Collected Short Fiction, page 287
CHAPTER I
Into—Enigma!
THIS was going to be a tough proposition. But Kerry Lundoon summoned a happy whistle to his lips, and walked jauntily up to the guarded gate of the Kallent Memorial Foundation.
“You get the Winship story, Lundy,” his editor had ordered. “And I don’t care how—bribe a guard, or bump him off. I want to know what Winship is doing inside that fence.”
“Yes, chief.”
“Don’t ‘yeschief’—get the copy! For fifteen years, Winship’s laboratory has been a mystery. Ever since the atomic explosion, or whatever it was, that killed Dr. Kallent and his daughter, back in 1948. Cedric Kallent was the biggest scientist of his time. And Roger Winship seems to have carried on, behind that fence, from where Kallent left off.
“I don’t know what he’s got. The rumors say atomic power that could wreck the coal and oil interests, if Winship would let it go. They say gold transmuted out of zirconium, that could wreck the world’s financial system—if Winship weren’t too philanthropic to do it. They say a ship to fly to Mars.
“Well, I’m fed up with rumor and mystery. I want facts. Get ’em, Lundy. Or don’t come back.”
“Yes, chief,” he had said.
The fence certainly looked formidable enough. A triple barrier, surrounding New Jersey’s most inaccessible thousand acres. The outer one was of heavy steel mesh, twenty feet high. The next of glistening barb wire, hung with ominous signs:
Danger—44,000 Volts! The inner one was a high wall of sheet steel that shut out the view of everything beyond.
“Mr. Kerry Lundoon,” he announced himself, “to see Dr. Winship.” Seeing the forbidding glint in the eye of the guard, he added impressively, “I’m the science man from the Planet, for the interview on Dr. Winship’s atomic discoveries.”
The massive and muscular expugilist who defended the gate uttered a porcupine grunt.
“Pass?” echoed the newshound. He patted the pockets of his immaculate dark suit. “Of course he sent me one. Here it is!”
GRINNING cheerfully, he presented the card. The big man inspected it, grunted, and dropped it into a pneumatic tube. Thirty seconds later it dropped back into the receiver. The guard read a note scrawled on it, deliberately tore it in half.
“Neat forgery, Buddy,” he commented. “But the ultra-violet will tell.”
“Better luck next time,” grinned Kerry Lundoon.
“My advice, Buddy,” scowled the guard. “Stay away.”
That night the moonless sky was overcast. An hour after midnight, a silent plane dipped briefly below ceiling, at three thousand feet. Kerry Lundoon stepped out of its cabin, caught his breath, and pulled the rip cord of his parachute.
The ceaseless throb of a great power plant came up to his ears. Floodlights poured white against the blank mystery of huge windowless buildings. Black shadows clotted clumps of trees. The forbidden thousand acres floated toward him.
“In!” he murmured, cheerfully. “And how I get out is their problem!”
He tugged at the ’chute’s rigging, spilled air to sideslip toward a mysterious construction near the middle of the grounds. It was shaped like a tremendous wheel, one hundred feet in diameter and twenty in thickness, lying on its side. Dense shadow made a black pool within its rim. Overalled men were busy under the floodlights outside, loading tools and equipment into trucks.
“Eh?” muttered the newshawk. “Something just finished. The Martian flier, maybe? We’ll see.”
Uprushing air whispered softly against the cords. He sideslipped again. The pool of shadow was beneath him, expanding. He crossed his legs, relaxed for the impact. Hard metal smacked up against him, and the silk fell over his sprawled body.
“Greetings!” he whispered. “Doc Winship!”
He unbuckled the harness, kicked off the folds of the parachute, and cautiously rose to his feet in the darkness. A flat metal deck was beneath him. The rim of the wheel made a heavy metal bulwark about the edge.
“What is it?” he muttered. “But, first thing, a few good pix.”
Leaning over the massive rim, a tiny automatic camera in his hand, the reporter ignored a sudden powerful throbbing that began beneath him—until an avalanche of white-hot agony struck him abruptly, hurled him backward.
He sprawled again on the metal deck. It was quivering, now, to the thrumming beneath. Blue fire of brush discharges danced above the edges of the rim.
Lundoon staggered back to his feet. He gasped for breath, felt gingerly of seared hands. The drumming underfoot was steadily louder. He blinked, stared apprehensively around him.
“What a gosh-awful jolt! Was it wired for me? Not likely. Then what? The space flier, maybe? Taking off!” Panic gripped his heart. He reeled across the quivering deck again, to the rim. Another crushing shock hurled him back.
TRAPPED, in a wall of electric fire, on a ship taking off for Mars! Stark terror galvanized him. The parachute! Its silk would insulate a road to safety. He caught up the white folds in his arms, ran to the weirdly glowing wall, flung them over it. Blue sparks crackled explosively. Flame burst from the silk. The reporter struck at it with bare hands. Another shock flung him back to the throbbing deck.
The fall dazed him. When he opened his eyes, a light shone into them. A thick, cylindrical tower, studded with round ports, had risen from the center of the deck. The light was shining from a massive door opening in its side. A man darted out.
The reporter had struggled to his feet when the stranger reached his side, gasping:
“Come on, below! Before you’re killed—”
They stumbled together back into the conning tower. Heavy double doors slid shut behind them. The circular interior of the tower was crowded with unfamiliar glittering instruments. Panting, the stranger touched some control, and a humming mechanism lowered them into the hub of the wheel.
Kerry Lundoon stared bewilderedly at his rescuer. This was a tall, thin man, whose thick shaggy hair seemed prematurely white, for his skin looked ruddy and youthful. His face was lean and haggard. His blue eyes were hollow, shadowed like wells of secret agony.
“I—” floundered the reporter. “Who—”
“I don’t know what you were doing out there,” said the other. “But the reversal field would have killed you in two minutes more.”
Lundoon got his breath and tried to be coherent.
“I’m a newspaperman,” he offered. “I was looking for Dr. Winship, for an interview about his discoveries.”
A brief, quizzical smile lit that strangely haggard face.
“I’m Dr. Winship,” the thin man said. “And there will be time for all the interviews you like, before we get back.”
“Get back?” echoed Lundoon, with increased alarm. “We aren’t going—” he had to gulp—“going—to Mars?”
“No,” said the thin man.
“Then where?” Panic seized the reporter. “Stop it!” His voice was almost a scream. “You’ve got to let me off.”
Winship gravely shook his white head and glanced at a bank of quivering gauges.
“Sorry, Mr. Reporter,” he said. “But it’s too late to stop.” That oddly whimsical smile touched his thin lips again. “You came for news? Well, this trip will make plenty of it.”
“Where?” Desperate urgency screamed in Lundoon’s voice. “Where are we going?”
Winship inspected his dials again, cocked his white head to listen expertly to the throbbing machinery. He nodded at last, turned back to Lundoon.
“There’ll be an hour or so,” he said, “while the field is building up. After all, we’re in it together, and alone. I may as well tell you.” The bright hollow eyes glittered at Lundoon, excited, feverish. “The Phantom Queen is bound for another Universe!”
CHAPTER II
The Inverse Universe
THE lean, haggard scientist opened the double sliding doors through which they had entered the conning tower. Now, since the tower had been lowered again, it gave into the interior of the great wheel, a circular space filled with huge, unfamiliar, throbbing machinery. Living quarters were partitioned off. Winship peered out anxiously at the immense machines.
Uneasily, Lundoon was pondering what the other had said. His mind reeled from incredulous questions. And a terrible loneliness began to haunt him, for obviously they were alone. But Winship looked at him again, with a grave understanding.
“It’s strange, I know,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it.”
The newshawk nodded gratefully.
“Dr. Cedric Kallent was the greatest scientist the world has seen,” began the thin man. “You are familiar with many of his discoveries. But not with the greatest of all: the inverse Universe.”
A humble awe came into his solemn voice.
“That is the supreme achievement of the human mind. But it has the simplicity of all great things. I can give you an idea of it in a few words.” His keen eyes shot Lundoon a questioning look. “Of course you understand the atomic theory?”
“Of course,” agreed the newshound, confidently.
“The orthodox theories of the atom recognize six subatomic particles,” Winship said. “Three heavy ones: the negatron, proton, and neutron. Three light ones: the electron, positron, and neutrino.
“An ordinary atom—an atom of our positive Universe—consists of a nucleus of protons and binding electrons whose net positive charge is balanced by a number of orbital electrons.
“Kallent’s geodesics of inversion established the mathematical basis for a Universe whose atoms would consist of a nucleus of negatrons and binding positrons, whose net negative charge would be balanced by orbital positrons.
“In other words, minus elements! A complete series, from minus hydrogen to minus uranium, with atomic numbers and chemical properties determined by the number of orbital positrons.
“And they make up a minus Universe! For Kallent’s geodesics proved that the world lines of a positive and a negative atom, due to their inverse space-warp, can never intersect.
“Experiment soon confirmed mathematics. And it became Dr. Kallent’s burning ambition to enter and explore that sister Universe.”
Roger Winship paused to inspect the gauges, make careful adjustments on his elaborate banks of controls. Outside the tower, the mighty thrumming surged deeper again. Lundoon clenched his two hands, and fought the screaming panic in him. Trapped with a madman! Plunging into a foreign Universe! He bit his lip, waited. At last Winship went on.
“Dr. Kallent had a daughter. Her name was Venice. She and I were classmates at Tech—she had some of her father’s genius. I came back with her, after graduation, to share the great research.
“SHE was a tall girl, proud and erect as a princess. She had a small, perfect face, fair skin, fine blue eyes, and honey-colored hair. Her quick smile had all the understanding humor in the world. I loved her from the moment I saw her. She liked me, but her father’s work came first.
“For three years, we worked to open the door to that other Universe. The geodesics were the key. Finally we hit on the theoretical solution: a special field, of terrific intensity, whose space-warp would make positive atoms unstable, at last disrupt them, causing their energy to seek a new equilibrium in the negative form.
“The machine we built was discshaped, like this, with the atomic-powered field coils in the rim, although smaller and less powerful. We had it almost finished, when Dr. Kallent unexpectedly sent me to Europe to have a piece of equipment made.
“A cable from him was waiting at the hotel in Paris. It ran: ‘Roger, forgive my fraud. Risk too great for all. We are going today. If anything happens, do what you can. Venice will go. She says good-by.’
“That same day I read in the newspapers that Dr. Kallent and his daughter had been killed in a terrific laboratory explosion. I was heartbroken. But I returned at once, and tried to find out what had happened. The laboratory was completely wrecked. Some imperfection of the field, I thought, must merely have disrupted the atoms, instead of transforming them.
“Working side by side with Kallent for three years, I had learned a good deal about his unpublished discoveries. Now, hoping it would help me forget, I set out to complete his work and record it for the benefit of science.
“I was having the laboratory rebuilt, when an obsession began to haunt me: the belief that Venice Kallent, somehow, was still alive! I had peculiar dreams, in which I saw her beckoning, gesturing. Her lovely face was white, strained. She was lost and helpless, trying to communicate with me.
“Dr. Kallent had done some work, years before, toward identifying thought as a radiogen phenomenon, a subatomic radiation. Following that clue, in a direction that somehow came to me in those dreams, I made the psychode.”
The thin man paused again, in that small drumming space, took down a queer-looking helmet from the wall, and fitted it to his white head. A great horseshoe tube arched above the crown, its electrodes against his temples. Golden flame burned through it when he touched a knob.
“It picks up thought-energy,” he explained, “amplifies it regeneratively, heterodyned upon ultra-waves, and re-broadcasts it, thus serving as both receiver and transmitter for tele-mental communication.”
A strange, burning eagerness in their hollow depths, his tortured eyes peered far beyond Kerry Lundoon, beyond the walls of the metal tower.
“I put it on the day it was done,” he said, “and waited.” His low voice sank, until the newshound leaned forward to hear. “The white vision of Venice Kallent came to me again. And I was able, for the first time, to understand her.”
THE scientist paused a moment, reminiscent.
“ ‘Dear Roger,’ she was calling to me,” he resumed, “ ‘can you hear? I’m alive, lost in the other Universe. Father was killed. I’m all alone. It’s so terrible. So strange! Can you hear me, Roger? Will you come?’
“ ‘Yes, Venice!’ I shouted, in the empty dark laboratory. ‘I hear you. I’ll come—if I can!’
“I thought she smiled. Then her shadow was gone.”
His thin hands trembling, Roger Winship replaced the helmet on the wall. His feverish eyes inspected the dials again, peered out at the mighty drumming machines already hurling them into ominous enigma.
That day,” he said, “I began the effort to duplicate all Dr. Kallent’s work, so that I could reach the inverse Universe to rescue the woman I loved. The difficulties were tremendous. The geodesics of inversion—the greatest single triumph of the human mind—I had memorized. But terrific problems rose in their application, and in avoiding the error that had caused the first disaster.
“A few times, briefly, I spoke to Venice again. She tried, fearfully, to tell me of some other being she had encountered. But she knew no more of her father’s work than I. She couldn’t help.
“There was a financial problem, too. Millions were needed, and I was penniless. Kallent had made me his heir. He left no money, but I was able to work out profitable applications of his brilliant discoveries. I struggled with one obstacle and another, and the years went by.”
Roger Winship sighed wearily. A worn man, with the lines of agony on his emaciated cheeks. His tortured, restless eyes scanned the dials again.
“A long battle,” he whispered. “But at last the Phantom Queen was done, ready for the voyage of rescue. Loyal men had worked beside me, for years. But they all had ties, obligations, or fears. I started tonight, alone. There was a noise on the deck.” The glittering eyes dwelt upon Kerry Lundoon. “And I found you, a stowaway.” Staring, trembling, the reporter opened his dry mouth, swallowed twice. At last he could speak:
“And we’re already—going—”
Eyes on the dials, Roger Winship nodded gravely.
“The atomic generators are feeding nine million kilowatts into the coils,” he said. “The reversal field has already reached six billion kallent-volts. A little more—I don’t know how much—and we shall undergo the atomic inversion, into the negative Universe. Or else, if I have failed, we shall be destroyed in a stupendous explosion of atomic energy.”
“If—” whispered Lundoon. “If we live, what then?”
“If we are still alive,” the haggard man said, “we shall search for Venice Kallent. The psychode, I hope, will guide us to her. And the reversal coils, at a different frequency, generate an unidirectional field that serves for propulsion in space.”
SURGING up against the barrier of Lundoon’s fear came a quick tide of sympathy for this slight man who had struggled so long toward a goal so difficult. He offered his hand.
“Here’s hoping, Doc,” he said, “that you find her.”
Then his newspaper instincts were suddenly awake. What a story! He was fumbling for notebook and pencil, thinking sadly of his lost camera, when Winship’s cry came to him, sharp and urgent: “Lie down!”
Lundoon flung himself to the floor of the conning tower. He was suddenly aware of a terrific strain that racked every atom of his body. There was a sudden appalling darkness, soon rent with searing flame. Every nerve shrieked with agony. For every atom, literally, was being torn asunder. The ship lurched and spun, as if swept before a black tidal wave.
Then it was ended. The pain receded. A soft little cry sobbed from the lips of Kerry Lundoon. He dragged himself to his feet, wiped cold sweat from his face.
Roger Winship was white and swaying, but a quiet light of victory shone in his hollow eyes. He touched a key, and the mighty thrum of the generators was suddenly silenced.
“It is done!” he whispered shakenly. “Field potential zero. We have been re vibrated safely into the minus Universe.” His trembling hand reached for the psychode helmet. “Now—Venice—”
CHAPTER III
The Giant of Cubes
HUMMING motors were lifting the conning tower again, through the circular deck. Kerry Lundoon clung to a handrail, speechless, staring incredulously through a port.
