Capture
Herbert Sherman had wakened with a vague sense of something wrong and
lay back in his seat for a moment, trying to remember. Everything seemed
going quietly, the machine running with subdued efficiency.... It came
to him with a jerk--he could not hear the motor. With that subconscious
concentration of the flying man on his ship, he glanced at the
instrument board first, and taking in the astonishing information that
both the altimeter and the air-speed meter registered zero, he looked
over the side. His vision met the familiar dentilated line of the
buildings surrounding the Jackson Heights airport, with a tree plastered
greenly against one of them. Queer.
His sense of memory began to return. There was the night-mail flight
from Cleveland; the spot of light ahead that grew larger and larger like
the most enormous of shooting stars, the sensation of sleepiness.... He
remembered setting the controls to ride out the short remainder of the
journey with the automatic pilot on the Jackson Heights' radio beam,
since he was clearly not going to make Montauk. But what came after
that?
Then another oddity struck his attention. He recalled very clearly that
he had been flying over the white landscape of winter--but now there was
a tree in full leaf. Something was wrong. He clambered hastily from the
cockpit.
As he swung himself over the side, his eye caught the glint of an
unfamiliar high-light on the back of his hand and with the same
stupefaction that Murray Lee was contemplating the same phenomenon
several miles away, he perceived that instead of a flesh-and-blood
member he had somehow acquired an iron hand. The other one was the
same--and the arm--and the section of stomach which presently appeared
when he tore loose his shirt to look at it.
The various possibilities that might account for it raced through his
mind, each foundering on some fundamental difficulty. Practical
joke--imagination--insanity--what else? Obviously some time had elapsed.
But how about the ground staff of the airport? He shouted. No answer.
Muttering a few swears to himself he trudged across the flying field,
noting that it was grown up with daisies and far from newly rolled, to
the hangars. He shouted again. No answer. No one visible. He pounded at
the door, then tried it. It was unlocked. Inside someone sat tilted back
in a chair against the wall, a cap pulled over his face. Sherman walked
over to the sleeper, favoring him with a vigorous shake and the word,
"Hey!"
To his surprise the stranger tilted sharply over to one side and went to
the floor with a bang, remaining in the position he had assumed.
Sherman, the thought of murder jumping in his head, bent over, tugging
at the cap. The man was as metallic as himself, but of a different
kind--a solid statue cast in what seemed to be bronze.
"For Heaven's sake!" said Herbert Sherman to himself and the world at
large.
There seemed to be nothing in particular he could do about it; the man,
if he had ever been a man, and was not part of some elaborate scheme of
flummery fixed up for his benefit, was beyond human aid. However there
was one way in which all difficulties could be solved. The sun was high
and the town lay outside the door.
... He spent a good deal of the day wandering about Jackson Heights,
contemplating such specimens of humanity as remained in the streets,
fixed in the various ungraceful and unattractive attitudes of life. He
had always been a solitary and philosophical soul, and he felt neither
loneliness nor overwhelming curiosity as to the nature of the
catastrophe which had stopped the wheels of civilization. He preferred
to meditate on the vanity of human affairs and to enjoy a sense of
triumph over the ordinary run of bustling mortals who had always
somewhat irritated him.
In justice to Herbert Sherman it should be remarked that he felt no
trepidation as to the outcome of this celestial joke on the inhabitants
of the world. Beside being an aviator he was a competent mechanic, and
he proved the ease with which he could control his new physique by
sitting down in a restaurant next to the bronze model of a sleepy cat,
removing one shoe and sock and proceeding to take out and then replace
the cunningly concealed finger-nut which held his ankle in position,
marvelling at how any chemical or other change could have produced a
threaded bolt as an integral part of the human anatomy.
Toward evening, he returned to the flying field and examined his
machine. One wing showed the effect of weathering, but it was an
all-metal Roamer of the latest model and it had withstood the ordeal
well. The gasoline gauge showed an empty tank, but it was no great task
to get more from the big underground tanks at the field. Oil lines and
radiators seemed all tight and when he swung the propeller, the motor
purred for him like a cat.
With a kind of secret satisfaction gurgling within him Herbert Sherman
taxied across the field, put the machine into a climb, and went forth to
have a look at New York.
He thought he could see smoke over central Manhattan and swung the
Roamer in that direction. The disturbance seemed to be located at the
old Metropolitan Opera House which, as he approached it, seemed to have
been burning, but had now sunk to a pile of glowing embers. The fire
argued human presence of some kind. He took more height and looked down.
Times Square held a good many diminutive dots, but they didn't seem to
be moving.
* * * * *
He swung over to examine the downtown section. All quiet. When he
returned he saw a car dodging across Forty-Second Street and realizing
that he could find human companionship whenever he needed it, which he
did not at present, he returned to the flying field.
At this point It occurred to him to be hungry. Reasoning the matter out
in the light of his mechanical experience, he drank a pint or more of
lubricating oil and searched for a place to spend the night. Not being
sleepy he raided a drug store where books were sold, for as much of its
stock as he could use, and arranging one of the flares at the field in a
position convenient for reading, he settled down for the night. In the
course of it he twice tried smoking and found that his new make-up had
ruined his taste for tobacco.
With the first streaks of day he was afoot again, going over the Roamer
with a fine-toothed comb, since he had no mechanic to do it for him,
tuning her up for a long flight. He had no definite purpose in mind
beyond a look round the country. Was it all like this, or only New York?
Newark attracted his attention first. He noted there were ships at most
of the piers in the river and that none of them bore signs of life.
Neither had the streets on the Jersey side of the river any occupants
other than those who were obviously still forever.
As he flew along toward the Newark airport, a shadow fell athwart the
wing and he looked up.
A big bird was soaring past, flying above and fully as fast as the
plane. In his quick glance Sherman caught something unfamiliar about its
flight, and leaned over to snap on the mechanical pilot while he had
another look. The bird, if bird it was, was certainly a queer specimen;
it seemed to have two sets of wings and was using them as though it were
an airplane, with the fore pair outstretched and rigid, the hind wings
vibrating rapidly. As he gazed at the bird it drew ahead of the plane,
gave a few quick flips to its fore-wings and banked around to pick him
up again.
It was coming closer and regarding him with an uncommonly intelligent
and by no means friendly eye. Sherman swung his arm at it and gave a
shout--to which the bird paid not the slightest attention. Newark was
running away under him. Reluctantly, he resumed control of the stick,
put the plane into a glide and made for the airport. It occurred to him
that this would be an awkward customer if it chose to attack him and he
meditated on the possibility of finding a gun in Newark.
The field was bumpy, but he taxied to a stop and climbed out to look
over the silent hangars before one of which a little sports plane stood
dejectedly, with a piece of torn wing flapping in the breeze. As the
Roamer came to rest he looked back at the bird. It was soaring away up
in a close spiral, emitting a series of screams. Sherman determined to
find a gun without delay.
Newark was like Jackson Heights; same stony immobility of inhabitants,
same sense of life stopped at full tide in the streets. He prowled
around till he found a hardware store and possessed himself of a fine
.50-.50 express rifle with an adequate supply of cartridges as well as a
revolver, added to it a collection of small tools, and stopped in at a
library to get a supply of reading matter more to his taste than the
drug store could provide.
As he took off again two specks in the sky far to the north represented,
he decided, additional specimens of the peculiar bird life that had
spread abroad since the change. How long it could have been, he had no
idea.
He decided on a flight northwest, following the line of the mail route.
There was a chance that the whole country might not be engulfed by this
metal plague, though the absence of life in New York was not
encouraging.
* * * * *
Port Jervis was his first control point, but Sherman was fond enough of
the green wooded slopes of the Catskills to run a little north of his
course, bumpy though the air was over the mountains. He set the
automatic pilot and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the view.
Just north of Central Valley something seemed different about the
hillside; a new scar had appeared along its edge. He turned to examine
it, swooping as he did so and in a quick glance from the fast-moving
airplane saw that the great forest trees, maples and oaks, were all
down, twisted, barren and leafless, along a line that ran right up the
valley and across the hill, as though they had been harrowed by some
gigantic storm. The line was singularly definite; there were no
half-broken trees.
He swooped for another look, and at that moment was conscious of the
beat of swift wings and above the roar of the motor heard the scream of
one of those strange four-winged birds. Half-unconsciously, he put the
Roamer into a steep climb and kicked the rudder to one side, just as the
bird flew past him on whistling pinions, like an eagle that has missed
its plunge, and recovered to rise again in pursuit. Sherman flattened
out, and without paying any attention to direction, snapped in the
automatic pilot and reached for his gun.
As he bent there came a sharp crack from above and behind him and
another scream right overhead. He looked over his shoulder to see a
second bird clutching at the edge of the cockpit with one giant claw,
its forewings fluttering rapidly in the effort to keep its balance in
the propeller's slipstream. With the other claw it grabbed and grabbed
for him.
Sherman flattened himself against the bottom of the cockpit and fired up
and back, once--twice--three times. The plane rocked; the bird let go
with a shrill scream, a spurt of blood showing on its chest feathers,
and as Sherman straightened up he saw it whirling down, the wings
beating wildly, uselessly, the red spot spreading. But he had no time
for more than a glance. The other bird was whirling up to the attack
beneath him, yelling in quick jerks of sound as though it were shouting
a battle-cry.
The pistol, half-empty, might too easily miss. Sherman sought the rifle,
and at that moment felt the impact of a swift blow on the floor of the
plane. The bird understood that he had weapons and was attacking him
from beneath to avoid them! The thought that it was intelligent flashed
through his mind with a shock of surprise as he leaned over the side,
trying to get a shot at his enemy. Beneath the plane he caught a
momentary glimpse of the ground again, torn and tortured, and in the
center of the devastation the ruins of a farmhouse, its roof canting
crazily over a pulled-out wall.
The bird dodged back and forth, picking now and then at the bottom of
the plane with its armored beak. He leaned further trying to get in a
shot, and drew a chorus of yells from the bird, but no more definite
result. Bang! Again. Miss. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the line of
green leap into being again. Flap, flap went the wings beneath him.
Suddenly from below and behind him there rose a deep humming roar, low
pitched and musical. Abruptly the screaming of the bird ceased; it
dropped suddenly away, its forewings folded, the rear wings spread,
glider-like as it floated to the ground. He turned to look in the
direction of the sound, and as he turned a great glare of light sprang
forth from somewhere back there, striking him full in the eyes with
blinding force. At the same moment something pushed the Roamer forward
and down, down, down. He could feel the plane give beneath him, but in
the blind haze of light his fumbling fingers could not find the stick,
and as he fell a wave of burning heat struck his back and the sound of a
mighty torrent reached his ears. There was a crash and everything went
out in a confusion of light, heat and sound.
* * * * *
When he recovered consciousness the first thing he saw was a blue dome,
stretched so far above his head that it might have been the sky save for
the fact that the light it gave had neither glare nor shadow. He puzzled
idly over this for a moment, then tried to turn his head. It would not
move. "That's queer," thought Herbert Sherman, and attempted to lift an
arm. The hands responded readily enough but the arms were immovable.
With an effort he tried to lift his body and discovered that he was
tightly held by some force he could not feel.
Herbert Sherman was a patient man but not a meek one. He opened his
mouth and yelled--a good loud yell with a hard swearword at the end of
it. Then he stood still for a moment, listening. There was a sound that
might be interpreted as the patter of feet somewhere, but no one came
near him, so he yelled again, louder if possible.
This time the result accrued with a rapidity that was almost startling.
A vivid bluish light struck him in the face, making him blink, then was
turned off, and he heard a clash of gears and a hum that might be that
of a motor. A moment later he felt himself lifted, whirled round,
dropped with a plunk, and the blue dome overhead began to flow past at
rapidly mounting speed to be blotted out in a grey dimness. He perceived
he was being carried down some kind of a passage whose ceiling consisted
of dark stone. A motor whirred rapidly.
The stone ceiling vanished; another blue dome, less lofty, took its
place. The object on which he was being carried stopped with a
mechanical click and he was lifted, whirled round again and deposited on
some surface. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of
something round, of a shining black coloring, with pinkish highlights,
like the head of some enormous beast, and wiggled his fingers in angry
and futile effort.
* * * * *
He was flopped over on his face and found himself looking straight down
at a grey mass which from its feel on nose and chin, appeared to be
rubber.
He yelled again, with rage and vexation and in reply received a tap over
the head with what felt like a rubber hose. He felt extraordinarily
helpless. And as the realization came that he was helpless, without any
control of what was going on he relaxed. After all, there was no use....
Some kind of examination was in progress. There was the sound of
soft-treading feet behind him.
After a slight pause he was bathed in a red light of such intensity as
to press upon him with physical solidity. He closed his eyes against it,
and as he did so, felt a terrible pain in the region of his spine. Was
it death? He gripped metallic teeth together firmly in an effort to
fight the pain without yelling (perhaps this was deliberate torture and
he would not give them the satisfaction) and dully, amid the throbbing
pain, Sherman heard a clatter of metal instruments. Then the pain
ceased, the light went off and something was clamped about his head.
A minute more and he had been flipped over on his back, and with the
same whirring of motors that had attended his arrival, was carried back
through the passage and into the hall of the blue dome. He was still
held firmly; but now there was a difference. He could wiggle in his
bonds.
With a clicking of machinery, he was tilted up on the plane that held
him. A hole yawned before his feet and he slid rapidly down a smooth
incline, through a belt of dark, to drop in a heap on something soft.
The trapdoor clicked behind him.
He found himself, unbound, on a floor of rubber-like texture and on
rising to look around, perceived that he was in a cell with no visible
exit, whose walls were formed by a heavy criss-crossed grating of some
red metal. It was a little more than ten feet square; in the center a
seat with curving outlines rose from the floor, apparently made of the
same rubbery material as the floor itself. A metallic track ended just
in front of the seat; following back, his eye caught the outline of a
kind of lectern, now pushed back against the wall of the cell, with
spaces below the reading flat and handles attached. Against the back
wall of the cell stood a similar device, but larger and without any
metal track. Beside it two handles dangled from the wall on cords of
flexible wire.
This was all his brief glance told him about the confines of his new
home. Looking beyond it, he saw that he was in one of a row of similar
cells, stretching back in both directions. In front of the row of cells
was a corridor along which ran a brightly-burnished metal track, and
this was lined by another row of cells on the farther side.
The cell at Sherman's right was empty, but he observed that the one on
the left had a tenant--a metal man, like himself in all respects and
yet--somehow unlike. He stepped over to the grating that separated them.
"What is this place, anyway?" he inquired.
His neighbor, who had been sitting in the rubber chair, turned toward
him a round and foolish face with a long, naked upper lip, and burst
into a flood of conversation of which Sherman could not understand one
word. He held up his hand. "Wait a minute, partner," he said. "Go slow.
I don't get you."
The expression on the fellow's face changed to one of wonderment. He
made another effort at conversation, accompanying it with gestures.
"Wait," said the aviator, "_Sprechen Sie Deutsch?... Francais?... Habla
Espanol?..._ No? Dammit what does the guy talk? I don't know any
Italian--Spaghetti, macaroni, Mussolini!"
No use. The metal face remained blankly uninspired. Well, there is one
thing men of all races have in common. Sherman went through the motions
of drawing from his pocket a phantom cigarette, applying to it an
imaginary match, and blowing the smoke in the air.
It is impossible for a man whose forehead is composed of a series of
lateral metal bands to frown. If it were the other would have done so.
Then comprehension appeared to dawn on him. He stepped across to his
lectern, and _with his toes_, pulled the bottom slide open, extracted
from it a round rubber container and reaching through the bars, handed
it to Sherman.
The aviator understood the difference that had puzzled him in the
beginning. Instead of the graceful back-sweeping curve that sets a man's
head vertical with his body, this individual had the round-curved neck
and low-hung head of the ape.