Time Travel Omnibus, page 64
He was taken from the kindergarten. His nurse, Nana, in her starched gingham dress, became the centre of his tiny world. On bright days they walked in the park; Nana would point at a great gray monster and say “elephant,” and Benjamin would say it after her, and when he was being undressed for bed that night he would say it over and over aloud to her: “Elyphant, elyphant, elyphant.” Sometimes Nana let him jump on the bed, which was fun, because if you sat down exactly right it would bounce you up on your feet again, and if you said “Ah” for a long time while you jumped you got a very pleasing broken vocal effect.
He loved to take a big cane from the hatrack and go around hitting chairs and tables with it and saying: “Fight, fight, fight.” When there were people there the old ladies would cluck at him, which interested him, and the young ladies would try to kiss him, which he submitted to with mild boredom. And when the long day was done at five o’clock he would go upstairs with Nana and be fed oatmeal and nice soft mushy foods with a spoon.
There were no troublesome memories in his childish sleep; no token came to him of his brave days at college, of the glittering years when he flustered the hearts of many girls. There were only the white, safe walls of his crib and Nana and a man who came to see him sometimes, and a great big orange ball that Nana pointed at just before his twilight bed hour and called “sun.” When the sun went his eyes were sleepy—there were no dreams, no dreams to haunt him.
The past—the wild charge at the head of his men up San Juan Hill; the first years of his marriage when he worked late into the summer dusk down in the busy city for young Hildegarde whom he loved;
the days before that when he sat smoking far into the night in the gloomy old Button house on Monroe Street with his grandfather—all these had faded like unsubstantial dreams from his mind as though they had never been.
He did not remember. He did not remember clearly whether the milk was warm or cool at his last feeding or how the days passed—there was only his crib and Nana’s familiar presence. And then he remembered nothing. When he was hungry he cried—that was all. Through the noons and nights he breathed and over him there were soft mumblings and murmurings that he scarcely heard, and faintly differentiated smells, and light and darkness.
Then it was all dark, and his white crib and the dim faces that moved above him, and the warm sweet aroma of the milk, faded out altogether from his mind.
THE DEVIL OF THE WESTERN SEA
Philip M. Fisher
Time rolled back four centuries before the startled eyes of the Destroyer Shoshone’s crew. Were they trapped forever in the past, or had they sailed into an eerie time-mirage from which they could escape?
Foreword
EVENTS of the past sometimes have in them things strangely prophetic of the present. Some one will probably say to that statement: “Oh, yes, Ben Franklin, with his kite string, brought electricity from the clouds to his finger tips—and now we have the radio. What of that?”
But I do not mean the statement to be construed that way. Were I to re-word the thought, then, I might better say and perhaps more clearly, that there are certain strange occurrences of the years gone by that may be linked with, and are peculiarly explainable by, certain perhaps unusual events of today.
Please do not take that last as a gratuitous insult. The blame of it lies with me. I simply desire to be clear; to be very clear, indeed, for I wish all to understand with the same clarity that I understand myself, so that you, too, may come to agree with me in my conclusion.
There have been strange incidents in the past. There are strange events of today. It is my belief, sincere and frank, that between certain of those of the past and these of the present there lies a definite and explainable relationship.
There is in the archives of La Academia de Historia in Madrid, a manuscript, penned in a monkish hand upon parchment brittle and yellowing with age, that tells of one event of the past. It is one of many written by the professional historian, Francisco Verdugo de Coloma, and bears the quaintly charactered date of: 12 de Abril del aho 1564. It is entitled: Otra Occur encia Mysteriosa de los Mares Occidentales. And that it cites a case in point, the case in point, is my frank and whole-souled belief.
The following excerpt, a rather crude translation I fear, contains the very pertinent resume that I would bring to your attention. Read it if you will, and carry its simple story with you as you continue on. And pardon if I persist and repeat. I want you to understand, and, when you finish, agree.
. . . And thus, gray and forbidding, it rushed upon them. A monster of the deep, high-headed and huge, lean-bodied, and in length even as the greatest ship of the fleet; and as it approached in the dying sun, taking on by its awful witchcraft something of the appearance of a diabolic serpent ship—glowing, fiery eyes from head to tail, spouting black smoke as it roared down upon His Majesty’s vessels, and snorting and bellowing as with rage at this invasion of its hunting grounds.
In pious supplication they fell upon their knees and begged forgiveness of Beloved Mary and of God and the Son of God, and the priests gave to all the final sacraments, then made exhortation that this hellish demon be conquered by the guns. Thus the fleet belched forth all its artillery, and the priests on bow and poop displayed the crucifix, and pronounced the curse of God.
At this the monster swerved, somewhat from its onward rush so as to point its great head upon the middle of the fleet.
The horrid panting of its breath came clearly across the waters, and a raucous, intermittent note as of sobbing reached their ears. Whereupon the priests exhorted with redoubled effort, and held the crucifix on high, and the cannon roared again.
At this the fiery eyes of the devil tight closed, and it emitted a scream as of the fear of God. Yet it rushed on and on, cleaving the sea and piling wave upon wave—then passed through our fleet, disturbing the equilibrium of the galleons with the lashings of its tail so that the priest Francisco de Casceres fell into the sea bearing his crucifix with him, and then he disappeared from sight.
At this all men fell upon their knees and besought mercy, thinking they were assuredly lost. And as by fear of the Power of Powers the monster bellowed again, and disappeared in the falling night. And all prayed in thanksgiving.
One hour later came another visitation.
A great white eye appeared, and swept the seas as in searching. It fell upon one galleon, and fixed upon it, growing ever greater and more blinding in the intensity of its devilish glare. Again the guns of the fleet belched forth, and this time the monster eye dimmed.
Shortly, mid awful fires, the Cristobal was seen to tear asunder, and a terrific bellowing roar shook the fleet. The eye peered forth again upon where the Cristobal had been, then dimmed once more. Again the same-volcanic roar that shook the sea, and the Maria Nuestra blew asunder, and. disappeared. And then another ship, and another, and still others, until eleven of His Majesty’s galleons were gone beneath the sea.
In the darkness it seemed that the power of God were as naught before this thing of Satan, and the one galleon afloat, that of the vice-admiral of the fleet, and bearing the choicest treasure from Darien, silenced its guns and fled, hoping that God in His mercy would save them.
But the burning eye sought this last out, and with a great snorting and puffing the monster suddenly appeared and cried out in the voice of man speaking in a bastard Spanish tongue, saying that it was a friend. Whereupon all men fell upon their knees—the devil of the sea, in the clothing of a serpent-ship, ranged alongside, closed in with the galleon, and in a moment more the decks were alive with strangely clad, man-like demons to, the number of two hundred. And all crossed themselves, believing that their day had come. But with the deceiving smiles of Satan these manlike spirits of evil made friendly approaches; and undaunted by the courageous priest, proceeded as by preconceived command to different parts of the ship.
Some, much beguiled upon the arms, sought out the vice-admiral. Others brought up the treasure. Others still released the English pirate prisoners, and spirited them with the treasure onto the monster itself. Others attached iron ropes to the bow of the galleon and thence to the tail of the loudly breathing demon, whose stench had all but overcome the crew.
And shortly all the man-like things save sixteen returned to the monster, which, with much blowing and stench of smoke, proceeded on again, with His Majesty’s ship helpless in tow.
Thus, for the space of twelve hours, when land appeared ahead, and buildings ashore which our officers declared to be of the New World city of Darien in the Panama, which they had left two days before.
Whereupon the sixteen man-like demons bade the anchor be dropped, and our viceadmiral, helpless under the spell they had cast upon him, complied. The great monster gave a screeching roar, and halted too, close aboard.
Thus for perhaps five minutes, when of a sudden the creature dissolved from sight. And the sixteen man-like demons on board the galleon vanished before the very eyes of our men.
Five men were seen struggling in the waters in the very space where the demon had last lain—but our own vessel heeded them not, believing it but another trick of evil. In haste the anchor was gotten up, and the galleon, favored by winds and the grace of God, made away with all sail. Truly the seas of Las Indias Occidentales are in the power of Satan, and it behooves His Majesty well that great fleets be sent with soldiery and priests to rid the water and the land of his evil—
Enough of the manuscript, with its story of the long past year, 1564. Two other paragraphs of it I have reserved to the end. They are more fitting in conclusion than as preface to the rather extraordinary event of the present day that follows.
Chapter I
SILENCE
THE door of the flagship’s radio shack opened softly, and the squadron commander himself stepped in.
At the men’s startled looks and movement as to arise, he shook his head and put his finger to his lips. His eyes went swiftly about the little room, then he bent quickly and pulled out a bucket, which he inverted, and sat upon. For a moment he pressed his temples, rubbing them gently as though some slight pain beat in them, or as a man might to soothe a growing perplexity. Then he drew from the pocket of his white coat a radio blank, white, with red lettering, and pored over, and over again, the three short lines in black typing that constituted the message sent up to him the night before. His eyes flashed once to the clock on the port bulkhead over the phones. And his lips moved slowly for the first time.
“Three—o’clock!”
The words were barely audible, yet the startled glances of the two operators betrayed their alertness, and that they had heard—and understood.
In the silence the squadron commander watched the radio officer as he tuned and retuned, as the key punctuated the hot hiss of the sparkling apparatus.
Suddenly the officer reached and pulled the switch that broke the sending contacts. Then he jerked off the head gear with a grunted oath.
“Not a damn thing, Biggins!”
The first class radio electrician leaped from his seat on the desk by the phones. “Sir?”
“Either I’m crazy, Biggins, or their radio is on the bum, or they’ve gone to the bottom of the sea with all hands. Take the watch—you know the stuff better than I do. Keep tryin’, every second on the jump. You know what the matter is now, and we’ve got to get something or the old man’ll go crazy with all—”
Something in Biggins’ eyes made him swing about. At sight of the squadron commander he stopped short, his eyes wide open, his jaw dropped.
“Captain, I—”
The squadron commander raised his hand with a smile, nodding toward the set. “Nothing, Gordon?”
Lieutenant Gordon shook his head. “Not a single word, captain. Not a single word. I don’t understand it. They were in first rate condition when they went out. The experiments went O.K. And that message came through—that—”
“I know,” said the captain, “Tuned to perfection. Quite ready to try it out.” There was a short silence, broken only by the hiss of the spark as Biggins sent out the call.
The squadron commander cleared his throat. “You are quite sure this set is in working order?”
Lieutenant Gordon nodded emphatically.
“Absolutely, sir. I tested that out this morning at eleven. Had ’em semaphore to the Apache to open up, and we exchanged spark and phone for ten minutes. We’re all right, captain, I know that. It’s this other—thing. This—”
“The Apache’s pretty close. How about your distance?”
The squadron commander shook his head in perplexity.
“Got Guantanamo with the spark at eleven-thirty, captain. I know we’re all right, sir,” insisted the lieutenant. “Better let one of the other ships try to reach them.”
“I did, sir.” Gordon threw out his hands. “Between twelve noon and two o’clock, I had four of ’em open up in half-hour watches. They couldn’t get a thing, sir. And since then I’ve been at the set myself. And still nothing doing. It’s three fifteen now.”
“They were due at eight o’clock this morning,” the captain mused aloud. His eyes flashed to the clock. “And now—three sixteen. Seven hours since they should have dropped anchor. And nothing but silence since nine o’clock last night.” Slowly his black eyes met Gordon’s. “Their position when they sent this message would put them not a hundred and sixty miles due east, at the most. One hundred and sixty miles—at fifteen knots—ten hours. They should have anchored before eight this morning.”
GORDON stared at him in sympathy.
The thing had been done by department order. It was not the squadcom’s fault in any possible way. But, still, he had the responsibility.
“That—that message—” Gordon nodded to the radio blank—“it says that the experiment was successful, doesn’t it, sir?” The captain nodded heavily.
Gordon went on. “The Cheyenne and the Hopi got in at two. Nothing from them, sir? They found nothing?”
“Nothing, Gordon.”
The radio officer swung about to Biggins, who was now listening, his head cocked to one side, one hand upon the wave dial, in the other a pencil ready at the pad. “Anything doing, Biggins?”
The first class lifted one ear receiver. “What’s that, sir?”
“Do you get anything?”
“Not a thing, sir. It’s just kind of—silent, sir.”
Chapter II
RADIO
WHEN Professor Antonio Callieri first brought his discovery to the Navy Department he was listened to with patient interest. But when he was finally ushered to the door his heart was heavy within him. He had failed utterly.
He knew what wide sweeping effect upon all radio communication his discovery would have. He knew of the inestimable value it would be to any single world power into whose hands its secret would fall. And to America, the America that had done so much for world peace, he had dearly wished that secret to come. He swore within himself that he would yet persist. He would try again. And to that end he must get some one trusted by the United States Navy to help him.
Professor Callieri finally found his man. And through the medium of this man’s understanding and his high influence, the navy came into control of the secret of what has come to be known as the Callieri Cool Wave.
Of the secret itself we have but little to say here, save for the fact that through it the strange relationship between events of the past and certain ones of the present have come, in my mind, at least, to be as clear as day.
Suffice it to say, then, that through the sifting of the ordinary electric wave through a peculiar, tube-like device, it was made possible to send through the ether a new type of wave impulse which could not be picked up by any other apparatus than one embodying with it the Callieri Detector. That should be sufficient—by its medium the intricate processes of coding and decoding messages in time of war might be entirely obviated. Messages could be transmitted in the ordinary manner, alien ears could not even detect their presence in the atmosphere, and alien minds would be none the wiser.
A destroyer was fitted with a sending and a receiving set. Another destroyer simply had the detector.
The place chosen for the experimental work was the Caribbean side of the Isthmus of Panama, and the work was to go on in a natural way, so that no outsider might suspect. The destroyer Shoshone, in whose radio shack had been connected the complete apparatus, was simply to proceed to sea for a couple of days’ engine trial; the destroyer Osage, with the Callieri Detector only, would remain at anchor off Colon. The Shoshone would send, the Osage receive. If at any time during the trials it was deemed necessary to communicate from the Osage side, it were but by the simple cutting of an electrical contact that the ordinary radio would be put into play.
As suggested, it was done.
At eight on the morning of March 6, the Shoshone put to sea, fully equipped. The day was peaceful, weather no warmer than as ordinarily in the tropics, sea placid and gleaming like cut sheet lead under the slanting rays of the early sun. The meteorological observatory for the canal prophesied calm conditions, with no appreciable change in temperature. It seemed a splendid day for the experiment.
Everything turned out as Professor Callieri had declared it would. The Shoshone sent continuously, alternating between the usual radio wave and the new type. The Osage received all the messages sent. The Apache, lying at anchor within three hundred yards of the Osage, received only the messages coming by the ordinary medium. Between were blanks. No sound. Nothing to work on. Nothing to tune in. Simply blanks of utter radio silence. But the Osage caught all, and with the Callieri Detector filled in the blanks.
