Hopelessness
All along the line of the American tanks the guns flamed; flame-streaked
fountains of dirt leaped up around the dark shape on the opposite hill
and a burst of fire came from the farmhouse beside it as a misdirected
shell struck it somewhere.
The beam from the unknown enemy snapped off as suddenly as it had come
on, leaving, like lightning, an aching of the eyes behind it. Murray Lee
swung his tank round, making for the reverse slope of the hill to avoid
the light-beam. Crack! The beam came on again--right overhead this time.
It flashed through the tree-tops leaving a trail of fire. He heard a
torn branch bang on the roof of his tank, manipulated the gun to fire at
the source of the beam and discovered that the magazine was empty. As he
bent to snap on the automatic shell-feeding device, a searchlight from
somewhere lashed out toward the black shape that opposed them, then went
off. In the second's glimpse it afforded the enemy appeared as a huge,
polished, fish-shaped object, its mirror-like sides unscarred by the
bombardment it had passed through, its prow bearing a long, prehensible
snout--apparently the source of the light-beam.
Suddenly a shell screamed overhead and the whole scene leaped into
dazzling illumination as it burst just between the enemy tanks and their
own. It must be a shell from the dodos! The federated armies had no
shells that dissolved into burning light like that. Then another and
another, a whole chorus of shells, falling in the village behind them.
Murray had a better look at their opponent in the light. It seemed to
lie flush with the ground; there was no visible means of either support
or propulsion. It was all of twenty feet in diameter, widest near the
head, tapering backward. The questing snout swung to and fro, fixed its
position and discharged another of those lightning-bolts. Off to the
right came the answering crash as it caved in the armor of another of
the luckless whippets. He aimed his gun carefully at the base of the
snout and pulled the trigger; on the side of the monster there appeared
a flash of flame as the shell exploded, then a bright smear of metal--a
direct hit, and not the slightest damage!
Ben Ruby's voice came through the radiophone, cool and masterful. "Pull
out, folks, our guns are no good against that baby. I'm cutting off;
radio positions back to the heavy artillery. Put the railroad guns on."
Murray glanced through the side peep-hole again--one, two, three, four,
five--all the American tanks seemed undamaged. The monster had confined
its attention to the whippets, apparently imagining they were doing the
shooting. He pulled his throttle back, shot the speed up, rumbling down
the hill, toward the village. As he looked back, darkness had closed in;
the brow of the hill, its rows of trees torn and broken by the
light-beam stood between him and the enemy. Before him amid the flaring
light of the enemy shells was a stir of movement, the troops seemed to
be pulling out also.
The tanks rumbled through the streets of Waterford and came to a halt on
a corner behind a stone church which held three machine-gun nests.
Murray could see one of the gunners making some adjustment by the light
of a pocket torch and a wave of pity for the brave man whose weapon was
as useless as a stick swept over him.
A messenger dashed down the street, delivered his missive to someone,
and out of the shadows a file of infantry suddenly popped up and began
to stream back, getting out of range. Then, surrounded by bursts of
artillery fire, illumined by the glare of half a dozen searchlights that
flickered restlessly on and off, the strange thing came over the brow of
the hill.
It halted for a moment, its snout moving about uneasily as though it
were smelling out the way, and as it did so, it was joined by a second.
Neither of them seemed to be in the least disturbed by the shells all
the way from light artillery to six-inch, that were bursting about them,
filling the air with singing fragments. For a moment they stood at ease,
then the left-hand one, the one that had led the advance, pointed its
snout at the village and discharged one of its flaming bolts. It struck
squarely in the center of an old brick house, whose cellar had been
turned into a machine-gun nest. With a roar, the building collapsed, a
bright flicker of flames springing out of the ruins. As though it were a
signal every machine-gun, every rifle in the village opened fire on the
impassive shapes at the crest of the hill. The uproar was terrific; even
in his steel cage Murray could hardly hear himself think.
The shining monster paid no more attention to it than to the rain. One
of them slid gently forward a few yards, turned its trunk toward the
spouting trenches, and in short bursts, loosed five quick bolts; there
were as many spurts of flame, a few puffs of earth and the trenches
became silent, save for one agonized cry, "First aid, for God's sake!"
Ben Ruby's voice came through the microphone. "Retreat everybody.
Atlantic City if you can make it."
* * * * *
With a great, round fear gripping at his heart, Murray Lee threw in the
clutch of his machine and headed in the direction he remembered as that
of the main road through the town toward Atlantic City. The night had
become inky-black; the town was in a valley and the shadow of trees and
houses made the darkness even more Stygian. Only by an occasional match
or flashlight glare could the way be seen, but such light as there was
showed the road already filled with fugitives. Some of them were
helmetless, gunless, men in the last extremity of terror, running
anywhere to escape from they knew not what.
But through the rout there plowed a little company of infantry, revealed
in a shell-burst, keeping tight ranks as though at drill, officers at
the head, not flying, but retreating from a lost battle with good heart
and confidence, ready to fight again the next day. The dancing beam of a
searchlight picked them out for a moment; Murray Lee looked at them and
the fear died within him. He slowed up his machine, ran it off the road
and out to the left where there seemed to be a clearing that opened in
the direction of the town. After all, he could at least observe the
progress of the monsters and report on them.
He was astonished to find that he had come nearly a mile from the center
of the disturbance. Down there, the glittering monsters, still brightly
illumined by searchlight and flare, seemed to be standing still amid the
outer houses of the town, perhaps examining the trench system the
Australians had dug that afternoon. The gunfire on them had ceased. From
time to time one of the things, perhaps annoyed at the pointlessness of
what it saw, would swing its trunk around and discharge a light-bolt at
house, barn or other object. The object promptly caved in, and if it
were wood, began to burn. A little train of the blazing remains of
buildings marked the progress of the shining giants, and threw a weird
red light over the scene.
[Illustration: One of the things would swing its trunk around and
discharge a light-bolt at a house or other object.]
Now that he could see them clearly, Murray noted that they were all of
fifty or sixty feet long. Their polished sides seemed one huge mirror,
bright as glass, and a phosphorescent glow hung about their tails. Along
either side was a slender projection like the bilge-keel of a ship,
terminating about three quarters of the way along, and with a small dot
of the phosphorescence at its tip. They seemed machines rather than
animate objects. Murray wondered whether they were, or (remembering his
own evolution into a metal man) whether they were actually metal
creatures of some unheard-of breed.
As he watched, a battery out beyond the town that had somehow gotten
left behind, opened fire. He could see the red flash-flash-flash of the
guns as they spoke; hear the explosions of the shells as they rent the
ground around the giants. One of them swung impassively toward the
battery; there were three quick stabs of living flame, and the guns
ceased firing. Murray Lee shuddered--were all man's resources, was all
of man, to disappear from the earth? All his high hopes and aspirations,
all the centuries of bitter struggle toward culture to be wiped out by
these impervious beasts?
He was recalled from his dream by the flash of light at his control
board and a voice from the radiophone "... to all units," came the
message. "Railroad battery 14 about to fire on enemy tanks in Waterford.
Request observation for corrections ... General Stanhope to all units.
Railroad battery 14, twelve-inch guns, about to fire on enemy tanks in
Waterford. Request observation for correction...."
"Lieut. Lee, American Tank Corps, to General Stanhope," he called into
the phone. "Go ahead with railroad battery 14. Am observing fire from
east of town."
Even before he had finished speaking there was a dull rumble in the air
and a tremendous heave of earth behind and to one side of the shining
enemy, not two hundred yards away. "Lieut. Lee to railroad battery 14,"
he called, delightedly, "two hundred yards over, ten yards right."
Berrrroum! Another of the twelve-inch shells fell somewhere ahead of the
giants in the village. As Murray shouted the correction one of the metal
creatures lifted its snout toward the source of the explosion curiously
and as if it had not quite understood its meaning, fired a light-beam at
it. Another shell fell, just to one side. A wild hope surging in him, he
called the corrections--these were heavier guns than any that had yet
taken a hand.
"Lieut. Lee, American Tank Corps, to railroad battery 14--Suggest you
use armor-piercing shell. Enemy tanks appear to be armored," he called
and had the comforting reply. "Check, Lieut. Lee. We are using
armor-piercers." Slam! Another of the twelve-inch shells struck, not ten
yards behind the enemy. The ground around them rocked; one of them
turned as though to examine the burst, the other lifted its snout
skyward and released a long, thin beam of blue light, not in the least
like the light-ray. It did not seem to occur to either of them that
these shells might be dangerous. They seemed merely interested.
And then--the breathless watchers in the thickets around the doomed town
saw a huge red explosion, a great flower of flame that leaped to the
heavens, covered with a cloud of thick smoke, pink in the light of the
burning houses, and as it cleared away, there lay one of the monsters on
its side, gaping and rent, the mirrored surface scarred across, the
phosphorescent glow extinguished, the prehensile snout drooping
lifelessly. Murray Lee was conscious of whooping wildly, of dancing out
of his tank and joining someone else in an embrace of delight. They were
not invincible then. They could be hurt--killed!
"Hooray!" he cried, "Hooray!"
"That and twelve times over," said his companion.
The phrase struck him as familiar; for the first time he looked at his
fellow celebrant. It was Gloria.
"Why, where in the world did you come from?" he asked.
"Where did you? I've been here all the time, ever since Ben ordered us
home. Didn't think I'd run out on all the fun, did you? Are those things
alive?"
"How do I know? They look it but you never can tell with all the junk
that comet left around the earth. They might be just some new kind of
tank full of dodos."
"Yeh, but--" The buzzing roar of one of the light-rays crashing into a
clump of trees not a hundred yards away, recalled them to themselves.
Gloria looked up, startled. The other monster was moving slowly forward,
systematically searching the hillside with its weapon.
"Say, boy friend," she said, "I think it's time to go away from here.
See you at high mass."
* * * * *
But the conference at headquarters in Hammonton that night was anything
but cheerful.
"It comes to this, then," said General Grierson, the commander-in-chief
of the expedition. "We have nothing that is effective against these dodo
tanks but the twelve-inch railroad artillery, using armor-piercing shell
and securing a direct hit. Our infantry is worse than useless; the tanks
are useless, the artillery cannot get through the armor of these things,
although it damages the enemy artillery in the back areas."
Ben Ruby rubbed a metal chin. "Well, that isn't quite all, sir. One of
the American tanks was hit and came through--damaged I will admit. The
lightning, or light-ray these dodos threw, penetrated the outer skin but
not the inner. We could build more tanks of this type."
General Grierson drummed on the table. "And arm them with what? You
couldn't mount a twelve-inch gun in a tank if you wanted to, and we
haven't any twelve-inch guns to spare."
One of the staff men looked up. "Has airplane bombing been tried on
these--things. It seems to me that a one or two-thousand pound bomb
would be as effective as a twelve-inch shell."
"That was tried this afternoon," said the head of the air service, with
an expression of pain. "The 138th bombing squadron attacked a group of
these tanks. Unfortunately, the tanks kept within range of their
light-ray artillery and the entire squadron was shot down."
"Mmm," said the staff man. "Let's add up the information we have secured
so far and see where it leads. Now first they have a gun which shoots a
ray which is effective either all along its length or when put up in
packages like a shell, and is rather like a bolt of lightning in its
effect. Any deductions from that?"
"Might be electrical," said someone.
"Also might not," countered Walter Beeville. "Remember the _Melbourne's_
turret. No electrical discharge would produce chemical changes like that
in Krupp steel."
"Second," said the officer, "they appear to have three main types of
fighting machines or individuals. First, there are the dodos themselves.
We know all about them, and our airplanes can beat them. Good....
Second, there is their artillery--a large type that throws a beam of
this emanation and a smaller type which throws it in the form of shells.
Thirdly, there are these--tanks, which may themselves be the individuals
we are fighting. They are capable of projecting these discharges to a
short distance--something over four thousand yards, and apparently do
not have the power of projecting it in a prolonged beam, like their
artillery. They are about fifty feet long, fish-shaped, heavily armored
and have some unknown method of propulsion. Check me if I'm wrong at any
point."
"The projection of these lightning-rays would seem to indicate they are
machines," offered General Grierson hopefully.
"Not on your life," said Beeville, "think of the electric eel."
"As I was saying," said the staff man, "our chief defect seems a lack of
information, and--"
General Grierson brought his fist down on the table. "Gentlemen!" he
said. "This discussion is leading us nowhere. It's all very well to
argue about the possibilities of man or machine in time of peace and at
home, but we are facing one of the greatest dangers the earth has ever
experienced, and must take immediate measures. Unless someone has
something more fruitful to develop than this conference has provided
thus far, I shall be forced to order the re-embarkation of what remains
of the army and sail for home. My duty is to the citizens of the
federated governments, and I cannot uselessly sacrifice more lives. Our
supply of railroad artillery is utterly inadequate to withstand the
numbers of our adversaries. Has anyone anything to offer?"
There was a silence around the conference table, a silence pregnant with
a heavy sense of defeat, for no one of them but could see the General
was right.
But at that moment there came a tap at the door. "Come," called General
Grierson. An apologetic under-officer entered. "I beg your pardon, sir,
but one of the iron Americans is here and insists that he has something
of vital importance for the General. He will not go away without seeing
you."
"All right. Bring him in."
There stepped into the room another of the mechanical Americans, but a
man neither Ben Ruby nor Beeville had ever seen before. A stiff wire
brush of moustache stood out over his mouth; he wore no clothes but a
kind of loin-cloth made, apparently, of a sheet. The metal plates of his
powerful body glittered in the lamp-light as he stepped forward.
"General Grierson?" he inquired, looking from one face to another.
"I am General Grierson."
"I'm Lieutenant Herbert Sherman of the U. S. Army Air Service. I have
just escaped from the Lassans and came to offer you my services. I
imagine your technical men might wish to know how they operate their
machines and what would be effective against them, and I think I can
tell you."