_The Half-Dream_
A roaring, rushing river of chaotic sound, first. Jumbled sound to which
Prester Kleig could give no adequate name. But as he tried to analyze
its meanings, he was able to differentiate between sounds, and to
discover the identity of some.
The river of sound he decided to be the sound of a vibrational explosion
of some sort--vibrational because it had that quivery quality which
causes a feeling of uneasiness and fret, that feeling which makes one
turn and look around to find the eyes boring into one's back--yet
multiplied in its intensity an uncounted number of times.
Other sounds which came through the chaotic river of sound were the
terrified screaming of the men and women who were doomed. Lifeboats were
never lowered, for the reason that with the disintegration of the
_Stellar_, everything inanimate aboard her likewise disintegrated,
dropping men and women, crew and passengers, into the freezing waters of
the Atlantic.
Prester Kleig dropped with them, only partially unconscious after the
first icy plunge. He knew when he floated on the surface, for he felt
himself lifted and hurled by the waves. In his half-dream he saw men and
women being carried away into wave-shrouded darkness, clawing wildly at
nothingness for support, clawing at one another, locking arms, and going
down together.
* * * * *
The _Stellar_, in the merest matter of seconds, had become spoil of the
sea, and her crew and passengers had vanished forever from the sight of
men. Yet Prester Kleig lived on, knew that he lived on, and that there
was an element, too strong to be disbelieved, of reality in his dream.
There was a vibratory sense, too, as of the near activity of a noiseless
motor. Noiseless motor! Where had he last thought of those two words?
With what recent catastrophe were they associated? No, he could not
recall, though he knew he should be able to do so.
Then the sense of motion to the front was apparent--an unnumbered sense,
rather than concrete feeling. Motion to front, influenced by the rising
and falling motion of mountainous waves.
So suddenly as to be a distinct shock, the wave motion ceased, though
the forward motion--and _upward!_--not only continued but increased.
That airplane of the bulbous body, the queerly slanted wings....
But the glimmering of realization vanished as a sickishly sweet odor
assailed his nostrils and sent its swift-moving tentacles upward to wrap
themself soothingly about his brain. But the sense of flight,
unbelievably swift, was present and recognizable, though all else eluded
him. He had the impression, however, that it was intended that all save
the most vagrant, most widely differentiated, impressions elude
him--that he should acquire only half pictures, which would therefore be
all the more terrible in retrospect.
The only impressions which were real were those of motion to the front,
and upward, and the sense of noiseless machinery, vibrating the whole,
nearby.
Then a distinct realization of the cessation of the sense of flying, and
a return, though in lesser degree, of the rising and falling of waves.
This latter sensation became less and less, though the feeling of
traveling downward continued. Prester Kleig knew that he was going down
into the sea again, down into it deeply.... Then that odor once more,
and the elusive memory.
Forward motion at last, in the depths, swift, forward motion, though
Prester Kleig could not even guess at the direction. Just swift motion,
and the mutter of voices, the giving of orders....
* * * * *
Prester Kleig regained consciousness fully on the sands of the shore. He
sat up stiffly, staring out to sea. A storm was raging, and the sea was
an angry waste. No ship showed on the waters; the mad, tumbled sky above
it was either empty of planes or they had climbed to invisibility above
the clouds that raced and churned with the storm.
Out of the storm, almost at Prester Kleig's feet, dropped a small
airplane. Through the window a familiar face peered at Kleig. A
helmeted, begoggled figure opened the door and stepped out.
"Kleig, old man," said the flyer, "you gave me the right dope all right,
but I'll swear there isn't a wireless tower within a hundred miles of
this place! How did you manage it?"
"Kane, you're crazy, or I am, or...." But Prester Kleig could not go on
with the thought which had rushed through his brain with the numbing
impact of a blow. He grasped the hand of Carlos Kane, of the Domestic
Service, and the yellow flimsy Kane held out to him. It read simply:
"Shipwrecked. Am ashore at--" There followed grid coordinate map
readings. "Come at once, prepared to fly me to Washington." It was
signed "Kleig."
"Kane," said Kleig, "I did not send this message!"
What more was there to be said? Horror looked out of the eyes of Prester
Kleig, and was reflected in those of Carlos Kane. Both men turned,
peering out across the tumbled welter of waters.
Somewhere out there, tight-locked in the gloomy archives of the
Atlantic, was the secret of the message which had brought Carlos Kane to
Prester Kleig--and the agency which had sent it.