Читать книгу A Million Years to Conquer - Henry Kuttner - Страница 7

Table of Contents

New Year's Day, 1941, was momentous for Stephen Court. Most of December, 1940, he had spent in his laboratories, engrossed with a task the nature of which he explained to no one. The great Wisconsin mansion, where he lived with his staff, had been metamorphosed into a fortress of science, though from the outside it appeared to be merely an antique, dilapidated structure. But nearby villagers viewed with suspicion the activity around Stephen Court's home.

The local post-office was deluged with letters and packages. At all hours automobiles arrived, carrying cryptic burdens for Court.

Slyly the villagers questioned Sammy, for he often wandered into the combination store and post-office, to sit by the stove and puff great, reeking fumes from his battered pipe. Sammy had not changed much with the years. His hair had turned white, but there were only a few more creases in his brown face. Since moving to Wisconsin, Stephen had relaxed the anti-liquor restriction, but Sammy had learned the value of moderation.

"What's going on up at your place?" the storekeeper asked him, proffering a bottle.

Sammy drank two measured gulps and wiped his lips.

"The Lord only knows," he sighed. "It's way beyond me. Stevie's a swell boy, though. You can bet on that."

"Yeah!" retorted somebody, with an angry snort. "He's a cold-blooded fish, you mean. He ain't human. He's got ice-water in his veins. Comes and goes without so much as a howdy-do."

"He's thinking," Sammy defended sturdily. "Got a lot on his mind these days, Stevie has. He gets about two hours' sleep a night."

"But what's he doin'?"

"I don't know," admitted Sammy. "Inventing something, maybe."

"More than likely he'll blow us all up one of these fine days," grunted the storekeeper. The loungers nodded in agreement. "Here's the train coming in. Hear it?"

Sammy settled himself more comfortably. "There ought to be a package for Stevie, then."

There was. The old man took the parcel and left the station. He stood for a time, watching the train disappear into the distance. Its whistle sang a seductive song that aroused nostalgia in Sammy's bosom. He sighed, remembering the old days when he had been a hungry, carefree bindle-stiff. Well, he was better off now—well-fed and cared for, without any worries. But it was nice to hear a train whistle once in a while.

He climbed into the roadster and zoomed off toward the mansion. Ten minutes later he let himself into the hall, to be met by an anxious-eyed girl in a white uniform.

"Did it come?" she asked.

"Sure, Marion. Here it is."

He gave her the parcel. Holding it tightly, she turned and hurried away.

Since Marion Barton's arrival three years ago, she had become a fixture in the house. She had been hired, at first, as a temporary laboratory assistant, during the absence of the regular one. But she had interested young Court, who had seen surprising capabilities in her.

The fact that Marion was altogether lovely—slim, brown-eyed, dark-haired, with a peach complexion and remarkably kissable lips—meant nothing at all to Court. He merely catalogued her as a perfect physical specimen, thoroughly healthy, and concentrated on the more interesting occupation of investigating her mind. What he found there pleased him.

"She's intelligent," he told Sammy, "and she is meticulously careful. I've never seen her make a mistake. She's such a perfect assistant for me that we work in complete harmony. The girl seems to know exactly what I want, whether to hand me a scalpel or a lens, and she's completely unemotional. I shall keep her on, Sammy, and train her."

"Uh-huh," said the old man, nodding wisely. "She does all that, and she's completely unemotional, eh? Well, maybe so. Sure she ain't in love with you, Stevie?"

"Rot!" Court snapped, but it made him think it was necessary to warn Marion. "I'll pay you well," he explained to her, "and give you an invaluable training. But I have no time for emotional unbalance. I cannot afford distractions. Do you understand me?"

"Well," Marion observed with desperate levity, "I'll wear horn-rimmed glasses if you want, and hoop-skirts if my legs distract you."

"Not at all. I merely mean that there must be no question of any—well, infatuation."

Marion was silent for a moment, though her eyes sparkled dangerously.

"All right," she said quietly. "I won't fall in love with you, Mr. Court. Is that satisfactory?"

"Quite," Court said.

He turned away, obviously dismissing the subject, while Marion glared at his retreating back.

She was remembering this scene now as she went into Court's laboratory. He was bent over a table, one eye to a microscope, his lips tensely pursed. Marion waited till he had finished his count. He straightened and saw her.

"Got it?" he asked calmly. "Good."

Court ripped open the package and drew out a small, leather-bound notebook. Hastily he flipped through the pages. His strong, tanned face darkened.

"Wait a minute, Marion," he called as the girl moved to leave. "I want to talk to you."

"Yes?"

"Er—this is New Year's Eve, I know. Had you planned on doing anything tonight?"

Marion's brown eyes widened. She stared at him in amazement. Was he trying to date her?

"Why, I did plan on—"

"I should appreciate it," he said, without a trace of embarrassment, "if you would stay and help me with some research tonight. I regret having to say this, but it's rather important. I want to verify certain tests."

"I'll stay," Marion assented briefly, but she flushed.

"Good. Stain these slides, please."

For several hours the two worked in silence, Court engrossed with his microscope, the girl busy dying the samples. Finally Court exhausted a small tank and conducted experiments in the vacuum that he had created.

Time dragged on till the huge old house was utterly still. The chill of a Wisconsin winter blanketed it, making frost patterns on the window panes. Inside the room it was warm enough, though snow lay thickly on the ground outside.

Presently Marion slipped out of the room, and returned bearing a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She set the tray on a table and glanced at Court. Standing by a window, he was idly smoking a cigarette.

"Mr. Court—"

"What is it?" he asked, without looking around. His face was upturned to the quiet night outside as he spoke again, not waiting for her answer. "Come here."

Marion obeyed. She was astonished to see that his face was drawn and haggard, actually gray around the lips. But his eyes were feverishly bright.

"Up there," he said, pointing. "Do you see anything?"

The cold stars glittered frostily in an abyss of empty black. Some icy breath of the unknown seemed to blow down from the frigid, airless seas between the planets. Marion shuddered.

"I see nothing unusual," she said.

"Naturally. No one has. There's nothing visible, and yet—" Wearily he rubbed his forehead. "It's impossible that my experiments have lied."

"Drink some coffee," Marion urged.

Court followed her to the table and sat down. As she poured the steaming liquid, his somber eyes dwelt on her face.

"Are you game for an airplane trip into Canada?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes. When?"

"As soon as I can arrange it. There's a man I must see, a—a patient." He gulped down untasted coffee and blinked tiredly.

"You should get at least a little sleep."

"Not yet. I don't know—" He came to a sudden decision. "Marion, you don't know anything about this experiment I'm working on. No one knows about it yet, except me. All this data I've been collecting lately has been for a purpose. You haven't any idea what that purpose is, have you?"

"No, I haven't."

"Well," Court declared, with curious calm, "it's simply this—I have reason to believe that the Earth is going to be destroyed. Wait a minute!" he cried hastily. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned this till I was absolutely certain. But I want to talk to someone."

His unrealized loneliness showed naked for an unguarded second on his face. He caught himself, and was once more impassive.

"The Earth is going to face a plague that will destroy civilization. Of that, at least, I am certain."

"A plague!" she breathed.

"I call it that, for lack of a better term. Every being on this planet will be affected by it."

Marion looked at him sharply. Her lovely eyes narrowed.

"Affected? Don't you mean destroyed?"

Court pushed back his chair and rose.

"No," he whispered, "I don't." His grave lips went hard. "Come here, Marion. Look at this."

He strode to a safe in the wall, opened it, and withdrew a small oblong box of lead. Set in one face was a round, transparent disc.

"Look through the lens," he commanded. "Don't get too close to that thing, though."

Marion obeyed. Through the tiny pane, she could see within the box a shining lump of matter, no larger than the nail of her thumb.

"It's phosphorescent," she said. "What is it—an ore?"

"A specimen of flesh taken from the thigh of a man named Pierre Locicault, a French-Canadian."

"Flesh?" The girl peered again at the object. "Was he exposed to radium?"

Court replaced the box in the safe.

"No, nothing like that. Locicault lived in a little settlement in a valley in the wilderness. A month ago he staggered into the nearest town, emaciated and nearly dead. His story was just about unbelievable. He claimed that one day a heavy fog—abnormally heavy—blanketed his valley, and affected the inhabitants peculiarly. They became incredibly hungry, ate enormous meals. Their skin became hot to the point of high fever. And they grew so old that most of them died. Locicault went for help, but nobody recognized him when he arrived in town. He looked thirty years older. What does that suggest to you, Marion?"

"Increased metabolism," she said unhesitatingly.

"Exactly. A rescue party was sent out. They found the corpses of a dozen old men and women in the valley, but no sign of what had killed them. There was no sign of a fog, nor of anything dangerous. Meanwhile, Locicault was luckily put into an isolation ward in the hospital. He ate tremendously. It was noticed that his skin emitted radiation. In the dark, his body actually shone."

Court lit a cigarette for a few abstracted puffs before continuing.

"His nurse caught the contagion," he said then. "She killed herself. Locicault is kept in utter isolation now, for there isn't a doctor or a nurse who dares get near him. When Dr. Granger wired me, I suggested lead insulation, so he could obtain this specimen for me to study. I want to see Locicault and make further experiments upon him."

Marion frowned. "You have other evidence, of course?"

"Naturally. Similar cases have been reported to me. This isn't anything new. Do you remember, about seven years ago, a newspaper story about a valley in France where the inhabitants were killed by a heavy fog? It was attributed to poison gas. Do you remember that West Indian island where life was wiped out overnight, without any explanation at all? People talked about volcanic gas. My files are full of apparently meaningless items like that. Freaks and sports born to animals and humans. So-called ghost stories about apparitions that shone in the dark. There are dozens of other examples."

The girl shuddered as she thought of the tag of flesh she had seen.

"And do you think this is the beginning of a plague?"

"My graphs and charts show an upward swing. These occurrences happen more frequently as time goes on. Whatever causes them is growing more powerful."

"But what could cause such a thing?" the girl asked. "No virus could—"

"Not a virus. Filterable or not, they could not cause cellular radioactivity. This menace—this unknown X—is certainly not a virus. I don't know its nature, nor where it comes from. Till I know those factors, I can do nothing."

"Could it be a weapon of war?" Marion suggested.

"You mean—Well, scarcely! Once it's started, it's completely uncontrollable. X isn't man-made, for its record goes back too far for chemistry. It's a natural phenomenon, and our only clue is fog."

"A gas?"

Court nodded, and his eyes grew distant with thought.

"Where does it come from. Under the Earth? That's possible, of course, but hardly any of these cases have occurred in volcanic country. I think X comes from the interstellar void."

Marion's eyes widened in horrified realization.

"That's why you've been getting those observatory reports! Photographs and spectra."

Court grunted impatiently. "They showed nothing, and that's what I can't understand."

"Maybe the conditions aren't right," Marion suggested. "Phosphorescence isn't visible in daylight. Perhaps X isn't visible in space."

Court didn't move, but his fingers broke his cigarette in two.

"What was that?" he demanded, startled.

Before the girl could reply, he whistled sharply and turned to the window.

"Of course. A catalyst! Some element in our atmosphere makes X visible, and perhaps dangerous as well. In outer space it can't be seen, but when it comes in contact with some element in the air—I think you've got it, Marion!"

He stared grimly at the dark sky.

"Up there, yet it's invisible. Perhaps a cosmically huge cloud of it is drifting eternally through space. We're probably on the outer fringes, so we've touched only a few tiny, scattered wisps. When Earth plunges into the main body—"

Court lifted a clenched fist, furious because he was such a tiny, insignificant figure against the mighty concourse of the starry void.

"An element so alien that we can scarcely conceive of it! We can realize it exists only by seeing its effects on Earth. What is it? What physical laws govern that frightful matter? Or is it matter, as we know it?" He turned suddenly, his eyes hard and determined. "We're leaving for Canada. Charter a plane. I'll pack the equipment I will need."

Marion paused at the door.

"Mr. Court—" she began, and hesitated.

"Well?"

Somehow, though, she could find no words. In her mind was the picture of Court at the window, challenging the Universe. A champion of mankind, he had made a magnificent gesture.

But then Marion saw his cold, grim eyes. Reading the expression in them, her face whitened as she realized suddenly that Court cared nothing at all for mankind. His motives were passionlessly selfish.

He was not a champion. He was a scientist, cold, calculating, egocentric, challenging an opponent that threatened his existence.

Whatever she had meant to say died in her throat, just as something died in her heart. She went out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her.