The Scientific Pioneer Returns
By Nelson S. Bond
Time was no barrier to Lancelot
Biggs when he found out Horse-sense
Hank alone could solve his problem.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories November 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: Before their eyes a strange figure materialized. It
was Lancelot Biggs--out of the future!]
This sounds silly. At half past three on a Tuesday afternoon, in
broad daylight, Professor Hallowell of the Midland University physics
department left Jurnegan Hall, walked down a campus path clogged to the
gutters with students--and disappeared into thin air.
This sounds even sillier. At nine-fifteen the next Friday morning,
Travis Tomkins, chief technician of Midland's new observatory, stepped
to the platform of Old Main to speak before an attentive crowd of
twelve hundred undergraduates--and vanished before their eyes!
But this sounds silliest. H. Logan MacDowell, fat, fifty, feverish,
and president of our institute of (alleged) learning, came to _me_
about it! He came on the run. That is, he came at a brisk, lurching
shamble. Which is, to him, the equivalent of a Cunningham four-minute
mile. He collapsed on my studio couch, gasped and panted like the White
King for a minute, then wheezed out a strangled plea.
"Blakeson, you--you've got to do something!"
I looked at his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, and nodded.
"Right!" I remembered. "I've got to rewind my bass rod and see that the
reel is oiled. They'll be running in a week or so."
"No, you impertinent young snippet! I mean, you've got to do something
about these mysterious disappearances."
I laughed right out loud. I bared my arms frankly.
I said, "Grab a look, Prexy! Nothing up the right sleeve; nothing up
the left sleeve. I didn't snatch your pedagogues. After all, just
because certain members of the faculty find it expedient to take a
powder--"
"A what?"
"Powder," I repeated. "Can't you understand plain English? To lift
one's feet. Scram. Blow. Take it on the lam. Sweet whistleberries, Doc,
I'm not something from the 'FOLLOW THAT MAN!' advertisements. I'm just
the publicity expert for this football-team-with-a-campus. If you want
to learn what happened to Hallowell and Tomkins, why don't you get a
dick?"
His jowls sagged to his breastbone. He said in an anguished tone,
"I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one."
"Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that
Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins
was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints?
Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of
them?"
"He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson.
_He_ disappeared, too!"
* * * * *
I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of
at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit
into the picture? Why ask me to do something?"
H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment.
Then, suddenly,
"Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?"
Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver
was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of
H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along
that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel
along the right-of-way.
The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a
cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the
worst of the bargain.
Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt,
leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his
beloved cabbage patch on his farm.
To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that
nice people disapprove of _Herr_ Hitler.
About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland
had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red
hot needles.
The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver!
I said, "So you're going to call in 'Horse-sense' Hank."[1]
[Footnote 1: Horse-sense Hank Cleaver, one of the best-known characters
in modern science fiction. Hank, a dirt farmer never subjected to
education, has an amazing ability to fix things of a mechanical nature
when they go wrong, make infinitely accurate mathematical calculations
and, above all, foretell the future in his own homely and intimate
fashion.--Ed.]
"Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we
don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping
all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined.
Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of
scandal--"
"Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see
what I can do, Doc."
He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone.
But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first
call. The local operator at Westville intoned,
"No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under
the name of 'Gleeber'--"
"Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! 'C' as in cuckoo; 'l'
as in lunkhead, 'e' as in--"
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the
description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do
you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?"
"Yeah," I said. "Gimme."
Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member
of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and
his income to me.
But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de
Milo.
He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for--oh, several
days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the
matter? Is anything wrong?"
"Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to
his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi--Who's
there?"
"Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers.
They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?"
"I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment.
Who's there?" I bawled again.
No answer. So I said to Hawkins,
"Well--do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him
immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So
long--Oh, _wait_ a minute, can't you?"
I hung up and stormed to the door, my foot itching to bury itself in
the southern exposure of a salesman facing north. I flung it open,
yelled,
"No, I don't want some! Go peddle your damn junk somewhere else--"
And then my jaw hit the top button of my vest.
"Hank!"
"Hyah, Jim!" said Horse-sense Hank.
* * * * *
Big as life and twice as natural. There's only one Horse-sense Hank
Cleaver. When they poured him, they laughed so hard they dropped the
mold and broke it. Tall and gangly, so thin of cheek that the cud
which constantly caresses his bicuspids sticks out like a cue-ball;
tow-colored ravelings of hair waving experimentally in all directions;
raw-boned of wrist; eyes mild and incurious as those of a heifer--that
is my pal, Hank Cleaver.
I clapped him on the back and dragged him, by main force, into my
apartment.
"Golly, guy, I'm glad to see you! You're looking a million. Do you
know, I've been slaving like a census-taker to find you? I've called
Westville, and--"
"I figgered," said Hank mildly, "as how you might be."
The wind whooshed out of my sails.
"You," I gulped, "did?"
"Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down
thisaway. Thought to myself, 'Well, now, Hank, 'pears like fust thing
you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump
along an' give him a lift. So I come, and--" He beamed. "Here I am!"
"Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are."
Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after
having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid
months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's
thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and
natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time.
I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank?
How--"
He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only
obsession.
"Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant 'em, or
where, or when, or what you do--they don't never act like you'd expect
'em to. I plant 'em wide, I plant 'em close; I plant 'em in cuts an'
slips an' seeds; I plant 'em yeller, white an' mottled. I water 'em
an' potash 'em an' treat 'em like babies--an' I _still_ can't make 'em
behave!"
He wedged a bulldog-tipped toe into the rug and looked at me from under
his bushy brows.
"Helen?" he asked. "How's Helen?"
"Iroquois!" I told him grimly.
"Come again?"
"After your scalp. Didn't you ever hear the adage about Satan's old
homestead having no fury like a woman left out on the limb? If you bump
into Helen MacDowell, pal, you better fly, not run, to the nearest
cavern."
Hank cracked his knuckles in misery.
"Couldn't do nothin' else, Jim. Couldn't marry her. 'T'warn't
logical."[2]
[Footnote 2: In "The Scientific Pioneer," AMAZING STORIES for March,
1940 Horse-sense Hank refused to marry Helen MacDowell because, with
his uncanny power to foretell the future, Hank knew their baby would be
a chorus girl when it grew up. Hank is allergic to chorines.--ED.]
"So," I reminded him, "aren't females. But never mind that, Hank. Let's
get down to brass tacks. The reason I wanted to see you--"
"I know. About the way them men's been disappearin'," he said. He rose
and walked to my radio set. "'Pears like you oughta have this turned
on. With all the trouble, seems like you'd be listenin' for news
bulletins."
"It's busted," I said. "It hasn't worked for weeks."
* * * * *
"No?" He shifted it around, peered into the maze of coils, tubes, wires
and utter incomprehensibles that comprise a modern radio set.
"Hmm. Never see'd the innards o' one o' these things afore.
Interestin', ain't it?"
His lean fingers began weaving among the gleaming entrails. A tiny
crease appeared over his right eye. He muttered as he pushed and
jiggled and explored.
"This one goes there; that one goes _there_. 'Pears like--Well, I'll be
durned!"
Something clicked, and his fingers made a twisting motion. He grinned
at me.
"How d'you make 'er talk, Jim?"
"She doesn't. She's a deaf mute. But that vernier on the left--"
He turned it. My long-silent radio went,
"_Phweeee-gwobble-gwobble!_"--and became coherent. Strains of hot jive
assaulted my eardrums. I moaned.
"Hank, do you know everything? The repairman who looked at it said it
would never work again. He said--"
"He jest wanted to sell you a new one," consoled my friend. "I kinda
figgered as how adjustin' that little hunk o' metal would fix it. You
see--"
But I never got to see. For at that moment my eyes went wobbly all of
a sudden. Out of nowhere came a brilliant light, flooding the room
with blinding intensity. There was no sound; just that sharp, bright
glare--and my arms tingled with a sort of electric vibration.
And as I blinked, the light coalesced into a form! It was, roughly, the
form of a man--and from where its head should be there came a strange,
strained, hollow voice.
"_Ombiggs!_"
Then the light flickered, and was gone, and with it was gone the voice
and the last vestige of my self-control. I let loose one squawk--out
loud!--and dived for the darkness and comparative security of the
region under the couch!
Not so Hank. He stood stockstill in the middle of the floor. I yelled
at him,
"Hank, did _you_ do that? Did you touch something on the radio?"
There was a faint, puzzled look on his face.
"Nope, Jim. I didn't do nothin'. Did you see him, too?"
"I saw him. Whoever he was. But who--how?"
"I dunno." Slowly. "Leastwise, the only thing I can think of is so durn
unlikely--Hey, listen!"
The radio music had stopped suddenly. The voice of the announcer was
clear, crisp, ominous.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program of dance music to
bring you a special bulletin. _Flash!_ Midland University campus. Dr.
H. Logan MacDowell, president of this institution, vanished suddenly
five minutes ago from the midst of a group of friends gathered at his
home to discuss two similar occurrences at Midland within the past week.
"Police efforts to solve the mystery were hampered by the ensuing
panic. A diabolic plot against the persons of eminent American
educators is feared by observers--"
The rest was lost to us. Frenzied footsteps beat a tappity-tappity path
to the door of my apartment, and nervous hands beat wooden panels. A
sweet, familiar voice, now high-pitched in fright, cried,
"Jim! Jim Blakeson! Quick--"
The door and sheer courage were all that sustained her. As I opened
the first, the second gave out. And Helen MacDowell moaned gently and
collapsed into my arms!
CHAPTER II
Unexpected Journey
I yelled, "Get some water, Hank! And some brandy!"
I carried her to the studio lounge. Hank came back with two glasses. I
gulped the brandy swiftly, and held the water to her lips. Pretty soon
she spluttered, pushed the glass away, and opened her eyes.
"Oh, Jim! The most dreadful thing has happened to daddy. We--_You_!"
Hank swallowed convulsively and essayed a grin.
"'Lo, Helen."
Helen MacDowell's fingers made motions like shears on a rampage. Her
eyes roved. She asked thoughtfully,
"Jim, where's that paperknife you used to have? The long one? I'm going
to stab somebody in the back!"
"Look, sugar," I pleaded, "Hank's come to help us. We have more
important things to worry about now than your injured ego. After we've
cleared up this trouble, you can have him alone in a dark room for ten
minutes--"
"Is that," she demanded fretfully, "a promise?"
But her bitterness subsided; anxiety rekindled in her eyes. That, and
the recollection of a shocking moment.
"Daddy disappeared, Jim! Right from the middle of a group. He was
standing at my side; his shoulder was almost touching mine. Then all of
a sudden--he was gone! Like that!"
Under any other circumstances, I would have guessed that the old
wind-bag had finally blown up and drifted away. But there was precedent
now for his Houdini act. One with sinister overtones. Three men and an
animated gumshoe detective had vanished.
But I said, in a voice that I hoped wouldn't sound too much like a dish
of unchilled tapioca,
"Now, don't worry, Helen. Everything's going to be all right. There
must be a logical explanation for this. Hank's just the man to--"
And then--there it was again!
A blinding flash of light. A weird vibrancy tingling my body, drawing
taut the tiny hairs of my forearms and neck. Light motes dancing
giddily before my eyes, coalescing to form the figure of a man. A
wavering, mobile figure, from the uppermost nebulosity of which
emanated a piteous, hollow voice.
"_Skleeva! Skleeva_--"
Then a swift, dulled paling of the light. Burning white tarnished
into red-ochre, red-ochre brazened, the green palpitated to a deep
blue-indigo. The figure before my eyes took on form and substance.
I saw with a sense of stark disbelief it was tall and lanky as Hank
himself, that it wore a uniform of some sort, that its eyes were not
unfriendly but haggard and despairing. And then,
"_Ombiggs!_" wailed our impossible visitor. "_Ombiggs! Skleeva?_"
And vanished!
I stood still. Very, very still It was not courage. It was rivets in
the soles of my feet. My brain clamored,
"Go, boys, go!" But my knees were clattering and banging like the
fenders of a T-model Ford.
* * * * *
Helen wasn't much better off. Her eyes looked like a pair of
sealed-beam headlights, and the most intelligent sound she could summon
was a faint, plaintive,
"Oooooh!"
Only Hank retained an iota of self-control. And to tell the truth, his
comment was far from enlightening.
"Well!" he said. "So _that's_ it!"
"What's what?" I asked him shakily. My paralysis was slipping away, and
I prepared to do ditto. "Friends, did you see what I saw? Or has the
little brown jug finally done what the Temperance Society told me it
would do some day?"
Hank said, "Now, Jim! It ain't like you to act so. 'Specially when
we've reached what you might call a crooshul moment. Hmm! Now, lemme
see. You folks seen him most plain when he was what color? Blue?"
"Sort of. Bluish-green."
Helen said, "Greenish-blue."
"That's near enough," mused Hank. "That'd be--Hmmm!--'bout .0005
millimetres. I'll tell him that when he comes back--"
"_When he comes back?_"
"Why sure!" Hank stared at me amiably. "He'll be back any minute now.
He done a lot better this time than the first, don't you think? Next
time he'll probably get what he wants."
"And," I faltered, "and I suppose you know what that is?"
"Reckon I do," said Hank complacently. "He wants _me_."
I gave up trying. My brain was in a muddle, anyway.
I said, "All right, Hank. You win. Now get down to straight facts. Who
_is_ he, _where_ did he come from, _why_ does he want you, _how_ do you
know he does, and _what_ is this all about?"
Hank shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, now, Jim, that's a powerful lot of questions at one lump.
Dunno's I can answer 'em all--yet. Hafta talk to him first, o' course,
but as near as I can figger, here's the set-up.
"That guy ain't from our time. He's from some time which ain't come
yet. The future, so to speak. I don't know his name, 'cause he didn't
speak very clear, but I know who he wants 'cause he said me."
Helen said dazedly, "He _said_--"
"'Where's Cleaver?'" explained Hank. "Oh, it wasn't very clear. He was
all excited. But that's what he meant, I reckon."
I swallowed hard and wished the goose pimples would get off my hide.
"You mean," I said, "he's coming back out of future time to talk to
you?"
"Seems as if. More like, he'll want to take me with him," Hank said
calmly.
"What! But, Hank, that would be awful! You mustn't allow anything like
that--"
Hank said bluntly, "You want I should find out where Helen's old man
is, don't you? And them two puffessors? Way I figger, Jim, there must
be somethin' awful drastic goin' on there in the future. Somethin' so
bad, it's got 'em all upset an' they're back-draggin' the past for me.
By accident, they musta got Hallowell an' Tomkins an' Helen's pop. I've
got to get over there an' find out what's the trouble--Here it is!"
* * * * *
For an instant there had flickered again that ray of light. Hank warned
hastily,
"You two stand back out o' the way! Keep calm an' don't worry. I'll be
back directly."
He stepped into the middle of the room as the bright, golden light
suddenly flamed anew. He lifted his voice.
"Point oh-oh-oh-five, friend. Or thereabout--"
And the light changed. Slid swiftly down the wavelengths again to that
hue most favorable. The figure appeared, this time firm, unwavering. It
was the face and figure of a man remarkably like Hank Cleaver himself;
a young man, serious-eyed, hopeful of voice.
"Cleaver?" he cried. "You Cleaver?"
Hank nodded. "Mmm-hmm. I'm him."
"Come!" said the young man. "Come, Hank Cleaver."
He held out his hand. And Hank stepped forward into the blaze of
pallid, green-blue light.
Which was just one too many for Helen MacDowell. A tiny groan escaped
her lips. She tottered, pitched forward to Hank's shoulder. Hank turned
worried eyes to me.
"Grab her, Jim! Get her back before--"
And I, too, leaped forward. I got my hands on Helen, started to pull
her from that color-field. I was aware of the distant throbbing of some
unknown machine, then of a swift, sudden shock. Great forces wrenched
at my body. I felt as if I were being racked in a titanic tug-o'-war.
There was an instant of frightful cold, another of giddy nausea, a
sensation of wild, hurtling motion.
Then blackness, soft, warm and impenetrable....
No, not impenetrable. For there was a light in my eyes, and my head was
no longer swimming, and I was lying on something comfortable, and a
friendly voice was saying,
"Here you are, Buster. Drink this!"
So why look a gift drink in the bottle? I drank it, and immediately
felt warmer inside. And more confident, too. Until I lifted my head and
looked about me. Then I let loose a howl that stretched from here to
there, with reverberations.
"Great galloping saints, where am I? No, don't say it! Let me guess.
World's Fair?"
My young companion looked puzzled. He was a decent-looking chap,
except for that wild costume he was wearing. A sort of uniform, but it
reminded me painfully of a Buck Rogers serial. Loose tunic and slacks,
sky-blue, with a Sam Browne belt and a gun holster into which was
jammed a weird-appearing weapon, all knobs and studs and buttons.
"How?" he said.
I said, "My--my friends? Where are they?"
"They're up and around. You're the only fader."
He grinned. "You must be allergic to electricity, huh?"
I was still staring about me. The room was a humdinger. All metal and
plastic and glass; a small cubicle about six by ten, with a single bunk
(that on which I now sat, poised for flight) a desk, chair, porthole--
Porthole!
"So that's it!" I yipped. "Shanghaied!"
* * * * *
I made a dive for the porthole, pressed my nose to it, hoping that
across the bounding blue I might see at least one faint ribbon of good
old terra firma.
But there was no land. There was no bounding blue. There weren't even
any clouds or sky! There was--just gray. Wan, dismal gray that seemed
to stretch into infinity!
It was plain that I needed either one less drink or one more. I settled
for the latter. A long, straight one. It snapped me hurriedly out of my
speechlessness.
"Not that it's any of my business," I said, "but it looks to me like
there's nothing outside that porthole but a lot of gray emptiness."
My companion nodded dolefully.
"Yeah," he said, "I know. I've looked--and looked."
"Where I come from, space usually has things stuffed inside it. So
apparently I'm not there. Which being the case, would you mind telling
me where the hell I _am_?" I demanded.
He shook his head. "That's just it, Buster. We don't know."
"You," I told him, "are a big help. Pass the bottle. Do you happen to
know your own name?"
"Yeah," he said. "Mud. It used to be Bert Donovan. I'm the radio
operator aboard this ship."
"Ship?" He was beginning to talk sense now.
"Lugger, I should say. This is the _Saturn_, friend. IPS freight
lugger, operating on the Earth-Mars shuttle. Or, anyhow, we _used_ to.
_Till_ he got monkeying around with that new power drive of his--"
"IPS?" I strangled. "Earth-Mars? _He?_"
"Take it easy, friend. IPS--interplanetary space ship.
Earth-Mars--round-trip route, originally. Navigator, Lancelot Biggs,
the first mate.[3] Didn't you know--"
[Footnote 3: Author Nelson S. Bond first introduced Lancelot Biggs,
space navigator and jack-of-all-trades, in the November, 1939 issue of
FANTASTIC ADVENTURES, our companion magazine, under the title "F.O.B.
Venus." The second mate aboard the _Saturn_, space freighter plying
between Earth and other colonized planets under the somewhat bilious
leadership of Cap Hanson, Lancelot Biggs got himself promoted to first
mate after getting the space freighter out of a bad fix. Author Bond,
now one of the top-notchers in popular fiction, has in this story
combined two of his best-liked scientifictional characters--Lancelot
Biggs and Horse-sense Hank.--Ed.]
"Omigod!" I bleated. "Don't tell me, but I--we--all of us are in the
_future_!"
Donovan caught me as I was about to collapse and clapped me heartily on
the back. I think it did more harm than good, but at least it brought
me out of the fog.
"Correct," he said unhappily. "We're off in the future--hmm--maybe
two-three hundred years. Myself, I don't understand how the hell it
happened, but--"
At that moment a bell sounded. We turned to a hunk of square glass set
in a side wall. It lighted, and a crusty-looking face scowled down on
us, eyed me appraisingly.
"Ah, so you've recovered, young man? Fine! Your friends are waiting
here in the control turret. Sparks, come along up here. Mr. Biggs has
called a general conference."
The light dimmed. Sparks grinned at me languidly.
"That's the Old Man. Cap Hanson. Well, let's go, Buster. The fireworks
are about to begin."
"The name," I told him, "is Blakeson. And how come the fireworks? Me no
savvy."
"You heard him say L. Biggs was in the control turret, no? That's the
tip-off, Bust--"
"Blakeson!" I said firmly.
"Blakeson," he corrected. "Okay. Buster. Come on!"