Collected Short Fiction, page 196
ADAM ULNAR seated himself at the compact instrument board of the ship’s transmitter, his white face visibly strained and eager.
Curious sounds, he made, into the microphone. Sibilant whistlings, full of little chirps and grunts and clicks and squeaks.
And the reply that came presently from the receiver was stranger still. The voices of the Medusae—shrill whisperings, dry, eerie, so unearthly that John Star, listening, quivered with little chills of horror.
Adam Ulnar, too, found amazement and horror in what he heard. His jaw slackened with surprise. He was suddenly tense, trembling, his face gone very white and abruptly pearled with glistening sweat. His eyes were wide with lifeless terror.
He made queer little sounds again into the transmitter, his voice so dry that he could hardly form them. Dry rustlings came back from the ether. And the man dropped the receivers, lurched to his feet, visibly sick with horror.
“What was it?” breathed John Star, feeling, in spite of himself, some of the shaken man’s amazement and fear.
“Nothing good, John,” he muttered blankly, holding himself up by a handrail. “It’s the worst thing that could have happened. Yet something I have dreaded, since I first knew of Eric’s alliance with these fearful things.”
His sick eyes stared against the wall, unseeingly.
“What has happened?” John Star demanded apprehensively.
He started, rubbed a shaking hand across his sweat-beaded forehead.
“I hardly dare tell you, John. A dreadful thing—unthinkable. And you will blame me for it. Yes, I am to blame—it was I who sent Eric here, so he’d have a chance to make himself a hero. I sent him, when I knew all the time he was a coward and a fool.”
His voice drifted away, as he muttered again: “Yes, I’m to blame!”
“But what is it?”
Sick eyes stared, in mute, pitiful appeal.
“Don’t blame me for it, John! But the Medusae have tricked Eric—and the rest of us. They told him they wanted just a shipload of iron. Just for that, they promised to help restore the empire. I was afraid. But Eric, the blind fool, went ahead.
“We’ve betrayed mankind!
“We’ve betrayed the Green Hall and the legion and AKKA. We guided them to the system and undermined the defenses of humanity and aided their fleet to establish an outpost in the system—on Earth’s Moon.
“And they’ve been planning, all the time, to conquer the system not for us but for themselves! Their planet is old, their sun feeble, dying. They are planning to wipe out the human race, colonize our planets with their own hideous kind.
“I’ve betrayed mankind. I’m a traitor, John, a traitor!”
His dazed voice fell, as if he had forgotten the others; he kept muttering: “A traitor! A traitor!”
John Star and Jay Kalam were shocked into silence. The thing was incredible, unthinkable. Yet they knew it must be true. Reason insisted that the Medusae must have had more motive for their part in the plot than the desire for a little iron. And Adam Ulnar was stricken with very genuine horror.
Their minds were frantic, dazed, with visions of the doom of humanity. The system, John Star realized with deadly, heart-chilling certainty, could not fight the strange, ruthless science that had built the black fliers and the fearful Belt of Peril; that hurled crashing suns of weird opalescent flame for weapons. Not with the legion of space betrayed and AKKA already in the hands of the enemy.
“They told me the truth, just now,” whispered Adam Ulnar, after a time, “because they’re going to destroy us—if we survive the fall. And, John——”
The horror-filmed eyes looked up with sick appeal.
“John, I can’t live on, knowing what I’ve done. May I have the euthanasia?”
“You don’t deserve to die.”
“No,” said Jay Kalam. “You must live, Adam Ulnar. You may yet have a chance to help undo your treason.”
He led the stricken man away from the bridge.
ROCKETS still roaring, the Purple Dream plunged into the thick red atmosphere of the gigantic planet. Down she thundered, through red-orange haze that was ever heavier, toward the unseen surface. Her speed was still terrific, though diminished every second by the pressure of the rockets.
Tense, alert, John Star stood by the controls, fighting for the last ounce of power.
The black flier settled after them into the haze, ebon vanes spinning deliberately; colossal, relentless, inescapable—an overwhelming Nemesis of dark metal.
Reddish mist surrounded them. Even the black flier became a dim vast shadow above; all else was lost.
The thunder of the rockets paused, ceased with a final barking explosion. Strained, vibrant silence followed it; silence of tense waiting.
“The fuel is out,” whispered John Star. “We’re falling free—helpless!”
He peered into the thick, crimson mist ahead, hands knotted with the agony of powerless inaction. His straining eyes made out a surface below, smooth, glistening, rippling. It flung to meet the falling cruiser.
“A sea!” he breathed. “We’re dropping into a yellow sea!”
“Anyhow,” observed Jay Kalam, still deliberately calm in the last moment of their plunging fall, “anyhow, we’ve got to the planet where Aladoree is.”
To be continued next month.
Wizard’s Isle
A swift-moving, vivid tale of a dreadful menace to the world—a weird-scientific story about an uncanny Oriental genius who sought to chain the world to his power
l Jack Williamson, author of “Wizard’s Isle”, is a young writer. Less than two years ago he was a student in the University of New Mexico. But his rare talent and logical mind, combined with an inexhaustible imagination, have already made him one of the Titans of fantastic fiction. First introduced to the readers of WEIRD TALES a year and a half ago with his startling story of strange thought-magic, “The Wand of Doom,” he has been a frequent contributor to its pages since then. Those of you who remember his fascinating novel, “Golden Blood,” will need no urging to read Jack’s story in this issue. But those of you who have not yet read any stories by this young genius have a rare treat in store in the colorful tale presented herewith.
1. The Wizard of Life
“YOU’D be a fool to try it, Mr. Wade,” protested the heavy man behind the black-topped desk. He lit a long dark cigar, without offering one to Jason Wade, and blew heavy smoke through thick lips. “Give it up,” he advised. “Forget about the girl—it’s too late now to help her, anyway. Go back to China.”
“I may be a fool,” Jason Wade rapped at him grimly, striding toward the desk, “but I’m going to keep on until I find Tonia Hope—or find what happened to her!”
And a dangerous sudden blue flickered in his eyes.
“Engaged to her, eh?” said the detective; and he made sympathetic clucking noises.
Jason Wade bent over the desk. Lean, not tall, he was hard and muscular. His short hair was sandy, colorless; his eyes were gray, usually mild enough. His skin was still dark from the sun of China. Used to smiling, his wide mouth now was a thin line, tensely grim.
“I am,” he said, flatly. “She was waiting for me. Two years, I’ve been working a tin concession in Yunnan, China. This winter, I was coming home——”
He broke off, savagely grinding a hard fist into the palm of his left hand.
“Anyhow,” he told the detective, “I was in Yunnan when she—vanished. I had a telegram from her aunt, Mrs. Todd, with whom she lived. I wired you, the next day, to take the case. That’s been nearly two months ago.
“Two months!” he rapped. “And not a thing has been done to help her! I came as soon as I could—I had to sell out the concession, to raise a few thousand. But if you think I’m going to quit, now, without any effort to find her——”
“It’s your funeral, not mine, Mr. Wade,” sighed the big man. He shook his heavy, blue-jowled head. “Me, I’m washing my hands of the whole mess—and damned glad to get out with a whole skin. I wouldn’t go on—not for twenty grand! There are some cases, Mr. Wade, that just ain’t healthy.”
“I’m going,” Jason promised him, with quiet finality, “to find Tonia. If you’re going to quit, I want to know what you’ve already found out.”
The detective’s heavy arm made a slow gesture of protest.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Wade. It ain’t much, I’ve found. But it is enough so I know it’s worth any man’s life to pry any deeper. You’ll think better of your rash idea, Mr. Wade, when you hear. It ain’t no common case!”
“Go ahead,” said Jason. “Have you located any suspect?”
“Well——” drawled the detective, and hesitated. “There’s a man in the case. A tall, dark party. It was hard to get a line on him, but it seems he’s some kind of Oriental, and very wealthy. He gave the name of Alexander.”
“Alexander!” echoed Jason. “Give me all you know about him.”
His mind flashed back to his call, that morning, on Tonia’s aunt. A faded, elderly lady, Mrs. Justina Todd lived in a faded, ancient brownstone house. Dabbing at the blue, faded eyes behind the spectacles, the old lady had told her a mysterious “Mr. Alexander” met Tonia, somewhere, and called on her, twice.
“She—liked him?” Jason had demanded,. unable to keep a little catch of anxiety and pain from his voice. He was bitterly regretful that he had left Tonia for so long, though the girl had been eager for him to seize the opportunity in China.
“No, Jason,” said the old lady, and her pale eyes warmed a little. “The poor dear never had a thought for anybody but you. Why, she’d been planning, for months, to send you a birthday gift. She had already bought it, before . . .
It was a fine wrist-watch. Jason touched the thin white case, when the old lady displayed it, with throbbing emotion. Tonia was still the same generous girl; the watch had been very expensive for her to give. And she hadn’t forgotten! New resolution burned in him. He must find her!
“About this Mr. Alexander——” he prompted.
“I know he had a hand in it,” the old lady told him. “Tonia asked him not to come again. She was afraid of him; I know that. And now he’s gone, too. The police can’t find him.”
And that was all Mrs. Todd had been able to tell Jason. He waited, bent anxiously over the desk, for the detective to speak.
“WELL,” the broad-featured man rumbled on, “I got a line on the bird, like I tell you. I’ve identified him with a certain mysterious party who buys scientific supplies. For ten years he has been buying electrical machinery and biological laboratory supplies—literally millions of dollars’ worth, Mr. Wade! He deals with different companies, and with different names—none of them knowing his right one.
“Most of his business, lately,” added the detective, “has been done through a Yankee named Jabez Head. Head’s a good guy to look for, Mr. Wade, if you want to get bumped off!”
“You think,” demanded Jason, “it was this—‘Mr. Alexander’ ?”
“He saw the girl,” said the big man, heavily succinct. “She was beautiful. He’s got a reputation of taking what he wants. He’s a man you had better lay off, Mr. Wade.”
“Where could I find him?” questioned Jason, grimly.
“I don’t know,” said the detective. “Don’t want to. He ain’t in America. But I’ve picked up a hint, Mr. Wade, from men in the shipping business.”What’s that?”
“Several years ago, Mr. Wade, something was built on the desert coast of the Arabian Sea. Something big. It took thousands of tons of glass and steel—ships landed it there. Coolies did the work—and disappeared afterward, with the thing they built.”
“But what was it?”
“Just what the thing was, Mr. Wade, or exactly where it was built, or what became of it, or who paid for it, are things that nobody will tell you. But I got a hunch that this bird Alexander built the thing, and that he’s in it, now. Probably he’s got the girl there.”
“Then,” declared Jason, quietly, “I’m going to find it.”
“I wouldn’t,” said the detective. He was suddenly displaying a curious reticence, almost a fear. He cleared his throat behind a fat hand, finally spoke in a hoarse whisper: “Did you ever hear of a man called the Wizard of Life?”
“Yes,” Jason told him. “There was talk, in China. Vague whispers, some of them rather terrible, about a mysterious figure called Iskandar the Wizard. He’s said to have an uncanny power over living things. He’s a descendant of Alexander, according to the tales—or claims to be. They call him by the Persian form of the name, Iskandar. But there are so many weird legends whispered through the East——”
“The Wizard of Life ain’t no legend, Mr. Wade,” declared the detective, heavily. “I’ve had a warning. That’s why I’m withdrawing from the case.”
“A warning?” queried Jason, swiftly. “What was it?”
The big man hesitated, apprehension on his broad face.
“Well,” he said at last, “a man phoned me. He said he was Jabez Head. He asked me if I ever heard of the Wizard of Life. He told me to lay off.”
“That was all?” snapped Jason.
“It was. And it was enough! If you can see what’s good for you, Mr. Wade——”
“Is there anything else you’ve found out?” Jason cut in, impatiently.
“That’s all. We’ll get you out a regular report. Oh, Mr. Wade, there was another case that might have some connection. It was very similar. The snatchers worked the same way, and there was no demand for ransom.”
“Let’s hear about it,” Jason prompted.
“A Mr. Gerald Travers, and his wife——”
“Jerry Travers!” cried Jason. “Why, I knew Jerry at Yale. A big, jolly, redheaded chap. He majored in biology. You mean to say Jerry’s been kidnapped?”
“Sounds like the same party,” said the detective. “Travers was a biologist. He was employed by a drug manufacturer in Ohio. He and his wife disappeared while on a trip to New York, a year ago—without a trace!”
JASON paid, without protest, the foe the detective demanded, and walked out of the office, pondering what he had learned. An amazing pattern it was—the unknown, fabulously wealthy “Mr. Alexander”—the mysterious purchases of scientific equipment—the rumored secret construction—the enigmatic whisperings of Iskandar the Wizard—the unaccountable vanishings of Jerry Travers and Tonia Hope. The import of it all was incredible, and darkly sinister.
He could not blame the detective for his haste to abandon the case; the threat of insidious peril was too unmistakable. But Jason himself did not think of giving it up. He spent the rest of the day trying to locate Jabez Head.
He failed to find Head. He returned to his apartment at eleven o’clock that night. Two men, waiting in the entry, slapped a sheet of adhesive plaster over his face. They dragged him into the street, vacant at that hour, and bundled him into a closed automobile.
After two hours, perhaps, of rapid driving, the vehicle stopped on some quiet beach—all the roar of New York was gone; he could hear restless, surging water, the barking of a far-off dog, the distance-softened bellow of a locomotive whistle.
There the two men flung him into a small boat, face down in an inch of foul water. They pushed off, started a popping outboard motor, and cut away from the shore—they must be, Jason knew, upon Long Island Sound.
He made, then, his one fierce attempt at escape. Rugged from life in the open, he was strong and quick enough, though not a large man. He struck out suddenly, bowled one man over a thwart, and tried to slip over the side—he planned to tear off his blindfold under water, and swim away from the guns of his captors in the darkness.
But the other man struck him savagely on the temple with the flat side of an automatic. When he recovered consciousness, with head splitting, tight-drawn cords were cutting painfully into his wrists and ankles, and he was being hauled into the cabin of a seaplane.
Now, Jason guessed, from his weariness and bitter thirst, the seaplane had been aloft for twenty hours. That meant that he might be anywhere within a radius of possibly three thousand miles of New York.
Listening, he had studied his two captors. One, who had manhandled him with the brute strength of an ape, whose heavy body smelled unwashed, who spoke with the snarl of the underworld, appeared to be called Hap Nino. The other, who had given the orders, with a clipped, metallic voice that had a Yankee twang, was addressed as Jabe. He, Jason became certain, was Jabez Head himself, the evasive agent for whom he had been searching.
Yes, he had found Jabez Head, he was thinking; and the drawn face beneath his blindfold smiled bitterly at the irony of his success.
Then he was startled out of the side insensibility of despair by the hard voice of the man, ringing above the endless drone of the motor:
“Hold still, brother, if ye want yer blinkers off.”
He felt rough hands about his head, braced himself. The adhesive plaster came away, jerked so savagely that he felt a good deal of skin must have gone with it He blinked his eyes against the gray light in the little cabin.
Before he could see, he heard the other man snarl protestingly.
“Don’t matter if he gets an eyeful,” snapped Jabez Head, ominously. “He won’t be blabbing about it.”
Jason was sprawled on the rear seat, wrists and ankles bound, numb. Jabez Head, standing over him, proved to be a lean, sharp-featured man, with small eyes, dose-set and greenish, restlessly watchful; he was ungainly in an oversize leather coat. Hap Nino was sitting on a forward seat; Jason saw the back of a short-clipped bullet head, a massive, long-armed body swelling a scarlet sweater. He glimpsed the pilot through the forward opening—yellow-skinned, perhaps Chinese.
“Where are you taking me?” Jason asked, voice husky in his dry throat.
“Reckon ye’ll find out fer yerself, soon enough,” the hard voice snapped back. Jabez Head chuckled, dryly, unpleasantly, and added, “Look fer yerself, brother, if ye like. Reckon ye won’t be taking any tales back.”
