Could the Earthmen ever win against
Malgarth, the Robot monster? Was
their only hope Barry Horn, who had
waked from the age-long amnesic
sleep of the cosmic rays, and Dona
Keradin, the wonder-girl in the carbon
crystal?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Marvel Science Stories February 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We found the stranger, when we unlocked the bungalow after a week
on the lakes, seated at my big desk in the study. His face was an
enigma of youth and age. Lean beneath his long white hair, it was gray
and drawn and hollowed as if with an infinite heartbreak--and yet it
smiled. His emaciated hand, thrust out across the pile of loose yellow
sheets he had written, gripped an incredible thing.
Queerly lifelike, he was yet more queerly still.
"Why, hello!" I said.
And then, when he remained stiffly staring at that scintillating glory
in his rigid hand, we knew that he was dead.
His injuries, when we came to discover them, were dreadful as they
were inexplicable. All his gaunt, shrunken body--torso, neck, and
limbs--showed dark purple ridges. It looked as the body of Laocoön must
have looked, when the serpents were done. But we found no snakes in the
bungalow.
"The man was tortured," asserted the examining doctor. "By ropes, from
the looks of it, drawn mercilessly tighter. Flesh pulped beneath the
skin. Grave internal injuries. A miracle he lived as long as he did!"
For four or five days had passed, the doctors agreed, since the
stranger received his injuries. He had been dead, by the coroner's
estimate, about twenty hours when we found his body.
It is fortunate indeed for us all, by the way, that we had been
together at the lakes and that friends there were able to substantiate
our mutual alibi. Otherwise, in view of the incredible circumstances,
ugly suspicion must have fallen upon us.
"Death," ran the oddly phrased verdict of the coroner's jury, after
we all had been questioned, and the premises, the manuscript, and the
stone examined, "resulting from injuries sustained through the act of
persons _or things_ unknown."
The stranger's life, as much as his death, remains a mystery. The
sheriff and the aiding state police have failed to identify him. The
manuscript is signed, "Barry Horn," but no record has been found that
such a man is missing. The medical examiners agreed that he was of
contemporary American stock; but they were mystified by the freaks of
cell structure indicating extreme age in a man apparently young.
His clothing, even, is enigma. Textile experts have failed to name the
fine rayon-like fibers of his odd gray tunic and the soiled, torn cloak
we found on the couch. The hard shiny buttons and buckle, like the
bright pliant stuff of his belt and sandals, have baffled the synthetic
chemists.
The weapon we found in the yellow belt seems worth the study of
science, but no scientist yet has made anything of it. It looks like a
big, queer pistol, with a barrel of glass. Its mechanism is obviously
broken, and my attempts to fire it have proved unsuccessful.
How he came into the bungalow--unless in the strange way his manuscript
suggests--we have been unable to conjecture. For the house was securely
locked before we started to the lakes, and no fastening shows to have
been disturbed. A tramp, so the baffled sheriff argues, might break
undetected into an empty house--but, if anything seems certain about
Barry Horn, it is that he was not a common tramp.
The manuscript was written with my own pen, on paper he found in the
desk. The task must have taken him three or four days. The doctors seem
astonished that he was able to complete it. And it must have been a
race with pain and death, for the script is continually more hurried
and uneven, until, toward the end, it is barely legible.
The used dishes and empty cans on the kitchen table show that he found
several meals for himself--the last of which, evidently, he was unable
to eat, for the food was left untouched on the plate. A wrinkled rug
lay with his cloak on the couch, where he slept and rested.
* * * * *
He must have rummaged for something in the medicine cabinet, for we
found that open, and a bottle of mercurichrome smashed on the bathroom
floor. He seems to have made no effort, however, to get medical
assistance. For my telephone was sitting, dusty and untouched, on the
desk where he wrote and died.
He surely perceived the end, for the page beneath his hand was the
opening of a will. Had he lived to complete it, his instructions might
have cleared up much of the monstrous riddle. He had written:
To Whom It May Concern:
I, Barry Horn, being lately returned out of Space and Time to this
my own beloved land and era, finding myself yet clear in mind but
unregretfully aware of approaching death, do make this my last will
and testament.
First I must offer belated apology to the Carridans, the relatives
of my dead wife Dona, for the long bitterness I felt toward them
because they took from me, I felt unjustly, my only son.
Second, to the unknown holder of this house, in repayment for his
unwitting hospitality while it was being written, I bequeath this
manuscript, with all rights thereto. I hope that it may be
published, so that men may know something of the splendors and the
dangers awaiting their race in the far-off future. So that others,
perhaps, may share something of the love I feel for Kel Aran, the
last man of Earth; and for those two great women, equally
beauteous--Dondara Keradin, the Shadow of the Stone; and Verel Erin,
the Stone's Custodian and Kel's brave beloved. For those three are
more to me than any others I have known, save only Dona Carridan.
Third, to my sole son and child, Barry, upon his being released from
the too-jealous guardianship of his mother's relatives, I bequeath
my clothing and weapon and the large diamond block I have with me,
requesting that he read the narrative I have written before making
any disposition of the diamond, which was the Stone of Dondara.
Fourth, as Executor of this Will, I do hereby appoint my old friend
and attorney, Peter--
At that point the last agony must have struck. The pen wandered away
on an aimless track, dropped from dying fingers. The attorney's last
name, and Barry Horn's instructions for finding his son, remain
unknown.
Weird riddles enough! But the most astounding puzzle is the diamond
block. An incredible brick of water-white crystalline fire, four inches
long, it weighs eleven hundred carats--nearly half a pound! It is quite
flawless, save for that singular shadow which certain lights show in
its pellucid core--if that white ghost could be termed a flaw.
Such a stone is beyond price--but for the mutual support of jewel and
manuscript, it would be beyond belief. For, while the famous Cullinan
Diamond was far larger in the rough, there is no credible record of
any cut stone weighing even half as much. Dealers, skeptical of its
description and astonished by its reality, have been reluctant to set
any valuation upon it.
"By the carat, millions!" cried one startled jeweler. "But I should cut
up such a stone, like a cheese, never! Vait for some prince to giff his
kingdom!"
We have hesitated, despite the request in the unfinished will,
to publish this manuscript, especially since so large a part of
the mystery is still unsolved. For it is sure to be received with
skepticism in the scientific world, and its acceptance elsewhere may
endanger the safety of the diamond.
But all other efforts to find Barry Horn's attorney and his son have
failed. Publication holds the only remaining hope of clearing up the
mystery and establishing the ownership of the jewel. Any person knowing
the whereabouts of the younger Barry Horn, or the identity of his
father's attorney, is requested to communicate immediately with the
publishers.
I