Zhe year When
A
Science Fiction Novel
The year When Stardust Fell
by
Raymond F. Jones
Jacket Design by James Heugh Endpaper Design
by Alex Schomburg
THE JOHN C WINSTON
COMPANY Philadelphia • Toronto |
Ceci/e
Matschat, Editor Carl Carmer, Consulting Editor
©1958 By Raymond F. Jones
first edition
Made in
the United States of America
L. C. Card #58-5676
To Laura Lee
Other Winston Science
Fiction Books by Raymond F. Jones
planet of light
son of the stabs
Other Published Books
the toymaker renaissance this island earth
the alien the secret
people
About the
Author
f]t various times, Raymond F. Jones has
lived in Utah, Nevada, Arizona, New
Mexico and Texas, thereby enabling
him to
describe the mountain-west community, which is the scene of
his newest
science fiction book, with sureness and
insight. He also has a
rich scientific background,
which includes training in the
fields of radio operating, and electronic engineering, followed by meteorological work with the United States
Weather Bureau. To this kaleidoscope of places and things,
Mr. Jones
has added
another facet, that of
"a spare-time writer"
and has
managed to produce eight books,
something over one hundred magazine stories, articles and novelettes.
This is his third Winston book.
The author was
born in Salt Lake City
where he is presently living, and attended the
University of Utah. He is
now working as a
researcher with a historical society which possesses
the world's
largest collection of microfilm copies
of ancient documents and
records. These documents have
been gathered from
all parts
of Europe
and the
United States, and Mr.
Jones is enjoying this new
environment.
Mr. Jones describes the theme of
The Year When Stab-dust Fell in this way:
"It is the portrayal of
the unending
conflict between ignorance and
superstition on one hand, and knowledge
and cultural
enlightenment on the other as
they come into conflict
with each other during an
unprecedented disaster brought
on by
the forces
of nature."
Coinciding with the surge of interest
in all
of science,
this book will give the reader
a real
appreciation of the role of
the scientist.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
About the Author.............................. vii
Of Men of Science........................... *■
1.
The Comet....................................... 1
2.
Breakdown....................................... 11
3. Power Failure.................................. ..... 21
4.
Disaster Spreads............................ 31
5. Thief................................................. 41
6.
The Scientist................................... 53
7.
Dust from the Stars......................... 63
8.
Attack.............................................. 73
9. Judgment......................................... 83
10.
Victory of the Dust.......................... 93
11. The Animals Are Sick........................ .... 102
12. Decontamination..................................... .... Ill
13. Stay Out of Town!............................ .... 122
14. Mobilization..................................... .... 132
15. Battle............................................... .... 142
16. Black Victory................................... .... 151
17. Balance of Nature............................ 164
18. Witchcraft........................................ 176
19. Conquest of the Comet.................... 186
20. Reconstruction................................ ... 196
Of Men of Science
I |
he story of man is
the story—endlessly
repeated—of a struggle: between light and
darkness, between knowledge and ignorance,
between good and evil, between
men who would build
and men
who would
destroy. It is no more complicated
than this.
That light, knowledge, good, and constructive men have had a small
edge in this struggle is
attested to by our slow
rise over the long
millennia of time. In taking
stock of our successes, however, it
is easy
to assume
the victory
has been
won. Nothing could be
further from the truth. This
is a
contest that is never
ended, nor can it be,
as long
as men
are upon the Earth.
While man has free choice, the
elements of darkness, ignorance,
evil and destruction are available
for him
to choose, and there are times
when these seem the best
alternatives.
At the end of the 18th
century one of the greatest
minds of all time was destroyed
by one
stroke of a guillotine blade. The judge who presided
at the
trial of the great French
chemist Lavoisier is reported
to have
said, "The Republic has no need
of men
of science."
Choices like this have often been
made by the society of man. A turnoff to
darkness has been deliberately taken,
superstition has been
embraced while knowledge has been
destroyed.
When times are
placid we assume such choices
could result only from some great
insanity; that the men who
made them had themselves
known more pleasant days. The
truth is that there
are extremes
of circumstance
which could force almost any man
to abandon
that which he has always
held to be right
and good,
and only
the very
giants could stand up and prove
themselves unmoved.
Such giants may seem,
in ordinary
life, rather obscure. Illustrating
this are the people in
this story: a somewhat pompous little mayor; a professor
of chemistry
in a
smalltown college in the mountain
west; a minister of the
gospel, who would be lost
with a big-city congregation;
a sheriff
who doesn't care what
happens to him personally as long as he sticks
to the kind of Tightness that has always worked; and a high-school boy who
learns what it means to
do a
man's work.
Such people are
important, the most important people
alive today. They are
the ones
whose hands hold all that
our culture has achieved
when catastrophe overtakes us.
The illusion of
security is a vicious one.
With physical comforts around
us, the
abyss that is just beyond
our walls
is forgotten: the abyss
of outer
space, beyond the paper-thin atmosphere shielding us; of
the fires
in the
earth beneath; of the
hurricane winds beyond the horizon;
of the
evil and insanity in
the minds
of many
men.
The caveman dared
not forget
these abysses, nor
the frontiersman, nor the scientist who fought
the witch
hunters to bring forth a new
truth of Nature. But when
we believe
we are secure we do forget
them.
In catastrophe, the most recent achievements
of the
race are the first to go.
When war comes, or mobs
attack, or hurricanes strike, our science
and our
arts are abandoned first Necessity of
survival seems to insist that
we cannot
Of Men of Science
xiii
fool with things of the mind and of the soul when
destruction threatens the body. And so, "The Republic has no need of men
of science."
Emergency can take any form. Here is a story
in which the mechanical foundation of our culture is threatened. Whether the
means of this threat, as I have pictured it, could possibly occur, I do not
know. I know of no reason why it could not, if circumstances were right.
But more important, this is what happens to a
small, college town caught up in such disaster. How quickly do its people
dispense with their men of science and turn to superstition and mob rule for
hope of survival?
It
is perhaps not so apparent to those of us who have grown up with it, but we
have witnessed in our own time, under threat of calamity, the decline of
science before a blight of crash-priority engineering technology. Today, we
hear it faintly whispered, "The Republic has no need of men of
science."
Insofar
as he represents the achievements of our race over the great reaches of time,
the scientist will always be needed if we are to retain the foothold we have
gained over Nature. The witch doctors and the fortunetellers clamor for his
niche and will gladly extend their services if we wish to change our
allegiance.
The story of The Year When Stardust Fell is not a
story of the distant future or of the remote past. It is not a
story of a never-never land where fantastic happenings take
place daily. It is a story of my town and yours, of people
like you and me and the mayor in townhall, his sheriff on
the corner, and the professor in the university—a story that
happens no later than tomorrow. R. F. J.
Chapter 1 rhe comet
I |
he comet was the only
thing in the whole sky.
All the
stars were smothered by
the light
of its
copper-yellow flame, and, although
the sun
had set
two hours
ago, the Earth was lit as
with the glow of a
thunderous dawn. In Mayfield, Ken Maddox
walked slowly along Main Street, avoiding collisions with other
people whose eyes were fixed on
the object
in the
sky. Ken had spent scores
of hours observing the comet carefully,
both by naked eye and
with his 12-inch reflecting
telescope. Still he could not
keep from watching it as he
picked his way along the
street toward the post office.
The comet had been approaching Earth for months, growing steadily to bigger proportions
in the
sky, but tonight was a
very special night, and Mayfield
was watching
with increased awe and
half-dread—as were hundreds of thousands of other communities around the world.
Tonight, the Earth entered the comet's
tail, and during the coming winter
would be swept continuously by its million-mile spread.
There was no visible change. The
astronomers had cautioned that none
was to
be expected.
The Earth
had passed
through the tails of comets before,
although briefly, and none of the
inhabitants had been physically aware of the event.
This time there
was a
difference. As intangible as a
mere suspicion, it could
yet be
felt, and there was the
expectancy of the unknown in the
air.
Ken prided himself
on a
scientific attitude, but it was
hard not to share
the feelings
of those
around him that something momentous and
mysterious was taking place this
night. There would be
no quick
passage this time. Earth would he within the tail
for a
period of over four months
as they both made
their way about the sun.
Such close-lying orbits had never occurred
before in the known history of
the world.
"It's frightening, isn't it?"
Ken was aware that he had
stopped at the edge of
a crowd in front of Billings
Drugstore, and beside him Maria
Larsen was staring intently
upward as she spoke.
She was a
small, blonde girl with intense
blue eyes. Ken smiled confidently and looked down at
her. "No," he said. "It's a beautiful thing. It's
a kind
of miracle
that we should be alive when
it happened.
No human
beings have ever seen such a
sight before."
Maria shivered faintly.
"I wish I could feel
that way. Do you think it
will get any bigger?"
"Yes. It will not reach its
closest approach for over three
months, yet. Its approach
is very
slow so we won't notice
much change."
"It is beautiful," Maria agreed slowly,
"but, still, it's frightening.
I'll be glad when it's
gone."
Ken laughed and
tucked the girl's arm in
his. There was something so disturbingly
serious about the Swedish girl,
who was spending a
year in Mayfield with her
parents. Her father, Dr. Larsen, was
a visiting
professor of chemistry, engaged to teach
this season at the State
Agricultural College in Mayfield. Ken's
own father
was head
of the
chemistry department there.
"Come down to the post office
with me to get some
stamps," Ken said. "Then
I'll drive you home."
"It's closed. You can't
get any
stamps tonight."
"Maybe the boys in gray haven't
been too busy watching the comet to stock the
stamp machine. Look out!" He pulled her back quickly
as she
stepped from the curb. A
wheezy car moved past, its driver
completely intent on his observation
of the
comet.
"Old Dad Martin's been trying to
wrap that thing around a pole
for 25
years," Ken said unhappily. "It looks like he's
going to make it
tonight!"
Along the street, bystanders whistled at
the aged
driver, and pedestrians yelled at one
another to get out of
the way.
The car's progress broke,
for a
moment, the sense of ominous
concern that spread over
Main Street.
At the post
office, Ken found Maria's prediction
was right.
The stamp machine was
empty.
"I have some
at home,"
the girl
said. "You're welcome to them."
"I need a lot. Mother's sending
out some
invitations."
"I'm sure I have enough. Papa
says I'm supporting the postal department with all the
letters I write to everyone
at home in Sweden."
"All right, I'll take
you up
on it.
I'll get skinned if I
don't get them. I was supposed
to pick
them up this afternoon and I forgot all about
it."
"I thought I learned
good English in the schools
in Sweden," said Maria
wistfully, "but I don't seem
to understand
half what you say. This
'skinned'—what does that
mean?"
"Nothing you need to worry about,"
Ken laughed.
"If you would teach me English
the way
you learned
it, Miss
Rymer would give me a lot
better marks in her class."
"Now I think you're making fun
of me,"
said Maria.
"Not me. Believe me, I'm not!
Hey, look what's coming down the street! That's old
Granny Wicks. I thought she
had died a long time ago."
In front of
the post
office, an ancient white horse
drew a light, ramshackle wagon to
a halt.
From the seat, a small,
wizened, old woman looked
at the
crowd on the street. She
dropped the reins in
front of her. Her eyes,
set deeply
in her wrinkled face, were bright
and sharp
as a
bird's, and moved with the same
snapping motions.
From both sides
of the
street the bystanders watched her. Granny Wicks was known
to everyone
in Mayfield.
She was said to
have been the first white
child born in the valley, almost a hundred years
ago. At one time, her
horse and wagon were familiar, everyday
sights on the streets, but
she seldom came to
town any more.
Many people, like Ken,
had had
the vague
impression that she was
dead.
She appeared lively
enough now as she scrambled
down from the wagon seat and
moved across the sidewalk to
the post office steps. She climbed
these and stood in front
of the doors. Curiously, the crowd
watched her.
"Listen to me, you!" she exclaimed
suddenly. Her voice was high and
shrill, reminding Ken of an
angry bird's. Maria looked at him
wonderingly,
and he
shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't ask me what she's up
to. She's
pulled some corkers in her time."
Granny Wicks looked
over the gathering crowd. Then
she pointed a bony
arm at
the glowing
comet. "You know what it means,"
she exclaimed
shrilly. "You feel it in
your bones, and your hearts quiver
with fear. There's death in
the sky, and an
omen to all the inhabitants
of the
Earth that destruction awaits
men."
She stopped and glared.
The laughter
that had first greeted her gave
way to
uneasiness as people glanced at
their neighbors, then hastily
at the
comet, and back to Granny Wicks.
Some began moving away in
discomfort.
"You're scared to listen,
eh?" Granny shrilled at them.
"You're afraid to know
what's in store! Turn your
backs thenl Close your ears! You
can't change the signs in
the heavens!"
A movement in
the crowd
caught Ken's eye. He saw
the stout figure of Sheriff Johnson
moving toward the steps. The law officer stepped out
in front
and approached
Granny Wicks.
"Come on now, Granny," said Sheriff
Johnson. "You wouldn't want
to scare
folks out of a good
night's sleep, would you?"
"You let me alone, Sam Johnson!
I'm saying
what I have to say, and
nobody's going to stop me.
Listen to me, all of
you! There's death in
Mayfield in the winter that's
coming, and spring won't see one
man in
ten left
alive. Remember what I say. The
stars have sent their messenger ..
."
"Okay, Granny, let's go,"
said the Sheriff. "You've said your piece and scared
the daylights
out of
everybody. You'd better be getting on
out to
your place before it gets
dark. The comet won't light things
up all
night. How's your supply of wood
and coal
for the
winter, Granny? The boys been getting it in for
you?"
"I got plenty,
Sam Johnson.
More'n I'll need for this
winter. Come spring, I
won't be around to be needing
anything else from anybody. Neither
will you!"
The Sheriff watched
as the
old woman
climbed to her wagon seat again.
Those standing nearby helped her
gently. She took the reins and
snapped them at the weary
horse.
"Take care of yourself, Granny!"
someone called.
Sheriff Johnson stood
silently on the steps until
the wagon
passed out of sight
around the corner of the
block. Then he moved slowly by
Ken and
Maria. He smiled grimly at
Ken.
"It's bad enough to have that
thing hanging up there in
the sky without that
kind of talk." He glanced
up for
a moment. "It gives you the
willies. Sometimes I wonder, myself, if Granny isn't half-right."
There was a stillness
in the
street as the people slowly
dispersed ahead of the
Sheriff. Voices were low, and
the banter was gone. The yellow
light from the sky cast
weird, bobbing shadows on
the pavement
and against
the buildings.
"Shall we go?" Maria asked. "This
is giving
me—what do you say?—the creeps."
"It's crazyl" Ken exclaimed
with a burst of feeling.
"It shows what ignorance
of something
new and
strange can do. One feebleminded, old woman can infect
a whole
crowd with her crazy superstitions, just because they don't
know any more about this thing
than she does!"
"It's more than that," said Maria
quietly. "It's the feeling that people have always had
about the world they find
themselves in. It doesn't
matter how much you know
about the ocean and the winds
and the
tides, there is always a
feeling of wonder and
fear when you stand on
the shore
and watch enormous waves
pounding the rocks.
"Even if you know what makes
the thunder
and the
lightning, you can't watch
a great
storm without feeling very small and
puny."
"Of course not," Ken said. "Astronomers feel all that when
they look a couple
of billion
light-years into space. Physicists know it when they discover
a new
particle of matter. But they don't go around muttering about
omens and signs. You can feel
the strength
of natural
forces without being scared to death.
"Maybe that's what marks
the only
real difference between witches and
scientists, after alll The first
scientist was the guy who saw
fire come down from the
sky and
decided that was the
answer to some of his
problems. The witch doctor was too
scared of both the problem
and the
answer to believe the
problem could ever have a
solution. So he manufactured delusions to
make himself and others think the problem would just
quietly go away. There are
a lot of witch doctors still
operating and they're not all
as easy to recognize as Granny
Wicks."
They reached Ken's
car, and he held the
door open for Maria. As he
climbed in his own side
he said,
"How about coming over to my
place and having a look
at the
comet through my telescope? You'll see
something really awe-inspiring then."
"I'd love to. Right
now?"
"Sure." Ken started the car and
swung away from the curb, keeping
a careful
eye on
the road,
watching for any others like Dad
Martin.
"Sometimes I think there will be
a great
many things I'll miss when we
go back
to Sweden,"
Maria said thoughtfully, as she settled
back in the seat, enjoying
the smooth,
powerful ride of Ken's souped-up
car.
Ken shot a
quick glance at her. He
felt a sudden sense of
loss, as if he
had not
realized before that their acquaintance
was strictly temporary. "I guess a lot
of people
here will miss the Larsens, too,"
he said
quietly. "What will you miss
most of all?"
"The bigness of everything,"
said Maria. "The
hundreds and hundreds of miles of
open country. The schoolboys with cars to
cover the distance. At home,
a grown
man is
fortunate to have one.
Papa had a very hard
time owning one.
"Why don't you persuade him to
stay here? Mayfield's a darn good
place to live."
"I've tried already, but he says
that when a man is
grown he has too many things
to hold
him to
the place
he's always known. He has promised,
however, to let me come
back if I want to, after
I finish
the university
at home."
"That would be nice.*' Ken turned away,
keeping his eyes intently on the road. There was nothing else he could say.
He
drove slowly up the long grade of College Avenue. His family lived in an older
house a block below the brow of College Hill. It gave a pleasant view of the
entire expanse of the valley in which Mayfield was situated. The houses of the
town ranged themselves in neat, orderly rows below, and spread out on the other
side of the business section. In the distance, north and south,
were the small farms where hay and dairy stock and truck crops had been raised
since pioneer times.
Til miss this, too/* said
Maria. "It's beautiful."
Ken wasn't listening to her, however. The car
had begun to sputter painfully as it took the curve leading off the avenue to
Linwood Street where Ken lived. He glanced at the heat indicator. The needle
was almost at the boiling point.
"For Pete's sake! The water must have leaked out of the
radiator."
Ken
pulled the car to the curb in front of the house and got out, leaving the
engine idling. He raised the hood and cautiously turned the radiator cap with
his handkerchief. A cloud of steam shot out, but when he lifted the cap the
water was not quite boiling, and there was plenty of it.
Maria came up beside him.
"Is something wrong?"
"You've
got me there. The radiator's clean. The pump isn't
more than two months old. I checked the timing last Saturday. Something's gone
sour to make her heat up like that."
From
across the street, his neighbor, Mr. Wilkins, approached with a grin.
"Looks like the same thing hit us both. Mine started boiling as I came up
the hill tonight. It's got me stumped."
"The
circulation must be clogged," said Ken. "Either that or the timing
has slipped off. That's all it could be."
"Those were my ideas, too. Both
wrong in my case. Let
me know if you
get any
other bright ones." He moved
off with a pleasant wave of
his hand.
"It will cool," said Ken to
Maria. "By the time you're
ready to leave I'll
be able
to drive
you home."
"I wouldn't want you
to damage
your car. I can walk."
"Well see."
He led her around the house.
In the
center of the backyard loomed
the high,
round dome of his amateur
observatory. It was Ken's personal
pride, as well as that
of the
members of the Mayfield
High Science Club, who had
helped build the shell
and the
mountings. The club used it
every Thursday night when
the seeing
was good.
Ken had ground the precision mirror
alone. He had ground his first
one, a 4-inch glass, when
he was
a Boy
Scout. Three years later he had
tackled the tremendous job of
producing a 12-inch one.
Professor Douglas of the physics
department at the college
had pronounced
it perfect.
Ken opened the door
and switched
on the
light inside the dome. "Don't mind the mess," he said. "I've been taking photographs
of the
comet for the last month."
To Maria, who was
used to the clutter of
a laboratory,
there was no mess.
She admired
the beauty
of the
instrument Ken and his friends
had built.
"Our university telescope isn't any
better," she said.
"You can't tell by the plumbing,"
Ken laughed.
"Better take a look
at the
image before you pass judgment."
Skilfully, he swung the long tube
around to the direction of the comet. With the
fine controls he centered the
cross hairs of the eyepiece on
the blazing
object in the sky.
"It's moving too fast
to stay
in range
very long," he said.
Maria stepped to the
observer's position. She gasped suddenly
at the
image of the fiery monster
hovering in the sky. Viewing the comet along the
axis of the tail, as
the Earth
lay at the edge of it, an observer's vision was
like that of
a miniature, flaming sun
with an offcenter halo of
pulsing, golden light.
To Maria, the comet
seemed like something living. Slow,
almost imperceptible ripples in
the glowing
scarves of light made them sway
as if
before some mighty, cosmic wind
in space.
"It's beautiful," Maria murmured,
"but it's terrible, too. No wonder
the ancients
believed comets brought evil and
death upon the Earth.
I could
almost believe it, myself!"
Chaptet 2 Breakdown
■
i en maddox could not remember
a time
when he had II not wanted to
become a scientist. Maybe it
started IV when his father
first invited him to look
through a |\ microscope. That was
when he was a very
small boy, but he could still
remember the revelation of that
experience. He remembered how it
had seemed,
on looking
away from the lens, that the
whole world of normal vision
was only a fragment of that
which was hidden behind curtains
and shrouds and locked
doors. Only men, like his
father, with special instruments and wisdom
and knowledge,
could ever hope to understand the world of the
unknown, which the ordinary person did
not even
suspect.
Now, at sixteen, Ken was tall,
with black hair that had
an annoying curl to
it. He
was husky
enough to be the main
asset of the football
squad of Mayfield High School
in his
senior year. He knew
exactly where he was going
and what
he was going to do. He
would be one of those
men who
lived beyond the mere surface of
the world,
and who
would seek to understand its deep
and hidden
meanings.
Ken thought of this
as he
watched Maria at the telescope.
What a difference between knowing the
comet as this in-
strument showed it, and
with the knowledge revealed by
modern astronomy, and knowing
it as
the average
person in Mayfield did.
Ken and Maria stayed in the
observatory until the comet had almost
disappeared below the horizon. Mrs.
Maddox brought a snack
of sandwiches
and punch.
"I always do this
when I see the observatory
dome open," she said, smiling. "I
never know when Ken's going
to quit
his stargazing and come
in for
the night."
"We're about through, Mom. I'll drive
Maria over to her place and
be back
in a
little while."
"I'm going to loan him the
stamps," Maria said.
Mrs. Maddox looked at
Ken in
mock severity. "You mean you forgot
again?"
"No—I remembered," Ken said
lamely. "After the post office closed, that is. Anyhow,
Maria has plenty."
"Well," said Mrs. Maddox, "I know
who's going to have to mail
my invitations
if they're
ever to get out in
time for the party!"
After he and
Maria had finished the snack,
Ken started
his car again. The
engine had cooled to normal
temperature, but he watched
the indicator
closely as he drove. Nothing
seemed right about the
action of the car. The
engine had turned over sluggishly when he pressed the
starter button, as if the battery
were almost dead. Now it
lugged heavily, even when going downhill.
"The whole thing's haywire," Ken said
irritably. "It acts like the crankcase
is full
of sand
or something."
"Let me walk the rest of
the way,"
said Maria. "You take the car
back, and I'll bring the
stamps over on my way
to school in the morning."
"No, we're almost there. Nothing much
more could go wrong than already
has."
When they reached
Maria's place they found Professor
and Mrs. Larsen sitting
on the
porch.
"We've been watching the comet," Maria said excitedly. "Ken let me
look at it through his
telescope."
"A remarkable event," said Professor Larsen. "I feel very fortunate to be alive to
witness it. My generation hasn't had this kind of
privilege before. I was a child
when Halley's comet appeared."
Tve been trying to
tell Maria what a lucky
break this is, but she agrees
with Granny Wicks," said Ken.
"Oh, I do not." Maria snapped.
"Granny Wicks?" Professor Larsen inquired.
"Your
grandmother?"
"No." Ken tried to cover the
professor's lack of familiarity with American idioms. "She's just the town's oldest
citizen. Everybody likes her
and calls
her Granny,
but her
mind belongs to the Middle Ages."
"You hear that, Papa?" cried Maria.
"Her mind belongs to the Middle Ages, and he says
I'm like Granny
Wicksl"
Maria's mother laughed
gently. "I'm sure Ken
didn't mean your mind is of
the Middle
Ages, too, dear."
Ken flushed. "Of course
not. What I mean is that
Granny Wicks thinks the comet is
something mysterious and full of
omens, and Maria says
she sort
of thinks
the same
about it."
"I didn't say anything
about omens and signs!"
"Well, except for that..."
"Except for that, I suppose we are
all in
agreement," said Professor Larsen slowly. He drew
on his
pipe and it glowed brightly in the darkness. "The
whole universe is a terrible
place that barely tolerates
living organisms. Almost without exception
it is
filled with great suns that
are flaming, atomic furnaces, or dead
cinders of planets to which
a scrap
of poisonous atmosphere may cling. Yes, it
is indeed
a great
miracle that here in
this corner of the universe
conditions exist where living
things have found a foothold.
We may
be glad that this
is so,
but it
does not pay man to
ever forget the fierceness of the
home in which he lives.
Earth is merely one room of that home, on the pleasant,
sunny side of the house. But the whole universe is his home."
"That's
the thing I've been trying to say," Ken answered. "We can know this
without being afraid."
Maria's father nodded. "Yes. Fear is of
no use to anyone. Awe, respect, admiration, wonder, humility—these are all
necessary. But not fear."
Maria turned from the group. "I'll bring
the stamps, Ken," she said.
"Won't
you come in and have some cake?" Mrs. Larsen asked.
"No, thanks. Mother fed us before we left my place. I'm afraid I couldn't eat any more."
In
a moment Maria was back. "Here are two whole sheets," she said.
"I hope that will be enough."
"Plenty. I'll see you get repaid tomorrow. Good night, everybody."
"Good night,
Ken."
He moved down the walk toward his car and got
in. When he pressed the starter button the engine groaned for a few seconds and
came to a complete stop. He tried again; there was only a momentary, protesting
grind.
Ken
got out and raised the hood and leaned over the engine in disgusted
contemplation. There was no visible clue to the cause of the trouble.
"Is your battery
dead?" Professor Larsen called.
"No.
It's something else." Ken slammed the hood harder than he had intended.
"I'll have to leave it here overnight and pick it up in the morning."
"I
can push you home with my car, or at least give you a ride."
"No, please don't bother," Ken
said. "Ill tow it home with Dad's car tomorrow.
I'd just as soon walk, now. It's only a few blocks."
"As you wish. Good night, Ken." "Good
night, Professor."
Ken's clock radio
woke him the next morning.
He reached
over to shut off
the newscast
it carried.
There was only one item any
commentator talked about now, the
comet. Ken wondered how they could
get away
with a repetition of the
same thing, over and
over, but they seemed able
to get
an audience as long as they
kept the proper tone of
semi-hysteria in their voices.
As his hand touched the dial
to switch
it off,
something new caught Ken's attention. "A curious story is
coming in from all parts of
the country
this morning," the announcer said. "Auto mechanics are reporting
a sudden,
unusually brisk business. No
one knows
the reason,
but there
seems to be a virtual epidemic
of car
breakdowns. Some garage-men are said
to be
blaming new additives in gasoline
and lubricating oil. It
is reported
that one major oil company
is undertaking an investigation
of these
charges, but, in the meantime, no one really seems
to have
a good
answer.
"In connection with the
comet, however, from widely scattered areas comes the report
that people are even blaming
these engine failures on our
poor, old comet. In the Middle Ages
they blamed comets for everything
from soured cream to fallen kingdoms.
Maybe this modern age isn't so
different, after all. At any
rate, this comet will no
doubt be happy to
get back
into open space, where there
are no Earthmen to blame it
for all
their accidents and
shortcomings!"
Ken switched off
the radio
and lay
back on the pillow. That was a real choice
one—blaming the comet for car
breakdowns 1 Page Granny
Wicks!
The breakdowns were curious, however. There
was no
good reason why there
should be a sudden rash
of them.
He wondered if they
had actually
occurred, or if the story
was just the work
of some
reporter trying to make something
out of
his own
inability to get into a
couple of garages that were swamped
by the
usual weekend rush. This was
most likely the case.
However it didn't
explain why his
own car had suddenly conked out, Ken thought irritably.
He'd have to get it
over to Art Matthews' garage as
soon as school was out.
At school that
morning there was little talk
of anything
but the comet. After
physics class, Ken was met
by Joe
Walton and three other
members of the science club,
of which Ken was president.
"We want a special meeting," said Joe. "We've just had the most brilliant
brainstorm of our brief careers."
"It had better be more brilliant
than the last one," said Ken. "That drained the
club treasury of its last
peso."
"I was watching the comet last
night, and I began to
smell the dust of
its tail
as the
Earth moved into it..."
"You must have been
smelling something a
lot more
powerful than comet dust."
"I said to myself—why don't we
collect some of that stuff
and bottle it and
see what
it's made of? What do
you think?"
Joe asked eagerly.
Ken scowled. "Just how many molecules of
material from the comet's tail do
you think
there are in the atmosphere
over Mayfield right now?"
"How do I know? Six—maybe eight."
Ken laughed. "You're crazy, anyway. What have
you got
in mind?"
"I'm not sure," Joe answered seriously.
"We know the comet's tail is
so rarefied
that it resembles a pretty
fair vacuum, but it is composed of something. As it mixes
with the atmosphere we ought to
be able
to determine
the changing
makeup of the air and
get a
pretty good idea of the
composition of the comet's
tail. This is a chance
nobody's ever had before—and maybe never
will again, until we go
right out there in
spaceships—being right inside
a comet's
tail long enough to
analyze it!"
"It sounds like a
terrific project," Ken admitted. "The
universities will all be doing
it, of
course, but it would still
be a neat trick if we
could bring it off. Maybe
Dad and
Professor Larsen will have ideas
on how
we could
do it."
"We ought to be able to
make most of the equipment,"
said Joe, "so it
shouldn't be too expensive. Anyway, we'll have a meeting
then, right after school?"
"Yes—no, wait. The engine in my
car conked
out. I've got to go over
to Art's
with it this afternoon. You go ahead without
me. Kick
the idea
around and let me know
what's decided. I'll go along
with anything short of mortgaging
the football field."
"Okay," said Joe. "I don't see
why you
don't just sell that hunk of
junk and get a real
automobile. You've got a good
excuse now. This breakdown
is a
good omenl"
"Don't talk to me about omensl"
Art Matthews had
the best
equipped garage in town, and was
a sort
of unofficial
godfather to all the hot-rodders
in the county. He helped them
plane the heads of their
cars. He got their
special cams and carburetor and manifold assemblies wholesale, and he gave
them fatherly advice about using their
heads when they were behind
the wheel.
Ken called him at
noon. "I've got troubles, Art,"
he said.
"Can I bring the
car over
after school?"
"I'm afraid I can't
do a
thing for you today," Art Matthews said. "I don't
know what's happened, but I've
had tow calls all
day. Right now the shop
is full
and they're
stacked four-high outside. I'm
going to do a couple
of highway
patrol cars and Doc Adams'.
I figured
they ought to have priority."
Ken felt a
sudden, uneasy sense of recognition.
This was the same kind of
thing he had heard about
on the
radio that morning! A
rash of car breakdowns all over the country. Now, the
same thing in Mayfieldl
"What's wrong with them?" he asked
the mechanic.
"Why is everybody coming
in with
trouble at the same time?"
"They're not coming in," said Art.
"I'm having to go out after them.
I don't
know yet what's wrong. They
heat up and stall. It's the
craziest thing I've run into
in 30
years of garage work."
"Mine acted the same way," Ken said.
"Yeah? Well, you're
in good
company. Listen, why don't you and
maybe Joe and Al come
down and give me a
hand after school? I'll never get
on top
here without some help. After we get these police
and other
priority cars out of the
way, maybe we can
get a
quick look at what's wrong
with yours."
"It's a deal."
Joe Walton wasn't much
in favor
of spending
that afternoon and an unknown
number of others in Art's
garage; he was too overwhelmed by the idea of
analyzing the material of the comet's
tail. However Art had done
all of
them too many favors
in the
past to ignore his call
for help.
"The trouble with this
town," Joe said, "is that
three-fourths of the so-called automobiles
running around the streets belong down
at Thompson's
Auto Wrecking."
Al Miner agreed
to come,
too. When they reached the
garage after school they
saw Art
had not
been exaggerating. His place
was surrounded
by stalled
cars, and the street outside was lined with them
in both
directions. Ken borrowed the tow
truck and brought his own
car back
from the Larsens'. By that time
the other
two boys
were at work.
"Batteries are all okay," Art told
him. "Some of these engines will turn over, but
most of them won't budge.
I've jerked a couple of heads,
but I can't see anything.
I want you to take the pans off
and take
down the bearings to see if
they're frozen. That's what they
act like.
When that's done, we'll take it
from there."
Ken hoisted the
front end of one of
the police
cars and slid under it on
a creeper.
Art's electric impact wrenches were all in use, so
he began
the laborious
removal of the pan bolts by
hand. He had scarcely started
when he heard a yell from
Joe who
was beneath
the other
police car.
"What's the matter?" Art called.
"Come here! Look at this!"
The others crowded
around, peering under the car.
Joe banged and pried at one
of the
bearings, still clinging to the
crankshaft after the cap
had been
removed.
"Don't do that!" Art shouted at
him. "You'll jimmy up the crankshaft!"
"Mr. Matthews," Joe said
solemnly, "this here crankshaft has been jimmied up
just as much as it's
ever going to get jimmied. These
bearings are welded solid. They'll
have to be machined
off!"
"Nothing could freeze them to the
shaft that hard," Art exclaimed.
Joe moved out
of the
way. Art crawled under and
tapped the bearing. He pried at
it with
a chisel.
Then he applied a cold chisel
and pounded.
The bearing
metal came away chip by chip,
but the
bulk of it clung to
the shaft
as if
welded.
"I've never seen
anything like that before in
my life!"
Art came out from
beneath the car.
"What do you think could cause
it?" Joe asked.
"Gas!" said Art vehemently. "The awful
gas they're
putting out these days.
They put everything into it
except sulphur and molasses,
and they
expect an engine to run.
Additives, they call 'em!
Detergents! Why can't they sell
us plain old gasoline?"
Ken watched from
a distance
behind the group. He looked at
the silent,
motionless cars in uneasy speculation.
He recalled again the
radio announcement of that morning.
Maybe it could be something they were
adding to the gas or oil,
as Art
said. It couldn't, however, happen
so suddenly
—not all over the
country. Not in New York,
Montgomery, Alabama, San Francisco,
and Mayfield.
Not all
at the
same time.
Art turned up the
shop lights. Outside, as the
sun lowered in the sky, the
glow of the comet began
turning the landscape a copper-yellow hue. Its light came
through the broad doors of the
garage and spread over the
half-dismantled cars.
"All right, let's go,** said Art. His
voice held a kind of
false cheeriness, as if
something far beyond his comprehension
had passed
before him and he was
at a
loss to meet it or even
understand it.
"Let's go," he said
again. "Loosen all those connecting
rods and get the
shafts out. We'll see what
happens when we try to pull
the pistons."
Ckaptet 3 Power Failure
I |
he news broadcasts the following
morning were less hysterical than previously.
Because the news itself was
far more serious, the
announcers found it unnecessary to inject artificial notes of
urgency. Ken listened to his bedside
radio as he watched the
first tint of dawn above the
hills east of the valley.
"The flurry of mechanical failures, which
was reported
yesterday, has reached alarming proportions/* the announcer said. "During the
past 24 hours garages in
every section of the nation
have been flooded with
calls. From the other side
of the
Atlantic reports indicate the
existence of a similar situation
in Europe
and in
the British
Isles.
"Automobile breakdowns are not
the most
serious accidents that are taking
place. Other forms of machinery
are also being affected. A crack
train of the Southern Pacific
came to a halt
last night in the Arizona
desert. All efforts of the crew
to repair
the stalled
engine were fruitless. A new one
had to
be brought
up in
order for the passengers to continue on their way
early this morning.
"From Las Vegas comes word that
one of
the huge
generators at Hoover Dam
has been
taken out of service because of mechanical failure. Three
other large municipalities have had
similar service interruptions. These are
Rochester, New York,
Clinton, Missouri, and Bakersfield, California.
"Attempts have been made to find
some authoritative comment on
the situation
from scientists and Government officials. So far,
no one
has been
willing to commit himself to
an opinion
as to
the cause
of this
unexplained and dangerously growing
phenomenon.
"Yesterday it was jokingly whispered that
the comet
was responsible. Today, although
no authority
can be
found to verify it, the rumor
persists that leading scientists are seriously considering
the possibility
that the comet may actually have something to do
with the breakdowns."
Ken turned off the
radio and lay back with
his hands
beneath his head, staring
at the
ceiling. His first impulse was to ridicule again this
fantastic idea about the comet.
Yet, there had to
be some explanation.
He had seen enough of the
engines in Art's garage last
night to know they
had suffered
no ordinary
mechanical disorder. Something had
happened to them that had
never happened to engines
before, as far as he
knew. The crankshafts were immovable
in their
bearings. The pistons had been frozen
tight in the cylinders when
they tried to remove some of
them. Every moving part was
welded to its mating piece as
solidly as if the whole
engine had been heated to the
very edge of melting and
then allowed to cool.
Apparently something similar was
happening to engines in every part
of the
world. It could only mean
that some common factor was at
work in London, and Paris,
and Cairo, and Mayfield. The only
such factor newly invading the environment of every city
on the
globe was the comet.
It would almost
require a belief in witchcraft
to admit
the comet might be
responsible!
Ken arose and dressed slowly. By
the time
he was
finished he heard his father's call
to breakfast
from downstairs.
Professor Maddox was already
seated when Ken entered the dining room. He was
a tall,
spare man with an appearance
of intense
absorption in everything about him.
He glanced up and
nodded a pleasant good morning
as Ken approached. "I hear you
worked overtime as an auto
mechanic last night," he said. "Isn't that a bit rough,
along with the load you're carrying
at school?"
"Art asked us to do him
a favor.
Haven't you seen what's been happening around town?"
"I noticed an
unusual number of cars around
the garage,
and I wondered about it. Has
everyone decided to take care of
their winter repairs at the
same time?"
"Haven't you heard the radio, either,
Dad?"
"No. I've been working on my
new paper
for the
Chemical Journal until midnight for the
last week. What has the radio
got to
do with
your work as a mechanic?"
Quickly, Ken outlined to his father
the events
he had
heard reported the past
two days.
"It's not only automobiles, but trains, power plants,
ships, everything—"
Professor Maddox looked as
if he
could scarcely believe Ken was not
joking. "That would certainly be
a strange
set of coincidences," he said finally,
"provided the reports
are true, of course."
"It's true, all right," said Ken.
"It's not a matter of
coincidence. Something is causing it
to happen."
"What could that possibly be?"
"There's talk about the comet having
something to do with it."
Professor Maddox almost choked
on his
spoonful of cereal. "Ken,"
he laughed
finally, "I thought you were
such a stickler for rigid, scientific
methods and hypotheses I What's happened to
all your
rigor?"
Ken looked down
at the
tablecloth. "I know it sounds
ridiculous, like something out
of the
dim past,
when they blamed comets for corns,
and broken
legs, and lost battles.
Maybe this time
it isn't
so crazy
when you stop to think
about it, and it's
absolutely the only new factor
which could have some worldwide effect."
"How could it have any effect
at all—worldwide
or otherwise?"
Professor Maddox demanded.
"The whole world is immersed in
its tail."
"And that tail is so tenuous
that our senses do not
even detect the fact!"
"That doesn't mean it
couldn't have some kind of
effect."
"Such as stopping
engines? Well, you're a pretty good
mechanic. Just what did
the comet
do to
all these
stalled pieces of machinery?"
Ken felt his
father was being unfair, yet
he could
scarcely blame him for
not taking
the hypothesis
seriously. "I don't know what the
comet did—or could do—" he
said in a low voice. "I just know I've
never seen any engines like
those we took apart last night."
In detail, he
described to his father the
appearance of the engine parts they
had dismantled.
"I brought home some samples of
metal we cut from the
engine blocks with a torch. Would
you take
them up to the laboratory
at the college and have them
examined under the electron microscope?"
"I wouldn't have time
to run
any such
tests for several days. If you
are intent
on pursuing
this thing, however, I'll tell you
what I'll do. You and
your science club friends can
come up and use
the equipment
yourselves."
"We don't know how!"
"I'll arrange for one
of the
teaching fellows to show you
how to prepare metallic samples and
operate the electron microscope."
Ken's eyes lighted. "Gee, that would
be great
if you
would do that, Dad!
Will you, really?"
"Come around after school
today. I'll see that someone
is there to help
you."
Art Matthews was
disappointed when Ken called and
said none of the
science club members would be
around that afternoon. He couldn't keep
from showing in his voice
that he felt they
were letting him down.
"It's not any use trying to
get those
engines running," Ken said.
"The pistons would never come
out of
most of them without being drilled
out. We're not equipped for
that. Even if we
got things
loosened up and running again,
what would keep the
same thing from happening again?
That's what we've got
to find
out."
Art was unable to accept this
point of view. He held
a bewildered but insistent belief that
something ought to be done about
the mounting
pile of disabled cars outside
his garage. "We can get some
of them
going, Ken. You fellows have got to lend a
hand. I can't tackle it
without help."
"I'm sorry," Ken said.
"We're convinced there's got to
be another way to
get at
the problem."
"All right. You guys do whatever you
figure you've got to do. I
can probably
round up some other help."
Ken hung up, wishing he had
been able to make Art
understand, but the mechanic
would probably be the last
person in Mayfield to
accept that the comet could
have any possible connection with the
frozen engines.
As Ken walked to school that
morning he estimated that at least
25 percent
of the
cars in Mayfield must be
out of
commission. Some of the
men in
his neighborhood
were in their driveways futilely punching
their starters while their engines moaned
protestingly or refused to turn
over at all. Others were peering
under the hoods, shaking their
heads, and calling across
the yards
to their
neighbors.
In the street, some cars were
lugging with great difficulty, but others moved swiftly
along without any evidence of trouble. Ken wondered how
there could be such a
difference, and if some might
prove immune, so to speak,
to the effect.
He had called
a meeting
of the
club in the chemistry laboratory for an
hour before the first class.
All of
the members were there when he
arrived.
Ken called the
meeting to order at once.
"I guess you've all heard the
news broadcasts, and you know
what's happening here in town,"
he said.
"Yesterday you talked
about the possibility of collecting samples and analyzing the
material of the comet's
tail. I don't know what
you decided.
You can fill me
in later
on that.
The problem
is a
lot more
important now than it
was yesterday.
"It's beginning to seem
as if
the presence
of the
comet may actually be responsible for the wave of
mechanical failures. Finding out
how and
why is
just about the biggest problem in the whole world
right now."
A babble of exclamations
and protests
arose immediately from the other members
of the
group. Al Miner and Dave
Whitaker were on their
feet. Ted Watkins waved a
hand and shouted, "Don't tell us
you're swallowing that superstitious junk!"
Ken held up
a hand.
"One at a
time. We haven't got all
day, and there's a
lot of
ground to cover. Ted, what's
your comment?"
"My comment is that
anybody's got a screw loose
if he
believes the comet's got
anything to do with all
those cars being in Art's garage.
That stuff went out of
fashion after the days of old
Salem."
Several of the others nodded vigorously
as Ted
spoke.
"I guess we
do need
to bring
some of you up to
date on the background material," said Ken. "Joe, tell them what we found
last night."
Briefly, Joe Walton described the engines
they had dismantled. "Something had happened to them,"
he said,
"which had never happened
to an
engine since Ford drove his first
horseless carriage down Main Street."
"It doesn't mean anything!"
exclaimed Ted. "No matter what it is, we haven't
any basis
for tying
it to
the comet."
"Can you name any other universal
factor that could account for it?"
Ken asked.
"We have an effect that
appears suddenly in Mayfield,
Chicago, Paris, and Cairo. Some
people say it's the
additives in gasoline, but you
don't get them showing up simultaneously
in all
parts of the world. There is no other factor
common to every locality where
the mechanical failures have
occurred, except the comet.
"So I called this meeting to
suggest that we expand our
project beyond anything we
previously had in mind. I
suggest we try to determine
the exact
relationship between the breakdowns and the
appearance of the comet."
Big Dave Whitaker, sitting at the
edge of the room, rose
slowly in his seat.
"You've got the cart before
the horse,"
he said. "You've got a nice theory
all set
up and
you want
us to beat our brains out
trying to prove it. Now,
take me. I've got a theory
that little green men from
Mars have landed and are being
sucked into the air intake
of the
engines. Prove my theory
first, why don't you?"
Ken grinned good-naturedly.
"I stand corrected, but I
won't back down very
far. I won't suggest we
try to
prove the connection with the comet,
but I
do propose
to set
up some experiments to discover if
there is any relationship. If there is, then what
it is. Does that suit you?"
"I'll go along with that. How
do you
propose to go about it?"
"Let's find out where the rest
stand," said Ken. "How about it, you guys?"
"Ill go for it,"
said Ted, "as long as
we aren't
out to
prove a medieval superstition."
One by one,
the others
nodded agreement. Joe Walton said intensely, "We'll find out
whether it's superstition or not! There's
no other
possible cause, and we'll prove
it before we're through."
Ken smiled and waved
him down.
"We're working on a hypothesis only. Anyway, here's what
I have
to suggest
by way of procedure: Since the
tail of the comet is
so rarefied, there aren't many molecules
of it
in the
atmosphere of this entire valley.
I don't
know just what the mathematical chances of getting a
measurable sample are. Maybe you can
work out some figures on
it, Dave.
We'll have to handle an enormous
volume of air, so let's
get a
blower as large as
we can
get our
hands on and funnel the air through some electrically
charged filters. We can wash down
these filters with a solvent
of some
kind periodically and distill
whatever has collected on them."
"You won't get enough to fill
the left
eye of
a virus
suffering from arrested development,"
said Ted.
"We'll find out when we get
set up,"
said Ken. "My father has agreed
to give
us access
to the
electron microscope at the college.
Maybe we can use their
new mass
spectrograph to help analyze
whatever we collect."
"If we knew how to use
a mass
spectrograph," said Ted.
"He's offered to let
one of
the teaching
fellows help us."
"What will all this prove, even
if we
do find
something?" Dave asked. "You'll
get all
kinds of lines from a
spectrogram of atmospheric dust. So
what?"
"If we should get some lines
that we can't identify, and
if we should get those same
lines from metallic specimens taken from the disabled engines,
we would
have evidence of the presence of
a new
factor. Then we could proceed
with a determination of what effect,
if any,
this factor has on the engines."
Ken looked around
the group
once more. "Any
comments, suggestions, arguments?
There being none, we'll consider the project approved, and
get to
work this afternoon."
As they left
to go
to their
first classes, Ted shook his
head gloomily. "Man, you don't know what
you're biting off! All we've done
so far
is build
a few
ham radios,
a telescope,
and some Geiger counters. You re talking
about precision work now, and I mean
pree-cision!"
Throughout the day Ken, too, felt
increasing doubts about their ability to
carry off the project. It
would be a task of tremendous
delicacy to analyze such microscopic
samples as they might
succeed in obtaining. Microchemical methods would be
necessary, and none of them
had had
any experience in that
field. His father was an
expert with these methods and though
he might
scold them for tackling such a difficult project, he'd
help them, Ken thought. He
always had.
This was no
ordinary project, however. Ken had
no idea
how seriously scientists in general were considering
the comet as the offender, but
certainly they must be working
frantically on the problem
of the
mechanical disorder. Unless they found another
cause very soon, they were
certain to turn to an
analysis of the comet's tail.
It would
be very satisfying if Ken's group
could actually be in the
vanguard of such a development.
He tried to ridicule his own
conviction that the comet held the key. He had
no reason
whatever for such a belief,
except the fact of
the comet's
universal presence. How it could stop
an automobile
engine or a railroad train
was beyond his wildest imaginings.
But there was nothing else. Nothing at
all.
On the way
home after school, there seemed
to Ken
to be a subtle change that
had come
over the valley since morning. Along the streets, cars
were parked in front of
houses to which they
did not
belong. Little knots of people
were standing about, talking
in hushed
tones. The comet was aflame in
the sky.
There seemed to
be not
merely an awe
and an
uneasiness in the people, but a
genuine fear that Ken could
not help
absorbing as he moved
past them on the sidewalks.
Their faces were yellow and flat
under the glare of the
comet, and
they looked at
him and
at each
other as if they were
strangers in an alien
land.
Almost without being aware
of it,
Ken found
himself running the last half-block
before he reached his own
home. He burst in the door
and called
out with
forced cheeriness, "Hi, Mom,
what's cooking? I'm starved. The
whole gang's coming over in a
few minutes.
I hope you've got
something for them."
His mother came out
of the
kitchen, her face gray with
uncertainty. "You'll have to
do with
sandwiches this afternoon," she said.
"I haven't been able
to use
the electric
stove since noon."
Ken stared at her.
"There's something about the
power," she went on. "We
haven't any lights, either.
They say the power station
at Collin's Dam went out of
commission this morning. They don't know when they'll be
able to get it back
on."
CkaptCT 4 Disaster Spreads
111 hile he
stood, shocked by his
mother's statement, Ken 111 heard the phone ringing in
the next
room. On battery y y power at the telephone central
office, he thought. J J His mother answered, and there
was a
pause. "Professor Maddox
is at
the college,"
she said.
"You can probably reach him there,
or I
can give
him your
message when he comes home."
She returned to the
doorway. "That was the power
company. They want your father
and Dr.
Douglas to have a look at
their generators.
"Ken, what do you think this
means?" she asked worriedly. "What will happen if
all our
power goes off and doesn't come back on? Do
you think
your father has any idea what's
causing the trouble?"
Ken shook his
head. "I don't know, Mom.
So far,
nobody seems to know anything."
In less than 15 minutes, Professor
Maddox hurried into the house. "Couldn't
get my
car going,"
he said.
"It's stalled on the campus parking
lot. The power company wants
me to go to Collin's Dam."
"I know," said Mrs.
Maddox. "They called here."
He paused a moment,
staring out the window, a
look of
bewilderment on his face. "This thing seems to be
more serious than I would have
believed possible. There's just no explanation
for it,
none at all!"
"Any chance of my
going along, Dad?" Ken said.
"I'm afraid not. We're
going in Dr. Larsen's car,
and it's
half loaded with instruments.
I hope
we make
it there
and back without breaking down.
"I'll probably be back early this evening, but
don't hold dinner on my account."
"There will be only sandwiches," said Ken's mother. "I
can't cook anything."
"Of course. Just leave me some of
whatever you have."
From the doorway
Ken watched
his father
and the
other two scientists. He thought he
detected a loginess in the
engine as Professor Larsen
drove away from the curb.
What they hoped
to accomplish,
Ken didn't
know, but he felt certain they
would find the same thing
in the
generators that had been found
in the
automobile engines. The bearings were probably
frozen so tight that they
and the
shaft had become one
solid piece of metal. He
hoped the scientists would bring back
some samples of the metal.
By 4 o'clock
all the
members of the science club
had arrived. They met in what
Ken called
his "science
shack," a small building
next to the observatory. Here he kept the
amateur radio equipment belonging
to the
club, and his own personal collections
in the
several different fields in which he
had been
interested since his Boy Scout
days.
In each of
his companions,
Ken could
see the
effect of the feeling that now
pervaded the town. Their usual
horseplay was almost forgotten, and their faces were
sober to the point of fear.
"We aren't going to
be able
to run
our blower
by electricity,"
said Joe Walton. "We can't
even get power for the
precipitating filters."
"Let's scrounge anything we
can find
that runs on gasoline or coal oil," said Al Miner.
"If we act fast we ought to be able to pick up some old motorcycle engines
or some power lawn mowers from the dump. Thompson's have probably got some. We
can try people's basements, too. Let's get as many as possible, because we
don't know how long any one will last, and we may have to run the blower for
weeks, in order to get any kind of sample."
"Good
idea," said Ken. "Here's something else: Who's got a car left to
gather this stuff in?"
The boys looked at each
other.
"Ours was still running this
morning," Frank Abrams said, "but I won't guarantee how long we can
count on it."
"Pretty
soon there won't be any we can count on. We've got to get a horse and wagon
before they start selling for as much as a new Cadillac used to."
"My uncle's got one on his farm,"
said Dave Whitaker. "He would probably loan it to me, but he's five miles
out of town."
"Take
my bike," said Ken. "See if hell let you borrow it and a wagon for at
least a couple of weeks or longer. Bring some bales of hay, too."
"Right
now?"
"Right
now."
When Dave had gone, Al said, "What about
the blower? Anybody know where we can get one of those?"
"I think there's one at
Thompson's," said Ted. "They pulled it out of Pete and Mary's
restaurant when they remodeled."
"That
would be just a little kitchen blower. Not big enough—we need a man-sized
one."
Ken
said, after a long pause, "There isn't one in town. The chances of getting
one from somewhere else are practically zero. Frederick is 50 miles away and by
tomorrow there may not be a car in town that would go that far."
"Look," said Al, 'now about the
air-conditioning systems
in town?
There isn't one that's any
good where it is, now.
Both the high school
and the
college have big ones. I'll
bet we could get permission at either place to
revamp the intake and outlet ducts
so we
could put in our filters
and precipitators.
Your father and his friends
could swing it for us
at the
college."
"You might be rightl It's worth trying.
For precipitators
we can rig a battery-powered system that will put
a few
thousand volts on the
screens. Art will let us
have enough car batteries for that.
I think
we're setl"
Dave Whitaker did
not return
until dusk, but he had
succeeded in getting the
horse and wagon, and a
load of hay. He deposited
this in his own yard
before driving back to Ken's place.
During the next two or three
hours the boys found two old
motorcycle engines, a power lawn-mower
motor, and one old gasoline-powered washing machine. All of
these they took down
to Art
Matthews' place and begged him for space and tools
to overhaul
the equipment.
"You can have the whole joint,"
Art said
dejectedly. "This pile of junk will
never move!" He waved a
hand at the cars lined up and down both
sides of the streets near
his place.
By 9 o'clock they had succeeded
in getting
all of
the small
engines running, but they
dared not test them too
long, hoping to conserve all possible
life that might be left.
When they were through, they returned
to Ken's
house. Mrs. Mad-dox had sandwiches
ready for them.
No word had
been heard from the three
scientists who had gone to the
power plant. Maria called, anxious
about her father.
"I'm worried, Ken," she said. "What would happen to them out
there if the car breaks
down and they have no
place to go?"
"They'll be all right," Ken reassured
her. "They probably found
something bigger than they expected
at the
dam. If they should have trouble
with the car they can
find a phone along the road
at some
farmhouse and let us know."
"I can't help
worrying," said Maria.
"Everything feels so
strange tonight, just the
way it
does before a big thunderstorm,
as if
something terrible were going to
happen!"
Ken sensed the
way she
felt. It was all he
could do to hold back the
same reaction within himself, but
he knew
it must
be far more difficult for Maria,
being in a foreign country
among strangers with customs
she didn't
understand.
"Why don't you and your mother
come over here until they get back?" he asked.
"Suppose they don't come back at
all? Tonight, I mean."
"Then you can sleep here. Mom's
got plenty
of room."
"I'll ask Mamma. If it's all
right with her, we'll be
right over."
Ken hoped they
would come. He found himself
concerned beyond all reason that
Maria and her mother should
be made comfortable and relieved of their
worries.
He went out
to the
backyard again, where all the
other members of the club were
still lounging on the grass,
watching the sky. The comet
was twenty
degrees above the horizon, although the
sun had
long since set below the
western mountains. No one seemed
to feel
this was a night for
sleeping.
"Let's try your battery portable for
a few
minutes," said Joe Walton.
"I'd like to know what's
going on in the rest
of the world."
Ken brought it out
and turned
it on.
The local
station was off the air, of
course, and so was the
one in
Frederick. Half the power
there came from the Collin's
Dam. More than one-third of the
usual stations were missing, but
Ken finally picked up one coming
in clearly
from the northern tip of the
state.
The announcer didn't
sound like an announcer. He sounded like an ordinary
man in
the midst
of a
great and personal tragedy.
"Over three-fourths of the
cars in the United States,"
he was saying, "are now estimated
to be
out of
commission. The truck transportation
system of the country has
all but
broken down. The railroads
have likewise suffered from this
unbelievable phenomenon.
"All machinery which involves
rolling or sliding contact between metal parts has been
more or less affected. Those
equipped with roller bearings
are holding
up longer
than those equipped with bushings, but
all are
gradually failing.
"In New York City half the
power capacity has gone out
of commission. Some emergency
units have been thrown into operation, but these cannot
carry the load, and even
some of them have
failed. Elsewhere, across the nation,
the story is similar. In Chicago,
Kansas City, St. Louis, Washington,
San Francisco—the
power systems are breaking down along with motor and
rail transportation.
"For some hours now, the President
and his
Cabinet have been in session with
dozens of scientific leaders trying
to find an explanation and a
cure for this disastrous failure of machinery. Rumors which
were broadcast widely this morning
concerning possible effects of the
comet have been thoroughly discredited by these scientists, who call them superstitions belonging back in the
Middle Ages.
"One final report has just come
over the air by shortwave.
In the Atlantic Ocean the Italian
steamer White Bird has
radioed frantically
that her engines are dead.
Over eight hundred passengers
and crew
are aboard.
"All ship sailings have been canceled
since noon today. Vessels at sea
are returning
to nearest
port. There is no ship
available which can take
off the
stranded passengers and crew of the
White Bird. She floats helpless
and alone
tonight in the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean.
"As a power-conservation measure,
broadcasting on this network will cease
until midnight, eastern standard time.
Turn your radios off.
Keep all unnecessary lights off.
Avoid consumption of power
in every
possible way. Be with us
again at midnight for
the latest
news and information."
There was a restlessness
in all
of Mayfield.
None of the townspeople felt like
sleeping that night. Ken's group
watched the comet until
it disappeared
below the horizon. Some of them
observed it through the telescope.
On either
side of the Maddoxes'
yard the voices of neighbors
could be heard under the night
sky, speaking in hushed tones
of the thing that had happened.
Maria and Mrs. Larsen arrived, and
Maria joined Ken and his friends
in the
backyard. He told her what
they had heard on the radio.
"That ship . . ." Maria
said slowly. "The White Bird, out
there alone
in the
ocean—what will become of all
those people?"
Ken shook his
head slowly. "There's no way
to get
to them. There's not a thing
that can be done. Nothing at
all."
They remained quiet
for a
long time, as if each
were thinking his own thoughts about
the mystery
and loneliness
and death riding the
forsaken ship in the middle
of the
ocean, and how soon
it might
be that
the same
dark shadow settled over the cities
and towns.
Maria thought of
her far-off
homeland, and the people she knew, suddenly frightened and helpless in their
inability to get power and
food.
Ken thought of the
scenes that must be occurring
in the
big cities of the
United States. People everywhere would not be sleeping tonight.
They were all citizens of
a civilization
that was dependent for its
life on turning wheels and
on power surging through
bright wires across hundreds of
miles of open country.
Without those turning wheels, and
the power in those
wires there was no food,
there was no warmth, there was
no life.
They listened to
the radio
again at midnight. There was
little that was new.
The President's
council had found no solution, nor had they come
to any
decisions. Scattered riots and public disorders
were springing up, both in
Europe and America. On the high
seas, the captain of the
White Bird was begging for
assistance, demanding to know what
had happened that no ship could
be sent
to his
aid.
Word finally came
from Ken's father and his
companions that their car
had failed
after leaving the dam to
return home. They had reached a
farmhouse where they would spend the rest of the
night. They would try to
find some kind of transportation in the morning.
In the early-morning
hours Ken's friends drifted away,
one by one, to their own
homes, and as dawn approached,
Ken finally went up
to his
own room
and slept.
Maria and her mother, with Ken's
mother, had retired only a
short time earlier.
When he awoke
at 9
o'clock Ken had no idea
whether or not the school officials
planned to hold classes that
day, but he felt that for
himself and the other members
of the
science club there would be no
return to normal activity for
a long
time. Since his father
would not return for an
indefinite timé Ken determined to approach President Lewis
of the
college regarding the use
of the
idle blower and ventilation ducts in the Science Hall.
He had met
President Lewis a number of
times and believed the president would
listen to him.
Another matter had disturbed
Ken since
last night. As soon as he
was awake
he called
the office
of Mayor
Hilliard. The Mayor's secretary answered and
said, "Mayor Hilliard is
in conference.
He will
not be
available today."
Ken hesitated. "Tell him it is
the Maddox
residence calling. I think Mayor
Hilliard will answer."
In a moment
the Mayor's
voice boomed on the phone.
Normally hearty, it was
now weighted
with overtones of uncertainty
and fear.
"Professor Maddox, I
was just
about to call you. Would you.. "
"This is not Professor Maddox," said Ken. "I'm his
son, Kenneth."
"My secretary said ..."
The Mayor
sounded angry now, although he knew
Ken well.
"I didn't say
my father
was calling,"
said Ken. "I've got something to say that I
think you will want to
hear, and it will take only
a minute."
"All right. Go ahead."
"In a day or two the
entire town is going to
be without
power, transportation, or communication
with the outside world. The science
club of the high school
has a
1000-watt amateur transmitter that can reach any
point in the United States and most foreign countries.
It requires
power. We can operate from batteries,
and I
would like to ask you
to authorize that all automobile batteries and those belonging
to the telephone company be immediately
seized by the city and placed
in official
custody, to be used for
emergency communication purposes only.
They should be drained of
electrolyte and properly stored."
"I appreciate that suggestion," the Mayor
said. "I think it's a good
one. Would you boys be
able to take care of
that?"
"We'd be glad to."
"It's your assignment, then. We are
calling a town meeting tonight
in the
college auditorium. We especially want your father to be
there if he can, and
we'll issue orders for the battery
conservation program at that time."
By noon Ken had gained an
interview with President Lewis and had
received permission for his group
to make
use of the largest blower on
the campus
for their
air-sampling project. They loaded their
tools and themselves into the ancient
wagon belonging to Dave Whitaker's
uncle and spent the rest of
the day
working at Science Hall.
Ken's father called
again to report they had
succeeded in renting a horse and
buggy at an exorbitant price from a farmer. When
told of the town meeting
that evening, he promised to try
to reach
Mayfield in time.
Ten minutes before the
8 o'clock
deadline, Professor Maddox drew up in
front of the house. He
called to Ken without even getting
down from the seat of
the wagon.
"Get your mother, and
let's gol"
Mrs. Maddox appeared, worried
and concerned.
"You've had nothing to
eat," she protested. "At least
come in and have a sandwich
and a
glass of milk. It's not
cold, but it's fresh."
"No." Professor Maddox shook
his head.
"We don't want to miss any
of the
meeting. Get
a coat
and come
along. It will be chilly later."
Maria and her mother came also.
The small
wagon was loaded to capacity as
it moved
slowly up the hill toward
the campus. People were
streaming toward the auditorium from all directions. Most of
them were afoot. A few
others had found a horse and
wagon. A dozen or two
cars chugged protestingly up
the hill,
but it
appeared that most of these
would not be operating
another 24 hours.
As they approached the hall, Professor
Maddox chuckled and pointed a finger
ahead of them. "Look there. I'm sure that every
citizen of Mayfield is present
or accounted
for, now."
Ken glanced in the
direction of his father's gesture.
The creaky wagon of Granny Wicks
was drawn
slowly along by her emaciated horse.
Granny's stick-thin body jounced harshly on the
rough seat. Ken fought against
a ridiculous
uneasiness as he recognized
her.
He knew his father had not
heard Granny's speech on the post
office steps, but he was
little surprised when his father said, "I'm afraid Granny
Wicks, with her profound knowledge of omens and signs,
is about
as much
an authority
on this
matter as any of the
rest of us here tonight!"
Chapter 5
I |
he hall was already filled.
Several scores of chairs had
been placed in the
corridors, and these were occupied
also. People were being
ushered to nearby classrooms where they would hear the
proceedings over the school's public-address system.
"It looks as if we'll have
to get
it by
remote pickup," said Ken.
At that
moment Sally Teasdale, the Mayor's
secretary, spotted their group
and hurried
over.
"Mayor Hilliard told me
to watch
for you,"
she said.
"He wants you to
sit on
the platform,
Professor Maddox, and also Dr. Douglas
and Dr.
Larsen. The others of your
party can sit in the wings."
Professor Maddox agreed and
they followed Sally to the
stage entrance. The platform
was already
occupied by the Mayor and the
town councilmen, the college department
heads, and leading citizens
of Mayfield.
The professors
took their places, while Ken and
the others
found chairs in the wings. It was the best
seat in the house, Ken
decided. They could see both the
platform and the audience below.
It was undoubtedly the largest group
that had ever gathered in one
place in Mayfield. In spite
of the
enormous number present it
was a
solemn group. There was almost
no talking or
jostling. To Ken, it seemed
the faces
about him had a uniform appearance
of bewildered
searching for reassurance that nothing could
really destroy the way of
life they had always
known.
Mayor Hilliard arose and
called the meeting to order.
"I
think everyone knows why
we've been caDed here," he said. "Because of the
nature of the circumstances I think it appropriate that we ask Dr.
Aylesworth, pastor of the Community
Church, to offer prayer."
Heads were bowed in reverent silence
as Dr.
Aylesworth stood before the
assembly and offered a solemn
invocation that their deliberations
might receive divine guidance, and
their minds be filled
with wisdom to combat the
evil that had come upon them.
The minister was a
big, ruddy-faced man with a
lion's mane of white hair. The
unwavering authority of his voice
filled the audience with
the conviction
that they were better prepared to face their problems
when he had resumed his
seat.
Mayor Hilliard outlined the
worldwide situation as he had obtained
it through
news reports up to an
hour ago. He described the desperate
situation of the nation's larger
cities. Their food supplies
were sufficient for only a
few days
without any replenishment by rail and truck
transportation. Ninety percent of
automobile traffic had ceased. The
railroads were attempting to conserve
their rolling stock, but 70 percent
of it
was out
of commission,
and the
remainder could not be
expected to operate longer than
a few
days. Air traffic had stopped entirely.
On the
oceans, only sailing vessels continued
to move.
"Mayfield is already cut off," the Mayor went on.
"Our last train went
through here 30 hours ago.
The trucking
companies out of Frederick
have suspended operations. We have no
cars or trucks of our
own here
in town,
on which
we can depend. We're on our
own.
"So far, the scientists have found
no solution.
Tomorrow, they may find
one. Or it may be
10 years
before they do. In the meantime,
we have
to figure
out how
we, here
in May field, are going to
carry on.
"Our first consideration is, of course,
food supplies. The Council met this
morning, and we have appointed
a committee
to take
immediate possession of all foodstuffs
and every facility for food production
within the entire valley. Beginning tomorrow morning, this committee
will begin to accumulate all food
supplies into one or more
central warehouses where they will
be inventoried
for rationing.
"All stocks of fresh
meat will be salted and
cured. Home supplies will be limited
to no
more than a week's needs
of any one item. Hoarders who
persist in their unfair activities
will be ordered to
leave the community.
"My fellow citizens, these
are stringent
and severe
regulations, but we are not
facing a time of mild
inconvenience. It may well
be that
in this
coming winter we shall be
literally fighting for our
very lives. We, as your
leaders, would like a vote of
confidence from you, the citizens
of Mayfield,
as an assurance that you will
co-operate with our efforts to
the best of your ability."
Instantly, nearly everyone in
the auditorium
was on
his feet shouting his approval of
the Mayor's
program.
Mayor Hilliard had known
he was
taking a long chance in presenting
so bluntly
such a severe program, but
long experience had taught him
the best
way into
a tough
situation was a headlong plunge that
ignored consequences. The ovation
surprised him. He had expected
substantial opposition. Visibly moved, he
held up his hand for
quiet once more.
"Our farms and our livestock will
be our
only means of salvation after present
food stocks are gone," he said. "A separate subcommittee will inventory all
farmland and cattle and dairy herds
and plan
for their
most efficient use in the coming
season. Crops will be assigned
as the
committee sees fit. Farm labor
will be taken care of
by all
of us, on a community basis.
"A third program
that must begin immediately is the stockpiling of fuel
for the
coming winter. Wood will be
our only means of heating and
cooking because the nearest mines are too far away
for us
to haul
coal from them by teams. The
same is true of fuel
oil stocks.
"Heating will be at a minimum.
Most of you do not
have wood stoves. What you have
must be converted to use
of wood. An additional committee will
be appointed
to supervise
this conversion and the construction,
where necessary, of makeshift
stoves out of sheet metal,
old oil
barrels, and anything else of which
we can
make use."
Item by item,
he continued
down the list of problems
the Council had considered that day.
He mentioned
Ken's suggestion for conservation of batteries. He spoke
of the
problems of medical care without
adequate hospital facilities, of
police activities that might be
required in a period of
stress such as they
could expect that winter.
When he had
finished, members of the Council
detailed plans of the
separate programs over which they
had charge.
President Lewis spoke to
pledge support of the college
staff. He pointed out the fortunate
fact that they had some
of the
best minds in the
entire country in their scientific
departments, and also had Professor
Larsen visiting with them.
The floor was turned over then
to members
of the
audience for comment and questions.
Most of them were favorable,
but Sam
Cluff, who owned a hundred
and sixty
of the
best acres in the
valley, stood up red-faced and
belligerent.
"It's all a pack of nonsense!"
he declared.
"This is just an excuse for
certain people in this town
to get
their hands in somebody else's pockets,
and to
tell other people what to
do and how to five.
"I'm not going to have anything
to do
with it. Anybody who sets foot
on my
land to tell me what
to raise
or to
take my goods away is going
to have
to reckon
with a double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun.
"If there is any real problem,
which I doubt, them Government scientists will be on
the job
and get
tilings straightened out so
that trains and automobiles will be running by
next week. My advice is
for everybody
to go
home and let them take care
of it."
Mayor Hilliard smiled
tolerantly. "I shouldn't have to
remind you, Sam, that
some of the best scientists
in the
world are right here
in our
own town,
and they
say the
situation is serious enough
for emergency
measures. I hope you won't be
f oolish
with that shotgun, but we're
coming out to see you, tomorrow,
Sam."
Granny Wicks seemed
to erupt
from her place to which
she had crowded in
the center
of the
hall. All eyes turned at the
sound of her scratchy, birdlike
voice. "I told you," she shrieked. "I told you
what was coming, and now
maybe you'll believe me. There's nothing
you can
do about
it, Bill
Hilliard. Nothing
at all.
There's death in the air.
The stars
have spoken it. The
signs are in the sky."
Mayor Hilliard interrupted
her. "Perhaps you're right, Granny," he said
gently. "I don't think any
of us
are going
to argue with you
tonight. We're here to do
what we can, and to make
plans to stay alive just
as long
as possible."
At the close,
Dr. Aylesworth
took the stand. His commanding
presence seemed to draw an
aura of peace once more around
the troubled
group. "We are civilized men
and women," he said.
"Let us see that we
act as
such during the months that are
ahead of us. Let us
remember that we may see a
time very soon when there
will not be enough food,
fuel and clothing for
all of
us. When
and if
that time comes, let us prove
that we are able to
be our
brother's keeper, that we are
able to do unto others
as we
would have others do unto us.
Above all, may we be
able to continue to call
on divine assistance to bring a
speedy end to this disaster,
so that when it is over
we can
look back and be proud
that we conducted ourselves as men
and women
worthy to be called civilized, and worthy of the
divine approval and aid which
we now seek."
It was decided
to keep
classes going in the various
schools as long as possible, releasing
those students who were needed to take assignments in the emergency program.
Ken and the rest of the
science club members obtained immediate
permission to devote their full
time to the research program.
On the morning
after the town meeting, Ken
dressed early and rode his bicycle
toward Art's garage to arrange
with the mechanic the
details of the gathering and
storage of automobile batteries. On the
way he
passed by Frank Meggs Independent Grocery Market, the largest
in Mayfield.
Although it was only a little
after 7 o'clock, an enormous
crowd had collected outside
and inside
the store.
Curious and half-alarmed, Ken parked his
bicycle and made his way
through the crowd. Inside,
he found
Frank Meggs ringing up sales of
large lots of food.
A red-faced woman
was arguing
with him at the checkout
stand. "A dollar
a pound
for white
beans! That's ridiculous, Frank Meggs,
and you
know it!"
"Sure I know it," the storekeeper
said calmly. "Next winter
you'll be glad I let
you have
them for even that price.
If you don't want them, Mrs.
Watkins, please move along. Others will be glad to
have them."
The woman hesitated,
then angrily flung two bills
on the
counter and stalked out
with her groceries. Ken shoved
his way up to the stand.
"Mr. Meggs," he exclaimed. "You can't do this! All
foodstuffs are being called in
by the
Mayor's committee."
He turned to
the people.
"Private hoards of food will
be confiscated and placed in the community
warehouse. This isn't going to do you any good!"
Most
of the shoppers looked shamefaced, at his challenge, but Meggs bristled
angrily. "You keep out of this, Maddoxl Nobody
asked you to come in here! These people know what they're doing, and so do I.
How much do you think any of us will eat if townhall gets its hands on every
scrap of food in the valley? If you aren't buying, get moving!"
"I will, and I'll be back just as soon
as I can find the Sheriff!"
With telephone service now cut off to
conserve battery power, Ken hesitated between seeking Sheriff Johnson at his
office or at home. He checked his watch again and decided on the Sheriff*s
home.
He
was fortunate in arriving just before the Sheriff left He explained quickly
what was happening at Meggs' store. Johnson had been assigned one of the few
remaining cars that would run. With Ken, he drove immediately to the store.
They strode in, the shoppers fanning out before the Sheriff*s approach.
"Okay,
that's all," he said. "You folks leave your groceries right where
they are. Tell the others they had better bring theirs back and get their money
while Meggs still has it. Not that anybody is going to have much use for money,
anyway."
"You've
no right to do this!" Meggs cried. "This is my private property and
I'm entitled to do with it as I choose!"
"Not any longer it isn't," said Sheriff Johnson. "There isn't such
a thing as private property in Mayfield, any more. Except maybe the shirt on
your back, and I'm not sure of that. At any rate, you're not selling these
groceries. Accounts will be kept, and when and if we get back to normal you'll
be reimbursed, but for now we're all one, big, happy familyl"
Most of the crowd had dispersed. The armloads
and pushcarts full of groceries had been
abandoned. Ken and the Sheriff moved
toward the door.
"Another trick like that and you'll
spend the time of the
emergency as a guest
of the
city. Incidentally, we don't intend to heat the jail
this winter!"
Meggs turned the blaze
of his
anger upon Ken. "This is your fault!" he snarled.
"You and that bunch of
politicians know there's not
going to be any shortage
this winter just as well as
I do.
In a
week this whole thing will
be straightened
out. I had a chance
to make
a good
thing of it. I'm going to
get even
with you if it's the
last thing I ever do!"
"That's enough of that!"
said Sheriff Johnson sharply. "Come along, Ken."
Ken was not
disturbed by Meggs' threat of
personal retaliation, but he was
frightened by the realization that Meggs wasn't the only
one of
his kind
in Mayfield.
His patrons were only a shade
less unstable. What would such
people do when things
really got tough? How much
could they be depended on to
pull their own weight?
After he had seen Art Matthews
about collecting and storing the batteries,
Ken went
up to
Science Hall where the rest of
the club
members were already at work.
Under the direction of Al Miner,
who was
the best
qualified to plan the alterations of the ventilation ducts, they made the
necessary changes and installed
one of
the motorcycle
engines to drive the
blower. At the same time,
three of them built up a
high-voltage, battery-operated power supply to
charge the filter elements.
By evening the assembly
was operating.
The motorcycle
engine chugged pleasantly. "I wonder how long
before that one freezes up," Al
said pessimistically.
"We ought to get more," said Joe. "The way
the cars
have gone we'll be lucky to
get more
than 2 days out of
each one of these."
During the day, Ken's father had
directed the preparation of metallic
specimens from samples the boys
had brought from Art's garage and
from those the men brought
back from the power
plant. With the high-powered electron microscope, photographs
were taken.
As they finished
their work the boys went
with Ken to the laboratory. Professor Maddox looked up.
"Hello, Fellows," he said. "Have
you got
your piece of machinery running?"
"Purring like a top," said Ken.
"Expected to run about as long,"
said Al.
"Have you finished any photomicrographs?" Ken asked.
"Do they show anything?"
His father passed
over a wet print. The
boys gathered around it.
"It doesn't mean much
to me,"
said Dave Whitaker. "Can you tell us what it
shows?"
Ken's father took
a pencil
from his pocket and touched
it lightly to a
barely perceptible line across the
center of the picture. "That is the boundary," he said, "between the cylinder wall and the
piston taken from one of
the samples
you brought in."
"I can't see
anything that looks like a
line between two pieces of metal,"
said Ted Watkins. "It looks
like one solid chunk to me."
"That is substantially what it is,"
said Professor Maddox. "There
is no
longer any real boundary as
there would be between two ordinary
pieces of metal. Molecules from
each piece have flowed into the
other, mixing just as two
very viscous liquids would do. They
have actually become one piece of
metal."
He took up another photograph. "Here you can see
that the same thing has happened
in the
case of the shaft and
bearing samples we obtained
from the Collin's Dam power
plant. Molecules of the
two separate
pieces of metal have intermingled, becoming one single piece."
"How
could they do that?" Ken exclaimed. "Metals can t flow like
liquids."
"They
can if the conditions are right. When steel is heated to a sufficiently high
temperature, it flows like water."
"But that's not the case here!"
"No,
it isn't, of course. At lower temperatures the molecules of a solid do not
possess the energy of motion which they have in a liquid state. The metallic
surface of a piece of cold steel has a certain surface tension which prevents
the escape of the relatively low-energy molecules; thus it has the
characteristics we ascribe to a solid."
"Then
what has happened in this case?" Joe asked. "Are you able to
tell?"
Professor
Maddox nodded. "The photographs show us what has happened, but they reveal
nothing about how or why. We can see the surface tension of the two pieces of
metal has obviously broken down so that the small energy of motion possessed by
the molecules has permitted them to move toward each other, with a consequent
mixing of the two metals. It has turned them quite literally into a single
piece, the most effective kind of weld you can imagine."
"What
would cause the surface tension to break down like that?" Ken asked.
"That
is what remains for us to find out. We don't have the faintest idea what has
caused it. It becomes especially baffling when we recall that it has happened,
not in a single isolated instance, but all over the world."
"You would think the metals would have
become soft, like putty, or something, for a thing like that to happen to
them," said Joe.
"It would be expected that the hardness
would be affected. This is not true, however. The metals seem just as hard as
before. The effect of mixing seems to take place only when the metals are in
sliding motion against one an
j i
i
other, as in the case of
a piston
and cylinder,
or a
shaft and a bearing. The effect
is comparatively
slow, taking place over a number
of days.
The two
surfaces must break down gradually, increasing the friction to
a point
where motion must cease. Then the
mixing continues until they are
welded solidly to each
other."
Ordinarily, the dusk of evening would
have fallen over the landscape, but the blaze of
the comet
now lit
the countryside with an
unnatural gold that reflected like
a flame through the windows and
onto the faces of the
men and boys in the laboratory.
"As to the cause of this
phenomenon," Professor Maddox
said with an obviously
weary deliberation in his voice,
"we can only hope to find
an explanation
and a
cure before it is too late
to do
the world
any good."
"There can't be any question of
that!" said Ken intensely. "The resources of
the whole
scientific world will be turned
on this one problem.
Every industrial, university,
and governmental
laboratory will be working on
it. Modern
science can certainly lick a thing
like this!"
Professor Maddox turned from
the window,
which he had been facing. A
faint, grim smile touched the
corners of his lips and died
as he
regarded the boys, especially Ken. His face took on
a depth
of soberness
Ken seldom
saw in
his father.
"You think nothing is immune to
an attack
by so-called
modern science?" he said.
"Sure!" Ken went on enthusiastically, not understanding the expression on his father's face.
"Look at the problems that have been licked as
soon as people were determined
enough and willing to
pay the
cost. Giant computers,
radar eyes, atomic energy. Everybody knows
we could
have made it to Mars by
now if
governments had been willing to
put up the necessary money."
"You still have to learn, all
of you
do," Professor Maddox
52
Tfie Year Wfien StWusf fell
said slowly, "that
the thing
we call
science is only a myth.
The only reality consists
of human
beings trying to solve difficult problems. Their results, which
seem to be solutions to some of those problems,
we call
science. Science has no life of
its own.
It does
not deserve
to be
spoken of as an entity in
its own
right. There are only people,
whom we call scientists, and their
accomplishments are severely
limited by their quite
meager abilities. Meager, when viewed in comparison with the
magnitude of the problems they attack."
Ken felt bewildered. He had never
heard his father speak this way before. "Don't you believe there are
scientists enough—scientists who know
enough—to lick a thing like
this in time?"
"I don't know. I'm quite sure
no one
knows. We became conscious long ago
of the
fallacy of assuming that the
concentration of men
enough and unlimited funds would
solve any problem in the world.
For every
great accomplishment like atomic
energy, to which we point
with pride, there are a thousand
other problems, equally important, that remain unsolved. Who knows
whether or not this problem
of weakened
surface tension in metals is
one of
the insoluble
ones?"
"We have to find an answer,"
said Ken doggedly. He could not
understand his father's words. "There's
nothing science can't accomplish
if it
sets about it with enough
determination. Nothing!"
Chapter 6 The Scientist
[ |
en spent an almost sleepless
night. He tossed for long
hours and dozed finally,
but he
awoke again before there was even
a trace
of dawn
in the
sky. Although the night was cool
he was
sweating as if it were
midsummer.
There was a queasiness
in his
stomach, too, a slow unde-finable
pressure on some hidden nerve
he had
never known he possessed. The feeling
pulsed and throbbed slowly and
painfully. He sat up
and looked
out at
the dark
landscape, and he knew
what was the
matter.
Scared, he thought,
I'm scared
sick.
He'd never known anything like it
before in his life, except
maybe the time when he
was 6
years old and he had
climbed to the top
of a
very high tree when the
wind was blowing, and he had
been afraid to come down.
It was hitting
him, he thought. He was
just beginning to understand
what this stoppage of machinery
really meant, and he wondered if
there was something wrong with him that he had
not felt
it earlier.
Was he
alone? Had everyone else understood it before he had?
Or would
it
hit them, one
by one,
just as it was hitting
him now,
bringing him face to
face with what lay ahead.
He knew what had done it.
It was
his father's
expression and his words
in the
laboratory the night before.
Ken recognized that he
had never
doubted for an instant that scientists and their tools
were wholly adequate to solve
this problem in a
reasonable time. He had been
aware there would be great hardships,
but he
had never
doubted there would be an end
to that
time. He had believed his
father, as a scientist,
had the
same faith.
It was a staggering shock to
learn that his father had
no faith in science; a shock
to be
told that science was not
a thing that warranted a man's
faith. Ken had planned his
whole life around an
avid faith in science.
He tried to imagine what the
world would be like if
no engine should ever run again.
The standards
of civilized
existence would be shattered.
Only those areas of the
world, where people had never learned
to depend
on motor
transportation or electric
power, would be unaffected; those areas of China, India
and Africa,
where men still scratched the ground with a forked
stick and asked only for
a cup
of rice or grain each day.
This would become
the level
of the
whole world. Until last night, Ken
had never
believed it remotely possible. Now, his father's words had
shaken him out of the
certainty that science would
avert such consequences. It could happen.
He thought of
his own
plans and ambitions. There would
be no need for scientists, nor the opportunity to become
one, in a world
of men
who grubbed
the land
with forked sticks. He felt a
sudden blind and bitter anger.
Even if the disaster were overcome
in a
matter of years, his opportunity
would be gone.
He knew at once that such
anger was selfish and futile.
His own personal calamities
would be the least of
the troubles ahead, but, for the
moment, he could not help
it. In a way, it felt
good because it overshadowed the dark fear that still
throbbed in his body.
But something else was
gone, too. The opportunity for him and his science
club friends to investigate the properties of the
altered metal was over. His
father and the other scientists had taken over those
studies, and there would be no
place for high-school boys who
did not
know even enough to prepare a
slide for an electron microscope.
It had always
been that way, as long
as he
could remember. He had always
been too young and too
ignorant to be intrusted with work
that mattered.
He supposed they
would turn the operation of
the air
filter over to one
of the
teaching fellows, even though that
was something the club could handle.
The bitterness and the fear seemed
more than he could endure. He dressed quietly and
went downstairs. Without lighting
a lamp,
he found
something to eat. The first
light of dawn was showing when
he left
the house.
For an hour he walked the
silent streets without meeting anyone. Normally, there would have
been the sound of milk trucks,
and the
cars of early-rising workers. Now
there was nothing. The
comet had risen just above
the eastern hills, and in its
fight the city was like
some fabulous, golden ruin that belonged
in an
ancient fairytale.
Ken didn't know
where he was going or
what he was going to do.
There ought to be something
useful he could do, he thought
fiercely.
As he looked down the street,
he saw
a half-dozen wagons with two teams
each, stopped in front of
Sims Hardware and Lumber. In the
wagons were several dozen men. Ken recognized Andrew Norton,
of the
Mayor's Council, and Henry
Atkins, the Sheriff's chief deputy.
Several of the
men were
emerging from the hardware store with new axes and
saws. Then Ken understood. This was the first wood
detail headed for the mountains
to begin
gathering and stockpiling fuel for the winter.
He broke
into a run.
Deputy Atkins appeared
to be
in charge
of the
group. Ken hailed him. '1 want to go along, Mr.
Atkins. May I go?"
The deputy glanced down
at him
and frowned.
He consulted
a sheet
of paper
he drew
from his pocket. "Your name isn't on the list
for this
morning, Ken. Were you assigned?"
"I guess not, but I haven't
got anything
else to do today. Is there
any objection
to my
going?"
'1 don't
suppose so," said Atkins dubiously.
"It's just that your name may
be on
some other list. We don't
want to get these things fouled
up right
off the
bat. There's enough trouble as it
is."
"I'm sure my name's not on
any other
list. I'd have been told about
it."
"All right. Climb on."
As Ken climbed
into the nearest wagon he
was startled
to find himself staring
into the face of Frank
Meggs. The storekeeper grinned
unpleasantly as he nodded his
head in Ken's direction and spoke
to his
neighbor. "Now what do you know
about that? Old
Man Maddox,
letting his own little boy out
alone this early in the
morning. I'll bet
he didn't let you, did he?
I'll bet you had to
run away
to try
to prove you're a
big boy
now."
"Cut it out, Meggs," said Atkins
sharply. "We heard all about what
went on in your store
yesterday."
The man next
to Meggs
drew away, but it didn't
seem to bother him. He continued
to grin
crookedly at Ken. "Aren't you afraid
you might
get hurt
trying to do a man's
work?"
Ken ignored the
jibes and faced away from
the storekeeper.
The slow,
rhythmic jogging of the wagon, and the frosty air as
they came into the mountains
took some of the bitterness out of Ken. It
made him feel freshly alive.
He had
come often to hunt
here and felt a familiarity
with every tree and rock around
him.
The wagon train
came to a halt in
a grove
of 10-year-old
saplings that needed thinning.
"No use taking our best timber
until we have to," said
Atkins. "We'll start here.
I'll take a crew and
go on
ahead and mark the ones to
be cut.
You drivers
unhitch your teams and drag the
logs out to the wagons
after they're cut."
There was none
of the
kidding and horseplay that would
have been normal in
such a group. Each man
seemed intent on the purpose for
which he had come, and
was absorbed
with his own thoughts.
Ken took
a double-bitted
ax and
followed Atkins along the
trail. He moved away from
the others and began cutting one
of the
young trees Atkins had marked.
By noon he
was bathed
in sweat, and his arms and
back ached. He had thought he
was in
good condition from his football and track work, but
he seemed
to have
found new muscles that had never
come into play before.
Atkins noticed the amount
he had
cut and
complimented him. "Better take it easy. You're
way ahead
of everybody
else, and we don't
have to get it all
out today."
Ken grinned, enjoying the
aches of his muscles. "If
it has
to be done we might as
well do it."
He was not surprised to find
that Frank Meggs had cut
almost nothing but had
spent his time complaining to his companions about the
unnecessary work they were doing.
After lunch, which
Ken had
reluctantly accepted from the others, there
was a
stir at the arrival of
a newcomer
on horseback. Ken recognized
him as
Mike Travis, one of the carpenters
and caretakers
at the
college.
Mike tied his
horse to the tailboard of
a wagon
and approached
the woodcutters.
"There you are, Ken Maddox,"
he said accusingly. "Why didn't you let
somebody know where you were going?
Your father's been chewing up
everyone in sight, trying
to find
out where
you'd gone. He finally decided you
might be up here, and
sent me after you. Take the
horse on back. Til finish up
the day
on the
wood detail."
Ken felt suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.
"I didn't mean to worry him,
but I guess I did
forget to say where I was
going. Don't you think it
would be okay if I
stayed and you told Dad you
had found
me?"
"Not on your life! He'd chew
me down
to the
ankles if I went back without
you!"
"Okay, I'll go," Ken said. Although
he knew
he should
have left word it
still seemed strange that his
father should be so concerned as
to send
a man
up here
looking for him. It seemed like
more of the unfamiliar facets of his father's
personality that Ken had
glimpsed last night.
Frank Meggs Was watching from across the
clearing. "I guess Papa Maddox couldn't
stand the thought of his
little boy doing a man's work
for a
whole day," he said loudly
and maliciously. No one
paid any attention to him.
Ken tied the
mare to a tree on
the campus
where she could graze. He glanced
over the valley below. Not
a single
car was in sight
on the
roads. Somehow, it was beginning
to seem that this
was the
way it
had always
been. His own car seemed like
something he had possessed a
thousand years ago.
He found his father in the
laboratory working with the electron microscope. Professor Maddox looked
up and
gestured toward the office. As
Ken sat
down, he shut the door
behind them and took
a seat
behind his old oak desk
that was still cluttered with unmarked
examination papers.
"You didn't say anything
about where you were going
this morning," he said.
"I'm sorry about that," Ken answered.
"I got up early and took
a walk
through town. All of a
sudden — well, I guess I got panicky when
it finally
hit me
as to
what all this really means. I
saw the
wood detail going out and
joined them. It felt
good out there, with nothing
to think
about except getting a
tree to fall right."
"You ran away. You were needed
here."
Ken stammered. "I didn't
think you wanted any of
us kids around since you and
the other
men had
taken over what we had started
to do."
"You were angry that it wasn't
your own show any longer,
weren't you?"
"I guess that's part of it,"
Ken admitted,
his face
reddening. He didn't know what
was happening.
His father
had never spoken to him like
this before. He seemed suddenly
critical and disapproving of everything about Ken.
After a long
time his father spoke again,
more gently this time. "It's been your ambition for
a long
time to be a scientist, hasn't it?"
"You know it has."
"I've been very pleased, too. I've
watched you and encouraged your interests and, as
far as
I can
see, you've been developing in the
right direction."
"I'm glad you think so," Ken
said.
"But you've wanted to
be a
great scientist. You've had an ambition to
emulate men like Newton, Faraday,
Davy, and the modern giants such
as Einstein,
Planck, de Broglie, Oppenheimer."
"Maybe I haven't got the brains,
but I
can try."
His father snorted
impatiently. "Do you think any
one of them tried deliberately to be great, or
to copy
anyone else?"
Ken understood his meaning now. "I
guess they didn't. You can't really
do a
thing like that."
"No, you can't. You take the
brains God has given you
and apply them to
the universe
as you
see it.
The results
take care of themselves.
"Some of us have enough insight
to achieve
greatness. Most of us
lack the cleverness to cope
effectively with such a wily opponent
as the
natural universe. Greatness and mediocrity have no meaning to
a man
who is
absorbed in his study. You do
what you have to do.
You do
what the best and highest impulses
of your
brain tell you to do.
Expect nothing more than
this of yourself. Nothing more
is possible.'*
"I think I see what you
mean,** Ken said.
"I
doubt it. Most of the men
I know have never
learned it. They struggle to write
more papers, to get their
names in more journals than their
colleagues. They go out of
their way to be patted on
the back.
"They are the failures as scientists.
For an
example of success I recommend that you observe Dr. Larsen
closely. He is a man who
has done
a great
deal to advance our knowledge of physical chemistry."
Professor Maddox paused. Then
he said
finally, "There is just one other
thing."
"What's that?" Ken asked.
"Up to now, you and all
your friends have only played
at science."
"Played!" Ken cried.
"We've built our observatory, a 1000-watt radio transmitter—"
"Play; these things are toys. Educational
toys, it is true, but toys,
nevertheless."
"I don't understand."
"Toys are fine for children. You
and your
friends, however, are no longer
children. You haven't got a
chance now to grow up and
gain an education in a
normal manner. You can't finish your
childhood, playing with your toys.
You can't take all the time
you need
to find
out what
your capacities and aptitudes
are. You will never know
a world
that will allow you
that luxury.
"Every available brain is
needed on this problem. You've
got to make a decision today,
this very minute, whether you want to give a
hand to its solution."
"You know I want to be
in on
it!"
"Do you? Then you ve got
to decide
that you are no longer concerned
about being a scientist. Forget the word. What you are does not
matter. You are simply a
man with
a problem to solve.
"You have to decide whether or
not you
can abandon
your compassion for the
millions who are going to
die; whether you can reject all
pressure from personal danger, and from the threat to
everything and everyone that is
of any importance to you.
"You ve got to decide whether
or not
this problem of the destruction of surface tension of
metals is the most absorbing thing in the whole
world. It needs solving, not
because the fate of
the world
hinges on it, but because
it's a problem that consumes you
utterly. This is what drives you, not fear, not
danger, not the opinion of
anyone else.
"When he can function this way,
the scientist
is capable
of solving important problems.
By outward
heartlessness he can achieve
works of compassion greater than
any of
his critics. He knows
that the greatest pleasure a
man can
know lies in taking
a stand
against those forces that bend
ordinary men."
For the first time in his
life Ken suddenly felt that
he knew his father. "I wish
you had
talked to me like this
a long time ago," he said.
Professor Maddox shook his
head. "It would have been
far better for you
to find
out these
things for yourself. My telling you does not convince
you they
are true.
That conviction must still
come from within."
"Do you want me to become
a scientist?"
Ken asked.
"It doesn't make any
difference what I want," his father answered almost roughly.
He was
looking away from Ken and then
his eyes
found his son's and his
glance softened. He reached across the
desk and grasped Ken's hand.
"Yes, I want it more than
anything else in the world,"
he said earnestly. "But it's got to
be what
you want,
too, or it's no good at
all. Don't try to be
anything for my sake. Determine your own goals clearly,
and take
as straight
a path as you can to
reach them. Just remember, if
you do choose science the standards
are severe."
"It's what I want," said Ken
evenly. "You said you needed
me here. What do
you want
me to
do?"
"Empty trash cans if we ask
it," Professor Maddox said. "Forget about whose show it
is. Professor
Larsen and I will be directing
the research,
and we'll
need every pair of hands
and every brain that's
got an
ounce of intelligence in this
field. You do whatever
you are
asked to do and think
of every possible answer to the
questions that come before you. Is that good enough?"
"More than enough." Ken felt
a sudden
stinging sensation behind his eyes
and turned
to rub
their corners roughly. "What
about the other fellows in
the club?
Can you
use them, too?"
"As many as have the ounce
of intelligence
I spoke
of. The rest of them don't
need to know the things
I have
told you, but with you it
was different.
I had
to know
you understood
just a little of what
it means
to be
a scientist."
"I'll be one. I'll show you
I can
be one!"
ChdptCt *7 Oust from the Stars
11 en felt
he had grown 3 inches taller
after his father's II discussion. As if he had passed
some ancient ritual, he II could be admitted to the company
of adults
and his
|\ opinions would be
heard.
This proved to be
true. His father rapidly organized
the faculties of the college laboratories
and recruited
every possible science student
in the
chemistry and physics departments, as well as many
from the high school. As
these plans were outlined, Ken made
a proposal
of his
own.
"I believe our first
move/* he said, "should be to
set up
a network of amateur
radio stations operating in cities
where there are other
laboratories. If you could be
in touch
with them, ideas could
be exchanged
and duplication
of work avoided."
"An excellent idea," said Professor Maddox. "You
can work it out as we
go along."
"No. It ought to be done
immediately," Ken said.
"If not, it may be almost
impossible to find anyone on
the air
later. There may not be many
amateurs who will bother to
convert their rigs to battery
operation. There may not be
many who can get the batteries
together."
"Good enough!" his father
said. "Let that have priority
over everything else until you get
it organized.
Probably you should find at least
two contacts
in each
of the
university centers. Put at the
top of
your list Berkeley, Pasadena, Chicago, New York, and Washington,
D.C.
"See if you can get relay
contacts that will put us
in touch
with Stockholm, Paris, London,
Berlin, and Tokyo. If so,
we can have contact with the
majority of the workers capable of contributing most to
this problem."
"I'll do my best," Ken promised.
Someone would be
needed to operate the station
and spend a good many hours
a week
listening and recording. He didn't want
to spend
the time
necessary doing that, and he knew
none of the other club
members would, either. At once he
thought of Maria Larsen. She
would undoubtedly be happy to take
over the job and feel
she was
doing something useful. On the
way home
he stopped
at her
house and told her what he
had in
mind. She readily agreed.
"I don't know
anything about radio," she said.
"You'll have to show
me what
to do."
"We won't expect you to learn
code, of course," he said.
"When we do handle
anything coming in by code
one of
us will have to
take it. We'll try to
contact phone stations wherever
possible for this program we
have in mind. Most of the
stuff will be put on
tape, and Dad will probably
want you to prepare typed copies,
too. You can do enough
to take a big load off
the rest
of us."
"I'll be happy to try."
They spent the
rest of the day in
the radio
room of the science shack. Ken taught
Maria the simple operations of turning on the transmitter
and receiver,
of handling
the tuning controls, and the proper
procedure for making and receiving calls. He supposed there
would be some technical objection to her operation of
the station
without an operator's license, but
he was
quite sure that such things
were not important right now.
It was a
new land
of experience
for Maria.
Her face
was alive with excitement as Ken
checked several bands to see
where amateurs were still
operating. The babble of high-frequency
code whistles alternated in the
room with faint, sometimes muffled voices
on the
phone band.
"There are more stations than I
expected," Ken said.
"With luck, we may
be able
to establish
a few
of the
contacts we need, tonight."
After many tries, he succeeded in
raising an operator, W6YRE, in San
Francisco. They traded news, and
it sounded as if the west
coast city was crumbling swiftly.
Ken explained what he
wanted. W6YRE promised to try
to raise someone with a high-powered
phone rig in Berkeley, near the university.
They listened to
him calling,
but could
not hear
the station he finally raised.
"What good will that
do?" Maria asked. "If
we can't
hear the station in Berkeley . .."
"He may be working on a
relay deal through the small
rig. It's better than
nothing, but I'd prefer a
station we can contact directly."
In a few
minutes, the San Francisco operator
called them back. "W6WGU knows a
ham with
a 1000-watt
phone near the university,"
he said.
"He thinks he'll go for
your deal, but he's not set
up for
battery. In fact, he's about
ready to evacuate. Maybe he can
be persuaded
to stay.
I'm told
he's a guy who will do
the noble
thing if he sees a
reason for it."
"There's plenty of reason
for this,"
said Ken.
"Let's set a schedule for 9
p.m. I ought to have
word on it by then."
They agreed and
cut off.
In another
hour they had managed a
contact with a Chicago operator,
and explained
what they wanted.
"You're out of luck here," the ham replied. "This
town is falling apart at the
seams right now. The whole
Loop area
has been burned out. There's been rioting for 18 hours straight. The militia have been trying to hold things together, but I don
t think they even know whether anybody is still on top giving the orders.
"I'll
try to find out what the eggheads at the university are doing, but if they've
got any kind of research running in this mess it'll surprise me. If they are
still there, I'll hang on and report to you. Otherwise, I'm heading north.
There's not much sense to it, but when something like this happens a guy's got
to run or have a good reason for staying put. If he doesn't he'll go
nuts."
The
Chicago operator agreed to a schedule for the following morning.
Maria
and Ken sat in silence, not looking at each other,,
after they cut off.
"It
will be that way in all the big cities, won't it?" Maria asked.
"I'm
afraid so. We're luckier than they are," Ken said, "but I wonder how
long we'll stay lucky." He was thinking of Frank Meggs, and the people who
had swamped his store.
At
9 p.m., W6YRE came back on. The Berkeley 1000-watt phone was enthusiastic about
being a contact post with the university people. He had promised to make
arrangements with them and to round up enough batteries to convert his
transmitter and receiver.
They had no further success
that night.
Ken's
father shook his head sadly when told of the situation in Chicago. "I had
counted on them," he said. "Their people are among the best in the
world, and they have the finest equipment. I hope things are not like that
everywhere."
Members
of the science club took turns at the transmitter the following days for
20-hour stretches, until everything possible had been done to establish the
contacts requested by Professor Maddox.
In Chicago there
appeared to have been a
complete collapse. The operator there
reported he was unable to
reach any of the scientific personnel at the university.
He promised
a further
contact, but when the time
came he could not be reached.
There was no voice at
all in
the Chicago
area. Ken wondered what had become
of the
man whose
voice they had heard briefly. He
was certain
he would
never know.
Although there was much disorder on
the west
coast, the situation was in somewhat
better control. The rioting had not yet threatened the universities, and both
Berkeley and Pasadena were working frantically
on the
problem with round-the-clock shifts in their
laboratories. They had welcomed wholeheartedly the communication network initiated by the Mayfield group.
In Washington, D.C. tight military control
was keeping
things somewhat in order.
In Stockholm,
where contact had been established through a Washington relay after 2 days of steady effort,
there was no rioting whatever.
Paris and London had suffered, but
their leading universities were at work
on the
problem. Tokyo reported similar conditions.
Ken grinned at
Maria as they received the
Stockholm report. "Those Swedes," he said. "They're
pretty good at keeping their heads."
Maria answered with
a faint
smile of her own. "Everybody
should be Swedes. No?"
The fall winds
and the
black frost came early that
year, as if in fair warning
that the winter intended a
brutal assault upon the stricken world.
The pile
of logs
in the
community woodlot grew steadily.
A large
crew of men worked to
reduce the logs to stove
lengths.
They had made a crude attempt
to set
up a
circular saw, using animal power to
drive it. The shaft was
mounted in hardwood blocks, driven by
a complicated
arrangement of wooden pulleys and leather
belts. The horses worked it
through a treadmill.
The apparatus worked
part of the time, but
it scarcely
paid for itself when
measured against the efforts of
the men
who had to keep
it in
repair.
The food storage program was well
underway. Two central warehouses had been prepared from
the converted
Empire Movie Theater, and
the Rainbow
Skating Rink.
Ken wished their efforts
at the
college laboratory were going half as
well. As the days passed,
it seemed
they were getting nowhere. The first
effort to identify any foreign
substance in the atmospheric dust was a failure.
Calculations showed they had
probably not allowed sufficient time to sample a large
enough volume of air.
It was getting
increasingly difficult to keep the
blower system going. All of their
original supply of small engines
had broken down. The
town had been scoured for
replacements. These, too,
were failing.
In the metallurgical
department hundreds of tests had
been run on samples
taken from frozen engines. The
photomicrographs all showed
a uniform
peculiarity, which the scientists could not
explain. Embedded in the crystalline
structure of the metal
were what appeared to be
some kind of foreign, amorphous particles
which were concentrated near the line
of union
of the
two parts.
Berkeley and Pasadena confirmed these results
with their own tests. There was
almost unanimous belief that it
was in no way connected with
the comet.
Ken stood
almost alone in his dogged conviction
that the Earth's presence in
the tail of the comet could
be responsible
for the
catastrophe.
Another theory that
was gaining
increasing acceptance was that this foreign
substance was an unexpected byproduct of the hydrogen
and atomic
bomb testing that had been going
on for
so many
years. Ken was forced to
admit the possibility of this, inasmuch
as radiation
products were scattered heavily now throughout
the Earth's
atmosphere. Both Russia and
Britain had conducted extensive tests
just before the breakdowns began occurring.
The members of the
science club had been allowed
to retain complete control of the
air-sampling program. They washed the filters
carefully at intervals and distilled
the solvent to recover the precious
residue of dust.
As the small quantity of this
grew after another week of
collecting, it was treated
to remove
the ordinary
carbon particles and accumulated
pollens. When this was done
there was very little
remaining, but that little something
might be ordinary dust
carried into the atmosphere from the surface of the
Earth. Or it might be
out of
the tail
of the comet. Dust from the
stars.
By now, Ken
and his
companions had learned the use
of the electron microscope and how
to prepare
specimens for it. When their samples
of dust
had become
sufficient they prepared a
dozen slides for photographing with the instrument.
As these were
at last
developed in the darkroom, Ken
scanned them eagerly. Actually,
he did
not know
what he was looking for. None
of them
did. The prints seemed to
show little more than
shapeless patches. In the light
of the
laboratory he called Joe
Walton's attention to one picture.
"Look," he said. "Ever
see anything
like that before?"
Joe started to
shake his head. Then he
gave an exclamation. "Hey, they look like the
same particles found in the
metals, which nobody has
been able to identify yet!"
Ken nodded. "It
could be. Maybe this will
get us
only a horselaugh for our trouble,
but let's
see what
they think."
They went into the next laboratory
and laid
the prints
before Ken's father and
his associates.
Ken knew
at once,
from the expressions on the men's faces,
that they were not going to
be laughed
at.
"I think there may be something
here," said Professor
Maddox, trying to
suppress his excitement. "It is very
difficult to tell in a
picture like this whether one
particle is similar to any other,
but their
size and configuration are very much
alike."
Professor Douglas grunted disdainfully.
"Impossible!" With that dismissal,
he moved
away.
Professor Larsen looked more
carefully. "You could scrape dust from
a thousand
different sources and get pictures
like this from half of
them perhaps. Only the chemical
tests will show us
the nature
of this
material. I am certain it is very worthwhile following up."
"I feel certain
that whatever contaminating agent we
are dealing with is airborne," said Professor Maddox. "If
this is the same substance it
will not tell us its
origin, of course, nor will it
even prove it is responsible
for these
effects. However it is
a step
in the
right direction. We can certainly
stand that!"
"Couldn't we tell by spectroscopic analysis?" said Ken.
"That would be difficult to say.
The commonness
of the
elements involved might mask
what you are looking for.
Get John Vickers to
help you set up equipment
for making
some comparisons."
Vickers was the teaching fellow in
the chemistry
department whom Professor Maddox had
planned to assign to help the
boys when they first suggested
atmospheric analysis. He had become
indispensable in the research since
then. But he liked helping the
boys; it was not too
long since he had been at
the same
stage in his own career.
He understood
their longing to do something
worthwhile, and their embarrassment
at their
ineptness.
"Sure, Guys," he said,
when Professor Maddox called him in. "Let's see if
we can
find out what this stuff
is. Who
knows? Maybe we've got
a bear
by the
tail."
It was delicate precision work, preparing
specimens and obtaining spectrographs
of the
lines that represented the elements contained in them. Time
after time, their efforts failed. Something went wrong either
with their sample preparation,
or with
their manipulation of the instruments.
Ken began to feel
as if
their hands possessed nothing but
thumbs.
"That's the way it goes," John Vickers consoled them.
"Half of this business
of being
a scientist
is knowing how to screw a nut
on a
left-handed bolt in the dark.
Unless you're one of
these guys who do it
all in
their heads, like Einstein."
"Were wasting our samples,"
Ken said.
"It's taken two weeks to collect
this much."
"Then this is the one that
does it," said Vickers. "Try
it now."
Ken turned the switch
that illuminated the spectrum and
exposed the photographic plate. After a moment,
he cut
it off. "That had better do
itl" he said.
After the plates were developed, they had two successful
spectrographs for comparison. One was
taken from the metal of a
failed-engine part. The other was
from the atmospheric dust. In the
comparator Vickers brought the corresponding standard comparison lines together.
For a
long time he peered
through the eyepiece.
"A lot of lines match up,"
he said.
"I can throw out most
of them, though—carbon, oxygen, a
faint sodium."
"The stuff that's giving us trouble
might be a compound of one of these," said Ken.
"That's right. If so,
we ought
to find
matching lines of other possible elements
in the
compounds concerned. I don't see any
reasonable combination at all." He paused. "Hey, here's something
I hadn't
noticed."
He shifted the
picture to the heavy end
of the
spectrum. There, a very
sharp fine matched on both
pictures. The boys took a look
at it
through the viewer. "What is that one?" Ken asked.
"I don't know.
I used
a carbon
standard. I should have used one
farther toward the heavy end.
This one looks like it would
have to be a transuranic
element, something entirely new, like
plutonium."
"Then it could be from the
hydrogen bomb tests," said Joe.
"It could be," said Vickers, "but
somehow I've got a feeling
it isn't."
"Isn't there a quick way to
find out?" said Ken. *How?"
"If we took a spectrograph of the comet and
found this same line strongly present,
we would
have a good case for
proving the comet was
the source
of this
substance."
"Let's have a try," said Vickers.
"I don't know how successfully
we can
get a
spectrograph of the comet, but
it's worth an attempt."
Their time was short, before the
comet vanished below the horizon for
the night.
They called for help from
the other boys and moved the
equipment to the roof, using
the small, portable 6-inch telescope belonging
to the
physics department.
There was time
for only
one exposure.
After the sun had set, and
the comet
had dropped
below the horizon, they came out
of the
darkroom and placed the prints
in the
viewing instrument.
Vickers moved the adjustments gently. After
a time
he looked up at the circle
of boys.
"You were right, Ken," he said. "Your hunch was
right. The comet is responsible.
Our engines have been stopped by
dust from the stars."
Chapter 8
1 |
here are people who feed
upon disaster and grow in
their own particular direction as they
would never have grown without it, as does the
queen bee who becomes queen
only because of the
special food prepared by the
workers for her private use.
Such a man was Henry Maddox.
He would
not have
admitted it, nor was he
ever able to realize it,
for it
violated the very principles he had
laid down for Ken. But
for him,
the comet was like
a sudden
burst of purpose in his
life. He had taught well in
his career
as professor
of chemistry
at the State Agricultural College at
Mayfield, but it had become
fairly mechanical. He was vaguely
aware of straining at the chains
of routine
from time to time, but
he had
always forced himself through sheer exercise
of will
to attend
to his duties. There was never
time, however, for any of
the research he used to tell
himself, in his younger days,
he was
going to do.
With the sudden thrusting aside of
all customary
duties, and with the impact of
catastrophe demanding a solution to a research problem, he
came alive without knowing what
was happening. Yet without
the imminence
of disaster
he
would not have
found the strength to drive
himself so. This was what he
could not admit to himself.
Another who was nourished was Granny
Wicks. She should have been dead
years ago. She had admitted
this to herself and to anyone
else who would listen, but
now she
knew why she had
been kept alive so long
past her time. She had been
waiting for the comet.
Its energy seemed to
flow from the sky into
her withered,
bony frame, and she
drank of its substance until
time seemed to reverse itself in
her obsolete
body. All her life she had
been waiting for this time.
She knew
it now.
She was spared to tell the
people why the comet had
come. Although her purpose
was diametrically
opposed to that of Henry Maddox,
she also
fed and
grew to her full stature
after almost a century
of existence.
Frank Meggs was surely another. He
was born
in May-field
and had
lived there all his life
and he
hated every minute of time and
every person and every event
that told of his wasted life
here. He hated College Hill,
for he
had never been able to go
there. His family had been
too poor,
and he had been forced to
take over his father's store
when his father died.
He had once dreamed of becoming
a great
businessman and owning a
chain of stores that would
stretch from coast to coast, but
circumstances, for which
he blamed
the whole
of Mayfield, had never
permitted him to leave the
town. His panic sale had been
his final,
explosive hope that he might be
able to make it. Now,
he, too,
found himself growing in his
own special
direction as he fed upon
the disaster.
He did not know just what
that direction was or to
where it led, but he felt
the growth.
He felt
the secret
pleasure of contemplating the discomfort and the privation that
lay ahead for his fellow citizens
in the
coming months.
While personal fear forced
him to
the conclusion
that the disaster would be of
short duration, the pleasure was
nevertheless real. It was
especially intense when he thought
of College Hill and
its inhabitants
in scenes
of dark
dismay as they wrestled in vain
to understand
what had happened to the world.
There were others who fed upon
the disaster.
For the
most part they found
it an
interruption to be met with
courage, with faith, with
whatever strength was inherent in them.
It was not a time of
growth, however, for Reverend Ayles-worth.
It was
the kind
of thing
for which
he had
been preparing all his life.
Now he
would test and verify the
stature he had already gained.
On the night
they verified the presence of
the comet
dust in the disabled engines, Ken
was the
last to leave the laboratory.
It was
near midnight when he got
away.
His father had left
much earlier, urging him to
come along, but Ken had been
unable to pull himself away
from the examination and measurement of the spectrum of
lines that bared the comet's secret.
He had
begun to understand the pleasure his
father had spoken of, the
pleasure of being consumed utterly by
a problem
important in its own right.
As he left
the campus
there was no moon in
the sky.
The comet was gone, and the
stars seemed new in a
glory he had not seen for
many nights. He felt that
he wouldn't
be able
to sleep even when
he got
home, and he continued walking
for several
blocks, in the direction of
town.
He came abreast, finally, of the
former Rainbow Skating Rink, which had
been converted into a food
warehouse. In the darkness, he saw
a sudden,
swift movement against the wall of
the building.
His night
vision was sharp after the
long walk; he saw
what was going on.
The broad doors of the rink
had been
broken open. There were three or
four men lifting sacks and
boxes and barrels stealthily into a
wagon.
Even as he
started toward them he realized
his own
foolishness and pulled back. A
horse whinnied softly. He turned
to run in the direction of
Sheriff Johnson's house, and behind
him came
a sudden,
hoarse cry of alarm.
Horses' hoofs rattled
frighteningly loud on the cement.
Ken realized he stood
no chance
of escaping
if he
were seen. He dodged for an
instant into a narrow space
between two buildings with the thought
of reaching
an alley
at the
back. However, it was
boarded at the end and
he saw
that he would have to scale
the fence.
A desperate
horseman would ride him down in
the narrow
space.
He fled on
and reached
the shadows
in front
of the
drugstore. He pressed himself as
flat as possible in the
recess of the doorway, hoping his
pursuer would race by. But
his fleeing shadow had been seen.
The rider whirled and reined the
horse to a furious stop.
The animal's front legs
pawed the air in front
of Ken's
face. Then Ken saw there was
something familiar about the figure. He peered closer as
the horseman
whirled again.
"Jed," he called softly. "Jed Tucker—"
The figure answered
harshly, "Yeah. Yeah, that's me,
and you're—you're Ken. I'm sorry it
had to
be you.
Why did
you have to come by here
at this
time of night?"
Ken heard the
sound of running feet in
the distance
as others came to join Jed
Tucker. Jed had not dismounted,
but held Ken prisoner
in the
recess with the rearing, impatient
horse.
Ken wondered how Jed
Tucker could be mixed up
in a
thing like this. His
father was president of the
bank and owned one of the
best homes in Mayfield. Jed
and Ken
had played football on the first
team together last year.
"Jed," Ken said quickly, "give it up!
Don't go through with this!"
"Shut up!" Jed snarled.
He reined
the horse
nearer, threatening Ken with
the thrashing
front legs.
When Jed's companions
arrived, Jed dismounted from the horse.
"Who is it?" a panting voice
asked.
A cold panic shot through Ken.
He recognized
the voice.
It was that of Mr. Tucker
himself. The bank official was
taking part in the looting
of the
warehouse.
The third man, Ken recognized in rising horror, was
Mr. Allen, a next-door
neighbor of the Tuckers. He
was the
town's foremost attorney, and
one of
its most
prominent citizens.
"We can't let him go," Allen
was saying.
"Whoever he is, we've got to
get him
out of
the way."
Mr. Tucker came closer.
He gasped
in dismay.
"It's young Maddox," he said. "You! What are
you doing
out this time of night?"
Under any other conditions, the question
would have seemed humorous, coming from
whom it did now. But
Ken felt no humor; he sensed
the desperate
fury in these men.
"Give it up," he repeated quietly.
"The lives of fifteen thousand people depend on this
food supply. You have no
right to steal an
ounce that doesn't belong to
you. I'll never tell what I've
seen."
Tucker shook his head in a
dazed, uncomprehending manner, as
if the
proposition were too fantastic to
be considered.
"We can't do that," he said.
"We can't let him go!" Allen
repeated.
"You can't expect us to risk
murder!"
"There'll be plenty of that before
this winter's over!"
"Our lives depend on this food,
you know
that," Tucker said desperately
to Ken.
"You take your share, and
we'll all be in this together.
Then we know we'll be
safe."
Ken considered, his panic
increasing. To refuse might mean his life. If he
could pretend to fall in
with them ...
"You can't trust him!" Allen raged.
"No one is going to
be in on this except us."
Suddenly the lawyer stepped near, his
hand raised high in the air.
Before Ken sensed his intention,
a heavy
club smashed against his head. His
body fell in a crumpled
heap on the sidewalk.
It was after
2 a.m. when Professor
Maddox awoke with the sensation that
something was vaguely wrong. He
sat up
in bed and looked out the
window at the starlit sky.
He remembered
he had
left Ken at the university
and had
not yet
heard him come in.
Quietly he arose from the bed
and tiptoed
along the hallway to Ken's
room. He used the beam
of a
precious flashlight for a moment
to scan
the undisturbed
bed. Panic started inside him and
was fought
down.
Probably Ken had found something interesting
to keep
him from noticing the
alarm clock on a shelf
in the
laboratory. Perhaps someone had even
forgotten to wind the clock and
it had
run down.
Perhaps, even, the bearings of its
balance wheel had finally become frozen
and had
brought it to a stop!
Mrs. Maddox was
behind him as he turned
from the door. "What's wrong?" she asked.
He flashed the
light on the bed again.
"I'd better go up to the
laboratory and have a look,"
he said.
Ken's mother nodded.
She sensed
her husband's
worry, and wanted not to add
to it.
"Take Ken's bicycle," she said.
"It will be quicker,
even if you have to
walk it uphill. I'll have some
hot chocolate
for you
when you come back."
Professor Maddox dressed hurriedly
and took
the bicycle
from the garage. He
did have
to wheel
it most
of the
way up the hill, but it
would be easier coming down
anyway, he thought. He wondered how
much longer the bearings in
it would hold up
without freezing.
As he came within view of
the laboratory
building he saw that the windows
were utterly dark. He knew
that even with the shades down
he would
have been able to see
some glow of the oil lamps
which they used, provided Ken
were still there.
He waited a full
10 minutes
against the chance that Ken
had put out the
lamps and was on his
way out.
Then he knew Ken had gone
long ago. He ought to
call the Sheriff and have the
police cars search for him,
but there
were no phones and no cars.
He mounted the
bicycle in fresh panic and
rode recklessly down the hill
to town.
At Sheriff
Johnsons house he
pounded frantically on the
door until the Sheriff shouted
angrily through an open
window, "Who is it?"
"It's Dr. Maddox. You've got to
help me, Johnson. Ken's disappeared." He went
into details, and the Sheriff
grunted, holding back his
irritation at being disturbed, because of his long friendship
with Henry Maddox.
"I guess I
should have gone down to
the station,"
said Professor Maddox, realizing
what he had done. "I
had forgotten
there would be men on
duty."
"It's all right. I'll come with
you."
The Sheriff's car had
broken down days before. He
kept a horse for his own
official use. "You can ride
behind me," he said. "Sally's a pretty decent gal.
You get
up there
on the porch railing and climb
on right
behind me."
Professor Maddox maneuvered himself behind the Sheriff
on the horse, balancing unsteadily as Sally shied away.
"Where do you think
Ken could
have gone?" asked Johnson. "Don't you suppose
he's over at one of
his friend's?"
"He wouldn't do a
thing like that without letting
us know."
"He went up the canyon with
the wood
detail 2 or 3 weeks ago."
"I know—but that was
different. Aren't there any policemen
on the
streets now? What happened to
the ones
who used to patrol in the
radio cars?"
"They're walking their beats,
most of them. Two are
mounted in each district.
We'll stop by the station,
and then
try to find the mounted officers.
It's the only thing we
can do."
They moved down the dark, empty
streets. It seemed as if there
never had been any life
flowing along them, and never would
be again.
They passed the station, lit
by a
smoking oil lamp, and
left word of Ken's disappearance,
and moved on. They came to
the edge
of the
business section, where street lamps used
to shine.
This area was even more
ghostly than the rest,
but policemen
patrolled it, perhaps out of habit
and a
conviction that failure to do
so would
admit the end of
all that
was familiar
and right.
As they rode on, the clatter
of other
hoofbeats on the cement sounded behind
them. Johnson turned and halted.
A flashlight shone in
their faces. It was Officer
Dan Morris,
who identified himself by
turning the light on his
own face.
"The warehouse has been
broken into," he said. "Over
at the skating rink. Somebody has
busted in and made off
with a lot of food."
The Sheriff seemed stunned
by the
news. "What idiots!" he
muttered self-accusingly. "What
complete, pinheaded idiots we turned out
to be.
We didn't
even think to put a
special guard around the
warehouse! Do any of the
other patrolmen know?"
"Yes. Clark and Dudly are over
there now. I was trying
to round up someone
else while they look for
clues."
"I'll have to get over there,"
said Johnson.
"But Ken . .."
Professor Maddox said. "I've got to keep looking."
"You come with us. I've got
to look
into the robbery. Ken can't have
come to any harm. I'll
pass the word along and
we'll all keep watch
for him.
I promise
you we
will."
"I'll keep on," said Professor Maddox.
He slid
from the horse. "I'll keep moving
along the street here. If
you find
anything, 111
be somewhere between here
and home."
Unwillingly, Sheriff Johnson turned
and left
him. The sounds of the two
horses echoed loudly in the
deserted street. Professor Maddox
felt a burst of anger
at their
abandonment of him, but he
supposed the Sheriff was doing
what he had to
do.
He recognized that it was foolhardy
to be
afoot in the deserted town this
time of night. Without a
single clue to Ken's whereabouts, what could he hope
to accomplish?
He strode on along
the sidewalk
in the
direction the policeman had disappeared.
It was
as good
a direction
as any.
After he had gone a block
he stumbled
in the
darkness. Some soft, resilient
object lay across the sidewalk
before Billings Drugstore. In anger at the
obstacle, Professor Maddox caught himself
and moved
on. A
sound stopped him. A groan of
agony came from the object
upon which he had stumbled. He turned and bent
down and knew it was
a human being. Faindy, under the
starlight, he glimpsed the dark pool
of blood
on the
sidewalk. He turned the body
gendy until he could
see the
face. It was Ken.
He didn't know
how long
he knelt
there inspecting the motionless
features of his son. He
was aware
only of running frantically in the direction of
the warehouse.
He found
Johnson. He clutched the
Sheriffs arm. "They've killed him!" he cried. "I found
Ken and
they've killed him!"
Johnson turned to the
nearest officer. "Ride for Dr.
Adams. Dudly,
get that
horse and wagon that's at
Whit-aker's place. Where did you
say you
found Ken, Professor?"
"At Billings. Lying on the sidewalk with
his head
smashed in.
"You others meet us
there," he called. Clumsily, they mounted
the Sheriff's
horse together again. It seemed to
take hours to ride the
short distance.
They dismounted and Johnson knelt and
touched the boy tenderly.
Then Professor Maddox heard,
barely audible, the sound he would
remember all his life as
the most
wonderful sound in the
world.
"Dad . .
Ken's lips moved with the
word. "Dad .
. His voice was a
plea for help.
Chapter 9 i»dgm^t
I |
here was
snow. It covered the whole world
beyond the hospital window. Its depth
was frightening,
and the
walls seemed no barrier.
It was
as much
inside as out, filling the room
to the
ceiling with a fluffy white
that swirled and pulsed in waves
before his eyes.
Much later, when the
pain softened and his vision
cleared, he saw the
only real snow was that
piled outside almost to the level
of the
first-story windows. Within the room, the
outline of familiar objects showed
clearly.
In half-recovered consciousness he wondered impersonally
about the dying pain in
his head
and how
he came
to be where he was. He
could remember only about a
strange thing in the sky, and
a great
fear.
Then it burst upon him in
full recollection—the comet, the
dust, the laboratory. They had
proved the dust that was
in the comet's tail had accumulated
in the
metal surfaces of the failed engines.
What more did they need
to prove
the comet's responsibility?
He slept, and
when he awoke his father
was there.
"Hi, Son," Professor Maddox
said. Ken smiled weakly. "Hi, Dad."
Dr. Adams wouldn't
let them
talk much, and he didn't
want Ken's father
to tell
him why
he was
there. He wanted Ken to dredge
out of
his own
memories the circumstances of the attack.
Ken said, "I've
got to
get out
of here.
Things must be getting behind at
the lab.
Have you found anything new?"
"Take it easy," his father said.
"We've got a little better
picture of what we're
up against.
The dust
is quite
definitely from the comet's
tail. It has a very
large molecule, and is suspended in our atmosphere in colloidal form. Its
basis is a transuranic element, which
is, however,
only slightly radioactive. By
volume, it is present in
the amount
of about
one part in ten
million, which is fairly heavy
concentration for an alien
substance of that kind.
"Perhaps the most important thing we've
found is that it has a
strong affinity for metals, so
that its accumulation on metallic surfaces
is much
higher than in the general
atmosphere."
"It would!" Ken said,
with a vague attempt at
humor. "Why couldn't it
have had an affinity for
old rubber
tires, or secondhand galoshes?
"How late is it? Can I
get up
to the
lab this
afternoon?" Ken struggled to
a sitting
position. A gigantic pain shot
through his head and
down his spinal column. He
felt as if his head were
encased in a cement block.
He fell
back with a groan.
"Don't try that again for a
few days!"
his father
said severely. "You're not going anywhere for
quite a while. I have to
go now,
but your
mother will be in tonight.
Maria will come, too. You do
what the doctors and nurses
tell you to!"
"Dad —why am I here?" He moaned in agony
of both
spirit and body.
"You had an accident," said Dr.
Adams smoothly. "It will all come
back to you and you'll
soon be fine."
Ken watched his father
disappear through the doorway.
He
felt the sting of a needle in his arm and was aware the nurse was standing
near. He wanted to talk some more, but suddenly he was too tired to do
anything.
It
came to him in the middle of the night, like a dark, wild dream that could be
only the utmost fantasy. He remembered the silent, shapeless figures against
the black wall of the old skating rink, and then he knew it wasn't a dream
because he could remember clearly the words of Jed Tucker and his father. He
could also remember Mr. Allen saying, "We can't let him go. Whoever he is,
we've got to get him out of the way."
He
remembered the instant of crashing pain. Mr. Allen had struck with the intent
to kill him. Again, he wondered for a moment if it were not just a nightmare.
Mr. Allen, the town's leading attorney, and Mr. Tucker, the banker—what would
they be doing, plotting robbery and killing?
In
the morning he told his father about it. Professor Mad-dox could not believe
it, either. "You must be mistaken, Ken," he protested. "These
men are two of our leading citizens. They're both on the Mayor's food
committee. You suffered a pretty terrible shock, and you'll have to realize the
effects of it may be with you, and may upset your thinking, for quite a
while."
"Not
about this I I know who it was. I recognized their
voices in the dark. Jed Tucker admitted his identity when I called his name. If
there's anything gone from the warehouse, Sheriff Johnson will find it in
their possession."
The
Sheriff had to wait for permission from Dr. Adams, but he came around that
afternoon, and was equally unbelieving. He advanced the same arguments
Professor Mad-dox had used about the character of those Ken accused.
"These
men will do something far worse, if you don't stop them," said Ken.
"He's right,
there," said Professor Maddox. "Those who did this, menace
the whole
community. They've got to be
found."
"We'll make fools of ourselves," said the Sheriff, "if
we go
to Tucker's and Allen's,
and demand
to search
the premises.
We've got to have
more than your word, Ken;
some evidence of their positive connection
with the crime."
"I just know I saw and
heard them. That's all."
"Listen," the Sheriff said suddenly, "there's
one man
in this town that's really out
to get
you: Frank Meggs. Don't you think
it could
be Meggs
and some
of his
friends?"
"No. It wasn't Frank Meggs."
Art Matthews came
around later that same day. "You look worse than
one of
these engines that's
got itself
full of Stardust,"
he said.
"You must
have been off your
rocker, prowling around
back alleys
in the middle of the
night!"
Ken grinned. "Hi, Art.
I knew
you'd be full of sympathy.
What's going on outside
while I've been laid up?
Say—I don't even know how long
I've been here! What day
is it?"
"Tuesday. Not that it makes any
difference any more."
"Tuesday—and it was Saturday when I
was working
with the spectroscope. I've been here
three days!"
"A week and
three days," said Art Matthews.
"You were out cold for three
days straight, and they wondered
if your
bearings were ever going
to turn
again."
Ken lay back in astonishment. "Nobody's told me anything.
What's happening outside?"
"It's going to be a rough
winter," Art Matthews said, grimly. "Snow's started heavy, two
weeks earlier than usual. I understand
Professor Douglas thinks it's got
something to do with the comet
dust in the air."
"That figures. What about
the fuel
supply?"
"In pretty sad shape,
too. So far, the stockpile is
big enough for about a week
and a
half of real cold. They
laid off woodcutting
for three
days to spend all the
time converting oil burners, and
making new heaters out of
50-gallon barrels and anything
else they could find. It's
going to be a mighty cold
winter—and a hungry one."
Ken nodded, but
he seemed
to be
thinking of something else.
"I've had an idea," he said.
"How's your stock of spare
parts in the garage?"
"Good. I always was a fool
about stocking up on things
I could never sell."
"Any blocks?"
"About a dozen, why?"
"Could you make a brand-new engine
out of
spare parts?"
The mechanic considered,
then nodded. "I
think I could put together a
Ford or Chevy engine. What
good would that do? It would
run down
in a
few days,
just like all the rest."
"Do you think it would, if
you put
it in
a sealed
room, and supplied only filtered air
to it?"
Art's eyes lighted. "Why the dickens
didn't we think of that before?
If we
could keep the Stardust from
getting to the engine, there's no
reason at all why it
shouldn't run as long as we
wanted it to, is there?"
"If a generator could be assembled
in the
same way, we could stir up
a little
power on an experimental basis, enough to charge our
radio batteries. I wonder how
much power could be generated in
the whole
country by such means?"
"I know we
could get a couple of
dozen engines going here in Mayfield,
at least!"
said Art,
"Why don't you get started right
away? Get some of the
club guys to help.
If that
filter idea works there may
be a
lot of things we can do."
Art started for
the door.
"Sheer genius," he said admiringly.
"That's sheer genius, Boy!"
Ken smiled to
himself. He wondered why they
hadn't tried that when they first
had the
hunch that comet dust could be responsible. Maybe they
could have saved some of the
cars if they had rigged
more efficient filters on the
air intakes.
His thoughts went back
to the
attack. He was still thinking
about it when his father
and Sheriff
Johnson returned.
"We took your word, Son," the Sheriff said, chagrined.
"We got a warrant
and searched
the Tucker
and Allen
premises from top to
bottom. We went out to
Tucker s farm and went through
the bams
and the
house. They've got a 2-day supply of rations
just like everybody else.
"They screamed their heads
off and
threatened suit for slander and false
arrest and everything else in
the books."
"I'll get hold of Jed Tucker
when I get out of
here," said Ken. "He'll talk when
I get
through with him!"
"Don't get yourself in a worse
jam than
you've stirred up already. Unless you
can prove
what you say, you'll just
have to forget it and keep
quiet."
Ken smiled suddenly.
"It just occurred to me—when
a banker wants to keep something
safe, where does he put
it?"
"In the bank, of course," said the Sheriff. "Wait
a minute,
you don't think .
.."
"Why not? The bank isn't doing business
any more.
Tucker is the only
one, probably, who has any
excuse to go down there. As
long as things are the
way they
are, nobody else is going to
get inside
the vault—or
even inside the building."
Professor Maddox and the
Sheriff looked at each other.
"It's a logical idea,"
said Ken's father.
"It's as crazy as the rest
of it!
We've made fools of ourselves
already so we might as
well finish the job!"
When breakfast was
served the next morning, Ken
found out his hunch had been
right. He heard it from
Miss Has-kins the nurse and
knew, therefore, that it must
be all
over town.
The nurse was
wide-eyed. "What do you think?"
she said, as she set out
the bowl
of oatmeal.
"The Sheriff found that Mr. Tucker
had filled
his bank
vault with food. He'd stolen it from the warehouse.
The Sheriff*s
men obtained
a warrant and forced Tucker to
open the vault, and there
were cases of canned
goods stacked clear to the
ceiling."
"He must have been afraid of
getting hungry,*' said Ken.
"To think a man like Mr.
Tucker would do something like that." She went out,
clucking her tongue in exaggerated
dismay.
Ken leaned back with
satisfaction. He quite agreed with
Miss Haskins. It was
a pretty
awful thing for a man
like Mr. Tucker to have done.
How many others
would do far worse before
the winter
was over?
The sun came
out bright
and clear
after the series of heavy snowstorms.
The comet
added its overwhelming, golden
fight and tinted the world
of snow.
Some of the snow was melted
by the
tantalizing warmth, but water that
had melted in the daytime froze
immediately at night, and the
unequal contest between the
elements could have only one
outcome in a prematurely
cold and miserable winter.
As the pain in his head
dwindled, and he was able
to get
about in the hospital,
Ken grew
more and more impatient to be released. He wondered
about the heating and other
facilities in the hospital
and learned
the Mayor's
committee had ordered one wing kept
open at all times, with
heat and food available to care
for any
emergency cases.
Three days after he was allowed
on his
feet, Ken was told by Dr.
Adams that he could be
released for the hearing of the Tuckers 'and Mr.
Allen.
Ken stared at him.
"I don't want to go
to any
hearing! I'm going back to the
laboratory!"
"You can go home," said Dr.
Adams. "I want you to
rest a few more days, and then
I would
prefer seeing you get out
in the open, working with the
wood crew, instead of going
right back to the
lab.
"As for the trial and hearing,
I'm afraid
you have
no choice. Judge Rankin has postponed
the hearing
so that
you could appear, and
he'll issue a subpoena if
necessary to insure your presence."
"They caught Tucker redhanded
with his bank vault stuffed to the ceiling with
stolen goods. They don't need
mel
"They tried to kill you," Dr. Adams reminded him.
"That's quite different from
robbing a warehouse."
"I'm not interested in their punishment.
It's more important to work
on the
analysis of the comet dust."
But there was no way out
of it.
Judge Rankin ordered Ken to appear.
In spite
of the
fact that the building was
unheated, and mushy snow
was falling
from a heavy sky once more,
the courtroom
was jammed
on the
day of
the hearing.
Ken raged inwardly
at the
enormous waste of human resources. Men who should have
been in the hills gathering
wood, women who should
have been at work on
clothing and food projects were there
to feed
on the
carcasses of the reputations presently to
be destroyed.
Ken had little
difficulty feeling sorry for Jed.
His former
teammate had been a
good sport in all Ken's
experience of playing with him. He
could almost feel pity for
Jed's father, too. On the stand,
the banker
looked steadfastly at the floor as
he answered
questions in a dull, monotone
voice. He admitted the
theft of the warehouse goods.
Judge Rankin asked severely,
"Why, Mr. Tucker? Why did you
think you had any more
right to hoard supplies than the rest of us?"
For the first time the banker
looked up, and he met
the judge's eyes. "We were scared,"
he said
simply. "We were scared of what
is going
to happen
this winter."
The judge's eyes
flashed. "So you were scared?"
he cried.
"Don't you think we're
all scared?"
The banker shook
his head
and looked
at the
floor. "I don't know,"
he said,
as if
in a
daze. "We were just scared."
The lawyer, Allen, was
more belligerent when he took
the stand. "We merely
did what
anyone else in this courtroom
would do if he had
the chance,
and thought
of it
first," he said. "Do
with me what you like,
but before
this winter is over,
I'll see you self-righteous citizens of Mayfield at each other's throats for
a scrap
of food."
He admitted the attack
on Ken,
but denied
the intent
to kill.
When Ken's turn
came, he told his story
as simply
and as quickly as possible, and
when he had finished he
said, "I'd like to
add one
more word, if I may."
The judge nodded.
"Go ahead, Ken."
He looked over the
faces of the audience. "We've
got troubles enough," he said slowly.
"As much as we hate
to admit it, the picture Mr.
Allen gives us may be
right—unless we do what
we can
to stop
it.
"We're wasting time and
resources today. My father and
I should be at
the laboratory.
Every man and woman here
is neglecting a job.
We waste
time, deliberating about punishment
for some
of our
neighbors who are perhaps weaker, but certainly no more
frightened than the rest of
us. If we lock them up
in prison
somebody has to watch out for
them, and the whole community
is deprived
of their
useful labor.
"Why don't we just let them
go?"
A gasp of
surprise came from the spectators,
but a
slow illumination seemed to
light the face of Judge
Rankin. His eyes moved from Ken
to the
accused men and then to
the audience.
"This court has just heard what
it considers
some very sound advice,"
he said.
"Jed, Mr. Tucker, Mr. Allen
. .
The three stood before him.
"I am taking it
upon myself, because of the
emergency conditions that confront
us, to
declare that the penalty for
your crime is continued
and incessant
labor at any task the
community may see fit
to assign
you. You are marked men.
Your crime is known
to every
member of this community. There will be no escape
from the surveillance of your
neighbors and friends. I
sentence you to so conduct
yourselves in the eyes of
these people that, if we
do come
through this time of
crisis, you may stand redeemed
for all
time of the crime
which you have committed.
"If you fail to do this,
the punishment
which will be automatically imposed is
banishment from this community for the duration of the
emergency.
"Court stands adjourned!"
A burst of cheers broke out
in the
room. The Tuckers and Mr. Allen
looked as if they could
not believe
what they had heard. Then Jed
turned suddenly and rushed toward
Ken.
"It's no good saying I've been
a fool,
but let
me say
thanks for your help."
Mr. Tucker took
Ken's other hand. "You'll never regret it, young man.
111 see to it
that you never regret it."
"It's okay," said Ken,
almost gruffly. "We've all got
a lot
of work to do."
He turned as a
figure brushed by them. Mr.
Allen pushed through the crowd to
the doorway.
He looked
at no
one.
"We were fools," said Mr. Tucker
bitterly. "Brainless, scared fools."
When they were gone, Dr. Aylesworth
put his
hand on Ken's shoulder. "That was a mighty fine
thing you did. I hope it
sets a pattern for all
of us
in times
to come."
"I didn't do it
for them,"
said Ken. "I did it
for myself."
The minister smiled
and clapped
the boy's
shoulder again. "Nevertheless, you did it. That's
what counts."
Chapter 10
Victory of the Dust
ri y the time Ken was through
with the ordeal in court,
i Art Matthews had succeeded in
building an engine I from entirely
new parts.
He had
it installed
in an
air-.
tight
room into which only filtered
air could
pass.
This room, and another air filter,
had been
major projects in themselves.
The science
club members had done most
of the work after their daily
stint at the laboratory, while Art had scoured the
town for parts that would
fit together.
At the end of the hearing
Ken went
to the
garage. The engine had been running
for 5 hours then. Art
was grinning
like a schoolboy who had just
won a
spelling bee. "She sure sounds sweet,"
he said.
"I'll bet we can keep
her going
as long as we
have gasoline."
"I hope so," Ken said. "It's
just a waste of power
to let
it run that way, though."
Art scratched his head.
"Yeah. It's funny,
power is what we've been wanting,
and now
we've got a little we
don't know what to do with
it."
"Let's see if we can find
a generator,"
said Ken. "Charge some batteries with
it. Do
you think
there's one in town?"
"The best deal I can think
of would
be to
scrounge a big motor, say an
elevator motor, and convert it.
The one
belonging to the
5-story elevator in
the Norton
Building is our best bet. I
don't imagine it froze up
before the power went out."
"Let's get it then," said Ken.
"Shut this off until we're
ready to use it.
To be
on the
safe side, could you cast
some new bearings for the generator?"
"I don't see why not."
When he returned home Ken told
his father
for the
first time about the project Art
was working
on.
"It sounds interesting," Professor Maddox said. "I'm
not sure exactly what it will
prove."
Ken slumped in the
large chair in the living
room, weak after his exertions of
the day.
"It would mean that if
we could find enough unfrozen engines,
or could
assemble them from spare parts, we
could get some power equipment
in operation again.
"However, as Art said about this
one engine,
what good is it? Dad —
even if we lick this
problem, how are things ever going to get started
up again?"
"What do you mean?"
"We've got one automobile engine going.
Pretty soon we'll run out of
gas here
in Mayfield.
Where do we get more? We
can't until the railroad can
haul it, or the pipelines
can pump
it. What
happens when the stock at
the refineries is all
used up? How can they
get into
operation again? They need
power for their own plant,
electricity for their pumps
and engines.
All of
their frozen equipment has to be
replaced. Maybe some of it
will have to be manufactured.
How do
the factories
and plants
get started
again?"
"I don't know the answers to
all that,"
Ken's father said. "Licking
the comet
dust is only half the
problem—and perhaps the smallest half,
at that.
Our economy
and industry
will have to start
almost from scratch in getting
underway. How that will come about,
if it
ever does, I do not
know."
To conserve their
ration of firewood, only a
small blaze burned in the fireplace.
The kitchen
and living
room were being heated by it
alone. The rest of the
house was closed off.
"We ought to rig up something
else," Ken said tiredly. "That wastes too much heat.
What's Mom cooking on?"
"Mayor Hilliard found a
little wood burner and gave
it to me. I haven't had
time to try converting our oil furnace."
Ken felt unable to stay awake
longer. He went upstairs to bed for a few
hours. Later, his mother brought
a dinner
tray. "Do you want
it here,
or would
you rather
come down where it's warm?" she asked.
"I'll come down. I want to
get up
for a
while."
"Maria is out in the shack.
She has
a scheduled
contact with Berkeley, but she says
the transmitter
won't function. It looks like a
burned-out tube to her. She
wanted to call oe.
Ken scrambled out
of bed
and grabbed
for his
clothes. "Ill take care of it. Save
dinner for me. We've got
to keep
the station on the
air, no matter what happens!"
He found Maria
seated by the desk, listening
to the
Berkeley operator's repeated call,
to which
she could
not reply. The girl wore a
heavy cardigan sweater, which was
scarcely sufficient for the
cold in the room. The
small, tin-can heater was hardly
noticeable.
Maria looked up
as Ken
burst through the doorway. "I
didn't want you to
come," she said. "They could have called Joe."
"We can't risk disturbing our schedule.
They might think we've gone under
and we'd
lose our contact completely."
Hastily he examined
the tube
layout and breathed a sigh
of relief when he
saw it
was merely
one of
the 801's
that had burned a filament. They
had a
good stock of spares. He replaced the tube and
closed the transmitter cage. After
the tubes had warmed
up, and
the Berkeley
operator paused to listen
for their
call, Ken picked up the
microphone and threw in the
antenna switch.
"Mayfield calling Berkeley." He repeated this several times. "Our transmitter's
been out with a bum
bottle. Let us know if you
read us now." He repeated
again and switched back to the
receiver.
The Berkeley operator's voice indicated his relief.
"I read you, Mayfield.
I hoped
you hadn't
gone out of commission. The eggheads here seem
to think
your Maddox-Larsen combination
is coming
up with
more dope on comet dust than anybody else in
the country."
Ken grinned and
patted himself and Maria on the
back. "That's us," he
said. She grimaced at him.
"Hush." she said.
"I've got a big report here
from Dr. French. Confirm if
you're ready to tape
it, and
111 let it roll."
Maria cut in to confirm that
they were receiving and ready to
record. The Berkeley operator chuckled
as he
came back. "That's the one I like
to hear,"
he said.
"That 'Scandahoovian' accent is
real cute. Just as soon
as things
get rolling again I'm
coming out there to see
what else goes with it."
"He's an idiot," Maria said.
"But probably a pretty
nice guy," Ken said.
They listened carefully
as the
Berkeley operator read a number of
pages of reports by Dr.
French and his associates, concerning experiments run in
the university
laboratories. These gave
Ken a
picture of the present stage
of the work on the comet
dust. He felt disheartened. Although the material had been
identified as a colloidal compound
of a new, transuranic metal, no
one had
yet been
able to determine its exact chemical structure nor
involve it in any reaction that would break it
down.
It seemed to Ken
that one of the biggest
drawbacks was
lack of sufficient sample material to work with. Everything they were doing was
by micromethods. He supposed it was his own lack of experience and his
clumsiness in the techniques that made him feel he was always working in the
dark when trying to analyze chemical specimens that were barely visible.
When
the contact was completed and the stations signed off, Maria told Ken what she
had heard over the air during the time he was in the hospital. Several other
amateur operators in various parts of the country had heard them with their
own battery-powered sets. They had asked to join in an
expanded news net.
Joe
and Al had agreed to this, and Ken approved as he heard of it. "It's a
good idea. I was hoping to reach some other areas. Maybe we can add some industrial
laboratories to our net if any are still operating."
"We've
got three," said Maria. "General Electric in Schenectady, General
Motors in Detroit, and Hughes in California. Amateurs working for these
companies called in. They're all working on the dust."
Through
these new amateur contacts Maria had learned that Chicago had been completely
leveled by fire. Thousands had died in the fire and in the rioting that
preceded it.
New
York City had suffered almost as much, although no general fire had broken out.
Mob riots over the existing, scanty food supplies had taken thousands of lives.
Other thousands had been lost in a panicky exodus from the city. The highways
leading into the farming areas in upstate New York and New England areas were
clogged with starving refugees. Thousands of huddled bodies lay under the snow.
Westward
into Pennsylvania and south into Delaware it was the same. Here the refugees
were met with other streams of desperate humanity moving out of the thickly populated cities. Epidemics of
disease had broken out where the
starving population was thickest and
the sanitary
facilities poorest.
On the west
coast the situation was somewhat
better. The population of the Bay
Area was streaming north and
south toward Red Bluff
and Sacramento,
and into
the Salinas and San Joaquin valleys.
From southern California they
were moving east to the
reclaimed desert farming areas. There were
suffering and death among them,
but the rioting and mob violence
were less.
From all over
the country
there were increasing reports of groups of wanderers moving
like nomadic tribesmen, looting,
killing, and destroying. There was
no longer
any evidence of a central government
capable of sufficient communication to control these elements
of the
population on even a local basis.
Maria played the
tapes of these reports for
Ken. She seemed stolid and beyond
panic as she heard them
again. To Ken, hearing them for the first time, it seemed utterly
beyond belief. It was
simply some science-fiction horror story played on the radio
or television,
and when
it was
over he would find
the world
was completely
normal.
He looked up and
saw Maria
watching him. He saw the
little tin-can stove with
a few
sticks of green wood burning
ineffectively. He saw the
large rack of batteries behind
the transmitter. Unexpectedly, for the first time
in many
days, he thought of the Italian
steamship alone in the middle
of the Atlantic.
"The White Bird'* he said to Maria. "Did you
hear anything more of her?"
"One of the amateurs told me
he'd picked up a report
from the ship about
a week
ago. The radio operator said
he was barricaded in the radio
room. Rioting had broken out all over the ship.
Dozens of passengers had been
killed;
the ones who were left were turning
cannibalistic. That was the last report anyone has heard from the ship."
Ken
shuddered. He glanced through the window and caught a vision of Science Hall on
College Hill. A fortress, he thought. There were maybe a dozen other such
fortresses scattered throughout the world; in them lay the only hope against
the enemy that rampaged across the Earth.
In the sky, he could see the comet's light
faintly, even through the lead-gray clouds from which snow was falling.
"You should get back to bed," said
Maria. "You look as if you had been hit two hours ago instead of two
weeks."
"Yeah,
I guess I'd better." Ken arose, feeling weak and dizzy. "Can you get
that report typed for Dad tonight? It would be good for him to be able to take
it to the lab with him in the morning."
"I'll get it
done," said Maria. "You get off to bed."
As much as he rebelled against it, Ken was
forced to spend the next two days in bed. Dr. Adams allowed him to be up no
more than a few hours on the third day. "I'm afraid you took a worse
beating than any of us thought," the doctor said. "You'll just have to
coast for a while."
It
was as he was finally getting out of bed again that he heard Art Matthews, when
the mechanic came to the door and spoke with Ken's mother.
"This
is awfully important," Art said. "I wish you'd ask him if he doesn't
feel like seeing me for just a minute."
"He's
had a bad relapse, and the doctor says he has to be kept very quiet for a day
or two longer."
Dressed,
except for his shoes, Ken went to the hall and leaned over the stair railing.
"I'll be down in just a minute, Art. It's okay,
Mom. I'm feeling good today."
"Ken! You
shouldn't!" his mother protested.
In
a moment he had his shoes on and was racing down the stairs. "What's
happened, Art? Anything gone wrong?"
The mechanic looked
downcast. "Everything! We got
the Norton elevator motor
and hooked
it up
with the gas engine. It ran
fine for a couple of
days, and we got a
lot of batteries charged up."
"Then it quit," said Ken.
"Yeah—how did you know?"
"I've been afraid we had missed
one bet.
It just
isn't enough to supply
filtered air to the engines
built of new parts. The parts
themselves are already contaminated with the dust. As soon
as they
go into
operation, we have the same old
business, all over again.
"Unless some means of decontamination can be found these new parts are no
better than the old ones."
"Some of these parts were wrapped
in tissue
paper and sealed in cardboard boxes
1" Art protested. "How could
enough dust get to
them to ruin them?"
"The dust has a way of
getting into almost any corner
it wants to," said
Ken. "Dad and the others
have found it has a tremendous
affinity for metals, so it
seeps through cracks and sticks. It
never moves off once it
hits a piece of metal. What
parts of the engine froze?"
"Pistons, bearings—Just
like all the rest."
"The generator shaft, too?"
Art nodded. "It
might have gone a few
more revolutions. It seemed loose when
we started
work, but as soon as
we broke the bearings apart they
seemed to fasten onto the
shaft like they were
alive. How do you account
for that?
The bearings were new;
I just
cast them yesterday."
"They were contaminated by dust between
casting and installation in the protected
room. We've got to dig
a lot
deeper before we've got
the right
answer. It might be worthwhile setting up another rig
just like the one we
have in order to get some
more juice in our batteries.
Do you
think you could do
it again,
or even
several times? That engine lasted about
90 hours,
didn't it?"
"Eighty-eight, altogether. I suppose I could do
it again
if you think it's worth it.
The trouble
is getting
generators. Maybe we could machine
the shaft
of this
one and
cast a new set of bearings
to fit.
I'll try if you think
it's worth it."
"Get it ready to run," said Ken. "The battery
power for our radio isn't going
to last
forever. We'll be in a
real jam if we lose touch
with the outside."
Chapter J J
The Animals Are
Sick
I |
hat night, Ken reported
to his
father the fate of the
engine assembled by Art.
"It did seem too
good to be true," said Professor Maddox. He stretched
wearily in the large chair
by the
feeble heat of the
fireplace. "It bears out our
observation of the affinity
of the
dust for metals." "How
is that?"
"It attaches itself almost
like a horde of microscopic
magnets. It literally burrows into
the surface
of the
metal." "You don't mean
that!"
"I do. Its presence breaks down
the surface
tension, as we had supposed. The substance
actually then works its way into
the interstices
of the
molecules. As the
colloid increases in quantity,
its molecules
loosen the bond between the molecules of the metal,
giving them increased freedom of motion.
"This can be aggravated by frictional
contacts, and finally we have the
molecular interchange that binds the
two pieces into one."
"The only metal that would be
clean would be that which
had been hermetically sealed since before the
appearance of the comet," said Ken.
"Look—wouldn't this affinity
of
the dust for
metal provide a means of
purifying the atmosphere? If we
could run the air through
large filters of metal wool, the dust would be
removed!"
"Yes, I'm very sure we could
do it
that way. It would merely require that we run
the atmosphere
of the
whole Earth through such a filter.
Do you
have any idea how that
could be done?"
"It would work in the laboratory,
but would
be wholly
impractical on a worldwide
scale," Ken admitted. "How will we ever rid the
atmosphere of the dust! A colloid
will float forever in the air,
even after the comet is
gone."
"Exactly," Professor Maddox said,
"and, as far as we
are concerned, the whole
atmosphere of the Earth is
permanently poisoned. Our problem is
to process
it in
some manner to remove that poison.
"During the past few days we
have come to the conclusion
that there are only two
alternatives: One is to process
the whole atmosphere by passing it through
some device, such as the filter
you have
suggested. The second is to
put some substance into the air
which will counteract and destroy
the dust,
precipitate it out of the
atmosphere."
"Since the first method is impractical
what can be used in carrying
out the
second?"
"We've set ourselves the goal of
discovering that. We're hoping to synthesize
the necessary
chemical compound to accomplish it."
"It would have to be a
colloid, too, capable of suspension
in the
atmosphere," said Ken.
"Correct."
"If we do find such a
substance we soil have the
problem of decontaminating existing
metals. We couldn't build a
moving piece of machinery
out of
any metal
now in
existence without first cleaning the
dust out of its surface."
"That's part of the problem, too,"
said his father.
Ken resumed his
duties in the laboratory the following morning. Dr. Adams
had warned
him not
to walk
up College
Hill, so he had
borrowed the horse Dave Whitaker
still had on loan from his
uncle. He felt self-conscious about being the only one
enjoying such luxury, but he
promised himself he would go back
to walking
as soon
as Dr.
Adams gave permission.
On the third
day, the horse slipped and
fell as it picked its way carefully down the
hill. Ken was thrown clear,
into the deep snow, but the
horse lay where it had
fallen, as if unable to move.
Ken feared
the animal
had broken
a leg.
He felt cautiously but could find no
evidence of injury.
Gently, he tugged
at the
reins and urged the horse
to its
feet. The animal finally
rose, but it stood uncertainly
and trembled when it tried to
walk again.
Ken walked rather
than rode the rest of
the way
home. He took the horse to
the improvised
stable beside the science shack. There
he got
out the
ration of hay and water,
and put a small
amount of oats in the
trough. The animal ignored the food
and drink.
After dinner, Ken
went out again to check.
The horse
was lying down in
the stall
and the
food remained untouched.
Ken returned to the
house and said to his
father, "Dave's horse slipped
today, and I'm afraid something
serious is wrong with him. He
doesn't seem to have any
broken bones, but he won't eat
or get
up. I
think I should go for
the vet."
His father agreed. "We
can't afford to risk a
single horse, considering how precious they
are now.
You stay
in the
house and I'll go
to Dr.
Smithers' place myself."
Ken protested. He hated to see
his father
go out
again on such a cold night.
Dr. Smithers grumbled
when Professor Maddox reached his house and explained what
he wanted.
As one
of the
town's two veterinarians, he had been heavily
overworked since the disaster
struck. The slightest sign of
injury or illness in an
animal caused the Mayor's livestock
committee to call for help.
"Probably nothing but a
strained ligament," Smithers said.
"You could have taken care
of it
by wrapping
it yourself."
"We think you ought to come."
When the veterinarian
finally reached the side of
the animal, he inspected him carefully
by the
light of a gasoline lantern. The horse was lying
on his
side in a bed of
hay; he was breathing heavily and
his eyes
were bright and glassy.
Dr. Smithers sucked
his breath
in sharply
and bent
closer. Finally, he got
to his
feet and stared out over
the expanse
of snow. "It couldn't be," he
muttered. "We just don't deserve
that. We don't deserve
it at
all."
"What is it?" Ken asked anxiously.
"Is it something very serious?"
"I don't know
for sure.
It looks
like—it could be anthrax. I'm just afraid that it
is."
Dr. Smithers' eyes met
and held
Professor Maddox's. Ken did not understand.
"I've heard that name, but
I don't
know what it is."
"One of the most deadly diseases
of warm-blooded
animals. Spreads like
wildfire when it gets a
start. It can infect human beings,
too. How could it happen
here? There hasn't been a case
of anthrax
in the
valley for years!"
"I remember Dave
Whitaker saying his uncle got
two new horses from a fanner
near Britton just a week
before the comet," said Ken. "Maybe
it could
have come from there."
"Perhaps," said Smithers.
"What can we do?" asked Professor
Maddox. "Can't we start a program
of vaccination
to keep
it from
spreading?" "How much anthrax
vaccine do you
suppose there is in
the whole town?
Before we decide anything I want to get
Hart and make some
tests. If he agrees with
me we've
got to
get hold of the
Mayor and the Council and
decide on a course of action
tonight."
Hart was the
other veterinarian, a younger man,
inclined to look askance at Dr.
Smithers' older techniques.
"I'd just as soon take your
word," said Professor Maddox. "If you think we ought
to take
action, let's do it."
"I want Hart
here first," said Smithers. "He's
a know-it-all,
but he's
got a
good head and good training
in spite
of it.
Someday he'll be a
good man, and you'll need
one after
I'm gone."
"I'll go," said Ken.
"You've already been out, Dad.
It's only 4 or 5 blocks,
and I
feel fine."
"Well, if you feel strong enough,"
said his father hesitantly. Fatigue was obvious in
his face.
Dr. Hart was asleep when Ken
pounded on his door. He
persisted until the veterinarian
came, sleepily and rebel-liously. Ken told his story
quickly.
Hart grunted in a
surly voice. "Anthrax!
That fool Smithers probably wouldn't know
a case
of anthrax
if it
stared him in the
face. Tell him to give
your horse a shot of terramycin, and I'll come
around in the morning. If
I went out on every scare,
I'd never
get any
sleep."
"Dr. Hart," Ken said
quietly. "You know what it
means if it is anthrax."
The veterinarian blinked under
Ken's accusing stare. "All
right," he said finally. "But
if Smithers
is getting
me out on a wild-goose chase I'll run him
out of
town!"
Smithers and Professor Maddox were still
beside the ailing horse when Ken
returned with Dr. Hart. No
one spoke a word as they
came up. Hart went to
work on his examination, Ken holding
the lantern
for him.
"Here's a carbuncle, right back of
the ear!"
he said
accusingly. "Didn't anybody notice this
earlier?"
"I'm afraid not," Ken admitted. "I guess
I haven't
taken very good care of him."
"Ken's been in the hospital," Professor Maddox said.
"I know," Hart answered
irritably, "but I think anybody
would have noticed this
carbuncle; these infections are characteristic. There's not much question
about what it is, but we
ought to get a smear
and make
a microscope
slide check of it."
"I've got a 1500-power instrument," said Ken. "If that's
good enough you can
use it."
Hart nodded. "Get some
sterile slides."
Afterward, Smithers said, "We've
got to
get Jack
Nelson first and find out how
much anthrax vaccine he's got
in his
store. Nobody else in
town will have any, except
maybe some of his customers who
may have
bought some lately. What about the
college laboratories? Do they have
any?"
"I don't know," said Professor Maddox.
"We'll have to contact Dr. Bintz
for that."
"Let's get at it," said Hart.
"We've got to wake up
the Mayor and the Council. The
cattle committee will have to
be there. Nelson and
Bintz, too. We'll find out
how much
vaccine we've got and
decide what to do with
it."
Two hours later the men met
in the
Council chambers of City Hall. Because
of the
lack of heat, they retained
their overcoats and sheepskin
jackets. The incrusted snow on their
boots did not even soften.
In soberness
and shock
they listened to Dr.
Smithers.
"Nobody grows up in a farming
community without knowing what anthrax means,"
he said.
"We've got a total of twenty-eight
hundred head of beef and
dairy cattle in the valley, plus
a couple
of thousand
sheep, and about a hundred horses.
"Jack Nelson's stock of
vaccine, plus what he thinks
may be in the hands of
his customers,
plus some at the college
is enough to treat
about a thousand animals altogether. Those that aren't treated will
have to be slaughtered. If they prove to be
uninfected they can be processed
for meat
storage.
"Some vaccine will have
to be
held in reserve, but if
we don't clean up the valley
before next year's calf crop
we won't stand a chance of
increasing our herds. That's the
situation we're up against,
Gentlemen."
Mayor Hilliard arose.
"The only question seems to
me to be which animals are
of most
worth to us. I say
we should
let all the sheep
go. A
cow or
a horse
is worth
more than a sheep to us
now.
"That leaves the question
of the
horses. Which is worth more to us: a horse
or a
cow? We can't haul logs
without horses, but we
won't need to worry about
staying warm if we haven't got
food enough."
Harry Mason of the fuel committee
stood up immediately. "I say
we've got to keep every
horse we've got. It would be
crazy to give any of
them up. There aren't enough
now to haul the fuel we
need."
"A horse is
a poor
trade for a cow in
these times," protested
the food
committee's chief, Paul Remington. "Every cow you let go means
milk for two or three
families. It means a calf for
next year's meat supply. We
can freeze
and still stay alive. We can't
starve and do the same
thing. I say, let every horse
in the
valley go. Keep the cows
and beef
cattle."
An instant hubbub
arose, loudly protesting or approving
these two extreme views.
Mayor Hilliard pounded on the
desk for order. "We've
got to
look at both sides of
the question,"
he said,
when the confusion had died
down. "I know there are some
horses we can lose without
much regret; they don't haul as
much as they eat. What
Paul says, however, is true:
Every horse we keep means
trading it for a cow and
the food
a cow
can provide.
"I think we
need to keep some horses,
but it
ought to be the bare minimum.
I've got an idea about
this log hauling. Right now, and
for a
long time to come, we
don't need horses once the logs
are on
the road.
It's a downgrade all the way
to town.
When the road freezes hard
we can
coast a sled all the way
if we
rig a
way to
steer and brake
it properly. There are only two
bad curves
coming out of the canyon, and I think we
can figure
a way
to take
care of them. Maybe
a team
at each
one.
"This would leave most of the
horses free to snake the
logs out of the
hills to the road. I'm
for cutting
the horses
to twenty-five, selecting the
best breeding stock we've got,
and including the ones
needed for emergency riding, such
as the Sheriff has."
For another hour
it was
argued back and forth, but
in the end the Mayor's plan
was adopted.
Then Dr. Ayles-worth, who had
not previously
spoken during the whole meeting, arose quietly.
"I think there's something we're forgetting,
Gentlemen," he said. "Something
we've forgotten all along. Now
that we are faced with our
most serious crisis yet, I
suggest that you members of our
city government pass a resolution
setting aside the next Sabbath as
a special
day of
prayer. Ask the ministers of all
our denominations
to co-operate
in offering
special prayer services for
the safety
of our
animals, which we need so badly,
and for
the success
of those
who are
working on College Hill and
elsewhere to find a solution
to this
grave problem."
Mayor Hilliard nodded
approvingly. "We should have done it
long ago," he agreed. "If
no one
has any
objections I will so declare as
Dr. Aylesworth
has suggested."
There were nods of approval from
everyone in the room.
By dawn the
next morning the crews were
ready to begin the vaccination program. One by one,
they examined the animals to make
sure the best were saved.
The rest
were slaughtered, examined for signs of anthrax,
and most were prepared for storage.
On Sunday, while the cattle crews still
worked, Ken and his parents attended services in Dr. Aylesworth's congregation.
A solemnity was over the whole valley, and the only sound anywhere seemed to be
the tolling of the bells in the churches.
The
anthrax outbreak had seemed to the people of May-field one more, and perhaps a
final, proof that their hope of survival was beyond all realization. Before,
with severe rationing, it had seemed that they would need a miracle to get them
through the winter. Now, with the brutally lessened supply of milk and
breeding cattle, it seemed beyond the power of any miracle.
Dr.
Aylesworth's white mane behind the pulpit was like a symbol testifying that
they never need give up hope as long as any desire for life was in them. In himself there seemed no doubt of their eventual salvation,
and in his sermon he pleaded with them to maintain their strength and hope and
faith.
In his prayer he asked, "Father, bless
our cattle and our beasts of burden that this illness that has stricken them
may be healed. Bless us that our hearts may not fail us in this time of trial,
but teach us to bear our burdens that we may give thanks unto Thee when the day
of our salvation doth come. Amen."
CkttptCt J2 Decontamination
y late November some drifts of snow on
the flats
were 3 feet
deep. The temperature dropped regularly
to ten
or more below zero
at night
and seldom
went above freezing in the daytime.
The level
of the
log pile
in the
woodyard dropped steadily in
spite of the concentrated efforts of nearly
every available able-bodied man in
the community to add to it.
Crews cut all night long
by the
light of gasoline lanterns. The fuel
ration had to be lowered
to meet their rate of cutting.
The deep snow
hampered Mayor Hilliard's plan to
sled the logs downhill without use
of teams.
Criticisms and grumblings at his decision
to sacrifice
the horses
grew swiftly.
There had been
no more
signs of anthrax, and some
were saying the whole program of
vaccination and slaughter had been a
stupid mistake. In spite of
the assurance
of the
veterinarians that it was
the only
thing that could have been
done, the grumbling went
on like
a rolling
wave as the severity of the
winter increased.
The Council was
finally forced to issue a
conservation order requiring families
to double
up, two
to a
house, on the theory that it
would be more efficient to
heat one house
than parts of
two. Selection of family pairings
was optional.
Close friends and relatives
moved together wherever possible. Where no
selection was made the committee
assigned families to live
together.
As soon as
the order
was issued,
Ken's mother suggested they invite the
Larsens to move in with
them. The Swedish family was happy
to accept.
Thanksgiving, when it came, was observed
in spirit,
but scarcely in fact. There were
some suggestions that Mayor HiUiard should order special rations
for that
day and
for Christmas, at least,
but he
stuck to his ironhard determination
that every speck of food
would be stretched to the
limit. No special allowance
would be made for Thanksgiving
or any
other occasion until the danger
was over.
Ken and his
father and their friends had
done their share of criticizing the Mayor in the
past, but they now had
only increasing admiration for his determination to take a stand
for the principles he knew to be
right, no matter how stern.
Previously, most of the
townspeople had considered him very good
at giving
highly patriotic Fourth of July
speeches, and not much good at
anything else. Now, Ken realized,
the bombastic little man
seemed to have come alive,
fully and miraculously alive.
The day after
Thanksgiving Ken and Professor Maddox
were greeted by Mrs.
Maddox upon coming home. "Maria
wants you to come
to the
radio shack right away," she said. "There's
something important coming in from
Berkeley."
They hurried to the
shack, and Maria looked up
in relief
as they entered. "I'm
so glad
you're here!" she cried. "Dr.
French is on the
radio personally. I've been recording
him, but he wants to talk
to you.
He's breaking in every 10
minutes to give me
a chance
to let
him know
if you're
here. It's almost time, now."
Ken and his father caught a
fragment of a sentence spoken by the Berkeley scientist,
and then
the operator
came on. "Berkeley requesting acknowledgment,
Mayfield."
Ken picked up the
microphone and answered. "This is Mayfield, Ken Maddox talking.
My father
is here
and will
speak with Dr. French."
Professor Maddox sat down
at the
desk. "This is Professor Maddox," he said. "I
came in time to hear
your last sentence, Dr. French. They
tell me you have something
important to discuss. Please
go ahead."
Ken switched over to
receive, and in a moment
the calm,
persuasive voice of Dr.
French was heard in the
speaker. "I'm glad you
came in, Dr. Maddox," he said. "On the
tape you have my report of
some experiments we have run
the last few days. They are
not finished,
and if
circumstances were normal I
would certainly not report a
piece of work in this stage.
"I feel optimistic, however, that we
are on
the verge
of a
substantial breakthrough in regard
to the
precipitant we are looking for. I
would like you to repeat
the work
I have
reported and go on
from there, using your own
ideas. I wanted you to have
it, along
with the people in Pasadena,
in case anything should
happen here. In my opinion
it could
be only a matter
of days
until we have a solution."
"I certainly hope you
are right,"
said Professor Maddox. "Why
do you
speak of the possibility of something happening. Is there
trouble?"
"Yes. Rioting has broken
out repeatedly
in the
entire Bay Area during the past
3 days. Food supplies are almost
nonexistent. At the university here, those of us
remaining have our families housed in
classrooms. We have some small
stock of food, but it's not
enough for an indefinite stay. The rioting may
sweep over us. The lack
of food
may drive
us out
before we can finish.
You are
in a
better position there for survival purposes. I hope nothing
happens to interrupt your work.
"Our local government is crumbling fast.
They have attempted to supply the
community with seafood, but there
are not enough sailing
vessels. Perhaps two-thirds of the population have
migrated. Some have returned. Thousands
have died. I feel our time
is limited.
Give my report your careful attention and let me
know your opinion tomorrow."
They broke contact,
uneasiness filling the hearts of
Dr. French's listeners in Mayfield. Up
to now,
the Berkeley
scientist had seemed impassive
and utterly
objective. Now, to hear him speak
of his
own personal
disaster, induced in
them some of his
own premonition
of collapse.
When Maria had
typed the report Professor Maddox
stayed up until the
early-morning hours, studying it, developing
equations, and making calculations of his own. Ken stayed
with him, trying to follow
the abstruse
work, and follow his father's too-brief
explanations.
When he finished, Professor Maddox was
enthusiastic. "I believe he's on
the right
track," he said. "Unfortunately, he hasn't told
all he
knows in this report. He
must have been too excited about
the work.
Ordinarily, he leaves nothing out, but he's omitted three
or four
important steps near the end. Til
have to ask him to
fill them in before we
can do
very much with his processes."
The report was
read and discussed at the
college laboratory the next day,
and the
scientists began preliminary work to duplicate
Dr. French's
results. Ken and his father
hurried home early in order to
meet the afternoon schedule with
Berkeley and get Dr.
French to the microphone to answer the questions he
had neglected
to consider.
As they arrived
at the
radio shack and opened the
door they found Maria inside, with
her head
upon the desk. Deep sobs shook
her body.
The receiver
was on,
but only
the crackle of static
came from it. The filaments
of the
transmitter tubes were lit, but
the antenna
switch was open. The tape recorder
was still
running.
Professor Maddox grasped Maria
by the
shoulders and drew her back in
the chair.
"What is the matter?" he exclaimed. "Why are
you crying,
Maria?"
"It's all over," she said. "There's
nothing more down there. Just nothing . . ."
"What do you mean?" Ken cried.
"It's on the tape. You can
hear it for yourself."
Ken quickly reversed the
tape and turned it to
play. In a moment the familiar
voice of their Berkeley friend
was heard. "I'm glad you're early,"
it said.
"There isn't much time today. The
thing Dr. French feared has
happened.
"Half the Bay Area is in
flames. On the campus here,
the administration building is
gone. They tried to blow
up the science building. It's burning
pretty fast in the other
wing. I'm on the
third floor. Did I ever
tell you I moved my
stuff over here to
be close
to the
lab?
"There must be a mob of
a hundred
thousand out there in the streets.
Or rather,
several hundred mobs that add
up to that many. None of
them know where they're going.
It's like a monster
with a thousand separate heads
cut loose
to thrash about before
it dies.
I see
groups of fifty or a hundred running through the
streets burning and smashing things.
Sometimes they meet another group
coming from the opposite direction. Then they fight until
the majority of one group is
dead, and the others have
run away.
"The scientists were having
a meeting
here until an hour ago. They
gathered what papers and notes
they could and agreed that each
would try to make his own
way, with his family, out of
the city.
They agreed to try to
meet in Salinas 6 weeks from
now, if possible. I don't
think any of them will
ever meet again."
A sudden tenseness
surged into the operator's voice. "I can see him
down there I" he cried
in despair.
"Dr. French-he's running across the
campus with a load of
books and a case of his
papers and they're trying to
get him.
He's on the brow of a
little hill and the mob
is down
below. They're laughing at him and
shooting. They almost look like
college students. He's down—they
got him."
A choking sob caught
the operator's
voice. "That's all there is," he
said. "I hope you can
do something
with the information Dr. French gave
you yesterday.
Berkeley is finished. I'm going to
try to
get out
of here
myself now. I don't think I
stand much of a chance.
The mobs
are swarming
all over
the campus.
I can
hear the fire on the
other side of the building. Maybe
I won't
even make it outside. Tell the Professor and Ken
so long.
I sure
wish I could have made it
to Mayfield
to see
what goes with that Swedish
accent. 73 YL."
After dinner, Professor
Maddox announced his intention of going back to the
laboratory. Mrs. Maddox protested vigorously.
"I couldn't sleep
even if I went to
bed," he said, "thinking about what's happened today
in Berkeley."
"What if a thing like that
happened here?" Mrs. Larsen asked with concern. "Could it?"
"We're in a much better position
than the metropolitan areas,"
said Professor Maddox. "I think
we'll manage if we can keep
our people
from getting panicky. It's easier,
too, because there aren't so many
of us."
Professor Larsen went back
to the
laboratory with the Maddoxes. Throughout the night they reviewed
the work
of Dr. French. To Ken it
seemed that they were using
material out of the
past, since all of those
responsible for it were probably dead.
"We'll have to fill in these
missing steps," said Professor Maddox. "We know what he
started with and we know
the end results at which he
was aiming.
I think
we can
fill the gaps."
"I agree," said Professor
Larsen. "I think we should
not neglect to pass this to our people in
Stockholm. You will see that is done?" he asked Ken.
"Our
next schedule in that area is day after tomorrow. Or I could get it to them on
the emergency watch tomorrow afternoon."
"Use emergency measures. I think it is
of utmost importance that they have this quickly."
As the days passed, strangers were appearing
more and more frequently in Mayfield. Ken saw them on the streets as he went to
the warehouse for his family's food ration. He did not know everyone who lived
in the valley, of course, but he was sure some of the people he was meeting now
were total strangers, and there seemed so many of them.
He
had heard stories of how some of them had come, one by one, or in small groups
of a family or two. They had made their way from cities to the north or the
south, along the highway that passed through the valley. They had come in rags,
half-starved, out of the blizzards to the unexpected sanctuary of a town that
still retained a vestige of civilization.
Unexpectedly,
Ken found this very subject was being discussed in the ration lines when he
reached the warehouse. People had in their hands copies of the twice-weekly
mimeographed newssheet put out by the Council. Across the top in capital
letters was the word: PROCLAMATION.
Ken
borrowed a sheet and read, "According to the latest count we've made
through the ration roll, there are now present in Mayfield almost three
thousand people who are refugees from other areas and have come in since the beginning
of the disaster.
"As
great as our humanitarian feelings are, and although we should like to be able
to relieve the suffering of the whole world, if it were in our power to do so,
it is obviously impossible. Our food supplies are at
mere subsistence level now. Before next season's crops are
in, it
may be
necessary to reduce them still further.
"In view of this fact, the
Mayor and the City Council
have determined to issue
a proclamation
as of
this date that every citizen of Mayfield will be
registered and numbered and no rations
will be issued except by
proper identification and number.
It is
hereby ordered that no one
hereafter shall permit the entrance of
any stranger
who was
not a
resident of Mayfield prior to this
date.
"A barbed-wire inclosure is to be
constructed around the entire residential and business district, and
armed guards will be posted against
all refugees
who may
attempt to enter. Crews will be
assigned to the erection of
the fence,
and guard duty will
be rotated
among the male citizens."
Ken passed the
sheet back to his neighbor.
His mind
felt numb as he thought of
some of those he had
seen shuffling through the deep snow
in town.
He knew
now how
he had
known they were strangers.
Their pinched, haunted faces showed the evidence of more
privation and hardship than any in
Mayfield had yet known. These
were the ones who would be
turned away from now on.
Ken heard the
angry buzz of comments all
around him. "Should have done it
long ago," a plump woman
somewhere behind him was
saying. "What right have they
got to
come in and eat our food?"
A man at
the head
of the
line was saying, "They ought to round them all
up and
make them move on. Three thousand
—that would keep the
people who've got a right
here going a long time."
Someone else, not
quite so angry, said, "They're
people just like us. You know
what the Bible says about
that. We ought to share as
long as we can."
"Yeah, and pretty soon there won't
be anything
for anybody
to share!"
"That may be true, but it's
what we're supposed to do.
It's what we've got to do if we're going
to stay
human. I'll take anybody into my
house who knocks on my door."
"When you see your kids crying
for food
you can't
give them you'll change your tune!"
Just ahead of
him in
line Ken saw a small,
silent woman who looked about with
darting glances of fear. She
was trembling with fright as much
as with
the cold
that penetrated her thin, ragged,
cloth coat.
She was one
of them,
Ken thought.
She was
one who
had come from the outside. He
wondered which of the loudmouthed
ones beside him would be
willing to be the first
to take her beyond
the bounds
of Mayfield
and force
her to move on.
That night, at
dinner, he spoke of it
to his
parents and the Larsens.
"It's a problem that has to
be faced,"
said Professor Mad-dox, "and Hilliard
is choosing
the solution
he thinks
is right.
He's no more heartless
than Dr. Aylesworth, for example."
"It seems a horrible thing," said Mrs. Larsen. "What
will happen to those who are
turned away?"
"They will die," said Dr. Larsen.
"They will go away and
wander in the snow
until they die."
"Why should we have
any more
right to live than they?"
asked Mrs. Maddox. "How
can we
go on
eating and being comfortable while they
are out
there?"
"They are out there
in the
whole world," said Dr. Larsen
as if meditating. "There
must be thirty million who
have died in the United States
alone since this began. Another
hundred million will die
this winter. The proportion will be the same in
the rest
of the
world. Should we be thankful
for our preservation so far, or should
we voluntarily
join them in death?"
"This is different," said Mrs. Maddox.
"It's those who come and beg
for our
help who will be on
our consciences
if we do this thing."
"The whole world would come if
it knew
we had
stores of food here—if it could
come. As brutal as it
is, the
Mayor has taken the only feasible
course open to him."
Ken and Maria remained silent, both feeling
the horror
of the proposal and its inevitability.
In the following
days Ken was especially glad to be able
to bury himself in
the problems
at the
laboratory. His father, too, seemed to
work with increasing fury as
they got further into an investigation
of the
material originated by Dr. French. As if seized by
some fanatic compulsion, unable to
stop, Professor Maddox spent
from 18 to 20 hours
of every
day at his desk and laboratory
bench.
Ken stayed with
him although
he could
not match
his father's great energy. He often
caught snatches of sleep while his father worked on.
Then, one morning, as an
especially long series of
complex tests came to an
end at
3 a.m., he said to Ken
in quiet
exultation, "We can decontaminate now, if nothing else.
That's the thing that French
had found. Whether we
can ever
put it
into the atmosphere is another matter,
but at
least we can get our
metals clean."
Excited, Ken leaned over the notebook
while his father described the results
of the
reaction. He studied the photographs,
taken with the electron microscope,
of a
piece of steel before and after
treatment with a compound developed
by his
father.
Ken said slowly,
in a
voice full of emotion. "French
didn't do this, Dad."
"Most of it. I finished
it up
from where he left off."
"No. He wasn't even on the
same track. You've gone in
an entirely different direction
from the one his research
led to. You are the one
who has
developed a means of cleaning
the dust out of
metals."
Professor Maddox looked away.
"You give me too much
credit, Son."
Ken continued to
look at his father, at
the thick
notebook whose scrawled symbols
told the story. So this
is the
way it
happens, he thought. You
don't set out to be
a great
scientist at all. If you can
put all
other things out of your
mind, if you can be absorbed
with your whole mind and
soul in a problem that seems
important enough, even though the
world is collapsing about your head; then,
if you
are clever
enough and persevering enough, you may find
yourself a great scientist without ever
having tried.
"I don't think
I'll ever be what the
world calls a great scientist," Professor Maddox
had said
on that
day that
seemed so long ago.
"I'm not clever enough; I
don't think fast enough. I can
teach the fundamentals of chemistry,
and maybe some of those I
teach will be great someday."
So he had
gone along, Ken thought, and
by applying
his own rules he had achieved
greatness. "I think you give
me far too much credit, Son,"
he said
in a
tired voice.
Chapter 73 Stay Out of Town!
t took a surprisingly short time to ring Mayfield
with a barbed-wire barricade.
A large
stock of steel fence posts
was on hand in the local
farm supply stores, and these
could be driven rapidly
even in the frozen ground.
There was plenty of wire. What
more was needed, both of
wire and posts, was taken from
adjacent farmland fences, and by the
end of
the week
following the Mayors pronouncement the task was completed
and the
guards were at their posts.
In all that time there had
been no occasion to turn
anyone away, but sentiment both
for and
against the program was heavy and
bitter within the community.
On the Sunday after completion of the fence, Dr.
Ayles-worth chose to speak of
it in
his sermon.
He had
advertised that he would
do so.
The church
was not
only packed, but large numbers of
people stood outside in the
freezing weather listening through
the doors.
Even greater excitement was stirred
by the
whispered information that Mayor Hilliard was sitting in the
center of the congregation.
The minister had
titled his sermon, "My Brother's
Keeper." He opened by
saying, "Am I my brother's
keeper? We know the answer to
that question, my friends. For
all
the thousands of
years that man has been
struggling upward he has been developing
the answer
to that
question. We know it, even though
we may
not always
abide by it.
"We know who our brothers are—all
mankind, whether in Asia or in
Europe or next door to
our own
home. These are our brothers."
As he elaborated
on the
theme, Ken thought that this
was his mother's belief which she
had expressed
when the fence was first mentioned.
"We cannot help those
in distant
lands," said Dr. Ayles-worth. "As much as our
hearts go out to them
and are
touched with compassion at their plight, we
can do
nothing for them. For those on
our own
doorstep, however, it is a
different matter.
"We are being told now by
our civil
authorities in this community that we
must drive away at the
point of a gun any who
come holding out their hands
for succor
and shelter. We are told we
must drive them away to
certain death.
"I tell you if we do
this thing, no matter what
the outcome
of our
present condition, we shall never
be able
to look one another in the
eye. We shall never be
able to look at our own
image without remembering those whom
we turned away when they came
to us
for help.
I call
upon you to petition our civil
authorities to remove this brutal
and inhumane restriction in order that we
may be
able to behave as the civilized
men and
women we think we have
become. Although faced with
disaster, we are not yet
without a voice in our
own actions,
and those
who have
made this unholy ruling can be
persuaded to relent if the
voices of the people are loud
enough!"
He sat down amid a buzz
of whispered
comment. Then all eyes turned suddenly
at the
sound of a new voice
in the
hall. Mayor Hilliard was
on his
feet and striding purposefully toward the pulpit.
"Reverend, you ve had your say, and now
I think I've got a right to have mine. I know this is your bailiwick and you
can ask me to leave if you want to. However, these are my people six days a
week to your one. Will you let me say my piece?"
Dr. Aylesworth rose again, a smile of welcome
on his face. "I think we share the people, or, rather, they share us on
all 7 days of the week," he said. "I will be happy to have you use
this pulpit to deliver any message you may care to."
"Thanks,"
said Mayor Hilliard as he mounted the platform and stood behind the pulpit.
"Dr. Aylesworth and I," he began, "have been good friends for a
long time. We usually see eye to eye on most things, but in this we are dead
opposite.
"What
he says is true enough. If enough of you want to protest what I ve done you can
have a change, but that change will have to include a new mayor and a new set
of councilmen. I was elected, and the Council was elected to make rules and
regulations for the welfare of this community as long as we were in office.
"We've
made this rule about allowing no more refugees in Mayfield and it's going to
stand as long as we're in office. By next summer, if the harvest is even a few
days late, your children are going to be standing around crying for food you
can't give them, and you are going to have to cut your supplies to one-fifth
their normal size. That's the way it adds up after we count all the people in
the valley, and all the cases and sacks of food in the warehouses.
"It's just plain arithmetic. If we keep
adding more people we're all going to get closer and closer to starvation, and
finally wake up one morning and find we've gone over the edge of it.
"Now, if that's what you want, just go
ahead and get some city officers who will arrange it for you. If anybody in
this town, including you, Dr. Aylesworth, can think of a more workable answer
or one that makes better sense than the one we've got I'd like to know about
it."
It
snowed heavily that afternoon out of a bitter, leaden sky. It started in the
midst of the morning service, and by the time the congregation dispersed it was
difficult to see a block away.
There
was little comment about what they had heard, among the people leaving the
church. They walked with heads bowed against the snow toward their cold homes
and sparsely filled pantries.
The
community chapel was near the edge of town. One of the boundary fences lay only
two blocks away. From that direction, as the crowd dispersed, there came the
sudden sound of a shot. It was muffled under the heavy skies and the dense
snow, but there was no mistaking the sound.
Ken
jerked his head sharply. "That must have been one of the guards!" he
said. His father nodded. Together, they raced in the direction of the sound.
Others began running, too, their hearts pounding in anticipation of some crisis
that might settle the unanswered questions.
Ken
noticed ahead of them, through the veil of snow, the chunky figure of Mayor
Hilliard running as rapidly as he could. As they came to the fence they saw the
guard standing on one side, his rifle lowered and ready. On the other sirle of
the barbed-wire enclosure was a stout, middle-aged man. He wore an overcoat,
but there was no hat on his head. His face was drawn with agony and
uncomprehending despair.
He
staggered on his feet as he pleaded in a tired voice. "You've got to let
me come in. I've walked all the way in this blizzard. I haven't had any food
for two days."
A
group of churchgoers lined the fence now, additional ones coming up slowly, almost
reluctantly, but knowing they had to witness what was about to take place. Ken
exclaimed hoarsely to his father, "That's Sam Baker! He runs the drugstore and
newsstand in Frederick. Everybody in
Mayfield knows Sam Baker!"
Sam Baker turned in bewildered, helpless pleading to the crowd
lined on the other side
of the
fence. Mayor Hilli-ard stood back
a dozen
yards from the wire.
"You've got to help me," Sam
Baker begged. "You can't make me go back all
that way. It's
50 miles.
There's nothing there. They're all dead
or lost
in the
snow. Give me something to eat, please..,."
"You've got to move on," the
guard said mechanically.
"Nobody gets in. That's
the law
here,"
Along the fence,
people pressed close, and one
or two
men started hesitantly to climb. Mayor Hilliard's
voice rang out, "Anybody
who goes
on the
other side of that fence
stays on the other
side!"
The men climbed down. No one
said anything. Sam Baker scanned them
with his helpless glance once
more. Then he turned slowly. Fifty
feet from the fence he
fell in the snow, face down.
Mayor Hilliard spoke slowly
and clearly
once more. "If anyone so much
as throws
a crust
of bread
over that fence the guard has
orders to shoot."
As if frozen, the onlookers remained
immobile. The guard held his fixed
stance. Mayor Hilliard stood, feet
apart, his hands in his pockets,
staring defiantly. On the other
side of the fence, the thick
flakes of snow were rapidly
covering the inert form of Sam
Baker. In only a few
moments he would be obliterated from their sight. That
would be the signal for them
all to
turn and go home, Ken
thought.
Impulsively, he took a step forward.
He looked
at his
father's face. "Dad..."
Professor Maddox touched Ken's
arm with
a restraining
hand. His face was
grim and churned by conflicting
desires.
The utter stillness was broken then
by the
crunching sound of boots
in the
snow. All eyes turned to
the powerful,
white-maned figure that approached.
Dr. Aylesworth
was hatless and the snow was
thick in his hair. He
paused a moment, comprehending
the situation.
Then he strode forward to
the fence.
He put a
foot on the wire, and
climbed. His coat caught on the
barbs as he jumped to
the other
side. He ripped it free, ignoring
the tear
of the
fabric.
Mayor Hilliard watched
as if
hypnotized. He jerked himself, finally, out
of his
immobility. "Parson!" he cried. "Come back here!"
Dr. Aylesworth ignored the command. He
strode forward with unwavering
steps.
"It's no different with you than
it is
with any other man," Hilliard shouted. He took the
gun from
the guard.
"You're breaking the law.
If you
don't stop I'll shoot!"
The majestic figure
of the
minister turned. He faced Hilliard without hesitation. "Shoot," he said. He turned
back and moved once
more to the fallen druggist.
There was sweat
on Mayor
Hilliard's face now. He brushed it with a gloved
hand. His hat fell unnoticed
to the
ground. He raised the
gun no
higher. "Aylesworth," he
called, and his voice
was pleading
now, "we've got to do what's right!"
The minister's voice came
back to him, hollowly, as
if from an immense distance. "Yes,
we've got to do what's
right." Dr.
Aylesworth could be seen faintly
through the veil of snow as
he bent
down, raising the druggist's heavy form to his own
back in a fireman's carry,
then turning to retrace his steps.
Mayor Hilliard let the
gun sag
in his
hands. At the fence Dr. Aylesworth
paused. "Separate those wires," he ordered those standing near.
They hastily obeyed,
pressing their feet on the
lower wire, raising the center one.
"Take him!" the minister commanded.
He rolled
the figure
of Sam
Baker gently through the opening and crawled through himself.
"Bring him to my house," he said. Without a glance at the Mayor, he
strode off through the parted crowd and disappeared.
One
by one, the onlookers followed, slowly, never glancing at the immobile figure
of the Mayor. Hilliard watched the last of them fade into the snow curtain, and he stood there alone, still holding the gun in
his hand.
The
guard came up at last. "Do you want me to keep on here, Mr.
Hilliard?"
"I
still say it was the only thing to do," said Mrs. Maddox at the dinner
table. "How could anyone claim to be human and think of leaving poor Mr.
Baker lying there in the snow?"
"It
was the only thing Dr. Aylesworth could do," said Professor Maddox.
"Mayor Hilliard did the only thing he could
do. Which was right, and which was wrong—I don't think any of us are really
sure any more."
"What
do you suppose may come of this?" asked Professor Larsen.
"I
don't know," Ken's father admitted. "There's a lot of excitement in
town. A fellow named Meggs is stirring up talk against Hilliard. He's the
storekeeper who tried to hold a profiteering sale, you remember."
"I
heard there were some fights in town after church," said Maria.
Ken nodded. "Yes, I
heard about them, too."
"It
mustn't start here!" exclaimed Mrs. Larsen. "That must be the way it
began in Chicago and Berkeley. We can't let it happen here!"
During the next few days a kind of unspoken
truce seemed to reign over the town. It was rumored that both Mayor Hilliard
and Dr. Aylesworth were waiting for the other to come for a talk, but that
neither was willing to go first under the
circumstances. Orders had
been given that Sam Baker was
to get
no special
ration. He would get only
what others shared with
him out
of their own
meager allotment.
In the laboratory
on College
Hill it was confirmed that
Professor Maddox had indeed
discovered a completely effective means of
cleansing metals of the destroying
dust. Art Matthews and the science
club boys were once again
scouring the town for
engine parts that could be
cleaned and used in assembling new and, this time,
workable engines.
On Friday morning
Professor Douglas came in late,
after all the others
had been
there for a couple of
hours. He was panting from his
rapid walk up the hill.
"Have you heard the news?" he exclaimed.
The others looked
up. "What
news?" Professor Maddox asked.
"A couple of farmers
and ranchers
from the south end of
the valley rode in
about 3 o'clock this morning. They were
half-dead. They said their
places and several others had
been attacked last night.
Everything in the whole southern
part of the valley,
beyond the point, has been
looted and burned. Six families, sail
living on their own places
were wiped out."
"Who did it?" Professor Larsen exclaimed.
"Nomads! The ranchers say there's a
band of over three thousand camped down by Turnerville,
about 20 miles from here. They've been moving across
the country,
killing and looting everything that's in
their way. Now they're headed
for Mayfield. They've heard
about us having a big
cache of supplies."
All work in
the laboratory
ceased as the men gathered
around Professor Douglas. They
stared into the distance, but their thoughts were alike.
"Three thousand," said Professor
Maddox slowly. "We could put twice
that many good men against
them. We ought to be able
to stand
them off, if they attack.
What's Hil-liard doing about it?"
"He wants us all down there
this morning. There doesn't seem to be much question
about him staying on as
Mayor since this came up."
In a group the men left
the half-completed
experiments and made their
way down
the hill
to the
City Hall. When they arrived they
found the Council chamber already
filled. The Mayor and the councilmen
were at their conference table on the platform in
front of the room.
At one side,
facing both the leaders and
the audience, were three ragged, unshaven
strangers in heavy boots and
ill-fitting coats. They had
not bothered
to remove
the fur-lined
caps from their heads.
Nomads, Ken thought. It was apparent
what was going on.
"We're coming in," the
center man was saying. His
massive size and strength
showed even under the thick
covering of clothes. "I
say we're
coming in, and we either
come peaceable and you
treat us right or we
come in our own way. It
doesn't make much difference to us how we
do it. You just call the
shots, Mister, and we'll play
it your
way. We've got two thousand armed
men who
know how to shoot fast and straight because they've
done a lot of it
the last
two months. They're the
ones that shot faster and
straighter than the guys
they were shooting at."
"You want to live here peaceably
with us, is that it?"
questioned Mayor Hilliard.
The man laughed harshly. "Why sure!
We're peaceful people, aren't
we, Men?"
He took
reassurance from his grinning companions. "Just as peaceful as them
around us."
"How about those ranch families you
murdered last night?"
The speaker laughed
again. "They didn't want peace,
did they, Men? All we asked
for was
a little
something to eat and they started
an argument
with us. We just don't
like arguments."
Mayor Hilliard glanced
beyond the table to the
first row of listeners. His glance
fell upon Dr. Aylesworth. "Before giving my consent to
your coming in," he said
slowly, "I'd like to hear from
one of
our more
prominent citizens. This is Dr. Aylesworth,
one of
our ministers.
Would you like to tell these
people how we feel about
their proposal, Reverend?"
The minister rose slowly, his eyes never
leaving the three nomads. "It will
be a
pleasure to tell them." Then to the three he
said, "You can go right
back where you came from.
That's our answer to
your proposal."
The big man
snarled. "So that's the way
you want
it, is
it? Well then, we'll
be back,
and when
we come
you'll wish you'd sung a different
tune!"
Mayor Hilliard smiled
a wry
smile. "I didn't expect our
minister to be quite
so unfeeling
of your
plight. Since I am in agreement
with his views, however, I
must say that you will not
be back,
because you are not going
anywhere. Sheriff, arrest these
men!"
Instantly, the big man dropped his
hand to his pocket. Before his gun was halfway
out, a shot rang from
the rear
doorway of the crowded
room. The stranger dropped to
the platform like a crumpled bull.
"You're covered," said Hilliard
to the
other two. "You came here with
a white
flag, but it had our
people's blood all over it. We
are not
violating any truce because this
is not an affair of honor
among gentlemen. It's going to
be only an extermination of wild
beasts!"
Chapter 14 Mobilization
I |
he two nomads stood glaring and snarling before the drawn revolvers that
pointed at them from the doorways of the room. For an instant it looked as if
they were going to draw their own weapons and make a pitched battle of it right
there in the Council chamber. Then their glances fell on their comrade,
writhing in pain on the floor. They raised their hands in slow surrender.
"If we re not back by sundown, you'll be wiped out!" "When will
the attack begin if you do go back?" asked Hilliard bitterly. "Two
hours before sundown? We thank you for the information about your timetable, at
least. We have 3 hours
to prepare a defense of the town." He nodded to the policeman. "Take
them away. Put them in cells and tie them up until this is over."
When
they had been removed he turned back to the group. "I've had
nightmares," he said, "and this has been one of them. I guess if I
had been the Mayor some people think I ought to have been, we would have been
drilling and rehearsing our defenses for weeks. I had planned to do so soon. I
thought we'd have more time; that's my only excuse.
"The Sheriff and I have done a little
preliminary planning and thuiking. We've made an estimate of weapons avail-
able. From what Jack Nelson and
Dan Sims
report on hunting licenses issued
locally a year ago, there
must be about two thousand deer
rifles in town. They also
guess about four or five hundred
22's. We're lucky
to five
in hunting
country.
"Dan and Jack have about two
hundred guns of all kinds
and sizes in their
rental and selling stock, and they've
got nearly all the ammunition in the valley. They
had stocked
up for the hunting season, which
we never
had this
year, so their supply sounds as
if it
would be pretty good. You've
got to remember the difference in requirements for bagging
a deer and carrying on a
war. We have very little
ammunition when you consider it
from that angle.
"The police, of course,
have a few guns and
some rounds. I'm placing Sheriff Johnson
in full
charge of defense. The police officers will act as
his lieutenants."
The Mayor
stepped to a wall
chart that showed the detailed
topography of Mayfield and its environs.
"This is your battle map
right here, Sheriff. Come up and
start marking off your sectors
of the defense perimeter and name
your officers to take charge of each. I hope
somebody is going to say
it's a good thing we've got
the barbed-wire
defense fine before this meeting is overl
"I want a rider to leave
at once
to bring
back the wood detail. All their
horses will be turned over
to the
police officers for use
in their
commands. I want fifty runners
to go through town and notify
one man
in each
block to mobilize his neighbors, with all weapons available,
and lead
them to the sectors
which the Sheriff will designate.
Each man will bring all the
ammunition he owns. Additional stores will be distributed by wagon to the
sectors. Above everything else, each man
must be warned to make
each shot count."
The room was silent, and there
was no
protest or disagreement. Mayor Hilliard,
the man
who had
made fancy speeches, seemed to have
vanished. Hilliard, the dynamic, down-to-earth leader had
taken his place. For a
moment no one in the room
was more
surprised than Hilliard himself.
"There's one thing I want to
make absolutely clear,"
he said after a pause. "You
people who are working at
the laboratory
on College
Hill are to keep away
from the front-lines and away
from all possible danger. That's
an order,
you understand?"
"No," said Professor Maddox abruptly. "It's
our duty
as much as anyone else's to
share in the defenses."
"It's your duty to keep your
skins whole and get back
into the laboratories as quickly as you
can and
get things
running againl We haven't
any special
desire to save your necks in preference to our
own, but in the long
run you're
the only hope any
of us
has got.
Remember that, and stay out of
trouble."
The Sheriff made
his appointments
in rapid-fire
sequence, naming many who
were not present, ordering messengers
sent to them. Ken
volunteered to ride after the
wood detail.
"I guess it's safe enough to let
you do
that," the Mayor said. "Make it fast, but don't
break your neck."
"I'll take it easy," Ken promised.
Outside, he selected the best of
the three
police horses and headed up out
of town,
over the brittle snow with
its glare ever-reminding of the comet.
When he was on higher
ground, he glanced back
over the length of the
valley. The nomads were not in
sight. Not in force, anyway.
He thought
he glimpsed a small
movement a mile or two
away from the barrier, at the
south end of the valley
before it turned out of sight
at the
point, but he wasn't sure.
Once he thought he heard a
rifle shot, but he wasn't
sure of that, either.
As he appeared
at the
edge of the forest clearing,
Mark Wilson, foreman of the detail,
frowned irritably and paused in his
task of snaking a log
out to
the road.
"You'll ruin that horse, besides breaking
your neck, riding like that in
this snow. You're not on
detail, anyway."
"Get all your men and horses
up here
right away," Ken said. "Mayor's orders to
get back
to town
at once."
He told
briefly the story of
what had happened.
Mark Wilson did
not hesitate.
He raised
a whistle
to his
Hps and signaled for
the men
to cease
work and assemble. One by one
they began to appear from
among the trees. The horses were led along, their
dragging harnesses clanking in the frozen
air. "We could cut for
2 more
hours," they protested. "No use
wasting this daylight and having
to cut
by lantern."
"Never mind," said Wilson.
"There's something else to do. Wait
for the
rest."
When all had
assembled he jerked his head
toward Ken. "Go ahead,"
he said.
"You tell them."
Ken repeated in
detail everything that had happened.
He outlined the Mayor's
plan of defense and passed
on the
order for them to
take all mounts to City
Hall, to go by their
own homes on the
way and
pick up such weapons as
they owned. "You'll get your further
orders there," he finished.
The group was
silent, as if they could
not believe
it was
actually happening. Mark Wilson
broke the spell that seemed to be over them.
"Come on!" he cried. "Get
the lead
out of your shoes and let's
get down
there! Sunset's the deadline!"
There was a rush of motion
then. They hitched up the
necessary teams and climbed
aboard the half-filled sleds. There was no excitement or swearing against fate
and their
enemies. Rather, a solemn
stillness seemed to fill each
man as the sleds moved off
down the hard, frozen roadway.
Almost, but not
quite the same pervading stillness
was present in the town when
Ken returned.
There was a stirring of
frantic activity like that of
a disturbed
anthill, but it was just as
silent. The runners moved from
block to block.
In their wake the alarmed block
leaders raced, weapons in hand, from house
to house,
arousing their neighbors. Many, who had
already completed the block mobilization,
were moving in ragged formations to the sector ordered
by the
block runner according to
Sheriff Johnson's plan.
Ken did not know what was
planned for the many weaponless men who were being
assembled. They would be useless at
the frontline.
There was need for some
at the
rear. He supposed Johnson
would take care of that
later when every weapon was manned
at the
defense barrier.
He stopped at his
own house.
His mother
greeted him anxiously. He could see
she had
been crying, but she had
dried her tears now
and was
reconciled to the inevitable struggle that was at hand.
"Your father came in
a few
minutes ago, and left again,"
she said. "He's been placed in charge
of distribution
of medical supplies under Dr. Adams.
He wants
you and
the other boys of the club
to help
in arranging
locations for medical care. Meet him
at Dr.
Adams' office."
"Okay, Mom. How about packing a
load of sandwiches? I may not
be back
for a
long time. I don't know
what arrangements they are
making for feeding the people
on duty."
"Of course. I'll make them right away."
She hurried
to the kitchen.
Maria said, "There must be something
I can
do. They'll
need nurses and aides.
I want
to go
with you."
"I don't know what they've planned
in that
department, either. They ought
to have
plenty of room for women
in the food and nursing details."
His mother came with
the sandwiches
and placed
them in his hands. "Be careful,
Ken." Her voice shook. "Do
be careful."
"Sure, Mom."
Maria got her coat. Mrs. Larsen
let her
go without
protest, but the two women watched
anxiously as the young people
rode toward town on
the police
horse.
At the doctor s office, Ken
found his father surrounded by an orderly whirl of
activity. "Ken! I was hoping
you'd get back soon. You can
help with arrangements for hospital
care, in assigned homes.
The rest
of your
friends are out on their streets.
Take this set of instructions
Dr. Adams
has prepared and see that arrangements
are made
in exact
accordance with them at
each house on the list."
"I can help, too," said Maria.
"Yes. Dr. Adams has prepared a
list of women and girls
he wants to assign
as nurses
and aides.
You can
help contact them. Get the ones
on this
list to meet here as
quickly as possible and they'll be
assigned to the houses which
the boys are lining up."
The comet was setting earlier now,
so that
its unnatural
light disappeared almost as
soon as the sun set
below the horizon. In the short
period of twilight, tension grew
in the
city. Everything possible had
been done to mount defenses.
An attack had been
promised if the nomad emissaries
did not return. Now the time
had come.
Darkness fell with no sign of
activity in any direction. It seemed unreasonable that any
kind of night attack would
be launched, but Hilliard
and Johnson
warned their men not to relax
their vigilance.
The pace of preparatory activity continued.
Blankets, clothing and food
were brought to the men
who waited
along the defense perimeter.
Medical arrangements were perfected
as much
as possible.
Ken and his father made their
quarters in another room of the
building where Dr. Adams' office
was. There was no heat, of
course, but they had brought
sleeping bags which were unrolled on
the floor.
After the sandwiches were gone
their rations were canned
soup, to be eaten directly
from the can without being heated.
Maria was quartered
elsewhere in the building with
some of the women who were
directing the nurses' activities.
Through the windows could be seen
the campfires
which Johnson had permitted to be
built at the guard posts.
Each had a wall of snow
ready to be pushed upon
it in
case of any sign of attack.
"We'd better get some
sleep," Professor Maddox said finally to Ken. "They'll take care of anything
that's going to happen out there
tonight. We may have a
rough day tomorrow."
Ken agreed, although he
did not
feel like sleeping. After hours, it seemed, of thrashing
restlessly he dozed off. He
thought it was dawn
when he opened his eyes
again to the faint, red glow
reflected on the walls of
the room.
He was
unaware for a moment
of where
he was.
Then he saw the glow was
flickering.
He scrambled to his
feet and ran to the
window. In the distance the glow
of burning
houses fit the landscape. The rapid crack of rifle
fire came faintly to his
ears.
Professor Maddox was beside
him. "How could they do
it?" Ken exclaimed. "How could they get
through our lines and set fire
to the
houses?"
On the southern sector of the
defense line Sheriff Johnson's men crouched behind their
improvised defenses. The glow of the
fire blinded them as they
attempted to pierce the darkness from
which the attack was coming.
From a half-dozen different points fireballs
were being lobbed out of the
darkness. Ineffective on the snow-laden
roofs, many others crashed
through the windows and rolled
on the floors inside. Such targets
became flaming infernos within
minutes.
They were all unoccupied because the
inhabitants had been moved closer to
the center
of town
for protection.
A fusillade of shots
poured out of the darkness
upon the well-lighted defenders.
They answered the fire, shooting
at the pinpoints of light that
betrayed the enemy's position, and at
the spots
in the
darkness from which the flaming
fireballs came. It was
obvious that the attackers were
continuously moving. It was difficult
to know
where the launching crews of
the fireball
catapults were actually located in
that overwhelming darkness.
Sheriff Johnson was on
the scene
almost at once. He had once
been an infantry lieutenant with combat experience. His presence boosted the
morale of the defenders immediately.
"Hold your fire," he ordered the
men. "Keep under cover and wait
until you can see something
worth shooting at. Try to keep
the fire
from spreading, and watch for
a rush
attack. Don't waste ammunition!
You'll find yourselves without
any if
you keep
that up."
Reluctantly, they ceased firing and fell
back to the protection of their barricades. Patrolman John Sykes, who
was lieutenant of the
sector, had been in the
National Guard, but he had never
seen anything like this. "Do
you think
they'll rush us?" he
asked. "Tonight, I mean, in
the dark."
"Who knows? They may
be crazy
enough to try anything. Keep your eyes open."
The flames quickly burned
out the
interiors of the houses that had been hit. As
the roofs
crashed in, their burden of
snow assisted in putting
out the
fires, and there was no
spreading to nearby houses.
In his room,
Ken dressed
impatiently. It was useless to
try to sleep any more. "I
wish they'd let us go
out there,"
he said. "We've got as much right
as Johnson
or any
of the rest."
His father remained a
motionless silhouette against the distant firelight. "As much right,
perhaps," he said,
"but more and different
responsibilities. Hilliard is
right. If we were knocked down
out there
who would
take over the work in the
laboratory? Johnson? Adams?
"In Berkeley there are
thousands fighting each other, but
with French and his
group gone, no one is
fighting the comet. I don't think
it is
selfish to say we are
of infinitely
more value in the
laboratory than we could ever
be out
there with guns in
our hands."
He turned and
smiled in the half-darkness. "That's in spite of the
fact that you have the
merit badge for marksmanship and won the hunting
club trophy last year."
After an hour
the attack
ceased, apparently because the defenders refused to waste their
fire on the impossible targets. Sheriff Johnson sent word
around for his men to
resume rotation of watch
and get
all the
sleep possible before the day that
was ahead
of them.
The fires burned themselves out shortly
before dawn. Their fight was followed
soon by the glow of
the comet
rising in the southeast.
Ken watched
it and
thought of Granny Wicks. It wouldn't
be hard,
he thought,
to understand
how a
belief in omens could arise.
It wouldn't
be hard at all.
The sky had cleared so that
the light
of the
comet bathed the entire countryside in its full, bitter
glory. At sunrise the faint trickles
of smoke
rose from hundreds of wood fires,
started with the difficult green
fuel, and stringent breakfasts
were prepared. A thought went
through Ken's mind and he wondered
if anybody
was taking
note of the supply of matches
in town.
When they ran low, coals
of one fire would have to
be kept
to light
another.
It was 9 o'clock, on a
day when
ordinarily school bells would have been
sounding throughout the valley. The
first war shouts of the attacking
nomads were heard on the
plain to the south.
About thirty men on horseback
raced single file along the highway
that bore the hard, frozen
tracks of horses and
sleds that had moved to
and from
the farms down there.
Patrolman Sykes watched them through his
glasses. His command rang out to
his company.
"Hold the." He knew the nomads would
not hope
to break
through the barbed wire on such
a rush.
It looked
as if
they planned an Indian-style attack as the line
began breaking in a slow
curve something less than
100 yards
away.
"Fire!" Sykes commanded. Volleys of shots
rang out on both sides almost
simultaneously. The lead
rider of the nomads went down,
his horse
galloping in riderless panic at the
head of the line. The
hard-riding column paralleled the barrier for
200 yards,
drawing the fire of adjacent
guard posts before they broke and
turned south again. It was,
evidently, a test of
the strength
of the
defenses.
"Every shot counts!" Sykes cried out
to his
men. As the attackers rode out
of effective
range he sighted four riderless
horses. Beside him, in the
barricade, one of his own
men was hit and
bleeding badly. A tourniquet was prepared until two men
of the
medical detail arrived with an
improvised stretcher.
Sykes sat down
and rested
his head
on his
arms for a moment. The air
was well
below freezing, but his face
was bathed with sweat. How long?
he asked himself
silently. How long can it go
on? First the
comet, then this. He roused
at a sudden cry beside him.
"They're coming back," a man shouted. Sykes
stood up and raised his fieldglasses
to his
eyes. From around the point
a fresh group of
riders was pouring toward the
town. At least three times as
many as before.
In a flash,
he understood
their intent. "They're going to
come through!" he cried.
"They're going to come right
through the barrier, no
matter what it costs them!"
Chapter 15 Battle
I |
he hard-riding nomad cavalry bore
down on the defense line. They did not break
into a circling column as
before, but began forming an advancing
line. When they were 75 yards
away, Sykes ordered his men
to begin
firing. The nomads were already shooting,
and what
their emissary had said
was true:
these men were expert shots,
even from horseback. Sykes heard the bullets
careening off the sloping face of
the barricade.
Two of
his men
were down already.
He leveled his
police pistol and fired steadily
into the oncoming ranks. He thought
they were going to try
to jump
tiie fence this time,
and he
braced for the shock. To
his dismay, he now saw that
a perfectly
clear space for their landing had been left between
his own
position and the adjacent barricade.
Suddenly the line of attackers swerved
to the
left just a few feet from
the wire.
The defending
fire was furious, and for a
moment Sykes thought they were
going to turn the line back.
Then several of the nomads
raised their arms and hurled dark,
small objects toward the barrier.
Sykes recognized them even
while they were in the
air. Grenades.
He shouted to
his men
and they
flattened behind the
barricade. Six explosions thundered almost simultaneously.
Mud and rocks sprayed
into the air and fell
back in a furious rain upon the defenders.
Cautiously, Sykes lifted himself from the
ground and got a glimpse of
the scene
once more. A hundred feet
of barbed-wire
fence had disappeared in a
tangle of shattered posts and hanging
coils. Through the opening, the
nomads poured over the barricades in the midst of
Sykes* men. Smashing hoofs landed almost
upon him but for his
frantic rolling and twisting out of
their path. Gunfire was a
continuous blasting wave. Sykes
thought he heard above it
the sound
of Johnson's voice roaring
commands to the retreating men.
It sounded like
he was
saying, "Close upl Close up!" but
Sykes never knew for
sure. An enormous explosion seemed
to come from nowhere
and thunder
directly in front of him.
The day darkened suddenly
and he
felt himself losing all control of his own being.
He wondered
if a
cloud had crossed the sun, but
almost at the same time
he ceased
to be concerned about the question
at all.
The first of
the wounded
came in slowly, borne by
stretcher bearers on foot
who had
literally dragged their charges through the
lines of invading horsemen. Ken
directed their assignment to the hospital-houses. He had always believed he
could take a scene like
this in his stride, but now he felt he
must keep moving constantly to keep from becoming violently
sick.
Overhead, a pall of smoke surged
again, blotting out, partly, the comet's
light. More houses had been
fired by the invaders. The sound
of crackling
flames mingled with the thunder of hoofs and the
roll of rifle fire.
Surely it wouldn't
be possible,
Ken thought,
for such
a charge to succeed unless it
were backed by
strong infantry. He moved into one
of the
houses and directed the placement
of the severely wounded man brought
up now
by the
bearers. As they left,
he looked
down at the stained and
bloody face. A nurse
was already
at work
cutting away the matted clothing from
the wound.
Ken exclaimed loudly
before he realized what he
was saying. "Mr. Harris! Mr. Harris—you
shouldn't have been out therel"
The man opened his eyes slowly
against the terrible pain. He smiled
in recognition.
It was
Mr. Harris,
the principal
of Mayfield High School;
the one
Ken had
attended. He was an old man—at
least fifty—much too old to
have been at the barricade with
a rifle.
"You shouldn't have been
out there,"
Ken repeated.
Mr. Harris seemed to have difficulty
in seeing
him.
"Ken," he said slowly. "It's Ken Maddox, isn't it?
Everybody has to do something.
It seemed
like this was the best
thing I could do.
No school
to teach,
No school
for a
long time/'
His voice wavered as he began
to ramble.
"I guess that makes all the
students happy. No school all
winter long. I always dreamed of
Mayfield being a school where
they would be glad to come,
whose opening in the fall
would be welcomed and closing in
the spring
would be regretted. I never got
that far, I guess,
"I didn't do a
really bad job, did I,
Ken? Mayfield is a pretty good
school, isn't it?"
"Mayfield is a swell school, Mr.
Harris," said Ken. "It'll be the best day ever
when Mayfield opens up again."
"Yes ... when school opens again,"
Mr. Harris
said, and then he was still.
The nurse felt his pulse and
regretfully drew the sheet up to
cover his face. "I'm sorry,"
she said
to Ken.
Blindly, he turned and went out
to the
porch. Mr. Harris, he thought, the
little bald-headed man they'd laughed
at so often with schoolboy cruelty.
He had
wanted to make Mayfield a good
school, so students would be
glad to attend.
He'd done that—almost. Mayfield was a good school.
Ken looked at
the rolling
clouds of black smoke in
the sky. The gunfire seemed less
steady now. Suddenly he was
running furiously and with
all his
strength. He turned down Main Street
and headed
south. He ran until he
caught sight of the first nomad
he had
seen since the events in
the Mayor's Council chamber.
The enemy had
stopped his horse, rearing high,
while he hurled some kind of
incendiary through the window of
a house. It exploded
inside and billows of flame
and smoke
poured out. A heart-tight
pain gripped Ken. He looked
wildly about and saw
a fragment
of brick
lying beside a demolished house nearby.
He snatched up
the missile
and wound
up as
if pitching
one straight over the
corner of the plate. The
horseman saw the motion of his
arm and
tried to whirl, but he
was too late. The brickbat caught
him at
the side
of the
head and he dropped to the
snow without a sound. Ken
ran forward and caught up the
nomad's rifle and ammunition belt. The horse had fled
in panic.
Without a backward glance Ken raced
on down
the street
toward the dwindling sound
of battle.
The invaders
were retreating, streaming from
all directions
toward the break in the barrier,
firing steadily as they came.
The defenders
were trying to block
the escape.
Ken dropped behind
a barricade
next to an older man
he didn't know. He searched for
an opening
and waited
for a
rider to cross his
sights; then he squeezed the
trigger and the man fell. When
he looked
up again
the last
of the
invaders were gone. Only
half of those who had
come up to the attack were
leaving it.
The men around Ken slowly relaxed
their terrible tension. From some
lying prone there were cries
of pain.
Those who could stand did so
and revealed
their drawn faces to one another.
Teams of the
medical group began moving again.
A horse-drawn wagon was brought up
that had been fitted with boards across the sides
so that
two layers
of wounded
men could be carried
at once.
Ken heard sudden
hoofbeats behind and turned. Sheriff
Johnson rode up and
surveyed the scene. His eye
caught Ken's figure standing in the
midst of it,
rifle in hand, the captured ammunition belt draped over
his shoulder.
"You!" White anger
was on
Johnson's face. "You were ordered to stay out of
the frontline!"
he thundered.
"Any other man would
be court-martialed
for such
disobedience. Get back where
you belong
and don't
show your face in this area
again. I'll jail you for
the rest
of the
fighting if you disobey again!"
Half-ashamed, but half only, for his
impulsive action, Ken turned and moved
down the street.
"Leave that gun here!" the Sheriff
commanded harshly.
Ken gave it to the nearest
soldier. He took off the
ammunition belt and handed it
over too, then resumed his
course. He should not have done
it, he
told himself, but he felt
better for it. He
felt he had paid a
little of his debt to
Mr. Harris.
When he reached the hospital center
he told
his father.
"It wasn't a good
thing," said Professor Maddox gently,
"but maybe it was
something that had to be
done."
Throughout the day they continued to
bring in the wounded and the
dead. There seemed to be
an incredible
number, but the invaders
had suffered
heavily, too. Half their force had
been lost. A dozen fine
horses had been captured, which were
a considerable
prize.
There was speculation
as to
why the
nomads chose to attack in this
manner. They had done great
damage, it was true, yet the
attack had not had a
chance of being decisive in spite of their insane
persistence.
Hilliard and Johnson held a staff
meeting that afternoon
while a sharp
watch was kept for further
attack. They considered that they
had done
very well so far. The
chief worries were the grenades and
incendiaries, which the nomads seemed to
have in large quantity.
Toward evening, Johnson
asked for two volunteers to go out as scouts
to try
to reach
the top
of Lincoln's
Peak, west of town, to spot
the camp
of the
nomads and scout their activities. A pair of volunteers
was chosen
from the many who offered. On
two of
the best
of the
nomads' horses, they made their way
across the frozen plain and
up the
small ravine leading to
the ridge.
Observers watched until they were out
of sight
in the
ravine.
It was agreed the two would
return by 6 o'clock. At
5 there was the faint sound
of gunfire
from somewhere in the hills. The scouts did not
return at the appointed time.
They did not return at all.
Night came, and
word spread among the townspeople
of the disappearance of the two
scouts. Anxiety increased as it became
apparent they were under close
surveillance by the enemy.
Perhaps it was the intention
of the
nomads to wear them down with
a winter-long
siege of attack after attack, until they no longer
had the
ability or strength to fight.
Hilliard and Johnson doubted this. The
nomads were far less equipped for
such a siege than Mayfield
was.
Maria continued to
return to the radio shack
in the
evening to maintain the schedule
with the network. She reported the plight of Mayfield
to the
other stations. From across the country
came the fervent best wishes
of those
who heard her. Wishes
were all they could offer.
The scientists were particularly anguished because
they considered the Maddox-Larsen
group among the most likely to crack the barrier
that kept them from conquest
of the comet dust. "Our prayers
are with
you," the Pasadena group said.
They sent a
new report
and Maria
typed it and showed it to
Professor Maddox that evening. He
scanned it and put the pages
in his
coat pocket as he glanced
out the
window toward College Hill.
"It seems like ages/' he said. "I wonder if
well ever get back up there/'
The next attack came well before
dawn. Sheriff Johnson was among the
first to be aware of
it. The
thunder of seemingly countless horses'
hoofs was heard faintly out
of the
south and he put
his glasses
to his
eyes. The nomads were a
black patch against the
snow.
"How many horses have they got?"
he exclaimed
to the
patrolman beside him. This
was Ernest
Parkin, one of his best officers.
"I'd say there must be at
least a hundred of them,"
said Parkin in awe. "They must have been gathering
horses for weeks."
"Feed," said Johnson, "for themselves and the animals— they may be rabble and
savages, but they've had genius
of leadership."
Behind shelter, they waited
for the
blow. All orders had already been given. Only the
general alarm was sounded now. It had been expected
that the previous pattern of
attack would be repeated.
The defenders
had been
moved back from the barbed wire.
They fired slowly and methodically
with a splendidly efficient barrage
as the
nomads swung out of the night
to blast
with their grenades at the
reconstructed fence.
The way opened and they plunged
in, the
defenders closing behind and
retreating to the other side
of their
barricades.
Ken paced restlessly as he heard
the shooting.
"I'm going up on the roof,"
he told
his father.
"There can't be any objection to that."
"I guess not. I'll call you
when we need you."
Ken climbed the
stairs of the 6-story building,
which was the highest in Mayfield.
He came
out on
the frozen
surface of the roof and looked
into the distance. The mounted
invaders were circling like
Indians about several blocks of
houses, firing steadily at
the defenders
and hurling
incendiaries at the houses.
Then, as Ken
turned his eyes to the
northern end of the valley, he felt as if
the whole
world had suddenly fallen to
pieces in the dim,
morning light.
On foot, a
vast host of the invaders
moved toward the northern defenses of
the town.
Instantly, he understood their strategy. While
their small parties of mounted
attackers had pressed the
southern defenses, giving the impression they intended to make
their major approach there, the bulk
of their
forces had marched entirely around
Lincoln's Peak and come
upon the northern boundary at
night. That was why
the peak
had been
so heavily
guarded against the scouts.
It had been a march of
over 40 miles to by-pass
the valley. Now, however, the nomads
were in a position to
achieve their goal. The
bulk of the town's defense
was concentrated in the
south. Little stood
in the
way of
the horde advancing from the north.
His heart sickened
as he
saw them
rip through
the barbed-wire enclosure. The poorly manned defense
posts seemed almost nonexistent. Only a
scattering of shots was thrown at the invaders.
From somewhere, a warning siren sounded,
the agreed-upon
signal to indicate invasion in
that sector. It was far
too late for that,
Ken thought.
The horde
was already
in the
streets, fanning out, dispersing
in the
deserted streets.
Ken started for
the doorway
leading from the roof. His
responsibility to College Hill
was gone
now. Every man in the valley
was fighting
for his
own life.
If that
battle were lost, College Hill would
be only
an empty
symbol, where ghosts were housed, as
in Berkeley,
as in
Chicago, as in a thousand centers
of learning
the world
around.
With his hand on the latch
of the
door he paused at a
new sound that broke upon the
air. An incredible barrage of
firing was occurring along
northern Main Street near 12th
Avenue. He put the
fieldglasses to his eyes again
and watched the scattering nomads seeking
cover. Dozens of them lay where
they fell headlong in the
streets.
Ken strained his
eyes to see where the
defense had come from. It was
centered in the houses and
buildings that lined the streets, and
on their
rooftops. He could see the
ant-sized outlines of figures
on those
roofs. For a moment he
failed to understand. Then he felt
a choking
sensation in his throat.
In a desperate gamble, Johnson and
Hilliard had anticipated this move
and prepared
for it
as best
they could. They had allowed the
main body of the attackers
to enter
the town itself and had deployed
the majority
of their
guns to ring them about, while
offering only token defense on
the south.
This was it. The battle would
be fought
here and now, in the streets
of Mayfield,
and before
the day
was over
it would be known whether the
city would continue its struggle
to five
or whether
it would
become another Berkeley.
Chapter 16 Black Victory
I |
he spearhead of the nomad
infantry attack broke through between two lightly manned guard
posts whose garrisons fled in
retreat with a few ineffective
shots. The column came through in
a widening
wedge. As it met more defenders
it fell
back, but it appeared to
the nomads
that the whole defense
line had crumbled or had
been diverted to the south, as
anticipated.
They poured along Main
Street in the faint dawnlight
until they reached 12th
Avenue. There, they split and
fanned along 12th, east
and west.
It was
their strategy, obviously, to
occupy and seal off this
large northern sector of the town,
which amounted to one-quarter of its total area and cut across a
large portion of the business
section. They would solidif y their
position here, destroy all opposition,
then move to
still another sector until they
were in command of the entire
town.
It was a strategy that would
work, unless everything Mayfield
possessed were thrown against it,
Ken thought.
He saw now why 12th Avenue
had been
chosen as the line of attack:
the defenders
were intrenched there and were
offering forceful opposition.
He looked for
a moment
to the
south again. The defenses there were light, yet the
charge of the mounted nomads
had to be contained or they
would drive all the way
to the
center of town, burning
and killing
as they
went. If they succeeded in joining
with the infantry they would
have split Mayfield's defenses in two.
Johnson had mounted his best men,
using the captured nomad horses as
well as the town's own. Desperately,
this small force was trying to
contain and exterminate the fierce-riding
enemy. Picked sharpshooters had been
carefully stationed with the best
rifles available. Although the gunfire
was not heavy, Ken
could see Johnson's men were
taking a heavy toll of the
invader.
In the north, the lines of
fixed battle had now been
established. The nomads had drawn
back to positions of cover
in the empty houses facing 12th.
Their flanks were more mobile, fighting for advantage along
streets parallel to Main but some
blocks away on either side,
and extending
all the
way back to the
point of breakthrough. While he
surveyed the scene from the roof,
Ken watched
the stealthy
movement of defenders moving behind
the main
line to try to surround the enemy. That was
the strategy
of the
defense, and the gamble on which
their entire fate hung.
If they succeeded
they would have the breach
closed, leaving no retreat
for the
surrounded invader.
The comet slowly appeared, illuminating the scene of battle as
if it
lay upon
some other planet. The day
was clear
so far, but a
band of stratus hung low
over the western hills. It would
probably be snowing by nightfall,
Ken thought.
Through the glasses
he recognized
the leader
of a
small patrol that was moving east
on 18th
Avenue. It was Tom Wiley, the barber. His men
were mostly students from the
college. They were trying
to gain
a house
farther up the block to provide
a covering
point from which a general
advance of the line
on both
sides of them could hinge.
Tom could not see that an
opposing patrol had him under
observation.
He led his
men into
the open
to cross
the street.
Ken wanted to shout for him
to go
back, but it was impossible
to be heard at such distance.
The enemy
patrol moved out slightly. They centered
Tom and
his men
in a
murderous burst of rifle
fire. The barber fell. Two
of the
others were hit, but they managed
to reach
cover with the rest of
their companions.
The body of
Tom Wiley
lay motionless
where it fell in the snow-covered
street. Ken could
see the
sign, just a block away, that read, "Wiley's Barber and Beauty Shop."
From where Ken stood, the sign,
which jutted out over the
sidewalk, seemed to project just
above the body of the
fallen barber.
Ken hesitated in
his resolve
to go
down there in the midst
of the fighting. He thought of
Johnson's words and Hilliard's orders. Would the defense strategy
succeed? The nomads were trained and
toughened by their weeks of
fight for survival, but Mayfield's
men were
only weakened by their strained effort to keep the
town alive.
On the eastern
side of the encirclement a burst of smoke
with a core of orange flame
at its
center spurted upward from a house.
This was followed by a
second and a third and a
fourth. Defending fighters ran from
the rear
of the
burning houses to the
row beyond.
Behind the screen of billowing
smoke the nomads crept forward
to repeat
their tactics and fire the houses
where the defenders now had
cover. It was obvious
they recognized the danger of
encirclement by forces stronger than
any they
had anticipated.
They were making a
desperate effort to straighten their lines parallel to the
barbed wire, with their flanks
and rear
clear of threat.
Ken watched the
success of their second incendiary
thrust. They could go
on indefinitely
unless the defenders succeeded
in flanking
them. That was being attempted
now. The defenders moved
under the cover of the
smokescreen to fire on the
advancing nomads. The latter recognized
their danger and held to
solid cover of houses adjacent
to those they had
fired.
North of this
bulge, however, another column was
forming, and Ken saw in
sudden horror that it was
headed directly toward the
warehouse! A house only a
half-block from the warehouse
burst into flame.
There was a flurry of activity
from the defenders as they,
too, recognized the fresh
danger and brought up reinforcements
before the threatened warehouse.
This added resistance
seemed to inflame the determination
of the
nomads. They answered the increased
fire sharply. Another incendiary ignited a
wooden building a step nearer the
warehouse. The defenders tried to
flank the threatening column but the
latter ran between a row of burning houses along
an alleyway,
firing additional incendiaries
as they
went.
Then sudden flame burst
against the wooden walls of
the old skating rink
and licked
with red fury along its
painted surface. In moments
the warehouse
was bathed
on all sides in seething flame,
and the
nomad column spread beyond it, unaware
of the
mortal damage they had done.
Ken turned away.
He walked
slowly and decisively down the stairs.
He told
his father
what had just happened. "I'm
going out there, Dad,"
he said.
"They're going to wipe us
out, or destroy every
chance we'll have to survive
even if we drive them off.
Half of our food supply
is gone
now. What chance have we got
even if we kill every
nomad in the valley?"
Ken's father turned to
a closet
and drew
out a
.30-06. From a hook he took
down a hunter's jacket. Its
pockets were loaded with shells, and
he had
an extra
box he
gave to Ken.
"Johnson left this here," he said.
"He intended it for our
use if the nomads reached this
far. I think maybe it
had better be used before the
medical center needs defending."
Ken's eyes lighted
with gratefulness. "Thanks,
Dad," he said. "I'm glad you're
willing."
"I don't know if I'm willing
or not.
However, I think I agree with
you that
there's nothing else to be
done."
Ken ran from
the building,
clutching the solid, reassuring weight of the rifle
in his
hand. His coat pockets and the
hunting jacket were weighted
heavily with the supply of
ammunition. There was a
feeling of security in the
weapon and the shells, but he
knew it was a short-lived,
deceptive security.
He went to
Eighth Street and turned north,
which would bring him close to
the burned
warehouse. He could see the
immense, rolling column of
black smoke and hear the
bursting crackle of its flames.
The whole
town could go, he thought, if the
fire became hot enough. It
would spread from building to building
regardless of the snow cover.
He glanced at the sky and
hoped the snow might soon
resume.
From the rooftop,
it had
seemed to Ken that the
small units of the defenders were
almost leaderless, and there was lack
of co-ordination
between them. He came up
in their rear ranks and confirmed
this suspicion. They seemed to be
depending as best they could
on unanimous
and intuitive
agreement about a course of
action. What had happened to
their sergeants and lieutenants, Ken did not know.
Perhaps in their haste
of organization
there never had been any.
There was top-level
command, of course, as appointed
by Sheriff Johnson for
the entire
sector, but it did not
extend to the lower levels in
any degree
Ken could
see.
The men paid
no attention
as Ken
joined them. He knew a few
of the
dozen nearby, but they seemed
to regard
him as a total stranger. The
shock of battle was in
their eyes, and they seemed wholly
unaware of anything in the
world except the desperate necessity to
find cover and to destroy
the invader.
Ken followed them into
the shelter
of a
house flanking the still-advancing
incendiaries. He crouched at a
window with an older man whom
he did
not know
and leveled
his rifle through an opening. A
pair of figures appeared momentarily
at the
edge of the smoking cloud.
The older
man jerked his gun and fired
frantically and ineffectively.
"Slow!" Ken cried. "Aim before you
shoot!"
The man glanced
at him
in a
kind of daze. Ken sighted
patiently and carefully. The smoke cloud parted
once again and he squeezed the
trigger. One of the figures
dropped and the smoke cloud closed
down again.
Ken's calmness seemed to
penetrate his companion who leaned back for a moment
to wipe
a shaking
hand across his sweat-stained
face.
"I've never done anything like this
before," he murmured helplessly.
"None of us have," said Ken;
"but we've got to do
it now.
Watch it! We're drawing
their fire!"
Bullets shattered the
window casing above and beside
them. Across the room
a man
crumpled. Ken risked a glance
through the window. "We've
got to
get out!"
he exclaimed.
"They're going to rush
the house!"
It might have been possible to
hold if he knew what
cover and reinforcements they had in the
adjacent houses, but as far as
he could
tell the small, 12-man patrol
might be entirely alone in the
area.
Suddenly, it all seemed utterly hopeless
without communication, without
leadership—how could they
hope to withstand?
"Let's go!" he cried.
The others
seemed willing to follow him. As they went through
the back
he saw
that the next house had indeed
been occupied, but they, too,
were retreating, not knowing
what strength was near.
A new line of defenders was
moving up from halfway down the block. Ken held
back to shout to the
other patrol and to those coming,
"Let's stand in the next
street!"
There were shouts
of assent
from down the line and
they moved to the shelter of
the empty
houses.
They were close to the edge
of town,
near the barbed-wire barricade, and the nomads would
obviously make their biggest effort here
to wipe
out the
forces that threatened to close them
off. His own group, Ken
saw, would also have to
make their stand here
or risk
being pocketed by the uncoiling
line of nomads.
"Don't let them get close enough
to fire
the buildings!"
he shouted down the
line. The word was passed
along with agreement. They broke into
small patrols and occupied the
houses, Ken joining one
that took over the top
floor of a 2-story house. This
gave them the advantage of
good observation, but the
added danger of difficult escape
in case
the house was set
on fire.
Its walls
were brick, however, and offered a good chance of
being held.
Within minutes, the nomads
had occupied
the houses
just abandoned. Ken fired
rapidly and carefully as he
saw them exposed momentarily in their
move to new positions. His marksmanship had a telling
effect on the enemy, and
encouraged his companions. As soon as the
nomads had obtained cover however, it
was a
stalemate.
It was midmorning already, and Ken
wondered how it had grown so
late. For an hour or
two they
exchanged shots with the enemy. Twice,
attempts were made to hurl
firebombs. Both were driven back.
Beyond this, however, the nomads seemed
in no
mood to make further attack. They
were waiting for darkness,
Ken thought, and then
they would advance with their
firebombs and grenades and have
free choice of battle setting.
If that happened, Mayfield
might be a huge inferno
by midnight. They had to seize
the initiative
from the invaders.
He called his
companions and told them how
it looked.
They agreed. "What can we do?" a
tired, middle-aged man asked.
"We've got to take the initiative
before they come at us
again." Ken glanced at
the sky.
"Within an hour it may
be snowing hard. That will make
it more
difficult to hit a target.
When daylight is almost
gone we'll attack them instead
of waiting for them to come
after us. It can be
done if we hit hard and
fast enough. We'll lose some
men, but not as many
as if we wait and let
them pick us off with
their grenades and incendiaries
as they
feel like it."
The men considered it dubiously. "We've got a better
chance to hit them
as they
break from cover," someone suggested.
"Not after dark, and that's what
they're waiting for. They'll bum our
houses and drive us back
all night
long if we give them the
chance. We must not give
it to
them!"
Reluctant nods of agreement came from
his group.
"The way you put it, I
guess it's the only chance
we've got," the former objector agreed.
"I'll talk with the other groups,"
Ken said.
He moved down the stairs and
out the
back door of the house. The space between the
two houses
was entirely
open. He flung himself down and
crawled. Twice, he heard the
whine of bullets above
his head.
After heated argument, the
group in the next house
agreed to the plan
to rush
the invaders.
He moved
on down
the block, regretting his own lack of
authority that made it necessary for him to have
to plead
for co-operation.
He wondered what was happening in
the rest
of the
town. There had been gunfire all
day, but it seemed incredible
there had been no
communication from any other sector
or any evidence of command. No
one he
talked to had any idea what
had happened
to their
command. There had been some in
the beginning,
but it
had simply
seemed to vanish. Ken's pleading for
co-operation in an attack was
the nearest
thing to leadership they had seen for
hours.
The snow was
swirling hard and the sun
was almost
beyond the hills, what
little of it was visible
in the
clouds. It was getting as dark
as he
dared allow before giving the
signal for attack, but
there was one more group
to contact.
He debated and decided
to go
to them.
Then, as he
entered the rear of the
house, he heard the cries of
alarm from those houses he
had been
to. The
invaders were breaking out for
an incendiary
attack.
He seized his
gun and
fired the signal for their own advance. He
ran into
the street
shouting for the others to
follow. The nomads were
concentrating their fire charge at
the other end of
the row
of houses,
and there
the defenders
fell back without an
attempt to advance.
Like watching a
wave turned back by a
rocky shore, Ken saw his companions
fleeing in disorderly retreat through
the rear of the houses to
the block
beyond. A bullet whizzed by
his head. He dropped
to the
ground and crawled on his
stomach to the safety
of cover
behind a brick house.
For a long
time he lay in the
snow, unmoving. He could not hold
back the sobbing despair that
shook him. He had never before
known vhat it was like
to be
utterly alone. Mayfield was dying ai.d taking away
everything that was his own personal
world. He had listened to
news of the destruction of Chicago
and of
Berkeley without knowing what it really
meant. Now he knew.
For all he
knew, the nomads might even
now be
in control
of the major part of the
town. He could not know
what had happened to his father,
to Maria,
to anyone.
The crackling of flames
in the
next house aroused him.
He crawled inside the
brick house, which was still
safe, for a moment of rest.
He knew
he should
be fleeing
with the others, but he had
to rest.
He heard sporadic
shooting. A few nomads were
straggling after their companions at the other end
of the
street. It was too far to
shoot. However, one nomad stopped
and swung cautiously under the very
windows of the burning house next door. Ken leveled
his rifle
and fired.
The bullet
caught the man in
the shoulder
and flung
him violently
against the wall. Ken
saw that
he would
be buried
by the
imminent, flaming collapse of
that wall.
The man saw
it, too.
He struggled
frantically to move out of the
way, but he seemed injured
beyond the power to get
away.
Ken regarded him
in a
kind of stupor for a
moment. The man out there was
responsible for all this, he
thought, for the burning and for
the killing....
He swung his
rifle over his shoulder and
went out. Brands were falling upon
the wounded
enemy. Ken hoisted the man
under the arms and
dragged him to the opposite
side of the adjacent house. The
nomad looked at Ken with
a strange
fury in his eyes.
"You're crazy!" he said
painfully. "You're the one who
shot me?"
Ken nodded.
"You'll be cut off. Well, it
won't matter much anyway. By
tomorrow your town will
be burned
and dead.
Soon, we'll all be dead."
Ken kneeled on
the ground
beside him, as if before
some strange object from a foreign
land. "What were you?" he asked. "Before,
I mean."
The man coughed
heavily and blood covered his
mouth and thick growth of beard.
The bullet
must be in his lungs,
Ken thought. He helped
wipe away the blood and
brushed the man's mouth with a
handful of snow.
"You re crazy," the nomad said
again. "I guess we're all
crazy. You're just a
kid, aren't you? You want
to know
what I was a million years
ago, before all this?"
"Yes," Ken said.
The man attempted
a smile.
"Gas station. Wasn't that a crazy thing?
No need
of gas
when all the cars quit.
I owned one on the best
little corner in Marysvale."
"Why are you with them?" Ken nodded in the
darkness toward the distant
attackers.
The man glared, twisting with the
pain. Then his glance softened. "You'd have done it,
too. What else was there?
I had a wife, two kids.
No food
within a hundred miles after
we used what was
in our
own pantry
and robbed
what we could from the supermarket
downtown.
"We all got together and went
after some. We got bigger
as we went along. We needed
men who
were good with rifles. We found
some. We kept going. People
who had
food fought to keep it; we
fought to take it. That's
the way
it had
to be.
"We heard about your town with
its big
hoard of food. We decided to
get it."
"Did you know you burned half
of it
this morning?"
"No. That's tough. That's
tough all the way around.
Don't look at me that way,
kid. You would have done
the same.
We're all the same
as you,
only we didn't live where
there was plenty of food on
hand. We were all decent
guys before. Me, those
guys out in the street
that you knocked off.
I guess
you're decent, too."
"Where's your family now?"
"Twenty miles down the valley, waiting
with the rest of the women
and children
for us
to bring
them food."
Ken rose slowly to his feet.
The man
was bleeding
heavily from the mouth. His words
were growing muffled. "What are you going to do?"
he asked.
"Get on with what has to
be done,"
said Ken wearily.
He felt sure he must be
walking in a nightmare and
in just
a little while he
would awaken. "If there's a
chance, I'll try to send somebody
after you."
"Never mind me!" the nomad said
with sudden fierceness. "I'm done
for. You've finished me. If
our outfit
should be unlucky enough to lose,
see my
wife and try to do
something for my kids. Get
some food to them. Tom
Doyle's the name," the man said.
A fit of coughing seized him
again and blood poured from
his mouth. His eyes
were closed when he lay
back again. "Tom Doyle's
the name,"
his bloody
hps murmured.
"Don't forget that, kid.
Tom Doyle's
Service, corner of First and
Green in Marysvale. We were all good
guys once."
The snow was
so heavy
it seemed
like a solid substance through which Ken walked. In
spite of it, row upon
row of
houses burned with a
fury that lit the whole
scene with a glow that was
like the comet's own. Above
this, the blanket of black smoke
lay as
if ready
to smother
the valley
as soon
as the light was gone.
Ken didn't know
for sure
where he was going. A
land of aimlessness crept over him
and there
no longer
seemed any rational objective toward which
to move.
He crept
on from
house to house in
the direction
his group
had gone,
but he
could not find any
of them.
Somewhere he touched the edge of
combat again. He had a
nightmare of going into a
thousand houses, smashing their
windows out, thrusting his rifle through
for a
desperate shot at some fleeing
enemy.
The night was
held back by a hundred
terrible fires. He shot at shadows
and ghosts
that moved against the flames.
He sought the companionship
of others
who fought,
like himself, in a lonely vastness
where only the sound of
fire and gunshots prevailed.
Later, he moved
through the streets stricken with
cold that he could not lose
even when he passed and
stood close to a mass of
burning rubble. He bad stopped
shooting quite a long time ago,
and he
guessed he was out of
bullets. The next time he met
someone, he thought, he would
ask them
to look in his
pockets and see if any
were left.
He kept walking.
He passed
streets where the black, charcoal arms of the skeletons
of houses
raised to the sky. He passed
the hot
columns of smoke and continued
to shiver
with cold as they
steamed upward to the clouds.
He passed
others but no one
spoke. After a while he
threw his gun away because it
was too
heavy to carry and he
was too
tired to walk any more.
The falling snow
was covering
the ruins
with a blanket of kind obscurity.
Ken kneeled
down and was surprised to
observe that he wasn't
cold any more. He lay full length in the whiteness,
cradling his head on his
arms, and peace and stillness such
as he
had never
known before closed over him.
It seemed an
eternity later that there was
a voice
capable of rousing him, a familiar
voice calling out in anguish,
"Ken, Ken—this is your
dad."
He responded, although it was like
answering in a dream. "Take care of them, Dad,"
he said.
"Don't let anything happen to them.
A woman and
two children.
Tom Doyle's
the name—don't forget that,
Tom Doyle."
Chapter )*7 Balance of Nature
e lay between white sheets, and the stench
of burning
things was everywhere, in the air that
he breathed,
in the clean white covers that
were over him. His own
flesh seemed to smell
of it.
He was not
quite sure if he were
still in a world of
dreams or if this were real.
It was
a golden
world; the snow-covered ground
beyond the window was gilded
with rich, yellow light. He remembered
something about such light that
was not pleasant. He had forgotten
just what it was.
Maria Larsen stood at
the foot
of his
bed. She smiled as his eyes
opened. "Hello, Ken,"
she said.
"I've been waiting so long. I've
been afraid you'd never wake
up."
"Tom Doyle," he said.
"Did you find Tom Doyle?"
Maria frowned. "I don't
know who you mean!"
"You haven't found his
family yet?" Ken cried, struggling
to rise in the
bed. "Go and find them
right now. I promised Tom Doyle I'd do it."
Maria approached and pushed him gendy
back upon the pillow, drawing the
covers over him once more.
"Tell me about Tom Doyle," she said. "You've never told me who
he is."
It seemed utterly
stupid for her not to
know, but Ken
patiently told her
about Doyle's Service, the best
little station in the
world, at the corner of
First and Green. "I told
Tom I'd take care
of them,"
he said.
"Now go and bring them here!"
"Ken," Maria said, "all the nomads
who escaped,
and there weren't many, retreated around
the south
end of
town and picked up the women
and children
they'd left there. They moved on
south. That was 3 days
ago. We've no idea where they've gone."
Ken tried to
rise again against her struggles
to hold
him down. "They couldn't have gone
so far
that a man on horseback
couldn't find them! Why won't
you help
me? I
promised I'd see to it!"
He lay back weakly, covering his
face with his arm. "Go
and find Tom Doyle,"
he said.
In detail
he described
where he had left the man.
"You don't believe what I'm
saying. Get Tom Doyle and he'll
tell you it's the truth."
"He wouldn't be there
now. All the wounded, including
the nomads, have been
moved to homes where they
are being cared for. The dead,
both theirs and ours, have
been burned and their ashes buried."
"Do what I tell you!" Ken implored.
With bewilderment and fear
on her
face, Maria stood back from the
bed and
looked at Ken's troubled face.
Then quietly she stole from the
room and shut the door
behind her.
He had been
overworking himself for weeks, Dr.
Adams was saying, and had been
living on a poor diet
that would scarcely keep a medium-sized
pup going.
"Then you had a shock, the
kind of shock that shakes
a man to his very roots.
Now you're
on your
way up
again."
Ken glanced about the
room. It seemed normal now
and there was only a great
emptiness within him to replace
the frantic urgency he remembered.
"What you're trying to
say, Doc, is that I
went off my rocker for a
while."
Dr. Adams smiled. "If
you want
to put
it that
way. However, you're fine now."
Ken stared at
the ceiling
for a
few moments.
"Will you still say so if
I ask
again about Tom Doyle?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Was he found?"
"No. Maria actually tried to find
him for
you. I'm afraid your Tom Doyle
was among
the dead."
"I killed him."
"We killed a lot
of them—and
they killed a lot of
our people."
"How did it end?" asked Ken.
"I remember the darkness and just wandering around the
streets shooting, but I don't
know what I hit
or where
I went."
"That's the way it ended," said Dr. Adams. "House-to-house
street fighting, and we won. Don't
ask me
how. You were in a sector
that was cut off almost
as soon
as you
entered it. Even where
communication was maintained things were nearly
as chaotic.
"Johnson says it was just plain,
dumb luck. Hilliard says he doesn't
think it really happened. Dr.
Aylesworth calls it a miracle, a
gift and a blessing that
shows we're meant to survive. Most of the rest
of us
are willing
to look
at it
his way."
"I could do something for Tom
Doyle," Ken said finally. "He was a decent guy.
They all were, once. I
could find his wife and children."
The doctor shook
his head.
"All who are left of
that group of nomads are going
to die.
We've got to let them
die, just as we let the
people in Chicago and Berkeley
and ten
thousand other towns die.
We have
no more
power to save Tom Doyle's family
than we had to save
them."
"We're taking care of
the nomad
wounded! We could do as much
for just
one woman
and two
kids!"
"We're helping the wounded
until they get on their
feet," Dr. Adams said
quietly. "Then they'll be sent
on—to wherever they came
from."
Ken stared at him.
"There is only one thing we
could never forgive ourselves for," the doctor
continued. "That one thing would
be letting
the Earth itself die.
As long
as there
are people
alive who can fight the comet,
we still
have a chance. Nothing else
in the whole world matters now.
Don't you see there is
no other purpose in keeping Mayfield
alive except to support the few people who understand
the dust
and can
fight it? Beyond that, Mayfield has
no more
right to live than any
other town that has
already died. But Mayfield has
to stay
alive to keep you
and your
father and the others like
you fighting the dust."
Dr. Adams gave permission for Ken
to be
out of
bed for
a short time. He
tried, after the doctor had
left, and almost fell on his
face. The whole world seemed
to spin
in enormous
cart wheels. He persisted
though, and 2 hours later he
was making his way slowly up
College Hill with the help
of Maria who walked beside him
and lent
her arm
for support.
At the top
of the
hill they stopped and turned
for a
look at the valley below them.
The ruin
was plain
to see
in spite
of the snow cover. A third
of the
town had been completely burned. At the old skating
rink, workmen were clawing through the debris for usable
remains of food. A miserably
small pile of items
showed the extent of their
success.
Curls of smoke
still rose from the ashes,
and the
nauseating smell of death and
burning floated over the whole
valley.
Of his own experience Ken felt
only a numbing confusion as yet. He thought he
should feel like a fool
for his
collapse at the height of the
battle, but he did not.
He felt
as if
he had marched to the absolute
edge of human endurance and
had looked to the
dark pit below.
He turned to
Maria. "Ill be
okay now. It's time for
you to get back to the
radio station. Tell them what
has happened
and get
their reports. I'll see you
tonight."
It seemed a long
time since he had last
been in the laboratory. The workers were once
more in the midst of
their thousands of trials
and failures
to produce
a colloidal,
non-poisonous form of the decontaminant,
which could be infused in
the atmosphere
of the
world to destroy the comet
dust.
He stayed until
his father
left at 7 o'clock, and they went home together. He
still had to depend on
someone else for assistance on the
steep and slippery hill.
When they reached
home Maria had a lengthy
report ready from the Pasadena people,
and one
from Schenectady.
Professor Maddox read the
reports at the dinner table.
He passed the sheets
to Professor
Larsen as he finished them.
Ken saw he was
not reading
with his usual thorough analysis.
When he had finished he
returned to his eating with
perfunctory motions.
"Anything new?" Ken asked.
"The same old story. A thousand hours
of experiments,
and no success. I feel we're
all on
the wrong
track, trying to perfect a chemical
colloid, based on the decontaminant,
which will destroy the
dust. I feel that nothing's
going to come of it."
Ken said, "I
had a
crazy dream the other day
while Dr. Adams had me under
drugs. I had almost forgotten
it. I
dreamed I was walking
along the street and had
a special
kind of flashlight in my hand. When
I came
to a
car that
wouldn't run, standing by
the curb,
I turned
the beam
of the flashlight on it. Then
whoever owned it could step
in and drive away. After I
had done
that to all the cars
in Mayfield I turned it on
the sky
and just
kept flashing it back and forth
and the
comet dust fell down like
ashes and the air was clean."
Professor Maddox smiled. "A nice
dream! I wish we could
make it come true.
I'm afraid
that idea will have to
go back
to the pages of your science
fiction, where it probably came
from in the first
place."
"Dad, I'm serious!" Ken said earnestly.
"About making a magic
flashlight?" His father
was almost
sarcastic, which revealed the
extent of his exhaustion, Ken thought. He was never
like that.
"What I'm trying to say is
that there are other ways
to precipitate colloids. We
haven't even given any thought
to them. Colloids can be precipitated
by heat,
by pressure,
by vibration. Maybe a
dozen other ways that I
don't know anything about.
"Maybe some kind of physical means,
rather than chemical, is the
answer to our problem. Why
don't we let Pasadena and
the other
labs go on with the
chemical approach but let us do
some work on possible physical
means?"
Professor Maddox sat very
still. His glance passed from
Ken to Professor Larsen. The latter
nodded. "I think we have indeed
been foolish in ignoring this
possibility up to now. I wonder
if Ken
hasn't got a very good
thought there."
"Have you anything specific to suggest?"
Ken's father asked.
"Well, I've been wondering about supersonic
methods. I know that a supersonic
beam can be used for
coagulation and precipitation."
"It would depend on the size
of the
colloidal particles, and on the frequency
of the
wave, wouldn't it? Perhaps we
could find a frequency that would
precipitate the dust, but I wonder
if we
wouldn't have the same problem
as with
mechanical treatment of the
Earth's atmosphere. Even if we succeeded
on a
laboratory scale, how could it
be applied
on a practical, worldwide scale?"
"1 don't know," said Ken. "It may not work
out, but I think it's worth trying."
"Yes,
I agree. I don't think we'll give up the chemical research, but a group of you
can begin work on this supersonic approach tomorrow."
The
losses of food at the warehouse were enormous. Less than 5 percent of the
contents could be removed in usable form. Most of the canned goods had burst
from internal pressure. Grain and other dried products were burned, for the
most part. The food supply of the community was now reduced to six-tenths of
what it had been.
The population had been reduced by one-tenth,
in men killed by the nomads.
Mayor Hiiliard and his councilmen struggled
to work out a reasonable ration plan, based upon the ratio of supplies to
number of consumers. There was no arithmetical magic by which they could
stretch the food supply to satisfy minimum needs until next harvest.
There
was going to be death by starvation in Mayfield before spring.
Hiiliard fought through an agreement in the
Council that the researchers on College Hill, and all their families, were to
have first priority, and that they were to get full
rations at all times in order to keep on with their work.
There were grumblings among the councilmen,
but they finally agreed to the wisdom of this. They agreed there were babies
and small children who needed a somewhat normal ration, at least. There were
over four hundred wounded who had to be cared for as a result of the battle.
There were also the aged, like Granny Wicks, and her companions.
"Well
try to give the little ones a chance," said Mayor
Hiiliard, "but the old ones don't need it. Perhaps we can spare a little
extra for the wounded who have a chance of survival, but not much. We're going
to see that College Hill survives."
Before spring, however,
a choice
would still have to be
made—who was to have
the remaining
share of food, and who was
not?
Privately, Hilliard wondered if
any of
them had a chance to see
another spring.
The decision to
support the scientists at the
expense of the other inhabitants of Mayfield could not
be kept
secret. When it became known, a
tide of fury swept the
community. The general public no
longer had any capacity to
accept the larger view
in preference
to relief
of their
own suffering. One of
the college
students who worked in the
laboratory was beaten by
a crowd
as he
walked through town. He died the
same evening.
Suddenly, the scientists felt themselves standing apart, pariahs
among their own people. They
debated whether to take the allotment.
They asked themselves over and
over if they were tempted to
take it because they shared
the same
animal greed that gripped
the whole
town, or if genuine altruism prodded them to accept.
Dr. Adams met their arguments. "You accept,"
he said,
"or everything we fought
for is
worthless. You can stand the
hate of the townspeople.
Scientists have done it before,
and it's a small sacrifice so
long as you can continue
your work. Those of us who
are supporting
you believe
in that
work. Now get on with it,
and let's
not have
any more
of these
ridiculous arguments!"
The suggestion of physical means of
precipitating the dust came like a
burst of light to the
entire group as they began to examine the possibilities.
Within a week, they had
determined there was indeed
a broad
range of supersonic frequencies
capable of precipitating the dust.
The night Professor Maddox and his
companions came home to announce their
success they were met with
the news that Mrs. Larsen was
ill. During the day, she
had developed a high temperature with severe pains in
her body.
Professor Larsen was deeply
worried. "She's never been ill like
this before."
Ken was sent for Dr. Adams,
but the
latter did not come for almost
2 hours. When he
did arrive,
they were shocked by his appearance.
His face
was lined
and hollow
with exhaustion, beyond anything they
had seen
as long
as they
had known him. He
looked as if he were
on the
verge of illness himself.
He brushed away their
personal questions and examined Mrs. Larsen, rather perfunctorily, they thought. However there was no hesitation as he announced his
diagnosis. "It's the sixteenth
case I've seen today. Over a
hundred and fifty this week. We've got an epidemic
of flu
on our
hands. It's no mild, patty-caking kind, either. It's as
virulent as any that's ever been
experienced!"
Mrs. Maddox uttered a
low cry
of despair.
"How much more must we be
called upon to endure?"
No one answered. Dr. Adams rummaged
in his
bag. "I have vaccine for all
of you.
I don't
know how much good it
will do against this
brand of bug that's loose
now, but we can give it
a chance."
"Is everyone in town
getting it?" Professor Maddox asked.
Dr. Adams snorted. "Do you think
we keep
supplies of everything in emergency proportions?
College Hill gets it. Nobody else."
"We can't go on taking from
everyone else like this!" protested Mrs. Maddox. "They
have as much right to
it as
we. There should be a lottery
or something
to determine
who gets the vaccine."
"Hilliard's orders," said Dr.
Adams. "Besides, we've settled all
this. You first, Ken."
For a few days after the
battle with the nomads, it
had seemed as if the common
terror had welded all of
Mayfield into an impregnable unit. There
was a
sense of having stood against all that man and
nature could offer, and of
having won out against it. However,
the penetrating
reality of impending competition
among themselves for the necessities
of life,
for the
very right to live, had
begun to shatter the bonds that
held the townspeople as one.
The killing of the
college student in protest against
the partiality to College
Hill was the first blast
that ripped their unity. Some protested
openly against the viciousness of it, but most seemed
beyond caring.
There were
two events of note
in the
days following. The first was a
spontaneous, almost valley-wide resurgence of memory of Granny Wicks
and her
warnings. Everything she had said had
come true. The feeling swept
Mayfield that here in their very
midst was an oracle of
truth who had been almost wholly ignored.
There was nothing they needed to know so much
as the
outcome of events with respect to themselves and to
the town
as a
whole.
Almost overnight, streams of
visitors began to pour toward the home for the
aged where Granny lived. When
they came, she smiled
knowingly and contentedly, as if
she had been expecting them, waiting
for them.
Obligingly, and with the peaceful aura
of omniscience,
she took
them into her parlor and told
them of things to come.
At the same time, Frank Meggs
felt new stirrings within him. He sensed that he
had been
utterly and completely right in all
his years
of criticism
of those
who managed
the affairs of Mayfield. The present
condition of things proved it. The town was in
utter chaos, its means of
survival all but destroyed. Incompetently, its leaders bumbled along,
not caring for the
mass of the people, bestowing
the people's
goods on the leaders'
favorites. He began saying these
Slings
on the streets. He got a
box, and used it for
a platform,
and he
shouted from the street corners
that the leaders were corrupt, and
none of them were safe
unless College Hill and City Hall
were wiped out. He said
that he would be a better
mayor than anyone else in
Mayfield.
He had listeners. They gathered on
the corners
in the
daytime, and they listened
at night
by the
light of flaming torches. Many people
began to believe that he
was right.
A week after
Mrs. Larsen's illness, it was
evident beyond all doubt that Mayfield
was the
victim of a killer epidemic.
Mayor Hilliard himself was
stricken, and he sent word
that he wanted Professor Maddox, Ken,
and Dr.
Larsen to come to his bedside.
He was like
a feeble
old man
when they arrived. All the
fire and the life
had gone
from his eyes, but he
brightened a litde as they came
into the room.
"At least you are still alive,"
he said
gruffly. "I just wanted to make
sure of that fact, and
I wanted
to have
a final
understanding that it's
soaked into your thick heads
that nothing is to interfere with
your own survival."
"We hope you re not overestimating
our worth,"
said Professor Maddox.
"I don't know
whether I am or not!
All I
know is that if you're not
worth saving then nobody is.
So, if
this town is going to die,
you are
going to be the last
ones left alive, and if you
don't give me your word
on this
right now I'll come back and
haunt you every minute you
do survive!"
"In order to haunt, you have
to be
in the
proper realm," said Professor
Maddox, attempting a joke.
Mayor Hilliard sighed.
"I think I can take
care of that, too. I'm beat.
You're close to it, but
you've got to hang on.
Carry on with your
work on the hill. One
thing more: This fellow Meggs has
got to
be crushed
like a worm. When I
go, there won't be
any election.
Johnson is taking over and
he'll look out for
you, the same as I
have done."
"You're going to be all right!"
said Professor Maddox. "You'll
be up
on your
feet in another week!"
The Mayor seemed
not to
have heard him. He was
staring at the ceiling, and there
was an
amused smile at the comers
of his lips. "Ain't Mother Nature
a funny
old gal,
though?" he said. "She's
planned this to work out
just right, and I think it's
another of old Doc Aylesworth's
signs that May-field and College
Hill are going to five,
so that
the rest
of the world will, too. It
may get
knocked pretty flat, but it's
going to get up
again."
"What are you talking about?" said Ken.
"The invasion of the
nomads, and then this flu. Don't you see it? First we
get our
food supply knocked out, and
now old Mamma Nature is going
to cut
the population
down to match it. We tried
to figure
out who
was going
to eat
and who was going to starve,
and now
it's going to be all
figured out for us.
"Balance of nature, or something, you scientists call it,
don't you?"
He glanced
up at
the professors
and Ken.
"It's a wonderful thing," he said,
"just absolutely wonderful!"
Chapter 18 Witchcraft
I |
hree days later, Mayor Hilliard
died. It was on the
same day that Maria's mother was
buried. Maria had watched her mother
day and
night, losing strength and finally lapsing
into a coma from which
she never emerged.
Maria and her
father did their best to
control their grief, to see it
as only
another part of the immense
reservoir of grief all about them.
When they were alone in
their section of the house they
gave way to the loss
and the
loneliness they felt.
There were no
burial services. The deaths had
mounted to at least a score
daily. No coffins were available.
Each family dug its own shallow
graves in the frozen ground
of the cemetery. Sheriff Johnson posted
men to
help, and to see that graves
were at least deep enough
to cover
the bodies. Beyond this, nothing more
could be done. Only Dr. Aylesworth
came daily to hold prayer
services. It was litde enough to
do, but
it was
all there
was left
for him.
When the death
of Mayor
Hilliard became known, Sheriff Johnson called an immediate session
of the
councilmen and announced himself as Hilliard's
successor. Visitors were
invited, and Professor Maddox thought it
of sufficient
importance to attend.
The tension in
the air
was heavy
as the
group sat in thick coats in the unheated hall.
Johnson spoke without preliminaries. "There are some of
you who
won't like this," he said. "Our
town charter calls for an
emergency election in case of the
Mayor's death, and some of
you think
we should
have one now.
"So do those out there." He waved a hand
toward the window and the town
beyond. "However, we're not going
to have an election,
and I'll
tell you why. I know
the man
who would win it
and you
do, too.
Frank Meggs.
"He hated Hilliard, he hates us,
and he
hates this town, and he'll do
everything in his power to
destroy it. Today he would win
an election
if it
were held. He's used the
discomfort of the people to
stir them to a frenzy against Hil-liard's policy of protection for College Hill. He'll
stir them up against anything that
means a sacrifice of present
safety for long-range survival. Meggs is
a dangerous
man.
"Maybe this isn't the way it
ought to be done, but
I don't
know any other way.
When this is all over
there will be time enough for elections, and if
I don't
step down you can shoot
me or run me out of
the country
or anything
else you like. For the time
being, though, this is the
way things
are going
to be. It's what Hilliard wanted,
and I've
got his
written word if any of you
care to see it."
He looked about challengingly.
There was a scuffling of
feet. Some councilmen looked at their neighbors
and back
again to the Sheriff.
None stood up to speak,
nor did
any of the visitors
voice objections, although several of
Frank Meggs' lieutenants were in the
group.
"We'll carry on, then," Sheriff Johnson
said, "just as before. Food rations
will remain as they are.
We don't
know how many of
us there
will be after this epidemic
is over. Maybe none of us
will be here by spring;
we can
only wait and see."
Although his assumption of power was
accepted docilely by the Council, it
sparked a furor among the
populace of Mayfield. Frank Meggs fanned
it with
all the
strength of his hatred for the
town and all it stood
for.
Granny Wicks' f ortunetelling
business continued to grow. Considerations had been
given to the desirability of putting a stop to
it, but
this would have meant literally
imprisoning her, and, it
was reasoned,
this would stir up more
fire than it would put out.
Her glory was supreme as she
sat in
an old
rocker in the cottage where she
lived. Lines of visitors waited
all day
at her door. Inside, she was
wrapped in a blanket and
wore an ancient shawl on her
head against the cold of
the faintly
heated room. She cackled
in her
high-pitched voice with hysterical glee.
To those who came, her words
were solemn pronouncements of eternal
truth. To anyone else it
would have been sheer mumbo jumbo,
but her
believers went away in ecstasy
after carefully copying her
words. They spent hours at
home trying to read great meanings
into her senile nonsense.
It was quite a time before
Frank Meggs realized the power that
lay in
the old
woman, and he berated himself
for not recognizing it earlier. When he
finally did go to see
her, he was not
disappointed. It was easy to
understand how she, with her ancient,
wrinkled face and deep-black eyes, could be confused with
a source
of prophecy
and wisdom
in these times of
death and terror.
"I want to lead this people,
Granny," he said, after she
had bade
him sit
down. "Tell me what to
do."
She snorted and eyed
him sharply.
"What makes you think you can
lead this people?" she demanded.
"Because I see they have been
led into
disaster by selfish, ignorant fools," said Frank Meggs; "men
who believe
that in the laboratories on the
hill there can be found
a way
to dispel the power of the
great comet. Because they believe
this, they have persecuted
the people.
They have taken their food and have given it
to the
scientists. They have protected them, and them
alone, from the disease that
sickens us.
"You do not believe these men
can overcome
the power
of the comet, do you, Granny?"
Wild flame leaped
in the
old woman's
eyes. "Nothing can overwhelm
the power
of this
heavenly messenger! Death shall come to
all who
attempt such blasphemy!"
"Then you will give your blessing
to my
struggle to release the people
from this bondage?"
"Yes!" Granny Wicks spoke
with quivering intensity. "You
are the
man I
have been waiting for. I
can see
it now!
You are appointed by
the stars
themselves!
"I prophesy that
you shall
succeed and drive out those
who dare trifle with
the heavens.
Go with
my blessings,
Frank Meggs, and do
your great work!"
Elation filled him
as he
left the house. It was
certain that Granny Wicks would pass
the word
of his
"appointment" to all who
came to her audience chamber.
The way
things were going, it looked as
if that
would be nine-tenths of the
people in Mayfield.
The occupation of the Mayor's chair
by Sheriff
Johnson gave Frank Meggs a further
opening that he wanted. The
crowds grew at his
torchlight harangues. Even though one-third
of the
population lay ill with the
flu, the night meetings went
on.
"Sheriff Johnson has no
right to the office he
holds," he screamed. His appreciative audience huddled in their
miserable coldness and howled their
agreement.
"This is not the way things
should be done. Our charter
calls for an election
but when
will there be an election?
My friends, our good Sheriff is
not the
real villain in this matter.
He is but the tool and
the dupe
of a
clever and crafty group who, through him, are the
real holders of power and
privilege in this town.
"While we have starved, they have
been fed in plenty; while we have been cold,
they have sat before their
warm fires; while we sicken and
die of
disease, they are immune because the only supply of
vaccine in this whole valley
was used by them.
"You know who I am talking
aboutl The scientists who would like to
rule us, like kings, from
the top
of College
Hill!
"They tell us the comet is
responsible for this trouble. But we know different. Who has been responsible
for all
the trouble the world
has known
for ages?
Science and scientists! The world was
once a clean, decent place
to live.
They have all but
destroyed it with their unholy
experiments and twistings of nature.
"They've always admitted their
atom experiments would make monsters of
future generations of men, but
they didn't care about that! Now
they're frightened because they didn't
know these experiments would also destroy the
machines on which they had forced
us to
be dependent.
They try to say it is
the comet.
"Well, the world would have been
better off without their machines in the first place.
It would
have been better off without them. Now we've got
a chance
to be
free of them at last! Are
we going
to endure
their tyranny from College Hill any longer?"
Night after night, he repeated his
words, and the crowds howled their approval.
On College Hill,
morale and optimism were at
their highest peak since the appearance
of the
comet. On the roof of Science
Hall there was being erected
a massive,
30-foot, hyperbolic reflector whose metal
surface had been beaten out of
aluminum chicken-shed roofs. At its
center, and at intervals about the
bowl, there projected a series
of supersonic generating units, spaced for
proper phasing with one another in
beaming a concentrated wave of
supersonic energy skyward.
Power to this
unit was supplied by a
motor generator set constructed
of decontaminated
parts, which had been operating for a full week
without sign of breakdown.
Ken and his
companions had worked day and
night on the rough construction, while the scientists had designed and built the
critical supersonic generating equipment. In a solid, 24-hour shift
of uninterrupted
work they had mounted and tested
the units.
It was
completed on their second day of
work. Tomorrow it would be
turned on for a full week's
run to
test the practicability of such
a method
of precipitating the comet
dust.
Laboratory tests had shown it could
be done
on a
small scale. This projector was a
pilot model to determine whether
it would be worthwhile
building a full-size machine with
a reflector 250 feet
in diameter.
Ken's father looked completely
exhausted, but his smile was broader
than it had been for
many weeks. "I'm confident we will prove the
practicability of this
machine," he said. "After
that, we will build a
really big one, and we'll
tell the rest of
the world
how to
do it.
I don't
know how long it will take,
but this
will do the job. We'll
get them
to build
big ones in Tokyo
and Pasadena
and Stockholm,
wherever there's civilization enough to know how
to do
it; they
can decontaminate their own
metals and build new engines
that will run as
long as necessary. We've got
the comet
on the run!"
He hadn't meant
to give
a speech,
but he
couldn't help it. They were right,
and their
staggering labors were nearly over, in this phase, at
least.
They slept from
exhaustion that night. Ken was
awakened in the early-morning hours by
the glare
in his
bedroom window. He sat
up and
looked out. It seemed to
be a
very long time before be could
let his
mind admit what his eyes saw.
Science Hall was in flames, the
entire structure a mass of
leaping, boiling fire.
Ken ran from his room, crying
the alarm.
In their separate rooms, his father
and Dr.
Larsen stared stupidly at the flickering
fight as if also unable
to comprehend
the Vastness
of the
ruin. In frenzy of haste,
they donned their clothes and ran
from their rooms.
Maria was awake
as was
Mrs. Maddox. "What is it?"
they called. Then they, too, saw
the flames
through the windows.
The men ran
from the house, hatless, their
tousled hair flying in the night.
Halfway up the hill, Ken
called to his father, "You've got to stop, Dad!
Don't run like that!"
Professor Maddox came to
a halt,
his breath
bursting from him in great gasps.
Ken said,
"There's nothing we can do,
Dad."
Dr. Larsen stopped beside
them. "Nothing except watch," he agreed.
Slowly, they resumed their way. Behind,
they heard the sounds of others
attracted by the fire. As
they came at last to the
brow of the hill, Ken
pointed in astonishment. "There's
a crowd
of people
over there! Near
the burning
building!"
He started forward. A
shot burst in the night,
and a
bullet clipped the tree
over his head. He dropped
to the
ground. "Get down! They're
firing at us!"
As they lay prone, sickness crept
through them simultaneously. "I know
who it
is," Ken cried. "Frank Meggs. That crazy Frank Meggs!
He's got a mob together
and fired
the college buildingsl"
In agony of
spirit they crawled to the
safety of the slope below the brow of the
hill. "We've got to go
after Sheriff Johnson," said
Ken. "We've got to fight
again; we've got to fight all
over again!"
Dr. Larsen watched
the fire
in hypnotic
fascination. "All gone," he
whispered. "Everything we've done; everything
we've built. Our records, our
notes. There's nothing left at all."
They moved down
the hill,
cautioning others about the mob. Sheriff
Johnson was already starting up
as they
reached the bottom. Quickly,
they told him what they'd
found at the top.
"We shouldn't let the mob
get off
the hill," said Ken.
"If we do, we'll never
know which ones took part."
"There are as many down here
who would
like to be up there," said Johnson. "You can
be sure
of that.
We don't
know who we can
trust any more. Get your
science club boys together and find
as many
patrolmen as possible. Ask each one
to get
fifteen men he thinks he
can trust
and meet
here an hour from
now. If we can do
it in
that time we may stand a
chance of corralling them. Otherwise,
we'll never have a chance at
them."
"We can try," said Ken.
By now, others had been fired
upon and driven back, so
that the situation was
apparent to everyone. A great
many townspeople, most of
those well enough to leave
their houses, were streaming toward College
Hill.
It would be
futile to try to find
the patrolmen
at their
own homes, Ken knew.
They'd be coming this way,
too. He soon found Joe Walton
and Al
Miner. They mingled in the crowd,
calling out for other members
of the
club. Within minutes, all but two
had been
found. Word was passed to
them to carry out
the Sheriff's
instructions.
It was easier than they anticipated.
Within 20 minutes a dozen officers
had been
given the word to find
their men. At the end of
the hour
they were gathered and ready
for the advance.
The spectators had been
driven back. The armed men
fanned out to cover
the entire
hill in a slowly advancing
line. They dwindled and
became silhouettes against the flames.
At the top,
Sheriff Johnson called out to
the mob
through an improvised megaphone. "Give up your arms and
come forward with your hands up!"
he cried.
"In 10 seconds we start shooting!"
His command was
answered by howls of derision.
It was like the cries of
maniacs, and their drifted words
sounded like, "Kill the scientists!"
Bullets accompanied the shouts and howls.
The Sheriff
s men took
cover and began a slow
and painful
advance.
There could be
a thousand
mobbers on top of the
hill, Ken thought. The Sheriff's men
might be outnumbered several times over.
He wondered
if they
ought to try to get
reinforcements, and decided against
it unless
word should be sent down from
the top.
There was no way of telling
how the
battle was going. Gunfire was continuous.
A freezing
wind had come up and
swept over the length
of the
valley and over those who
waited and those who
fought. It fanned the flames
to volcanic fury.
Ken touched his
father's arm. "There's no use
for you
to stay in this cold," he said. "You ought
to go
back to the house."
"I've got to know how it
comes out up there, who
wins."
The cold starlight of the clear
sky began
to fade.
As dawn
approached, the flames in
the college
buildings had burned themselves out. But
the gunfire
continued almost without letup. Then, almost
as quickly
as it
had started,
it died.
After a time, figures appeared on
the brow
of the
hill and came down in a
weary procession. Sheriff Johnson led
them. He stopped at
the bottom
of the
hill.
"Was it Meggs?" Ken asked. "Did
you get
Frank Meggs?"
"He fell in the first 10
minutes," said Johnson.
"It wasn't really Meggs keeping them
going at all. They had
a witch
up there. As long
as she
was alive
nothing would stop them."
"Granny Wicks! Was she up there?"
"Sitting on a kind of throne
they'd made for her out
of an old rocking chair. Right in
the middle
of the
whole thing."
"Did she finally get shot?"
Sheriff Johnson shook
his head.
"She was a witch, a
real, live witch. Bullets wouldn't touch
her. The west wall of
Science Hall collapsed and
buried her. That's when they
gave up.
"So maybe you can say you
won, after all," he said
to Professor Maddox. "It's a kind
of symbol,
anyway, don't you think?"
Chapter J9
Conquest of the Comet
or the first time since
the coming
of the
comet, Ken sensed defeat in his
father. Professor Maddox seemed to
believe at last that they were
powerless before the invader out
of space. He seemed
like a runner who has
used his last reserve of strength
to reach
a goal
on which
his eye
has been fixed, only to discover
the true
goal is yet an immeasurable
distance ahead.
Professor Maddox had believed
with all his heart and
mind that they had
hurdled the last
obstacle with the construction of the pilot projector.
With it gone, and all
their tools and instruments and notes,
there was simply nothing.
As Ken considered
the problem,
it seemed
to him
the situation was not as bad
as first
appeared. The most important thing had not been
lost. This was the knowledge,
locked in their own
minds, of what means could
prevail against the dust.
Beyond this, the truly essential
mechanical elements for starting
over again were also available.
Art Matthews had
been very busy, and he
had parts
enough for six more
motor-generator sets. These
were decontaminated and sealed
in protective
packing. It would be only a
matter of hours to assemble
one of
them, and that
would power any
supersonic projector they might choose
to build.
And they could still choose to
build one. In the radio
supply stores of the
town, and in the junk
boxes of the members of the
science club, there were surely
enough components to build several
times over the necessary number
of generator elements. In
the barns
and chicken
sheds of the valley there was
plenty of aluminum sheeting to
build reflectors.
The more he
considered it, the more possible
it seemed
to take up from
where they had left off
the night
before the fire. There was one
important question Ken asked himself,
however: Why stop with
a replica
of the
small pilot model they had built
on the
roof of Science Hall?
As long as they were committed
to building
a projector
to test for effectiveness,
they might as well build
a full-scale
instrument, one that could take
its place
as an
actual weapon against the dust. If
there were errors of design,
these could be changed
during or after construction. He could see no reason
at all
for building
a mere
30-foot instrument again.
The greatest loss suffered
in the
fire was that of the
chemistry laboratory and its supplies
and reagents.
Materials for running tests on the
dust could not be replaced,
nor could much of their microchemical
apparatus. The electron microscope, too, was gone. These
losses would have to be made
up, where
necessary, by having such work
done by Pasadena, Schenectady or Detroit.
If the
projector were as successful as all
preliminary work indicated, there would
be little need for
further testing except as a
matter of routine check on
the concentration
of dust
in the
atmosphere.
Before approaching his father,
Ken talked
it over
with his fellow members of the
science club. He wanted to
be sure there was no loophole
he was
overlooking.
"Labor to build the reflector is
what we haven't got," said Joe Walton. "It would
take months, maybe a whole
year, for us to
set up
only the framework for a
250-foot bowl!"
"Getting the lumber alone would be
a community
project," said Al.
"That's what it's going to be,"
Ken answered.
"Johnson is behind us.
He'll give us anything we
want, if he knows where to get it. I
don't think there's any question
of his
authorizing the construction by the men here."
There was nothing
else they could think of
to stand
in the way of the project.
It had been
two days
since the fire, but Ken's
father still seemed stunned by it.
After dinner, he sat in
his old
chair where he used to read,
but he
did not
read now. He sat for hours,
staring at the opposite corner
of the
room.
Professor Larsen seemed locked
in a
similar state of shock. In addition
to his
wife's death, this destruction of their entire scientific facilities seemed a final
blow from which he could not
recover.
Ken recognized, too, that there was
a burden
these men had carried that no
one else
knew. That was the burden
of top-level responsibility for a major
portion of the world's effort against the "invader." It was
an Atlas-like
burden that men could not carry
without suffering its effects.
Ken approached them that evening, after
he and
Maria had helped his mother with
her chores
and had
gathered snow to melt overnight for
their next day's water supply.
"Dad," Ken said, "I've been wondering
when we could get started on
the project
again. The fellows in the
club are all ready to go.
I guess
most everyone else is, too."
His father looked
as if
Ken had
just uttered something absolutely
unintelligible. "Startl" he cried. "Start what? How can we start
anything? There's nothing left to
work with, absolutely nothing!"
Ken hesitated, an ache in his
heart at the defeat he
saw in his father's eyes. He
held out his hands. "We've
got these," he said.
He tapped
the side
of his
head. "And this."
Professor Maddox's face seemed
to relax
a trifle.
He looked at his son with
a faint
suggestion of a smile on
his hps. "Yes? What do you
propose to do with them?"
Carefully, then, Ken outlined the results
of his
inventory. "Art can build
up to
six engines,
if we
need them. We've got plenty of
electronic parts, and tubes big
enough to put 60 or 70
kilowatts of supersonic energy in
a beam.
We don't want to build a
little reflector again; we want
to put
up a full-scale instrument. When that's
done, build another one, and still
another, until we've used every
scrap of material available in the
valley. By that time maybe
we'll have some cars running and
can go
to Frederick
and other
towns for more parts."
Ken's father leaned
back in his chair, his
eyes closed. "If enthusiasm
could do it, we could
look forward to such a structure
the day
after tomorrow."
"Maybe enthusiasm can do it," said Professor Larsen
quietly. "I believe the
boy is
right. We've let ourselves despair too much because of
the fire.
We still
have the necessary principles
in our
heads. If Ken is right,
we've got the materials. The only
problem is that you and
I are
a pair of old, exhausted men,
without the necessary enthusiasm and energy. Perhaps we
can borrow
enough of that from these boys.
I'm in
favor of undertaking itl"
By the light of oil lamps
they planned and talked until
far past midnight. There
were still no objections to be found outside the
labor problem. When they were
through, rough drawings and
calculations for the first projector
were finished.
"Such a projector could surely reach
well into the stratosphere," said Professor
Larsen. "With the tremendous velocities of the
air masses
at those
heights, one projector should be able
to process
hundreds of tons of atmosphere
per day."
"I am wondering," said Professor Maddox,
"if we should not make the
reflector parabolic instead of hyperbolic.
We may disperse our energy too
widely to be effective at
high levels."
"I think not. The parabola would
narrow the beam to little more
than its initial diameter and
would concentrate the energy more than
is required.
With the power Ken speaks of, I believe the
hyperbolic form could carry an
effective wave into the
stratosphere. We'll make some calculations for comparison tomorrow."
They authorized Ken to speak with
the Sheriff
the following
day.
"I've been wondering when I'd see
some of you people," Johnson said bluntly.
"What are you doing about
the mess
on the hill?"
"My father thought maybe
you'd drop in," said Ken.
The Sheriff shook
his head.
"It's your move. I just
wondered if you had any
ideas, or if this fire
had knocked
the props out from under you."
"It did, but now we're ready
to go,
and we
need help." Briefly, Ken
gave a description of the
projector they planned to build. "Labor
is the
problem for us. If we
could have all the carpenters in town, and all
who could
be spared
from woodcutting and every
other activity for 2 or
3 weeks
I think we could
get it
done."
"You know how many men are
left," said Johnson. "Between the war with the
nomads and the epidemic of
flu, one-third of those
we had
when this started are dead.
A third of the ones left
are sick,
and quite
a few
of those
on their feet have to take
care of the ones that
aren't."
"I know," said Ken.
"You know how the people feel
about you scientists?"
"Yes."
The Sheriff stared
at him
a long
time before continuing. "It
won t
be easy,
but we'll
do it.
When do you want to
start?"
"Tomorrow morning. In Jenkin's
pasture, north of town." "How many men?"
"All the carpenters you can get
and a
hundred others to rustle materials and
tear down old buildings."
"I meet with
the Council
this afternoon to go over
work assignments. You'll have
your men in the morning."
The rest of
the day,
Ken and
his fellow
club members chose the exact spot
to erect
the projector
and staked
it out. They spotted the nearest
buildings that could be dismantled
for materials,
and made
estimates of how much they needed.
The following morning
they met again on the
site, and there were ten men
from town, in addition to
the college
students and others who
had taken
part in the research on College Hill.
"Are you all Johnson could spare?"
Ken asked
the group.
The nearest man shook
his head.
"They were assigned. No one else
would come. They think you
are wasting
your time; they think you can't
do anything
about the comet. A lot of
them are like Meggs and
Granny Wicks: they think you shouldn't
try to do anything
about it."
Ken felt a blaze of anger.
"Sometimes, I think
they're right." he said
bitterly. "Maybe it would be
better if we just let the
whole thing go!"
"Now don't get me wrong," the man said. "We're
on your
side. We're here, aren't
we? I'm
just telling you what they
say and think in
town."
"I know and
I'm sorry.
These other fellows will tell
you what we need done. I'm
going to ride in to
see Johnson."
The Sheriff was
not in
his office.
Ken was
told he had gone over to
the food
warehouse where rations were being
distributed. There was some
rumor of a disturbance.
Ken remounted his horse
and rode
to the
warehouse. As he approached, he saw
the lineup
before the distribution counter
was motionless.
In front
of the
counter, Sheriff Johnson stood with a
pair of revolvers in his
hands, holding back the crowd.
He glanced at Ken
and said,
"Don't tell me! I know
you haven't any workers out there
today. They're here in line,
trying to collect groceries
without working!"
"We're not going to work so
those scientists on the hill
can have the fat
of everything!"
a man
near the head of the line
shouted. Others echoed him with
cries of hysteria.
Ken felt his
disgust and disappointment vanish before
a wave of genuine fear. These
people had ceased to be
anything but frightened, hungry animals. Their capacity
for rational action had
all but
disappeared under the strains they had suffered. They were
ready to lash out at
anything that appeared a suitable target
for their
own hysterical
anger and panic.
It was useless
to expect
them to help with the
projector. The crew of
scientists and students would have
to do
it alone, no matter how many
weeks it took.
Sheriff Johnson, however,
had no
such thought. He fired a bullet
over the heads of the
crowd and brought them to
silence. "Listen to me,"
he said.
"I know you're sick and
hungry and scared. There's
not a
man or
woman in this valley who isn't,
and that
includes me and the members
of the Council, and those you
tried to burn off College
Hill.
"You don't know how good you've
got it!
You don't
deserve it as good
as you've
got. You people should have
been with those in
Chicago or in San Francisco.
You should
have known what it
was really
like to be suddenly cut
off from every ounce of food
beyond that which was in
your own cupboards. You should have
known what it was like
to fight day after
day in
the streets
of a
burning city without knowing why
you were
fighting, or having any hope
of victory.
"YouVe gone through your battle, and you've
won, and you're still here, and
there's food left. A lot
of us
are still
going to die before
the epidemic
is over.
We haven't
the medical means to save us
all. But some of us
will come out of it, and
every one has just as
good a chance as his
neighbor.
"That's not important. It doesn't make
much difference whether any one of
us stays
alive now, or dies in
50 years.
What is important is
trying to keep the world
alive, and that's what these scientists
are doing.
"While you accuse them of every
crime in the book, they
are the only chance
the world
has got
for survival!"
"They can't do anything about it!"
a woman
shouted. "They're just making
it up
to get
more than the rest of
us!"
The crowd started to take up
its cry
again.
"Shut up!" the Sheriff
thundered at them. "I repeat:
you don't deserve to be as
lucky as you are! But
you aren't
going to get out
of taking
your part in pulling things
back together again. Help is needed
out there
north of town, and you're going
to help.
"You help or you don't eat!"
A roar of
rage thundered from the group.
One man
stepped forward. "You can't
pull a thing like this,
Johnson. We've got guns,
too. We've used them before,
and we
can use them again!"
"Then you had better go home
and get
them right now," said Johnson. "My
men and
I will
be waiting
for you.
I suppose there could be a
lot more
of you
than there are of us, so
you can
probably shoot us down. Then
you can
eat all you want for a
month, and die. Go get
your gun, Hank, and come after
your rations!"
The man turned
to the
crowd. "Okay, you heard what
he saidl Let's go and get 'em!"
He strode away,
then tinned back
to beckon
his followers.
In the empty street before the
converted theater, he stood alone. "Come on!" he cried.
"Who's coming with me?"
The crowd avoided
his eyes.
They shifted uneasily and looked at Johnson again. "What
do you
mean?" another man asked. "About, we work or we
don't eat—"
"Come on, you guys!" Hank shouted.
"The assignments on the
projector will be rotated," said Johnson. "We'll
spare as many men as
we can
from everything else. Those of
you who
have been given assignment slips will get 3 days'
rations. When you bring back
the slips with a
verification that you
did your
job on
the projector
you'll get an assignment somewhere else until it's
your turn again. The
ones without verification on the
slips don't get the next 3
days' rations. That's the way
it's going to be. If there's
no more
argument, we'll get on with
the distribution.
"Hank, get down at the end
of the
line!"
By midafternoon, the scientists had their
full crew of sullen and unwilling
helpers. The Sheriff had sent
along a half-dozen of his own
men, fully armed, to see
there was no disturbance, but the
objectors seemed to have had
their say.
With a gradual
increase of co-operativeness, they did
the tasks they were assigned, bringing
up materials,
laying out the first members of
the great,
skeletal structure that would rise in the
pasture. Johnson came at the
end of
the day
to see how it was going.
He breathed
a sigh
of relief
at the
lack of disturbance. "It looks like we've
got it
made," he said.
"I think so," Ken agreed. "All
we have
to do
now is
see how many more of these
we can
get built
in other
parts of the world."
They spoke that
night to all the stations
on the
radio net, describing in detail what
they had begun, what they
were confident it would
do. Professor
Larsen's words were relayed to his
colleagues in Stockholm. They estimated
they could begin work almost immediately
on six
projectors. Others, elsewhere in
the country,
were quite probable.
In his conversation with Pasadena, Professor
Maddox warned, "We have
not yet
been able to make tests
with the big projector. Our only
work so far has been
with the laboratory models, but they
were highly successful."
"That's good enough for us," said
Dr. Whitehead,
director of the Pasadena work. "Everything
we've done here has failed so far. A direct
chemical approach seems out of
the question. We'll start with one,
but I
think a dozen projectors, at least, are possible
for this
area."
Pasadena also reported a new radio
contact with Calcutta, and promised to
pass the word on to
them and to Tokyo. When they closed down the
transmitter after midnight, Ken totaled the
number of projectors promised with
reasonable certainty of having the
promises fulfilled. There were eighty.
"It may take a year," his father said, "or
it may
take 10 years, but now we
know, without a doubt, that
we can
someday get our atmosphere
back as it was before
the comet."
ehapter 20
Reconstruction
n the twentieth of January the
comet reached its closest approach to
Earth. It was then less
than three million miles away. In
the realm
of the
stars, this was virtually a collision,
and if
the head
of the
comet had been composed of anything
more than highly rarefied gases it would have caused
tremendous upheavals and tidal waves.
There were none of these. Only the
dust. Ken arose at dawn
that day and went into
the yard
to watch the rising of the
golden enemy a little before
the sun came over the eastern
hills. He doubted whether anyone
else was aware it
was closer
today than it had been
before, or ever would be again.
He doubted
there would be much scientific interest in the event,
anywhere in the world.
In the observatory, he opened the
dome and adjusted the telescope to
take a few pictures and
spectrograms. He remembered when he had
done this, a long time
ago, with high excitement and curiosity,
and he
remembered later times when he had
looked up with a bitter
hate in his heart for the
impersonal object in the sky.
Now, he felt
nothing. He was aware only
of a
kind of deadness in his emotions
with respect to the comet.
There was no excitement
he could
find in today's event
of close approach,
which was probably the only
one of
its kind that would be recorded
in the
history of mankind. He wondered if he had lost
all his
scientific spirit that so momentous an occurrence could inspire
him so
little now.
Yet, he no longer hated the
comet, either. It was not
a thing that could be hated,
any more
than the wind when it leveled
a city, or the waters when
they drowned the land and the
people on it.
These things were beyond
hate. You could fight them,
but you never had
the privilege
of hating
them. That was reserved only for
other human beings. It was
because of the great, impersonal nature of their common
enemy, he thought, that people had
finally turned to fighting each
other. It was for
this reason that the people
of Mayfield
had turned their hate
upon the scientists. The questions
of food and privileges
were only superficial excuses.
After an hour's work, Ken left
the observatory.
The gassy
tail of the comet
was a
full halo of lighter yellow
hue, as seen directly along its
central axis. The darker yellow
of the core seemed to Ken
like a living heart.
The light spread to the dust
motes in the air and
curtained the whole sky with
shimmering haze. It bathed the
snow cover of the
Earth, and reflected its golden
image against the trees and the
walls of the buildings, and penetrated the windows.
It gilded
the stark,
charcoal skeletons of the ruins it
had created.
It spread
over the whole Earth and penetrated
every pore. Ken had a
momentary illusion that there was not
a particle
of substance
in the
world not permeated and illumined by
the comet's
fight. He felt as if it
were inside his own being,
through his vitals, and shining in the corridors of
his brain.
For a moment the old hate
returned. He wanted to shut
his eyes against that
omnipresent light and to run
with all his strength to some
secret place where it could
never penetrate.
He recalled the
words of Dr. Larsen that
seemed to have been uttered so
long ago that they were
scarcely within memory: "The
universe is a terrible place
that barely tolerates living organisms.
It is
a great miracle
that here in this corner of the universe living
things have found a foothold.
It does not pay
ever to forget the fierceness
of the
home in which we five."
There was no
closing the eyes against this.
He looked
again at the comet,
the representative
to Earthmen
of all
the fierceness and terror
that lay in outer space,
beyond the thin tissue of atmosphere
that protected man and his
fragile life. He would remember all
the days
of his
life that the universe might be
beautiful and exciting and terrible,
but whatever it was,
it held
no friendliness
toward man. It could destroy him
with a mere whim of
chance occurrence. Man had gained
a foothold,
but there
was a
long way to go to an
enduring security.
On the day
of the
official beginning of operation of
the giant projector in Jenkin's pasture,
there was a little ceremony.
Sheriff Johnson stood on an
improvised platform and with an impressive
gesture threw the switch that
officially turned the power into
the great
instrument. It had been successfully tested previously, but now
it was
launched in an operation
that would not cease until
the last trace of comet dust
had fallen
from the sky and was
mingled with the dust
of the
Earth.
Most of the townspeople who were
well enough to do so
turned out for the
ceremony. During the construction, a guard had been kept
to prevent
sabotage of the projector, but there had been no
attempts made on it. Now
the people
stood in the trampled
snow and ice of the
pasture, staring up at the giant
structure, with a quality of
near-friendliness in their eyes
and in
the expressions
of their
faces.
The Sheriff made
a little
speech after throwing the switch.
He thanked them for
their co-operation and thousands of
man-hours of labor, not
mentioning that it had been
obtained, initially, at the point
of his
guns. He praised the scientists and noted that conquest
of the
comet might never have been achieved
without the genius of their
men of
College Hill. He did
not mention
the attempts
to destroy
that genius.
"I think we
should all like to hear,"
he said,
"from the man who has led
this vast and noble effort
from its inception. He will
speak for all those who
have worked so steadfastly to bring this effort
to a
successful conclusion. Professor
Maddox!"
There was a
flurry of applause. Then it
grew, and a shout went up. They called his
name and cheered as he
stood, a figure dwarfed against the
background of the great projector
bowl.
Ken knew what
he must
be thinking
as he
waited for the cheers to subside.
He must
be thinking:
they have forgotten already,
forgotten the angers and the
jealousies and the fears, their attempts
to destroy
the small
kernel of scientific hope in their
midst. They had forgotten everything
but the
warming belief that perhaps
the worst
of the
terror was over and they had
lived through it.
'Tin grateful," Professor Maddox
was saying,
"for the assistance you have given
this project, although you had
no personal knowledge of what it
was meant
to do.
We asked
for your faith and
we asked
for your
confidence that we knew what we
were about, at a time
when we did not know
it even for ourselves.
We were
nourished and cared for at
your expense in order
that our work might go
on. It
would not have succeeded without you."
Ken realized his
father was not speaking ironically
but meant just what he said.
And it
was true.
The vengeful Meggs
and the
psychotic Granny Wicks had fought them
and incited
others who were frightened beyond reason. Yet there had
been Hilliard and Johnson, the Council, and many others
who had
supported them. There were those who
had built
the projector,
even though at the point of
a gun,
and at
the threat
of starvation.
All of
them together had made
the project
possible.
It was a
miniature of the rise of
the whole
human race, Ken supposed. More like
a single
individual with a multitude of psychoses, hopes, and
geniuses, than a group of
separate entities, they had
come to this point. In
the same
way, they would go
on, trying
to destroy
the weaknesses
and multiply their strength.
By the middle
of February
the flu
epidemic was over. Its toll had
leveled the population to a
reasonable balance with the food supply.
Whether Mayor Hilliard's ironic suggestion
reflected any real principle or
not, the situation had worked out in accord with
his macabre
prediction.
Ken had explained
the comet's
daily infinitesimal retreat and
there was a kind of
steady excitement in estimating how much it diminished each day. Actually, a
week's decrease was too small
for the
naked eye to detect, but
this did not matter.
Radio reports continued
to tell
of increased
construction of projectors throughout the world. Tests
were showing they were effective beyond
all previous
hopes.
The populace of
Mayfield was enthusiastic about the
construction of additional units. Two
more had been built, and
three others were planned.
Serious attention had to be
given now to the coming planting
season. Every square foot of
available ground would have
to be
cultivated to try to build
up stores for all
possible emergencies of the following
winter.
When the time
came for making the first
work assignments on the farms,
Professor Maddox and Professor Larsen
appeared to receive theirs.
Sheriff Johnson was in the
office at the time. "What are you two doing
here? You can get back to
your regular business,"
he stormed.
"We aren't that hard up for
farmers!"
"We have no regular business," said Professor Maddox. "The projector work is being
taken care of. Mayfield will
probably not be the
site of a university again during our lifetimes. We want to be
assigned some acres to plow.
By the way, did you hear
Art Matthews
has got
three more tractors in operation this
week? If we can find
enough gasoline we may be
able to do the whole
season's plowing by machine."
"You're sure you want to do
this?" said Sheriff Johnson. "Quite sure. Just put our names
down as plain dirt farmers."
Ken clung to
the radio
for reports
of the
outside world. The batteries were all
but exhausted,
but a
motor generator could be allotted to
the station
as soon
as other
work was out of the way.
In Pasadena, they told
him a
diesel railway engine had been successfully
decontaminated and put
into operation. Airtight packing
boxes had been designed for
die wheels
to keep them from
being freshly affected by the
dust remaining in the air.
It was
planned to operate a train
from the metropolitan area to the
great farming sections to the
east and north. A few essential
manufactures had also been revived, mostly in the form
of machine
shops to decontaminate engine parts.
Negotiations were under way to try
to move
the great
wheat and other grain
stocks of the Midwest down
the Mississippi River to
New Orleans
and through
the Panama
Canal to the Pacific
Coast cities. Oldtime sailing vessels,
rotting from years of
disuse, were being rebuilt for this
purpose.
Ken found it
hard to envision the Earth
stirring with this much life after
the destruction
that had passed over it.
In the civilized areas, it was
estimated that fully two-thirds of the population had perished.
Only in the most primitive
areas had the comet's
effect been lightly felt. Yet,
around the world, the cities were
stirring again. Food for the
surviving was being found. The
hates and the terrors were
being put away and
men were
pulling together again to restore their civih'zation.
Maria came to
the radio
shack to tell him dinner
was ready. He invited her to
join him for a moment.
"It may be possible for you
and your
father to return to Sweden
much sooner that we thought," he said.
Maria shook her
head. "We aren't going back,
now. We've talked about it and
decided to stay. It's as
Papa always said: Where so much
happens to you, that's the
place you always call home. More
has happened
to us
in a
year here than in a lifetime
back there."
Ken laughed. "That's
a funny
way to
look at it, especially after the kind of things
that have happened to you
here. Maybe your father is right,
at that."
"All our friends are here now,"
she said.
"All I can say is that
it's wonderful," Ken said with
a rising surge of happiness in
him. "I mean," he added
in sudden confusion, "I'm glad you've
decided this is the best
place to live."
He changed the
subject quickly. "Dad's even talking
of trying to start up a
kind of college here again.
We wouldn't
have the buildings, of course, but it
could be done in houses
or somewhere else. He
says he's been thinking a
lot about
it and considers it would be
our greatest
mistake to neglect the continuance of our education. So I guess you
can finish
school right here.
"Personally, I think all the professors
out there
trying to be dirt farmers just
got tired
after a couple of days
of plowing
and decided
something would have to be
done about that
situation!"
Maria laughed. "Don't
be too
hard on them. Papa told
me about the plan,
too. He says Sheriff Johnson
has agreed
to guarantee their pay
in food
and other
necessities. He's stepping down now, so
there can be an election,
but he's
demanding approval of that
program before he leaves office.
I don't think they
ought to let him go."
"He'll be re-elected," said Ken. "He's
on top
of the
heap now. I even heard old
Hank Moss chewing out some
guys in town for criticizing Johnson!"
Ken closed down
the transmitter
and receiver
for the
night. Together, he and
Maria walked to the house.
They stopped on the back porch
and glanced
toward the distant projector bowls reflecting
the light
of the
comet and of the sun.
Soon there would
be only
the sun
to shine
in the
sky. The Earth was alive. Man
was on
his way
up again.
Zke Author
Raymond
F. Jones,
a former radio engineer
and weather observer is the author of eight science fiction books and more than
one hundred magazine stories and novelettes as well as a considerable number of
articles in the scientific field.
His books in the Winston Science Fiction
series have won him thousands of teen-age
readers.
Zke Editors
Cecile
Matsciiat, editor of the Winston Science Fiction series,
is recognized as one of this country's most skilful writers and editors. She
has sixteen books to her credit, including the highly praised Suwannee River in the "Rivers of America" series.
Nationally known as a lecturer, an artist of great ability, Cecile Matsehat is
also an expert historian. With this varied background, she is perfectly suited
to select top science fiction authors and books to make this a balanced and
well-rounded series.
Carl
Carmer, consulting editor, holds an outstanding
position in the literary world. Author of Stars Fell on Alabama, he now edits the popular "Rivers of
America" series. Other of his books are Genesee Fever, For the Rights of Men, Listen
for a Lonesome Drum, and Windfall Fiddle.
for the %est in Science Tiction
look for
books with this distinctive
herald
Ant Men, The by Eric North
Geologists find living fossils in the badlands of Central Australia
Attack from Atlantis by Lester del Rey
An atomic submarine crew discovers the lost city of Atlantis
Battle
en Mercery by
Erik Van Lhln
Sim storms sweep Mercury and threaten man's existence
Danger: Dinosaursl by Richard Marsten
A treacherous big-game hunter leads an expedition back to the Age of Reptiles
Earthbound
by Milton Lesser
An ex-space cadet is forced to plunder ships he was trained to protect
Find the Feathered Serpent by Evan Hunter
Explorers in Mexico discover startling Mayan remains
Five
Against Venus by Philip Latham
A Moon-bound rocket crashes in the misty wilds of Venus
Islands in the Sky by Arthur C. Clarke
A teen-ager's adventures aboard a space station
Lost Planet, The by Paul Dallas
Two worlds on the verge of war
Marooned on Mars by Lester del Rey
A teen-ager on the first Moon-to-Mars expedition
Missing Men of Saturn by Philip Latham
A space crew is held prisoner by froglike men on Saturn
Mission to the Moon by Lester del Rey
Scientists make man's first journey to the Moon
Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver
A space-time machine hurls a 20th-century boy back to 50,000 B. C.
Mysterious
Planet, The by Kenneth Wright
A young captive on Planet X prevents Earth's destruction
Mystery of the Third Mine by Rob. Lowndes
Prospecting in the dangerous Asteroid belt
Planet
of Light by
Raymond F. Jones
A trip to another planet shows how the Universe can be saved from destruction
Rocket Jockey by Philip St. John
A space pilot battles Martians in rocket race
Rocket to Luna by Richard Marsten
A stowaway on a Moon-bound rocket proves his worth
Rockets
to Nowhere by
Philip St. John
Scientists establish a colony on the Moon
Secret of Saturn's Rings, The
by Donald A. Wollheim
A scientist proves his theories by means of a unique invention
Secret of the Martian Moons, The by
Donald
A. Wollheim
Scientists discover the secrets of Martian civilization
Son
of the Stars by
Raymond F. Jones
An interplanetary friendship brings Earth to the brink of destruction
Sons of the Ocean Deeps by Bryce Walton
Undersea terrors nearly thwart a project aimed at saving a continent
Star
Seekers, The by Mi I ton Lesser
A tale of a spaceship doomed to crash
Step
to the Stars by
Lester del Rey
The U. S. builds a space station
Trouble on Titan by Alan E. Nourse
A rocket experimenter discovers a plot threatening Earth's existence
Vandals
of the Void by
Jack Vance
A tale of space pirates
Vault
of the Ages by
Poul Anderson
Life 500 years after the flaming collapse of 20th-century civilization
World
at Bay, The by Paul Capon
Men from another planet attack Earth
HN C. WINSTON COMPANY
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