At nine o'clock that night Rocks was ready to drop from exhaustion. He
was not only so tired that the hieroglyphics blurred before his eyes,
but he had failed. That hurt worse than anything else. Everything
depended on his cracking the lost language, and he had failed.
At nine o'clock it happened.
There were three officers on duty at the museum. They had been sent
there as a guard detail and they had brought in a radio so they could
listen to the police calls. They had the radio in a room on the first
floor, so it would not disturb Rocks.
At nine o'clock one of them came stumbling downstairs. His face was
ashen. "Hell's broken loose," he said tersely. "It's coming in over the
radio. Come on upstairs if you want to listen. You might as well forget
that language now."
Over and over again the announcer was droning. "Calling all
cars--Calling all cars--Drop everything and be on the alert. Tragedy in
burlesque showhouse. Over three hundred people dead. Cause of death not
known. Manager went in to investigate sudden silence. Found audience
and cast of show dead. Bodies livid color, as if they had been burned.
Clothing falls to ashes when touched. Sergeant Kennedy of the homicide
division suggests there is a definite connection between the death of
these people and the death of the two Asian Museum archeologists last
night. Be on the alert. Take over main intersections and prevent panic.
Story already broken in general radio news flash. Cordon being thrown
around the theater area. All special details canceled, all squad cars
call your stations for definite orders--Be on the alert--Calling all
cars--"
Death was walking through Chicago, a horrible, incredible form of death.
Rocks Malone stood without moving, listening to the operator repeat his
message. He could scarcely conceive the meaning of the words. "Over
three hundred people dead--" Dim pictures flashed to his mind. Out of
nowhere, out of nothingness, silence had come. Three hundred people
had died. Before they knew what struck them, death had washed over
them. Millions of microscopic needles had plunged through their bodies,
points of agonizing pain. Then death--
Jerkily, the telephone rang. One of the officers grabbed it. He
listened, said "Okay," huskily, and turned to his fellows.
"Station calling. We're to report back there immediately for emergency
duty. They're calling us off here. Come on."
The radio was still droning as they went out.
The telephone rang again. It was Penny this time.
"I'm coming down there," she said, "I'm scared. I'm coming down there
with you."
"Stay away from here!" Rocks shouted. But she had already hung up.
Desperately, he tried to call her back. There was no answer. She had
already left. She was driving toward the museum, driving through a
night in which death lurked.
Rocks groaned. He went back to the basement. There was nothing he could
do. Nothing! The coffee pot was bubbling on its burner. He poured
himself a cup of the scalding brew. It burned his throat but it cleared
his head.
He went back to work. The language was out. He couldn't crack it. He
didn't even have time to try to crack it any more. But there were
Morton's notes. He hadn't studied them thoroughly. He had read only
those portions of the notes that dealt with the language. He began
to go over them again, starting with the section that dealt with the
discovery of the box.
Jan. 10, 1940--Morton had written--Discovered today what is
unquestionably the tomb of a Sumerian king. Located in a hillside. Cut
out of solid rock. Landslide centuries ago had covered entrance. But
even more important, in my opinion, than the tomb is the discovery of
the strange metal box that we found in a niche at the back. We are
unable to determine the metal of which the box is constructed. It is
covered with mould but shows no sign of rust or corrosion, which is
exceedingly unusual, for this tomb dates back into the past for at
least six thousand years.
"Jan. 12, 1940. Box very heavy--must weigh more than a hundred pounds.
Frankly, aside from its archeological interest, I am curious to know
the contents of this box. There is a possibility of gold or gems. Guess
I'm human after all, to be thinking about wealth. Am writing full
details to the museum.
"Jan. 15, 1940. Unable to open box. Must have cunning combination
lock. Also unable to decipher inscription on it. Don't know this form
of writing. No record of it anywhere. This is exceedingly unusual. A
completely forgotten language rediscovered."
Rocks Malone went through the notes, reading swiftly, searching, hoping
for a clue. Outside in the night death was stalking. And there was a
possibility that the clue to the death lay here, in the notes of the
dead archeologist.
Penny came in. He went to meet her. She flew to his arms. "It's awful
outside," she whispered. "Thousands of people must have heard the news
broadcast. Half of them are trying to get to the theater where all
those people were killed. The others are trying to get away. Oh, Rocks,
have you discovered anything."
He shook his head. She looked again at his unshaven, haggard face, and
said nothing.
He went back to the notes Morton had left. With Penny helping, he went
through them, down to the last page. "It's no use," he groaned. "Morton
didn't know anything about the thing that was in that damned box."
Then he turned the last page. Morton had written that page only
yesterday, the day he died.
"Sept. 21, 1940. Succeeded in opening the box today. As I suspected it
was closed by a combination lock. Deucedly clever thing, that lock.
Not like any lock in use today. Patent rights on it might provide the
museum with some of the cash it so badly needs.
"To my great astonishment, and regret, when I opened the box, I found
it empty."
Rocks Malone started at the words Morton had written. Penny had been
reading over her shoulder. He heard her catch her breath.
EMPTY! The single word seemed to leap out at him. How on earth could
Morton make a mistake like that!
There was another line of writing. "Weighed box. Find that it weighs
nine pounds less than it did when I brought it here."
In the fleeting flash of a second, Rocks saw the whole picture. Or
almost all of it. There were parts that needed clearing up. But he knew
at last the real significance of the fact that Morton had weighed the
box a second time.
"There's somebody coming!" Penny whispered.
A step had sounded on the stairs outside the room. The door opened.
Sharp entered.
He had a traveling bag with him.
Rocks shoved the last page of Morton's notes out of sight, got to his
feet. "Hello," he said. "Have you heard the radio?"
"I'll say I have," the business manager answered. "That's why I've got
this bag along. I'm getting away from here while I have a chance. It's
terrible--what happened to all those people at the theater. For all I
know, it might happen to me next. Have you," he paused, "have you found
anything that might--might lead to the capture of that horrible beast?
That's why I stopped here, before I left town."
"No," Rocks answered. He walked across the basement toward the business
manager. He was ten feet away, he was five feet away. He stopped. "One
thing we have discovered. Morton's notes. He said in his notes that
when he opened the box he found it empty. What do you suppose he meant
by that?"
Sharp looked perplexed. "Why, I have no idea. Perhaps he decided that
what we saw was an illusion after all."
"I think not," Rocks contradicted. "He would certainly have mentioned
any creature such as you described if he had found such a thing in
the box. No, I think he meant exactly what he said. When he opened
the box, it was empty. That surprised him greatly. It also made him
suspicious. So he weighed it, to determine if somebody had already
opened it and removed its contents. _What did you find in that box,
Sharp!_"
His words were hard and flat. There was no mistaking their challenge.
Behind him he heard Penny whisper. "Oh, Rocks--"
He knew he had made a mistake. He should have waited, let the law
handle the situation, let men trained for the task do the job. But
Morton had been his friend. And so had McCumber. And Morton and
McCumber were dead. And Rocks Malone was not a man to wait for someone
else to do what he considered his job.
Sharp stood without moving, his close-set eyes drilling into the young
archeologist facing him. A second ticked into nothingness, and another,
and another. He was estimating the situation, considering the odds and
the chances.
"I'm waiting," Rocks said grimly.
"All right, snoopy," Sharp snarled. "This is what I found in it."
[Illustration: _"All right, snoopie, here it is." Sharp lifted a
strange implement from his bag and pointed it. "Duck," Penny shouted,
"That's it!"_]
He jerked his bag open. His hand dived into it. It came out of the bag
with the strangest looking instrument Rocks had ever seen. Constructed
of pale silvery metal, fitted with a series of faceted lenses, it
glinted evilly under the lights.
Because of the very nature of the instrument, Sharp handled it
clumsily. But there was no mistaking its purpose. He brought it up.
Penny screamed.
Rocks stepped forward. His left hand flicked out. All the weight of his
body was behind that blow. He drove it straight at Sharp's chin. It
would have made Joe Louis bat his expressionless eyes. It would have
knocked Sharp's head almost off his shoulders--if it had landed.
That was the trouble. It didn't land. Sharp saw it coming. He ducked
down and to one side, fumbling with the instrument he had taken from
his bag. The fist skidded across the top of his head. It sent him
staggering backward.
"The next time," Rocks gritted. "I won't miss. I'll knock your damned
head off, you dirty murderer." He charged.
Sharp brought the instrument up. Pale, scarcely visible flame lanced
from it, like a heat wave moving through air. It spurted forward,
soundlessly. As it leaped it seemed to absorb, to blot out all sound.
There was a sudden heavy silence in the museum basement, the sort of
silence that is so real it registers on the ear drums.
Rocks saw the instrument coming up. He kicked himself to one side, in
a dancing step. The fringe of lambent flame barely touched him. But
that touch sent needles of agony through his body, sucked the life out
of him, turned his muscles into lumps of lead, threw him off balance,
so that his charge, instead of striking Sharp, barely grazed him. His
arms closed around the business manager's body. To keep himself from
falling, Rocks clinched.
They wrestled. Sharp could not use the instrument. Rocks was so groggy
he could barely hold on. Sharp dug into him with his elbows, kicked
viciously at his shins.
If he could only hold on, Rocks thought. The agony was lessening. The
groggy shadows were going from his mind. If he could only hold on for
another minute.
He was holding on. He was winning. Soft living had made a weakling of
Sharp. He would be no match for the rugged, youthful muscles of Rocks
Malone, in a fair fight.
Then Sharp struck upward. His fist hit Rocks in the chin. Malone sagged
downward. Shaking his head, he grabbed at Sharp again. And missed. And
fell to the floor. Before he could move, Sharp had leaped around a
table. He had brought the instrument up.
"All right," he husked. "You asked for it, with your snooping. You're
going to get it. You and this girl."
Rocks staggered to his feet. He leaned against the edge of the table,
panting, fighting for breath and strength. Sharp was across the table
from him. He was aiming the instrument.
This time there would be no escaping it. It would point at him and
those almost invisible tongues of light would flash out, the deadly
silence would smash all sound into nothingness, and millions of
microscopic needles would tear through his flesh.
Sharp fumbled for the firing button.
Penny, crouched on the other side of the room, grabbed the handiest
object she could find, and threw it. It was the alarm clock. It struck
Sharp full in the face, and the alarm, jarred by the impact, went off.
Probably the clang of the alarm bell started Sharp as much as the
impact of the clock. Certainly it did not hit him hard enough to harm
him. But it did startle him, scare him. He reeled backward.
Rocks cleared the table with a single leap. He went up into the air
like a kangaroo and leaped, feet foremost, at Sharp. His feet struck
the business manager full in the stomach. Sharp doubled up like a
jackknife, and went to the floor. Rocks fell on top of him. He struck
viciously with his fists. Sharp cried in pain and Rocks struck harder.
The man was down, but he wasn't out. Rocks drew back his fist for the
final blow.
It never landed. Down over his shoulder the barrel of a gun flashed.
Where it had come from, Rocks did not know. It struck the business
manager across the skull.
His head popped like the breaking of a rotten egg. He went limp.
Rocks looked up. Kennedy stood there. He was holding the pistol with
which he had struck Sharp, in his hand. He looked to see if he would
need to use it again. He saw he wouldn't.
He whirled the gun around on its trigger guard.
"Damn me for a fool," he said. "I could kick myself from here to the
Loop and back again. I missed a trick and it cost three hundred people
their lives."
"What trick?" Rocks gasped.
"I should have known this gazabo was lying," Kennedy snarled. "I should
have known his long cock and bull story about some incredible creature
coming out of that box was too fantastic for belief. I should have
known he was lying, out damn it, the sight of Morton's body so addled
my wits that I was willing to believe the story Sharp told. Oh, he
was smooth enough about it. He knew how the weapon he found killed.
He knew what it did to Morton's body, and he had to have a fantastic
story to account for the way Morton looked. He solved the secret of
that box soon after it was brought here. He had a reason for it too.
He had been playing the market and he was down on his uppers. If there
was a treasure in that box, he wanted first crack at it. He didn't
find any treasure in it. Instead he found some kind of a damned weapon
in it that came from God alone knows where. When he found Morton had
opened the box and was about to catch up with him by weighing the box,
he took the obvious out--by killing Morton, using the weapon he had
found in the box. He killed McCumber because the old man knew there
was something fishy about the box being on the scales. So he killed
McCumber--to shut him up."
"But those people in the theater?" Rocks whispered.
Kennedy exploded. "He needed money, needed it bad. I dug this all
up in my investigation today. He was trying to sell the weapon
he had discovered to the agents of a foreign power. They wanted
a demonstration before they would pay off. So he gave them a
demonstration. He showed them how efficient a weapon he had for
sale--by killing all the people in a theater."
The detective was furiously angry. "And I let myself get taken in by a
story of a monster."
Rocks had already picked up the instrument Sharp had found in that
box. He was studying it, looking it over. The principle on which
it operated, he couldn't begin to guess, but he saw one thing that
startled him enormously. He showed it to the detective.
"Great Jehosophat!" Kennedy gasped. "A place for six fingers. Whoever
built that damned thing had six fingers."
The Lord of the Silent Death was not an extra-dimensional monster. It
was a weapon that killed in utter silence.
* * * * *
The instrument that came out of the box from the tomb of the forgotten
Sumerian King is now in Washington, in the secret vaults of the War
Department. The experts are studying it, trying to fathom how it works.
They have begun to get hints of the principle involved. Only hints, but
something to go on. They have discovered that it kills in two ways.
The first, and obvious way, is by pointing it directly at its victim.
At the theatre he had sprayed the power, full on, across the audience,
then across the ensemble on the stage, then as he went out the back had
caught all others.
The second way is worse. In Sharp's bag was found a sack of small round
objects that look like marbles. All the owner of the weapon needs to do
to kill an enemy is to drop one of those bits of glass in the enemy's
pocket. Then he can go off several miles and start the weapon. The
force it generates is concentrated in the bit of glass, and the silence
is instantly generated, the bit of glass being destroyed in the process.
That was the method Sharp used to kill McCumber. As they left the
museum, Sharp dropped one of the bits of glass in the pocket of the
old archeologist's coat. McCumber had found it, but had attached no
significance to it.
The experts hope that the War Department of this country will never
need such a weapon. But if it does, it will have it.
But the thing that plagues the experts, that frets the archeologists,
that has caused Rocks Malone to tear his hair, is the fact that the
weapon was designed to be used by a creature who had six fingers.
Not five fingers. Six. And the archeologists are having drizzling
fits trying to decide whether there was once a race of six-fingered
creatures here on earth, a race that reached tremendous scientific
heights, and vanished.
Or was earth once visited by creatures out of space, who left a weapon
behind them?
Nobody knows. Possibly nobody will ever know.
But Rocks Malone is preparing to leave for Asia Minor, to dig in the
ruins of lost and gone civilizations, searching for another clue to the
identity of the lost race.
Penny is going with him.