Collected Short Fiction, page 426
CHAPTER III
THE telegram came two days later, when Lundoon was standing beside the new grave, on the grassy hill above the laboratory. The flat marble slab, he decided, would bear only the name of Douglas. Anything more, he felt, would be too little to say.
“Dear Wendy,” the message ran. “I have not forgotten, and I know that you have not. Still, after two years, I believe that a meeting can mend our shattered happiness. Flying, I shall arrive close after this. Believe me, yours, Gina, Countess of Arneth.”
The eyes of Lundoon darkened as he read it, and the lids veiled them briefly. He looked down at the raw mound of red earth. A sudden anger made him tear the yellow sheet in two. But the woman’s flame-haired beauty still smiled from the fragments. He smoothed them and put them in his pocket.
An unease settled upon Lundoon, sharper that his grief for Douglas. A fascination seized him, eager and yet apprehensive. Had two years changed her? Did the title mean she had won the wealth and position she yearned for?
Lundoon walked on aimlessly, and the steel-fenced grounds were transformed into the floating gardens of the Avalon. The wind was suddenly scented with the sea. He was hardly surprised when Gina Arneth came to meet him, along a gravel path.
“Wendy!” Her voice was rich with the same moving magic. “They told me you were wandering up here—somebody’s dead?”
He nodded, and bitterness choked him.
“Andrew Douglas—my best friend. He died to save himself from doing what you asked me to do, on the Avalon” Her violent eyes were startled, curious. “Cotterstone somehow learned about the azoic radiation. And Douglas died to keep it from him.”
He tried to smile, and led her to a sun-warmed stone that made a seat on the grassy slope.
“Tell me, Gina, about yourself?”
She shook her flame-colored head.
“Nothing has happened, Wendy, nothing—important.” Her violet eyes searched him, and her throaty voice was eager. “I still want you, Wendy, as much as I did on the Avalon.”
“Your other tastes?” he asked softly. “Have they changed?”
“I’m still costly—but that won’t matter now.” Her silken voice paused. “You see, I know how much Mr. Cotterstone is offering for your invention.
I came to beg you to accept his offer—and me.”
Lundoon rose suddenly. He seized her shoulders and dragged her upright. She winced from the abrupt blazing blackness of his eyes. His grasp tightened, until she cried out with pain. He released her, then, stepped back.
“I had wondered how Cotterstone found out.” His voice was quiet and tired, bitter. “It was you, Gina.” She cowered before the black accusation on his face. “I told you to go to Cotterstone, if you wanted blood-money. And you did.” His voice went hard, relentless. “And he made you a countess. And he sent you here!”
The flame of her head tossed defiantly.
“What if I did? Luxury is my life, and Cotterstone could give it to me.” The brittle voice snapped, and she was pleading again. “I love you, Wendy. Really—”
His black face stopped her.
“Gina, do you know what you’ve done?” His voice was hushed, stricken. “You’ve murdered my best friend!”
SUDDENLY he was fighting to stop hysterical laughter.
“I’m sorry, Wendy.” Her soft eager arms slipped around him. “The Dawn Girl is waiting at the airport—my new flying yacht. Let’s fly away, Wendy—to where you can forget. Back to the Avalon. To Celebes—anywhere. I do love you, Wendy!”
He stood stiff and silent in her arms.
“You must sell, Wendy.” Her body was slim and soft against him. “Don’t you see?” Dread edged her voice. “Cotterstone hates you. He—he’ll kill you, Wendy!”
Lundoon laughed again. His face twisted into a pale mask, without merriment. The girl turned white, shuddered.
“Stop it, Wendy! You’re dreadful.”
Her hands tried to smooth the laughing mask into a face again. “Listen, Wendy.” She spoke with a new voice, lower, steady, resolute. “Come away with me—anyhow. Cotterstone will get us in the end. But for a while we could be happy.”
He stared at her, with a slow strange smile.
“There’s Eve in you, Gina,” he whispered. “Eve and Lilith too. You could make—make a Judas of me. Someday, maybe, you will. But I’ve still got a job-—now, it’s Andy’s job. Dr. Kallent will be depending on me.”
His mouth drew to a thin, grim line.
“Go back to Cotterstone, Gina. Tell him: no sale.”
Her white loveliness froze in a stare of pained amazement.
“You’re cruel—cruel!”
He saw the glitter in her violet eyes, and made a little motion toward her. But she had already turned. He held himself, as she ran away toward the gate. Then he walked slowly back toward the administration building.
He was wondering if Douglas had left any forwarding address for “Jethro Jones.”
CHAPTER IV
ANDREW DOUGLAS had left the books of the Foundation in careful good order. Large cash withdrawals, made on the day before his death, were credited to “J.J.—Field Experiments.” But a search of all his files failed to disclose how the funds had been forwarded, or how to communicate with “Jethro Jones.”
Lundoon could only wait. He occupied himself with the Foundation’s financial affairs, and with tests of an anti-virus that promised immunity to influenza and the common cold. Three months passed without any word from Kallent. Then the radiogram arrived, sent from Panama and addressed to Douglas:
“Project has resulted in unforeseen catastrophe. Am returning by air. Follow newspaper stories of terror in Andes. Ask Lundoon to stand by for emergency. Explain on arrival. Jethro Jones.”
Lundoon read the message twice, and sent for all the morning papers. He searched them for South American items. He found two, neither apparently important. Seismographs had recorded a minor earthquake, centering somewhere among the little-known summits of the Cordillera Oriental. The other item dealt with the famous statue, the “Christ of the Andes.”
The Quechua natives of the high páramos of Ecuador and Peru, item stated, were reported to be in superstitious panic because of a rumor that the statue had left its pedestal, above the tunnel of the Trans-Andine railway, to stride northward through the Andes on a tour of mad destruction.
“Railway officials,” the item concluded, “state that the statue is still in place.”
That was all.
The evening papers, however, had no lack of South American news. The first extra shrieked in immense black type:
2,000-FOOT MAN
RAVAGES ANDES
Breathless, Lundoon devoured the bold-faced box in the middle of the page:
For twenty-four hours the most amazing news story conceivable has been coming by radio and cable from various points in South America. A 2,000-foot giant, the story goes, is striding in a frenzy of destroying madness through the bleak uplands of Ecuador and Peru, spreading terror and death among the native Indians.
Suspecting hoax, news agencies have held up the story for verification. Conclusive evidence is so far lacking, and the editors of this paper feel that the reports are incredible. However, as the dispatches continue to arrive, from points as widely separated as Quito, Guayaquil, and Lima, laden with increasing detail, it is felt that public duty demands their publication in full.
While this paper is able naturally to assume no responsibility for the facts, frequent editions will hereafter carry the latest news of the monster of the Andes. A special AP expedition, headed by William Mack, veteran correspondent, and equipped with radiophoto apparatus, is already flying from Panama toward the disturbed area, and his eye-witness reports are shortly anticipated, via radio.
Lundoon wiped a sudden cold wetness off his forehead, and the paper rattled in his hands. Suddenly, he had remembered that midnight conversation of four years ago, when he had suggested that science might someday create a superman—a god.
HAD Kallent indeed attempted that audacious project? The shocking certainty fastened upon him. And had the child of science revolted against its creator—after all not a god, but a colossal satan?
The black print swam before Lundoon’s eyes. He saw blurred jumbled phrases. Giant wrecks train. Lifts locomotive like toy. Sixteen crushed in coach. Indians flee “El Espanto.” Villages tramped by “The Terror.” Hundreds dead. American “flying fortresses” from Panama to join international expedition. Continent, skeptical at first, now fear-stricken. Thousands believed dead. William Mack to accompany flight. Does this monster threaten civilization?
That night was endless. Lundoon had a radio installed in the office, and left an order for the delivery of every newspaper extra when it appeared. He clipped and filed every item dealing with the giant. It was day again when he read the first dispatch from William Mack:
It is now an hour since our international expeditionary fleet lifted above the jungle-laden savanna, beside the Bay of Guyaquil. Including the six “flying fortresses”—all of the latest, sixty-ton type, mounting four light cannon each and carrying twelve tons of bombs—our force totals thirty planes.
Can we find and destroy El Espanto?
An hour ago, the writer still suspected the giant to be a figment of superstitious imagination. The Andes, however, must impress one with the insignificance of man. One is prepared to face incredible realities.
Our planes are now spread out in a huge V. Our ears are deafened with the engines. I am the guest of the Peruvian commander. The swarthy men in the cabin with me are alert—half laughing, half afraid. They jest in swift, crackling Spanish—and covertly make the cross.
We have passed to south of Chimborazo, whose awful snowy cone rises a full mile above the line of forests. Now we climb to cross the bleak inner range. The engines roar louder. Our ears ache. Snow is drifted in the pass beneath. Bitter cold penetrates our bones. Heavy with death, we almost scrape the snow.
Now the pass is behind. The glacier slopes fall away to the bleak uplands, the páramos. Beyond, on the far low rim of the world, we can see the dark green of the forested montaña, dropping away to the Amazonian rain-forests.
The fleet wheels southward, and we come over a valley. It is a colossal trench, a black-walled gorge through riven peaks. The river, so far below, is a thin band of green-edged silver.
The men are pale and silent now. Hours of cold and strain have exhausted their first bravado. In this fantastic and colossal world—these stark peaks must have looked the same a million years ago—man is nothing, and anything is possible.
Brave and ready, the men must feel, as I do, that—
But we see the giant!
The impact upon the senses—it is sharp as a blow—destroys the last doubt. Perhaps men can never believe, until they see. But now, for us, El Espanto is real. The men are quietly preparing for the attack.
The giant is northward along the canyon, toward Quito. El Espanto! His vastness turns this mighty gorge to a mere ditch. His nude body is a shining silver-gray, as if molded of living metal.
A BEAUTIFUL figure, terrible only from its size. The form of a lean youth, superbly erect. Every muscle rounded, perfect.
He walks to meet us. Without effort, he makes at least a hundred miles an hour. His bare feet raise hurricanes of dust. His long hair, silver-gray like his body, is flung back a little by the wind of his motion.
The face is the same shining gray, the level eyes have the keen blue of steel. An awesome face—yet to the writer it does not look cruel. Perhaps it is some bewilderment or misunderstanding that has caused this being to destroy thousands of human lives. The face reflects no malice. Rather, it shows longing and pain.
But we attack!
The dark faces of the men about me reflect my own admiration, and my own fear. But our mission is inexorable. Whatever the origin or the motives of this amazing being, civilization must defend itself.
We wheel high. Dwarfed as we climb, El Espanto seems no larger than an ordinary man, standing bewildered amid toy mountains. He is aware of us. He has stopped. His blue, terrible eyes look upward.
We dive, led by the six great flying fortresses. They release their bombs—in all, sixty one-ton “eggs” of ruin. The first bombs miss. Tiny puffs of gray dust spring up about the bare feet.
A hit!
A burst of white against the gray, naked shoulder. The giant brushes it away, bends his head to examine the spot. There is no sign. No wound. No blood—if El Espanto has blood.
Another hit—yellow flame and white smoke envelop the bent head! But the giant crouches, apparently unharmed. He leaps upward, toward another diving ship—the fourth of the flying fortresses.
He has caught the war-plane!
For a little time he stands holding it like a toy. He turns it in his fingers, ignoring the rapid-fire cannon battering at his face. Then he flings it to meet the next American bomber. They collide—we feel the shock of a tremendous explosion.
The last flying fortress, meantime, is diving in its turn. But it doesn’t drop its explosive load and veer away, as the others did. It plunges at the side of the giant’s head.
The Americans are going to ram El Espanto!
A weight of sixty tons, ten of them the highest explosives known, diving at nearly four hundred miles an hour! If men can harm the giant—
They have struck!
A blinding glare. A huge burst of gray smoke. Tiny-seeming fragments of wreckage rain toward the giant’s feet. He shakes his head, and straightens—unharmed, invincible.
The giant makes a warning gesture—still without anger on his face, but rather regret. The remaining planes are turning back.
El Espanto is invulnerable. Quito awaits him, undefended.
CHAPTER V
THE city of Quito, however, was spared. Ascending the Cordillera Oriental, the colossal gray figure appeared upon the northern slopes of Cotopaxi. Climbing a little way up the smoking cone, El Espanto looked across the mountain-cradled city.
Desperate confusion filled the ancient streets, as the people began a frantic exodus. But the giant upon the mountain smiled. His great arms made a gesture, as if commanding the fugitives to return. Then he set his face to the eastward, and went back the way he had come.
The evening papers also reported the establishments of an international commission, to lead the world in concerted attack against El Espanto. Members included statesman, industrialists, scientists, and military authorities, from many nations. The chairman—who had placed the entire resources of World Chemical and Steel at the commission’s authority—was J. Hollworthy Cotterstone.
A later edition stated that the giant had been seen again, by a Peruvian scouting plane. The aviators stated that the giant had leveled the summit of a mountain they identified as Canusayacu, and was busy there with some colossal machines. He paused in his work, the men said, and waved them away. They departed without determining the nature or even the material of the unfinished machines.
Another extra, out before midnight, contained the story of a woman who claimed to have witnessed the giant’s birth. She had been discovered by Dr. Eustaquio Griego, who had led an expedition from Lima into the remote Llanganati region, to investigate the quake that preceded the first appearance of the giant.
The Peruvian geologist found evidence of a tremendous recent upheaval on the flank of the mountain. Immediately beneath were the tracks of El Espanto—deep-pressed footprints two hundred feet in length.
Griego came upon the woman in the valley below. She was ill, lying on a cot in a deserted camp. Under his care she recovered consciousness for a short time. But she died before her story could be completed.
She was white. She claimed to be an American citizen and a native of Youngstown, Ohio. She refused to give any name except Marion. Reticent about her past, she said she had come up into the Andes with an Australian named Jethro Johnson, who was searching for Incan treasure. She had lived with Johnson in the vicinity, she admitted, for several years.
For many weeks, she told Griego, the whole region had throbbed steadily, as if to the beating of a great heart. The surface of the earth grew hot. By night, she said, strange pale lights glowed and flickered above the mountain. The native Quechuas had long since fled.
Johnson, she said, had gone out for supplies two weeks before the giant’s birth. She had not seen him since. (Efforts to find Jethro Johnson had failed, the dispatch added. No one of that name was known in Ecuador.)
The giant, the woman said, was born at dawn.
Wakened by the preliminary quakes, she ran out of her tent, fearful of an avalanche. She stared up at the mountain. The color of the dawn was in the sky, and Llanganati was massed against it, black and sinister.
There was indeed a landslide. Masses of stone came roaring down. The mountain split, and intense green light burst through the tissues. Then a mighty arm came forth—the arm of El Espanto.
The arm was burning with a terrible green.
THE giant’s head followed the arm. His shoulders burst through. Then he rested, until the sun had risen. At last he roused again, and dug his hands into the flanks of the mountain, and wrenched his body free.
The quake that followed flung the woman from her feet. For a time she was unconscious, of combined injury and fear. When she came to, the giant was kneeling over her. The green luminescence had gone from his body. It was the bright gray of metal, and his eyes were blue.
“His eyes were kind,” the woman named Marion said. “Love was shining in them. They were like the eyes of God. I thought they could see all my mind, and all my life. Suddenly I was ashamed of the life I had lived. And I was afraid. I cried, and covered my eyes, and lay trembling on the ground.
“Then I felt a flame against me. I looked up again. The giant was still kneeling over me. But his eyes had changed. Now they were angry, terrible. A fire shone out of them, and burned—burned—”
