Spawn of the Comet
By OTIS ADELBERT KLINE
_Author of "The Prince of Peril," "Maza of the Moon," etc._
_Novelette--Complete_
_Out of the sky came the living clouds
that menaced mankind, swooping thirstily
down to drink the blood of all earth-life._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Argosy All-Story Weekly, September 27, 1930.]
FOREWORD
As the coming of that singular visitor from sidereal space known as the
"great comet of 1847" or "Green's comet," has been duly recorded by
those whose duty it is to chronicle such events, I will merely mention
it in passing.
But mention it I must, as it is so unmistakably linked with that menace
to all terrestrial life which immediately followed its departure for
the cosmic vastnesses, and which came so near to terminating the tenure
of mankind on the earth.
It was called "Green's comet," after Sir George Green, the eminent
English astronomer who discovered it. Long before it had reached the
outer limits of the solar system it blazed with a light that marked it
as no ordinary visitor from the interstellar voids.
Indeed, it appeared to have so large and compact a nucleus that
scientists feared the entire solar system would be upset by its visit.
But when it passed the orbits of the outer planets and relative
perturbations were computed, it was found that despite its great size,
its mass was not so formidable as to be alarming.
Because it did not develop a tail as it neared the sun, its immense
coma--the nebulosity or head, surrounding the nucleus--was thought to
consist of millions of small meteoroids, while what had previously
been mistaken for the outside surface of a solid nucleus was
spectroscopically proven to be the outer limit of an atmosphere quite
like our own, but so filled with clouds of vapor that it was impossible
to see the nucleus itself.
It was believed that the comet's atmosphere was warmed and the coma
made incandescent by the friction of the meteoroids as they passed
through its upper atmosphere, and also by the countless thousands of
collisions which took place among them.
There was one thing, however, that caused considerable apprehension.
Although the earth, so I am informed, once passed through the tail of
a comet without injury, astronomers had computed that on its return
journey from its circuit of the sun the head of this comet would pass
quite near the earth--might even collide with it.
In consequence, certain religious leaders became vociferous in their
prophecies regarding the immediate end of the world with attendant
fire, brimstone and such fearsome accessories. The tailless comet,
surrounded by that bright, nebulous, translucent coma of huge
dimensions, was an exceedingly striking and brilliant spectacle. These
prophets of destruction could nightly point to it and thereby gain many
followers who garbed themselves in nightgowns and congregated on roof
tops, singing psalms and waiting for the fiery chariot to come and taxi
them up through the pearly gates.
But, strange to say, though on its return journey from the sun, the
comet came within half a million miles of the earth--a very short
distance as cosmic space is figured--and for a time looked larger and
brighter than the full moon, there were no other signs of its immediate
proximity than a few extra storms, earthquakes, tidal waves, volcanic
eruptions, and a protracted and exceedingly brilliant meteoric shower.
It was that which followed this sudden and unexpected call of our
bright visitor from the silent, star-strewn solitudes, which came
so near to causing the end of the world, or rather the end of man's
existence on the world, which, for the human race, amounts to the same
thing.
And it is this calamity which I have set myself the task of chronicling
in order that future generations may know the truth of the matter from
at least one eyewitness.
RICHARD PERRY.
CHAPTER I.
THREADS OF DEATH.
I was spending the week-end in the country with Sue.
To me, Dick Perry, one of the cave-dwelling desk-slaves in Chicago's
busy Loop, that was the height of bliss. Sue Davis, daughter of
Professor Absolom Davis, the eminent biologist and biochemist, was my
fiancée. We were at the Davis country home.
The comet had come and gone, and the earth, as well as all earthly
creatures, had settled down to its former more or less well-ordered
existence.
It was Saturday forenoon--one of those drowsy, peaceful, pleasant
mornings in late July so characteristic of the verdant Mississippi
Valley. Sue and I had gone for a stroll on the farm, had crossed a
field of nodding, fragrant clover, and had paused where a single huge
hackberry tree cast its speckled shade over a small grassplot.
I was lying on my back in the grass and gazing dreamily up into the
clear blue sky, while Sue, seated beside me, wove a garland of clover
blossoms. Feeling poetic--I was but twenty-two and Sue nineteen--I
began to compare the blue of her eyes with that of the heavens, and
the spun gold of her hair with the sunbeams that danced down through
the gently waving hackberry leaves, and to compose a verse suited to
my mood. But there came a droning sound, louder than that made by the
thousands of bees in the clover.
"The mail plane is coming in," said Sue. "Sit up, lazybones, and watch
it land. The field is only a mile from here."
As I sat up the unmistakable droning of an airplane grew louder.
Looking skyward, I could not see it at first. But I did see something
which I had not noticed before--a small, wispy white cloud scudding
rapidly northward. Then I saw the plane coming from the west.
It appeared to me that cloud and plane were traveling at about the same
speed, and if neither changed its velocity or direction, they would
meet. Nothing phenomenal in that, of course. I have often seen planes
fly through the clouds. But here were the only cloud and the only plane
in sight, and it would be interesting, I thought, if they should meet
when each had so much open space in which to travel.
As they drew closer together I saw that the cloud was considerably
higher than the plane.
"They won't meet, after all," I said, half to myself, half to my fair
companion.
But scarcely had the words left my lips ere a strange thing happened.
It appeared to me that the cloud, which was roughly disk-shaped with
a few ragged streamers beneath, tilted and glided downward toward the
level of the plane.
It came to me in the next instant that from our viewpoint the
motions of all heavenly objects near the zenith must necessarily be
relative--that the plane might have ascended toward the cloud. And yet
this would not account for the apparent tilting of the cirrus disk.
Plane and cloud met. For a moment the airplane was completely
concealed. But as it emerged once more into view I noticed that it was
beginning a steep climb, as if the pilot had suddenly pulled back on
the stick.
"He must be going to loop the loop," I said, but the words had
scarcely left my lips when the motor died. It appeared that the pilot
had misjudged the amount of speed necessary for the climb and had
not opened the throttle enough. The plane appeared to stop for a
moment--then fell backward and downward, went into a side slip, and
hurtled groundward, out of control.
* * * * *
Sue gripped my arm and uttered a little scream of terror. We both
leaped to our feet just as the ship crashed in a pasture not more than
a half mile from where we stood, and about an equal distance from the
landing field.
"Oh, how terrible!" exclaimed Sue. "Let's run over and see what we can
do. The pilot may not be dead."
"Not one chance in a thousand for that," I answered, "the way he
crashed. But we'll hurry over anyway."
We ran across the clover field and climbed the pasture fence.
As we neared the wreck we saw three men, evidently from the airport,
coming from the other direction. They arrived at the spot about the
same time we did.
The plane had struck with one wing down. That wing was completely
demolished. The other was partly crumpled by the shock of the
collision. The nose was buried in the soft, boggy ground of the
pasture, and the fuselage was a twisted wreck. Hanging about it like an
invisible aura was a sickening, musty odor--a revolting, charnel scent,
as if some ancient grave had been desecrated.
The ship was an open-job Travelair. Fearing the effect on Sue of the
horrible sight which I felt positive would be revealed, I suggested to
her that she look the other way when two of the men from the airport
went into the wreck for the remains of the pilot.
But the cries of horror which I expected to hear from the two men did
not materialize. Instead, they uttered exclamations of astonishment.
The man who was standing outside the wreck called to one of them:
"What's the matter, Bill?"
"We can't find no sign of a body here," was the reply. "This crate must
have been flying without a pilot."
"Maybe Jackson fell out before the crack-up," said the man outside.
"Must have been a long time before, if he did," was the answer,
"because I was watching the ship come in, and I'd have seen him if he
fell out. Besides, she behaved all right until she passed through the
cloud."
"He might have fallen out in the cloud."
"And then flew away with it? Don't talk foolish."
"Well, anyway, he's not here. Whew! What a smell! Notice it?"
"Notice it! I'm strangling!"
The three men dragged out the mail sacks, shouldered them, and moved
off in the direction of the landing field.
Sue and I were turning to go when my attention was attracted by several
long, silky bits of what appeared to be hair or thread, caught in
the rudder. Puzzled by the presence of material of this sort in so
unusual a place, I walked closer to examine it. On nearer inspection it
appeared like a glossy blond hair of rather coarse texture.
I touched a strand of it with an inquisitive forefinger, and an
astounding thing happened. With lightning-like rapidity that part of
it which dangled beyond my finger wrapped itself around the inquiring
digit, while the part between the finger and the rudder to which it was
attached, assumed the shape of a spiral spring and jerked my finger
toward the rudder.
Automatically I attempted to jerk my finger away. But the effort was
unavailing. Despite the apparent flimsiness of the strand which held
it, it was bound as tightly to that rudder as if it had been held by a
length of piano wire.
* * * * *
The strand, I observed, was caught in a cleft where the wood had split.
I had been pulling downward from this point. I pulled a second time,
this time upward, and the strand instantly came free, but it was no
sooner freed from the crotch than it wrapped its remaining coils around
my finger.
"What is it?" asked Sue. "What are you doing?"
"I have discovered something very strange," I replied, showing her my
tightly wrapped finger.
"Why, it's nothing but a hair," she said, and attempted to pull it
from my finger, which was already beginning to show signs of congested
circulation. But she could neither stretch nor break it. And the two
ends had twisted about each other, forming a splice that was as tight
and immovable as the other loops.
"Don't touch it!" I warned her, withdrawing my finger. "It's not a
hair."
"Then what is it?" she asked, surprised.
"I don't know," I responded, "but something more sinister than you
imagine. There are two more hanging on the rudder. Don't go near them.
I'll try to get them and take them to your father for examination.
Whatever they are, they seem to be endowed with life and an
unbelievable amount of strength."
I obtained a dry weedstalk near by and touched one of the remaining
strands with it. To my surprise it did not move, but hung as limp and
lifeless as if it had been what it appeared to be--a hair or thread.
Breaking the stalk in two, I caught the two strands between the two
pieces of weedstalk, and turned them until I had enough purchase to
pull them from the cleft. I continued to turn them until they were
wound around the stalks. Then Sue and I left for the house.
The walk of a mile and a half to the Davis home occupied only
twenty-five minutes. But before we had traversed half that distance
my finger, which had turned blue and begun to throb unmercifully,
started to bleed where the strands surrounded it. These strands, which
I was unable to pull off, continued to sink deeper and deeper into my
flesh as if they slowly contracted, and I was conscious of a burning
sensation as if some powerful corrosive were searing the wound.
Upon entering the house we found Sue's father, Professor Absolom Davis,
working in his small but excellently equipped experimental laboratory.
A small man with a pointed, iron-gray beard, he is scarcely taller than
his daughter, who is five feet two. Yet he has always appeared to me
as a man of concentrated, dynamic energy. Despite the fact that we had
apparently interrupted some intensely engrossing experiment as we burst
unceremoniously into his laboratory, he beamed cordially at us through
his large, thick-lensed glasses, and said:
"Well, well! Back so soon? Did you have a pleasant stroll?"
I briefly related to him the incidents that had just taken
place--showed him the strands I had wrapped around the sticks, after
warning him not to touch them, and also exhibited my tightly wrapped
finger.
* * * * *
After examining it for a moment, he poured some alcohol into a test
tube and plunged the numbed digit into it. There was no result except
an increased burning sensation where the strands had broken through the
skin.
Wrinkling his brow in puzzlement, he put some alcohol into a
second test-tube, and into this dropped a small quantity of clear,
pungent-smelling liquid. I was ordered to plunge my finger into this,
but the result was no different than before, except that the burning
was slightly intensified.
After watching it for a moment, the professor prepared a third
solution, using distilled water instead of alcohol, and dropping into
it something with a peculiar, almond-like odor. Almost instantly the
two spliced tendrils uncurled, and upon removing my finger from the
test tube I was able to unwind the coils as easily as if they had been
common thread.
Directing me to thoroughly wash my hands at once, the professor took a
pair of surgical scissors and cut off a piece of the substance which
had been wrapped around my finger.
The stuff seemed difficult to cut, and snapped like a piece of steel
wire when severed. Then he put it under a compound microscope and
examined it. The experiment which he had previously been conducting
seemed completely forgotten in the excitement of this new investigation.
"What is it?" I asked, after washing my hands.
He continued to peer through the microscope, slightly moving various
adjustments. Without replying to my question, he took the piece he had
been examining and immersed it in a blue solution. Again he slid it
under the microscope. Then he snipped off a second piece, immersed it
in a pink solution, and carefully examined it.
Presently he looked up. Apparently the question which I had asked some
minutes before had just broken through his preoccupation.
"I don't know what it is," he said, "except that it is organic and
apparently constructed of thousands of long, thin, and extremely tough
contractile fibres in a clear plasmic substance which is interlaced
with chains of fatty cells that indicate the presence of some sort of a
nervous system. This, to judge from the way the strands behave, is both
motor and sensory. There are also waxy cells which evidently contain
the corrosive digestive fluid which cut through your skin so readily.
Here, look for yourself."
I peered through the microscope, but to my untrained eye it appeared
that a thin cable, partly pink and partly translucent, crossed the
round field. There were specks, blotches, and chains of tiny globules,
but they meant nothing to me.
While Sue was looking at it, the professor prepared a slide by coating
it with some sticky substance. Then he carefully snipped off a small
piece of one of the strands I had brought in on the two stalks, so it
fell on and stuck to the slide.
This done, he removed the slide containing the pink-stained fragment,
and put the sticky slide in its place.
After examining it for some time in silence, he took down a large
glass mortar from a shelf. Holding the two sticks containing the wound
strands over this, he snipped off a piece about two inches in length,
letting it fall into the mortar.
Then he went outdoors. A few minutes later he returned with an
earthworm about six inches in length wriggling in his fingers.
"In the interests of science," he said, and dropped the worm into the
mortar. It fell on the strand which he had previously placed there, and
which, at the touch of the worm, seemed instantly galvanized into life.
With amazing speed it coiled itself around the squirming creature. Then
the coils slowly tightened, the worm becoming more convulsive in its
movements, and leaving little streaks of slime on the smooth surface of
the mortar as it lashed about in all directions.
Presently the worm was cut in two. Between the severed halves lay a
small, slime-smeared coil of what looked like hair. Slowly this coil
opened until it had reached its previous length of about two inches.
The head end of the worm, more active than the tail, again blundered
against the thread-like thing. Once again it was seized in the thin,
powerful coils, then slowly cut in two.
* * * * *
"What is it, professor?" I asked.
Continuing to stare at the contents of the mortar through his thick
glasses, he replied:
"At present I can only say that it is, without a doubt, a clew to the
disappearance--the almost certain death--of Jackson, the aviator.
Beyond that I can tell you nothing definite--not unless further
experiments reveal something which I have not yet discovered. Run
along, now, you and Sue. I must be alone. There is important work to be
done. There are investigations to be made which may be of incalculable
benefit to the human race--may even save humanity from the worst menace
by which it has ever been confronted!"