The 22nd Golden Age of Science Fiction Read online

The sun was setting and the long shadows of dusk reached across the world. Michaelson stood beside Craig. As usual, the scientist was excited.

  “The Ogrum presented a strange case of warped development,” he said. “Do you know what they were?”

  “Devils,” Craig grunted. He was not much interested in what the scientist was saying.

  “Chemists!” Michaelson said triumphantly. “Through some freak, nature developed a type of life that had the mentality to become excellent chemists but with little or no ability in any other line. The acid they used on the Idaho, the gas they had developed, everything points to the conclusion that they were chemists. From what was left of their hangar, their planes were made of plastics—not a piece of metal in them. Even the ruined motors looked as though they were made of plastics. The Ogrum knew nothing of the wheel, the arch, or of architecture, yet they were almost perfect chemists.”

  The scientist sounded very pleased with himself for having made this discovery. “If you had not destroyed their temple, we might have found out more about them,” he said accusingly.

  On the dawn of the next day the systematic destruction of the entire city had been carried out. Hundreds of grenades had been planted in the temple and it had been demolished.

  “Survival,” Craig said. “We’ve got to live in this world and it’s not big enough to hold us and the Ogrum. Certainly I destroyed their city. Some of them probably managed to escape alive. I’m not going to leave any rat’s nest where they can get together again.”

  “Well, you were right about it,” the scientist said. “The only thing is, I would have liked to know more about them.”

  “I know enough about them to last me a life-time,” Craig said bitterly. “Oh, hello.” The last was spoken to the girl who had emerged from below and had come to the rail.

  “Good evening,” she answered. She said nothing more but stood at the rail and stared into the gathering dusk. Craig was silent too.

  “I should have liked to know how they worked those silent plane motors,” Michaelson said.

  “Huh? What did you say?” Craig asked.

  “You weren’t listening,” the scientist accused. He adjusted his glasses and looked along the rail to where Margy Sharp was standing. “Ah. I see,” he said.

  “You see what?” Craig challenged, grinning.

  “I see that my presence not only is no longer necessary but is not wanted.” The scientist smiled and walked away.

  * * * *

  Dusk came down. Craig was never quite sure how it happened but somehow he and the girl found themselves closer together. “Margy,” he said, “about the water, in the life-boat—”

  “Oh, that,” the girl said. “If you’re worried about that, I’ve been talking to Mrs. Miller. She was awake most of the night the water disappeared. She says she isn’t certain but she thought she saw somebody crawl forward and help himself while you were asleep.”

  Craig sighed. All the time he had known he hadn’t taken the water. The important thing was for Margy to know it.

  “Look,” said Craig, gesturing toward the shore-line, “out there is a new world, new lands, new places, all waiting to be explored. It’s all ours, every foot of it, to be explored—”

  “Ours?” the girl questioned, and her voice was very low.

  “Yes,” Craig said. “What I mean is—Margy—Well, you once said we were two of a kind—and—”

  “I think,” the girl said calmly, “that Captain Higgins has the authority to make us one of a kind, if that is what you are trying to say.”

  “That,” Craig shouted, “is exactly what I am trying to say.”

  * * * *

  The dusk deepened into darkness. They were very close together now. Saying nothing, they looked toward shore, toward that vast, strange new land where no human foot had ever trod. It was in Craig’s mind that this strange adventure in time was almost over. Then, as he thought of the new worlds that his sons and grandsons would have the privilege of exploring, the thought came that adventure is never over—it is always just beginning.

  THE ACCIDENTAL MURDERS

  Amazing Stories, Feb. 1941.

  “No!” my uncle thundered. “I won’t pay you a hundred thousand dollars for these stocks. I won’t even give you a plugged dime for them. They’re not worth the paper they’re printed on.”

  “You’re mistaken there,” Agar interrupted, his voice waspish with hate. “To you, these stocks are worth double the price I’m asking for them. And you’ll damn soon find out what they’re worth if you refuse to buy them.”

  Dan North, my uncle, was not a person to let any man talk to him the way this fellow Agar was doing.

  “Get out of my office!” he snapped. There was a moment of silence.

  “All right,” Agar answered. “If that’s the way you want it, I’ll get out of your office. But before I do, I want to tell you the story of a man who broke a shoe string while dressing in the morning. The broken shoe string delayed him and he missed the train he usually took to the city. He caught a later train, which was involved in an accident and he was killed. Remember, North, for all you know, you may have a shoe string that is about to break.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that gibberish?” my uncle answered. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

  “It is now exactly 2:18 P.M., Wednesday, October sixth, 1940,” Agar said. “At exactly 5:21 today you will have a clearer understanding of what I mean.”

  His voice had changed. He was no longer blustering. He was talking softly, but there was ten times more threat in the suddenly assumed softness than there had been in all his bluff.

  He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “Do you know a man by the name of Samuel Winters?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know him,” my uncle answered curtly. “What of it?”

  “I tried to interest Winters in my proposition,” Agar said. “He practically had me thrown out of his office, just as you have done. At 6:27 today you will probably understand not only why I have called his name to your attention, but also why the stocks I have offered you are a bargain at twice the price I am asking for them.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Martha and I came out of the adjoining office where we had been waiting. Martha Brandon was my uncle’s secretary, and officially, I was his assistant. Really I was James Ellery, the sole heir to his millions. Just out of college, he was breaking me in to the world of business.

  “Damned crank,” my uncle was muttering as he came in. When he saw us, he roared at us to get back to work. His roar meant nothing. He was really very kind hearted, but he had roared so long it had become a habit with him. He wasn’t scared of cranks who threatened him with broken shoe strings.

  Martha was.

  “Jimmie,” she whispered to me. “That Agar—Jimmie, he intends to harm Mr. North.”

  I think this was the first time she ever called me Jimmie during office hours. If I had had my way, there would have been no office in her life, but I did not always have my way with Martha. Nor with my uncle either.

  “Oh, Agar is nothing but a crank,” I answered.

  * * * *

  That was what I thought, that Agar was only another crank. I wasn’t scared. Nor was my uncle. All afternoon he gave no indication that he even remembered Agar’s visit. But when we started to leave the office, after working a few minutes late, my uncle, after looking at his watch, suggested we walk down the stairs instead of using the elevator.

  He started down the steps.

  I saw him fall.

  He either tripped on a loose strip of metal attached to the edge of the concrete treads or he missed a step completely. He was right in front of us. He tried to catch himself, failed, and fell completely down the flight of steps, striking with his arms out in front of him. There was a brittle snap as he hit the landing.


  Martha and I rushed down to help him.

  “What happened?” I gasped. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “Don’t try to lift me,” he snapped. “No, I’m not badly hurt. Let go of my left arm.”

  I hastily released him and he got slowly to his feet, his face white with pain. Then I saw why he had told me to let go of his arm. His left arm hung limply at his side. It had been broken.

  “Jimmie,” he snapped to me. “What time it is?”

  I gaped at him, wondering if the fall had jarred him out of his senses.

  “Damn it, look at your watch!” he rasped.

  “It’s exactly five twenty-one,” I stuttered, holding up my wrist watch.

  Then I realized what I had said. Five twenty-one! The words sent a shivering chill through my body. “At five twenty-one today you will have a clearer understanding of what I mean!” Agar had said.

  I was colder than I had ever been in all my life. An accident had occurred. Obviously it had been an accident. It couldn’t have been anything else. But Agar had forecast that accident!

  “Take me to the hospital,” my uncle said grimly. “So I can get this bone set.”

  When I tried to question him, he shut up like a clam. He just wouldn’t talk. But it was obvious that he was thinking of something else far more than he was of his broken arm.

  I kept telling myself that Agar’s forecasting that accident simply had to be coincidence. It couldn’t be anything else.

  * * * *

  Hours later, after the bone was set and he was resting comfortably, Martha and I left the hospital. The newsboys were crying the early editions of the morning papers.

  “Accident at Suburban Crossing!” they were yelling.

  “Jimmie, did you hear that?” Martha gasped.

  I bought a paper. It was there on the front page.

  NOTED MANUFACTURER KILLED IN TRAIN CRASH

  Samuel Winters, 63, owner of a large manufacturing plant here, was instantly killed when the car he was driving was struck by a fast freight at a grade crossing.… The accident occurred at 6:27…

  CHAPTER II

  Death Strikes Again

  “It must have been a coincidence,” my uncle said stubbornly. “I can conceive of no other explanation.”

  He was as stubborn about it as he had been about remaining in the hospital. He had stayed overnight. The next morning he had told the horrified doctors that he was not a charity patient and that he would leave when he damned well pleased. He telephoned me to come and pick him up. Now, his broken arm in a sling, he sat at his desk and glowered at Martha and me.

  “Coincidence or no coincidence,” I blazed at him. “Agar said something would happen to you at five twenty-one yesterday. It did. You fell and broke your arm. He said something would happen to Mr. Winters at six twenty-seven. It did—”

  “But Agar didn’t say I would fall and break my arm. He didn’t say Sam Winters would be killed,” he objected.

  “Of course he didn’t,” I answered. “He’s too smart to tell you that Winters was going to be killed because he wouldn’t buy Agar’s worthless stocks. If he had told you that, you could have gone to the police and had him arrested for attempted extortion, and possibly for murder. He said something would happen. Something damn well did. He expected you to put two and two together and realize that you are next on his list.”

  “But my fall was purely accidental,” he answered. “And Winters’ death was an accident. I checked with the police.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you call it,” I blazed. “Samuel Winters is dead!”

  I was scared and I think he was, too. But he wasn’t prepared to admit it.

  “What would you recommend I do?” he questioned, after hesitating. “Buy those worthless securities?”

  “You might do worse,” I answered.

  “No!” he thundered. “That just shows your lack of experience. You can’t deal with extortionists by paying them off. They always come back for more. If I pay him off once, this fellow will bleed me for my last dollar. And remember my money will eventually be your money.”

  “I don’t give two hoots in hell about the money,” I answered. “It’s your life I’m thinking about. If you won’t pay him off, the next best thing is to get out of town. Stay away for several months. In the meantime I’ll hire a private detective and find out what is back of Agar.”

  He hesitated, looked thoughtfully at me and at Martha.

  “I think Jimmie is right, sir,” she said impulsively.

  His lips framed the word “Nonsense.” But he didn’t say it. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. I saw his face whiten as he listened. He didn’t say a word to the person on the other end of the wire, just hung up when the conversation was over.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  “Agar.”

  “Agar! What does he want now?”

  “He doesn’t want anything. He just said he had information that I was on the verge of making a very important decision. He strongly advised me to purchase his stocks before I made this decision.”

  “Do you suppose,” Martha whispered, “he knows that you are deciding whether or not to take a trip. Does he mean that decision?”

  “He didn’t say,” my uncle answered. “But his call made up my mind for me. Now I am going to take a trip. James, call the airlines and make a reservation for me. I’m going to the west coast. Agar will have the devil of a time finding me there.”

  * * * *

  Martha and I took him to the airport. We kept a close lookout for Agar, but he never showed up. Nor did we see anyone or anything that looked in the least suspicious. We put my uncle on the plane and returned to the office, where I started checking over the list of detective agencies in town.

  “Anyhow he’s safe,” I told Martha over and over again.

  “I hope he’s safe, Jimmie,” she answered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything. But I have the most terrible feeling that Mr. North is not safe.”

  * * * *

  Less than an hour later a messenger entered with a telegram. I got a sick feeling in my stomach when I saw it. When I opened it, my stomach seemed to tie itself into a knot.

  The telegram was from the airline. It read:

  “REGRET ADVISE YOU DANIEL NORTH AMONG THOSE KILLED IN PLANE CRASH THIS MORNING.”

  My uncle was dead. He had died in a plane crash. An accident!

  I stared at the telegram, refusing to believe what was written there. The office was silent, horribly silent. In that silence I could hear a man breathing heavily. I was doing the breathing. My heart seemed to pound suddenly, once, and then race madly. Martha had read the wire over my shoulder. She caught hold of the desk to keep from falling.

  I fought for control of myself. Who was Agar? Was he the devil himself. Had he reached out and waved his hand and had an airplane crashed from the sky? Had he been present in the stairway as an invisible force when my uncle tripped and broke his arm? Had he been guiding the car of Samuel Winters when it crashed into the train? Was he a fiend, a demon, a creature come up out of some dark hell? Did death itself obey him? Who was this monster? What incredible power did he wield? Had Satan been released—

  The office door creaked. I looked up.

  Agar stood there, his jet eyes glinting.

  He nodded toward the telegram in my hands.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see you have been informed, ah—of the accidental death of Mr. North. I appreciate that this is scarcely the time to take up such a matter, but perhaps you, as the heir of North’s millions, will now be interested in purchasing certain stocks from me.”

  This devil had come here. Before the story could possibly have appeared in the papers, he knew my uncle had been killed. And he had come to me. I choked. Cold sweat wa
s running down over my body.

  “Of course,” he said suavely, “I quite understand that you do not have control of North’s fortune as yet, but I feel quite certain that a person who is to inherit millions would have no difficulty borrowing a mere two hundred thousands dollars to take advantage of the splendid opportunity I am offering—”

  “Two hundred thousand!” I gasped.

  “The price has gone up!” he snapped.

  I was too dazed to say anything. All I could do was sit there and stare at the man. He stared back at me, distaste in his glinting eyes.

  “You have a shoe string that is about to break, Mr. Ellery,” he said.

  Martha moved then, around the desk to stand beside me. I scarcely noticed that she had opened a drawer.

  Agar said, “This young lady also has a shoe string that is about to break. Think that over, Mr. Ellery.”

  He had threatened me. Now he was threatening Martha, threatening us with a broken shoe string!

  No court would interpret his statement as a threat, but I knew it was. Death was hidden behind that broken shoe string that Agar mentioned, inexplicable, incredible death. Death looked out of Agar’s black eyes.

  As from a great distance, I heard Martha say, her voice hard and sharp. “Put up your hands, Mr. Agar.”

  My uncle had kept a pistol in his desk drawer. Martha had secured that pistol. She was pointing it straight at Agar.

  “I’m not pretending,” she said. “Either you put up your hands or I’ll shoot!”

  She was pretending, of course. She wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man. But Agar didn’t know that.

  Martha’s quick thinking had put him in our power. We had him! We could hold him long enough to find out what he was doing. Holding him was illegal, but to hell with the law.

  Her finger tightened around the trigger.

  Agar looked startled. He hadn’t been expecting to find himself looking into the muzzle of a gun. It jarred him, upset him, for a second. Then he started laughing.

  “I’m warning you I’ll shoot!” Martha said.

  Her threat only made him laugh harder.

  “No, you won’t,” he said. “Or if you try, the gun will either be empty or you’ll miss. One or the other. No, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m in no danger. I looked before I left the laboratory and neither death nor a decision point that leads to a death path are ahead of me this morning. I’m careful that way, very careful. So you might as well put the gun down. I’m in no danger, and I know it.”