Kimball Trent was the last hope of a ravaged Earth,
for locked in his mind were secrets that would
bring freedom to the Barbs. He lacked but one
thing to release the power of those secrets--the key
to the riddle of the blue monsters who could not die.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
At first there was only the cold, the Stygian inky iciness that held
every muscle of his body in thrall and made his thoughts flow with the
turgid slowness of treacly molasses. He could not open his eyes, nor
could he move; and his mind slipped back into the darkness time and
time again. He tried to think of who he was, or _what_ he was, and
there was no knowledge in his brain.
And then the heat came through to him, biting into his numbed flesh
with the bitter sharpness of a naked yellow flame, drawing life to all
his body, pressing back some of the velvet shadows from his mind.
"_Kim_," he thought dazedly. "_I'm Kim._"
And then his mind blanked out again, for how long, he did not know. But
when he came to, he could open his eyes and see the faintest glimmer of
sunlight coming through the split and ruptured earth, tiny dust motes
floating in the golden streak.
"_I'm Kim_," he thought again, and held onto the memory with a frantic
desperation, frightened that it was the only reality he had.
He moved at last, screaming at the agony that surged with every
movement, finally rolled into a sitting position. There was but the
barest glint of light from the earth fault, and his eyes grew strained
as he peered about.
He was in a cave, obviously artificial, for there were shelves loaded
with dully-gleaming objects, and man-hewn blocks of stone lay upturned
where great strangling roots squirmed into the air like monstrous scaly
snakes.
He looked at himself.
His hands were talons now, for the nails were curled and twisted into
tangled knots, and the flesh had not the resiliency or the strength to
straighten the fingers. He bent his head, watched fabric disintegrate
into dust on his emaciated body, then gasped. Great festoons of
the dust had not powdered into nothingness, and he recognized that
they were the swirls of beard that hung pendant from his chin. He
straightened, mind trying to grasp what had happened, and the hair from
his head swirled about his shoulders, rippling in undulant waves into
the clump of tangled masses that lay at his side.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, his tongue swollen.
The terrible cold was still in him, and he shivered agonizingly for
seconds. It was then he heard the sound of rilling water close at hand.
He crawled toward the sound, tangling hands and feet in the hair that
grew so monstrously from his head, his fingernails scrabbling and
clicking together like the whisperings of bare branches before a soft
Winter breeze.
"_I'm Kim_," he thought again, and drank with great slobbering noises
from the narrow shallow stream that pierced one wall of the cave and
vanished through the opposite.
Thirst slaked, he lay, gasping, like some spent animal, thoughts
swelling and unfolding in his mind, creeping unbidden from dark
recesses, stealing into the brightness of his consciousness.
"I'm Kim," he thought. "Kimball Trent."
He sat, groaning from the hurt that was in every muscle, methodically
broke the twisted fingernails close to his finger tips, permitting his
fingers to flex more freely, giving him hands once more instead of
paws. He tried to break his heavy hair and beard the same way, but his
strength was not enough for that, and he searched for something that
would free him of the burden.
* * * * *
He found the knife almost where he had waked. The plastic haft was
pitted with corrosion, and there was but a scrap of the incredibly hard
steel left; but with it he managed to hack away his beard and hair,
leaving both less than a foot long.
He felt a bit better now, some of the pain easing from his body, the
tiny warm breeze slipping through the earth fault touching him and
giving life to him in passing.
Standing, moving with agonizing slowness, he staggered toward the
source of light, clawed at the sides of the fault. Earth crumbled
beneath his hands, dropped about his bare feet. He fought the imbedded
rocks, pulled them free, then scratched his way out of the cave,
dragging himself into the sunlight, blinking against the radiance.
He lay on the velvety-smooth green grass, breathing deeply, his lean
body etched with shadows as though it had received no sustenance for a
long time. A redbird watched silently from the clump of green bushes
at his side, then hopped fearlessly into cover again, trilling its
warbling melody to the sky.
A squirrel chittered inquisitively from the limb of a towering tree,
then flicked out of sight with a toss of its bushy tail. The breeze was
warm and soothing, and Kimball Trent slept.
* * * * *
He awoke to sunlight again, stretching with the uneasy flexing of an
animal, then snapped to awareness with a movement that almost brought
him to his feet. Pain gushed through his body in red waves, and he sank
back with a stifled groan.
And as though the pain had been a curtain before his brain, it parted,
and he could think again.
He looked around, trying to adjust his memories to what he saw. He was
in timber, great leafy trees towering over his head, the grass and
bushes thick and green upon the ground. He saw the huge monolithic
rock directly before him, and his mind could not comprehend what had
happened.
Only yesterday there had been no trees; that rock had stood alone in
the clearing he had made with axe and saw.
And even the rock had changed. Now the edges were not sharp and
angular; now they were softened and worn, like a blocky cake of salt
that had stood in the summer rain.
He rose to his feet, went to where the heavy metal door had been. It
was gone, covered with soil, the earth matted with grass and flowers.
He turned away, panic eating at his heart, walked to the earth fault
through which he had burrowed like a worm.
Shuddering, he went into the hole, slipping, scrambling, stood upright
in the darkness, adjusting his eyes to the lack of light. He saw the
radi-flash on the stony floor, bent and clicked it on. The cone of
yellow brilliance went twice about the chamber, came to the wheel that
no longer turned before the surge of pressure from water rushing along
its underground course.
He bent over it, marvelling at the wear that had come to the plastic
hub, remembering how utterly indestructible it was. He allowed his gaze
to travel along the refrigerating tubes that spider-webbed the ceiling
and walls. They were dry, no longer coated with sheaths of hoar-frost.
The air was still cold, though, and he shivered in his nakedness.
Then he saw the broken refrigerating pipe, and full knowledge of what
had happened flooded his mind. He had been repairing the pipe, had just
taken the first twist of the nut, when it had exploded in his face,
cascading silvery liquid over his entire body---liquid so perfectly
heat-absorbent it froze anything and everything within a split second
after contact.
Kimball Trent whimpered deep in his throat, appalled at the death
that he had escaped by inches. Evidently the liquid had not more than
brushed him in passing.
He turned to the shelves, reaching for the cans, kicking aside the heap
of hair that touched his foot.
He broke the seal on the first can, placed it aside, feeling the heat
burgeoning from the built-in cooking unit. Then he opened other cans,
ripping away the plastic seals, gorging himself on the cold soups and
ripe succulent vegetables. Partially sated, he opened the heated can,
used the knife remnant as a fork with which to feed himself on the
preserved beef and beans.
Satisfied, he breached a small cask of water, drank thirstily and
avidly; then turned away. The radi-light cut brightness through
the dark, and he went along the wall, removing covers from five
radi-lights, glad that they were eternal. With shadows driven from the
chamber, and with his belly fed, he felt more like a man and less like
an animal.
The first door of the underground fortress stuck a bit, and he had to
swing his weight against it. The portal swung open in a gushing of damp
air, and automatically, he flicked the air-conditioning switch. Far
away, deeper in the ground, machinery began to hum, and clean air began
forcing out the bad.
Trent clicked on the ceiling lights, staring about the mammoth cavern
as though he had never seen it before. It stretched so far away from
him that his eyes could make out no details at the far end. Along
one side, doors opened into the living quarters where more than ten
thousand people were destined to live. Further back were the open
kitchens where communal meals would be prepared; and still further back
where his eyes could make out no detail were the machine shops where
weapons to fight the Gharrians would be conditioned and manufactured.
He was smiling as he looked about; for this was his dream brought to
realization by the wealth that had come to him from his father. His
money had built this retreat, his money and the hands of a thousand
men. Here, within this man-made cavern, would be the refuge for those
people who escaped the ravages of the monsters whose sleek vicious
ships had wiped New York and London and Berlin from the face of the
Earth.
* * * * *
He went toward the great televisors, wondering how many stations still
broadcast news of the holocaust that had come to the world. A frown
tightened dark brows when he saw the dust that lay on the floor, became
a scowl when he saw how it was heaped before the main receiver. He
kicked at the dust, saw the signet ring that had fallen through it.
Bending, Kimball Trent lifted the gold ring, studied it. Doctor Boyliss
had worn it the last time they had talked; it was strange that he
should find it here.
He sat in the chair, switched on the main televisor, relaxed as warmth
came from the screen, color glowing from green into violet, swirling
into the indescribable shade of blue that gave the screen its three
dimensional depth of focus.
His hand went to the "repeat" switch, flicked it.
"This is Doctor Boyliss speaking for the last time," a familiar voice
said tiredly from the speaker, while the screen showed no figure. "I
have just escaped from the Gharrians, but the wound I have received
is mortal, and I can live but moments." There was only the sound of
labored breathing for seconds, then the voice continued.
"Most of the leaders are dead, betrayed by spies; only three of us
escaped the Gharrian's last raid. Thompson and Fortney have elected to
act as guides for the few of you who might escape the final series of
raids. I hope that many of you are listening to these final words of
mine.
"Kimball Trent is also dead, frozen to death by an explosion in the
Refrigerator Room, Number One; therefore his knowledge must be replaced
by the minds of those among you."
A surge of terrible wracking coughing sounded, followed by the sobbing
gasps of a man dying of an agonizing wound. Then:
"One final word. Fight the Gharrians, blast them from the face of
Earth, drive them back into hell-space that spawned them. Battle them
with every weapon and scheme within your power to use. My blessings
upon all of you. Go with God--"
There was only the faintest of thudding sounds, and then silence.
Kimball Trent leaned back in the chair, twisting the ring over and over
in his fingers, horror piling upon horror in his mind. His gaze flicked
to the perpetual radi-calendar beside the screen, and he read the date,
June 9, 2735.
He gasped, knowing now the answer to many things, his mind accepting
the thought that he would not believe before, one that he had stifled
with all his will because it was so fantastic. He shuddered, gaze
racing about the crypt-stillness of the room, and fear knotted the
muscles of his heart.
He knew now why his beard and hair had been so uncannily long and why
his body had withered and grown emaciated through the passage of what
had seemed a few hours. He knew now why the dust had been throughout
the room, and he knew why the ring had been in the greater dust pile
that lay before the screen.
He knew that he had been held in frozen thrall, had been kept
miraculously alive, like a fish frozen in a block of ice, by the
instantaneous freezing of his body by the refrigerant. He knew that the
primitive water-wheel attached to the machinery of the refrigerating
room had kept the room at a below zero temperature until it had stopped
when the water flow had dropped below the wheel by slow degrees.
Yes, he had the answers to everything now.
This was June 2735--and the accident had befallen him in August 2210.
He had slept in frozen suspended animation for more than five hundred
years.
He was alive, and the men and women with whom he had fought the
Gharrians were dead and dust for centuries. He was alive, and the
refuge he had built had never been used. He was alive--_and alone_.