Читать книгу The Space Warp - John Russell Fearn - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

THE FAULT IN SPACE

For a single star suddenly to blaze from tenth to first magnitude in a matter of hours is by no means uncommon, and when it happened on the night of June 9th, no astronomer thought very much of the occurrence. Just routine. BZ/94 had probably become a nova, was recorded as such on the star-plates and spectroheliographs, and that was that.

But on the next night it happened again—and this time as many as three stars were involved. Unusual, yes, but nothing to become alarmed about. Once again astronomers faithfully logged the occurrence and continued with routine observations, the guardians of the world against the unexpected from space, unsung heroes as important to the safety of Earth as once had been the lighthouse keeper to shipping.

Dr. Gray, chief astronomer of the Mount Wilson Observatory in California, was one of the many scientists who had witnessed this strange flaring up of stars in the vast depths of space, and he had had an unique view of the happening with the great reflector with which the observa­tory was equipped. Certainly he did not expect that June 11th would again see strange behaviour amongst the stars—but it happened!

He was in the midst of calculations essential to his pro­fession, and the electric clock on the polished wall indicated three a.m. when an excited junior astronomer tapped hastily and entered the doyen’s retreat. He came hurrying over to the chief’s desk with manifest urgency. “Dr. Gray, if you can spare a moment? I just can’t make head or tail of what’s happening.”

“Happening?” Gray looked up in surprise.

“Tremendous increase in the brightness of the stars, sir. You know it happened last night, and the night before that, but this time—!” and the assistant stopped half in awe

With a frown Gray rose hurriedly to his feet and pre­ceded the younger man into the main observatory. All the lights were dimmed to a mere glow and a solitary spot cast upon the small writing desk beside the eyepiece of the mammoth instrument. Dr. Gray seated himself and then controlled the gasp of surprise that almost escaped him. Straight ahead of him, in the reflector’s circular field, were Sagittarius, Hercules, and the myriad hosts of the con­stellations, and every star was of a brilliance that stung the eye.

Gray reached out and snapped a switch. Immediately a blue-tinted shield slid into the high-magnification eyepiece and this in itself was the first hint of the unusual. Never in astronomical history had the stars been so brilliant that they could not be studied with the unprotected eye.

Antares, Cepheus, Hercules—all of them flaming and scintillating with a brilliance never before seen by man.

Nor was it a wavering brightness but an intense and steady glare. The remoter constellations, riding far out into the Milky Way, were gleaming in supreme splendour. In fact the whole area within a peculiar V-shaped wedge was alive with uncanny brightness.

“Extraordinary,” Dr. Gray muttered, and the remark covered his emotions completely. He was too experienced a man to show how startled he really was. Pondering, he rose from the reflector-seat and wandered to the outer door of the dome, the assistant astronomer padding softly behind him. They stepped together onto the balcony surrounding the dome and gazed at the portion of the sky towards which the telescope was trained.

There was no doubt about it. Something was wrong up there! In the clear Californian air, rendered even clearer at this height on the mountain range, the stars in one parti­cular area were infinitely more brilliant even than Sirius, occupying a different quarter of the heavens. It was as though sheer void existed up in that one section, and air—with its masking effect—everywhere else. Which, of course, was an impossibility.

“What do you make of it, sir?” the assistant asked, his voice tense.

Dr. Gray did not answer immediately. He looked down towards sleeping Los Angeles, then out into the remoter darkness where lay the night. Then once more he glanced towards the sky. Hands in his pockets he walked slowly back into the observatory and the assistant closed the door behind them.

“I never saw anything quite like this,” Gray admitted at length, switching on the main lights to reveal his grimly puzzled features. “Of course, stars do blaze up mysteriously sometimes, surging rapidly from tenth to first magnitude and then dying down again—but that all the stars in one section of the sky should behave that way is astounding! Even the constellations and nebulae are not immune.”

The assistant waited for more words of wisdom, but none came. Abruptly making up his mind, Dr. Gray hurried from the main observatory into the radio-television depart­ment. In a few minutes he had established contact with other observatories throughout the darkened hemisphere of Earth and notes were exchanged.

Not only on that night did Mount Wilson link up with Greenwich and the major observatories of every country, but for several nights afterwards. Finally the entire mass of information was sifted and pooled and a conference took place behind closed doors in an unnamed city.

“There seems to me to be no doubt about it, gentlemen,” Dr. Gray said seriously. “Earth is speeding at a million miles a minute towards an area of uncanny brightness. But what this brightness is we don’t know.”

“Correction,” responded the expert from Greenwich. “I have here the conclusions of Marsden and Yates, two of the best astrophysicists in the world. Their contention is that the increase in light is caused by a fault in space itself! Ahead

of us space is not behaving as it should. The old-time scientists used to refer to the ether of space, which they considered to be the only way in which we can explain the medium that carries light and heat vibration. A kind of universal sea in which all radiations move. Now we believe that the propagation of light-waves and other radiation is simply a property of space-time itself. In the past, small flaws in this over-all sea of space have apparently caused stars to flare up brilliantly, to die away again to normal afterwards when the flaw has corrected itself. We can none of us explain the sudden appearance of brilliant stars—but the theory of Marsden and Yates suggests that the actual fabric of space-time itself, like any other material medium, is liable to discontinuity. It can develop a warp, and from the look of things it has. A huge, terrifying warp, towards which Earth is flying nearer with every second.”

“Have—have the consequences of this phenomenon been fully weighed?” Gray asked presently.

The Greenwich astronomer gave, a grim nod. “In a matter of two weeks or so Earth will inevitably touch the outer edge of this fault in space and will then speed on into the core of the disturbance. What will happen we do not know yet, but in the two weeks left to us we can pro­bably find out.”

“Governments must be informed immediately,” declared the representative from France.

“I disagree,” interposed Sweden. “I, at least, must have tangible evidence before I dare stampede my Government with this kind of thing. Science is so little understood by the masses. One word in the wrong place can start a panic.”

So the astronomers wrangled and argued, but they finally closed the meeting with the decision to work out every possibility as near as they could and then submit their find­ings to a conference of selected delegates from every country in the world—and this was exactly what they did.

The meeting took place ten days later, in secret. No television cameras whirred, no newspaper man was admitted. Here was a matter of the utmost solemnity affect­ing not a portion of the human race, but all of it. As on the earlier occasion Dr. Gray was chairman, and he explained the situation in detail.

“And how long will it be before we reach this—this figurative flaw in the fabric of space?” questioned the American delegate.

“We have four days,” Gray answered quietly.

“Do you believe it will mean the end of the world?” asked Russia in surprise, and he was answered by his own astronomical expert.

“Not necessarily. It is not a matter of colliding with a solid body or being swung aside by some superior gravity. It is a matter of—er—conditions. The end of the world, as such, is unlikely, but the effect of this space-warp region on human beings is unpredictable.”

“We have no comparison by which to measure,” Gray explained. “It has never happened before and all our tests can show us is that heat and light will no longer obey natural law until the warp has been spanned.”

“And how long will that take?” asked Australia.

“We don’t know. There is such tremendous depth in the cosmos we just cannot accurately measure how far the flaw in space extends. Summing up the issue, gentle­men, Earth will swim into this mystery region at approxi­mately three o’clock in the afternoon of June thirtieth, four days hence. All of you here, representing your respec­tive Governments, must take the warning to the leaders and they, in turn, in the most palatable manner they can devise, must break the news to their peoples.”

“That is not difficult,” China commented, “but in return the people will ask for preventative measures. What are we to tell them to do?”

“I think that can be summed up in three words—‘Stay at home’. People must be urged not to travel unless they really must, and panic movements must be prevented at all costs. As for actual protection against this approaching mystery we have nothing to offer because we just don’t know what we’re getting into!”

* * * * * * *

So, quite unashamed of its ignorance, astronomy handed the matter over to Government. In consequence, that same night, the first hint of unexpected things to come went out over the airwaves in every conceivable tongue. In Britain the warning supplanted the normal news bulletins and tens of millions of viewers and listeners looked in. surprise towards their sets as the announcer spoke: “Attention, everyone! Attention, everywhere!”

Then a pause. The very method of giving the warning was arresting. No news bulletin, even at the start of the last war, had ever been prefaced like this. The announcer paused dramatically, then continued: “This message is transmitted as a warning, and you are asked to listen to it in all seriousness and, should you know of somebody who has not heard it, kindly repeat it to him or them. The Press will cover the details tomorrow and warnings will go out repeatedly at fifteen-minute intervals henceforth. A message from the Government states that it has been advised by the astronomical faction of the world, representing every country, that there lies ahead of us a cosmic disturbance. The nature of the disturbance is not fully known, but it is believed to be connected with the fabric of space itself, the all-surrounding medium in which our planet moves.

“At approximately three in the afternoon of June thirtieth, four days hence, our planet will swim into this mystery area in the natural course of following its orbit. When that happens it is possible that heat and light waves—and all other radiations that include radio waves—will undergo drastic changes and no longer conform to scientific law as we know it. The effect of this is unpredictable so, until the disturbance has passed—its exact duration is not known—you are advised not to travel. Stay put! For pre­caution extinguish naked light. Lay in food supplies. Do not travel! Do not travel!”

Some people understood what the announcer was talking about: the vast majority did not, and when an average man does not understand a thing he ignores it and continues to make his plans as before. Samuel Baines and his family, for instance. They had made up their minds to spend their summer holidays in Derbyshire—which was to include an exploration of the Great Peak Cavern—and no warnings about ‘staying put’ were going to stop it. In fact many holidaymakers, whose holidays coincided with the date of the supposed strange happenings, made no alteration in their plans—not from obstinacy but just because they did not understand.

In England generally the balance seemed to lie between those who were entirely indifferent and those who were secretly scared. Martin Horsley, for instance, a wealthy man and a confirmed invalid, made plans to leave immed­iately for a small hotel in the heart of Sussex. He had been there before—a lonely old-world place miles from anywhere. For some reason Martin Horsley had the mistaken idea that if he hid himself he would be safe.

Far and wide the warning reached, transmitted by the radio and television stations of every country. One of those hearing it was Woodstock J. Holmes, eminent American financier on vaca­tion in Florida, and his first thought was how he could buy himself out.

The ships at sea, the aircraft, those in outlying places of the world: every one of them was, if possible, warned of the approaching calamity and each reacted according to his or her nature.

Despite the endless repetitions of the warnings and the gathering sense of urgency that crept upon everybody as the days passed by, there were four people who did not give a hang about the stars being bright. On June 30th, towards ten in the morning, they drove out of London in a black saloon, and each one of them had the appearance of belong­ing to some high niche of society.

The two young women lounging in the back of the car were exquisitely dressed in the height of summer fashion—one blonde and the other brunette. The two men in front were also immaculate in lounge suits. The man who was not driving had his head bent as he read the morning paper intently: the other had his cold blue eyes fixed on the busy traffic ahead of him.

The two women talked occasionally to each other—the blonde in a hard-bitten style and the other in quieter tones, even with a touch of shyness.

Briefly, the two men were killers—products of London’s vast underworld, their outward immaculacy only achieved on stolen money. Neither man was conscience-stricken by his record or murder: quite the contrary. Mike Woodcroft, at the wheel, had the face of a tiger, and hard blue eyes, whilst “Prayerbook” Meigan, seated next to him; was much more subtle. He was the psalm-singing slayer, preferring the slow destruction of the mind by taunts and pinpricks­ rather than the out-and-out cold-blooded killing.

The women? Women are women the world over, be they the pick-ups of ruthless criminals or the quiet wives of city clerks. They usually possess the redeeming virtue of a streak of gentleness in their make-up, even if it is cat-like. To this latter class belonged Evelyn Woodcroft, the blonde. She had been Mike’s right hand during the days when he had started his career of crime. At first her conscience had bothered her, then because there was no cure for this ail­ment as long as she belonged to Mike—who, in spite of everything, she loved deeply—she had sought refuge behind a brazen exterior and had on three occasions committed murder rather than look sentimental in Mike’s eyes.

Janet Meigan was different—very different. She was too good to be mixed up with this bunch. She had married “Prayerbook” under the impression that he was a man of the church: and now she knew the truth she could think of no way out of her predicament, which would not involve the finding of her dead body in the river. Against two men and a woman, all of them killers, she knew, and so did they, that she stood no chance.

At the moment they were heading out of town to spend the day at Woodcroft’s hideout in the country—a small bungalow which he had bought against the day when he might have to dive for cover. That day had come. Behind the quartet in the heart of London a financier and his wife lay dead. From Mike’s point of view it had been a very necessary elimination. He had “attended” to the man and Evelyn to the woman. Later, by night, they would all hop on a plane for Europe and then....

“Know anything about science?” asked Prayerbook after a while, slanting a placid grey eye towards Mike.

“No. And I don’t wanter.”

“Pity. I know a bit. Paper’s full this morning about this thing what’s supposed to happen to us.”

“Oh, that!” Mike spat with scorn through the open window:

“Maybe something in it. It says here that space has gone cockeyed and that because of that it’s difficult to explain what’s going to happen.”

“Then why bother anyway?” Evelyn enquired, crossing her shapely legs and lighting a cigarette.

“I’m not botherin’ exactly,” Prayerbook retorted. “It’s these fellers in the paper I’m talkin’ about. Listen to this an’ brush up on your science: Normally, light waves are transmitted through space in the form of waves, and anything from violet to red, between the ranges of three thousand and seven thousand Angstrom units is visible to us. The other vibrations are not, being in the invisible spectrum. But, if as seems likely, a fault has developed in the medium we call space it is possible that the two vibra­tions of which we are most conscious, light and heat, may take on different properties. Either may change their rate of vibration; new and unknown wavelengths may reach us. The breakdown of an apparently immutable law makes it impossible to predict what may happen. Earth is hurtling straight towards such a flaw in space now and towards mid-afternoon today unusual effects may be noticed. People should be on their guard and—”

“Aw, shut up!” Woodcroft interrupted, with a sideways glance. “What the hell do you want to be reading that bunk for? Haven’t we enough on our minds as it is? Con­centrate on the moment! We’ve tough work ahead of us, Prayerbook. Rubbing out Crocker and his wife means we’ve got to get out of the country quick as we can.”

“I know, I know,” Prayerbook grumbled, slapping the paper down on his knee. “Can’t blame a feller for doing a bit of thinking, though.”

“But surely there can’t really be anything in this scientific stuff?” Janet Meigan asked, her brown exes reflecting a vague disquiet. “With the TV and radio warnings and now these glaring headlines it makes you wonder—”

“Bunk!” Woodcroft decided, setting his square jaw. “Just something to fill the paper. The scientists have been pretty quiet lately since the talk about a World Atomic Pact. They have to do something to boost circulation!”

Woodcroft’s remark stopped all conversation concerning the flaw—for the time being anyhow. And whilst it had been proceeding an omnipotent observer would have beheld Earth sweeping onwards in her orbit, nearer and nearer to that mystery region where lay the unknown.

And in faraway Florida, Woodstock J. Holmes, the great financier, was becoming somewhat concerned for his eighteen stones of blubber. Warnings had been battering at him, and everybody else, for such a long time he was com­mencing to take notice. Suppose there was something in it? And, because he possessed so much money and influence, even to owning the main airline between Florida, New York, and London, he was able to pay the expense of a famous American scientist to come and talk things over with him in his hotel.

“What I want to know, Sheldon, is: how will it affect me?” Holmes strode up and down the fan-cooled room as he talked, motioning with his fragrant cigar. “I’m too big a man to be involved in some scientific hocus-pocus which might upset my financial plans.”

Sheldon, as cold-blooded a scientist as any alive, eyed the tycoon steadily. “Big man or otherwise, sir, I’m afraid it means trouble,” he answered. “As for your financial interests—their continuation depends on how things work out.”

“Everything is as vague as that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What kind of scientists do you call yourselves? Before stampeding the world as you are doing you should work out some kind of preventative measure. You fellows live too much in the clouds. You forget how many interests are going to be disturbed by this—this something.”

“We have no preventative to offer, Mr. Holmes, and warning had to be given.” Sheldon hesitated, looking puzzled. “Might I ask why you sent for me? Surely not just to repeat what has already been broadcast?”

Holmes came to a stop in his pacing, his jowls shaking as he thumped the table beside him. “I want you to tell me where I can find sanctuary. Where is the best place to go? The Tropics, the Arctic, or what? Which spot on this planet is the safest?”

“There will not be one. The Eskimo and the Hottentot will be equally affected. Don’t you understand, Mr. Holmes, that we just don’t know what will happen? But we do know that the entire Earth will be involved.”

Holmes gave a grim smile. “Now you listen to me, Sheldon! Science, the treasured baby of the Government these days, must have made some kind of preparation for this potential disaster—or whatever it is. Science loves its secrets far too much to leave them open to possible destruc­tion. You and other scientists must have some spot on this Earth where you feel you can perhaps be safe. Where is that place? I have the right to know. Dammit, my own money founded the Institute of Molecular Research, anyway! Not that I know a thing about molecules, but my accountants tell me I might as well be philanthropic.”

“All scientific formulae and other things of value have been transferred to Annex 10 in the Adirondack Moun­tains,” Sheldon answered. “Annex 10, in case you are not aware of it, is a full-sized building built as a retreat in case of war. It is overshadowed by a gigantic mountain ledge that protects it from the air, and it stands at least five hundred feet above ground level. Every scientist of importance is also there, waiting to study this space-warp phenomenon when it arrives.”

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Holmes stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “I’m coming back with you. I’m as important as any scientist—in fact more so. Without my money science would be in a mess anyway.”

“I shall have to get permission,” Sheldon said, reaching for the phone—but Holmes stopped him.

“Permission be damned! That I shall be with you will be enough. We’ll leave right away.”

In face of which there was, nothing Sheldon could do, but he wondered how his brother scientists would take it when the money-bags strode into their midst.

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, in England, Martin Horsley had arrived at his old-world hotel in the heart of Sussex. It lay well back from the main road, screened by elm trees. The nearest habitation was five miles away, hence the hotel was useful only to those who owned their own cars. It was exclusive, hush-hush, and possessed a proprietor-manager highly skilled in the art of handling wealthy clients.

Grumbling and grousing, as pale as death and about as substantial, Martin Horsley alighted from his Rolls limousine and tugged a plaid blanket irritably about his bony shoulders. “Took you long enough to get here!” he reprimanded the poker-faced chauffeur. “I’m about frozen!”

“Sorry, sir,” the chauffeur apologised, and wondered how any man could be frozen in midsummer.

“You will be, Dawson—you will be! I don’t forget things like this. Bah! Nobody cares a hang how much I suffer.”

“No, sir.”

“Eh?” Horsley aimed beady eyes and the chauffeur coughed.

“I mean yessir. Sorry, sir.”

“Fetch the luggage and stop muttering.”

The chauffeur obeyed, but he went on muttering—under his breath. Stumping his heavy stick on the gravel of the driveway Horsley advanced to the hotel, passed under its ancient archway, and so into the main hall where the proprietor was washing his hands with invisible soap.

“Delighted to see you again, Mr. Horsley. Delighted! How are you?”

“Rotten—and stop blabbering. What rooms did you reserve for me?”

“Same as before, Mr. Horsley. I think you—”

“They won’t do. There are bats in this place and I can hear them at night. Change the rooms.”

“But, sir, I—”

“Change ’em!” Horsley nearly shouted, and the pro­prietor fled behind his reception desk to make hasty altera­tions in his allocations. Finally he smiled.

“I have just the right place, Mr. Horsley, if you’ll come with me. You’ll like it. Overlooking the countryside. As you say, most of the upper rooms do carry the sound of bats at night. They’re in the old disused belfry on the top of this building. It used to be a church, you know.”

“I didn’t know and I don’t care. Show me the room.”

Still growling and grumbling Horsley crept up the stairs and into the room the proprietor indicated. No man—not even Horsley—in his right senses could have found fault with its clean freshness and country-aired linen.

“Not bad,” he grunted. “And what provisions have you made for this nonsense which is supposed to happen later his afternoon?”

“Provision?” The proprietor looked vague.

“From the look on your face, man, I begin to wonder if you know what I’m talking about!”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know. This strange business in space. The newspapers are calling it an ‘ether-warp’. Most unusual, I suppose. Certainly I haven’t made any particular provision. I don’t see how one can. I don’t even know what ether is.”

“I do. I’ve had it numberless times with these blasted operations of mine. So you’ve made no preparation. Not much use me coming here, was it? I came specially to get away from this ether-thing.”

“I’m sure you’ll be as safe here as anywhere, sir,” the proprietor said, hopefully if not convincingly.

“I’d better be. Otherwise I’ll hold you responsible! And where’s Dawson with the luggage?”

“Right here, sir,” the chauffeur answered, coming in with the first consignment.

* * * * * * *

At about this time in the depths of the African jungle Henry Brand, an illegal trader in protected animal species, was turning a possible cosmic disaster to his own unscrupulous uses. At the moment he was seated in his bungalow, his base of operations, with his black head boy at the other side of the crude table. And M’Bonga was looking startled, the whites of his eyes dilated against the shiny coal-black of his skin.

“I don’t believe you can’t get near the animals,” M’Bonga,” Brand said deliberately, pointing a finger at him.

“It’s true, bwana. This strange weather is affecting them. They hide from us—”

“If you and those lazy devils out there don’t start getting results, I’m going to use white man’s magic and do things to the sunlight that will make your ears drop off!”

“Bwana do—do things to—that?” asked M’Bonga, glancing through the crude glassless window towards the hot stillness of the forest, the sun glinting occasionally amidst the foliage.

“Correct,” Brand agreed solemnly, and swallowed some whiskey. “You and the rest of those boys have been too lazy lately. It’s over a week since you’ve brought me any animals, and my buyers are getting impatient. If you don’t start getting results I’ll frighten the lives out of you.”

M’Bonga hesitated, not quite sure what to make of the situation. He was fairly educated and, within limits, loyal, but he had within him the profoundly superstitious fear of his ancestors and the thought of the white man doing something to the lord of day genuinely frightened him. Then he remembered something and half turned as he was about to leave the bungalow.

“Bwana blot out sun?” he asked, with strong memories of a solar eclipse he had witnessed.

“No, my friend. I’ll make it three, four, twenty times brighter, and shrivel your souls to Hades!”

M’Bonga bolted, genuinely scared, to get some action out of his boys. Brand grinned and glanced towards the silent radio. He was much too obtuse to realise that the radio warnings were serious, yet, surprisingly enough, he had spoken a great truth to M’Bonga when he had said what he would do to the sun.