of the controls when Gobet Hanlon came in.

Gobet was also a technie, and Mich'l's special friend. Like Mich'l, he

wore the light robe that was universal among the civilians in the

equable climate of the caverns. He walked with the light, springy step

that was somehow characteristic of the specialized class to which he

belonged, as distinguished from the languid gait of the pampered, lazy

populace. Attached to his girdle of flat chain links was a tiny

computing machine about as large as the palm of a man's hand. For

Gobet did most of the mathematical work.

"You'll want me at the tabulating section?" Gobet stated inquiringly.

"It may be well," Mich'l smiled. "For the first time in centuries, I

believe, the general public is going to vote."

"Flos Entine wants to come along."

Mich'l's smile changed to a grin. He knew the pretty, willful little

sweetheart of Gobet's. If she wanted to be at the tabulating plant she

would be there.

"In fact," Gobet confessed somewhat sheepishly, "she is in the car."

The car was waiting in the gallery. It had no visible support, but

hovered a few inches above the floor above one of two parallel

aluminum alloy strips that stretched, like the trolley tracks of the

ancients, throughout all the galleries. The ancients well knew that

aluminum is repelled by magnetism, but the race had lived in the

caverns for centuries before evolving an alloy that possessed this

repulsive power to a degree strong enough to support a considerable

weight.

Under Mich'l's guidance the car moved forward silently, through

interminable busy streets with arched roofs, lined on either side with

doors that led to homes, theaters and food distributing automats.

Occasionally they passed public gardens, purely ornamental, in which a

few specimens of vegetation were preserved. They passed multitudes of

people, most of them handsome with a pampered, hot-house prettiness,

but betraying the peculiar lassitude which had been sapping the

energies of this once dynamic race for millennia. Yet to-day they

showed almost eagerness. The name of Leo Mane, prophet of deliverance,

was on every tongue. And what was the Sun like? Like the great

vita-lights that were prescribed by law and evaded by everyone, except

possibly the technies? Those technies--they seemed to delight in work!

Curious glances fell on the gliding car. Some work in connection with

the Referendum? What must one do to vote? Oh, the telucid!

* * * * *

Arriving at Administration Circle, the car entered a vast excavation

half a mile in diameter, possibly a thousand feet high at the dome.

Here were the entrances to some of the principal Government warrens.

Here also centered the streets, like radiating spokes of a wheel, on

which many of the officials lived. Here the emanation bulbs were more

frequent than in the galleries, so that the light was almost glaring.

Guards of soldier-police, the stolid, well-fed, specialized class

produced by centuries of a static civilization, were everywhere. Not

in the memory of their grandparents had they done any fighting, but in

their short, brightly colored tunics, flaring trousers and little

kepis they looked very smart. Their only weapon was a small tube

capable of projecting a lethal light-ray.

Mich'l led his party to the audience hall. It was only a few hundred

feet in diameter. At one end was the speaker's rostrum. Senator Mane

was already there. He was tall, purposeful, but withal tired and

wistful looking. His graying hair was cut at the nape of his neck,

sweeping back from his swelling temples in a manner really suggestive

of a mane. His large, luminous eyes lit up.

"Is it nearly time?"

"Yes, Senator," Mich'l said. "The nation will soon assemble."

"You have met Senator Mollon?"

"I have had the pleasure," Mich'l acknowledged with polite irony,

"since Senator Mollon gives me practically all my orders."

Mollon acknowledged the tribute with a quick smile, without rising

from his chair. He, too, was different from the average Subterranean

in that he was forceful and aggressive, like Senator Mane. He was

still youngish looking, of powerful, blocky build. His dark hair was

carefully parted in the middle and brushed down sleekly. The Twentieth

Century had known his prototype, the successful, powerful, utterly

unscrupulous politician; and in a different sphere, that type of

extra-Governmental ruler which the ancients called "gangster." It was

casually discussed in Subterranea that certain of the state

soldier-police were responsible for the mysterious assassinations that

had so conveniently removed most of the effective resistance to

Mollon's progress in the Senate. The once potent body had not held a

session in ten years: didn't dare to, a cynical and indifferent public

said. And a strange reluctance on the part of qualified men to accept

the Presidential nomination had left that office unfilled for the past

three years. Mollon, as party dictator, performed the duties of

President provisionally.

* * * * *

Flos, mischievous as usual, rounded her great blue eyes and gazed at

Mollon with an expression of rapt admiration.

"Oh, Senator," she thrilled, "I think it's wonderful of you to give

Senator Mane an opportunity to debate with you. You are so kind!"

Mollon failed to detect any mockery, luckily for Flos. He looked at

her with half-closed eyes.

"The public must be satisfied," he rumbled. "Senator Mane has aroused

in them great hopes. A small matter might be adjusted, but only a

Referendum will satisfy them in this."

"But Senator, the race is going to ruin. If we could get into the Sun

again--wouldn't you want that?"

"I don't believe there is a 'Sun'," Mollon replied; then, with the

candor of one who is perfectly sure of himself, added:

"If Mane were right, I still couldn't permit the Frozen Gate to be

opened. I can control the people for their own good, here; it might

not be possible Outside."

A deep musical note sounded. Suddenly the myriad inhabitants of

Subterranea seemed to be milling around in the room. Actually their

bodies were in their dwelling cells, but their telucid images filled

the hall. By a simple adjustment of the power circuit, their images,

instead of being life size, were made only about an inch high,

permitting the accommodation of the entire nation in the hall. Their

millions of tiny voices, mingling, made a sighing sound.

* * * * *

Mane rose and stepped forward, raising his hand.

"Citizens of Subterranea," he began in powerful, resonant tones, and

then went on to put into his address all the fervor of a lifetime of

endeavor. He told them of those times in the dim past when the human

race still dwelt on the surface of the earth. Of the Sun that poured

out inexhaustible floods of life and light; of the green things that

were grown, not only to look at, but for food for all living things

before food was made synthetically out of mined chemicals. Of the

world overrun by a teeming, happy, dynamic civilization.

"Then something happened. The Sun seemed to give less light, less

heat. Perhaps we ran into a cloud of cosmic dust that intercepted the

Sun's rays. Perhaps the cause was to be found in some change in the

Sun's internal structure. But the effects could not be doubted. Ice

began to come down from the poles. Ice barriers higher than the

highest towers covered the world, wiping out all life but the most

energetic.

"Our ancestors, and many other advanced nations, began to burrow

toward the hot interior of the earth. We to-day have no idea of the

labor that went into the digging of our underground home. We are

becoming degenerate. More and more of us, even those who still use the

vita-lights, are becoming pale and flabby. There are hardly enough

technies to keep the automatic machinery in order. What will happen

when those technies also deteriorate, and lose the will to work? For

deteriorate they must, just as Senator Mollon and his still active

allies will. Just as I will, if I live long enough. There is a great

force that we never know here. It is called the cosmic ray. It never

penetrates to our depth. And our vita-lights do not produce it."

He then spoke of the proposed Exodus, argued, pleaded, painted a rosy

picture of the outer world, of a Sun come back, a world of brightness

and life. At the conclusion of his speech a sigh arose from the

assembled millions--a sigh of hope, of half belief. Had the vote been

taken then the Frozen Gate would have been opened.

* * * * *

But Senator Mollon was on the rostrum, holding up a square, well

manicured hand for attention. In his deep rumbling bass he tore the

arguments for the Exodus to shreds. With the whip of fear he drove

away hope.

"If our savage ancestors lived on the inhospitable outer shell of the

earth," he shouted, "is that a reason for our taking that retrograde

step? Read your histories. What happened to our neighboring nation of

Atlantica only a short 15,000 years ago? They did just as this man is

urging--opened their outer gate. It promptly froze open, and liquid

air, the remnant of what in primordial days was an outer atmosphere,

poured down the tunnels. The whole nation died, and we saved ourselves

only by blasting the connecting passages between them and us with

fulminite."

A wave of fear passed over the tiny massed figures. For centuries the

race had been rapidly losing all initiative, except for those few

leaders who, through superior stamina and religious devotion to the

artificial sun-rays, had maintained something of their pristine

energy.

Now they were hysterical with fear of the unknown. Even as Mich'l Ares

adjusted the parabolic antenna of the thought-receptor vote-counting

machine, he knew what the verdict would be. In a moment the vote was

flashed on a screen on the ceiling: 421 in favor of the Exodus and

2,733,485 against it. There was an eery cheer from the people, and

they began to dissolve like smoke. Mollon rose, bowed politely and

smilingly, and walked out to where his magnetic car awaited him.

* * * * *

It was with a feeling of deep depression that Mich'l Ares went to work

the next morning. His despair was shared by the technies under him

with whom he talked. At the telestereo station he found a bitter young

man broadcasting a prepared commentary on the election ordered by

Senator Mollon. It was congratulatory in nature, designed to confirm

popular opinion that the nation had been saved from a great

catastrophe and to glorify the principles of Mollon's party.

"... And so once more this great nation has demonstrated its ability

to govern itself, to protect itself against dangerous and unsocial

experiments. The voice of the people is the voice of God. The

Government claims for itself no credit for this momentous decision.

Each citizen has done his share toward the continuation of our safety,

our prosperity...."

The young man finished the document, smiled a charming smile, and

turned off the switch. Then he grimaced his disgust and lapsed into a

glum meditation.

"What say, Kratz?" Mich'l asked.

"Trouble again on the west sector. Had trouble getting power enough.

Generators ought to be overhauled." He made a helpless gesture.

"How about conscripting a little labor?"

"Tried it this morning. Most of the people are still in a daze from

chewing too much merclite. Those that're sober are too busy preening

themselves for voting on the winning side."

Kratz informed Mich'l that Mollon had that morning given up all

pretense of constitutional government, had preempted the treasury, and

was consolidating his position as avowed dictator.

"He probably wanted to do that a long time," Mich'l commented. "He

didn't quite dare till that Referendum yesterday gave him the real

measure of the public. Well, I've got to be going."

* * * * *

Mich'l took one of the small mechanical service tunnels back to his

office. This latest news had hardly affected him, so keen was his

disappointment over the defeat of the Exodus. But he wanted to be

alone. He walked through vast halls full of machinery, abandoned and

rusting, through dark corridors that had once roared with industrial

life. What would happen when the present overloaded machinery should

break down; wear out? The remnants of the great technical army could

hardly serve what was left. Each passing year these silent, useless

hulks became more numerous. The specter of famine was stalking amid

the dusty pipes and empty vats of the chemical plants; the horrors of

darkness lurked amid the tarnished compression spheres and the long,

hooded monstrosities of the power plants, inadequately served by

harassed and overworked technies.

In the middle of his office Mich'l found the telucid counterpart of

Mila, sister of Nida Mane. She was younger than Nida, hardly more than

sixteen. Her eyes were wide with terror as she sought Mich'l. Her

cheeks were wet with tears, and her silken brown hair fell in careless

disarray.

"Mich'l!" she cried, as soon as she saw him. "Lane Mollon has taken

Nida!"

"Taken her!"

"And Father is under arrest. Lane came this morning, crazy with

merclite gum. He had four or five soldiers with him. When Nida refused

to see him they broke down the door and went to her room. They dragged

her out to Lane's car, and he took her to his warren near the

Presidential quarters."

"She there now?"

"Yes. Father followed Lane's car. Guards kept him out of Lane's

warren, so he went to see Mollon. That devil only laughed at him,

offered to call another Referendum. Father had a small pocket

needle-ray and--"

"Good! He killed Mollon?"

"No. But he managed to burn a hole through his arm. He was rushed off

to one of the cells. And Mollon says he will call a Referendum to

decide Father's fate."

"It would be just like that devil's sense of humor to let the people

decree their only friend's death."

* * * * *

"They'll do it, too!" Mila exclaimed tragically. "Oh, how I wish

Mother were alive!"

"And each one will feel deep within him that he has done a great,

commendable and original thing!" Mich'l added, with keen insight.

Mila sank to the floor.

"Go to your room," Mich'l said, gently stern. "Mollon and his gang

have reckoned without the technies." A woman's image appeared,

stooping commiseratingly over Mila--a friend of the family. Mich'l

ordered her to care for Mila. Then, he took a deep breath. Gone was

his feeling of helpless sorrow, leaving only an overwhelming,

steadying, satisfying anger. He flung the telucid switch, barked

cracking orders.

In half an hour every technical man of Subterranea was in a large

storeroom near Mich'l's office. They were mostly young, keen and

alert, their skins red or brown from the actinic lights, their hair

showing more or less bleaching from the same cause. As Mich'l talked

they became intent: they listened with a cold, deadly silence that

would perhaps have made the smug millions of Subterranea quake with

fear.

This affront put upon the only man in the Government who could speak

their language, who could comprehend their ideals: the peril of the

girl they all knew and loved: these things set their long-repressed

resentment flaring to white heat. They were ready for desperate

things. A turn of a valve and water would thunder through the maze of

galleries; a mishap far, far down toward the earth's hot core, and

steam would rush up--

* * * * *

But Mich'l steadied them. After all, Subterranea was their country.

Anarchy was far from the technie ideals. He had a plan.

"Nothing is to be done until we have Senator Mane and Nida," Mich'l

instructed them. "Remember that! Do nothing until you hear from me.

Each of you go to your station. Set all adjustments so that they will

not need attention for some weeks, at least. Those of you who have

families, tell them to be ready to move to another residence. Say

nothing about any trouble--understand?"

There were nods of assent.

"You will proceed to your posts and keep busy. When I come it'll be by

telucid. I will say nothing. I will simply wave my hand. That means

you are to take your wives, your families, your sweethearts, to

Substation No. 37X."

There were audible gasps.

"Not 37X!" exclaimed one of the older men. "Why, that's twenty miles

up, near the Frozen Gate!"

"Yes!" Mich'l smiled with tight lips. "You men willing?"

There was an instantaneous shout of approval. Curiously enough,

seizure of the Gate by force had not occurred to any of this

law-abiding, well-disciplined group. But Mollon's lawless seizure of

the Government had removed all inhibitions of that sort. Seizure of

the Gate would bring at one stroke the realization of the dream that

the technies had tried for generations to win by political means.

Surely, when the Gate was open, and they could see the glorious,

half-mythical Sun for themselves, the people would consent to the

Exodus!

For the technies, even in the bitterness of defeat, were not

anti-social. They hoped and worked for the devitalized races of

Subterranea, for the betterment of their condition, more than for

their own. The technies were the fittest; they had demonstrated their

ability to survive unchanged under adverse condition. They would be

least helped by the Exodus. Yet they had worked for it all their

lives, as had their fathers before them, out of unselfish love for

humanity. There have always been such men. Through the murk of history

we see their lives as small, steady lights, infrequent and lonely.

With the opening of the Frozen Gate suddenly a possibility, the

technies forgot their exasperation with the stupid mob.

* * * * *

"The Gate is guarded," said an elderly man dubiously.

"A small guard," Gobet Hanlon remarked quickly, "and probably dazed

with merclite. Nothing to fear."

"Stay away from the Gate," Mich'l instructed. "Give no cause for

alarm. If an emergency arises while I'm gone, see Gobet."

"Don't go alone, Mich'l," Gobet begged. "A few of us with ray-needles

can storm the detention cells. We can clean out Lane's warren."

"We might, but the Senator and Nida would be gone. The alarm would be

given. In a few minutes there'd be a mob."

The technies were already dispersing eagerly. Mich'l pressed his

friend's hand, saying:

"I'll take my needle-ray, and I know every way to get around there is.

Alone, I'll attract no attention. Till later, Gobet!" And he was gone.

Mich'l's way was through the smaller, less frequented communication

passages used principally by the technies. Occasionally he did meet

citizens, still light-headed after their election victory celebration,

and lost, but he paid them no heed. He came to the ventilation center

of that level.

For ages no air had entered Subterranea from the outside. All of the

air had to be regularly reconditioned, and so was returned, through a

systematic network of air ducts, to a vast, central chemical plant. It

was a latter-day Cave of the Winds, where the north, south, east and

west winds of that buried empire regularly returned for a brief few

minutes of play amid chemical sprays, condensers, humidifiers,

oxydisers, to be again dispatched to their drudgery. This hall was

truly colossal, filled to the shadowy ceilings, a thousand feet high,

with gigantic pipes, tanks, wind-turbines.

* * * * *

The technie in charge had not yet returned, but Mich'l consulted the

distribution plan, and soon located the duct that led to Lane Mollon's

warren. In a few minutes he was running, helped along by a strong

current of fresh air. The map had shown the warren to be about a mile

away. For the benefit of the technies who had to work there, the duct

was plainly marked; and the lighting, by infrequent emanation bulbs,

was adequate, though dim.

Mich'l had made no plans for a course of action after arriving at his

destination. He felt reasonably sure that if he could get into the

warren he would have a good chance to escape with Nida. In the

confusion he could hide her nearby, and perhaps effect the release of

the senator also. He had no doubt about his fate if he were caught.

Lane's pose of good sportsmanship having failed to impress Nida, he

had adopted simple, brutal coercion. Mich'l's fate, if caught

interfering, would be summary execution.

Mich'l found the grating which he sought. It bore the key number of

Lane's establishment. The key which would unlock it was of course in

the hands of the police; but the bars were badly corroded, and Mich'l

managed to bend them enough to permit the passage of his body.

He found himself in a small chamber, from which ducts led to all parts

of the warren. These ducts were too small to permit passage of his

body, however; it would be necessary to come into the open. A small

metal door promised egress. Mich'l climbed out, and faced a surprised

cook in the kitchen, engaged in flavoring synthetic food drinks.

Mich'l said explanatorily:

"Inspection, air service."

The cook did not know the regulations about keeping the air tunnels

locked. Moreover, he, like all other servants of the mighty, worked

unwillingly, being conscripted. He only grunted.

* * * * *

Mich'l made a pretense of testing the air currents. Presently he

stepped into one of the communicating corridors. The warren was

planned something like a house of the Surface Age, with luxuriously

furnished rooms, baths, dining halls, and all the appurtenances of

wealth. Arriving at a rotunda, in the center of which was a glowing

fountain, Mich'l encountered a guard. Boldly he asked him:

"Where is Mr. Mollon? I wish to see him."

The guard looked surprised.

"About Nida Mane, sir? I would hardly dare."

Mich'l looked at the man sharply, but there was no hint of recognition

in the stupid, phlegmatic face.

"What about Nida Mane? It is about her I wish to speak."

There was a slight stirring of interest in the soldier's face.

"He will be glad to see you, sir, if you bring news of her."

"Eh, yes? Perhaps what I have to tell will be of no interest to him."

"If you can tell him where she is he will ask no more of you."

"She made good her escape then?"

Slow suspicion was dawning at last.

"For one who brings news you ask a lot of questions," the guard

remarked heavily, as his hand slipped to the needle-ray weapon at his

side. "Show your pass!"

Like a flash Mich'l was upon him, his hand at the thick throat, the

other grasping the wrist. Although the soldier, like the majority of

the populace, lacked the intense vitality of the technies, he had

stubborn strength, and he fought effectively in the drilled, automatic

way of his kind. Mich'l was further handicapped by the necessity of

maintaining silence. One shout, and a dozen needle-rays would no doubt

perforate his body with holes and slash his flesh with smoldering

cuts.

* * * * *

Grunting and sweating, they fought all around the rose-colored curb of

the fountain. At last Mich'l succeeded in forcing his adversary over

the low stone, and they went over together with a resounding splash.

The straining body of the guard suddenly relaxed, and a spreading red

cloud in the water disclosed that he had struck his head against the

first of the terraces that rose in the fountain's mist-shrouded

center.

Up one of the corridors a door opened, and an angry voice shouted:

"Gurka! Gurka! I'll have you in bracelets! Captain of the guard!"

"Sir!" From another of the corridors came a sound of running feet. A

command rang out:

"On the double!"

An officer, followed by four soldiers, dashed around the corner and

flashed by the fountain. Peering over the curb, Mich'l saw them, some

hundred yards away, come to a halt before an opened door. With a

thrill of exultation Mich'l recognized the tall figure of Lane Mollon,

looking like a slightly damaged satyr of the better class, for his

head was bandaged, and he was in bad humor.

"Captain!" he stormed. "I want you to put that damned louse in

solitary confinement for a year. Hear?"

"Yes, sir." Like a megaphone the long corridor carried the low,

respectful words to Mich'l's ears.

Lane continued to storm:

"And if you put another damned merclite-crazy blunker[1] on guard in

this place I'll have your commission. Hear?"

"Yes, sir."

[Footnote 1: Blunker--a blunderer, an oaf. Mechanical recording had

preserved the language in much of its original form, but new words did

creep in.]

* * * * *

A quick decision was necessary, and Mich'l acted without hesitation.

The guard had rolled over on his back, so that his face was out of the

water, and he was breathing with quick, painful gasps. Mich'l dragged

him up under the concealing shelter of the fountain spray, and there

changed clothes with him. In the meantime the flowing water washed

away the red stain of blood. When the captain returned with his guard,

Mich'l was lying realistically in the pool, apparently deep in drugged

sleep, the little kepi tilted rakishly over his face.

He was roughly seized and dragged out of the water to the

accompaniment of much cursing. A fist crashed into his face.

Suddenly the soldiers felt the supine figure under their hands explode

into energy. Elbows and fists seemed to fly from all directions at

once. A needle-ray appeared, and before they could draw their own

weapons they were howling with pain as searing welts drew over their

bodies. With one accord they plunged into the pool. Only the officer

remained, and he fell to the mosaic floor, his weapon half raised, the

small black hole in his chest giving off a burnt odor.

Mich'l appropriated the officer's brassard of rank, and, menacing the

cowed guards, forced them to herd into a nearby room, carrying the

body of the officer with them. Mich'l locked the door and looked

around. He saw no one observing him, and could count on carrying a

pretty good bluff in his uniform, which was rapidly shedding its

water. With a firm step Mich'l walked to Lane Mollon's door, threw it

open, and entered.

* * * * *

Lane sat up on his couch, his feet striking the floor with an angry

thump. But when he recognized Mich'l he paled slightly.

"Where is she?" Mich'l demanded roughly, "before I burn you down!"

"You said once," Lane began sneeringly, "that you wanted to fight me.

Now, if you'll just put down that--"

"Not now," Mich'l dissented with deadly coldness. "Where is Nida?

Speak fast."

Lane did so.

"She isn't here. The little short[2] crowned me with a chair, and

slipped out. How did I--"

[Footnote 2: Short--trouble-maker, spitfire. A colloquialism probably

growing out of the once frequently used electrical term

"short-circuit."]

"When? Hurry up!"

"Hardly an hour ago. She walked down the corridor, showed a

thick-witted guard my own executive pass, and got away. But I got that

guard--"

"Never mind what you did to the guard--"

Suddenly the image of an officer strange to Mich'l stood in the room

and saluted smartly.

"Has Captain Ilgen Mr. Lane Mollon's leave to stay?" he asked.

Mollon started forward, but before he could disclose his predicament

Mich'l had sidled over to him and thrown one arm affectionately over

his shoulder. In his hand, concealed by the rich folds of Lane's robe,

Mich'l held his needle-ray, and it was pressed firmly against Lane's

ribs.

"Mr. Mollon will be glad to hear you," Mich'l said smoothly.

* * * * *

He fancied that the eyes of the officer's image dilated slightly, but

it lost none of its military rigor. But some explanation of his

presence there in his still damp uniform must be given Ilgen, so he

growled, in a voice that he tried to make a bit thick, as if he had

chewed too much merclite:

"At ease, Captain. At ease! Damn it man, you don't have to be so

damned military. You're among friends!" And he towseled Lane's dark

hair affectionately.

Captain Ilgen looked his disgust.

"Sir," he said to Lane, "we recaptured Nida Mane as she tried to board

a public car near the Executive Mansion."

The black lens at the end of Mich'l's needle-ray pressed hard, and

Lane said naturally:

"You have her in custody?"

"Sir, we have." And to Mich'l's dismay, Nida, defiant, her lovely form

half revealed by rents in her garments, seemed to materialize beside

the officer. Her wrathful eyes were fixed on Lane, and then she saw

Mich'l.

The technie put all his will into the pleading stare which he

returned, and she understood. She gave no sign of recognition, but

favored both Lane and Mich'l equally with the chill of her disdain.

"Sir, what are your orders?"

Lane glanced aside at Mich'l, acutely conscious of the lethal pressure

in his ribs.

"'Sall right with me, old fellow," Mich'l squawked good-humoredly.

"This your girl that got away from you? Let's both go over and bring

her back."

Lane nodded assent. The soldier saluted, and his vision and that of

the girl disappeared.

"And we're going to do just that!" Mich'l added in an entirely changed

voice. "Get up, you. Act right, speak right, do right, and you may

live to see another day."

* * * * *

So the two left the warren in apparent amity, and walked the beautiful

street, with its richly formed, brightly colored arches, its seemingly

illimitable vistas, its luxuriant, pampered decorative vegetation, its

blazing lights--until at last they came to Administration Circle, and

entered the ponderous gates behind which lay the very heart of the

Government.

They were challenged at once. Although the officer of the guard knew

Lane, usage required the showing of the daily pass. Many high officers

of the Government had in years past fallen from grace overnight.

This formality complied with, Lane and Mich'l, the latter with his

ray-needle ever ready, sat down to wait in the guard room. And Lane,

under Mich'l's quiet prompting, ordered that Nida and her father be

brought to him.

"We shall bring the girl, yes," the astonished officer protested, "but

not Senator Mane. He is a prisoner of state."

"Perhaps you don't know, Captain," Mich'l suggested smoothly, "that it

is not wise to disregard the orders of the Provisional President's

son?"

"It would cost me my commission, perhaps my life!" the officer said.

"Neither would be worth much if you disobey!" Mich'l countered, a wire

edge creeping into his voice.

The officer looked into Lane's stormy face, then with great reluctance

retreated to carry out the order.

In about ten minutes he was back, with four guards and his prisoners.

He explained that Captain Ilgen was detained on official duty.

"You may go," said Lane, prompted by a jab in the ribs.

"A written receipt, please, sir, for the senator."

Glowering, Lane wrote out the desired document. At last they were

alone.

"Our program," Mich'l announced briskly, "is simple. You will conduct

us to one of the Government cars, and will ride with us to such places

as we may direct, and I shall release you when it pleases me. If you

then want to fight, I will accommodate you."

"I would be willing to fight you, as head of the technies," Lane

countered sullenly, "but I wouldn't be bothered with a rebel and a

traitor. You've overstepped yourself this time, my fine bolthead, and

all I ask is a front seat at your execution!"

* * * * *

They stepped into the brightly lighted hall, and in that instant

Mich'l felt a searing heat on his shoulder. Without a moment's pause

he hurled Senator Mane and the girl back into the room. At the same

moment he flung an arm around Lane's neck and pulled him back into the

doorway, where he could use him as a shield while he cautiously peered

out into the corridor. His shoulder throbbed painfully, but his

movement had prevented the needle-ray from penetrating deeply in any

one place.

A short distance up the corridor was a wider space, in the center of

which stood a large bronze urn filled with exotic plants. Behind this

urn were several soldiers, and Mich'l recognized the sharp-eyed

Captain Ilgen. So that officer had recognized the true state of

affairs, or had strong suspicions! But in his haste and eagerness he

had overlooked one important fact. In the guardroom, were riot-rays,

heavy replicas of the ordinary hand weapons. They had not been needed

for many years, but the technies had always kept them fully charged

and in order.

"Nida!" Mich'l called, not removing his eye from the doorway.

"Yes?" She was standing beside him, and Mich'l thrilled to the

admiration and positive affection in her intonation.

"Notice those short tubes mounted on light wheels over against the

walls? Those are riot-ray projectors. Wheel me over a couple."

Nida did as directed. Mich'l stuck the stubby muzzle of one of the

nearest weapons into the corridor, pulled the lever and swung the ray

in an arc toward the ambushed soldiers. There was a sharp crackling

noise and the heat chipped myriads of flakes off the stone walls,

leaving a gray path across the rich murals, and the air was filled

with flying particles. The heat was terrific. It beat back into the

doorway.

Captain Ilgen gave a short, sharp order, and he and his men retreated

before the bronze urn began to wilt and drip melted metal. He could

not be accused of cowardice, for his hand weapons were puny compared

to the riot-rays.

"Quick, before he gets in touch with the outer guard!" Mich'l urged

his prisoner forward, Senator Mane following. The grave patriarch of

rhetoric made a striking picture as he dragged the second riot-ray

along. The other one was abandoned, locked with full power on. It was

converting that corridor into an inferno, and there would be no

pursuit through that avenue.

* * * * *

Mich'l pushed open the metal door suddenly. Two guards on duty were

just coming in, their hand weapons ready. They never knew what struck

them for there was no time for compunction. But even as their bodies

sank to the paving there was the harsh clangor of alarm bells.

Soldiers dashed from everywhere and came running, their needle-rays

menacing.

"In there!" Mich'l shouted. He pointed to the doors, at the dead

guards. As they hesitated, he added:

"Revolution! They're storming the President's office! Hear the rays?"

Through the doors came a faint humming, an acrid smell of heat, of

stone and metal fumes. A corporal saluted Mich'l, recognized Lane's

haggard features, and Lane again felt that cogent persuader in his

ribs.

"That's right, Corporal!" he said bitterly.

"Is the guard room occupied, sir?"

"Not now, you fool!" Mich'l snapped at him. This resolved the last of

the corporal's misgivings. Giving an order, he led his men in,

gasping.

"Now we'll run!" Mich'l ordered, giving Lane a shove. "Coming, Nida?"

She was dragging her father along joyously. They crossed the broad

pedestrian walk, and in the street found an official car nestling on

one of the tracks.

"Heave in the riot-ray, will you, old fellow?" Mich'l requested

jovially, and Lane did. Then the listless chauffeur turned a

controller, and the big car rose a few inches, lightly as a feather,

and sped away swiftly through the maze of traffic.

* * * * *

Sometime later they were in a service lift; not one of the great

public lifts that carried their hundreds at a trip, but one of the

small lifts used mostly by the technies, and known to few outside

their ranks. Mich'l, standing blissfully close to Nida and her father,

enjoyed his moment of relaxation. Many things had been attended to.

Lane had been released at last, in one of the catacomb cemeteries. It

would take him at least two hours to find his way out. They were

discussing the riot-ray, which they had with them.

"I hope we won't have to exhaust it in a fight before we get out,"

Senator Mane said anxiously. "It would be a splendid weapon if we

encounter a hostile environment Outside."

"The Gate is guarded," Mich'l said practically, "but we expect to

surprise them. No use worrying."

The lift came to a stop at an air-lock. The great elevator shafts

were closed by airlocks every 2,000 feet. The reason is obvious. If

the air of the great, spheroid subterranean nation were allowed to

freely obey the laws of gravity, it would be oppressively dense in the

lower levels, and excessively rarified in the upper ones. While the

airlocks were operating Mich'l stepped to a telucid and gave the

agreed-on signal.

In another half hour they were at 37X. The great, dusty, and

little-used storeroom was only poorly lighted; it was dank, and had an

uncomfortable chill. Technies and their families were coming in from

all sides, and it was not long before some five hundred persons, men,

women and children, were assembled. Many of them were pale and

frightened looking, for they were staking everything on an ideal, a

theory. There would be no coming back. The statute books of

Subterranea decreed only one penalty--death--for even the merest

tampering with the Frozen Gate. It was not like this that they had

visioned the opening of the Gate. Under properly controlled

conditions, it would have been possible to open the gate for

preliminary explorations. But not now. They were outside the law.

* * * * *

Nida, standing beside Mich'l, shivered and pulled her over-robe closer

around her. There was sadness in her voice as she said:

"These children.... They remind me of the thousands of children we

must abandon with our people. If I could, I'd steal a few to take with

us."

Mich'l grinned without mirth.

"And be damned as a kidnapper of a particularly horrible sort, as long

as Subterranea lasts!"

"I know. I know. But what will happen to them all when the automatic

machinery fails?"

"They may learn to run it, if they have to. Or if we succeed in

establishing ourselves in the outer world we can tunnel back to them

around the Gate in a year or so. Don't worry about them too much.

We're taking the big risk, not they."

Gobet Hanlon, accompanied by Flos Entine and Mila Mane, approached. He

was loaded down with a huge case of concentrated food.

"I've given orders to bring with us all the cold resisting fabrics we

could carry. Got 'em loaded down, eh?"

"All here?"

"Every last one."

"Let's go, then." Mich'l stepped to a small door that led into the

main corridor close to the Gate. This door had not been used by the

technies when assembling. Through a tiny hole the guard, four

soldiers, could be seen about a blanket, tossing sixteen-sided dice.

Mich'l opened the door, his needle-ray pointed.

"Don't move, or you burn!" he commanded harshly.

* * * * *

The guards, taken completely by surprise, did not move. In a few

moments they were bound, gagged, and dumped into a corner of 37X.

Eager technies were swarming over the complicated mechanism that they

had dared to touch, before, only for inspection and maintenance. The

Frozen Gate was like a huge stopper in a bottle, made of chromium

steel. It was thirty feet in diameter, and thirty feet thick from its

well insulated inside face to that enigmatical Outside that had been a

grisly mystery to the race for some five hundred centuries.

There was a flash of sparks, and the quiet hum of motors. With a

shuddering groan the great plug freed itself from the grip of

millennia; turned a few inches in its hole. The supporting gimbals

took the load now, and slowly the great mass moved inward, carried by

an overhead traveling crane whose track was bolted to the rock roof.

The rate of movement was slow, not much over three or four inches a

minute.

An excited murmur filled the cavern--almost hysterical joy. But

Mich'l, watching that widening margin for the dreaded gush of liquid

air, only trembled with relief. At least the calamity that had visited

rash Atlantica would not be repeated here.

A young technie, one of the heat distributors, climbed up the heavy

bosses on the gateway's face.

"I'm going to be the first to see the Sun!" he shouted joyously. His

challenging gaze roved over the waiting crowd, and suddenly his face

turned ashen. For at the turn of the corridor, some hundred yards

away, he had seen men. No mistaking those uniforms; they were

soldiers. And Mich'l, following his gaze, saw a riot-ray being wheeled

into place. His own riot-ray already commanded the corridor, but he

dared not use it. The soldiers, under the partial protection of the

turn, could incinerate the helpless technies with little danger to

themselves.

"Wait!" Mich'l shouted, running into the open.

* * * * *

An officer came to meet him. He then recognized Captain Ilgen, whose

exceptional shrewdness had almost undone him before. Ilgen could not

see the slow movement of the gate, and Mich'l, himself weaponless,

counted only on parleying for time.

They met midway between the two forces, and the small black lens of

the captain's weapon pointed steadily at Mich'l's chest.

"Mich'l Ares, I arrest you." It seemed that the captain's fine gray

eyes looked out of the lean face with real sympathy. "It may be there

will be executive clemency for these people of yours, but for you--"

Mich'l, tense and deadly, saw the captain's vigilant attention leave

his face for a second; saw his eyes widen in consternation. He could

not know that Ilgen had seen a slender crescent of green light appear

in the Frozen Gate, but he did not lose the opportunity. His fist

crashed on the captain's jaw, so that the soldierly figure reeled and

the needle-ray fell to the ground. Mich'l leaped after him, picked him

up, held him. The riot-ray was turned full on him, and a soldier's

hand trembled on the lever. But it did not pull.

"You'll kill him!" Mich'l shouted. And then he ventured to turn his

head to look at the Gate. He saw the first of the fugitives struggle

into the narrow crack. The gate seemed to have stuck, and there was

barely room to pass. Ilgen, half conscious, was trying to rain blows

on Mich'l's back, compelling him to stop and pass the officer's hands

through the belt of his tunic and to manacle them with a pair of

bracelets which he found in his pocket. As he staggered toward the

Gate with his burden, he saw Gobet beside him, the stolen riot-ray

menacing the soldiers, who would otherwise have rushed in.

* * * * *

Suddenly Ilgen struggled upright.

"Fire," he commanded in stentorian tones.

"They'll kill you too, you fool!" Mich'l exclaimed angrily.

"I am a soldier!" Ilgen answered with contempt. His legs barely

supported his weight, and he was struggling to free his manacled

hands. He threw himself into the narrow crevice of the Gate, to

obstruct the stream of fugitives. He started to shout again:

"Fi--" Crack! Again Mich'l's fist caught him. He hooked the officer's

elbows over two of the bosses, so that he was supported in plain sight

of his men, and turned to urge haste. The last two stragglers were

hurrying through, and with relief Mich'l turned to follow. But he set

the closing mechanism in motion before he leaped for the narrow

opening that was becoming still narrower, though very slowly. Now for

that green crescent of light, and hope!

He felt a wave of heat. Glancing back, he saw the irresolute guards

scattered by the enraged charge of a square, blocky man in civilian

robe--the usually smiling Provisional President, Senator Mollon.

Mollon himself was fumbling with the lever of the riot-ray. Ilgen had

evidently reported where he was going before starting in pursuit of

the technies.

Again that withering flash of heat, and Mich'l saw Captain Ilgen,

still semi-conscious, suddenly turn red-faced. Mollon would burn him

up without compunction, in the hope of catching one of the fugitive

technies. And now a figure in uniform leaped forward at Mollon's angry

gesture, and bent purposefully to the sighting tube.

The crescent was now so slender that Mich'l had to turn sideways to

squeeze back into the corridor. And slowly, inexorably, it was growing

smaller still. With desperate haste the practiced, uniformed man was

adjusting his range.

Captain Ilgen struggled when Mich'l seized him.

"I arrest--"

Mich'l thought for a sickening moment that he was caught in the

closing gate. Then he was free in the cylindrical tunnel into which

the plug was creeping. Luckily, Ilgen was slight. His body squeezed

through with little more difficulty than Mich'l's own. Now the opening

was too small for any man's body. A red glow illuminated that

narrowing slit; an acrid wave of heat, and the smell of burnt metal

came with the strong current of air that blew out of Subterranea.

* * * * *

Mich'l dragged his captive down the rocky tunnel, the floor of which

dipped gently away from the Gate; for drainage, no doubt. Around a

bend, the source of the greenish light was apparent. The fugitives

were in an ice cavern. The light seemed to emanate from roof and

walls. The air was uncompromisingly chill, for the blast of warm air

from Subterranea had stopped.

But the cold of the air was nothing to the icy chill that settled on

the heart of Mich'l Ares, and the hearts of Senator Mane, and the

other leaders of this desperate enterprise. So this, this was the

Outside! A cavern of ice--small, hemmed-in! Those ancient folk-legends

of a Sun--

"I arrest you, Mich'l Ares!"

Mich'l laughed shortly. What a single-minded fellow this Captain Ilgen

was! Still groggy, of course. Didn't know where they were. He left the

soldier with the red, blistered face.

"Mich'l! Mich'l!" a voice echoed shrilly from the ice walls. It was a

high-pitched voice, and an excited one. A boy came flying out of a

narrow crevice, his short robe flying, his cloth-wrapped legs

twinkling.

"Mich'l!" he shouted. "I saw it! I saw the Sun, the beautiful Sun!"

Lucky it was that in the rush no one was hurt. The small cleft opened

into a wide tunnel, a low-roofed cave through which milky-white water

flowed. The cave opened upon a vista of blue sky and towering

mountains whose tops were burdened with snow and upon whose sides

glaciers slid down and melted; and the milky-white stream brawled down

into a green valley, far, far below. On a mountain meadow, not far

from the glacier that still buried the Frozen Gate, they rested....

* * * * *

And so came a new strain of humanity upon the surface of the earth--a

strain tempered and refined by the inexorable process of evolution and

environment. Already animal life had reappeared, drastically changed

and ruthlessly weeded out by the most severe Ice Age the world had

ever known, and now Man stood once more on a new threshold of time.

Something of this may have passed through the minds of the refugees

luxuriating in the strong sunlight of this mountain meadow, and in

active and alert brains the foundations of a new civilization were

already being built.

They were preparing to go into the valley below when there was a dull

concussion. The glacier over the Frozen Gate rose slightly, then

disappeared completely out of sight, leaving a yawning hole in the

mountainside. Ice and rocks slid down, filling the hole. The refugees

gazed at the scene in fear and wonder.

"They have blown up the gate! And the chambers leading to it!" Senator

Mane--now only Leo Mane--said slowly. "There goes our last chance to

save them!" His tones were deeply sad. He could not look upon these

people as an experiment that Nature had abandoned, although he knew

that history is thronged with the shadows of vanished races, culled by

the process of natural selection.

But Youth looks only ahead. The majority of the rescued technies were

young, and with eagerness and anticipation, they followed Mich'l and

Nida Ares down into the valley to build their first homes.

The Midget From the Island

A COMPLETE NOVELETTE

_By H. G. Winter_

[Illustration: _"For God's sake, Hagendorff, what's come over you?"_]

[Sidenote: Garth Howard, prey to half the animals of the forest,

fights valiantly to regain his lost five feet of size.]

In the chill of an early morning, a rowboat drifted aimlessly down the

Detroit River. It seemed to have broken loose from its mooring and

been swept away; its outboard motor was silent and it swung in slow

circles as the currents caught at it. But the boat carried a

passenger. A man's nude body stretched face downward in it.

It was a startling figure that lay there. The body was fully matured

and had a splendid development of rounded muscles--and yet it was not

more than three feet in length. A perfectly formed and proportioned

manikin! The two officers in the harbor police launch which presently

slid alongside to investigate were giants in comparison.

They had not expected to find such weird cargo in a drifting rowboat.

They stared at the naked, unconscious midget in utter amazement, as if

seeing a thing that could not be real. And when one of them reached

down to lift the tiny body aboard, his eyes went wider with added

surprise. His lift was inadequate. The dwarf's weight was that of a

normal-sized man!

This was mystery on mystery. But they got the uncannily heavy figure

aboard at last and ascertained that, though the skin showed many

wounds and was blue from long exposure, the heart was still beating.

And realizing that the life might flicker out beneath their eyes

unless they took action immediately, they proceeded to work over him.

After some minutes, the dwarf gave signs of returning consciousness.

His lids fluttered and opened, disclosing eyes that filled suddenly

with terror as they stared into the faces, huge in comparison, that

leaned over his. One of the officers said reassuringly:

"You're all right, buddy: you're on a harbor police launch. But who in

the devil are you? D'you speak English? Where'd you come from?"

* * * * *

The midget struggled to speak; struggled desperately to tell something

of great importance. They bent closer. Gasping, high-pitched words

came to their ears, and the story that those words told held them

spellbound. When the shrill voice ceased and the dwarf sank back into

the coat they had thrown around him, the two policemen gazed at each

other. One whistled softly, and his companion said soberly:

"We'd better phone up and have the local police tend to this right

away, Bill."

Thus, two hours later, several miles up the river, another launch

containing three officers came to its destination, a solitary,

thickly-wooded island that brooded under a cloak of silence where the

river leaves broad Lake St. Clair. The launch crept up to a mooring

post a few feet from a small, rough beach, and was tied there.

Quickly, the men waded ashore and tiptoed up a winding trail that was

barred from the sun by dank foliage. They soon came to a clearing

where a large cabin had been built. There, one of them whispered,

"Guns out!"

Then the three men crossed the clearing and cautiously entered the

cabin.

For a moment there was silence. Then came a terrified shout, followed

by the bunched thunder of a succession of pistol shots. The

reverberations slowly died away, and some time later the policemen

reappeared and stood outside the door.

One of them, dazed, kept repeating over and over, "I wouldn't have

believed it! I wouldn't have believed it!" and another nodded in

wordless agreement. The third, white-faced, stared for a long time

unseeingly at the cloud-flecked bowl of the sky....

But it would be best, perhaps, to tell the story as it happened.

* * * * *

The incredible events that shaped it began two nights before, when the

larger of the two rooms in the island cabin was bathed in the bald

glare of a strong floodlight that threw into sharp prominence the

intent features of two men in the room, and the complicated details of

the strange equipment around them.

Garth Howard, the younger of the two, was holding a tiny, squawling,

spitting thing, not more than three inches long, which might have

seemed, at a quick glance, to have been a normal enough kitten. Closer

inspection, however, would have revealed that it had a thick, smooth

coat, a lithe, fully developed body and narrowed, venomous

eyes--things which no week-old kitten ever possessed. It was a mature

cat, but in the size of a kitten.

Howard's level gray eyes were held fascinated by it. When he spoke,

his words were hushed and almost reverent.

"Perfect, Hagendorff!" he said. "Not a flaw!"

"The reduction has not improved her temper," Hagendorff articulated

precisely. His deep voice matched the rest of him. Garth Howard's

clean-muscled body stood a good six feet off the floor, yet the other

topped him by inches. And his face compared well with his bulky body,

for his head was massive, with overhanging brows and a shaggy mop of

blond hair. Athlete and weight-lifter, the two looked, but in reality

they were scientist and assistant, working together for a common end.

* * * * *

The room in which they stood was obviously a laboratory. Bulky gas

engines and a generator squatted at one end; tables held racks of

tools and loops of insulated wiring and jars of various chemicals. One

long table stretched the whole length of the room, placed flush

against the left wall, whose rough planking was broken by a lone

window. There were racks of test tubes on this table, and tools,

carelessly scattered by men intent on their work.

Still another table was devoted to several cages, containing the usual

martyrs of experimental science: guinea pigs and rabbits, rats and

white mice. Beside these was a large box, screen topped, in which, in

separate partitions, were a variety of insects: beetles and flies and

spiders and tarantulas.

But the thing that dominated the laboratory was the machine on the

long table against the wall. Its chamber, the most striking feature,

was a cube of roughly six feet, built of dull material resembling

bakelite. Wires trailed through it from the glittering plate, which

was the chamber's floor, and a curved spray-shaped projector overhead,

to an intricately constructed apparatus studded with vacuum tubes. A

small switchboard stood beside the chamber, and from it thick cables

led to the generator in the rear of the room.

"Let us return her to normal," Hagendorff rumbled after a moment or

two devoted to prodding and examining the diminutive cat. "Then for

the final experiment."

One whole wall of the cubical chamber was a hinged door, with a tier

of several peep-holes. Garth Howard swung the door open, placed the

tiny, struggling cat inside and quickly closed it again. "Right," he

said briefly, and pressed his eyes to the bottom peep-hole.

* * * * *

A switch was pulled over, and the dynamo's drone pulsed through the

room. Hagendorff's fingers rested on a large lever that jutted from

the switchboard. Slowly, he pulled it to one side.

The imprisoned cat, small as a rat, had been nervously whipping its

tail from side to side and meowing plaintively; but, as the lever

swung over, there came a change. The vacuum tubes behind the

switchboard glowed green; a bright white ray poured from the spray in

the chamber, making the metal plate below a shimmering, almost molten

thing. The animal's legs suddenly braced on it; its narrowed eyes

widened, glazing weirdly, while the tail became a stiff, bristling

ramrod. And, as a balloon swells from a strong breath, the cat's body

increased in size. It grew not in spurts, but with a smooth, flowing

rhythm: grew as easily as a flower unfolding beneath the sun.

In only a few seconds its original size was attained. Howard raised

his hand; the lever shot back and the white beam faded into

nothingness. A full sized and very angry cat tore around the inside of

the chamber.

"Normal?" Hagendorff questioned. The other nodded and prepared to open

the door.

"Wait! She always was a little undersized; I give her a few inches

more as a reward."

"Not too much," warned Garth. "She's got a nasty temper; we don't

want a wildcat prowling round here!"

The white beam flashed, the tubes glowed and almost instantly

flickered off again. When the chamber's door was opened, an indignant

and slightly oversized cat bounded through, leaped from the table with

a squawled oath of hatred and streaked into the front room of the

cabin.

* * * * *

Garth turned and faced Hagendorff, a smile on his lips and a gleam in

his eyes. He ran his fingers through his black hair.

"Well," he said, "now it's time for the final experiment. Who shall it

be?"

Hagendorff did not answer at once, and the American went on:

"I think it'd better be me. There's a slight risk, of course, and I,

as the inventor, could never ask an assistant to do anything I

wouldn't. Is it all right with you?"

Hagendorff nodded quickly in answer. Garth stood reflecting for a

moment.

"Guinea pigs, rabbits and insects have survived reduction to

one-twentieth normal size," he said slowly. "It should be safe for the

human body to descend just as far. But stop me at about two feet this

first time. I'm not taking any chances; I want to be alive and kicking

when I announce the success of my experiments to the scientific

world."

His assistant said nothing.

"Well, here goes," Garth added. "I'd better take off my clothes if I

don't want to be buried in them. They're not affected by the process.

Must be because of the lack of organic connection between their fibers

and the human body."

A few minutes later, nude, he jumped onto the laboratory table. He

presented a perfect specimen of well-developed manhood as he stood

before the door of the chamber. His smooth skin, under which the

rounded muscles rolled easily, gleamed white beneath the glare of the

floodlight. His gray eyes glanced at the stolid assistant, who already

had one hand on the switchboard's lever. Garth saw that the hand was

trembling slightly, and smiled as he realized Hagendorff was as

excited as he. He said:

"I'll leave the door ajar, so you can more easily watch every phase of

the reduction. If it's painful--well, I guess I can stand anything a

cat can!"

Then, stooping slightly, Garth stepped in and drew the door almost

shut.

* * * * *

He relaxed as much as possible from the tremendous excitement that

filled him, and nodded at Hagendorff.

"I'm ready," he said. "Go ahead!"

The ray came to his body as the crash of thunder comes to the ear. His

nerves leaped as it struck and enveloped him. He felt as if he were

entombed in ice, and yet his veins were aflame. Fiery shafts fanged

him all through and resolved, presently, into a measured, tingling

beat.

His thoughts raced. He knew that those minute particles of matter, the

atoms of his body, were being compacted; he sensed that his legs were

rigid, his body stiff, his eyes clamped ahead in a glazed stare. He

was only half-conscious of the objects outside, but the dim sight of

them was fantastic and nauseous.

There was Hagendorff's face peering in at him--growing! Swelling as

the cat's body had swollen; and yet receding and rising until Garth,

momentarily forgetting that he was the one whose size was changing,

thought that the man's titanic body would fill the room. But the room

was growing, too: the stools were becoming leviathans of wood, the

walls were like cliffs, the compact switchboard was a large surface

of black, and the chamber in which he stood grew into a high-roofed

vault, its sides shooting up and retreating as if shoved by invisible

hands.

And still he sank, and still the terrible light devoured him.

Suddenly a delirious sensation engulfed him; his senses went reeling

away, and he staggered. Then with a wrench he came to. As he regained

control of his mind he knew the lever had been switched off and the

process completed.

He found that he was gasping. He passed a hand over his sweat-studded

face and looked around.

* * * * *

Outside was the room of a giant. And in a moment a giant became

visible. His vast bulk filled the chamber's doorway; his mammoth face

peered in. Garth's eardrums quivered from a deep bass rumble, sounding

like thunder on a distant horizon.

"Are you all right, Howard?"

A finger half the length of his own arm reached forward and prodded

him. For a second Garth could do nothing but stare at it. It brought

home to him starkly the puny size of his body, only two feet in

height. He felt suddenly afraid. But that was foolish, he thought; and

he laughed, his voice ludicrously high and shrill.

"I'm all right," he cried. "But I can hardly understand you. If I were

much smaller, I probably couldn't--your voice'd seem so deep. Gangway,

Hagendorff, I'm coming out!"

His eyes were just below the level of the giant's shoulders. He

stepped from the black chamber and stared amazedly at the room, at the

chairs, the objects in it--at the laboratory table on which he was

standing, along which he might have sprinted thirty yards. A surge of

exultant animal spirits flowed through him. His dream had become a

reality; the machine had passed its last test! His body was sound and

whole; he felt perfectly natural; he had not changed, save in size;

and in size he was like Gulliver, confronted with a Brobdingnagian

room!

He hurdled a five-inch-high box of tools, ran down the creaking table

and stood laughing in front of a rack of test tubes half as high as he

was. Three strides took Hagendorff opposite him; and from above the

thunderous voice rumbled:

"What were your sensations?"

"Probably as close as man'll ever get to the feelings of a spark of

electricity!" the midget replied. "But bearable, though I was freezing

and burning at the same time. My body was rigid, paralyzed--just like

the animals we used. I couldn't move."

"You're sure you couldn't move? You were helpless?"

* * * * *

The booming voice throbbed with sudden interest. Garth looked up

curiously. "No," he repeated. "I couldn't move. But lift me down,

Hagendorff. I want to take a walk on the floor."

A hand wrapped around his body, tensed and strained upwards. The

two-foot-high man was not quite pulled off the table. Then Hagendorff

grunted and relaxed his grasp.

"I had forgotten," he rumbled. "Your weight remains the same. You are

one-third my size, yet you weigh almost as much as I do. Weight, which

is the sum of the mass of all the atoms in you, is not, naturally,

affected by compacting those atoms."

It was only by a great effort that he was able to deposit the manikin

on the floor.

For a while Garth strolled around, savoring to their full the

fantastic sensations his diminished stature gave him, at once amused

and somehow frightened by the overwhelming size of the laboratory. To

his eyes, the tables were like bridges; Hagendorff's broad figure

loomed monstrously over him, and the guinea pigs and rabbits in their

cages seemed as big as fair-sized dogs. With a grin, he looked up at

the giant who was his assistant.

"Think I'll make the return trip, and give you a chance," he said.

"I've had my share, and the process has been proven. It's weird, being

down in this new world all alone. I'd hate to think what would happen

if a rat came along!"

Silently, Hagendorff stooped and grasped him again. But Garth, when he

stood once more inside the chamber, regarded his huge, rough-moulded

face curiously.

"Say," he said, puzzled, "your hands are trembling like the devil!

What's wrong? You're more nervous than I am!"

Hagendorff did not answer. He advanced to the switchboard. His

narrowed, deep-set eyes shot a quick glance at the small, nude man

inside the chamber, and for a second one hand hovered over the lever

on the panel.

* * * * *

In that tense second a flash of intuition, of deadly fear, came to

Garth Howard, and he leaped wildly forward. But his rear foot did not

leave the floor of the chamber, and his shout of alarm was choked

midway. Again the fierce ray paralyzed every muscle in him, and he was

locked motionless where he was.

Helplessly, his glazed eyes stared at Hagendorff, while every moment

his rigid little body melted downwards. He was becoming rapidly

smaller, not larger!

Through the agony of the stabbing electrical waves, in vain Garth

tried to wrench his legs free. The few inches that separated him from

the door were an impassable barrier. Sheer panic clutched him. He was

trapped. But why? Why had Hagendorff tricked him?

As if reading the question, the giant outside came close to the

chamber's door and regarded his captive with eyes that were lit by a

peculiar flame. He grunted, then reached backward and returned the

switchboard lever almost to the neutral point, reducing the speed of

the decreasing process.

"Yes, that is better," the German gloated, in a deep, satisfied tone.

"It will be slower, now. Slower--and more interesting to watch!... I

fancy your eyes are reproachful, my friend. Why have I done it, you

wonder? _Ach!_ This machine, it will startle the world of science; it

will make its inventor famous--not? Yes; and did you think I was going

to stand by and see all the credit go to you? No! To me it shall

go--me alone! And you--" He chuckled and rubbed his hands before going

on.

"You shall be what the newspapers call a martyr to science. You shall

sink to a foot, to six inches--to one inch--even less, I think!

Eventually the reduction will kill you, of course; and your body shall

be proof of how you died--in an experiment--and shall also prove the

machine's power and my genius!"

* * * * *

He laughed thunderously, a blond and malevolent titan. He did not

notice that, with the lessening of the reduction's speed, a slight

trace of control over his muscles had returned to the midget inside.

His tiny body was slowly diminishing, and complete, hopeless paralysis

and death was not far away. But Garth was fighting every second,

fighting desperately with the trace of strength he possessed to slide

to the door, break the contact and get out from under the ray's

remorseless influence. Almost imperceptibly, the effort lacerating

him with pain, he slid his feet forward. Hagendorff talked on. He

seemed to be blinded by the vision of the fame his treachery would

bring him.

"We shall have an experiment, my Professor; and then you will have an

interesting death! The ray will suck you down; you will crumple and

crumple till you're not much bigger than my thumbnail! And then I

shall--_ah!_"

Garth had torn loose. Calling on every ounce of strength and will, the

midget, now no more than one foot high, had reached the edge of the

floor plate and pitched out onto the long laboratory table.

Giant and dwarf faced each other. For a moment neither spoke or moved.

A breathless tensity hung over the laboratory. The machine droned on,

forgotten. From outside, startlingly near, came the eery hoot of an

owl.

A tight smile broke through the angry surprise on Hagendorff's face.

"Well, well!" he said, with gargantuan, macabre humor. "We object! It

was foolish, eh, to reduce the power? Next time, it shall not be so.

We--_object!_"

With the word, he lunged, and his bulky arms lashed down in a wide,

grasping sweep.

But Garth's taut muscles, retaining all the strength and vigor of

their normal size had been awaiting just such a move, and his tiny

body described the arc of a tremendous leap that neatly vaulted one

huge arm and started him sprinting swiftly down the table.

* * * * *

At the end he wheeled, and before the other overcame his surprise at

such a nimble retreat, burst out indignantly:

"For God's sake, Hagendorff, what's come over you? Be sensible! You

can't do this; you can't really mean it! Why--"

"So!" roared the assistant, and his rush cut short the midget's

shrill, frantic words. But his grasp this time was better judged;

Garth felt the great fingers slip over his body. Remembering his

strength, he lashed out at one with all his might. Hagendorff grunted

with pain; but instead of continuing the attack, he suddenly turned

and strode to the door leading into the other room, and closed it with

a bang.

"You cannot escape," he growled, advancing again; "you merely delay."

Panting, Garth glanced around the room. He was, in truth, trapped.

There was but the one door; and even if he could reach it, he could

not get it open, for the handle would be far above him. The room was a

sealed arena. For a little while it would go on--a wild leaping and

dodging on the table, a hopeless evading of mammoth hands ... and

then, inevitably, would come a crushing grip on his body, followed by

experimentation and the agony of death in the black chamber.

Fearful, he waited, a perfect, living statuette, twelve inches

high....

A grunt preluded the giant's vicious charge. The American staggered

from the brush of a sweeping hand; then, twisting mightily, he dove

under it, like a mouse slipping under the paw of a cat. In doing so he

fell sprawling; and though he was up in a moment, his arm was held. A

hoarse, exultant rumble came to his ears.

"Caught, my friend!"

But Hagendorff spoke too soon. With a great wrench, Garth broke free,

and made a tigerish dash back along the table toward the window. And

even as the clumsy titan jumped to the side and grabbed again at him,

he hurled his tiny, heavy body against the pane, and went plunging

through a shower of glass into the cool dark night outside.

* * * * *

He fell five feet, and the wind was jarred out of him as he crashed

through the branches of a bush under the window into the sodden earth

beneath. Unhurt, save for a few lacerations from the glass, he

staggered to his feet, gasping for his breath, and started to run

across the clearing towards the fringe of dense forest growth that

ringed the cabin.

Then he heard thunderous footsteps and, a second later, the sound of

the front door being pulled open. Garth turned in his tracks, and

stumbled back beneath the cabin, thanking heaven that it was raised on

short stilts. But the ruse did not give him much of a start, and by

the time he had painfully threaded his way between the piles of timber

left underneath the cabin, Hagendorff had discovered the trick and was

scouting back.

Then, with the strength of the hunted, Garth was out from under the

other side and sprinting for the doubtful sanctuary of the forest.

His tiny feet, carrying the weight of a normal-sized man, sank ankle

high into the muddy ground, several times almost tripping him. Even as

he got to where a trail through the bush began, and passed from the

cold starlight into spaces black with clustered shadows, he heard a

bellow from behind, and, glancing back, saw a monstrous shape come

leaping on his tracks.

He had only seconds in which to find refuge; he could not stick to the

trail. Thick bush, dank and heavy from recent rains, was on either

side, fugitive streaks of pale light from above painting it eerily.

Garth plunged into the matted growth, dropped to hands and knees and

wormed forward away from the trail. Earth-jarring footbeats sounded

close. With frantic haste he wrenched though the scratching tendrils

and came to a miniature clearing.

* * * * *

He saw the tilted shape of a rotted tree-stump, its roots half washed

away and exposing a narrow crevice between them. Gasping, the nude,

foot-high figure tumbled down into it, and lay there, trying to hush

his labored breathing.

He was a mere twenty feet from the trail; and though to him the bush

was a jungle, to his pursuer it was only chest-high. A towering shadow

moved along the trail. The thud of heavy footbeats came more slowly to

the listening midget. Hagendorff was searching, puzzled by the vague

shadows, for where Garth had left the path.

Silence fell.

Garth's heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. He held himself alert,

ready, if need be, to struggle up from the moist crevice and dart on

further into the bush. He could not see the giant, but could picture

his huge, sullen face all too clearly. Still no sound came. Risking

all, he gripped a root and hauled himself up slightly. Then he peered

around the stump.

Hagendorff was standing in the thick of the bush. He was not ten feet

away, striving in the gloom to discern the other's tell-tale tracks.

Garth drew his head back, hardly daring to breathe. Shivering, his

naked body miserably cold, he waited, pressed down in the soggy earth.

His betraying tracks were there; the shadows alone befriended him.

The silence was drawn so fine that the faint cheep of a night-bird

sounded startlingly loud. But then came thunder that sent the bird

winging away in fright, and the night and the forest echoed with the

roar of a wrathful, impatient human voice.

"You hear me, wherever you are! And hear this: I leave you now, but in

ten minutes I have you! You little fool--you think you can get free?

It is only by minutes you delay me!"

Snarling a curse, the treacherous giant turned and crashed through the

bush and took his huge form striding back towards the cabin.

* * * * *

Garth was thinking of many things as he scrambled back wearily from

his refuge to the trail. He was cursing the unwanted publicity which

prying reporters had given his work in Detroit, and which had led him

to lease the lonely island and build a laboratory in the wilderness.

Had it not been for that publicity, he would never have needed an

assistant, and the vision of fame would never have come to delude

Hagendorff and turn his thoughts towards murder.

His position seemed a horrible delirium from which he must presently

awake. Naked, dwarfed by each ordinary forest weed, unarmed, and

trembling from the wind-sharpened night, he hardly knew which way to

turn. His body was blotched with blood and mud, and under it the

ragged gashes made by glass and bush stung painfully; he was hungry

and stiff and tired and miserable. He remembered Hagendorff's threat

of capturing him in ten minutes, and forced a smile to his face.

"Looks kind of bad," he muttered, using his voice in an attempt to

dispel some of the lonely grip of the night, "but we'll keep moving,

anyway! He's coming back soon. Let's see: I'd better make for the

stream. It'll be hard for him to follow my tracks through that. And

then...."

Then--what? The island was small. He realized he could not stand many

hours of exposure. Inevitably--But he turned his mind from the future

and its seeming hopelessness, and concentrated on the immediate need,

which was to hide himself. Forcing the pace, he struck off on a

shambling trot down the dim trail, on into the deepening, sinister

shadows towards the island's lone stream.

* * * * *

Obstacles that normally he would not have noticed made his path

tortuous. His great weight sank his feet ankle-high in the moist,

uneven ground. Time and time again he stumbled over some imbedded rock

that, potato-sized, was like a boulder to him. Time and time again he

fell, and when he rose his legs were plastered with soggy earth that

did not dry; and the damp, fallen leaves and twigs he pitched into

clung to his coating of mud. Each broken limb and branch, dropped from

the whispering gloom of the trees above, drained the energy from his

tiring muscles. Soon he was conscious of a vague numbness creeping

over him, a deceptive, drowsy warmth into which he longed to sink, but

which he drove back by working his arms and legs as vigorously as he

could.

On he went, with teeth clenched and eyes fixed on the half-seen trail

ahead--a fantastic, tiny creature hunted like a wild animal by a giant

of his own kind!

Presently, through the shroud of darkness traced by ghostly slivers of

starlight, came the sound of trickling water. The trail rose, dipped

down; and through that hollow crawled the stream, winding from a

hidden spring to the encompassing river below. Garth was winded when

he came to it; to his eyes it seemed a small river. His legs were so

numb they hardly felt the cold bite of the water that lapped around

them.

Some furry water animal leaped away as Garth trudged upstream, alarmed

by the strange midnight visitant and the self-encouraging mutterings

of a shrill human voice....

* * * * *

He had waded what seemed to him a weary distance--in reality only a

few hundred yards--through the winding, icy creek, when suddenly he

halted and stood stock-still. Listening, he heard the ordinary sounds

of the wind through the fir-spires, and the slow trickle of water;

heard the beating of his own heart. Nothing else. And yet.... He took

another step.

Then he swung quickly around and peered back, senses alert. There was

no mistaking the sound that had come again. It was the crunch of heavy

feet, thudding at even intervals on damp earth. They were

Hagendorff's; and he was armed with light!

A long beam of white speared through the tangle of bush and tree

trunks far below. It came slanting down from above, prying for the

story recorded by miniature footprints in the ground. By its distance

from him, Garth could tell Hagendorff had come to where his trail led

into the stream. The ray held steady for minutes. Again it prowled

nervously around, hunting for tell-tale signs, sweeping in widening

circles. Then, it was punctuated by the crunch of a boot.

The giant was following upstream!

With the flashlight, he might even be able to trace the prints in the

bed of the creek. Stooping, Garth crept ahead, as silently as he

could, though the stir of water at his feet seemed terribly loud.

There were keen ears behind, craned for sounds like that. He knew he

would have to hide again--quickly--and at that moment he saw a place.

A cleft in the bank to his right held a small hole, dimly limned by a

wisp of starlight. On hands and feet the midget scrambled cat-like to

it. It slanted down and inwards, only inches wide, so that the earth

was close to his body when he slid feet-first inside. But it was warm

and dry, for it was shielded by a ledge from rain, and with the warmth

the hunted manikin's spirits rose somewhat. The ray of light, which he

could see sweeping back and forth downstream, was still following

slowly, as if Hagendorff were having trouble making out the

water-covered trail. Garth breathed easier, cuddled down--and then,

for some unaccountable reason, he felt uneasy.

* * * * *

He had not noticed it at first, but now his nostrils were filled with

a queer, musky odor that electrified his nerves and tensed his

muscles. He felt the short hairs on his neck rise; felt his lips

tighten and draw back over clenched teeth. Some long-buried instinct

was warning him of danger--and suddenly he sprang from the hole and

swung around.

From it, a killer came snaking out, its bared fangs thirsty for his

life blood!

Arching and swaying its lithe-muscled body, it slid forward in its

graceful, savage way--a weasel, the deadliest pound-for-pound killer

that prowls the forest. It was as long as the naked human who faced it

was tall. Unwittingly, he had chosen its hole as a refuge.

Retreat would have been impossible, but Garth for some reason did not

even think of it. A strange new sensation poured through his tense

body, a sensation akin to fierce joy. Gone was his tiredness; his

teeth too were bared, matching the wicked fangs before him. Two primal

creatures they were, tooth to tooth and claw to claw, the man as naked

and intoxicated with the blood lust as the ten pounds of bone and

sinew that now darted suddenly for his throat.

With the lightning quickness that had come to him with small size,

Garth stepped aside. And as the weasel's head streaked by he called

on man's distinctive weapon, and put every ounce of his weight behind

a right arm swing that landed square on a cold black nose and doubled

the weasel back in midair.

Stunned, it writhed for a second on the slippery bank; and then again

it was up, mad with pain now and swaying slightly as it gathered for a

second leap against this creature that fought so strangely.

* * * * *

But in the momentary respite Garth had reasoned out his best chance.

He did not try to fight off the second dart with his fists, but went

boldly in. Ducking through the needle claws with head lowered, his

tiny hands streaked in on the furry throat. He found it, and his

fingers thumbed into the wind-pipe; but not before the weasel smelled

the blood its claws had drawn and went utterly berserk. For a moment

there was a wild flurry of furry, tearing legs and a blood-streaked

white body between them, trying desperately to evade their slicing

strokes. They pitched down the bank together, animal and man

struggling silently to the death; and when they jarred to a stop in

the water below, Garth's strategy was achieved.

He was uppermost; his grip was steel around the throbbing throat, and

the hundred and eighty pound weight of his body was holding the legs

powerless. Not an inch from his face the weasel's fangs clashed

frantically together. Garth maintained his clutch, squeezing with

every bit of his mighty strength. The animal shuddered; then writhed

in the death convulsions; at last lay still.

Panting, his mind a welter of primate emotions roused by the kill, the

man shook it a last time, jumped to his feet and glared around--to see

the beam of a flashlight only a dozen yards away. His more deadly foe,

the human foe, was upon him. Perhaps the sounds of the fight had

reached his ears.

Garth lost not a moment. Quickly he slung the weasel's body back into

the hole and jammed himself down after it.

* * * * *

Hagendorff approached slowly, mumbling and cursing to himself in

sullen ill-humor. Things were not going as he had expected them to.

The white ray scoured the banks of the stream, searching doggedly.

Nearer he came, and with each step the watching midget's rapid

breathing grew tighter. The towering body was more than shadow now.

Another ten feet and the flashlight would find the marks of the fight.

But the titan's patience gave out. Closer than he had yet been to his

quarry, he paused, and again the thunder of his voice broke the

night's hush.

"Bah! This is foolish! In daylight I find him certainly. I have waited

long; I can wait a little more. I need sleep. To-morrow, it will be

different!"

He swung away from the stream, and in a few minutes the rip and crash

of his progress through the bush had died. In the silence, Garth

Howard considered his situation.

He faced it squarely, as was his custom. He did not brood over the

treachery of his assistant, or of how unfairly and suddenly it had

plunged him into peril and robbed him of his normal body. He accepted

his position and searched for possible angles of escape. There were

not many hours left in which to make a decisive move. The island was

small, and, as Hagendorff had said, discovery would be inevitable in

daytime.

Garth thought of the machine, and of the giant sleeping. A desperate

plan came to him, and his jaws set decisively. "I'll do it!" he

exclaimed aloud.

The lever which controlled both increase and decrease could be worked

from inside the chamber if he rigged up a system of turning it with a

wire or rope. If he pulled it to the increase only part way, he would,

he knew, have sufficient power over his muscles to pull it back off,

or slide again from the chamber, as he had done before. Whether or not

he could do this depended on Hagendorff's being asleep. Possibly he

could be locked in the living room, if he were there. Or tied. The

increase, even at half speed, would only take about forty seconds.

Once back to his size there would be a fight without odds, Garth

thought grimly.

* * * * *

It was a big risk, and there was probably only a small chance of

succeeding, but it meant getting back to six feet, back to a normal

world, back to equal terms. That was the magnet which drew him

presently toward the cabin laboratory.

He went slowly, to allow Hagendorff plenty of time to fall soundly

asleep. The giant, as he had said, needed sleep--needed it badly--for,

like Garth Howard, he had done without it for forty-eight hours under

the excitement of imminent success in their work. Garth considered

that his move would be totally unexpected, being made right into the

other's territory. There was a chance.

And so, cold and weariness banished by thoughts of the goal ahead, he

prowled back along the trail like any small creature of the forest.

It was half an hour later when he came in sight of the cabin. His

heart drummed excitedly as he stood in the shadows surveying it. He

wondered if Hagendorff was still awake; if he was, perhaps, waiting

for him. Certainly he did not seem to be: the cabin was dark and

silent, and the only door was tightly closed. Still--it might be

wiser to retreat while still free....

"No, by heaven!" Garth Howard exclaimed in his thoughts. "I'm going

through with it!" Stooping slightly, he left the shadows and ran

boldly into the starlight.

He half expected to hear a scuffle of feet and see the giant come

leaping out at him; but nothing broke the silence. He made his careful

way along the side of the cabin to the place where a trough for waste

liquids led through a small hole at the level of the floor, and with

great care wormed through.

* * * * *

As he started to cautiously reconnoiter, he was suddenly arrested in

his tracks. He had caught the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing.

Hagendorff was asleep, not in the adjoining living room--but in the

laboratory!

For a moment, Garth did not know what to do. Caution urged him to

retreat; but that would not get him back to his size. On tip-toe, he

explored around. The boards squeaked beneath his great weight, but the

nearby breathing beyond continued in regular rhythm.

His eyes were toned to the darkness of the laboratory; he saw the

chamber of his atom-compacting machine, its outer sides ghostly in the

faint, reflected starlight, and stared at it with a pang of fierce

longing. So near, it was--so very near! Holding the stolen size of his

body; holding all that was vital to him; holding life itself--it

rested there silently, within reach of a few steps and a quick climb

up one of the table legs. So he thought, his brain whirling with

mingled emotions, his tiny body shivering and aching with cold and its

many hurts. The machine was near--but a barrier blocked the way.

Hagendorff's bulk lay outstretched on a side table, black in the

shadows, and from him came the level breathing of a sound sleeper,

climaxed now and again by a rumbling snore. He was taking no chances;

his presence there seemed to destroy any hope of the midget's

regaining normal size. But Garth was desperate, and for a minute or so

he considered.

* * * * *

Forty seconds, the increase would take, at half speed. It might be

that long before the giant would waken thoroughly and see what was

happening. He, Garth, might start the process, and, when he saw the

huge figure stirring and waking from the noise of the dynamo, switch

off the ray and get out. No matter how short a time it took Hagendorff

to throw off the fogginess of his sleep, he would be somewhat

increased in size, and the odds of combat would not be so great.

It was a terrible risk. Did he dare take it? He thought of the forest,

of the raw night, of what was threatened in the morning.... Yes!

Silently, the manikin clasped the nearest table leg, shinnied up and

hauled himself over the top. As he got there his heart leaped. A sharp

thumping had come from behind. He dropped to his knees and glanced

round; but he immediately rose again, reassured. It was only the

rabbits in their cage, disturbed by the strange figure on the table.

He thanked God that they--and his tarantulas and other insects--could

make no alarming noises.

Garth found a long strand of wire. The panel's control lever, swung to

the left, controlled increase; to the right, decrease. Garth's plan

was to wind the middle of the wire around it, relay each end around

the two supporting posts of the switchboard, and thus have both ends

of the wire in his hands when he stood inside the chamber. One end of

the wire would enable him to pull the lever over for increase, and

the other to pull it back to neutral when the increase was completed,

or when Hagendorff arose.

Quickly he started to arrange the wire. Then suddenly his hands

dropped and he stared dismayed at the control panel.

The power switch had been removed!

* * * * *

It was Hagendorff's work, of course. He had guarded every angle.

Without that switch, the mechanism was lifeless and literally

powerless. It worked on a delicately adjusted and enclosed rheostat;

there was nothing that could be substituted for it. It would take

hours to improvise one in the heart of the apparatus.

The switch, Garth reflected bitterly, was probably concealed somewhere

about the giant's body.

He considered the possibility of tying him. He knew where there was a

coil of light, pliable wire on the floor; he might be able to loop it

over the giant's hands and legs while he slept, tie him securely, and

then go through his pockets for the switch. Another hazard! But there

was nothing else to do.

Garth lowered himself over the table's edge and slid quietly down the

leg. He glanced at the sleeping man, then over across the room to

where, beneath another table, the wire was--and his nerves jumped at

what he saw there.

From the darkness under the table two spots of greenish fire, close to

the floor, held steadily on him.

As he stared, they vanished, to reappear more to the right. With the

movement, he glimpsed the outline of a lithe, crouching animal, and

knew it to be the cat he and Hagendorff had experimented on earlier

that night. It was stalking him in the deliberate manner of its kind!

* * * * *

It came edging around, so as to leap on him from the side. He knew

that he represented fair prey to it; that if he tried to run, it would

pounce on him from behind. Wearily he tensed his miniature body,

standing poised on the balls of his feet and never dropping his eyes

for a moment. He could not repress a grim smile at the ludicrousness

of being attacked by an ordinary house-cat, even though it was

tiger-sized to him. Though his victory over the weasel, a far deadlier

fighter, made him confident he could dispatch it, there was another

aspect to the approaching struggle. It would have to be fought in

silence. Not four feet away, Hagendorff slept. There lay the

overwhelming danger.

Even as these things flashed through his brain, the cat steadily

inched nearer on its padded paws. Ghostly starlight framed it now;

Garth could see the eager, quivering muscles, the long tail, flat

behind, twitching slightly, the rigid, unstirring head and the slowly

contracting paws. The terrible suspense of its stalking scraped his

nerves. There would be a long pause, then an almost imperceptible

hunching forward, with the tail ever twitching; then the same thing

again, and over again. It became unbearable. Garth deliberately

invited the attack.

He pretended to turn and run, his back towards it. At once he sensed

its tensing body, its bunching muscles--then knew that it had sprung.

Whirling, he had a fleeting impression of a supple body in midair, of

bristling claws and bared, needlepoint fangs. But he was ready. The

weasel had taught him his best weapon, the great weight of his body.

He streaked in beneath the wide-spread paws, shot his hands into the

fur of the throat and threw himself against the shock of the animal's

suddenly arrested leap.

There was no standing his weight. Over the cat went, its back thudding

into the floor, its claws held powerless by the hundred and eighty

pounds of hard flesh that straddled it.

* * * * *

The fall had made little noise; but, as Garth tightened the grip of

his fingers and bored inward, a dull, steady thumping began to sound.

It was the cat's tail, pounding on the floor!

Desperately he tried to hook a leg over it, but could not reach far

enough. It beat like a tom-tom. From above, there came the sound of a

huge frame stirring, and the rumble of a sleepy grunt.

In a moment, the titan would be thoroughly awake.

By the drumming tail alone, Garth realized, his chance of regaining

full size was sent glimmering. There was nothing but retreat, now, and

a hasty one, if he valued life. Another noise came from the waking

Hagendorff. He was sitting up, staring around. Garth jumped to his

feet, threw the cat's twitching body beneath the table, and dodged at

full speed for the hole whereby he had entered.

Like a mouse he wriggled through, leaped to the ground, scrambled up

and made for the forest. He ran with all the speed at his command, and

was almost surprised when he reached the black fringe of the forest in

safety. In the protecting gloom, he dared to pause and look back.

Hagendorff was not pursuing him. From the sound, he was merely

boarding shut the drain hole, to prevent another entrance in that way;

then, afterwards, the windows.

Garth was puzzled. "I don't understand it," he said aloud. "Why is he

so sure he can get me in the morning? Isn't he afraid I'll leave the

island? Why I've _got_ to try to get away, now. It would be death to

be here after the dawn!"

He stood there making his plans. They had a rowboat below, powered

with an outboard motor. Even in his present size, he might possibly

run it, if he could get it started. He would strike down-river for

Detroit, and when the gas gave out, the current would carry him on.

Some river boat might pick him up and carry him to friends in the

city. His grotesquely dwarfed body would prove his story, and they

would bring him back and end Hagendorff's mad dream of fame, and help

him to regain his normal size. He could superintend the construction

of another machine if the present one was wrecked.

When he started down the trail to the river, he seemed to be walking

through a haze. He felt curiously light-headed, and his body was

completely numb. The long exposure was telling on him, and there was

much more of it to come. He wondered if he could hold out until he

reached the mainland.

But his mind cleared of the daze the cold and near-exhaustion had

brought it to when at last he came to the beach and realized that

again Hagendorff had anticipated him. The rowboat was gone! No wonder

the giant could afford to wait until daylight.

* * * * *

Garth floundered down to the beach and ran to where the craft usually

lay. There was only a groove in the rough, pebbly surface, a groove

left by the boat's keel. He followed it up the bank, and twenty yards

in found the dinghy chained and locked firmly to a large tree.

The midget's face grew suddenly very haggard as he stood there,

staring at what looked like his death sentence. He should have known

Hagendorff would secure the boat, he told himself bitterly. It was a

cruel blow, and sheer misery of mind and body gripped him as he turned

and peered through the darkness of wind-whipped water and sky toward a

horizon that was already lightening. Down-river lay Detroit, a

friendly, everyday world. It was not far in miles, but it seemed lost

to him forever....

Garth took his eyes from that prospect with a wry twist to his mouth.

It chanced that they fell on the painter of the rowboat.

It was a stout Manila cord, some twenty feet in length, and tied

tightly to a ring in the bow of the boat. He looked at it dully for a

full minute before the idea came to him. Then suddenly the lethargy

bred of hopelessness left him. Garth remembered a pocket knife he had

left in the boat the day before. He climbed over the side and began to

fumble about in the darkness. First he came upon a torn handkerchief

which he hastily tied about his loins. Further probing disclosed the

knife wedged under a seat in the boat. When he had finally extricated

it, he threw the knife over the side and climbed out.

After some minutes of frantic cutting and hacking he severed the rope,

and, quickly taking up one of the ends, ran with it further along the

bank.

There was still a way of getting off the island. A cold and risky way,

but better than waiting miserably for capture. On the bank was a pile

of sawn logs, intended for firewood; and a strong rope was in his

hands. Much indeed could be done now.

* * * * *

The making of his raft proved a herculean task, a racking and almost

impossible one for a man limited by doll-sized hands and a foot-high

body. First the logs had to be rolled to the water's edge, six of

them. Each was as thick as he was tall, and this first part of his

task took him a precious half hour, every minute of which brought

nearer the dawn. Ripples like ordinary waves washed up the struggling

manikin and left him gasping as he stood braced in the cold water and

tugged one log after another out and wound the rope under and over it.

The raft had to be built in water; he would never have been able to

drag the whole thing off the beach.

When at last he wearily tied the rope end to the last log, and stuck

his knife handy in it, the clouds on the horizon were flushed by the

coming sun. But his means of escape was completed; and hanging on the

end, he shoved the raft out into the river. Right then he almost lost

his life. For when his feet left the sloping bottom, his great weight,

out of all proportion to the size of his body, pulled him under, and

it was only by virtue of a desperate clutch on the raft that he

escaped drowning. Thrashing furiously, he struggled up from the water,

and lay, totally blown, on the logs. It was then he first realized

that his chance of life was no stronger than the rope which held them

together. For swimming was out of the question, and one or two logs

would never support his hundred and eighty pounds.

The end which he lay on was well under water, and the waves splashed

up between the bobbing logs. The current he was headed for swept down

fifty yards offshore, which was a sixth of a mile to the little legs

now thrust out behind and making a rhythmic flutter.

He was off the island! Freedom and life were near! Though his teeth

were chattering, his fingers crushed by the jarring logs, and his body

utterly wretched, he grinned with joy as the stretch between him and

the gloomy mass of the island slowly widened.

* * * * *

Then came the sun. The skies faded from gray into a delicate,

cloud-flecked blue; slowly the air warmed, and the surface of the

water seemed to calm under it. Though the sun was good on his body,

Garth realized night was more friendly to him, for in the growing

light his craft was all too conspicuous to the giant who would

presently be following his tracks down to the beach. He chided himself

for not having thought of camouflaging the raft with leafy branches.

Doggedly, he forced it out.

When at last he felt the pull of the current, he ceased his weary

kicking and glanced up into the swiftly advancing dawn. There was a

bird soaring through the keen air up there, gliding in easy circles

with almost motionless wings. Garth gazed at it somewhat wistfully,

envying its freedom and power of flight. And then he shut his eyes. He

was very tired....

He must have dozed off for a moment, for he awoke to find himself

slipping off. With a sudden jerk he regained his position--and that

was what saved his life at that moment. For without warning, while he

was nodding, plumed death struck from the skies.

It dropped like a plummet, as was its manner. It had been circling

above and judging its swoop, and by rights its curved talons should

have arched deep into the unguarded back of the naked figure on the

raft. But at the last second the figure moved aside--too late for the

hawk to alter its swoop.

The raft rocked under the impact; for a moment Garth Howard, dazed by

the sudden attack, did not know what had happened. Huge scratching

wings were thrashing about him; his left arm stung from where a claw

had raked it; and he wrenched around to stare into two wicked slits of

eyes behind a fierce, rounded beak that jabbed at him.

* * * * *

Evidently he represented easy prey to the hawk, for it did not soar

away, but instead came at him again in a flurry of beating wings and

stabbing beak, a vicious, feathered fighter from above. Caught off

guard by the suddenness and savagery of the onslaught, Garth retreated

stumblingly, forgetting his weight and the size of the raft and

defending himself with his arms as best he could against the rushes of

the hawk. The raft tilted perilously; water washed around his legs and

he slipped and went under.

He felt his fingers slipping inexorably over the edge of the log he

had gripped; his legs threshed up a welter of foam, but he kept going

down. Panic clutched him; his weight would sink him like a stone. But

suddenly his clutching hand was gripped by steel-like talons, and

through the water he caught a glimpse of the hawk straining backwards

with mighty sweeps of its wings in an effort to lift him bodily into

the air.

His size had deceived it. It could not hoist him, but did manage to

drag his head and chest out of the water. That was enough. With an

effort, Garth scrambled onto the raft.

The hawk, probably greatly surprised by its failure to soar away with

such tiny prey, tore into him again, raking his body painfully. Hardly

knowing what he did, Garth grabbed out as it hovered over him and

succeeded in wrapping his fingers around one of its legs. Then,

bracing himself as best he could, and ignoring the scratching wings

and piercing beak, he gave the leg a sharp twist and heard the crack

of breaking bone.

He was only half-conscious of the hawk's shrill scream of pain, of

its swift retreat into the blue, with the broken leg dangling

grotesquely. For only a moment he was aware that he had driven it off;

then the pain of his wounds and his utter exhaustion swept up over

him, and he flopped down on the raft in a dead faint....

* * * * *

For a long time Garth was dimly aware of familiar noises. At first

they were faint and scarcely perceptible; but, as his senses slowly

began to return, disturbing thoughts came to him. He felt that he was

on his back, and confined, and when he twisted, to turn over, he found

he could not. He opened his eyes and blinked.

He was back in the laboratory--lying bound, hand and foot, on the long

table.

The giant Hagendorff appeared over him, and his deep voice rumbled:

"Badly scarred and bruised, my little friend! Cats you have fought,

and birds, and each has left its mark. It was useless to run away last

night--not?"

Garth was suddenly too full of a weary resignation to even think of

speaking. Remonstrance, he knew, would avail him nothing. The long

struggle for freedom and life was over, and he had lost.

The assistant was apparently in good humor. He went on:

"Really, it is too bad, after that magnificent fight of yours! A

hawk--was it not? I was following your tracks, and had just reached

the beach when I see a great fuss on the water. A raft, I see! A bird,

attacking something on it! A little white figure, struggling! Well, it

is that easy. I unlock the boat and go to the raft and find my elusive

friend there, unconscious. So I bring him back here. He has forgotten:

we have an experiment to complete."

There was a fire of exultation in the man's eyes as they glared down

at the midget who lay on the laboratory table, just a few feet away

from the chamber of the machine. He reached out and ran a thick finger

over his victim's body.

"You do not deserve this," he said. "I should kill you outright--but,

graciously, I give you death in the machine. Yours will be the first

human body to be reduced to an inch; maybe less. This is your

martyrdom; for this, your name will live, along with mine, for having

perfected the process."

* * * * *

Garth Howard saw that the window was boarded tightly shut. Then

Hagendorff caught his eyes as, with a grin, he plunged a hand into a

pocket and drew forth the missing panel switch. He dangled it in front

of Garth.

"What you would have given for this last night, eh? With your wire to

pull the lever so carefully arranged! _Ach_, it was too bad!" He

shrugged, then picked up a screwdriver and turned to fix the switch on

the control panel.

The moment his back was turned, Garth gazed frantically around. The

fantastic fate he had striven so desperately to stave off was very

close now. What could he do?

Some tools lay on the table, just out of his reach, among them a pair

of cutting pliers. He stared at the pliers--an overgrown tool, half as

long as his own body. The twist of Hagendorff's wrist driving home the

first screw brought a cold chill over him. The pliers! It was a

chance!

He twisted a little, and keeping his eyes on the giant's back, he

inched toward them. His hands, tied at the wrists behind him, clutched

for them; found them. The jaws were open, and there were two sharp

cutting edges. He could not hope to manipulate the whole implement

with his bound hands, but he located one edge, painfully brought the

rope to it and sawed rapidly.

The steel sliced his flesh, and he felt the warm stickiness of blood.

But he disregarded this and kept on. Hagendorff was still working, all

unconscious--but the last screw was going in. And then some strands of

the rope snapped, and it loosened.

The next second, Garth had wrenched his hands free.

Then, throwing caution to the winds, he sat up, grabbed the great tool

and sliced the rope at his feet.

At that moment, Hagendorff finished his job and turned around.

* * * * *

Their eyes met. For a breathless instant nothing happened, save that

the smile on the titan's face changed to surprise and then fury. Garth

scrambled to his feet. The movement brought a bellow of rage, and the

manikin saw two enormous hands converging on him in a sweep that bade

fair to crush every bone in his dwarfed body.

Leaping backwards instinctively, he hurled the pliers at the giant's

head.

They were well aimed, and he saw them strike the temple, stopping the

man in his tracks. He thundered, more from anger than pain. His heart

pounding wildly, Garth ran back to a position behind a rack of test

tubes. It was from there that he saw Hagendorff, cursing crazily, grab

up a machinist's hammer and advance upon him.

All sanity had apparently left the giant. His great face was flushed

and distorted, and a growing welt showed where the pliers had clipped

him. Garth suddenly knew that if he were captured again, death would

not come in the chamber, but from those powerful hands, or the weapon

they clutched.

The hammer swung back for a crushing blow. But in the instant it hung

poised, Garth lifted a half-filled test tube from the rack before him

and swished its contents forward.

The tube held sulphuric acid, and it sprayed over Hagendorff's face.

The hammer pitched from his hand; he clutched at his eyes and stumbled

back, shrieking in agony.

Garth at once ran to the edge of the table, swung himself over and

slid down the leg to the floor. The laboratory door was open and he

dashed for it. But, whether or not Hagendorff could see his frantic

retreat, he anticipated it, and with a reeling plunge he got there

first. Fumbling, he found the key in the hole and turned it. The room

was sealed.

* * * * *

Beginning then, the blind Hagendorff was a man berserk. With a sobbing

roar of pain and fury, he lashed round for the foot-high figure that

dodged and wheeled and zig-zagged to keep from his threshing arms and

his hands. A table crashed over, and a flood of chemicals mixed and

boiled on the floor; then another, as the giant blundered blindly into

it. The cages of animals split open, and guinea pigs, rabbits and

insects scuttled from their prisons, fleeing to the corners from the

wild plunges of the raging German.

Garth went reeling from a glancing blow, and fell against an

over-turned stool under a far table where he could hardly breathe for

the mixed odors of spilt chemicals. By some sixth sense, Hagendorff

seemed to locate him, for his huge body turned and came directly for

him.

But Garth did not wait. Seizing the stool he whirled it so that it

slid smash into the giant's legs. The man pitched over with a grunt,

striking the floor so hard that the planks shivered.

He did not rise. He lay there, in a wreckage of glass and splintered

wood and stinking chemicals, moaning slightly.

Garth wasted no time, but gripped a leg of the laboratory table,

shinned to the top and with frantic speed fixed his strand of wire

onto the control lever and round the supporting posts of the

instrument panel. Then he jumped for the dynamo switch, caught the

handle and jerked it down.

The drone of a generator surged through the room. Then the midget was

standing in the chamber, both ends of the wire in his hands; and his

heart was thudding madly as he pulled one of them.

It held. Over came the lever, halfway. The brilliant stream of the ray

poured down. Dimly the manikin glimpsed the chamber's walls sinking

down, the wreckage-strewn room outside diminishing to normal size.

Fiery pain throbbed through him, but it was lost in the exultation

that filled his mind as the seconds went by. He grew to two feet, two

and a half--three.

* * * * *

But beyond that he was not to go. The swaying shape of Hagendorff

loomed outside the cube. Aroused by the drone of the generator and

what it signified, the giant had floundered up from the floor and now

came clutching blindly for him.

Garth knew he would have to leave the chamber at once; so, struggling

for command of his muscles through the paralysis that numbed them, he

tensed his hold on the other wire and pulled it a little. The control

lever swung back to neutral; the ray faded and Garth jumped out. He

was only a few feet away from the huge convulsed face as the German

roared:

"By God, you'll never get back on _this_ machine!"

His purpose was plain; his groping hand had already found the control

lever. To prevent his ripping it out, Garth plunged head first into

Hagendorff's stomach, and they both went down in a flurry of arms and

legs. Garth, scrambling to get loose, was conscious of the ray pouring

down again in the chamber above. The lever had not been wrenched out,

but jerked over, setting the process of increase on.

The next few minutes were a chaos. Now that Howard was three feet tall

he was without some of the advantages of his former smallness and

compactness, and his utmost efforts failed to free him from the death

clutch of the pain-maddened giant. Over and over they rolled on the

floor. Garth trying only to break free, and the other relentlessly

holding on and dragging him over to the chamber again.

It was a losing fight for the diminutive one, weakened as he was by

his exposure and the fierce fights he had had. Little by little,

squirming and resisting with all his remaining strength, he was

brought near--to see the German, at last, pull half the reducing

apparatus with a crash to the floor.

The ray in the chamber faded off. The machine was silenced forever, so

that Garth could never hope to regain his full size in this one....

* * * * *

With the realization of this, most of his spirit went, while the

savage giant, successful in smashing the machinery, now turned and

devoted himself exclusively to his victim.

"Now for you!" he roared in frightening triumph, clutching the smaller

man's neck with his great hands and bearing him to the floor.

Against those fingers gouged into his wind-pipe like a vise of steel,

Garth could do nothing. Feebly he gagged, and feebly he clawed at the

pitiless hands--and futilely.

It was the end, he told himself. He had come close, but closeness did

not count. His eyes bulged, and a shroud of black began to obscure his

vision.

And then, suddenly, over the giant's flexed arms, he glimpsed, coming

from the chamber on the table, something that chilled the blood in his

veins with horror.

It was huge and utterly loathsome. Long, hairy legs folded out, and

following them came a furry, bloated body at least five feet thick.

Many-faceted eyes fixed themselves coldly on the men on the floor. In

one hideous leap the monster soared from the table all the way to the

room's ceiling, seeming almost to float as it came down. For a moment

it teetered on the floor, not five feet from the giant who, blind and

all unconscious of it, was throttling his diminutive victim beneath

him.

Garth for a second forgot the grip on his throat in the horror of the

monster. He knew at once what it was--a tarantula. It had crawled

inside the chamber when its cage was broken, had been there even while

he had been there, and had been swollen to its present blood-curdling

size while they were fighting and the ray was on. With the smashing of

the apparatus, it was free to come out.

* * * * *

It gathered for the final spring, its terrible legs tensing

perceptibly--a creature out of a nightmare. Garth Howard tried to

shriek out a warning, but Hagendorff was holding his throat too well.

He could only struggle weakly and nod toward the horror beyond; but

the message did not get across to the giant.

Then the tarantula sprang again.

For a moment it seemed to hover on Hagendorff's upturned back. When it

floated down, its ragged legs cradled over him, and the egg-shaped

body squatted on his back....

Garth felt his frayed nerves and senses going. A hairy leg was

touching him, chilling his flesh. Above him, the giant was thrashing

impotently, and he found his neck free of the awful grip.

He wormed free. He was hardly conscious of reaching up and unlocking

the door, and closing it tightly again as he stumbled forth. Later, it

seemed that it was in a dream that he ran wildly into the splendid

sunlight outside and down the winding trail. It was only by a

tremendous effort that he kept his senses long enough to shove the

rowboat out from the beach and hop in.

He never started the motor. All that he had seen and suffered on the

island of horror overcame him too soon, and he pitched down in a limp,

unconscious heap....

* * * * *

And so it was, that, the next morning, the two harbor policemen found

a rowboat with mysterious cargo floating silently down the Detroit

River. So it was that some time later a launch with three local

officers churned up to the solitary island, and that gunshots echoed

in the gloom of a hushed laboratory room, and a man's white-faced body

was carried from the cabin where he had made his one great treacherous

effort to steal another's fame.

"JAZZING UP THE UNIVERSE"

Centuries of celestial history wheeled across the plaster sky of the

new Adler planetarium at Chicago, recently, at the dedication of the

astronomical institution, the first of its kind in the Western

Hemisphere.

A modern Joshua, working the levers and switches of a complicated

instrument, commanded a miniature sun to stand still in the

heavens--and it did. He bettered the feat of the Biblical prophet by

stopping the sun at any given point on its orbit across the skies, and

then ran it backward, its attendant planets, planetoids and stars

scampering contrary to all rules of the universe.

The Joshua in the person of Professor Philip Fox, director of the

planetarium on a "made" island in Lake Michigan described the

instrument with which he made the heavenly bodies cut capers, as a

projector, made in Germany at a cost of almost $100,000. As nearly as

it can be described by a layman it looks like three immense diving

helmets capping the ends of a tube about six feet long. Each "helmet"

is studded with lenses and inside are complicated and strange lights

and projectors which throw the images of the celestial bodies on the

white plaster dome above that represents the skies. The wheeling

motion of the universe toward the west is obtained by revolving the

"helmets" in eccentric circles on an axis. The whole effect makes a

spectator feel as if the solar system was revolving around him at a

greatly accentuated speed.

As a beginning lesson for the layman who attended the opening,

Professor Fox set the machine to represent the latitude of Chicago on

May 10, 1930. Every one turned his eyes to the east, where a

silhouette of Lake Michigan, with its lighthouses and ore ships, is

painted on the plaster horizon. The dome was lighted to represent a

clear night, and, incidentally, all nights are clear in a planetarium.

The machine was started and up from the center of the Lake jumped

Mars, red against the darkness.

Professor Fox, with a flashlight that throws the image of an arrow,

pointed out the stars as they appeared over the dome. The coming of

Mars forecast the dawn of May 10 and in a few moments the sun emerged

from the proper latitudinal position out of the lake and blazed its

way across the heavens and set behind the silhouette of the Standard

Oil Building on the west wall of the dome in less than a minute,

denoting that the day had passed in review. At 3:43 P. M. central

standard time, the midget moon arose and sailed its course and then

set behind the darkened picture of the Straus Tower.

Then Professor Fox ran off Sunday, Monday and Tuesday for good

measure, each time with Mars heralding the dawn and the sun changing

position as it does in reality. Fifty centuries of astronomical

history can be run off in an hour by the machine. The planets are

visible during the day in the planetarium as well as night.

The Moon Weed

_By Harl Vincent_

[Illustration: _Bart hacked and hacked at the rubbery growth._]

[Sidenote: Unwittingly the traitor of the Earth, Van pits himself

against the inexorably tightening web of plant-beasts he has released

from the moon.]

Hobart Madison pursed his lips in a whistle of incredulous surprise as

he regarded the object that lay in the palm of his hand. An ordinary

pebble, it seemed to be, but a pebble in which a strange fire

smouldered and showed itself here and there through the dull surface.

"Would you mind repeating what you just said, Van?" he asked.

"You heard me the first time. I say that that's a diamond and that it

came from the moon." Carl Vanderventer glared at his friend in

resentment of his doubting tone.

"Mean to tell me you've been there? To the moon?"

"Certainly not. I'm not a Jules Verne adventurer. But I'm telling you

that stone is a diamond of the first water and that it came from the

moon. Weighs over a hundred carats, too. You can have it appraised

yourself if you think I'm kidding you."

Bart Madison laughed. "Don't get sore, Van," he said. "I'm not

doubting your word. But Lord, man--the thing's so incredible! It takes

a little time to soak in. And you say there are more?"

"Sure. This one's the largest of five I've found so far. And there's

other stuff, too. Wait till you see. Fossils, beetles and things. I

tell you, Bart, the moon was inhabited at one time. I've the evidence

and I want you to be the first to see it." The eyes of the young

scientist shone with excitement as he saw that his friend was roused

to intense interest.

"So that's what all your experimenting has been aimed at. No wonder it

cost so much."

"Yes, and you've been a brick for financing me. Never asked a

question, either. But Bart, it'll all come back to you now. Know how

much that stone's worth?"

"Plenty, I guess. But, forget about the financing and all that.

Where's this laboratory of yours?" Madison had pushed his chair back

from his desk and was reaching for his hat.

"Over in the Ramapo Mountains, not far from Tuxedo. I'll have you

there in two hours. Sure you can spare the time to go out there now?"

Vanderventer was enthusiastically eager.

"Spare the time? You just try and keep me from going!"

Neither of them noticed the sinister figure that lurked outside the

door which led into the adjoining office. They chattered excitedly as

they passed into the outer hall and made for the elevator.

* * * * *

Vanderventer's laboratory was a small domed structure set in a

clearing atop the mountain and well hidden from the winding road which

was the only means of approach. Though Bart Madison, who had inherited

his father's prosperous brokerage business, had financed his friend's

research work ever since the two left college, this was his first

visit to the secluded workshop, and its wealth of equipment was

revealed to him as a complete surprise. He had always thought of Van's

experiments as something beyond his ken; something uncanny and

mysterious. Now he was convinced.

The most prominent single piece of apparatus in the laboratory was a

twelve-inch reflecting telescope which reared its latticed framework

to a slit in the dome overhead. Paralleling its axis and secured to

the same equatorial mounting was a shining tube of copper which

bristled with handwheels and levers and was connected by heavy

insulated cables to an amazing array of electrical machinery that

occupied an entire side of the single room.

"Regular young observatory you've got here, Van," Bart commented when

he had taken all this in in one sweeping glance of appraisal.

"Yeah, and then some. Not another like it in the world." Van was

busying himself with the controls of his electrical equipment, and a

powerful motor-generator started up with a click and a whirr as he

closed a starting switch.

Madison watched in silence as the swift-fingered scientist fussed with

the complicated adjustments of the apparatus and then turned to the

massive concrete pedestal on which his telescope was mounted. At his

touch of a button the instrument swung over on its polar axis to a new

position. The slit in the dome was opened to the afternoon sky,

revealing the lunar disc in its daytime faintness.

"You can see it just as well in daylight?" Bart asked as his friend

peered through the eyepiece of the telescope and continued his

adjustments.

"Sure, the surface is just as bright as at night. Doesn't seem so to

your eye, but it's different through the telescope. Here, take a

look."

* * * * *

Bart squinted through the eyepiece and saw a huge crater with a

shadowed spire in its center. Like a shell hole in soft earth it

appeared--a great splash that had congealed immediately it was made.

The cross-hairs of the eyepiece were centered on a small circular

shadow near its inner rim.

"That," Van was saying, "is a prominent crater near the Mare Nubium.

The spot under the cross-hairs is that from which I have obtained the

diamonds--and other things. Watch this now, Bart."

The young broker straightened up and saw that his friend was removing

the cover from a crystal bowl that was attached to the lower end of

the copper tube that pointed to the heavens at the same ascension and

declination as the telescope. The air of the room vibrated to a

strange energy when he closed a switch that lighted a dozen vacuum

tubes in the apparatus that lined the wall.

"You say you bring the stuff here with a light ray?" he asked.

"No, I said with the speed of light. This tube projects a ray of

vibrations--like directional radio, you know--and this ray has a

component that disintegrates the object it strikes and brings it back

to us as dissociated protons and electrons which are reassembled in

the original form and structure in this crystal bowl. Watch."

A misty brilliance filled the bowl's interior. Intangible shadowy

forms seemed to be taking shape within a swirling maze of ethereal

light that hummed and crackled with astounding vigor. Then, abruptly,

the apparatus was silent and the light gone, revealing an odd object

that had taken form in the bowl.

"A starfish!" Bart gasped.

"Yeah, and fossilized." Van handed it to him and he took it in his

fingers gingerly as if expecting it to burn them.

* * * * *

The thing was undoubtedly a starfish, and of light, spongy stone. Its

color was a pale blue and the ambulacral suckers were clearly

discernible on all five rays.

"Lord! You're sure this is from the moon?" Bart turned the starfish

over in his hand and gazed stupidly at his friend.

"Certainly, you nut. Think I had it up my sleeve? But here, watch

again, there's something else."

The crackling, misty light again filled the bowl.

"Suppose," Bart ventured, "you bring in something large--big as a

house, let's say. What would it do to your machine?"

"Can't. The ray'll only pick up stuff that'll enter the bowl.

Look--here's the next arrival."

The mysterious light died down and the scientist picked up the second

object with trembling fingers. It was a knife of beautiful

workmanship, fashioned from obsidian and obviously the work of human

hands.

"There! Didn't I tell you?" Van gloated. "Guess that shows there were

living beings on the moon."

He made minute changes in the adjustment of his marvelous instrument

and Bart watched in dazed astonishment as object after object

materialized before their eyes. There were fragments of strange

minerals; more fossils, marine life, mostly; a roughly beaten silver

plate; three diamonds, none of which was as large as what Van had

taken to New York, but all of considerable value.

"This'll be something for the papers, Van!" Bart Madison was visioning

the fame that was to come to his friend.

"Yeah, all but the diamonds."

* * * * *

"All but the diamonds is right!"

These words were spoken by a sarcastic voice, chill as an icicle, that

came from the open door. They wheeled to look into the muzzles of two

automatic pistols that were trained on them by a stocky individual who

faced them with a twisted, knowing grin.

"Danny Kelly!" Bart gasped, raising his hands slowly to the level of

his shoulders. He knew the ex-army captain was a dead shot with the

service pistol, and a desperate man since his disgrace and forced

resignation. "What's the big idea?" he demanded.

"You don't need to ask. Refused me a loan this morning, didn't you?

Now I'm getting it this way." Kelly turned savagely on Van, prodding

his ribs with a pistol. "Get 'em up, you!" he snapped.

Van had been slow in raising his hands, gaping in stupefied amazement

at the intruder. Now he reached for the ceiling without delay.

"You'll serve time for this, Danny!" Bart shouted.

"Shut up! I know what I'm doing. And back up, too--where--no, the

other door." Kelly was forcing him toward the door of the cellar at

the point of one pistol as he kept Van covered with the other.

Bart clenched his fist and brought it down in a sudden sweeping blow

that raked Kelly's cheek and ear with stunning force. But the gunman

recovered in a flash, dropped the muzzle of his pistol and pulled the

trigger. Drilled through the thigh, Bart staggered through the open

door and fell the length of the stairs into the darkness of the

cellar. Kelly laughed evilly as he slammed the door and turned the

key.

"Hold it, you!" he snarled as he swung on Van who had dropped his

hands and crouched for a spring. "If I drill you, it won't be through

the leg. I'll take those diamonds now."

* * * * *

He pocketed one of his pistols, and, keeping the other pressed to the

pit of Van's stomach, went through his pockets. Then he added those on

the tray by the crystal bowl to the collection, and transferred the

entire lot to his own pocket.

"Now, you clever engineer," he grinned, "we'll just operate this trick

machine of yours for a while and collect some more. Hop to it!" He

watched narrowly as Van stretched his fingers to the controls. "No

monkey business, either," he grated; "you'll not change a single

adjustment. I've been listening to you and I know the clock of the

telescope is keeping the ray trained on the same spot. You just

operate the ray and nothing else. Get me?"

Van did not think it expedient to tell him of the drift caused by

inaccuracies in the clock and perturbations of the moon's motion. He

was playing for time, trying to plan a course of action.

"There may not be any more diamonds," he offered as he tripped the

release of the ray.

"Oh, there'll be more. Don't try to kid me."

An irregular block of quartz materialized in the bowl and Kelly tossed

it to the floor in savage disgust. Then a small diamond, very small;

but he pocketed it nevertheless. The next object was a strange one--a

dried seed pod about six inches in length and of brilliant red color.

The ray had shifted to a new position on the lunar surface. Another

and another of the strange legumes followed, one of them bursting open

and scattering its contents, bright red like the enclosing pod to

rattle over the floor like tiny glass beads. Kelly snorted his

disgust.

"Still some sort of vegetation out there," Van muttered. The eternal

scientist in the man could not be downed by a mere hold-up.

"Can the chatter!" Kelly snarled as the crystal bowl gave up another

of the useless pods and still another. He gathered up the evidence of

lunar vegetation, a half dozen of the pods, and threw them through the

open doorway with a savage gesture. "You trying to put one over on

me?" he bellowed.

"How can I?" Van retorted mildly. "I haven't touched a handwheel." He

was wondering vaguely whether this lunar seed would grow in earthly

soil; what sort of a plant it would produce under the new environment.

Kelly was becoming nervous now. It seemed that little was to be gained

by hanging around this crazy man's laboratory. He had a sizable

fortune in rough stones already. That big one alone, when properly cut

into smaller stones, would make him independent. Maybe there weren't

any more, anyway. And the longer he stayed the greater chance there

was of getting caught.

The advent of another of the pods decided him. A quick blow with the

butt of his pistol stretched Van on the floor and Kelly fled the

scene.

* * * * *

Bart was pounding furiously on the cellar door when Van first took

hazy note of his surroundings. Several uncertain minutes passed before

he was able to stagger across the room and release his friend.

"Where is he?" Bart demanded, swaying on his feet and blinking in the

sudden light.

"Gone. Socked me and beat it with the diamonds." Van was mopping the

blood from his eyes with a handkerchief. "Are you hit bad?" he

inquired.

"No, just a flesh wound. Hurts like the devil, though. How about

yourself?" Bart limped to his side and sighed with relief when he

examined his bleeding scalp. "Not so bad yourself, old man. Where's

your first aid kit?"

Van was still somewhat dazed and merely pointed to the cabinet. "Fine

pair we turned out to be!" he grumbled after his head had cleared a

bit under Bart's vigorous cleansing of the cut on his temple. "Here we

stood, meek as a couple of lambs, and let that guy get away with

murder."

"Yeah, but those forty-fives made the difference. Ouch!" Bart winced

as his friend poured fresh iodine over the wound in his leg. "Have a

heart, will you?"

They were startled into silence by a hoarse, strangled scream that

came from outside the laboratory. "Help! Help!" someone repeated in a

panicky voice--a voice which at once ended on a gurgled note of

despair.

"It's Kelly!" Bart whispered. "He's come back. Something's happened to

him." He started for the open door.

"Wait a minute. It may be a trick to get us outside where he can pop

us off."

"No, it isn't. For God's sake, look!" Bart had reached the door and

was pointing at the ground with shaking forefinger.

* * * * *

The entire clearing seemed to be alive with wriggling things--long

rubbery tentacles that crawled along the ground, reaching curling ends

high in the air and had even started climbing the trees at the edge of

the clearing. Blood red they were, and partially transparent in the

light of the setting sun; growing things, attached by their thick ends

to swelling mounds of red that seemed anchored to the ground.

Translucent stalks rose from the mounds and sprouted huge buds that

burst and blossomed into flaming flowers a foot in diameter, then

withered and went to seed in a moment of time. But always the weaving

tendrils shot forth with lightning speed, reaching and feeling their

uncanny way along the ground and over tree stumps into the woods. One

of them emerged from a hollow stump with its slender end coiled around

the tiny body of a chattering gray squirrel.

"The moon flowers!" Van cried.

"What do you mean--moon flowers?"

"Dried seed pods. They came over into the bowl, and Kelly threw them

out. Now look at the damned things. They're alive!"

Kelly's voice came to them once more from behind the barrier of

rapidly growing vegetation. "Help!" he screeched. "I'll give back the

diamonds--anything! Only get me away from the things!"

"Ought to let 'em get him," Van growled.

Bart shivered. "Too horrible, Van. Got an ax or anything?"

"There's a hatchet around back. Maybe we can--"

* * * * *

But the young broker had scuttled around the corner of the building

and Van looked after him anxiously. The vile red tendrils were

reaching for the east wall of the laboratory, and he saw that their

inner surfaces were covered with tiny suckers like those on the arms

of a devil-fish. Carnivorous plants, undoubtedly, these awful

half-animal, half-vegetable things whose seed had been transported

across a quarter million miles of space. Man eaters! Deadly, and

growing with incredible speed. Even the short-lived flowers were

fearsome, as they opened their scarlet pansy-like faces and stared a

moment before they folded up and shriveled into the seed cases like

those that had materialized in the crystal bowl.

Then he noticed that the pods were opening and spreading more of the

terrible seed. Nothing could stop this weird growth, now. It would

cover the country like a sea of flaming horror, overcoming and

devouring every living thing. Cold fear clutched at Van as he realized

the enormity of the calamity that had come to the earth.

Bart was skirting the edge of the clearing with the hatchet in his

hand, and Van tried to call out to him, to warn him. But his voice

caught in his throat, and instead he ran to his assistance, circling

the spreading menace to get around behind where Kelly was still

shouting. Damn Kelly anyway! This never would have happened if he

hadn't come on the scene!

Kelly was in the woods, wedged into the crotch of a tree and striking

wildly at the clutching tendrils with his clubbed pistol. They mashed

easily and dripping red, but were not to be deterred from their

ghastly purpose. Kelly's time would have indeed been short had not his

erstwhile victims come to the rescue. One of the thickest of the

twining things encircled his body and had him pinned to the tree. His

breath was coming in gasps as its tightening coils increased their

pressure. His coarse features were livid and his eyes bulged from

their sockets.

Bart hacked and hacked at the rubbery growth until he had him free;

jerked him from his perch, blubbering and whining like a schoolboy.

His shirt had been torn from his breast and they saw a great red welt

where the blood had been drawn through the pores by those terrible

suckers.

"Look out, Bart!" Van shouted.

* * * * *

Another of the creeping things had come through the underbrush and was

wrapping its coils around Bart's ankle. Another and another wriggled

through, and soon they were battling for their own freedom. Kelly

staggered off into the woods and went crashing down the hill, leaving

them to take care of themselves as best they might.

The stench of the viscous liquid that oozed from the injured tendrils

was nauseous; it had something of a soporific effect; and the two

friends found themselves fighting the terror in a growing mist of red

that blinded and confused them. Then, miraculously, they were free and

Van assisted Bart as they ran through the forest. When they reached

the road, weak and out of breath, they were just in time to see

Kelly's roadster vanish around the bend.

"Yeah, he'd give back the diamonds--the swine!" Van muttered

vindictively. Then, shrugging his shoulders, "Well, they won't be much

good to him, anyway. Wouldn't be any good to us either, as far as that

goes."

"What do you mean? Aren't they real?" Bart was raising himself

painfully into the seat of Van's car, his wounded leg suddenly very

much in the way.

"Sure they're real. But don't you realize what this thing means--this

ungodly growth that's started?"

"Why--why, no. You mean it'll keep on growing?"

"And how! Those inner stalks drop a new batch of seeds every five

minutes or so. Presto!--a flock of new plants spring up ten feet from

the first; dozens of them for every pod that drops. You know how

geometrical progression works out. They'll cover the whole

country--the whole world. Lord!"

"Man alive, this is terrible! I hadn't thought of that before. What'll

we do?"

"Yeah, that's the question: what can we do?" Van started his motor and

jerked the car to the road. "First off, we're going to get away from

here--fast!"

Bart gripped his arm as he shifted into second gear. "Look, Van!" he

babbled. "They're out of the woods already. Loose! The red snakes are

loose from their stalks. They're alive, I tell you!"

It was true. Several of the slimy red things were wriggling their way

over the macadam like great earthworms, but moving with the speed of

hurrying pedestrians. Free, and untrammeled by the roots and stems of

the mother plants, they had set forth on their own in the search for

beings of flesh and blood to destroy. Millions of their kind would

follow; billions!

In sudden panic Van stepped on the gas.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, with shrieking siren, a motorcycle drew

alongside and forced them to the curb. "Where's the fire?" the

sarcastic voice of a stern-visaged officer demanded, when Van had

brought his car to a screeching stop. Seventy-five, the speedometer

had read but a moment before.

"It's life and death, officer," Van started to explain. "We must get

to the proper officials to warn the--"

"Aw, tell it to the judge! Come on now, follow me."

"But officer, there's death on its way from the hills, I tell you.

Red, creeping things that'll be here in a couple of hours--"

"Get away, from that wheel. I'll drive you in meself. You're fulla

applejack."

Bart had opened the door on his side and was limping his way around

the back of the car. This was serious. They had to get away; had to

spread the word in a way that would be believed before it was too

late. The officer was tugging at Van's arm, astonishment and black

rage showing in his weather-beaten countenance. Speeding, drunk,

resisting an officer--they'd never get out of this mess! A swift

uppercut interrupted the proceedings. Bart's leg was numb and stiff,

but his good right arm was working smoothly and with all its old time

precision. His second punch was a haymaker. With his full weight

behind it, it drove straight to the chin and stretched the officer on

the concrete. Thoughtfully, Bart removed his pistol from its holster

before scrambling in at Van's side.

"Boy, now we're in for it!" he gasped.

"And we might as well make a good job while we're at it." Van let in

his clutch with a jerk, and again they were breaking all traffic

regulations.

* * * * *

It was dusk when they roared in through the gate at the Rockland

County Airport and pulled up at the hangar office. Van rushed in,

shouting for Bill Petersen, and Bart followed. A slender, fair-haired

youth in rumpled flying togs greeted them.

"Bill, my friend, Bart Madison," Van blurted without pausing for

breath. "Listen, we've got to have a plane right away. Got one with a

radio?"

"Yes, but what's all the rush? Where you going?"

"Albany. Right away. Make it snappy, will you?"

"Sure, but what's it all about?" Young Petersen was leading them to

the field where a sleek mono-plane was in waiting as if they had

ordered it. "Warm her up, Joe," he called to the mechanic.

"Listen, Bill--I never lied to you, did I?" Van asked, when they were

seated in the plane's cabin.

"Not that I know of. But sometimes I've thought you were lying, until

I saw with my own eyes the things you had told me about. What is it

this time?"

"Death and destruction. Coming down out of the Ramapos. We've got to

warn the country. Plants, Bill--squirmy red plants with long feelers

that can twist around a man and devour him. Half animal, they are, and

the feelers break loose and crawl by themselves. Multiplying like

nothing you ever saw. Millions of them in an hour."

"What?" Petersen stared incredulously as his motor roared into life.

Then he gave his attention to the business of taking off. He jerked

the thumb of his free hand toward the radio.

* * * * *

Van's expert fingers manipulated the switches and dials of the

portable apparatus, and its vacuum tubes glowed into life. "2BXX

calling 2TIM," he droned into the microphone.

"Who's that?" Bart asked. The drone of the motor was barely audible in

the closed cabin and did not interfere.

"The _Times_. Trying to get Johnny Forbes. If anyone can get this

thing across, he can. Wait a minute, here they are." He closed his

eyes as he listened to the murmuring voice in the headphones.

Then he was talking rapidly, forcefully, and the young flyer gazed

with owlish solemnity at Bart as they listened to his conversation. It

was plain that Bill was but half inclined to believe, though impressed

by the earnestness and evident apprehension displayed by his two

passengers.

"Yes, 2BXX," Van was saying. "Connect me with Johnny Forbes,

please--in a hurry. Yes.... Hello, Johnny, it's Van--Carl

Vanderventer, you know. Yes; got a scoop for you, but first I want you

to get it in the broadcasts. Get me? It's about a man-eating plant

that's starting to overrun the country. No--listen now, I'm not

dreaming--listen--"

The frantic scientist rambled on and on about the seed from the moon,

the red death that was creeping down from the mountains, the horror of

the calamity as he and Bart had visioned it. Then, with a sudden note

of despair, his voice trailed off into nothingness and he turned a

drawn white face to his two friends.

"Laughed at me. Hung up on me," he groaned. "Good God! We've got to do

something--quick!"

"Be in Albany in an hour," the pilot suggested. "What you going to do

there?" He believed, now. His expression of horror showed it.

"See the governor. But, man, it's an hour wasted! We must stir up the

country--get the word to Washington--everywhere. It might be possible

to fight the things some way if we can mobilize State and National

resources quickly enough. Bill, Bart, what can we do?"

* * * * *

The plane sped on through the night under control of her gyro-pilot as

the three men racked their brains for a solution of the problem. If a

hard-boiled newspaper man would not believe the story, who could?

"I've got it!" Bart shouted suddenly. "Can either of you pound a

key--code, I mean?"

"Sure, I can. Then what?" Petersen returned.

"Fake an S. O. S. Don't you see? All broadcasting has to stop, and

every ship at sea, every air liner in this part of the country'll be

listening--standing by. Give 'em the story in code. Let 'em think

we're in a ship from the moon--captured by Lunarians who are here to

destroy the world with this weed of theirs--anything. Make it as weird

as possible. Most everyone'll think it's a hoax, but there are ten

thousand kids--amateurs--who'll be listening in. Somebody'll believe

it, and, believe me, there'll be some investigating in the

neighborhood of the growth in no time."

"By George, I believe that'll do it!" Van exclaimed. "And the

broadcasters listen in for an S. O. S. themselves. Got to, you know,

so they know when to start up again. Some smart announcer will tell

the story--maybe even believe it. The trick will work, sure as

shooting!"

* * * * *

The pilot glanced at his instruments and saw that the automatic

gyro-apparatus was functioning properly. Then he moved over to the

radio and threw the switch that put the key in circuit instead of the

microphone. Rapidly he ticked off the three dots, three dashes, and

again three dots that spelled the dread danger signal of the air. Over

and over he repeated the signal, and then he listened for results.

"It worked!" he gloated, after a moment. "They're all signing off--the

broadcasters. The Navy Yard in Brooklyn gives me the go-ahead."

He pounded out the absurd message with swift fingers, pausing

occasionally to ask a pertinent question of Van or Bart. At Van's

request he added a warning to all residents of New York State west of

the Hudson River and of northern New Jersey to flee their homes

without delay. He even asked that the message be relayed to the

governors of the two states, and that Governor Perkins of New York be

advised that they were on their way to Albany to discuss the

situation. But he balked at the story of the Lunarians, telling

instead the equally strange truth regarding the origin of the deadly

growth, and adding the names of Van and Bart to lend authenticity to

the tale.

Then he signed off and switched the radio receiver to the loud speaker

before returning to the pilot's seat.

Bart tuned in on the various broadcasters as they resumed their

programs, finally settling on WOR, Newark, whose announcer was

reading the strange message to his radio public with appropriate

comment. A crime and an outrage he called it, an affront to the

industry and to the public. An insult to the government of the United

States. But wait! A telephone call had just been received at the

station from the village of Sloatesburg. A reputable citizen of that

town had reported the red growth at the edge of the State road--huge

red earthworms wriggling across the concrete. Another call, and

another! The announcer's voice was rising hysterically.

"It _did_ work, Bart," Van exulted. "Now the hell starts popping."

* * * * *

Governor Perkins met them in person when they arrived at the Municipal

Airport in Albany. A great crowd had gathered in the shadows outside

the brilliance of the flood lights, and a police escort rushed them to

the governor's private car.

"Here's where you go to the Bastille for socking that cop," Van

observed. His spirits had risen appreciably since that successful S.

O. S. call.

But the governor was in a serious mood, as they made their way toward

the executive mansion through the milling crowds that lined the hilly

streets of the capital city of New York State. Proofs had not been

lacking of the truth of Bill Petersen's radio warning. Already the

spreading red death had covered a circle some eight miles in diameter,

covering farm lands and destroying the crops, blocking the roads and

trapping many on the streets and in their homes in nearby towns. More

than a hundred had lost their lives, and thousands were fleeing the

threatened area. The country was in an uproar.

"Gentlemen," the governor said, when they had reached the privacy of

his chambers, "this is a serious matter, and no time must be lost in

dealing with it. Nevertheless, I want you, Mr. Vanderventer, to tell

your story of the thing to me and to the radio system of the United

States Secret Service. The President himself will be listening, as

will the chief executives of most of the states. Hold nothing back, as

the fate of our people is at stake."

* * * * *

So Van faced the microphone and related the history of his work in the

little laboratory in the Ramapo Mountains. He told of his interest in

the earth's satellite, and of his first unsuccessful experiments with

ultra-telescopes in the endeavor to explore its surface close at hand;

of the failure of a space-ship he had built; of the final discovery of

the ray, by means of which it was possible to transport solid objects

from the one body to the other. He told of the discovery of man-made

relics and of fossils; he told of the diamonds, and of the attack by

Dan Kelly which had resulted in the spreading of the seed of the

deadly moon weed. He even related the incident of the traffic

policeman, at which the governor smiled.

"That has been reported," he said, "and you need have no fear on that

score.--The charges will be dropped. I now ask that you give us your

opinion as to the best method of combatting this new enemy. Have you

any ideas?"

"I have not, sir," Van replied gloomily, "though I believe it can be

done only from the air. Possibly bombing, or a gas of some sort--I

don't know. It will take time, Mr. Governor."

"Yes, and meanwhile the thing is overwhelming us at what rate?"

"As nearly as I can estimate it, the growth is moving with a speed of

four or five miles an hour."

"By morning you expect it will have traveled forty or fifty miles in

all directions?"

"I'm afraid so."

A sharp buzz from the instrument on the governor's desk interrupted

them. "The President," he whispered.

"That is enough, Governor," came the husky tones of President Alford's

voice. "I shall communicate with Secretary Makely at once. All

available army bombing-planes will be rushed to the scene. You, sir,

will mobilize the militia, as will the governors of the other states.

Meanwhile, this young scientist is to report to the Bureau of

Scientific Research in Washington--to-night. Have him bring a supply

of these seeds with him."

That was all. Governor Perkins offered no comment, but merely rose

from his seat to indicate that the discussion was ended. A solemn

silence reigned in the room.

"Let's go!" exclaimed Bill Petersen suddenly, unawed by the presence

of the governor. "My ship's waiting, and we can stop off for a couple

of those pods and still make Washington in two hours. Come on!"

Governor Perkins smiled. "Good luck, boys," he said, as they were

ushered from the room. "My car will return you to the airport. And

remember, the country will be watching you now, and expecting much

from you. Good-by."

They were to recall his words in the dark days ahead.

* * * * *

Before they had reached Newburgh, they saw a dull red glow in the

skies that told them the news broadcast to which they had been

listening had not exaggerated. The red growth was luminous in

darkness. Off there to the south-west, it was as if a vast forest fire

were lighting the heavens. No wonder the panics and rioting were

getting out of control of the police!

Coming up over Bear Mountain, they caught their first glimpse of the

sea of fire that was the red death by night. Like a vast bed of

glowing embers it covered the countryside, extending eastward to

Haverstraw where it was temporarily halted by the broad Hudson. It was

a shimmering, undulating mass of living, luminous things, eating their

horrible way through all organic matter that stood in their path.

Writhing, squirming, all-absorbing monsters that sent out an advance

guard of independent snake-like tendrils to capture and hold for the

lagging mother-plants whatever of live stock and humanity they were

able to find.

"Think they'll get over the river, Van?" Bart asked.

"Sure they will. Every fugitive who had a narrow escape after being in

contact with the things is a potential carrier of the seed. I found

several of them sticking to my clothing after we got away. I picked a

couple off your coat, but didn't tell you."

"Lord! What did you do with them?"

"Put them in the ash receiver in my car--like a fool. Wouldn't have to

go down for more if I'd kept them."

"Well, it can't be helped now. We'll have a job getting some down

there now, too."

"I'll say so." Van lapsed into gloomy silence.

* * * * *

They were over the landing field above Tomkins Cove, and Bill turned

on the siren whose raucous shriek operated the mechanism of the

floodlight switches by sound vibrations. The field sprang into instant

illumination, and they circled it once before swooping to a landing.

They were but a mile from the advancing terror.

The field was deserted, and the three men started off immediately in

the direction of the oncoming weed.

"We'll have to make it snappy," Van grunted. "We've got about twelve

minutes to get the pods and get back to the ship. The damn things'll

be here by that time."

They scrambled over fences and pushed through thickets. The lighted

windows of a deserted farmhouse were directly ahead, and they ran

through the open gate and across the fields. Ever, the glow of the

weed grew brighter. A terrified horse galloped wildly past them and

crashed into the fence, whinnying piteously as it went down with a

broken leg. They could see the red rim of the advancing horror just

beyond the road.

One of the detached tendrils slithered past, each glowing coil

distinctly visible.

"Lucky the things can't see!" Bart shuddered.

"Yeah," said Van. "Have to dodge 'em to get in close enough to one of

the plants. Keep your eyes peeled now, you fellows, in case one of us

gets caught."

A terrific explosion rocked the ground. They had paid no heed to the

roaring of motors overhead. The bombers were on the job! Shooting

skyward, a column of flame not a hundred yards from them showed where

the high explosive had landed in the red mass. Then, slimy wriggling

things rained all about them, fragments of the red weed that still

squirmed and crawled and clung. Bill Petersen yelled and clutched at

his neck where one of the things had taken hold.

Another warning whistle of a falling bomb. Crash! More of the horror

raining down and splattering as it fell. Whistle--crash! A huge blob

of quivering, luminous jelly fell before them--a portion of one of the

mother-plants. Crash! Crash!

"Run!" Van shouted. "Run for the plane. We'll never make it now. Damn

those bombers, anyway!"

All along the advancing front, the bombs were bursting, shattering the

air with their detonations and scattering the glowing red stems and

tendrils in all directions. The din was appalling, and the increasing

brightness of the crimson glow added to the horror of the situation.

Stumbling and cursing, they ran for the plane.

"Fools! Fools!" Bill was shouting. "Can't they see the field and the

plane? Why in the devil are they dropping them so near?"

* * * * *

Then Bart was down, clawing at a three-foot length of red tendril that

had fallen on him and borne him to the earth.

"Bart! Bart!" Van turned back and was tearing at the thing with

fingers that were slippery with the sap that oozed from its torn skin.

Monstrous earthworms! Cut them apart and each portion lived on, took

on new vigor. And these vile things could sting like a jellyfish!

Where each sucker touched the skin a burning sore remained.

Bill helped them break away from the thing, and all three fought on

toward the lights of the landing field. Only a short way off now; it

seemed they would never reach it. The bombers were dropping their

missiles with unceasing regularity, and the red death only spread the

faster.

When they scrambled into the cabin of the plane, the red wall of

creeping horror was almost upon them. Advancing speedily out from the

red-lit darkness, it seemed to halt momentarily, when it emerged into

the brilliance of the great arc-lights which illuminated the field.

Then, more slowly and with seemingly purposeful deliberation, the

wriggling feelers reached out from the mass and bore down upon them.

Bill slammed the door and latched it, then fumbled frantically with

the starter switch. A most welcome sound was the answering roar of

the motor.

The pilot yanked his ship into the air, taking off with the wind

rather than running the risk of remaining on the ground long enough to

taxi around and head into it. The plane acted like a frightened bird

as Bill struggled with the controls, darting this way and that, and

once missing a crash by inches as the tail was lifted by the

treacherous ground wind. Then they were clear, and slowly gained

altitude in a steep climb.

"Whew!" Van exclaimed, mopping his red-splattered forehead with his

handkerchief. "That was a narrow squeak, boys. And we haven't got the

seeds yet--unless we can find a few on our clothing."

"Who said so?" Bart gloated. "Look at this."

He opened his clenched fist and disclosed one of the pods, unbroken

and gleaming horribly scarlet in the dim light of the cabin. Bill

heaved a sigh of relief as he banked the ship and swung around toward

the south. He had dreaded another landing near the sea of moon weed.

Van chortled over their good fortune as he examined the mysterious

pod. One good thing the bombers had done, anyway! Blew one of the

things into his friend's hands.

* * * * *

Bart and the young pilot found themselves very much out of the picture

when they reported with Van at the Research Building in Washington.

The Government had no use for them in this emergency: it was the

scientist they wanted, and he was immediately rushed into conference

with the heads of the Bureau. His two friends were left to shift for

themselves, and they joined the crowds in the street.

The name of Carl Vanderventer was on everyone's tongue. Cursing and

reviling him, they were, for the hare-brained experiment which had

been the cause of the terrible disaster. Fools! Bart seethed with rage

and nearly came to blows with a number of vociferous agitators who

were advocating a necktie-party. Why hadn't the officials published

the entire story as Van told it over the Secret Service radio? There

was no mention of Dan Kelly in the broadcast news, nor of the fact

that the police were searching for him in every city and town in the

country. Another instance of the results of secrecy in governmental

activities!

"We'd better find ourselves a room and turn in," Bart growled. "Let's

get out of this mob before I slam somebody."

Bill Petersen was only too willing. He was suddenly very tired.

In the Willard Hotel they were assigned to an excellent room, and Bart

insisted on switching on the broadcasts and listening to the news. Far

into the night he sat by the loud-speaker, or paced the floor as an

exceptionally calamitous happening was reported. But Bill slept

through it all.

The army bombers had been recalled. Their efforts had worked more harm

than good. The invincible moon weed now had crossed the Hudson River

at Nyack and Piermont. Tarrytown was overrun, and many of the

inhabitants had lost their lives either in the maws of the insatiable

monsters or in the panics and rioting that accompanied the evacuation

of the town.

* * * * *

New Jersey was covered as far south as New Brunswick, and west to

Phillipsburg and Belvidere. At Mauch Chunk the contents of twenty oil

tanks had been diverted to the Delaware River, and the floating oil

film was proving at least a temporary protection to a considerable

portion of the state of Pennsylvania. In New York State the growth

had buried hill and valley, town and village, as far as Monticello,

and, along the Hudson, extended as far north as Kingston. At

Poughkeepsie, on the opposite side of the river, frantic householders

had armed themselves with rifles and shotguns, and were killing off

all refugees who attempted to land from boats at that point. But the

militia was on guard at the bridges, assuring safe crossing to the

thousands who fled the red death over these routes. There was no

keeping the seed of the moon weed from finding its way east.

At some points fire had been used with considerable success as a

barrier, hundreds of acres of forest lands being destroyed in the

endeavor to stem the crimson tide. But, after the ashes were cool,

germination would recur, and the weed would continue on its triumphant

way. Acid sprays and poison-gas of various kinds had been tried

without appreciable effect. The casualty estimates already ran into

the tens of thousands; rumor had it that nearly one hundred thousand

had lost their lives in the city of Newark alone. There was no way in

which the figures could be checked while everything was in a state of

confusion.

Communication lines were broken, roads blocked, gas and electric

supply systems paralyzed and the railroads helpless. Trains could not

be driven through the glutinous, wriggling mass that piled high on the

tracks. Only the radio and the air lines were operative in the

stricken area, and even these were of little value to the unfortunates

who, in many cases, were surrounded and cut off from all hope of

succor.

At four in the morning, with aching heart and reeling brain, Bart

threw himself on the bed without undressing and fell into the troubled

sleep of exhaustion and despair.

* * * * *

The next day brought no encouragement, though it was reported that the

growth developed with less rapidity after sunrise than it had during

the night. Bart endeavored to get Van on the telephone, but was curtly

informed by the operator at the Research Building that no incoming

calls could be transferred to the laboratory where he was working.

Knowing his friend, he pictured him as working feverishly with the

Government engineers and giving no thought to sleep or food. He'd kill

himself, sure! But such a death, even, was preferable to the red one

of the moon weed.

The Canadians and Mexicans had been quick to protect their borders and

forbid the landing of any American aircraft or the passage of trains

and automobiles. But the seed had reached Europe, one of the

twelve-hour night air-liners having carried a thousand refugees who

had sufficient foresight and the means to engage passage. It was a

world catastrophe they faced!

By mid-afternoon the streets of Washington were almost deserted. It

was less than twenty-four hours since the first moon seed took root,

and already the crimson growth had progressed nearly a hundred miles

southward from the point of origin! Another twenty or thirty hours and

it would reach the capital city--unless Van and those engineers over

in the Research Building discovered something; a miracle.

Bart tried the telephone once more and was overjoyed when the

operator, all apologies now, informed him that Van had been trying to

reach him for several hours.

"Listen, old man," his friend's voice came over the wire: "I've been

worried as the devil not knowing where you were. I want you and Bill

to stick around where I can get you at any time. I may need you. Where

are you staying?"

"The Willard. Have you doped out something?" Bart answered in quick

excitement.

"Maybe. Can't let anything out yet--not till we've tested it

thoroughly. But I can tell you that a hundred factories are already

working on machines we've devised. By good luck it only means minor

changes to an apparatus that is on the market in large quantity."

"Great stuff. The city's nearly emptied itself, you know, and, boy,

how they've been razzing you over the radio and in the papers--howling

for your hide, the whole country."

"I know." Van's voice was calm, but Bart sensed in it something of a

cold fury that was new to him in his friend. The young scientist was

bitterly resentful of the attitude of the public.

"Can we see you, Van?"

"No, nor call me either. Better hang around the hotel and wait for a

call from me. So long now, Bart. I've got to get busy."

"So long."

Bart gazed solemnly at Bill Petersen, who had been listening

abstractedly to the one-sided conversation. Bill had given up hope and

was resigned to the inevitable.

"Says he may need us, Bill," said Bart.

"Yeah? Well, we'll be ready for anything he wants us to do. It's no

use though--anything."

"What do you mean--no use? You never saw Van licked yet, did you?"

"Sure I did. By his super-telescopes and the rocket ship."

"But this is different." Bart was a staunch defender of his friend. He

glared at Bill for a moment and then switched on the news broadcast

which he knew he detested.

* * * * *

The progress of the moon weed continued unabated. In the city of New

York a million souls were reported as having lost their lives, and

this in spite of the difficulty experienced by the uncanny moon weed

in obtaining a foothold in Manhattan. It had been thought that the

asphalt and concrete would prove an effective barrier, and so they did

for a time. But, with the seed active in the parks and along the water

fronts, it was not long before the powerful roots of the greedy plants

worked their way underneath, ripping up pavements and wriggling into

cellars as they progressed. The city was a mass of wreckage and a

maelstrom of fighting, dying humanity.

Whole regiments of the National Guard were wiped out as they fought

off the weed with ax and bayonet, in the effort to provide time for

the refugees to clear from their homes in certain localities. All

transportation facilities to the south and west were taxed to the

utmost. There was fighting and killing for the possession of

automobiles and planes and for room in trains and buses. Air-line

terminals and railroad stations were the scenes of dreadful massacres

as the police and military guards fought off the crazed and desperate

creatures who attacked them en masse. And still the news announcers

prated of the responsibility of one Carl Vanderventer.

The telephone bell rang, and Bart answered it in relief. At last they

were to see some action! But no, it was merely the desk clerk,

notifying him that all employees were leaving the hotel and that they

would be left to shift for themselves. Yes, there was plenty of food

in the kitchens; they were welcome to it. And a permanent telephone

connection would be made to their room. The frightened clerk wished

them luck.

* * * * *

In endless monotone, the voice of the news announcer droned on.

Binghamton and Elmira, Albany and Schenectady, New Haven,

Philadelphia, Allentown--all had succumbed. The casualty estimates now

ran into the millions. The mist, the red mist that rose from the

steaming weed, was drifting westward and spreading the seed with ever

increasing rapidity. For now the monstrous growth from out the sky was

adapting itself to its environment; providing the seed with feathery

tufts that permitted the winds to carry them far and wide like the

seed of a dandelion.

"Turn off that damn thing!" Bill shouted. And he jumped to his feet,

his eyes glinting strangely in the twilight gloom of the room. Bill

was close to the breaking point.

"Guess you're right," Bart mumbled. "Not good for either of us to

listen to that stuff." He switched off the receiver, and they sat in

silence as darkness fell over the city.

Bill shivered and felt for the button of the electric light which he

pressed with a trembling finger. They blinked in the sudden

illumination, but it cheered them somewhat. It was not good to sit in

the darkness and think. Besides, they knew that the turbine generators

of Potomac Edison were still running. Some brave souls were sticking

to their jobs--for a time, at least.

"God!" Bill suddenly groaned, after an endless time of dead silence.

"My sister! Lives in Pittsburgh, you know. Wonder if she and the kids

got away. It won't be long before the damn stuff gets there."

Bart thanked his lucky stars that he had no family ties. "Oh, they've

had plenty of warning," he tried to console Bill. "Hours, you know;

and the westbound lines are in good shape from there. I wouldn't worry

about them if I were you."

There was utter silence once more. Even the customary street noises

was lacking. Both men jumped nervously when the shrill siren of a

police motorcycle sounded in the distance. Bart thought grimly of his

fracas with the officer who had tried to arrest Van. How long ago that

seemed, and how inconsequential an incident!

Their windows faced north, and by midnight they could make out the red

glow of the moon weed, that awful band of flickering crimson that

painted the horizon the color of blood. The telephone clamored for

attention and Bill stifled a hysterical sob as the terrifying sound

broke the eery stillness.

Van was on the way to get them! He had a Government car and they were

to go to Arlington for Bill's plane. Then what? He refused to commit

himself: they must follow him blindly. Anything was better than this

inactivity, though. Bart shouted with glee.

* * * * *

"We're going north," Van replied shortly, in answer to Bart's question

when they entered the official car in front of the hotel, "after Dan

Kelly."

"After Dan Kelly? Got a line on him?"

"Yes. Secret Service reports him in Toronto. The Canucks are after him

now, but, by God, I'm going to get him myself!"

Van was haggard and wan, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. The

strain had done something to him--something Bart didn't like at all.

This was a different Van from the man who had entered his office two

days previously. Unshaven and unkempt, he looked and talked like a

drunken man on the verge of delirium tremens.

"What's the idea, Van?" he asked gently.

"I'm going to get him. I tell you. The scum! It's his fault the whole

world's against me. I'll get him, Bart; I'll kill him with my bare

hands!"

So that was it! The combination of gruelling labor in the effort to

save mankind from the dread moon weed, and bitter censure from the

very people he was trying to save, had been too much for Van. He had

developed a fixation, unreasoning and murderous; he'd get even with

the man who had caused the trouble. And nothing could deter him from

his purpose: Bart could see that. Might as well humor him and help

him. It made little difference, anyway, with the red doom spreading at

its present rate. They'd all be victims in a few days.

They were speeding through the streets of Washington at a break-neck

rate. Van bent over the wheel, and like a demented man glued his

wildly staring eyes to the road.

"What about your work?" Bart asked, after a while. "Has anything been

accomplished?"

"Yes and no. They'll be ready to shoot in a few hours. Don't know

whether it'll be a complete success or not. But I sneaked away anyhow.

This other thing's more important to me right now."

"What's the dope? Can you tell us now?"

"Sure. I've got one of the machines in the car and I'll explain when

we're on our way to Canada."

This wasn't like Van. Never secretive and always in good humor, he was

treating his friends like annoying strangers.

"You can't land in Canada," Bill ventured, as they pulled up at the

gate of the airport.

"Like hell I can't! You watch my smoke, and let any bloody Canuck up

there try and stop me!"

He was lifting a small black case from the luggage carrier of the car

as he replied. Bart silenced the airman with a look.

* * * * *

When they had taken off and were well under way, Van opened his black

case and set a vacuum-tube apparatus in operation. They were nearing

the fringe of the glowing sea of red that was the vast blanket of moon

weed. It now extended to within a few miles of Baltimore and stretched

northward as far as the eye could see.

"It was a cinch," Van was explaining. "When I first saw that the

growth slowed up under the arc-lights at Tomkins Cove it gave me the

glimmering of an idea. Then, on the following day, when we learned

that the weed spread more slowly in sunlight, I was convinced. The

stuff is dormant on the moon, you know."

"Why?" Bart asked breathlessly.

"Because there is no atmosphere surrounding the moon, and the sun's

rays are not filtered before they reach its surface as they are here.

The invisible rays, ultra-violet and such, are present in full

proportion. And the moon weed can not flourish when subjected to light

of the higher frequencies. It died out when the moon lost its

atmosphere, and only revived on being brought to earth--probably a

million times more prolific in our dense and damp atmosphere and rich

soil. The thing's a cinch to dope out."

"Yeah!" Bart commented drily. Van was now talking and he could have

bitten off his tongue for interrupting him.

This machine of Van's was a generator of invisible light in the

ultra-indigo range, Van explained. You couldn't see its powerful beam,

but they had proved in the laboratory that it was certain doom to the

moon weed. They had grown the stuff from seed in steel cages, and

played with it until they were all satisfied. Now would come the final

test. Ten thousand planes were being equipped with the new generator,

which was merely an adaptation of standard directional television

transmitters, and to-night these would start out to fight the weed. It

was a cinch!

* * * * *

Beneath them the red cauldron seethed and tossed as they sped

northward; the crimson blanket of death that was steadily covering the

country.

"Drop to a thousand feet, Bill," the scientist called, "and then watch

below. But, don't slow down. We've got to get to Toronto!"

The ship nosed down and soon leveled off at the prescribed altitude.

Van's vacuum tubes lighted to full brilliancy, and a black spot

appeared on the glowing surface just beneath them, a black spot that

extended into a streak as the plane continued on its way. They were

cutting a swath of blackness fifty feet wide through the heart of the

growth!

"See that!" Van gloated. "It's killing them by millions! And the best

of it is the effect it leaves behind. The soil is permeated to a depth

of several inches and the stuff will not germinate in the spots where

the ray has contracted. Oh, it works to perfection!"

Bill was exuberant; his hopes revived miraculously. He gave his motor

the gun and got out of it every last revolution that it could turn up.

He must get Van to Canada! Not such a bad idea, this going after

Kelly, at that!

Bart was voluble in his praise, then caught himself short as he

remembered that he had doubted Van but a half hour previously: doubted

him and despaired. Now Van, lapsing into gloomy silence after his

triumph, was again thinking of nothing but revenge. The getting of Dan

Kelly meant more to him now than the extinction of the moon weed.

* * * * *

When they landed at the Toronto Airport they were welcomed with open

arms instead of with rifle fire as Bill had anticipated. The news had

gone forth. Already a thousand planes flying over the United States

were driving back the sea of destruction. The invisible ray was a

success, and the name of Carl Vanderventer was now a thing with which

to conjure, rather than one on which to heap imprecation and insult.

Van grimaced wryly at this last bit of news.

Danny Kelly? No one at the airport had ever heard of him. Van

telephoned in to the city; to Police Headquarters. Yes, they had

apprehended the fugitive American at the request of Washington, but he

was a slippery customer. He had escaped. Van raged and fumed.

Of what use were the congratulations of the night flyers who still

loitered in the hangar; of what consolation the radio reports of the

success of the ultra-indigo ray in the States and in Europe? He had

come after his man and he'd failed. Defeat was a bitter pill.

The news broadcasts from the States were jubilant and became

increasingly so during the night. The moon weed was being driven back

on a wide front and by morning would be entirely surrounded. There

would be no further loss of life and little more destruction of

property. Carl Vanderventer had saved the day! Van grunted his disgust

whenever an announcer mentioned his name.

When daylight came they prepared to return. Little use there was of

searching the highways and byways of Canada for the fugitive. He'd

simply have to wait until the Canadians were able to get a line on Dan

Kelly again.--It was maddening! But Bart was glad. The light of reason

was returning to his friend's eyes in the reaction.

Then there was a telephone call from the city for Van. Police

Headquarters wanted him. The fanatical glint returned to his eyes when

he ran for the hangar to answer the call. Perhaps they had already

captured Kelly! And he had an order in his pocket for the man's

return to the States. He'd been made a deputy, and with Kelly released

to him anything might happen. Something would happen.

* * * * *

But the police were reporting the unexplainable reappearance of the

moon weed just outside the city limits at a point near Cookesville.

Would Mr. Vanderventer be so kind as to fly over there and destroy it

before any lives were lost? He would.

The growth had covered an acre of ground by the time they reached the

spot designated. But it was the work of only a minute to blast it out

of existence with the ultra-indigo ray. Van surveyed the blackened and

shriveled mass with satisfaction.

"Let's land and take a look at it," he said.

Bart thought he saw a look of exultation flash over his careworn

features.

Soon they were wading deep in the blackened remains of the moon weed.

The stems and tendrils snapped and crumbled into powder as they passed

through. The stuff was done for, no question of that.

Bill Petersen yelled and pointed a shaking forefinger at an object

that lay in the blackened ruin. It was a human skeleton, the bones

bare of flesh and gleaming white in the light of the early morning

sun. Van was on his knees, quick as a flash, feeling around the

grewsome thing: pawing at the shreds of clothing that remained.

Then he was on his feet, his face shining with unholy glee. In his

hands were a half dozen small, smooth objects which looked like

pebbles. The diamonds!

"I thought so!" he exclaimed. "It's Kelly. Only way the seed could

have gotten up here. He had some on his clothes and didn't know it. I

couldn't get him myself--but anyway I'm satisfied."

* * * * *

He staggered and would have fallen, had not Bart caught him in his

arms. Poor old Van! Nearly killed him, this thing had, but he'd be

himself again, after it was all over. No wonder he'd gone out of his

head with the horror of it, and the blame that had been so cruelly

laid on him! No wonder he'd become obsessed with this idea of getting

square with Dan Kelly! But now he was content: sleeping like a babe in

Bart's arms.

Tenderly they carried him to the plane and laid him out on the

cushions in back. They'd let him sleep as long as he could; return him

to Washington where he'd receive his just dues in recognition for his

services. Then would follow the work of reconstruction and

rehabilitation. Van would glory in that.

Bart regarded his sleeping friend thoughtfully as they winged their

swift way toward the American border. The harsh lines that had showed

in his face during the past few hours were smoothed away and in their

place was an expression of deep contentment. He was at peace with the

world once more. Good old Van.

What a difference there would be when he awakened to full realization

of the changed order of things! What satisfaction and relief!

[Illustration: Advertisement]

The Port of Missing Planes

_By Captain S. P. Meek_

[Illustration: _"That portion of the wall has gone back in time

exactly three seconds," he announced._]

[Sidenote: In the underground caverns of the Selom, Dr. Bird once

again locks wills with the subversive genius, Saranoff.]

So that's the "Port of Missing Planes," mused Dick Purdy as he looked

down over the side of his cockpit. "It looks wild and desolate all

right, but at that I can't fancy a bus cracking up here and not being

found pronto. Gosh, Wilder cracked in the wildest part of Arizona and

he was found in a week."

The mail plane droned monotonously on through perfect flying weather.

Purdy continued to study the ground. Recently transferred from a

western run, he was getting his first glimpse of that section of ill

repute. Below him stretched a desolate, almost uninhabited stretch of

country. By looking back he could see Bellefonte a few miles behind

him, but Philipsburg, the next spot marked on his map, was not yet

visible. Twelve hundred feet below him ran a silver line of water

which his map told him was Little Moshannon Run. As he watched he

suddenly realized that the ground was not slipping by under him as

rapidly as it should. He glanced at his air-speed meter.

"What the dickens?" he cried in surprise. For an hour his speed had

remained almost constant at one hundred miles an hour. Without

apparent cause it had dropped to forty, less than flying speed. He

realized that he was falling. A glance at his altimeter confirmed the

impression. The needle had dropped four hundred feet and was slowly

moving toward sea-level.

* * * * *

With an exclamation of alarm, Purdy advanced his throttle until the

three motors of his plane roared at full capacity. For a moment his

air-speed picked up, but the gain was only momentary. As he watched,

the meter dropped to zero, although the propellers still whirled at

top speed. His altimeter showed that he was gradually losing

elevation.

He stood up and looked over the side of his plane. The ground below

him was stationary as far as forward progress was concerned, but it

was slowly rising to meet him. He fumbled at the release ring of his

parachute but another glance at the ground made him hesitate. It was

not more than three hundred feet below him.

"I must be dreaming!" he cried. The ground was no longer stationary.

For some unexplained reason he was going backward. The motors were

still roaring at top speed. Purdy dropped back into his seat in the

cockpit. With his ailerons set for maximum lift he coaxed every

possible revolution from his laboring motors. For several minutes he

strained at the controls before he cast a quick glance over the side.

His backward speed had accelerated and the ground was less than fifty

feet below him. It was too close for a parachute jump.

"As slow as I'm falling, I won't crack much, anyway," he consoled

himself. He reached for his switch and the roar of the motors died

away in silence. The plane gave a sickening lurch backwards and down

for an instant. Purdy again leaned over the side. He was no longer

going either forward or back but was sinking slowly down. He looked at

the ground directly under him. A cry of horror came from his lips. He

sat back mopping his brow. Another glance over the side brought an

expression of terror to his white face and he reached for the heavy

automatic pistol which hung by the side of the control seat.

* * * * *

"He cleared Bellefonte at nine in the morning, Dr. Bird" said

Inspector Dolan of the Post Office Department, "and headed toward

Philipsburg. He never arrived. By ten we were alarmed and by eleven we

had planes out searching for him. They reported nothing. He must have

come to grief within a rather restricted area, so we sent search

parties out at once. That was two weeks ago yesterday. No trace of

either him or his plane has been found."

"The flying conditions were good?"

"Perfect. Also, Purdy is above suspicion. He has been flying the mail

on the western runs for three years. This is his first accident. He

was carrying nothing of unusual value."

"Are there any local conditions unfavorable to flying?"

"None at all. It is much uninhabited country, but there is no reason

why it shouldn't be safe country to fly over."

"There are some damnably unfavorable local conditions, Doctor,

although I can't tell you what they are," broke in Operative Carnes of

the United States Secret Service. "Dick Purdy was rather more than an

acquaintance of mine. After he was lost I looked into the record of

that section a little. It is known among aviators as 'The Port of

Missing Planes.'"

"How did it get a name like that?"

"From the number of unexplained and unexplainable accidents that

happen right there. Dugan of the air mail, was lost there last May.

They found the mailbags where he had dropped them before he crashed,

but they never found a trace of him or his plane."

"They didn't?"

"Not a trace. The same thing happened when Mayfield cracked in August.

He made a jump and broke his neck in landing. He was found all right,

but his ship wasn't. Trierson of the army, dropped there and _his_

plane was never found. Neither was he. He was seen to go down in a

forced landing. He was flying last in a formation. As soon as he went

down the other ships turned back and circled over the ground where he

should have fallen. They saw nothing. Search parties found no trace of

either him or his ship. Those are the best known cases, but I have

heard rumors of several private ships which have gone down in that

district and have never been seen or heard of since."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird sat forward with a glitter in his piercing black eyes. Carnes

gave a grunt of satisfaction. He knew the meaning of that glitter. The

Doctor's interest had been fully aroused.

"Inspector Dolan," said Dr. Bird sharply, "why didn't you tell me

those things?"

"Well, Doctor, we don't like to talk about mail wrecks any more than

we have to. Of course, the loss of so many planes in one area is

merely a coincidence. Probably the wrecked planes were stolen as

souvenirs. Such things happen, you know."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Dr. Bird sharply. He raised one long slender hand

with beautifully modeled tapering fingers and threw back his unruly

mop of black hair. His square, almost rugged jaw, protruded and the

glitter in his eyes grew in intensity. "No souvenir hunting vandals

could cart away whole planes without leaving a trace. In that case,

what became of the bodies? No, Inspector, this has gone beyond the

range of coincidence. There is some mystery here and it needs looking

into. Fortunately, my work at the Bureau of Standards is in such shape

that I can safely leave it. I intend to devote my entire time to

clearing this matter up. The ramifications may run deeper than either

you or I suspect. Please have all of your records dealing with plane

disappearances or wrecks in that locality sent to my office at once."

The Post Office inspector stiffened.

"Of course, Dr. Bird," he said formally, "we are very glad to hear any

suggestion that you may care to offer. When it comes, however, to a

matter of surrendering control of a Post Office matter to the

Department of Commerce or to the Treasury Department, I doubt the

propriety. Our records are confidential ones and are not open to

everyone who is curious. I will inform the proper authorities of your

desire to help, but I doubt seriously if they will avail themselves of

your offer."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird's black eyes shot fire. "Idiot!" he said. "If you're a

specimen of the Post Office Department, I'll have the entire case

taken out of your hands. Do you mean to cooperate with me or not?"

"I fail to see what interest the Bureau of Standards can have in the

affair."

"The Bureau isn't mixed up in it; Dr. Bird is. If necessary, I will go

direct to the President. Oh, thunder! What's the use of talking to

you? Who's your chief?"

"Chief Inspector Watkins is in charge of all investigations."

"Carnes, get him on the telephone. Tell him we are taking charge of

the investigation. If he balks, have Bolton go over his head. Then get

the chief of the Air Corps on the wire and arrange for an army plane

to-morrow. There is something more than a mail robbery back of this or

I'm badly fooled."

"Do you suspect--"

"I suspect nothing and no one, Carnes--yet! I'll get a few instruments

together to take with us to-morrow. We'll fly over that section until

something happens if it takes us until this time next year."

* * * * *

A three-seated scout plane rose from Langley Field at eight the next

morning. Captain Garland was at the controls. In the rear cockpit sat

Dr. Bird and Carnes. Inside his flying helmet, the doctor wore a pair

of headphones which were connected to a box on the floor before him.

Carnes carried no apparatus but his hand rested carelessly on the grip

of a machine-gun.

The plane cleared Bellefonte at nine-thirty and bore east toward

Philipsburg. Captain Garland kept his eyes on his instrument board and

on a map. Less than six hundred feet above the ground, he was

following the air-mail route as exactly as possible. Overhead a mail

plane winged its way east, three thousand feet above them.

Fifteen minutes brought them to Philipsburg. Captain Garland shot his

plane upward a few hundred feet.

"Turn back, Captain," said Dr. Bird into the speaking tube. "Retrace

your course a quarter of a mile farther north. At Bellefonte, turn

back and go over the same ground another quarter of a mile north. Keep

flying back and forth, working your way north, until I tell you to

stop."

The plane swung around and headed back toward Bellefonte.

"Of course, we can't tell exactly what route he followed," said the

doctor to Carnes, "but he was new on this run and it is safe to assume

that he didn't stray far. We'll quarter the whole area before we

stop."

Carnes watched the ground below them carefully. There was nothing

about it to distinguish it from any other wooded mountainous country

and his interest waned. He glanced aloft. The mail plane had

disappeared in the distance and the sky was clear of aircraft. He

turned again to the ground. It looked closer than it had before. He

turned and looked at the duplicate altimeter. The plane had lost

nearly a hundred feet elevation.

* * * * *

"There's something wrong about this plane, Doctor," came Captain

Garland's voice through the speaking tube. "It doesn't behave like it

should."

"I guess we've found what we were looking for, Carnes," said Dr. Bird

grimly. "What seems to be the matter, Captain?"

"Blessed if I know," was the answer. "It feels like a drag of some

sort, like an automobile going through heavy sand. We're slowing down,

though I am giving her all the gun I've got!"

"Cut your motor!" said the doctor shortly. He bent over the duplicate

instrument board as the roar of the motor died away. Carnes rose and

looked over the side.

"Look, Doctor!" he cried in a strained voice. Directly below them

yawned a hole sixty feet in diameter and extending down into the

bowels of the earth. The plane hovered over the hole for a moment and

then slowly descended into it.

"What is it?" cried the detective.

"It's the secret of the Port of Missing Planes," replied Dr. Bird.

"Throw off your parachute. Keep your gun and light handy but don't

fire unless I do first. The same holds good for you, Captain."

The plane sunk until it was fifty feet below the level of the ground.

Carnes looked up. Gradually the circle of sky became blurred and hazy

as though the air were heavy with dust. The rasp of Dr. Bird's

flashlight key aroused him and he hastily wound his own. The haze

above them grew thicker. Suddenly the light died and then came

darkness, a darkness so thick and absolute that it bore down on them

like a weight. Dr. Bird's light stabbed a path through it.

* * * * *

They were in a tunnel or tube reaching into the ground. The sides were

smooth and polished, as though water worn. The plane sank deeper and

deeper into the earth. Suddenly Dr. Bird's light went out.

"What's the matter, Doctor?" asked Carnes, "did your light fail?"

"No," came a strained voice. "I turned it out."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Light yours."

Carnes reached into his pocket. Dr. Bird could hear his breath come in

panting sobs as though he were exerting his whole strength.

"I can't do it, Doctor," he gasped. "I want to, but some power greater

than my will prevents me."

"Are you affected, Captain?" asked the Doctor.

"I--can't--move," came in muffled accents from the front cockpit.

"Some power beyond my knowledge has us in its grasp," said the doctor.

"All we can do is sit tight and see what happens. We are no longer

falling at any rate."

From the forward cockpit came a rustling sound. There was a slight jar

in the ship, and it gave as though a weight had been applied to one

side.

"What are you doing, Garland?" asked the doctor sharply.

There was no reply. Again came the rustling sound. The ship gave a

sudden lurch as though a weight had left the side. Carnes suddenly

spoke.

"Good-by, Doctor," he said. "I'm going over the side."

"I have been fighting it but I'm going myself in a minute," replied

the doctor grimly. "Something is pulling me over. It's the same power

that keeps me from turning on my light."

"It's perfectly safe to go over," said Carnes suddenly. "The plane is

resting on a solid base."

"I have the same feeling. Catch hold of my belt and let's go."

* * * * *

They climbed over the side of the plane and dropped to the ground.

Their descent made absolutely no sound. Dr. Bird stopped and felt the

floor.

"Crepe rubber, or something of the sort," he murmured. "At any rate,

it's noise and vibration proof."

"Now what?" asked Carnes.

"This way," replied the doctor confidently. "I'm beginning to get the

hang of understanding this. The way is perfectly level and open before

us. Keep your hand on my shoulder and step right out."

"How do you know where we're going?"

"I don't, but something tells me that the road is level and open. It

is the same thing that brought us over the side. I can't explain it

but it is some sort of a telepathic control exerted by an

intelligence. Whether the sending mind is reinforced by instruments I

don't know, but I rather fancy not."

"Where is Garland?"

"He went off in another direction. I could feel the power that guided

him although it was not directed at us. Something tells me that he is

safe for the present."

For half a mile they made their way through the darkness before they

stopped. This time Carnes could plainly understand the command which

came to both of them.

"There is a table before us," said Dr. Bird. "Lay your flashlight and

pistol on it."

Carnes struggled against the order but the power guiding him was

stronger than his will. He strove to turn on his light. When he could

not, he tried to cock his pistol. With a sigh, he laid his gun and

light on the table before him. Without words, the two men walked

forward a few feet and sat confidently down on a bench that something

told them was there.

* * * * *

For a moment they sat quietly. A cry, choked in the middle, came from

the detective's throat. Cold clammy hands touched his face. He strove

again to cry out, but his voice was paralyzed. The hands went

methodically over his body, evidently searching for weapons. Mustering

up his will, Carnes made a grab for one of them. His captor apparently

had no objection to the detective's action for Carnes seized the hand

without effort. But he almost dropped it. The hand was as large as a

ham. He reached for the other hand but could not locate it. A movement

on the part of his captor brought it to him and he made the startling

discovery that the palms were directed outward. The hand had only four

fingers, which were armed with long curved claws instead of nails.

Carnes ran his hand up the palm to search for a thumb but found none.

He found, however, that, while the hands were naked, the wrists were

covered with short thick fur.

"Doctor!" he cried, "there's--"

Again came the overpowering will and his speech died away in silence.

He sat dumb and motionless while his captor moved over to Dr. Bird. A

second animal came forward and felt the detective over. He was not

allowed to move this time, nor was he while a third and fourth animal

went carefully over him. The four drew back some distance.

"Doctor," whispered Carnes as the influence grew fainter.

"Shh!" was the answer, and as the doctor's demand for silence was

reinforced by another wave of the paralyzing power, Carnes had no

choice. As he sat there silent, the power which held him again seemed

to grow less. He found that he could move his arms slightly. He edged

forward to get his gun and light. Before he reached them, a beam of

light split the darkness. Dr. Bird stood, electric torch in hand,

staring before him.

At a distance of a few feet stood a group of half a dozen animals

about the height of a man as they stood erect on their short hind

legs. They were covered with heavy brown fur. Their lower limbs were

thin and light, but their shoulders and forelegs were heavy and

powerful. Their forepaws, which had the palms facing outward, were

armed with the long wicked claws he had felt. No visible ears

protruded from the round skulls. Their heads appeared to rest between

their shoulders, so short were their necks. Their muzzles were long

and obtusely pointed. Through grinning jaws could be seen powerful

white teeth.

"Talpidae!" cried Dr. Bird. "Carnes, they are a race of giant

intellectual moles!"

* * * * *

Despite the fact that they had no visible eyes, the creatures were

strongly affected by the light. They dropped on all fours and turned

their backs to the scientist and the detective. Two of them scurried

away down a long tunnel which opened from the room in which they

stood. Dr. Bird turned his light up and swept the room. It was

roughly circular, a hundred feet in diameter, with a roof ten feet

high. Dozens of tunnels led off in every direction.

"Your light, Carnes, quick!" cried the doctor in a strained voice.

Carnes reached toward the table for his light. Before he could reach

it he was frozen into immobility. From the corner of his eye he could

watch the doctor. Dr. Bird was struggling to bring the light back on

the moles which stood before them. Great beads of sweat stood out on

his forehead. Inch by inch he moved the light closer to his goal, but

Carnes could see that his thumb was stealing up toward the switch

button. His breath came in sobs. Suddenly the light went out.

For some time the two men sat motionless on the bench unable to speak

or move. One of the moles stepped before them and gave a mental

command. The two rose to their feet. For a mile or more they followed

their guide, then, at a silent command, they turned to the right for a

few steps and stopped. In another moment, the numbing influence had

departed.

"Are you all right, Carnes?"

"Yes, right as can be. Doctor, what were those things? Where are we?

What's it all about?"

"We'll find out in time, I guess," replied the doctor with a chuckle.

"Carnes, isn't this the darnedest thing we've ever been through?

Captured half a mile underground by a race of giant talpidae before

whose mental orders we are as helpless as children. Did you understand

any of their talk?"

"Talk? I didn't hear any."

"Well, mental conversation then. They made no sound."

"No. All I understood was the orders I obeyed."

* * * * *

"I got a great deal of it," the doctor said. "We are evidently in or

near a sort of central community of these fellows. They spoke;

thought is a better word; they thought of doing away with us but

decided to wait until they consulted someone with more authority. You

see, we are not airplane pilots. Captain Garland was taken at once to

the place where they have other aviators imprisoned."

"What do they want of pilots underground?"

"I couldn't quite get that. There was another thought that I am not

sure that I interpreted correctly. If I did, there is some man of the

upper world down here in a position of considerable authority among

them. He has some use for pilots, but what use, I don't know. We are

to be held until he is consulted."

"Who could it be?"

"I can only think of one man. Carnes, and I hope I'm wrong. I don't

have to name him."

"You mean--?"

"Ivan Saranoff. We haven't heard of him or had any activity from him

for the last eight months. We know that he had a subterranean borer

with which he has penetrated deep into the earth. Isn't it possible

that he has, at some time in his explorations, come into contact with

these fellows and made friends with them?"

"It's possible, Doctor, but I hoped we had killed him when we

destroyed his borer."

"So did I, but he seems to bear a charmed life. Several times we have

thought him dead, only to have him show up with some new form of

devil's work. It is too much to hope that we have succeeded in doing

away with him. Did you notice one thing? Those fellows were helpless

while I held the light on them. The one which was holding us captive

got so interested in the discussion about our fate that he momentarily

forgot us. That was when I got my light. Until I turned the light away

from them, we were free men."

* * * * *

"That's right," answered the secret service man.

"Remember that. The next time we get a light on a bunch of them, hold

them in the beam until we can make terms."

"If we ever get hold of a light again."

"I have a light they didn't get, probably because I didn't think of it

while they were around. It is one of those fountain pen battery

affairs and they probably took it for a pen. I won't turn it on now,

partly to save it and partly not to let them know we have it. Let's

see what our prison is like."

They felt their way around the room. It proved to be eight paces by

ten in size. Like the tunnels it was floored with crepe rubber or some

similar substance which gave out no sound of footsteps, yet was firm

underfoot. The room was furnished with two beds, a table and two

chairs. There was no sign of a door.

"That's that," exclaimed the doctor when they had finished their

exploration. "I'm hungry. I wonder when we eat. Hello, here comes one

of the fellows now."

Carnes made no reply. As the doctor's speech ended, a wave of mental

power enveloped the room. One of the moles entered, moved over to the

table for an instant and then left the room. An earthly odor of

vegetables pervaded the room.

"My question is answered," said the doctor. "We eat now."

He moved to the table. On it had been placed dishes containing three

different types of roots. Two of them proved to be palatable, but the

third was woody and bitter. The prisoners made a hearty meal from the

two they relished. For an hour they sat waiting.

"Here they come again!" exclaimed the doctor. "We are going before the

person I spoke of. Can't you get their thoughts?"

"No, I can't, Doctor. I can understand when I get a command, but aside

from those times everything is a blank to me."

"My mental wave receiver, if that's what it is, must be attuned to a

different frequency than yours, for I can hear them talking to one

another. I guess I should say that I can feel them thinking to one

another. At any rate, they want us to follow. Come along, the road

will be open and level."

* * * * *

The doctor stepped out confidently with Carnes at his heels. For half

a mile they went forward. Presently they halted.

"We are in a big chamber here, Carnes," whispered the doctor, "and

there is someone before us. We'll have some light in a minute."

His prophecy was soon fulfilled. A vague glimmer of light began to

fill the cavern in which they stood. As it grew stronger they could

see a raised dais before them on which were seated three figures. Two

of them were the giant moles. Each of the moles wore a helmet which

covered his head completely, with no sign of lenses or other means of

vision. It was the central figure, however, which held the attention

of the prisoners.

Seated on a chair and regarding, them with an expression of sardonic

amusement was a man. Above a high forehead rose a thin scrub of white

hair. Keen brown eyes peered at them from under almost hairless brows.

The nose was high bridged and aquiline and went well with his

prominent cheekbones. His mouth was a mere gash below his nose, framed

by thin bloodless lips. The lips were curled in a sneer, revealing

yellow teeth. The whole expression of the face was one of revolting

cruelty.

"So," said the figure slowly, "fate has been kind to me. My friends,

Dr. Bird and Operative Carnes have chosen to pay me a long visit. I

am greatly flattered."

The thin metallic voice with its noticeable accent struck a familiar

chord.

"Saranoff!" gasped Carnes.

"Yes, Mr. Carnes, Saranoff. Professor Ivan Saranoff, of the faculty of

St. Petersburg once. Now merely Saranoff, the scourge of the

bourgeois."

* * * * *

"I hoped we had killed you," murmured Carnes.

"It was no fault of Dr. Bird's that he failed," replied the Russian

with an excess of malevolence in his voice. "His method was a correct

one. Merely the fortuitous fact that we had just pierced one of the

tunnels of the Selom, and I was away from my borer exploring it, saved

me. You did me a good turn, Doctor, without meaning to. You destroyed

an instrument on which I had relied. In doing so, you unwittingly

delivered into my hands a power greater than any I had dreamed of--the

Selom."

"What can a mental cripple like you do with blind allies like them?"

asked Dr. Bird with a contemptuous laugh. The Russian half rose from

his seat in rage. For a moment his hand toyed with a switch before

him. The sardonic sneer came back into his face and he dropped back

into his seat.

"You nearly provoked me to destroy you, Doctor," he said, "but cold

calculation saved you. Since you will never return to the upper world,

save when and as I decree, I have no objection to telling you. The

Selom are not blind. Their eyes are under the skin as is the case with

many of the talpidae, but for all that they can see very well. Their

eyes function on a shorter wave than ours, a wave so short that it

readily penetrates through miles of earth and rock. This cavern is now

flooded with it. Visible light, the light by which we see, is limited

to their eyes, hence the helmets which you see. They can see through

those helmets as well as you or I can see through air."

"What do you intend to do with us?"

"Ah, Doctor, there you hit me in a tender spot. I have a sore

temptation to close this switch on which my hand rests. Were I to do

so, both you and Mr. Carnes would vanish forevermore. I have, however,

conceived a very real affection for you two. Your brains, Doctor,

working in my behalf instead of against me would render me well-nigh

omnipotent. Mr. Carnes has a certain low cunning which I can also use

to advantage. Both of you will join me."

* * * * *

"You might as well close your switch and save your breath, Saranoff,

for we will do nothing of the sort," replied the doctor sharply.

"Ah, but you will. So will Mr. Carnes. I had no hopes that you would

join me willingly. In fact, I am pleased that you do not. I could

never trust you. All the same, you will join my forces as have the

others whom I have brought into the hands of the Selom. I have ways of

accomplishing my desires. It pleases my fancy, Doctor, to use your

brains in aiding me in my scientific developments. You will enjoy

working with the scientists of the Selom. Among them you will find

brains which excel any to be found on the surface of the earth, since

we two are below. Already I have learned much from them. You, Mr.

Carnes shall be taught to pilot an airplane. When my cohorts go forth

from the realms of the Selom to establish the rule of Russia, you will

be piloting one of the planes. Your first task will be to learn to

fly."

"I refuse to do anything of the sort!" said Carnes.

"I will not be ready to have your flying lessons started until

to-morrow," replied the Russian, "and you will have until then to

reconsider your rash decision. It will be much easier for you if you

obey my orders. If you still refuse to-morrow, you will pay a visit to

the laboratory of the Selom. When you return your lessons will be

started. You will now be taken to your cell. I have use for Dr. Bird

this afternoon."

"I won't leave Dr. Bird and that's flat!" exclaimed Carnes. Dr. Bird

interrupted him.

"Go ahead, Carnesy, old dear," he said lightly. "You might just as

well toddle along under your own power as to be dragged along. You

have a day for reflection, in any event. I daresay I'll see you again

before they do anything to you."

Carnes glanced keenly at the doctor's face. What he saw evidently

reassured him for he turned without a word and walked away. The light

grew gradually dimmer until darkness again reigned in the cavern.

"Come, Doctor," said Saranoff's voice. "We have work to do."

* * * * *

Carnes sat alone in his cell for hours. The darkness and loneliness

wore on him until he felt that his nerves would crack. Not a sound

came to him. He threw himself on one of the beds and plugged his ears

with his finger tips in an attempt to keep the silence out. Then a

cheerful voice sounded in the cell and a friendly hand fell on his

shoulder.

"Well, Carnesy, old dear," said Dr. Bird, "have you been lonesome?"

"Dr. Bird!" gasped Carnes in tones of relief. "Are you all right?"

"Right as can be. I learned a lot this afternoon. For one thing,

you're going to start flying lessons to-morrow and you're going to do

your best to become an expert pilot in a short time. It is the only

thing to do."

"And fly a plane for Saranoff?"

"I hope not. The only way to avoid that very thing is to keep your

mentality unimpaired so that I can call on you for help when I need

it. If the Selom operate on you, you will be useless to me."

"Operate? What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you. The Selom are a very old and highly civilized people.

For ages they have possessed scientific knowledge for which the

upper-world scientists are now blindly groping. Among other things,

they have a perfect knowledge of the workings of the brain. If they

operate they will remove from your brain every speck of memory you

have of past events, leaving only those things that will be useful to

Saranoff. You will be his complete slave. In that condition you will

be taught to fly a plane. When the time comes, you will fly one with

no remembrance of anything which happened prior to the operation and

with no will but his. It will be easier to teach you flying in your

natural state if you are willing. You will be willing."

"If you wish it, Doctor."

* * * * *

"I do wish it, most decidedly," Dr. Bird went on. "Obey every order

they give you. You will find that the Selom are an enlightened and

civilized race. They are very kindly and would willingly harm no one."

"Then why have they taken up with Saranoff?"

"He is the first man with whom they have come into contact. He has

told them a horrible tale of conditions on the surface, and they have

swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. They believe that he is going to

establish a new order of happiness and plenty for all with the aid of

his gang of cutthroats from Russia. If they had the slightest inkling

of the true state of affairs, they would turn on him in an instant."

"Why don't you tell them?"

"Remember that I am a stranger here and he has poisoned their minds

against me. Although the mind of an ordinary men is an open book to

them, they cannot read Saranoff's secret thoughts against his will.

They can't read mine either, for that matter. I am working in the

laboratory and I will pick up a great deal. When the time comes, we

will strike for our liberty and for the safety of the world."

"Did you learn Saranoff's plans?"

"Yes. He is gathering planes and pilots in the underground caverns of

the Selom. When he gets enough, he will bring men from Russia to man

the planes. What could the United States, or the world for that

matter, do against a fleet of hundreds, possibly thousands, of the

best planes equipped with deadly weapons unknown to their science?

That menace confronts us and we must remove it. To give you some idea

of the power of the Selom, this afternoon Saranoff and I with one

assistant opened a cavern in the solid rock three miles long and a

mile wide and over six hundred feet in height."

"Three men! How on earth did you do it?"

"Two men and one mole. We did it with a ray, the secret of which only

the Selom and Saranoff know."

* * * * *

"You have told me a disintegrating ray is an impossibility," objected

Carnes.

"It is. This was not a disintegrating ray. Carnes, either I am crazy

or the Selom have solved the secret of time, the fourth dimension. I

haven't been able to grasp the whole thing yet. What I think we did

was to remove that rock a distance, perhaps only a millionth of a

second, forward or back into time. At any rate it ceased to exist, yet

they can bring it back unchanged at will. That was the way they

captured our plane. They sent out a magnetic ray of such power that it

stopped our plane in midair and brought it to the ground. They

removed the rock from beneath us and lowered us into the hole. By

reversing the process they restored things to their original

condition. All of these tunnels and rooms were made in that way."

"I still don't understand how they did it."

"I don't either, but I hope to in time. Now let's go to bed. It's

late. To-morrow you will start your lessons with Captain Garland as an

instructor. He won't know you for he was operated on this afternoon.

Do your best to become a pilot. When I get ready, I want you with me

in full possession of all your faculties."

The next morning the two prisoners separated and went to their duties.

In the cavern which Dr. Bird had described, Captain Garland was

waiting beside the plane he had flown. He did not know Carnes, but he

still knew how to fly. Declining to enter into any conversation, he

started expounding the theory of flying to the detective. Carnes

remembered Dr. Bird's words and applied himself wholeheartedly. For

four hours they worked together. At the end of that time the light

faded in the cavern and Carnes was led by an unseen guide back to his

cell. He threw himself on a bed and awaited Dr. Bird's return.

"I have learned a few more things about the Selom," said the doctor

when he entered the cell several hours later. "We are in their largest

community. They have cities or warrens scattered all over the world.

Each city has its own ruler, but the whole race are ruled by an

overlord or king who habitually lives here. He is away visiting a

community under northern Africa just now, but he will be back in a few

days. The Selom are sincere in their desire to help the upper world.

They feel great pity for mankind in view of the conditions Saranoff

has described to them. When the king returns. I plan to make a direct

appeal to him. In the meantime, go on with your flying lessons. How

did you make out to-day?"

* * * * *

The second day was a repetition of the first, as were the third and

fourth. A week passed before Dr. Bird entered the cell in evident

excitement.

"Has Hanac brought our evening food yet?" he asked anxiously.

"No, Doctor."

"Good. Take this light. As soon as he enters throw the light full on

him and hold him until I work on him. We've got to make our escape."

"Why?"

"The king is due back to-morrow. Saranoff is frightened at the good

impression I have made on the Selom. He is supreme in the monarch's

absence, so he plans to operate on both of us before he returns. He is

afraid to allow me to see the king with an unimpaired intellect and

memory. Shh! Here comes Hanac." The door to their cell opened

noiselessly. When the mole who brought their food was well inside,

Carnes turned on the tiny flashlight. The mole dropped on all fours

and tried to turn its back. Dr. Bird sprang forward. For an instant

his slim muscular fingers worked on the mole's neck and shoulders.

Silently the animal sank in a heap.

"Come on, Carnes," cried the doctor. "Turn off the light."

"Did you kill him, Doctor?" asked Carnes as he raced down a pitch dark

corridor at the scientist's heels.

"No, I merely paralyzed him temporarily. He'll be all right in a day

or so. Turn here."

* * * * *

For ten minutes they ran down corridor after corridor. Carnes soon

lost all track of direction, but Dr. Bird never hesitated. Presently

he slowed down to a walk.

"It's a good thing I have a good memory," he said. "I planned that

course out from a map, and I had to memorize every turn and distance

of it. We are now behind your flying hall and away from any of the

regular dwellings of the Selom. Straight west about four miles is one

of the time-ray machines with a guard over it. Aside from them, there

isn't a mole between here and Detroit."

"What are we going to do, Doctor?"

"Keep out of their way and avoid recapture if we can. If we merely

wanted to escape we would try to get possession of that time-ray

machine and open a road to the surface. However, I am not content with

that. I want to stay underground until Astok, their king, returns.

When he comes, we will surrender to him."

"Suppose they operate without giving us a chance to present our side

of the affair."

"If they do, Saranoff wins; but they won't. The more I have seen of

the Selom, the more impressed I am by their sense of justice. They'll

give us a hearing, all right, and a fair one."

For two hours the doctor led the way. At the end of that time he

stopped.

"We've gone as far as we need to," he said. "They'll undoubtedly send

out searching parties, but if we can avoid thinking they won't be able

to find us. The tunnels are a perfect labyrinth. If you care to sleep,

go to it. We'll be safer sleeping than awake, for we won't be sending

out thoughts so fast."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird threw himself down on the rubber floor of the tunnel and was

soon asleep. Carnes tried to follow his example, but sleep would not

come to him. Frantically he tried to think of nothing. By an effort he

would sit for a few minutes with his mind a conscious blank, but

thoughts would throng in in spite of him. Time and again he brought

himself up with a jerk and forced his mind to become a blank. The

hours passed slowly. Carnes grew cramped from long immobility and

rose. A sudden thought intruded itself into his mind. "I might as well

throw that light away," he murmured to himself. "It will be no good

now. The Selom won't hurt us if they do catch us."

He reached in his pocket for the light. He was about to hurl it from

him when a moment of sanity came to him. He stared about. The impulse

to hurl the light away came stronger. He strove in vain to turn it on.

"Doctor!" he cried suddenly. "Wake up! They're after us!"

With a bound, Dr. Bird was on his feet.

"The light!" he cried. "Where is it?"

"In--my--hand," murmured Carnes with stiffening lips.

Dr. Bird seized the light. A beam stabbed the darkness. Less than

fifty feet from them stood two moles. As the light flashed on Carnes

regained control of himself.

"Take the light, Carnes," snapped the doctor. "I've got to put these

fellows to sleep."

Slowly he advanced toward the motionless Selom. He had almost reached

them when the light flickered out. He turned and raced at full speed

toward the detective. Carnes was standing rigid and motionless. Dr.

Bird took the light from his hand. Despite the almost overpowering

drag on his mind, he managed to turn it on. He swung the beam around

in a circle. Besides the two Selom he had seen before, the light

revealed a pair standing behind him. As the light struck them, the

numbing influence vanished for an instant from the doctor's mind. He

moved a step forward and then halted. The moles behind him were

hurling waves of mental power at him. Again the light cleared him for

an instant, but he got a brief glance of other moles hurrying from

every direction.

"The jig's up, I guess," he muttered. He strove to free himself by the

use of his light, but the tiny battery had done its duty, and

gradually the light grew dimmer. The influence grew too strong for

him. With a sigh he shut off the feeble ray and hurled the light from

him. The moles closed in.

"All right," said the doctor audibly. "We'll go peaceably."

* * * * *

As he spoke the paralyzing power was withdrawn. With Carnes at his

side he retraced the route he had taken from the cell. Before they

reached it they turned off. Dr. Bird realized that they were treading

the familiar path to the laboratory.

Outside the laboratory the Selom halted. A wave of mental power

enveloped the prisoners and they remained silent and motionless while

their escort withdrew. From the laboratory came three of the Selom

scientists. As the laboratory door opened they could see that it was

bathed in a flood of light, and that the moles wore helmets covering

their heads. They moved inside. Clad in a white gown stood Saranoff.

"So, my friends, you would run away and leave me, would you?" gloated

the Russian. "And just when I had planned a very beneficial operation

for you! I will remove permanently from your brains all the delusions

which now encumber them, and for your own puny wills I will substitute

my own."

The power which had held the prisoners silent disappeared.

"You have caught us, Saranoff," said Dr. Bird. "I know the power you

wield and that you are making no idle boast. I appeal, however, to

these others, my friends. The operation you are planning to perform

is not a routine one. It is one that should have the sanction of the

king before it is done. I appeal from you to him."

"He is far away," laughed Saranoff. "When he returns, your plea will

be presented to him, but it will be too late to do you any good. You

are right, Doctor--I do not plan a mere routine operation. Not only

will I remove your memory, but I'm going to use the time-ray on you

and banish forever into the unknown a portion of your brains. Without

knowing which adjustment I make of the infinite number possible, no

one, not even the king, can ever recall it."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird turned to the Selom scientists and hurled his thoughts at

them.

"This man intends to commit a horrible crime," he thought, "and one

which he has no authority to perform. To you I appeal for justice. Bid

him wait until Astok returns, and let him be the judge as to whether

it shall be done. Jumor, you know me well. You know that my brain is

the equal of one of the Selom. Even you cannot read my thoughts

against my will. Are you willing to see that brain destroyed? Astok

will be here soon and nothing will be lost by a short delay."

"He thinks truly," was the answering thought of Jumor. "It would be

better to wait."

"We will not wait," crashed Saranoff's thought into their

consciousness. "He killed Hanac when he escaped, and his punishment

shall be as I have decreed. Did not the king give me full power while

he was away?"

"It is true that he ordered us to obey this man in all things dealing

with upper-world men," thought Jumor. "If it is true that he killed

Hanac his punishment is doubtless just."

"I did not kill Hanac," returned the doctor. "He is paralyzed and will

be all right in a few hours, if he isn't already. I demand that you

wait until Astok returns. When an appeal is made to him, no other may

judge. So says the Selom law."

"That is true," replied Jumor. "We will wait until the king returns."

"We will _not_ wait," came Saranoff's thought. "The king delegated to

me his powers during his absence, as far as all the world, save the

Selom, were concerned. Were it one of the Selom appealing to the king,

I would be powerless before the appeal. These are not bound by Selom

law and are not entitled to its benefits. We will operate at once."

"Then you will operate alone," retorted Jumor. "I will not assist

you."

"I need none of your help," thought Saranoff. "Asmo and Camol, will

you help me? If you refuse I will report to Astok that you have

disobeyed and defied his chosen delegate."

"We had better assist him, Jumor," thought Asmo. "Astok did delegate

his authority. I am not of the nobility and I dare not refuse to

help."

"Suit yourself, Asmo," replied Jumor. "I refuse to assist, and will

appeal to Astok against him."

* * * * *

The third mole hesitated.

"You are higher in rank than we are, Jumor," he thought at length,

"and like Asmo, I dare not resist him. I heard the king give this

upper-earth man his authority while he was away. I will assist."

"And I will leave the room," retorted Jumor.

He moved to a door and threw it open. At the threshold he paused and

sent back a final thought.

"I will appeal to Astok, our ruler. I will send now a message to him

to hurry home that he may judge between us."

The door closed behind him. Saranoff chuckled audibly.

"Good-by, Carnes," said Dr. Bird sadly. "This devil can do all he says

he can, and more. I'm sorry I brought you and Garland into this mess."

"Oh, well, it can't be helped, Doctor," replied the detective with an

attempt at cheerfulness. "What is he going to do to us?"

"He'll have to use instruments for what he plans," said the doctor.

"Ordinarily a routine mental operation is performed without the use of

extraneous power. The mind of the operator is electrically connected

to the mind of the victim. By means of thought waves the operator

banishes from the mind of the subject such portions of his memory and

mentality as he chooses. He may then substitute other things in place

of what he has removed. Any of the Selom could operate on you, but I

doubt whether Jumor himself could do it successfully on me without aid

from power. Here come the instruments."

* * * * *

Asmo and Camol took from a cabinet on the side of the wall what looked

like a cloth helmet. Attached to it were a dozen wires which they

connected to a box on a table. The box was made of crystal and inside

it could be seen a number of vacuum tubes and coils of various

designs. Other leads ran to a similar helmet which Asmo placed on

Saranoff's head. A heavy cable ran to a switch on the wall.

As Camol closed the switch the tubes in the box began to glow with

weird lights. Violet, green and orange streamers of light came from

them to dance in wild patterns on the laboratory walls. For five

minutes Saranoff made adjustments to dials on the front of the crystal

box. The colored lights died away and a gentle golden glow came from

the apparatus. He threw off the helmet.

Camol left the laboratory and returned with a large coil on the top

of which was mounted a parabolic reflector. A device like a clock on

the front of the coil was constantly marking the passage of time. The

dial had two indicators which were together. Saranoff chuckled.

"You may not have seen this device work, Doctor," he said. "In order

to let you know what you are facing, I will demonstrate."

He turned the reflector so that it bore on the wall. He adjusted the

moving dial so that the two indicators were no longer together. As he

closed a switch, the wall before the reflector vanished. Saranoff

turned off the power.

"That portion of the wall has gone back in time exactly three

seconds," he announced. "As far as the present is concerned, it has

ceased to exist. It is following us through time three seconds behind

us, but in all eternity it will never catch up unless I aid it. Since

the exact time is known, it can be restored. If I were to alter this

adjustment ever so little, it could never be recalled. Watch me."

* * * * *

He again closed the switch, this time in a reverse direction. The wall

instantly filled up as it had been before. He moved the time dial so

that the two indicators coincided.

"After I have sent a portion of your physical brain into the past or

the future as the fancy strikes me, I will change the adjustment of

that dial. Since there are an infinite number of adjustments to which

I might have set it, the chances that any one could ever duplicate my

setting and restore it are the complement of infinity, or zero," he

said. "I am now ready to remove your memory. If the impossible should

happen and your physical brain be restored it would be useless. Asmo,

adjust the helmet. I will operate on my friend, the Doctor, first."

Carnes strove to rush to Dr. Bird's assistance, but he was helpless

before the force of Camol's will. Asmo adjusted the helmet to Dr.

Bird's head and buckled it firmly in place. With an evil grin,

Saranoff donned the other helmet.

"Good-by, Dr. Bird," he said mockingly. "You will continue to see me,

but you won't know me, except as your master."

* * * * *

His hand reached for the switch. It had almost closed on it when

Saranoff stopped convulsively. He sat motionless while the laboratory

door opened and Jumor entered the room. He was followed by another

mole. The newcomer was fully six inches taller than the others. His

head was hidden by a helmet, but around his arms he wore strings of

sparkling jewels.

"Ivan Saranoff, what means this?" his powerful thoughts dominated the

room.

"I was merely engaged in rectifying some of the mental errors of this

man of the upper earth," explained the Russian eagerly. "It is merely

a routine operation such as you gave me authority to perform."

"An operation which uses power is not routine," replied the king. "I

am told that this upper-earth man has a brain equal to those of my

most advanced scientist. I am also told that you planned to do more

than rectify his mental errors."

"You have been falsely informed. I was merely about to adjust his

memory."

"Then what means this?" The king pointed to the time-ray machine.

"That was brought here in order that it could be used when you

returned," thought the Russian eagerly. "This upper-earth man killed

Hanac when he brought him food."

The door opened and Hanac entered.

"Oh, Astok," objected Hanac's thoughts, "when these upper-earth men

had me at their mercy, with a light, they spared me. They paralyzed me

for a time so that they might escape but they did it in such a manner

that no harm came to me."

"So Jumor told me," replied the king. "Release them."

* * * * *

In an instant Carnes was on his feet removing the helmet from Dr.

Bird's head. The doctor struggled to his feet.

"Dr. Bird," thought the king, "can you communicate with me easily?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, but may I ask that you alter the vibration period

of my comrade, Mr. Carnes? He cannot understand you with his present

low period."

The king stepped to the box with which Saranoff had been working. In

response to his commands the helmet which had been on Dr. Bird's head

was placed on the detective. The king made a few adjustments to the

dials and signalled for the helmet to be removed.

"Can you understand me, Mr. Carnes?" he asked mentally.

The question leaped with startling clearness into the detective's

head. Carefully he framed his answer.

"I can understand you," said the king. "I will now sit in judgment on

the appeal made to me. Dr. Bird tell me your story."

With eloquent thoughts, Dr. Bird poured forth the history of the upper

world. He told of the great war and the collapse of the Russian

monarchy. He traced history to the fall of the moderate party and the

rise of the Bolsheviki. He described the horrible conditions existing

in Russia. At the end he reviewed the long battle he and Carnes had

fought against Saranoff. When he had finished, the king questioned

Carnes.

The detective repeated the story in different words and the king

turned to Saranoff. From the Russian's mind came a tissue of distorted

facts and downright lies. He denied or twisted around everything that

the detective and the scientist had said. When he had done with his

tale, Astok sat in secret thought for a few minutes.

"The tales you tell me are so far apart that I can give credence to

none of them," he announced at length. "There is but one solution.

Although they are never used, for the Selom have forgotten the meaning

of a falsehood, we have instruments which will drag the truth from the

brain of a liar. They are powerful and their use may easily be fatal.

If a man gives forth the contents of his brain willingly, the process

is not painful. If he tries to conceal anything, it is torture. Will

you willingly submit your brains to the searching of this instrument?"

"Gladly," came Dr. Bird's thought and Carnes reechoed it.

"And you, Ivan Saranoff?" demanded the king.

"I will not submit," thought the Russian sullenly.

"You will be examined whether you submit willingly or not," replied

Astok. "I am going to learn the truth though I kill you all to get

it."

* * * * *

At the king's order, Jumor hastened from the laboratory. He returned

in a few minutes with an apparatus similar to the one which Saranoff

had planned to use on Dr. Bird, but larger, and with more dials on the

crystal box. At a command from the king, Dr. Bird donned the helmet.

The king manipulated switches and dials. Around Dr. Bird's head glowed

a halo of crimson light. Twice an expression of momentary pain passed

over his countenance. After half an hour, Astok cut on the power and

nodded to Carnes.

"Don't try to hold anything back, Carnesy," said Dr. Bird sharply.

"You couldn't if you tried, and the process is very painful, I can

assure you."

With the helmet on his head the detective sat for ten minutes while

the Selom king went through his brain. A dozen times he shrieked in

agony but his moments of suffering were short. The king removed the

helmet.

"Your minds agree well," he thought. "Now I will examine the mind of

my friend."

The helmet was strapped on Saranoff. Instantly an expression of the

utmost anguish crossed his face. Shriek after shriek of agony came

from his writhing lips. Relentlessly the king applied more power. The

cries of the Russian grew heartrending. Suddenly he grew rigid and

slumped forward in his chair. Astok impassively manipulated his

instrument. After half an hour, he opened the switch and removed the

helmet. Under the ministrations of Jumor the Russian revived. The king

sat in secret thought for an hour.

"I have examined the brains of all of you," he announced at length,

"and I find hopeless contradictions. Each of you believes thoroughly

in his own social order. Both tell me of hopeless misery on the part

of a large portion of his people. Both tell of horrible wars and

suffering beyond my comprehension. The thoughts of all of you teem

with modes of bringing death to your fellow beings. Your entire

science his been perverted to the ends of destruction. Nothing of the

sort can be realized by the Selom where truth, justice and mercy

prevail. Each of you holds that his form of government is better than

the other, and will cause less suffering and misery than the others'.

None of you hold out hope of happiness for your fellow beings. I do

not know which system is less obnoxious. My decision is made. The

Selom will not interfere in the affairs of the upper-earth. You may

fight out your battles without aid and without interference.

"I will operate on both Ivan Saranoff and Dr. Bird. I will remove from

their minds all knowledge of our science and instruments and leave

them in the same condition that they were when they entered my realms.

Each of you will then be returned to upper-earth, Ivan Saranoff to

Russia, Dr. Bird and Mr. Carnes to the United States. The pilots, whom

I hold prisoners, will have their mentalities restored and be returned

to their homes. The planes we have captured, I will send off into time

so that they can never be used for the misery of upper-earth men

again. Jumor, you will carry out these orders."

* * * * *

"I wish I could remember how that time machine was built and

operated," said Dr. Bird reflectively, as he sat in his private

laboratory in the Bureau of Standards some time later, "but Jumor did

his work well. I can't even remember what the thing looked like."

"Well, Doctor, our trip below wasn't a loss. We removed a very real

menace to the established order of things and we have got rid of

Saranoff temporarily. It will take him some time to return here from

Russia."

"Three weeks or less," said Dr. Bird pessimistically. "However, we

have gained one other thing. Did you notice this?"

He pulled what looked like a watch from his pocket. Carnes regarded it

with a puzzled expression.

"No, Doctor, what is it?"

"It is a very small camera which takes pictures one-half inch by

seven-eighths. I had several opportunities to use it. I wasn't sure

that it would work on such short waves, but it did. When Saranoff

tries to return to this country, he will find that every immigration

inspector and every member of the border patrol has an excellent

likeness of him. That may hinder his entrance into the country for a

little while."

A CLASSIFICATION OF THE UNIVERSE

A classification of everything in the universe, from the smallest

thing yet measured, the electron, less than a millionth of a millionth

of an inch in extent, to the biggest, a star system of a thousand

million trillion miles, was described recently by Prof. Harlow Shapley

of Harvard in a lecture at the commerce center of the College of the

City of New York.

Looking forward to a time when man will be able to measure even

smaller things than the electron and larger than the greatest star

system, Prof. Shapley explained that he had left the classification

"open at both ends."

Man, Prof. Shapley said, occupies a very small place in all this

system, although, beside an electron or an atom, he is not so

negligible, at that.

"The survey," it was explained, "aims toward giving perspective. It

gives a sane and modest view of man's place in the scheme.

"The significance of the classification lies in the skeleton which is

afforded all science to bring some measure of order out of the world's

present chaotic knowledge of the systems of various kinds.

"All systems find a place in this synthesis--atoms, comets and

galaxies; man, radiation and the space-time complex. When looked at in

this objective way, human beings, and all associated terrestrial

organisms, appear only parenthetically in one of the subdivisions of

the class of colloidal aggregates."

Prof. Shapley discussed the concept of the cosmoplasma.

"This," it was explained, "is at once the most mysterious and

fundamental part of the universe, and only recently has come under

direct experimental study. In brief, it is the substratum of materials

throughout the universe, between planets, stars and the galaxies.

"It has no obvious systematic organization. Hence it includes such

diverse constituents as the high speed shooting stars, interstellar

calcium gas and radiation itself.

"Though no one has even seen an electron, the smallest thing included

in the classification, they have been proved to exist in several ways.

They give forth flashes of light that can be photographed. They have

caused the bending of X-rays as they pass through a substance."

[Illustration: The Readers' Corner

_A Meeting Place for Readers of_ Astounding Stories]

_Likes the "Corner"_

Dear Editor:

This month's issue, May, has the best collection of letters

you've ever published. All it lacked was a letter from

Bernard J. Kenton, that master of epistles and super-science

stories. One of your Readers would like to have "The

Readers' Corner" omitted. For heaven's sake, don't take it

out! I recognize it as one of the best features of our mag,

and whenever I open the covers, turn to it directly after

having glimpsed the table of contents and the announcement

of the stories to appear in the forthcoming issue.

Mr. Joseph R. Barnes--whose letter I enjoyed immensely,

incidentally--will be interested in knowing that "The Mascot

Deep" is already in book form and that "The Disintegration

Machine" and "When the World Screamed," all by the same

author, are under the same covers. He also will be

interested in learning that Ray Cummings' fine story, "Sea

Girl," is also between hard covers.

The idea of putting out a quarterly is a dandy. The other

science fiction quarterlies are mere text-books; there are,

occasionally, of course, a few exceptions. The thought of

the sort of fantastic action stories Astounding Stories

publishes, put together in a magazine doubly thick, is a

pleasing one to contemplate. Reading a story the length of

"Brigands of the Moon" and of such literary merit, complete

in one issue, is a thrill to be looked forward to. By all

means put out such a magazine and have stories by Jack

Williamson, R. F. Starzl and Edmond Hamilton, three of your

best writers, in the first issue.

I'm glad to see that Starzl is coming back with the next

issue. More from him, please. And Hamilton and Williamson

should appear more frequently, too.

A question, Mr. Cummings: Shades of Polter and Tugh!--why

must you always have a deformed character in your stories?

Do they appeal to your dramatic sense?

The news that we're going to have a story from Francis Flagg

brings raptures of delight to my homely face. If it's a

dimensional story, I'll cheer twice. When it comes to

writing that kind of a story, Flagg's the king of them all.

For sheer interest and originality, he's got his

contemporaries in that field outdistanced with a distance

that can only be counted by light-years.

A pat on the back for Booth Cody and Sears Langwell, two

staunch supporters.

All our magazine needs is a story about time crusaders, or a

planet of mechanical men.

Omitting the authors already mentioned, I considered my

favorites to be Rousseau, Eshbach, Diffin, Ernst, and Hal K.

Wells.

The best story you ever published? Who am I to answer? Why

not put it up to the Readers for popular vote?--Jerome

Siegel, 10522 Kimberley Ave., Cleveland, Ohio.

_Explanation Wanted_

Dear Editor:

This is my first letter to you, but I am a consistent Reader

of Astounding Stories, and look forward to all of the coming

issues. I have in mind a question, a friendly one, not one

that I expect to or hope will seem to be trying to dampen

any theories. This rocket-ship propulsion: as I understand

it, there is a void between all planets, etc. If this is the

case, how then can a rocket-propelled space ship go across

this void? Since the exhaust of the rockets must rely on

some material of a sort, or rather some sort of resistance

to push the ship along, how does it push on nothing? Of

course, near Earth it has the ground and then the atmosphere

to push from, but out in the void, why not cut off and save

fuel, therefore saving an extra heavy load of explosives, if

rocket-ships were really practical in space flying? Yours

for a thicker Astounding Stories--H. M. Crowson, Jr.,

Sumter, S. C.

_Better Than Love Stories_

Dear Editor:

I have started to read the Astounding Stories and enjoy it

very much, although I do not find very many girls writing in

to the "Corner." This mag is a thousand times better than

all those love story magazines, and besides these stories

are educational.

I would rather read Astounding Stories than eat. They are

not too scientific to be boresome, but they are just good

enough to be real interesting.

I wish you would publish some more stories like "The Lake of

Light," "Dark Moon," etc. I especially like stories of the

future and interplanetary novels.

Anyone wishing to correspond with me will be welcome, as I

love to write letters, and especially to anyone interested

in the same things that I am.--(Miss) Bernice Goldberg, 147

Crescent Drive, Mason City, Iowa.

_Kidding the Editor_

Dear Editor:

I have just finished your January, 1932, issue of Astounding

Stories. It was superb.

Imagine my delight and surprise when I purchased the first

issue this year! Smooth edges! Good quality of paper! I had

a few other articles to purchase but I forgot all about

them when I saw your magazine and rushed home to read it.

It had a most admirable cover design by your best artist, H.

W. Wesso. I turned to the Contents Page. The first story was

by my favorite author, Ray Cummings, and called "The Space

Car to Mars." Hot dog! My favorite theme, interplanetary

travel.

All the rest of the Authors were my favorites too! Edmond

Hamilton, Capt. S. P. Meek, S. P. Wright, A. J. Burks and a

short story by Jack Williamson.

I turned to the next page and lo and behold, what do I see

but an editorial. Wonders after wonders! It was called "The

Possibilities of Space Travel." I was by this time beginning

to think that at last the Editor had achieved a perfect

magazine, and when I turned to the first story, the one by

Ray Cummings, I knew it. There was a double-page

illustration by Wesso in soft and realistic _colors_! Think

of it! _Colored_ illustrations for each story!

Well, I was so excited that I could hardly read, but at last

I began. Boy, can Ray Cummings write interplanetary stories!

Y como! (And how!) He wove scientific explanations into the

story so very skillfully that one learned the scientific

facts without knowing it. When he thought that the

explanation of some invention would be boresome, he put a

little note at the foot of the page. This, I remembered, was

an admirable feature in his story "Brigands of the Moon,"

which you published two years ago.

I then turned to "The Readers' Corner" only to discover that

its name had been changed to "The Observatory." (I expect

this name was taken from the suggestion of P. Leadbeater in

the March, 1931, issue.) I discovered also, to my delight,

that at the end of each letter the Editor made a few

comments. I finished reading the Readers' letters and on the

next page I found this leadline: "Science Questions and

Answers." I read these with enthusiasm.

I forgot to mention the raise in the price to twenty-five

cents, but that is immaterial to me now since I have the

perfect science fiction magazine. You have surely hitched

your wagon (magazine) to a star now!--Clay Ferguson, Jr.,

510 Park St. S. W., Roanoke, Va.

_Sugar Candy_

Dear Editor:

It is very seldom that I write to any page like "The

Readers' Corner" but I have gotten rather tired of all those

knocks. So I am writing to say that I have missed only one

of your issues since the second, (Feb. 1930) and have found

only one not to my liking, and I have forgotten what that

is.

I have no comment to make on your Authors. I don't care who

writes it or what his literary reputation is--as long as

the story is good; and you wouldn't print it if it weren't.

As for exact scientific data--away with it. Some may wish to

be bored with it, but I prefer action. I like your pictures.

They are bizarre and give one an idea of what the Author is

trying to convey. And they intrigue the interest before the

story is read. I also like the size, because it is not

awkward, and I like the edges because they make the pages

easy to turn.--Mrs. Margaret M. Phinney, 1632 W. 3rd,

Plainfield, N. J.

"_Becoming a Habit_"

Dear Editor:

The May Astounding Stories seems to have nothing but

complimentary letters in it. Mr. Magnuson probably tore out

his hair when he saw all those letters. Not that Astounding

Stories fully deserves all that praise. As one Reader said,

words are inadequate to describe how wonderful your magazine

is; however, I do not agree with those who denounce some of

the Readers for making criticisms and suggestions. No

magazine can be absolutely perfect, although Astounding

Stories comes pretty near it. Even if it were perfect, the

Readers would have to keep on making criticisms and

suggestions in order to keep it that way. Besides, "The

Readers' Corner" would become pretty dull and lifeless if

you printed nothing but flattering letters. Most of the

Readers who make unfavorable criticisms really have the

welfare of the magazine in mind, else they wouldn't write at

all. All of them aren't grouches. For example: a certain

person sent one of the Science Fiction magazines about the

most vicious and uncomplimentary letter that magazine had

ever received. Yet in this issue of Astounding Stories he

jumps on the knockers for daring to say anything against

Astounding Stories! So you see that all knockers are not

hopeless!

I notice that you have complied with one of my requests, and

have published an autobiography of Mr. Wentzler, although

there is no picture. Perhaps, as Mr. Wentzler suggests, that

is for the best. The readers of Astounding Stories are

accustomed to pictures of grotesque and weird-looking

inhabitants of other planets, but a picture of Mr. Wentzler

may prove to be too much. Or, if you do put it in, you might

entitle it "Wesso's Conception of a Martian."

I hope Mr. Wentzler does not take the above paragraph too

seriously. Like him, I was hit on the head when I was but a

babe. In my case, it was a bronze statue that proved to be

my undoing. Unfortunately, they were never able to

straighten out the bend in that statue, which was the result

of its contact with my dome.

As for the stories in the May issue, they were all perfect,

every one of them. Having all the stories perfect in each

issue is becoming a habit with you. Keep up this habit. For

first place I nominate "When the Moon Turned Green." I

considered Mr. Wells' previous story, "The Gate to Xoran"

the best short story you had ever printed, but the later one

surpasses it. You will not be making a mistake if you give

us many more stories by this Author. I do not need to say

anything else about the rest of the stories--they are all

excellent.

Don't you think that it is about time for Astounding Stories

to become a semi-monthly?--Michael Fogaris, 157 Fourth

Street, Passaic, N. J.

_Located at Last_

Dear Editor:

I read every Science Fiction magazine on the market, and can

truthfully say that yours is the best of them all.

Of course, there is always room for improvement, and some of

the stories published in the May issue were not so hot. Meek

always gives me a pain in the neck, but Cummings is an ace,

though the installment in this issue dragged considerably.

In Diffin you have a master writer; and I was tickled to

death to see finally in "our" mag a story by that peerless

team, Schachner and Zagat.

I was wondering how long it would take you to locate them,

as you have done with most of the other stars in Science

Fiction.--Bill Merriam, Ocean Front, Venice, Cal.

_"Stories Aid Considerably"_

Dear Editor:

I cannot rightfully say what story was the best in

Astounding Stories. For the man who balances stories for

their values is just kidding himself. That is my theory and

I am ready at all times to stand in back of it.

Though I have only been reading Astounding Stories since

January, I am a thoroughly convinced fan. For the past two

years I have been puttering with chemistry and physics in a

laboratory of my own, and the science mentioned in these

stories aids considerably.

I would sincerely appreciate letters from Readers of

Astounding Stories. I will answer all.--Lawrence Schumaker,

1020 Sharon St., Jamesville, Wis.

_To the Rescue, Somebody!_

Dear Editor:

You're getting better all the time. The April number was the

best yet, and the May issue is not far behind it. The cover

on the May issue was wonderful.

"Dark Moon" is the best story by Diffin that you have yet

printed. "When the Moon Turned Green" and "The Death Cloud"

are both masterpieces.

"The Exile of Time" is a fine story, but I cannot understand

the explanations. How could the murder of Major Atwood be

mentioned in the records of New York? Why could not one see

events in which he participated? Of course, Ray Cummings

perhaps knows more about it than I, but I think a lot of his

ideas are the bunk.

I do not think that your stories should be full of science

and nothing else, but they should at least observe known

scientific facts.--J. J. Johnston, Mowbray, Man., Can.

_A "Two-Timer"_

Dear Editor:

I was surprised but pleased to receive the answer to the

question I asked in my letter to you. It is indeed a

pleasure to read a magazine that takes enough interest in

its patrons to personally answer a letter written to it.

Thank you very much.

And I am certainly glad that we are to get a sequel to "Dark

Moon." I wish that I could personally tell Mr. Diffin what I

think of his writing.

I am anxiously awaiting the next issue of "our mag." It

certainly does seem a long time between issues. When are you

going to start putting it on the stands twice a month? I

know that thousands of Readers would bless the day you did

it.

Please keep up the good work; and I know you will, for the

longer I read A. S. the more I enjoy it.

The serial, "The Exile of Time," is a story par excellence.

But I know the forthcoming sequel to "Dark Moon" will be a

super-story.

My idea of reading is that if a story is worth reading once

it is worth reading twice, and I have never seen any story

in your book that was not worth reading once. Nuff said.

I will answer any letters written me. I hope to hear from

plenty of Readers--C. G. Davis, 531 S. Millard, Chicago,

Ill.

_And Sequel It Has_

Dear Editor:

I have just finished the May number of Astounding Stories,

and want to send my contribution to "The Readers' Corner."

The novelette, "Dark Moon," by Diffin, is rather an

outstanding story, in my opinion. It is plausible and

convincing, and the literary quality is high. I have a

feeling that this should have a sequel, and wonder if others

will not agree with me. That Astounding Stories is the best

of the Science Fiction Magazines is something that scarcely

lends itself to argument. Without questions, it leads them

all. Take the present number for instance: Diffin, Meek and

Cummings, three top-notchers, all in one issue.--A. J.

Harris, 1525 Bushnell Ave., South Pasadena, Cal.

_I'm Afraid Not_

Dear Editor:

I have read every one of your Astounding Stories and think

there is no other magazine on the market like it. Only one

kick: it doesn't appear often enough. I should like to see

it every week; every two weeks, anyway. I like every story

you print, and I think the size of your magazine is perfect.

I have saved every issue I read, and now have seventeen of

them.

"Phalanxes of Atlans" and "Marooned Under the Sea" were

especially good. "The Readers' Corner" is fine, but I don't

like so many brickbats thrown. I should like to see more

bouquets given to you.

There is one thing I'd like to see you print. You probably

have heard of the Fox Movietone picture, "Just Imagine," an

interplanetary story of 1930. I'd like to see it printed in

Astounding Stories more than anything else. It would make a

fine serial. I don't suppose it would be possible for you to

print it, though, would it?--Ernestine Small, 1151 Brighton

Ave., Portland, Ore.

_Better to Verse_

Dear Editor:

Astounding Stories can't be beat;

Its every issue is a treat.

The finest authors of the age

Appear upon Astounding's stage.

There's Diffin, Cummings, Leinster, Burks;

An all-star cast that's sure the works.

Harl Vincent, Wells, and Starzl, too,

Belong among this famous crew.

Ed Hamilton and Vic Rousseau

With Captain Meek complete the show.

Together they are sure the best;

That's why Astounding leads the rest!

--Booth Cody, Bronx, N. Y.

_Another "Two-Timer"_

Dear Editor:

I have just finished reading the May issue of Astounding

Stories for the second time. I have been reading Astounding

Stories for over a year, and so far I can find only one

thing wrong with it, and that is that it is not thick

enough. In other words, you do not put enough stories in it.

Some people who write in to the "Corner" say that the paper

is rotten. I still have all my magazines, and the paper is

as good as new. The paper is also good on the eyes, as it

does not reflect light like a mirror, as some paper does.

Some people say the pages are uneven and hard to turn. Like

Mr. H. N. Snager, I become so interested in the stories I do

not notice such trifles. Anybody who yells about the color

of the cover, the durability of the paper, is not very

interested in Astounding Stories.

Why don't you either print a full page picture at the

beginning of each story or else keep the half page picture

at the beginning and put another picture halfway through the

story?--Wm. McCalvy, 1244 Beech St., St. Paul, Minn.

_A Buttercup for Paul_

Dear Editor:

Congratulations! Astounding Stories has scored again! Not

satisfied with illustrations by the mighty Wesso only, you

have secured a drawing by the equally mighty Paul! May we

see many more by him?--Thomas L. Kratzer, 3595 Tullamore

Rd., Cleveland Heights, Ohio.

_Nerves Now Better?_

Dear Editor:

In Gould you have a fine illustrator; in Wesso a better one,

but as I skip the page on which the story, a truly

remarkable one by R. F. Starzl, "The Earthman's Burden" is

on, my eye is caught by--yes! a drawing by Paul, good old

reliable Mr. Paul, the king of Science Fiction illustrators.

Now that you have him on your artist's staff I wouldn't feel

at all bad seeing a painting of his on the cover.

The June issue was a dazzler. "Manape the Mighty" held me

spellbound. The others were all excellent stories. The cover

painting by Wesso was good, but I have already seen one of

that sort in a previous issue. Why not give us more

interplanetary illustrations of space ships and the like as

in "Brigands of the Moon"?

Another thing, it is nine-thirty. I must be asleep by

eleven-thirty in order to start for school early the next

morning. I allow myself two hours in which to read

Astounding Stories. I turn to the contents section; I see a

story there which I wish to read. It is on page 604. I turn

the pages: 599, 601, 607 come in rapid succession, all but

the page I look for. This goes on for some time until at

last the roughened edge of 604 comes into view. By then my

nerves are on edge and I find it is almost eleven-thirty!

But I cannot say that you do not stand up with the foremost

of all magazines, and the way you are improving now you'll

soon forge far in front.--Arthur Berkowitz, 763 Beck St.,

New York City.

_Some Goal!_

Dear Editor:

Permit me to congratulate Mr. Diffin on his latest

masterpiece, "Holocaust."

Every once in a while Mr. Diffin produces a story that bids

fair to eclipse all its contemporaries. His former story,

"The Power and the Glory," could also be placed in that

category. Somehow, that story has become indelibly written

on my memory. The philosophy expressed in it was

overwhelming. It would have done justice to a Shakespeare.

And now, you can imagine how delighted I am to learn that

Mr. Diffin has once again graced us with a yarn of the same

class.

Man, if you continue to publish such stories as these

frequently, you'll have the public terming Astounding

Stories literature of the highest grade! However, I won't

entreat Mr. Diffin to write these stories spasmodically, as

the long wait between tales adds lure to the stories.

And now for Mr. Burks. Ah--here is an extraordinary chap!

Mr. Burks is your most versatile author. Of his several

stories, each has opened up a new vista in the field of

Science Fiction, and he is a thoroughbred in each endeavor.

If you want to be convinced, read the opening chapters of

"Manape The Mighty," and I will wager any sum you won't lay

down the story until you've read every word.

As a matter of fact, all the stories are good. And the bill

for next month appears to be exceptionally unusual. It is

very evident that you are on the road to perfection. Smooth

cut edges, the acquisition of the greatest of artists, Paul,

all point to the accelerating progress Astounding Stories is

achieving.

We Readers are frequently asked as to how we would run the

magazine if we were Editors. Well, here is my conception of

the ideal magazine:

Smooth paper, no advertisements whatsoever, the interior

illustrations done by an artist with the talent of a Paul

and a Wesso combined, and made in water colors, too. Then I

would only have such renowned Authors as Burroughs, MacIsaac

and a few others. I suppose that's the eternal dream of the

modern Editor, but who can say that you, Mr. Bates, won't

evolve Astounding Stories in the same manner. At any rate,

there's a goal to aim for.--Mortimer Weisinger, 266 Van

Cortlandt Ave., Bronx, N. Y.

_Guilty_

Dear Editor:

You are hereby summoned to appear in Court on attempt of

murder. Following are the charges: Stopping my heart from

beating when I saw the smooth edges in Astounding Stories,

and making my heart miss five beats when I saw "The

Earthman's Burden" illustrated by Paul!

I now think Astounding Stories has reached its highest peak.

Arthur J. Burks' story was a wow. I hope he works on a story

as he said he would in "The Readers' Corner" if he gets

enough requests.

And Charles Willard Diffin! Here's a writer for you. I think

the first story he ever wrote was published in Astounding

Stories. Don't lose him. His "Holocaust" is his best, with

the probable exception of "The Power and the Glory." I don't

think the last mentioned ever got enough praise. I expect to

see it reprinted some day in The Golden Book Magazine. It's

distinctly smooth paper style.

And of course Sewell Peaslee Wright's "John Hanson" stories

are top-notchers.

And Ray Cummings. Must we mention his story? We all know

what to expect when we read one of his stories. I hope you

have another serial by him soon.

I'm sure you'll be deluged with letters because of the even

edges and the illustrations by Paul (who should draw at

least two in every issue), but I hope you'll print my

letter, because I never had a letter of mine in print, and

want to get a thrill seeing this published.--Anthony

Caserta, 4575 Park Ave., New York, N. Y.

"_Very Pretty Problems Here_"

Dear Editor:

The letters by P. Schuyler, J. N. Mosleh, and Jackson Gee in

the last number sure do raise some very neat possibilities

in Science. Anent travel in time, just what would you, Mr.

Schuyler, expect to see if "John Doe" at 40 years (1931)

went back to 1892 and met "John Doe" of that date on Main

Street of his old home town? I suspect that two bodies

cannot simultaneously contain the same ego, constant-entity,

personality, or soul.

Which brings me to Mr. Mosleh, to ask: Just how is the

self-realizant ego, which is conscious that "I am I"

unchangingly for life, in any sense a derivative of the

unstable, rapidly changing body?

Mr. Burks and Mr. Lee elucidate a very pretty little problem

on the same lines. The cranial transplantation and the

"atomic patterns" are admittedly scientifically and

reasonably possible. But there is a real point of doubt:

Would the personality accompany the brain in

transplantation? True, the brain is the control room; but--?

And would the "atomic patterns," perfectly as they could

duplicate a body, which is unstable by nature, work on the

essentially stable ego (relatively) with its inherent

capacity for continuity?

If not, would not the synthetic "Extra Man" be a human being

minus personality? Some very pretty problems here. I'd much

like to see a story along the lines of item 3 in Mr. Burks'

letter.--L. Partridge, Box 84, Cornish, Me.

_What Price Smoothness?_

Dear Editor:

I have just finished the June issue of Astounding Stories.

The cover was excellent, as were all the illustrations,

except perhaps Manape's arms should have been a little

larger.

I see that the edges of the paper are now smooth, but still

the leaves stick out beyond one another, so what good does

that do?

"Manape the Mighty," by Arthur J. Burks, was superb,

gripping. I suppose a lot of Readers will rise violently

against the love interest, but, I ask you, just where would

this particular story be without the romance in it? This

particular story, you understand; not every story.

"Holocaust," by Charles Willard Diffin, was next best with

"The Man from 2071" a close second.

"The Earthman's Burden" was at least entertaining, which

this installment of "The Exile of Time" was not.--Robert

Baldwin, 359 Hazel Ave., Highland Park, Ill.

_Time Trouble Answers Wanted_

Dear Editor:

I have read your magazine for nearly two years, but this is

my first letter to the "Corner." The first and second

installments of Ray Cummings' "Exile of Time" prompted me to

write this. There is a story you can well be proud of. I

should like to obtain it in book form. Mr. Cummings is a

wonder. I have read many time stories, but his is at the top

of my list.

If there is any other "time" fan in A. S.'s "Readers'

Corner" I should like to have a letter discussion on it with

him. None of my acquaintances care a whoop about that type

of story, so I have to thrash out all my problems by myself.

There are some questions I would like to ask about "The

Exile of Time."

1--In the event of the appearance of the time-traveling

cage, the story ran, to use Ray's own words: "Suddenly

before me there was a white ghost. A shape. A wraith of

something which a moment before had not been there. The

shape was like a mist. Then in a second or two it was

solid."

Why should the cage appear as a mist at first? If there is

any amount of time separating two things, those two things

are invisible to each other, are they not? Any amount of

time would include a second, and even a millionth part of a

second. In that case, the cage should suddenly appear in the

twinkling of an eye, with no trace of a blur.

2--Supposing I were standing at a spot five feet from a

time-traveling vehicle. The latter would be traveling

through time at 3 P. M., while I am at 2 P. M.--an hour's

difference between us. It would be invisible to me then, but

an hour later when I would be at 3 P. M. and the machine at

4 P. M., then I would see it as it appeared at 3 P. M.

Whatever movement it would make in space, I would not see

until an hour later. Is that right? Then is it not possible

that each individual is existing in a different time realm?

And we see them, or I see the other fellow as he appeared

when my time caught up with his? I had better quit before I

get hooted off the stage.

3--If a man invented a time-traveler and went back to the

year of the beginning of the World War, knowing all he has

read in history, could he not take steps to prevent a war

that has already happened? Or would that power be denied

him? Somewhere in the story is said that the past cannot be

changed, and that any effort to do so would be useless. In

my belief, no matter where or when a man goes into the past,

if he appears in a year or day that has already gone by, he

is changing the past. Then there should be no room for

doubt: time-travelling is impossible. It never will be done

(An Astounding Stories fan should be kicked for using the

word "impossible"!).

Let's have more good thought-provoking time tales. And get

lots of stories from Cummings--he's a wow. I sure would like

to spend an evening at a campfire with him.--Allen Spoolman,

613--4th Avenue, W., Ashland, Wisc.

"_Eh, What?_"

Dear Editor:

Just got my June issue of our good mag, Astounding Stories,

and I think that it is great. One thing you should do,

however, is have a more mechanical cover design.

In regard to Miss Gertrude Hemkin's letter in the June issue

of A. S., let me say that I just wonder what she would like

to expect in our "The Readers' Corner" if she does not like

to hear what others think of our Astounding Stories. Maybe

she would like to read about checker debates or the like.

Eh, what?

If Rex Wertz of Oregon, who is now located somewhere in Los

Angeles, will drop me a line, perhaps we can become

acquainted as he suggested.--Edward Anderson, 123 Hollister

Ave., Ocean Park, Cal.

_Hope He Does_

Dear Editor:

I have never been interested before in a magazine enough to

write to their departments, like "The Readers' Corner," and

I have read plenty of magazines.

"Beyond the Vanishing Point" stands head and shoulders above

any story I have ever read. I have only one thing to say

about your other stories: they are almost as good as the one

I just mentioned.

I have a few words to say about these people who throw

brickbats at every story they read. I wouldn't be surprised

if they just read the story so they could find something

wrong with it. There's one in particular who wrote a few

lines in the June issue about your taking the word "science"

off the front page, saying there was no science in the

magazine, anyway. What does the title say? Well that's what

90% of the Readers want, anyway. I hope that chap reads

this.

Well, I'll sign off. Here is a little toast to the magazine:

"Long may it live."--Earl Rogers, 409--16th St., Galveston,

Tex.

_Two, Better Than One?_

Dear Editor:

The two outstanding stories in the May issue of A. S. were

"The Death Cloud," by Nat Schachner and Arthur L. Zagat, and

"Dark Moon," by Charles W. Diffin. Common reasoning tells me

that the heads of two Science Fiction writers can formulate

a story better than one. I couldn't help admire Mr.

Schachner and Mr. Zagat when I read their story because of

the cleverness shown in it.

Please give us a story by them every month.--Ray Y. Tilford,

Rockport, Ky.

"_And Here I Am_"

Dear Editor:

It's about time for me to concede that your or "our"

magazine is the best I have read. Ten issues have come into

my hands and I am perfectly well satisfied with the line of

fiction that you publish. I have read about fifty different

magazines on the market, and I am sure that Astounding

Stories is the best of them all. I have followed the

magazine for seven months and that is the best amount of

reading any magazine can boast for me. In your case, if the

magazine lasts seventy years, you can be sure that I will

read it for that period of time (provided I live that long).

I notice that several brickbats have come into your hands

and that you have printed them. Well, that shows

sportsmanship on your part. I would suggest to those who are

not satisfied with Astounding Stories to duck their head in

a pail of water and pull it out after a period of ten

minutes. Those who criticize the stories because of the lack

of science have no idea what it takes to write a story.

Please be willing to concede the Author the right of way. He

is giving his theories and not yours. However, in some cases

where the truth is an established fact, I can see where the

Readers may present a justified argument. But they should

remember that we are not all perfect and that mistakes are

made by all. It is not fair to criticize an Author by

denouncing him.

I don't favor reprints at all, but I can stay with the

majority if they do. It is a foregone conclusion that you

can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can't

fool all of the people all the time. In this case substitute

the word "please" in the saying for "fool."

I am at present reading Charles W. Diffin's novel "The

Pirate Planet." It is one of the best interplanetary novels

that I have ever read. Give us some more of Diffin; he has

the goods. I must say that you have an immensely long list

of popular authors, and it must cost quite a little amount

of money to maintain them.

Keep the size of the magazine as it is now; it fits

conveniently into my bookcase, and I believe many of your

Readers will say the same.

Now some of my favorite stories. "The Ape-Men Of Xlotli" was

one of the best stories that I have read in years. Give us

some more along this line. It offers rest after one has just

finished reading an interplanetary novel.

"Monsters of Moyen" was another story that I greatly

enjoyed. Very few people believe that the world shall ever

have a conqueror again, and I am one of them; but it is

interesting to see if there ever will be a conqueror and

what means he shall employ to get that title.

"Brigands of the Moon" was the worst story I read in your

magazine. That must have been Mr. Cummings' off story. But

he certainly has come back fine through his later stories.

"The Tentacles from Below" was another great masterpiece.

Anthony Gilmore's tale was the first that I have read of

that author, and I will be delighted to see more.

Funny how I developed into a Reader of Science Fiction. I

exhausted all other fields of reading, and having nothing

else to read I delved into a science magazine and here I

am.--Michael Racano, 51 Brookwood St., East Orange, N. J.

_Turns to It First_

Dear Editor:

The June issue of Astounding Stories can't be beat. What an

issue! As it seems to be the usual thing, I'll start at the

front and go to the back.

The cover: very colorful: another proof of Wesso's talent.

And speaking of artists, I was very pleasantly surprised at

the unexpected illustration by Paul. I certainly hope you

can get him, if not for cover pictures, at least for the

inside illustrations. (Too bad you are modest about printing

complimentary letters, for I mean this to be all roses, no

brickbats.)

"The Man from 2071"--another good story of "John Hanson's."

"Manape the Mighty," although somewhat like the Tarzan

series, is a wonderfully fine story. "Holocaust"--good. "The

Earthman's Burden," as all of Starzl's, was exceptionally

good. "The Exile of Time"--getting better every issue.

"The Readers' Corner" as usual was one of the most

interesting parts of the magazine. I always turn to it

first, for I know I will have an enjoyable time reading

every letter. And, by the way, the significance of "Manape"

just came to me. Don't know why I didn't see it

before.--Linus Hogenmiller, 502 N. Washington St.,

Farmington, Mo.

_Likes the "Joke"_

Dear Editor:

Although I have read only two issues of Astounding Stories,

I feel the urge to write a line. The June number was better

than the May issue. Arthur J. Burks' story, "Manape the

Mighty," was excellent, though I am not so strong for the

idea of having Barter escape the apes and carry on his

experiments as suggested by the Author. It would be against

common sense to have the apes allow him to make a getaway.

The prize winner in the May issue was "Dark Moon." There

might be a sequel to that, and I'd like to see it.

I like a little variety in a magazine. The Readers who say

they do not care for stories scientifically impossible may

be right; in that case "The Exile of Time" is the greatest

joke ever written--yet I like it immensely. One thing that

is impossible is the destruction of matter. It can be broken

up, or condensed as in "When Caverns Yawned," but not

destroyed completely.

Mr. W. H. Flowers evidently has a grudge against the fair

sex. The love interest is not necessary in short stories,

it's true; but what kind of a long novel would it be if the

hero had no incentive, nothing to risk his life for, except

a possible word of praise from the scientific world?

No matter how much a man loves his work it is my opinion

that he would not die for the purpose of proving his point.

Not being able to take a hint, the knockers still appear to

mar an otherwise perfect day--this time in the person of

Harry Pancoast. If Astounding Stories ever gets so bad that

not even one story in it is of interest to me--I'll just

drop out of the waiting line--and keep my mouth

closed.--Richard Waite, 8 South Ave., Warsaw, N. Y.

_Never Noticed That_

Dear Editor:

Just bought my latest copy of Astounding Stories, and what

an edition! First, the cover (Wesso has all others beat by a

mile). Then, the stories. Well, take "Manape the Mighty": it

is one of the best Science Fiction stories I have ever read.

"The Exile of Time" was great.

Have you ever noticed that almost every critic of Science

Fiction is either a teacher or a female? Jim Nicholson and I

certainly know that.--Billy Roche, Sec. Interplanetary Dept.

of the B. S. B., 101 St. Elmo, San Francisco, Cal.

_Sunflowers for All_

Dear Editor:

Miracles do happen! I was never so thoroughly astounded in

all my life as when I received the great June issue of "our"

magazine with _straight_ edges! Thank you and all concerned

for publishing "our" magazine sans rough edges. The smooth

edges ought to cut the reading time of Astounding Stories

down to an hour and forty-five minutes as we always used to

waste a lot of time fumbling about with the pages.

But if I was astounded at the long awaited straight edges, I

was still more amazed at the great innovation of an

illustration by Paul! Let's have more and more of his

remarkable drawings. Astounding Stories is truly great now

with its fine Editor, splendid Authors, excellent stories,

worthy illustrations, essential "Readers' Corner," Paul

(Ah!) and good binding! Yes! You heard right! I said good

binding! Of course it makes amusing material to write about

the binding and remark that it comes off after once handling

it, or that the paper is soon worn to shreds, but such

matters shouldn't be honestly believed. I have every issue

of Astounding Stories (eighteen great numbers!) and each and

every issue is as good as new. I have never had any trouble

with the covers departing from the rest of the magazine or

the pages becoming moldy.

Sewell Peaslee Wright's "The Man from 2071" is just perfect.

I enjoy nothing more than one of his realistic stories of

Commander John Hanson. We want more! Arthur J. Burks'

novelette, "Manape the Mighty," was clever. I had a

premonition that I wouldn't like this story, and in fact

told a friend so. It just goes to prove that hunches can be

wrong. Charles Willard Diffin should be proud of his

"Holocaust." I'm sure that most Readers enjoyed it as much

as I did. Of course, Starzl's "The Earthman's Burden" was a

peach. His stories of other planets are always weird,

bizarre, and yet they seem to ring true. That is the magic

of R. F. Starzl! Paul illustrated it in his own

unapproachable style. "The Exile of Time," as everyone

agrees, is Cummings' best. I am waiting for its thrilling

conclusion.

I am one who would like Astounding Stories to be a large

size magazine, but it can easily be seen that everyone can't

be pleased. If you'll just leave it the way it is--i. e.,

straight edges, illustrations by Paul, same authors and same

excellent Editor--I'll be satisfied.--Forrest J. Ackerman,

530 Staples Ave., San Francisco, Cal.

"_Great Relief_"

Dear Editor:

The story, "Manape the Mighty," by Arthur J. Burks, was by

far one of the most thrilling and educational stories that

ever appeared in Astounding Stories. Of course, others will

disagree, but an Author cannot please all. It is of great

relief to change from the monotonous every day kind of

stories that appear in Collier's, Liberty and The Saturday

Evening Post to the refreshing and soothing "impossible"

type of A. S.

Ever since the January issue, I've been an ardent pursuer of

Astounding Stories. To me it is even more astounding that I

seem to like it more and more each succeeding issue. I find

it, undoubtedly, the best magazine of its type. I've tried

others of similar type, but it seems as if my mind couldn't

grasp the knack of their stories, which were either boresome

with scientific and technical explanations, or, as one might

say, "not a darn thing to them."

R. F. Starzl is a wonderful author. Ray Cummings, Sewell

Peaslee Wright, Charles Willard Diffin, Captain S. P. Meek,

Edmond Hamilton, F. V. W. Mason and Murray Leinster are

excellent.

There is one thing that I'd like to see in Astounding

Stories, and I'm sure many of the Readers would, too. It is

always my habit to read while eating. To finish the story in

time, I pick the shortest one. Sad to say, Astounding has

rather long stories. How about an occasional short story?

I'm sure your readers will approve. They would go over with

a bang!--P. Nikolaioff, 4325 S. Seeley Ave., Chicago, Ill.

_Sometimes Gets Mad_

Dear Editor:

Although I have been an interested reader of Astounding

Stories since its inception, this is the first time I have

written. Astounding Stories have been so good lately that I

just had to write and compliment you on your good work.

There are, however, some criticisms I have to make. The

first is: I think Mr. W. H. Flowers of Pittsburgh, Pa, is

right when he says you sometimes have too much love in some

of your stories. The second is, I think it would be a good

thing to put notes at the end of a page to explain some of

the terms for the Readers who read mostly for the science

part. That is what I do, and I get mad when I read something

that does not give me the inside dope on it. Outside of that

I think Astounding Stories can't be beat.

One more thing before I close. Keep Capt. S. P. Meek on your

staff or I will stop reading Astounding Stories, as much as

I would hate to do that. I think he is your best author by a

long shot.--Wilson Adams, Seat Pleasant, Md.

_From a "Female Woman"_

Dear Editor:

The comment of Jim Nicholson in the June issue that it is

only "the females" who consider him "cracked" for reading

Science Fiction, and only women who do not care for science

in the stories, moves me to break into "The Readers' Corner"

for the first time.

I happen to be a "female woman," and it is the men in our

family and circle of friends who laugh at me for buying

every Science Fiction magazine and book that I can find.

They call them my "nutty magazines." I have to admit that I

do not understand much of the scientific explanation, since

my mind does not run along mathematical or scientific lines,

but I do not mind having that in stories, for those who do

care for it and can understand it, as I can simply skip over

it, taking what I can grasp and letting the rest go. It

doesn't spoil the story for me.

I have no criticism, constructive or otherwise, to make. I

enjoy the stories with some romance involved, and enjoy

those without equally well. My own preference would be that

you continue using rough paper and your present mechanical

construction, so that more money will be available to pay

for the stories. Few of us keep the magazines anyway, so

there isn't so much need for expensive paper. I like

interplanetary stories best, I think; but I was intensely

interested in "Beyond the Vanishing Point," "Manape the

Mighty" and "Holocaust." All different, but all very good. I

can't remember one I did not like.

My work requires much study and concentration. I have

recommended to several men who do similar mental work that

they follow my plan of securing delightful relaxation by

losing themselves in another world through Science Fiction

magazines. Most of them find it as restful as I

do.--Berenice M. Harrison, Angola, Ind.

_Likes R. F. Starzl_

Dear Editor:

It has been my purpose to write to you before, but due to an

extraordinary amount of detail work which I have had to do,

I have been unable to.

I have read your marvelous magazine ever since the first

issue came into my hands, and I can honestly say that there

is no other book on the market which has held my attention

as long as yours has. I congratulate you on your very

interesting magazine.

Arthur J. Burks, in his latest story, has conceived an

entirely new type of story, and I, for one, think it very

interesting. Plenty of science for the laymen and enough

interest for the others.

I liked R. F. Starzl's story, "The Earthman's Burden," very

much, and I hope you will have more by this author soon. His

stories are perfect. Starzl is a deep thinker, and I am

right here to say that there is a man who understands men

and men's longings and inhibitions.--A. W. Gowing, 17

Pasadena St., Springfield, Mass.

"_The Readers' Corner_"

All readers are extended a sincere and cordial invitation to "come

over in 'The Readers' Corner'" and join in our monthly discussion of

stories, authors, scientific principles and possibilities--everything

that's of common interest in connection with our Astounding Stories.

Although from time to time the Editor may make a comment or so, this

is a department primarily for Readers, and we want you to make full

use of it. Likes, dislikes, criticisms, explanations, roses,

brickbats, suggestions--everything's welcome here; so "come over in

'The Readers' Corner'" and discuss it with all of us!

_The Editor._

* * * * *

A LIVING, DISEMBODIED HEART

A disembodied heart, not only still steadily beating but writing, as

it throbbed, a permanent, minutely precise record of its pulsations,

was exhibited recently at Princeton in a demonstration of the newest

instrument developed by science for the advancement of medicine and

psychology.

The device, invented by A. L. Loomis of Tuxedo Park, N. Y., and

perfected in collaboration with Dr. Edmund N. Harvey, professor of

psychology at Princeton University, is called the Loomis chronograph.

It will facilitate study of the phenomena of heart action and the

effect of drugs on that vital organ. The chronograph opens the way to

the accurate measuring and recording of the speed and variation of

human heart beats over long periods, even during the sleeping hours of

the subject, which is expected to prove of great value to

physiologists and criminologists.

The heart of the recent demonstration was that of a turtle, removed

from the reptile while alive, freed of all extraneous tissue and

suspended in a physiological salt solution exactly duplicating body

conditions. In this state the organ continues to beat for thirty-six

hours, at the same time setting down, by means of the chronograph, a

graphic history of the approximately 72,000 pulsations it makes in

that time. With each beat the tiny organism pulled down a little lever

that dipped a fine filament into a drop of mercury and made a contact

that transmitted an electric impulse to the chronograph. There it was

translated to a fraction of a second into a record inked on a chart.

Introduction into the solution of nicotine--one part in 10,000--and of

adrenalin--one part in a billion--was immediately noted by a marked

retarding of the heart tempo in the first case and swift acceleration

in the second.

Use of the chronograph to study the action of any heart that can be

removed from the living body is possible, the scientist said, adding

that a comparatively simple adjustment will make possible recording of

the human heart by a device applied to the chest.

Application of the instrument to tests of human nerve reactions and to

psychological tests is forecast.

* * * * *

End of Project Gutenberg's Astounding Stories, August, 1931, by Various