Like tiny meteors, the space-ships plunged
into Earth's atmosphere, carrying death for
all who opposed their flight. The fate of a
world rested in Hammond's hands--and his
wrists were fettered at his sides.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It came out of the dawn sky, slanting like a fiery meteor out of the
east. The two men in the skiff saw the glowing streak in the sky and
heard the sound of its passage, like the loosing of a nest of angry
snakes overhead, a scant second before it plummeted into the calm
waters of the Sound.
A geyser of water and steam shot up not a hundred yards from the maroon
and gold skiff. The boat rocked and pitched to the disturbance.
Frank Hammond, seated at the bow, clamped a taped hand over the side to
hold himself, surprise quickening the intentness of his dark, handsome
face. He was a lithe, bronzed figure, clad only in blue trunks and rope
sandals. Stroking for his college crew in years that were warm memories
had padded naturally wide shoulders.
"What the devil?" he ejaculated. "Did you see that, Pete?"
Peter Storm grinned. Two inches under his companion's six foot length,
he weighed ten pounds more--a heavily muscled figure who could move
with deceptive speed as many an opposing eleven had found out in his
college football days. Blond, phlegmatic of nature, he took things
easier than his more restless friend.
"Meteor, you dummox!" he jibed, good-naturedly. "Ever hear of one
before?"
Hammond stared at the spot where the agitation was quieting. "I heard
of them," he said shortly. "But this is the first time one ever fell
this close to me."
Storm shrugged. "Forget it. This is our last day before going back to
the grind. Let's make the most of it. Remember that bet we--Boy!" He
broke off, standing up to haul in.
His catch proved to be a bluefish, a three pounder. He unhooked it,
disgustedly, while Frank, measuring it with a quick glance, gave him a
Bronx cheer. "If you can't do better than that that new hat's in the
bag," he jeered.
They went back to their heaving and hauling, bantering good naturedly
over every catch, completely forgetting the strange visitor from the
skies.
Both were research chemists for the New York Analytical Laboratories;
both were unmarried. They had been inseparable comrades since their
college days, when both wore identical crew cuts, dressed alike, and
always either double-dated or stagged it. In memory of those days their
skiff, the _Crawfish_, had been painted maroon inside and a golden
yellow outside, maroon and gold having been their school colors.
Their vacation camp was on Ramson's Island, just off Ramson's point on
the Connecticut shore. The rocky island was uninhabited. They had left
camp early, intent on making the most of their last day. Reaching the
fishing "hole" they had anchored. Both men taped their hands, and each
prepared his jig, a long bar of lead to which a hook was attached, and
began the process of "heaving and hauling" used in the vicinity for
luring bluefish.
They had been at it for about an hour when the "meteor" landed.
Fifteen minutes later they had forgotten it.
* * * * *
The sun was a huge red ball balanced on the rim of the sea when Frank
suddenly felt a jerk on his line that nearly wrenched his arm from its
socket. He said nothing. His lips merely tightened, eagerly, as he
wished to surprise his companion by hauling in the big one unexpectedly.
But this proved harder than he thought.
His potential catch darted off with such a burst of speed and strength
that it dragged boat, anchor and all!
"Hey!" yelled Storm, clutching the boat sides to hold himself. "What's
on that jig? A shark? Better cut that line before it swamps us!"
"Like heck I will!" Hammond grunted, hanging on to the line with both
taped hands. "This must be the grandfather of all big blues. That new
hat's in the bag!"
With both feet braced against the thwarts, he leaned back and pulled
with all his strength. Bit by bit he hauled the "big one" in close,
till finally he was able to lift it out of the water and into the boat.
Both men exclaimed in amazement at the thing which came over the side
and clanked to the bottom of the boat. It was neither a giant bluefish
nor a shark. It was a shiny, iridescent object, slightly shaped like a
shark, but quiescent now, and seemingly lifeless.
"What kind of a fish do you call that?" asked Storm disgustedly,
leaning forward for better view of the catch. "It looks like a cross
between a shark and a toy submarine."
"Damned if it don't!" Hammond replied, staring bewilderedly at his
catch.
The thing was about thirty inches in length, with both vertical
and dorsal fins. But instead of one dorsal fin it was equipped with
four fins placed equidistantly around the body. These fins contained
numerous tubular quills or spines with round openings at the ends, and
Hammond's hook had caught between two of these spines. It was as heavy
as if made of steel, but despite its weight and metallic sound when
struck, it appeared to be constructed entirely of a bluish, iridescent
mother-of-pearl.
Hammond removed his hook from between the spines, and lifted his catch
onto the empty boat seat between them.
"Better heave it overboard," advised Storm, seriously. "It might be a
new-fangled type of mine or bomb. I don't like the looks--"
He stood, open-mouthed, as the "thing" suddenly shot off the boat seat
with a hissing roar like that of a small rocket. It scorched the paint
as it took off with small, orange-green flares emanating from the
tubular quills. It shot upward with incredible speed and was almost
immediately lost to view.
Storm's mouth closed slowly. "Hell!" he said, a little dazedly. "I'm
afraid to start fishing again, Frank. Might catch a cross between a
battleship and a whale."
"I'm hauling up anchor," Hammond countered, grimly. "I don't like the
looks of this at all. The coast guard ought to hear of this."
He got one hand on the anchor rope and was starting to hoist in when
the strange "catch" suddenly reappeared. It came down in a long slant,
circled over the skiff a few times, and finally settled on the scorched
seat from which it had taken off.
Hammond stared at the thing and swore. Peter Storm took a firm hold of
his oar.
Holes suddenly appeared in the strange craft. Hammond noticed that
there were no doors in evidence. The holes seemed to dilate open, like
camera shutters, in the gleaming body.
From these openings a host of small creatures crawled. They swarmed out
toward both ends of the boat seat.
Storm straightened, oar in hand. "Ants!" he snapped, disgustedly. He
began to swing the ash blade down on the scurrying creatures.
The things continued to move about, apparently unharmed. Dents appeared
in the oar and in the seat.
Hammond bent over the scurrying creatures and studied them. "No use,
Pete," he muttered. "They're not ants. There's no division of head,
thorax and abdomen. They're eight-legged and cephalothoracic--more like
the arachnids." His startled surprise was fading under the prod of
scientific curiosity. "Funny thing, Pete--the legs and shells seem to
be composed of the same substance as the 'thing' they come from. Look!"
Storm dropped his oar and came forward. The boat rocked a little to his
shift of weight. A faint humming came from the "thing" on the seat,
catching his attention.
But Hammond, intent on one of the small creatures he was about to pick
up, did not notice. Not until Pete's hoarse shout jerked him away.
"Look out, Frank! That tube--"
Hammond straightened up to face his friend. But Peter Storm had
vanished, as if he had never been!
Between Hammond and where Storm had been was the "thing" on the seat.
The humming emanating from it now was distinctly audible, and ominous!
A shining tube, mounted in a turret, had appeared in one of the
openings. The tube was swinging around, lining itself on Hammond.
The dazed chemist did not think. He reacted instinctively, knowing,
somehow, that that tube was related to Storm's disappearance. He
twisted, violently, and tried to dive over the boat side.
Something halted him in the act. He felt a strange numbness wrap itself
about him, and a cold like nothing he had ever experienced penetrated
to his very vitals. Then he felt himself falling, as if through an
endless blackness....
* * * * *
The darkness faded, slowly. He felt his feet jar on solid ground, and
the terrible cold left him. But for long moments Frank Hammond stood
rigid, his dazed mind trying to accept the strange world he had fallen
into.
The landscape about him was maroon in color. Irregular ridges and
gullies of apparently molten stone hemmed him in. Off to his left he
could see a huge, bubbly pit that reminded him of fumaroles he had seen
in the National Yellowstone Park. Far in the distance, to his right and
left, maroon cliffs towered into blue mists.
Hammond stared at the weird scene. Under him he could feel the slow
rise and sway of the entire land, as if it were unstable, rocking in
space!
For the first few moments Hammond thought he was dreaming. He must have
been rendered unconscious by the strange "thing" on the boat. Soon he
would awaken--
But the slightly swaying maroon landscape persisted. Hammond looked
down at his nearly naked, bronzed body. He hadn't changed. He took a
few tentative steps toward the bubbly pit, and the sudden realization
that all this _was_ real sickened him.
Where was he? What had happened to him and Storm?
A harsh, metallic rattle answered him. Hammond whirled. Topping one of
the far ridges appeared an eight-legged monster of gigantic size. It
was without head or tail. Its unsegmented body was an iridescent blue,
and shaped like a giant pumpkin seed.
The thing flashed menacingly in the bright light of a sun that was but
a huge blur in the misty sky. It headed for Hammond with incredible
speed, a huge foreleg stretching out in readiness.
Hammond wasted no time in speculation. His dazed mind reacted to but
one impulse. Flight!
Turning, he ran for the nearest gully. He went down in a half scramble,
and ran along it, the walls looming over his head.
But his huge pursuer gained on him. He could hear the metallic rattle
of those flashing legs close behind him. Despair gripped the young
chemist as he scrambled out of the gully and ran up the nearest ridge.
The landscape ahead of him was dipping down as he ran, seemingly being
tilted by his weight. The thought came back to Hammond that this must
be a nightmare. The eight-legged, colossal thing pursuing him was
exactly like the tiny antlike creatures that had swarmed out of the
strange "catch" he pulled into the _Crawfish_ but a few hours ago. Or
was it a few hours?
He didn't know. He no longer knew anything. Grim-faced, his breath
beginning to come in gasps, he slid down a steep maroon bank, and raced
along the shadowed cut that gradually deepened.
It was a hopeless flight. Behind him the clattering monster came,
running along the top of the ravine which was too narrow to allow it to
enter.
The steep-walled cut suddenly ended. The sides here were steep and
smooth--a perfect cul-de-sac. Hammond turned, his brown fists clenched.
The walls hemming him in were perhaps fifteen feet above his head. The
metal monster halted on the rim. A strange light blinked on in the nose
of that creature, or mechanism. It probed down at him, spotlighting
him. A giant foreleg, ending in a formidable pair of forceps, reached
down along the light beam for him.
The focussing light, swinging along the opposite wall before steadying
on Hammond, had revealed to the desperate research chemist a transverse
fissure, barely wide enough to admit him. Hammond took the chance. The
giant claw was but a foot above his head when he twisted, sprang away
from the wall. The forcep jerked, swung after him. Hammond beat it to
the fissure by a foot.
He didn't stop. He kept running, looking back over his shoulder to
see if the monster was following. He didn't notice the fissure ended
abruptly in space. Not until he suddenly felt himself treading empty
air. Then he began to fall, turning slowly, like a slow motion diver in
the newsreels.
* * * * *
He fell a long way. In terms of feet, as he judged it, the drop was
incredible. Below him a huge mass loomed out of a brown, heaving sea.
Above him--he saw it, once, as he faced upward in his turning fall--he
glimpsed what was a gigantic span of maroon earth, hundreds of feet
thick, that was supported by the huge, maroon cliffs at either side.
It was from that span he had fallen!
A strange, numbing thought came to him, then, so incredible in its
implication he discarded it. But it persisted, kept tapping at the back
of his mind--
He was still in the _Crawfish_!
The thought was fantastic. Yet it was less incredible than if it were
not true. The turreted tube, evidently, had sprayed an invisible ray
that had so changed him in size that the antlike things he had been
about to examine now loomed like colossi over him. The ridges and
gullies and fumaroles were brush marks and paint bubbles in the maroon
paint of the seat, and the towering cliffs were the boat sides. The
high span from which he was falling must be nothing less than the boat
seat!