Flight!
But when Tholfsen and Murray returned with the coal, Vanderschoof was
missing as well as Stevens, and that evening when the car in which Marta
Lami had accompanied Roberts on the exploration of the Brooklyn Heights
district drew up at the Institute, it had only one occupant.
"What happened to Miss Lami?" asked Ben.
Roberts gazed at him, surprised. "Didn't you send them? While we were at
the St. George Hotel a car came along with Stevens and two of those new
men in it. One was the Greek. They spoke to her for a minute and she
said they brought a message from you that she was to go with them."
"M-hm," said Ben. "I see. Well, as long as they don't come back, it's
all right."
* * * * *
The car whirled out the Albany Post Road in a silence that was
indicative of the rivalry that had already sprung up between Stevens and
Vanderschoof. As for Pappagourdas he found himself demoted to the
position of a "yes man."
They had provided themselves with a liberal supply of guns and
ammunition, and with the foolish conservatism of the very rich, refusing
to believe that money was valueless, had raided store after store until
they had acquired a considerable supply of currency.
"This is the Bear Mountain Bridge, isn't it?" said the dancer. "Let's
stop at West Point and pick up a cadet. They're so ornamental."
Stevens glanced at her sourly from the wheel. "We've got to hurry if we
want to get to Albany," he said.
"Still," offered Vanderschoof protectingly, "why not stop at the Point?
We might find some people there. I know Colonel Grayson. Played golf
with him there last summer. Ha, ha! When I holed out an eighteen-footer
at the seventh, he was so mad, he wouldn't speak to me all the rest of
the afternoon. It was the turning point of the battle. Ha, ha!"
Stevens, with a grunt, swung the wheel round and began the ascent of the
long bridge ramp. He realized he had been outmaneuvered. To cover his
retreat, he remarked, "Isn't that a bird?"
"The high muck-a-muck said something about birds last night," said the
dancer, "but he's such a Holy Joe that I didn't pay any attention."
"Aren't the birds all dead?" asked the Greek, respectfully. "I saw some
in the gutter outside my window and they were turned to iron."
* * * * *
The car coughed to the rise, made it and slid across the bridge.
"It is a bird," said the dancer, "and what a bird! Papa, look at the
ostrich."
Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof followed her pointing finger. Along its
direction they saw, a couple of hundred feet behind and above them, the
widespread wings and heavy body of the same type of four-winged bird
Roberts had encountered. Vanderschoof tugged at his pocket. "Maybe it'll
come close enough to give us a shot," he said hopefully.
The bird was certainly gaining on them, though the speedometer of the
car had risen beyond forty miles an hour. As it drew nearer, they could
make out the high-domed, most un-birdlike head set with pop-eyes fixed
in a permanent expression of astonishment, the short bill, slightly
hooked at the tip, and the huge expanse of the wings. It seemed to be
inspecting them as a smaller avian might inspect a bug crawling across a
road.
As it drew nearer, it swooped to within a couple dozen feet of the car;
they noticed that its feet, folded back beneath the body, had a metallic
luster. Then Vanderschoof fired, with a bang that almost deafened the
rest. The bird seemed surprised rather than frightened or resentful. At
the sound of the gun it bounded upward a few feet and then swung again,
moving along parallel with the car and twisting its neck to take a good
look at the passengers. The chance was too good to be missed; both
Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof fired this time, steadying themselves
against the motion of the car. One of the shots evidently went home, for
a couple of feathers floated down, and the bird, with a series of
ear-piercing squawks, spiralled down the side of the mountain toward the
river-bank, three or four hundred feet below.
"Bull's eye!" yelled Pappagourdas. "Gimme the cigar! Let's stop the car
and go get it."
"What's the use," said Stevens, "you couldn't eat it, anyway. Listen to
him yell, would you?"
Above the sound of the motor the screeching of the wounded bird still
reached them faintly from the bottom of the cliff.
"I think it's a damn shame to shoot up the poor thing," said Marta Lami.
"Oh, he'll be all right," declared Vanderschoof. "Don't believe we
touched anything but one wing, and it'll just sit and eat ground-berries
till it gets well."
It was perhaps half an hour later, and the distant hills were beginning
to acquire a fine powder of dusk when they saw the second bird--a
rapidly moving speck, far behind them and to one side of the road.
Vanderschoof saw it first and called the attention of the rest, but they
quickly lost interest.
He continued to observe it. Were there two? He thought so, yet--. A
moment later he was sure there was more than one, as the car breasted a
rise and gave them a better view. They seemed to be following fast. The
ridiculous idea that they meant to do something about their fallen
comrade came to him, to be dismissed instantly. Yet the birds were
certainly following them and he thought he made out a third, behind the
others.
The car coasted down a long slope, crossed a bridge and began to go up a
hairpin rise. Vanderschoof looked back. The birds were invisible; he
looked again, in the right direction this time and saw them, so much
larger and nearer that he cried out. The others ceased their low-voiced
conversation at the sound of his voice. "What's the matter, papa?" asked
the dancer.
"Those birds. Look."
"Why it looks almost as though they were following us."
She sat upright in the seat and squinted at them under an upraised hand.
The queer birds were close enough now so that the difference between
their fore-wings and the steadily beating hind wings could be made out.
"You don't suppose they could be mad at us?" she asked.
"Don't be foolish," said Stevens, without turning around. "Birds aren't
intelligent enough for that." A long straight stretch lay before him and
he let the car out. Vanderschoof, watching with a trace of anxiety, saw
the birds also put on more speed. "They are following us," he declared
with conviction.
"Look," said Marta Lami, "that one is carrying something, too."
As she spoke, the bird, flying high, gained a position just above and
ahead of the car, dropped the object and instantly wheeled off and down
to one side. There was a heavy thud on the road ahead, and a big rock
bounded and rolled a score of feet before the car.
Marta Lami screamed. Vanderschoof swore, with feeling. "Get out your
guns and drive them off," said Stevens. "You fools, why did you have to
shoot at them in the first place?"
Before he had finished speaking Vanderschoof had his revolver out and
was firing at the second of the birds, now swinging into position above
them with another rock. He missed, but the bird, surprised, dropped its
burden too soon, and they had the satisfaction of seeing it bounce among
the trees at the right of the road.
"Keep after them, that's right," said Stevens. "We're not far from the
Point and we can get under cover there."
* * * * *
Both the men in the back were shooting now--Vanderschoof slowly and with
deliberate aim; Pappagourdas in a panic-stricken rafale at the third
bird, which, higher than the others, paid not the slightest attention to
them but jockeyed for position. Stevens began to twist the steering
wheel--the car described a fantastic series of zigzags.
"What are they?" he asked. "I never saw anything like them."
"I don't know," replied Vanderschoof. (Bang!) "Like the condors (Bang!)
I used to see in South America, only bigger."
Crash! The third rock burst in a shower of fragments not ten feet away,
one piece striking the windshield with a ping, and sending a long
diagonal crack across it. The first of the three birds was swinging up
again with another rock, screeching hoarse communications at the others.
Marta Lami had fallen silent. As the bird began to circle above them,
picking its position, Pappagourdas suddenly ceased firing, with a curse.
"Have you got any more bullets?" he asked. "Mine are all gone...." His
voice broke suddenly, half-hysterical, "It is the cranes of Ibicos," he
cried.
The stone struck behind them. Evidently the bird had a healthy respect
for Vanderschoof's aim, which had kept it at such a height that it could
not aim accurately. But as the next stone missed they changed their
tactics, screaming to each other. The third bird, whose turn it was to
drop a stone, merely flew along parallel with them, high enough to be
out of range, waiting for the return of the others. When they arrived,
all three strung out in a line and released their rocks simultaneously.
There was a resounding crash, the car reeled perilously on the edge of
the steep road, then righted and drove on with a clattering bang.
Looking over the side Vanderschoof could see where the big rock had
struck the right running board, tearing a foot or two of it loose to
trail on the road.
"Wait," he cried, but Stevens shook his head.
They had a bit of luck at this point. The hunt for more stones or
something of the kind delayed their enemies, and when they next saw the
birds winging up behind them, the white classical lines of the West
Point administration building already loomed ahead, clear in the
gathering gloom.
Stevens turned in, swung the car around at the door, and halted it with
screaming brakes, just as the first of the birds overhead overshot the
mark and turned to come back. In an instant the banker was out of the
car, dragging at Marta Lami's hand. Vanderschoof climbed numbly out the
other side, and ran around the car toward the door of the building, but
the Greek missed his footing where the running board should have been
and fell prone, just as one of the birds dived down with a yell of
triumph and dropped his stone accurately onto the struggling man.
"Run!" shouted Stevens.
"But--the Greek," panted Vanderschoof as they climbed the steps.
"Hell with him. Or here--wait." Stevens turned and thrust his fist
through the glass upper portion of the door. Out in the dusk the three
bird-forms were settling round their fallen foe. The flash of the
banker's gun stabbed the night and was answered by a scream. Before he
could take aim again, with a quick beat of wings, they were gone and
when, daring greatly, he ran out a few moments later, he found that
Pappagourdas was gone also.
* * * * *
He found the others on one of the benches in the outer office of the
building, the girl with her face buried in her hands in an agony of
fright and reaction. Vanderschoof, too old and cool a hand to give way
in this fashion, looked up.
"What are they, Stevens?" he asked.
The Wall Street man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "I don't know,"
he said. "Some new kind of high-power bird that developed while we were
all being made into machines by that comet, I suppose. It's terrible....
They've got the Greek."
"Can't we get after them? There ought to be airplanes here."
"In this light? Can you fly one? I can't and I don't imagine the little
girl here can."
The "little girl" lifted her head. She had recovered. "What did we come
to this joint for, anyhow?" she asked. "To hang crêpe on the
chandeliers?"
The words had the effect of an electric shock.
"Why, of course," said Stevens, "we did come here to see if we could
find someone, didn't we?" and turning round he pushed open the door into
the next room. Nothing.
"Wait," he said. "Not much use trying to do anything tonight. We haven't
any flashlights."
"Aw, boloney," said the dancer, "what do you want us to do? Sit here and
count our fingers? Go on, big boy, find a garage, you can get a light
from one of the cars."
"Won't those birds see it?"
"You got a yellow streak a mile wide, haven't you? Birds sleep at
night."
Stevens took a half-unwilling step toward the door. "Let me come with
you," said Vanderschoof, rising.
"What's the matter, papa? You got a little yellow in you, too?"
He was dignified. "Not at all. Here I'll leave my gun with you, Miss
Lami."
"We'll be seeing you," said Stevens, over his shoulder. "Don't worry."
And they were gone.
To the dancer their absence was endless. She would have given anything
for the velvet kick of a good drink of gin--"but I suppose it would burn
out my bearings," she mused ruefully. Heavens, she must spend the rest
of her days as a robot. In the fading light she ruefully contemplated
the legs that had delighted the audiences of two continents, now become
ingenious mechanical devices beyond the power of delighting anyone but
their owner.
More clearly than the rest, she realized that very little was left of
the old relation between the sexes. What would happen when the forceful
Stevens made the discovery also? Probably he would make a thinking robot
of her to serve his ambition. Well, she had chosen to go with them--they
seemed to offer more amusement than the stuffy prigs of the colony....
What was that?
She listened intently. A subdued rattling, slightly metallic in
character. It might be a rat--no, too mechanical. The men--probably it
was them, or one of them, returning. She glanced out of the window. Not
there. The sound again--not from outdoors, but behind her--within the
room? She gripped the gun Vanderschoof had given her. Rattle, rattle.
She wished furiously for a light.
The birds? No--birds sleep at night. Rattle, rattle. Persistently. She
stood up, trying to pierce the gathering dimness. No, the birds would
make more noise. They moved surely, with hoarse screams, as though they
thought themselves the lords of the world. This sound was small, like
the chatter of a mechanical rat. What new horror in this strange world
might it not conceal? On slenderest tiptoes she backed cautiously across
the rug toward the outer door. Better the chance of the birds than this
unknown terror of the darkness.
Holding the gun before her firmly, she stepped back, back, feeling with
one hand for the door. Her hand met its smooth surface, then clicked as
the metallic joints came in contact with the doorknob. She paused,
breathless. Rattle, rattle, went the small sound, undiscouraged.
With a sudden jerk she flung the door open and tumbled down the steps,
half-falling, and as she fell, as though in answer to the metallic clang
of her body on the stone, a long pencil of violet light sprang silently
out from somewhere back in the hills, moved thrice across the sky and
then faded as swiftly as it had come.
She felt the beam of a flashlight in her eyes, and got up, hearing her
voice with a sort of inward surprise as it babbled something slightly
incoherent about "things--in there."
Stevens' voice, rough with irritation. "What is it you're saying?" He
shook her arm. "Come on, little woman, pull yourself together."
"There must be someone else around here," remarked Vanderschoof,
irrelevantly. "Did you see that searchlight?"
Marta Lami pulled herself up short, shaking loose the hand with a touch
of the arrogance that had made her the queen of the night life of New
York.
"Something in there gives me the heeby-jeebies," she said, pointing.
"Sounds like some guy shooting craps with himself."
* * * * *
Stevens laughed, somewhat forcedly. "Well, it's nothing to be scared of,
unless it's one of those damn birds, and if it was that he'd be taking
us apart now. Come on!"
He flung the door open and plunged in, the flashlight flickering before
him. Empty.
There was a door at the further end, next to the one they had
investigated before. Toward this he strode, clump, clump on the carpet,
and flung it open likewise. Empty again. No, there was something. The
questing beam came to rest on a brown army tunic behind the desk,
followed it up quickly to the face and there held. For, staring at them
with mechanical fixity was another of those simulations of the human
face in metal with which they were by now, so familiar. But this one was
different.
For it held the balance between the walking cartoons of men in metal,
such as they themselves were, and the ugly and solid statues they had
seen strewn about the streets of New York. It had the metal bands across
the forehead that they possessed, above which issued the same wiry hair,
but in this case curiously interwoven as though subjected to some great
heat and melted into a single mass. And the nose was all of solid metal,
and the eyes--the eyes ... were the eyes of a statue, giving back no
lustrous reflexion of glass.
A moment they paused breathless, then stepped forward, and as the beam
of light shifted when Stevens moved, rattle, rattle, came the sound
Marta Lami had heard, and when the light went back those unseeing eyes
had moved.
For a few seconds no one spoke. Then:
"Good God, it's alive!" said Vanderschoof in a hushed voice and a thrill
of horror went through the others as they recognized the truth of his
words.
Stevens broke the spell, stepping swiftly to the desk. "Can we do
anything for you?" he asked. No movement from the metal figure--only
that ghastly rustle of the eyes as they turned here and there in the
fixed head, searching for the light they would never find again. The
Wall Street man lifted one of the hands, tried to flex the arm that held
it. It dropped back to the deck with a crash. Yet the metal of which
they were composed seemed in itself to be as pliant as that of their own
arms.
A feeling of wonderment mingled with the horror of the spectators.
"What happened to him?" asked Marta Lami in a whisper as though she
feared awakening a sleeper.
Stevens shrugged. "What's happened to all of us? He's alive, I tell you.
Let's ... get out of here. I don't like it."
"But where to?" asked Vanderschoof.
"Follow the Albany road," said Stevens. "We ought to move on. If those
birds come back in the morning--" he left the sentence unfinished.
"But what about this poor egg?" asked Marta Lami.
"Leave him," said Stevens, then suddenly giving way, "there's too much
mystery about this whole business around here. I'm going, I tell you,
going. You can stay here till you rot if you like. I'm clearing out."