Harl Vincent's "Terrors Unseen" from the March 1931 Astounding Stories was a curious mix of robot-gone-berserk science fiction and gangster story. "The Barrier", from the September 1934 Amazing Stories was another genre crossover: a spy story placed in an interplanetary setting.
A common plot of spy stories (including the real-life spy story used to frame Alfred Dreyfus) is that of a foreign agent who acquires military secrets from traitors working for the government. Vincent's twist was to have the foreign agent infiltrate a military research facility and steal the secrets directly from the scientist who was discovering them. In other respects, "The Barrier" is much like any other spy story. Although the foreign agents are Martians, they are not particularly alien, looking enough like human beings that the Martian leader could call himself Boris and pose as an Istrian. It was common in the science fiction of the time for beings from other planets in the Solar System to resemble human beings, and even (as in "The Barrier") to form romantic attachments with humans. However, a revolution in science fiction aliens was already under way.
Two months before "The Barrier" appeared, Stanley G. Weinbaum published his first story, "A Martian Odyssey", in the July 1934 issue of Wonder Stories. Weinbaum's Martians were emphatically not human beings; they were completely alien -- so much so, in fact, that the story's human characters weren't always able to understand their actions. During his tragically brief writing career, Weinbaum's alien landscapes in such stories as "Parasite Planet" and "The Mad Moon" would permanently transform the depiction of aliens in science fiction.
Which is not to say that science fiction writers stopped writing about human aliens. Vincent would continue to do so, and later writers such as Leigh Brackett, Ray Bradbury, and H. Beam Piper would continue to populate Mars with human Martians right up until the 1960s. In visual media, the need to use human actors to portray aliens would ensure that human aliens would remain the rule rather than the exception right up to the present day.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 6
This is the sixth and final installment of "The Barrier", a story by pioneering science fiction writer Harl Vincent. The story first appeared in the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, and has since passed into the public domain. This is the first time "The Barrier" has seen the light of day since its original magazine publication 75 years ago this month. The first five installments can be found here, here, here, here, and here.
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have foiled a plot by a gang of Martian spies to take over a secret military research lab on Long Island run by the reclusive scientist Daniels. However, the leader of the spies, a Martian aristocrat named "Boris", has fled the lab in his space car, holding Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons as a hostage, and with Canfield himself clinging to the outside. Peyton and Daniels decides to follow "Boris" in an aircab . . .
* * *
Bert would never have thought that Daniels could exhibit such activity as he did in the next few seconds. He grabbed a flash-light and scuttled down the stairs so fast the younger man could hardly keep at his heels. In the yard, he ran for the hanger with the agility of a youngster, lighting the way with his flash. Bert was puffing when they reached the half-demolished building.
Then Daniels was on his knees by a crumpled figure. The girl! Boris had not taken her after all. "Marian!" the scientist moaned, lighting her ghostly features with the flashlamp. "Lord, Peyton, he's killed her!"
Bert examined her hastily. "No," he declared. "It's only a swoon, and no wonder."
Looking over Daniels' aircab, he saw that Boris had slashed the tires of the landing gear and cut the rudder control cable. A fast worker, this Martian. They wouldn't be able to start for half an hour.
So they carried the girl into the house and stretched her on a divan in the drawing room. Daniels brought cold water and a sponge, and it was not long before she sat up and regarded the two men with wide, terrified eyes.
"Peter! Boris!" she exclaimed as soon as she was able to speak. "Where are they?"
Daniels explained gently and his doubt of the outcome could not be disguised. Bert's must have showed in his expression. Two spots of bright color flared in the girl's cheeks and she rose in terror and indignation.
"Why did you let him do this?" she stormed. "Boris already has complete plans of the war-machines; I was trying to get them away from him. Now -- he has started for Mars. Peter will freeze to death in the upper atmosphere -- or suffocate -- or --"
"Listen, my dear --" Daniels commenced soothingly.
"Don't dear me!" the girl snapped, and Bert saw that she was perilously near the breaking point. "If anything happens to him it's your fault -- it's --" She turned on Bert. "You too, Bert Peyton. He's your friend; you might have following him you--"
Then, womanlike, she buried her face in her hands and sank to the divan, sobbing hysterically.
Daniels regarded Bert helplessly.
From somewhere overhead came faintly the roar of a motor; it drew near, then faded away, drew near once more. It was Boris' space car. Bert's heart did a flip-flop. He thought of the barrier, then remembered it was cut off. Pete must have won out.
Recovering in a flash, Marian Persons rushed to the vestibule. By the time Bert and the scientist had joined her, she had the doors open and the porch lights on. Overhead they saw the flickering of landing lights; then a black shape swooped down out of the darkness and rolled to a stop with a screech of landing-gear brakes.
The nose of the space car was not twenty feet from the rickety steps. Its entrance port opened and Pete Canfield climbed out, dragging the helpless Boris with him.
Speechless, the three on the porch watched as he moved painfully toward them with his awkward burden. An unconscious man is not the easiest load to handle, especially when the bearer is wounded and is freshly bruised and battered besides.
Marian waited, white and tense, while he dragged the Martian to where she stood. Pete dropped him in a bloody heap at her feet, then looked up at her with eyes dull and lifeless, jerking out his words in a gasping, tired voice.
"Here he is, Marian. You . . . can have him . . . if . . . you want him."
After which Peter Canfield sagged and fell prostrate across the Martian's inert form.
The girl swept down over him like a mother-bird spreading wings for the protection of its young, stroked his swollen cheeks, whispered anything into his unhearing ear.
Daniels threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.
* * *
An emergency call to Washinton, put through as soon as Daniels got the radiophone in working order, brought a score of stratosphere patrol ships. They darted about overhead, their lights twinkling like a swarm of fireflies.
Two of them landed, a Federation police ship and a hospital ship. Boris and the Martian who had been locked in the cellar were taken away, a thoroughly beaten and cowed pair. Boris would never look the same; after Pete's handling of him all the plastic surgery of the planets would have availed little toward restoring his altered features. Certainly his lady-killing propensities would be handicapped seriously.
Indeed, it seemed unlikely that he would again have opportunity to indulge those propensities. He was to be returned to Mars by the next space liner, and, in view of his performance after his arrest, it was expected he would have short shrift at the hands of his own kind.
For several hours the ether was hot with coded spaceograms. At first the Canal Cities Union of Mars disclaimed all knowledge of the plot, requesting that Boris be summarily executed. Boris showed his colors then, flying into a rage and revealing the hiding place of his own papers. That brought the Union to terms, since the Federation had proof of Boris' authorization for his nefarious work, in addition to many Martian war-secrets such as that of the paralyzing gas. They likewise had recovered the plans of the Daniels apparatus made by Boris' engineers. The inconceivable horror of interplanetary war was no longer imminent.
Boris had sealed his own fate. The Union's demand that he be returned to Mars a prisoner was readily, in fact cheerfully complied with. It relieved the Federation authorities from further liability.
Pete Canfield refused to be moved to a hospital. This old house just suited him for a convalescence, he averred. Bert, grinning, told the doctors it was the nurse and the privacy he craved. Marian, her beauty heightened by the ensuing flush, shooed Bert from the room where they had Pete propped up on clean white pillows, and slammed the door.
But the doctors came out smiling. Pete's wound was not at all a dangerous one, they agreed, even though the expanding slug from the Martian weapon had done considerable damage. His other injuries were superficial. And certainly, they could prescribe no tonic more effective than this girl.
* * *
Daniels was packing his laboratory equipment with a far-away look in his eyes. After several efforts to draw him into a conversation, Bert gave it up; already the scientist's active brain was at work on his next series of experiments.
All of which was as it should be. The only regret Bert had was that he had not seen the fight in the space car. Pete would never talk about it of course, but it must have been something worth seeing. To crawl along the landing gear struts of a speeding ship, to wrench oen the entrance port, to yank the pilot, a husky Martian, from the controls and beat him to a pulp -- that was a feat. To do it in a plunging, reeling vessel entirely out of control, then to prevent that vessel from crashing -- that was a miracle.
Having visualized it mentally, Bert grunted contentedly, then wandered out into the brambles to see whether his own little aircab might not be patched up and made to fly. The others might do as they pleased; he was going back to civilization; back again to the world of his own people.
THE END
(continue to Hitting "The Barrier")
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have foiled a plot by a gang of Martian spies to take over a secret military research lab on Long Island run by the reclusive scientist Daniels. However, the leader of the spies, a Martian aristocrat named "Boris", has fled the lab in his space car, holding Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons as a hostage, and with Canfield himself clinging to the outside. Peyton and Daniels decides to follow "Boris" in an aircab . . .
* * *
Bert would never have thought that Daniels could exhibit such activity as he did in the next few seconds. He grabbed a flash-light and scuttled down the stairs so fast the younger man could hardly keep at his heels. In the yard, he ran for the hanger with the agility of a youngster, lighting the way with his flash. Bert was puffing when they reached the half-demolished building.
Then Daniels was on his knees by a crumpled figure. The girl! Boris had not taken her after all. "Marian!" the scientist moaned, lighting her ghostly features with the flashlamp. "Lord, Peyton, he's killed her!"
Bert examined her hastily. "No," he declared. "It's only a swoon, and no wonder."
Looking over Daniels' aircab, he saw that Boris had slashed the tires of the landing gear and cut the rudder control cable. A fast worker, this Martian. They wouldn't be able to start for half an hour.
So they carried the girl into the house and stretched her on a divan in the drawing room. Daniels brought cold water and a sponge, and it was not long before she sat up and regarded the two men with wide, terrified eyes.
"Peter! Boris!" she exclaimed as soon as she was able to speak. "Where are they?"
Daniels explained gently and his doubt of the outcome could not be disguised. Bert's must have showed in his expression. Two spots of bright color flared in the girl's cheeks and she rose in terror and indignation.
"Why did you let him do this?" she stormed. "Boris already has complete plans of the war-machines; I was trying to get them away from him. Now -- he has started for Mars. Peter will freeze to death in the upper atmosphere -- or suffocate -- or --"
"Listen, my dear --" Daniels commenced soothingly.
"Don't dear me!" the girl snapped, and Bert saw that she was perilously near the breaking point. "If anything happens to him it's your fault -- it's --" She turned on Bert. "You too, Bert Peyton. He's your friend; you might have following him you--"
Then, womanlike, she buried her face in her hands and sank to the divan, sobbing hysterically.
Daniels regarded Bert helplessly.
From somewhere overhead came faintly the roar of a motor; it drew near, then faded away, drew near once more. It was Boris' space car. Bert's heart did a flip-flop. He thought of the barrier, then remembered it was cut off. Pete must have won out.
Recovering in a flash, Marian Persons rushed to the vestibule. By the time Bert and the scientist had joined her, she had the doors open and the porch lights on. Overhead they saw the flickering of landing lights; then a black shape swooped down out of the darkness and rolled to a stop with a screech of landing-gear brakes.
The nose of the space car was not twenty feet from the rickety steps. Its entrance port opened and Pete Canfield climbed out, dragging the helpless Boris with him.
Speechless, the three on the porch watched as he moved painfully toward them with his awkward burden. An unconscious man is not the easiest load to handle, especially when the bearer is wounded and is freshly bruised and battered besides.
Marian waited, white and tense, while he dragged the Martian to where she stood. Pete dropped him in a bloody heap at her feet, then looked up at her with eyes dull and lifeless, jerking out his words in a gasping, tired voice.
"Here he is, Marian. You . . . can have him . . . if . . . you want him."
After which Peter Canfield sagged and fell prostrate across the Martian's inert form.
The girl swept down over him like a mother-bird spreading wings for the protection of its young, stroked his swollen cheeks, whispered anything into his unhearing ear.
Daniels threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation.
* * *
An emergency call to Washinton, put through as soon as Daniels got the radiophone in working order, brought a score of stratosphere patrol ships. They darted about overhead, their lights twinkling like a swarm of fireflies.
Two of them landed, a Federation police ship and a hospital ship. Boris and the Martian who had been locked in the cellar were taken away, a thoroughly beaten and cowed pair. Boris would never look the same; after Pete's handling of him all the plastic surgery of the planets would have availed little toward restoring his altered features. Certainly his lady-killing propensities would be handicapped seriously.
Indeed, it seemed unlikely that he would again have opportunity to indulge those propensities. He was to be returned to Mars by the next space liner, and, in view of his performance after his arrest, it was expected he would have short shrift at the hands of his own kind.
For several hours the ether was hot with coded spaceograms. At first the Canal Cities Union of Mars disclaimed all knowledge of the plot, requesting that Boris be summarily executed. Boris showed his colors then, flying into a rage and revealing the hiding place of his own papers. That brought the Union to terms, since the Federation had proof of Boris' authorization for his nefarious work, in addition to many Martian war-secrets such as that of the paralyzing gas. They likewise had recovered the plans of the Daniels apparatus made by Boris' engineers. The inconceivable horror of interplanetary war was no longer imminent.
Boris had sealed his own fate. The Union's demand that he be returned to Mars a prisoner was readily, in fact cheerfully complied with. It relieved the Federation authorities from further liability.
Pete Canfield refused to be moved to a hospital. This old house just suited him for a convalescence, he averred. Bert, grinning, told the doctors it was the nurse and the privacy he craved. Marian, her beauty heightened by the ensuing flush, shooed Bert from the room where they had Pete propped up on clean white pillows, and slammed the door.
But the doctors came out smiling. Pete's wound was not at all a dangerous one, they agreed, even though the expanding slug from the Martian weapon had done considerable damage. His other injuries were superficial. And certainly, they could prescribe no tonic more effective than this girl.
* * *
Daniels was packing his laboratory equipment with a far-away look in his eyes. After several efforts to draw him into a conversation, Bert gave it up; already the scientist's active brain was at work on his next series of experiments.
All of which was as it should be. The only regret Bert had was that he had not seen the fight in the space car. Pete would never talk about it of course, but it must have been something worth seeing. To crawl along the landing gear struts of a speeding ship, to wrench oen the entrance port, to yank the pilot, a husky Martian, from the controls and beat him to a pulp -- that was a feat. To do it in a plunging, reeling vessel entirely out of control, then to prevent that vessel from crashing -- that was a miracle.
Having visualized it mentally, Bert grunted contentedly, then wandered out into the brambles to see whether his own little aircab might not be patched up and made to fly. The others might do as they pleased; he was going back to civilization; back again to the world of his own people.
THE END
(continue to Hitting "The Barrier")
Saturday, August 8, 2009
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 5
This is the fifth installment of "The Barrier", a story by pioneering science fiction writer Harl Vincent. The story first appeared in the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, and has since passed into the public domain. This is the first time "The Barrier" has seen the light of day since its original magazine publication 75 years ago this month. The first four installments can be found here, here, here, and here.
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have regained control of the secret research lab in Long Island from the Martian spies. However, the head Martian, "Boris", has escaped, and now both he and Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons are missing . . .
* * *
Daniels was pacing the floor like a caged animal; the shooting had unnerved him. But he looked much stronger. He laughed his relief when he saw them. For some reason Pete went berserk again when he faced the inventor.
"Want to know something?" he bellowed. "That fool assistant of yours has gone off with Boris. Neither of 'em in the house, and I've killed off the rest of Boris' gang with your cute little force gun. But the boss got away and she's with him; what do you think of that?"
"The -- the barrier?" Daniels stammered. "I hear the generator."
"Yes, it's operating again. But the grounds are large -- having failed in his schemne otherwise, Boris might kill her. Your fault, too. Dammit, man, how am I going to find her? It's dark as a pocket out there; not a star in the sky."
Daniels cringed and paled, then straightened suddenly.
"I've other tricks in my laboratory, Peter," he retorted. "You go out looking for them and leave your friend with me. We'll be able to help you from inside."
"Your tricks better be good." Pete took the pistol from Bert's hand and was gone on the last word.
Daniels scolded and muttered as they mounted to the third floor. Bert grinned despite the seriousness of the situation; Pete's rough talk had roused the older man to action.
Under his direction, Bert made short work of the manacles, using a tiny electric tool that cut through the steel like a knife through butter. The scientist lost no time getting to his apparatus. He made some adjustments of knobs and dials on a control board, and immediately the generator pitch altered, rising in frequency until it was barely audible.
"Guess he can see now," Daniels grunted.
Through the window Bert saw suddenly there was broad daylight. The scientist chuckled over his amazed exclamations.
"Merely a new heterodyning frequency on the wave producing the barrier," he explained quite unintelligibly. "The notes are at precisely the wave lengths of sunlight and there you have it -- within the barrier itself. And still the barrier is effective; it can not be penetrated from without, and only from inside by metallic objects that travel with considerable momentum."
"Hadn't I better join Pete and help him?" Bert asked.
Daniels' eyes twinkled. "Think he needs help?"
Bert gathered that these two understood each other rather well.
The spiteful spang of atomite sent Bert and Daniels to the window. Down there was Pete, limping to shelter behind a large tree, and Boris backing away about a hundred feet off with the girl held before him for protection. She was limp in his left arm and evidently had fainted.
Boris fired again and his slug tore a huge splinter from the tree trunk. Pete nursed his right leg as he crouched there in comparative safety. But he was wounded and he dared not return fire for fear of injuring the girl. For the same reason the watchers in the laboratory dared not use the force gun.
Pete pulled himself erect and Bert was relieved to see him able to stand. Evidently his wound was not serious. But Boris continued to back away, still using the girl as a shield. He was close by the ancient hanger now, and made a sudden dash for the door, dragging her limp body after him.
Daniels groaned: "His space car; I'd forgotten that."
"The barrier won't stop it?" asked Bert.
"No, and it's fast and it's heavy; it'll break through from inside. What can we do?"
* * *
Pete stumbled out from behind his tree and made for the hanger, exposing himself to the fire of the desperate Martian. Bert tried to shout a warning but his voice would not come.
Then with a roar of its gravity motors and the splintering of the rotted hanger wall, a slim tapered craft burst forth and taxied across the field out there. Only Boris' head showed at the pilot's port; he must have the girl in one of the sleeping cubbies.
Pete fired and they saw the slug from the atomite pistol spatter against the bullet-proof crystal of the port. The space car was almost upon him, its landing wheels just clear of the ground. Pete sidestepped swiftly as it lurched past, fell in behind and dived to the atmospheric rudder stays where he clung doggedly.
The space car gathered momentum and leaped for the brilliantly illuminated wall of the barrier. There was a ripping sound out there when it struck and the generator in the laboratory groaned as if suddenly overloaded. Bert saw the darkness of night in a great, black patch against the brightness, where they had torn through. For an instant only it showed; then the barrier was whole once more and uniformly brilliant, and as ever impenetrable from outside.
"Your aircab!" Bert babbled. "Is it in the hanger? We must go after them."
"Yes," said Daniels. "It's there, but it's too light to break through. I'll cut off the barrier."
He pulled the switch and the generator died. Darkness came down like a blanket outside, the natural darkness of a cloudy night.
(continue to part 6)
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have regained control of the secret research lab in Long Island from the Martian spies. However, the head Martian, "Boris", has escaped, and now both he and Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons are missing . . .
* * *
Daniels was pacing the floor like a caged animal; the shooting had unnerved him. But he looked much stronger. He laughed his relief when he saw them. For some reason Pete went berserk again when he faced the inventor.
"Want to know something?" he bellowed. "That fool assistant of yours has gone off with Boris. Neither of 'em in the house, and I've killed off the rest of Boris' gang with your cute little force gun. But the boss got away and she's with him; what do you think of that?"
"The -- the barrier?" Daniels stammered. "I hear the generator."
"Yes, it's operating again. But the grounds are large -- having failed in his schemne otherwise, Boris might kill her. Your fault, too. Dammit, man, how am I going to find her? It's dark as a pocket out there; not a star in the sky."
Daniels cringed and paled, then straightened suddenly.
"I've other tricks in my laboratory, Peter," he retorted. "You go out looking for them and leave your friend with me. We'll be able to help you from inside."
"Your tricks better be good." Pete took the pistol from Bert's hand and was gone on the last word.
Daniels scolded and muttered as they mounted to the third floor. Bert grinned despite the seriousness of the situation; Pete's rough talk had roused the older man to action.
Under his direction, Bert made short work of the manacles, using a tiny electric tool that cut through the steel like a knife through butter. The scientist lost no time getting to his apparatus. He made some adjustments of knobs and dials on a control board, and immediately the generator pitch altered, rising in frequency until it was barely audible.
"Guess he can see now," Daniels grunted.
Through the window Bert saw suddenly there was broad daylight. The scientist chuckled over his amazed exclamations.
"Merely a new heterodyning frequency on the wave producing the barrier," he explained quite unintelligibly. "The notes are at precisely the wave lengths of sunlight and there you have it -- within the barrier itself. And still the barrier is effective; it can not be penetrated from without, and only from inside by metallic objects that travel with considerable momentum."
"Hadn't I better join Pete and help him?" Bert asked.
Daniels' eyes twinkled. "Think he needs help?"
Bert gathered that these two understood each other rather well.
The spiteful spang of atomite sent Bert and Daniels to the window. Down there was Pete, limping to shelter behind a large tree, and Boris backing away about a hundred feet off with the girl held before him for protection. She was limp in his left arm and evidently had fainted.
Boris fired again and his slug tore a huge splinter from the tree trunk. Pete nursed his right leg as he crouched there in comparative safety. But he was wounded and he dared not return fire for fear of injuring the girl. For the same reason the watchers in the laboratory dared not use the force gun.
Pete pulled himself erect and Bert was relieved to see him able to stand. Evidently his wound was not serious. But Boris continued to back away, still using the girl as a shield. He was close by the ancient hanger now, and made a sudden dash for the door, dragging her limp body after him.
Daniels groaned: "His space car; I'd forgotten that."
"The barrier won't stop it?" asked Bert.
"No, and it's fast and it's heavy; it'll break through from inside. What can we do?"
* * *
Pete stumbled out from behind his tree and made for the hanger, exposing himself to the fire of the desperate Martian. Bert tried to shout a warning but his voice would not come.
Then with a roar of its gravity motors and the splintering of the rotted hanger wall, a slim tapered craft burst forth and taxied across the field out there. Only Boris' head showed at the pilot's port; he must have the girl in one of the sleeping cubbies.
Pete fired and they saw the slug from the atomite pistol spatter against the bullet-proof crystal of the port. The space car was almost upon him, its landing wheels just clear of the ground. Pete sidestepped swiftly as it lurched past, fell in behind and dived to the atmospheric rudder stays where he clung doggedly.
The space car gathered momentum and leaped for the brilliantly illuminated wall of the barrier. There was a ripping sound out there when it struck and the generator in the laboratory groaned as if suddenly overloaded. Bert saw the darkness of night in a great, black patch against the brightness, where they had torn through. For an instant only it showed; then the barrier was whole once more and uniformly brilliant, and as ever impenetrable from outside.
"Your aircab!" Bert babbled. "Is it in the hanger? We must go after them."
"Yes," said Daniels. "It's there, but it's too light to break through. I'll cut off the barrier."
He pulled the switch and the generator died. Darkness came down like a blanket outside, the natural darkness of a cloudy night.
(continue to part 6)
Friday, August 7, 2009
I'm open to falling from grace
Can't get enough embedded music videos? Neither can I. Here are Sneaker Pimps with their 1996 hit "6 Underground".
Thursday, August 6, 2009
BREAKING: Hillary Clinton born in Kenya!
BREAKING! BREAKING! BREAKING! BREAKING!
MUST CREDIT JOHNNY PEZ BLOG!
Shocking proof that Hillary Clinton was born in Kenya too!
Folks, this conspiracy runs deeper than anyone suspected!
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 4
This is the fourth installment of "The Barrier", a story by pioneering science fiction writer Harl Vincent. The story first appeared in the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, and has since passed into the public domain. This is the first time "The Barrier" has seen the light of day since its original magazine publication 75 years ago this month. The first three installments can be found here, here, and here.
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have discovered that Martian spies have taken over a secret research lab on Long Island. While the Martians eat a hearty dinner, Canfield has snuck into the laboratory, determined to turn its secret weapons against the spies . . .
* * *
The diners had come to the point of hilarity by the time Bert reached the first floor hall. It was evident that Boris and his men felt absolutely safe here within the invisible barrier which they kept in operation for their very security.
Creeping along the hall to the alcove, Bert secreted himself in the draperies. From here he had a view of the table and where sat Marian and Boris. The girl, flushed and smiling, had rested her hand in Boris' huge paw where the latter lay on the cloth.
It sickened Bert, yet he could hardly believe the girl was playing anything but a game. A desperate game, with their lives and the fate of a world the stakes. Pete, he knew, was consumed with jealous fury and was blinded to Marian's true motives. Being in love with her, that was probably natural for him. Bert could see the thing more clearly.
What a position! In this world of the twenty-first century, with all but five per cent of the population concentrated in the mechanized cities, to be out here, miles from civilization, beyond all hope of communication, off the regular air lanes and without radiophone or heliograph. It was a return to the primitive; Bert felt much as he thought a prisoner in the ancient encampment of savages might have felt.
They had to see the thing through, though, he and Pete. At the moment, Bert had no slightest idea as to how this was to be accomplished. But, if anyone could find a way, Pete could.
Up in the laboratory, Pete already was planning something. But could he, in a few short minutes, contrive to upset the carefully laid plans of Martian spies who had worked on the thing for months?
A move of Boris' cut short Bert's meditations. The Martian had leaped to his feet, tipping over his chair in his haste, and stood with his head cocked as if listening. Marian Persons went white with fear. A dead silence fell in that dining room. Bert missed something then -- the drone of the generator from above. Poor old Pete.
Boris roared like an enraged bull and dashed through the alcove. Afterwards Bert wished he had shot him through the heart as he passed, but, remembering Pete's instructions, he fired three shots into the floor instead. The sharp spangs of the propelling atomite and the thuds of three expanding slugs created something like pandemonium in the place.
Boris was on the stairs shouting. The lights switched off and the lower floor was in impenetrable darkness. Boris' men were falling over one another in their efforts to get out of the dining room, and a single, choking scream, from the girl, told Bert of her fright.
The men had gone then, clattering up the stairs, stumbling and cursing in the darkness, clumping about and yelling when they reached the floor above.
"Miss Persons," Bert called softly. "Are you there?"
"Oh-h!" she gasped after a little silence. "It's you, Bert -- I, I'm afraid -- the shooting and all -- what does it mean?"
Bert heard the rustle of her movements in the murky blackness; groping, he found her hand and pressed it reassuringly, even though he was mighty shaky himself.
"I'm not exactly sure," he told her. "But Pete's up there in the laboratory. I fired the shots to warn him."
The girl moaned: "They'll kill him, Bert. Oh, go to him -- go up there and help."
She was frantic in her fear for Pete. Bert knew then that he had judged her correctly and that Pete was wrong. He leaped to the stairs.
* * *
He could see nothing, but by clinging to the stair-rail managed to make progress. The sound of a single shot echoed from above, then a horrible gurgling cry followed by ghastly silence.
Panicky, feeling his way along the second floor hall, Bert was suddenly aware of heavy breathing and the padding of feet close by. He stopped short, listening. A man brushed by and he grappled with him, but his fingers slipped and the fellow scurried away. A shot from the atomite gun produced no result save mocking echoes.
Bert hesitated. What did the silence portend, and who had so furtively sneaked away? Where was the girl? He hurried to the second flight of stairs.
Light streamed down from above and he took these steps two at a time. Pete stood by the telescope-like instrument -- alone! He was swaying on his feet as if dazed. The air was sharp with ozone.
"Where are they? What's become of them?" Bert jabbered.
Pete waived his hand airily. "Gone," he proclaimed. "Melted into thin air -- by this force gun of Daniels'. They got in only one shot at me -- a miss. Then the energy from this. Horrible!"
Bert stared. No wonder Pete was dazed! There were no bodies. Nothing whatever in sight. Yet what he said must be the truth.
"H-how many?" stammered Bert.
"Five." Pete shook his head to clear it. "You got Boris down below, I suppose."
Bert started anew. "Boris! Why, he came up here. He was the first to reach the stairs down there."
Pete gripped his arm until he winced. "Boris wasn't here," he husked. "There were the four from the dining room and the other from the kitchen. Don't tell me Boris escaped!"
With his knees sagging, Bert told what had happened in the hall below. Boris had been the one who passed him in the dark.
Pete rushed to a wall-panel and closed a switch which set the generator humming -- closed another that lighted the lower floors.
"Dammit!" he rasped. "Why didn't I think of it? Know what he did? Boris hid back of his men till he saw what happened, then beat it. Well, he can't pass the barrier; it's operating again."
That cleared some things in Bert's mind. Humans couldn't pass through from inside -- only projectiles. And Pete had deliberately cut off the generator and the lights to bring the Martians to the laboratory, intending to take them prisoners but forced to slaughter them in self-defense. Suddenly Bert thought of the girl.
"Marian!" he exclaimed. "She's down there -- with Boris loose!"
"Good Lord!" Peter Canfield went white. In that instant his foolish jealousies were forgotten. "Come on, Bert!" he yelped, and was down the stairs like a streak. Unarmed! Bert still clutched the pistol in his sweating hand.
They searched the house from top to bottom but found no trace of Boris or the girl. Pete was like a wild man when they reached the cellar. Finally he stopped at the door of Daniels' cell.
"The keys, Bert," he demanded shakily.
(continue to part 5)
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have discovered that Martian spies have taken over a secret research lab on Long Island. While the Martians eat a hearty dinner, Canfield has snuck into the laboratory, determined to turn its secret weapons against the spies . . .
* * *
The diners had come to the point of hilarity by the time Bert reached the first floor hall. It was evident that Boris and his men felt absolutely safe here within the invisible barrier which they kept in operation for their very security.
Creeping along the hall to the alcove, Bert secreted himself in the draperies. From here he had a view of the table and where sat Marian and Boris. The girl, flushed and smiling, had rested her hand in Boris' huge paw where the latter lay on the cloth.
It sickened Bert, yet he could hardly believe the girl was playing anything but a game. A desperate game, with their lives and the fate of a world the stakes. Pete, he knew, was consumed with jealous fury and was blinded to Marian's true motives. Being in love with her, that was probably natural for him. Bert could see the thing more clearly.
What a position! In this world of the twenty-first century, with all but five per cent of the population concentrated in the mechanized cities, to be out here, miles from civilization, beyond all hope of communication, off the regular air lanes and without radiophone or heliograph. It was a return to the primitive; Bert felt much as he thought a prisoner in the ancient encampment of savages might have felt.
They had to see the thing through, though, he and Pete. At the moment, Bert had no slightest idea as to how this was to be accomplished. But, if anyone could find a way, Pete could.
Up in the laboratory, Pete already was planning something. But could he, in a few short minutes, contrive to upset the carefully laid plans of Martian spies who had worked on the thing for months?
A move of Boris' cut short Bert's meditations. The Martian had leaped to his feet, tipping over his chair in his haste, and stood with his head cocked as if listening. Marian Persons went white with fear. A dead silence fell in that dining room. Bert missed something then -- the drone of the generator from above. Poor old Pete.
Boris roared like an enraged bull and dashed through the alcove. Afterwards Bert wished he had shot him through the heart as he passed, but, remembering Pete's instructions, he fired three shots into the floor instead. The sharp spangs of the propelling atomite and the thuds of three expanding slugs created something like pandemonium in the place.
Boris was on the stairs shouting. The lights switched off and the lower floor was in impenetrable darkness. Boris' men were falling over one another in their efforts to get out of the dining room, and a single, choking scream, from the girl, told Bert of her fright.
The men had gone then, clattering up the stairs, stumbling and cursing in the darkness, clumping about and yelling when they reached the floor above.
"Miss Persons," Bert called softly. "Are you there?"
"Oh-h!" she gasped after a little silence. "It's you, Bert -- I, I'm afraid -- the shooting and all -- what does it mean?"
Bert heard the rustle of her movements in the murky blackness; groping, he found her hand and pressed it reassuringly, even though he was mighty shaky himself.
"I'm not exactly sure," he told her. "But Pete's up there in the laboratory. I fired the shots to warn him."
The girl moaned: "They'll kill him, Bert. Oh, go to him -- go up there and help."
She was frantic in her fear for Pete. Bert knew then that he had judged her correctly and that Pete was wrong. He leaped to the stairs.
* * *
He could see nothing, but by clinging to the stair-rail managed to make progress. The sound of a single shot echoed from above, then a horrible gurgling cry followed by ghastly silence.
Panicky, feeling his way along the second floor hall, Bert was suddenly aware of heavy breathing and the padding of feet close by. He stopped short, listening. A man brushed by and he grappled with him, but his fingers slipped and the fellow scurried away. A shot from the atomite gun produced no result save mocking echoes.
Bert hesitated. What did the silence portend, and who had so furtively sneaked away? Where was the girl? He hurried to the second flight of stairs.
Light streamed down from above and he took these steps two at a time. Pete stood by the telescope-like instrument -- alone! He was swaying on his feet as if dazed. The air was sharp with ozone.
"Where are they? What's become of them?" Bert jabbered.
Pete waived his hand airily. "Gone," he proclaimed. "Melted into thin air -- by this force gun of Daniels'. They got in only one shot at me -- a miss. Then the energy from this. Horrible!"
Bert stared. No wonder Pete was dazed! There were no bodies. Nothing whatever in sight. Yet what he said must be the truth.
"H-how many?" stammered Bert.
"Five." Pete shook his head to clear it. "You got Boris down below, I suppose."
Bert started anew. "Boris! Why, he came up here. He was the first to reach the stairs down there."
Pete gripped his arm until he winced. "Boris wasn't here," he husked. "There were the four from the dining room and the other from the kitchen. Don't tell me Boris escaped!"
With his knees sagging, Bert told what had happened in the hall below. Boris had been the one who passed him in the dark.
Pete rushed to a wall-panel and closed a switch which set the generator humming -- closed another that lighted the lower floors.
"Dammit!" he rasped. "Why didn't I think of it? Know what he did? Boris hid back of his men till he saw what happened, then beat it. Well, he can't pass the barrier; it's operating again."
That cleared some things in Bert's mind. Humans couldn't pass through from inside -- only projectiles. And Pete had deliberately cut off the generator and the lights to bring the Martians to the laboratory, intending to take them prisoners but forced to slaughter them in self-defense. Suddenly Bert thought of the girl.
"Marian!" he exclaimed. "She's down there -- with Boris loose!"
"Good Lord!" Peter Canfield went white. In that instant his foolish jealousies were forgotten. "Come on, Bert!" he yelped, and was down the stairs like a streak. Unarmed! Bert still clutched the pistol in his sweating hand.
They searched the house from top to bottom but found no trace of Boris or the girl. Pete was like a wild man when they reached the cellar. Finally he stopped at the door of Daniels' cell.
"The keys, Bert," he demanded shakily.
(continue to part 5)
Happy Cover Your Ass Day!
It was eight years ago today that the CIA presented President George W. Bush with a Presidential Daily Briefing entitled "Bin Laden determined to strike in US". According to Ron Suskind in his book The One Percent Doctrine, Bush, who was in the early days of one of his typical month-long vacations at his pig-farm-turned-"ranch" in Crawford, Texas, responded by telling his CIA briefer, "All right, you've covered your ass now," and going fishing.
One month and five days later, Osama bin Laden struck in the US. Bush, who was arriving at a Florida elementary school for a photo op, responded by going ahead with the photo op, reading to the children for several minutes, and then hanging around afterwards schmoozing with reporters. The Bush administration would eventually use the attack as an excuse to launch a massive surveillence program aimed at the American people, invade Iraq, and torture thousands of prisoners -- so that they could "protect us from the terrorists".
Just a reminder.
One month and five days later, Osama bin Laden struck in the US. Bush, who was arriving at a Florida elementary school for a photo op, responded by going ahead with the photo op, reading to the children for several minutes, and then hanging around afterwards schmoozing with reporters. The Bush administration would eventually use the attack as an excuse to launch a massive surveillence program aimed at the American people, invade Iraq, and torture thousands of prisoners -- so that they could "protect us from the terrorists".
Just a reminder.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 3
This is the third installment of "The Barrier", a story by pioneering science fiction writer Harl Vincent. The story first appeared in the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, and has since passed into the public domain. This is the first time "The Barrier" has seen the light of day since its original magazine publication 75 years ago this month. The first two installments can be found here and here.
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have discovered that Martian spies led by the aristocratic "Boris" have taken over a house in Long Island. The house hides a weapons research lab run by the reclusive Daniels and employing Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons. After escaping from a locked basement room, Peyton and Canfield discover Daniels chained to a pillar . . .
* * *
By clambering upon Pete's shoulders, Bert was able to detach the chain from the ring. But they could not free Daniels' hands, for the manacles were riveted fast. Pete cut the older man short when he asked for explanations.
"No matter how we got here," he breathed. "The trick is to get out and to take care of the mess upstairs. We haven't much time, so give us what dope you can. Then we'll make plans."
Daniels' eyes lighted hopefully, then glazed once more. "No use," he sighed. "There are too many of them; they are desperate, and I'm afraid for Marian Persons. I shouldn't have let her come here. I am responsible for her safety --"
Pete snapped, "We're thinking of that too."
"But you don't understand; she's in the power of this Martian. To save my life she agreed to marry him. I feel --"
"What!" exploded Pete. "She'd keep such a promise?"
Bert warned him to silence.
"No," said Daniels. "She probably wouldn't if things could be adjusted in some other manner. But that's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible." Pete was growing impatient. "Tell us all about it; we'll see what can be done."
The story came out in cautious whispers while Bert guarded the door with the atomite pistol. Pete, being an engineer of sorts, was the man to get the details. But it was all overheard by Bert, though much of it he did not understand at the time.
Pete's surmise had been correct. With war-clouds gathering from the direction of the red planet, the World Federation had sent Daniels and his corps of experts to this place, thinking it safe from spies. The Secret Service had not suspected Boris, but Boris and his men had come and slain all of Daniels' men. Now the Martian planned to steal all the Federation's armament secrets and return -- with Marian -- to his own planet. The case was hopeless, Daniels averred; there was no way they could get word to Washington -- or to any of the Federal authorities.
"Nonsense," scoffed Pete. "Tell us about this barrier and the other gadgets you have here. We'll work out a way."
It developed then that the Daniels experiments were mainly in the realm of vibratory waves and electronic forces. He had evolved a terrible energy projector which could destroy human life at enormous distances, or could be used to demolish a space ship or even a city -- it was an engine of destruction like none the world had ever seen, of greater range and power than any weapon of the Martians. Its operation was silent and its force ray invisible.
The barrier was composed of walls of electronic discharges, that could not be seen on account of the high speed and infinitesimal size of the particles. This was defensive armament; the largest atomite shells of Mars could not pierce it invisible armor when fired at it from outside the enclosure. Yet from the inside -- it acted like a check valve -- it was readily penetrated by metal objects traveling at high speed, so would not interfere with the fire of ordnance from within. The force gun, of course, could fire from inside as well.
The artificial darkness used by Boris' men when they captured Bert and Pete was another freak of oscillations or etheric waves which were of such frequency and characteristic, so as to neutralize exactly the vibrations of light, leaving an entire absence of it within their influence. By such means, Daniels explained, the entire space fleet of an enemy might be blinded and rendered helpless to prevent its own destruction by force gun or ordinary gunfire.
"No wonder Boris wants these schemes!" Bert commented.
Pete was not satisfied. "Sure you didn't sell out to Boris?" he asked the inventor.
* * *
Daniels was properly horrified. "Sell out! You must be crazy."
Bert saw that his friend did not really suspect Daniels of such perfidy; it was merely his bitterness over Marian's actions which prompted the accusation.
"I didn't mean it," apologized Pete. "But what about Boris and -- the girl?"
Daniels shuddered. "It was to save me, I know. Yet I wonder, when I see her yield to his caresses. At first I rebelled when she agreed to leave with him, but he would have killed me as he did my men. She insisted that I be imprisoned instead. Meanwhile Boris and his engineers are in my laboratory making drawings and calculations, solving the secrets from the apparatus itself."
"We'll put a stop to it." Pete's voice was grim.
Daniels turned a haggard face to his rescuers. A wan smile twisted his thin lips and he streched out his hands. Those irons! Without further speech or even a groan, Daniels pitched forward and lay still on the concrete.
"Fainted," Pete announced, when he had rolled him over and disposed his body more comfortably. "And no wonder -- poor devil."
There was still no sound from above except the incessant drone of the generator. Pete stood a moment in thought, his jaw set.
"We'll lick them yet," he muttered. "Get Daniels out of this, too. And Marian -- if she wants to get out. Let's go, Bert."
The locked the door of Daniels' cell, fearing he might stumble out and get into trouble later. He was in no shape to be of help.
A foolhardy undertaking this, but there was no alternative. Outnumbered by desperate Martians and with a single atomite gun between them, they were in a tight place. But much was at stake besides their own precious lives. They had to go on. Creeping stealthily up the stairs, they found themselves in the long hall of the first floor. It must have been just after sunset, for the deepening gloom made of the hall a nightmare of lurking shadows and strange shapes that kept them in constant expectation of a surprise attack.
Bert handed the pistol to his friend; Pete was the better shot.
Through an alcove they glimpsed a light, and merry voices reached their ears from that point. The Martians were dining. And Marian; her trilling laugh brought Pete up short and Bert grabbed him.
There were six at table, Boris at the head with the girl at his right, and four others of the Martians. Five to reckon with; probably more. At least one must be in the kitchen.
Boris rose with glass in hand, proposing a toast -- to his future bride. Pete growled and Bert dragged him away.
"Lay off!" he husked. "This gives you your chance to search the laboratory."
The second floor was deserted so they climbed to the third. It was from here the sound of the generator came.
An enormous, single room comprised the top floor and this was the laboratory, cluttered with apparatus. In a corner was the generator, of the high frequency type, and its musical note seemed hardly more noticeable here than it had been in the cellar.
Pete set about examining the mechanisms that were so mysterious and awe-inspiring to Bert. He handled them as if already familiar with their workings.
"Ah!" he breathed, after inspecting what looked like a telescope mounted on a radio transmitter. "The force gun -- may help us later. Here Bert, you take the pistol and go downstairs. Watch them from a safe distance and if anything happens or if they start up here, fire three shots as a signal."
Cold chills chased down Bert's spine, but the feel of the pistol gave him confidence and he turned to the stairs.
"Atta boy," Pete whispered. "A lot depends on this."
He returned to his examination of the force gun.
(continue to part 4)
As we join our story, Bert Peyton and Pete Canfield have discovered that Martian spies led by the aristocratic "Boris" have taken over a house in Long Island. The house hides a weapons research lab run by the reclusive Daniels and employing Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons. After escaping from a locked basement room, Peyton and Canfield discover Daniels chained to a pillar . . .
* * *
By clambering upon Pete's shoulders, Bert was able to detach the chain from the ring. But they could not free Daniels' hands, for the manacles were riveted fast. Pete cut the older man short when he asked for explanations.
"No matter how we got here," he breathed. "The trick is to get out and to take care of the mess upstairs. We haven't much time, so give us what dope you can. Then we'll make plans."
Daniels' eyes lighted hopefully, then glazed once more. "No use," he sighed. "There are too many of them; they are desperate, and I'm afraid for Marian Persons. I shouldn't have let her come here. I am responsible for her safety --"
Pete snapped, "We're thinking of that too."
"But you don't understand; she's in the power of this Martian. To save my life she agreed to marry him. I feel --"
"What!" exploded Pete. "She'd keep such a promise?"
Bert warned him to silence.
"No," said Daniels. "She probably wouldn't if things could be adjusted in some other manner. But that's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible." Pete was growing impatient. "Tell us all about it; we'll see what can be done."
The story came out in cautious whispers while Bert guarded the door with the atomite pistol. Pete, being an engineer of sorts, was the man to get the details. But it was all overheard by Bert, though much of it he did not understand at the time.
Pete's surmise had been correct. With war-clouds gathering from the direction of the red planet, the World Federation had sent Daniels and his corps of experts to this place, thinking it safe from spies. The Secret Service had not suspected Boris, but Boris and his men had come and slain all of Daniels' men. Now the Martian planned to steal all the Federation's armament secrets and return -- with Marian -- to his own planet. The case was hopeless, Daniels averred; there was no way they could get word to Washington -- or to any of the Federal authorities.
"Nonsense," scoffed Pete. "Tell us about this barrier and the other gadgets you have here. We'll work out a way."
It developed then that the Daniels experiments were mainly in the realm of vibratory waves and electronic forces. He had evolved a terrible energy projector which could destroy human life at enormous distances, or could be used to demolish a space ship or even a city -- it was an engine of destruction like none the world had ever seen, of greater range and power than any weapon of the Martians. Its operation was silent and its force ray invisible.
The barrier was composed of walls of electronic discharges, that could not be seen on account of the high speed and infinitesimal size of the particles. This was defensive armament; the largest atomite shells of Mars could not pierce it invisible armor when fired at it from outside the enclosure. Yet from the inside -- it acted like a check valve -- it was readily penetrated by metal objects traveling at high speed, so would not interfere with the fire of ordnance from within. The force gun, of course, could fire from inside as well.
The artificial darkness used by Boris' men when they captured Bert and Pete was another freak of oscillations or etheric waves which were of such frequency and characteristic, so as to neutralize exactly the vibrations of light, leaving an entire absence of it within their influence. By such means, Daniels explained, the entire space fleet of an enemy might be blinded and rendered helpless to prevent its own destruction by force gun or ordinary gunfire.
"No wonder Boris wants these schemes!" Bert commented.
Pete was not satisfied. "Sure you didn't sell out to Boris?" he asked the inventor.
* * *
Daniels was properly horrified. "Sell out! You must be crazy."
Bert saw that his friend did not really suspect Daniels of such perfidy; it was merely his bitterness over Marian's actions which prompted the accusation.
"I didn't mean it," apologized Pete. "But what about Boris and -- the girl?"
Daniels shuddered. "It was to save me, I know. Yet I wonder, when I see her yield to his caresses. At first I rebelled when she agreed to leave with him, but he would have killed me as he did my men. She insisted that I be imprisoned instead. Meanwhile Boris and his engineers are in my laboratory making drawings and calculations, solving the secrets from the apparatus itself."
"We'll put a stop to it." Pete's voice was grim.
Daniels turned a haggard face to his rescuers. A wan smile twisted his thin lips and he streched out his hands. Those irons! Without further speech or even a groan, Daniels pitched forward and lay still on the concrete.
"Fainted," Pete announced, when he had rolled him over and disposed his body more comfortably. "And no wonder -- poor devil."
There was still no sound from above except the incessant drone of the generator. Pete stood a moment in thought, his jaw set.
"We'll lick them yet," he muttered. "Get Daniels out of this, too. And Marian -- if she wants to get out. Let's go, Bert."
The locked the door of Daniels' cell, fearing he might stumble out and get into trouble later. He was in no shape to be of help.
A foolhardy undertaking this, but there was no alternative. Outnumbered by desperate Martians and with a single atomite gun between them, they were in a tight place. But much was at stake besides their own precious lives. They had to go on. Creeping stealthily up the stairs, they found themselves in the long hall of the first floor. It must have been just after sunset, for the deepening gloom made of the hall a nightmare of lurking shadows and strange shapes that kept them in constant expectation of a surprise attack.
Bert handed the pistol to his friend; Pete was the better shot.
Through an alcove they glimpsed a light, and merry voices reached their ears from that point. The Martians were dining. And Marian; her trilling laugh brought Pete up short and Bert grabbed him.
There were six at table, Boris at the head with the girl at his right, and four others of the Martians. Five to reckon with; probably more. At least one must be in the kitchen.
Boris rose with glass in hand, proposing a toast -- to his future bride. Pete growled and Bert dragged him away.
"Lay off!" he husked. "This gives you your chance to search the laboratory."
The second floor was deserted so they climbed to the third. It was from here the sound of the generator came.
An enormous, single room comprised the top floor and this was the laboratory, cluttered with apparatus. In a corner was the generator, of the high frequency type, and its musical note seemed hardly more noticeable here than it had been in the cellar.
Pete set about examining the mechanisms that were so mysterious and awe-inspiring to Bert. He handled them as if already familiar with their workings.
"Ah!" he breathed, after inspecting what looked like a telescope mounted on a radio transmitter. "The force gun -- may help us later. Here Bert, you take the pistol and go downstairs. Watch them from a safe distance and if anything happens or if they start up here, fire three shots as a signal."
Cold chills chased down Bert's spine, but the feel of the pistol gave him confidence and he turned to the stairs.
"Atta boy," Pete whispered. "A lot depends on this."
He returned to his examination of the force gun.
(continue to part 4)
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 2
This is the second installment of "The Barrier", a story by pioneering science fiction writer Harl Vincent. The story first appeared in the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, and has since passed into the public domain. This is the first time "The Barrier" has seen the light of day since its original magazine publication 75 years ago this month. The first installment can be found here.
As we join our story, Albert Peyton has joined his friend Peter Canfield for a visit to the Long Island laboratory of the mysterious Dr. Daniels. Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons works at the lab, and he became concerned when he suddenly lost contact with her. Upon arrival, they find their aircab's way blocked by an invisible barrier. The aircab crashes, and the two men find themselves in complete darkness. They soon hear the ominous rustle of things creeping up on them in the dark . . .
* * *
Then they were fighting these assailants in their blindness. Back to back with his friend, Bert struck out ineffectually, weakly. A man can't fight an enemy he can't see. Fingers of steel closed on Bert's wrists; a sweet odor assailed his nostrils.
It did not render him unconscious, that gas, but bereft him of the use of his muscles as completely as if he were paralyzed. He was helpless in the strong arms that lifted him and bore him away. Sounds in the blackness apprised him of Pete's similar treatment.
The distance to the house must have been short, but in Bert's condition of mortal funk brought on by the uncanny happenings, it seemed as age until their captors halted. There were snarled, unintelligible conversations and Bert was gripped the tighter as the one who held him waited.
A door opened. Light streamed forth from behind that door. Light, blessed light! Dazzling; the most welcome sight of Bert's lifetime. He laughed then, loudly and crazily; he was not blind. His captor shook him with violence.
Bert commenced to take notice of his surroundings.
They had been taken into the drawing room of the old house by their captors. With the effects of the gas still lingering, both remained docile and silent.
A powerfully built stranger was tying Pete hand and foot. Bert's captor, equally powerful of physique, was doing the same to him. His was the most repellent face Bert had ever seen. Close-set, yellowish eyes stared from it ferociously, and a livid scar extended from below the right eye to his chin, deforming both lips as it crossed the hard mouth -- a face never to be forgotten.
The one who had Pete in hand was as bad. They were a tough pair, strangely unhuman in appearance. What they were doing in Daniels' hideaway was as much a mystery as were the happenings outside.
An oily voice from the doorway broke in on them. "What is this?" it demanded in perfect English but with an accent Bert could not identify. "Whom have I the honor of welcoming as guests?"
The speaker was taller and of more aristocratic bearing than their captors but was obviously of the same nationality. He was a handsome chap and polished, like the titled sort so attractive to some of our more impressionable debutantes.
Pete growled in his throat.
"Will you be so kind as to answer my question?" the newcomer asked in measured, silky tones.
The captives were not deceived; sinister warning was in those glass-hard eyes.
Pete broke loose. "Who wants to know? I'd like to know who you are, what you're doing here. What in --"
His tirade ceased abruptly as the tall foreigner sprang catlike and struck him full on the mouth with his open hand. Bert saw the blood spurt from Pete's lips, saw him tug furiously at his bonds.
"Boris! Peter!" A feminine voice, shocked and imperious, cut through the tense silence.
Marian Persons! Attired in an incongruously luxurious peignoir, flushed with excitement, with wide open eyes, she faced the man.
* * *
"Why Boris," she quavered, "these are my friends; they can have done no harm. Release them at once."
She made as if to kneel at Pete's side, then thought better of it and laid a caressing hand on Boris' arm instead. Once more Pete Canfield growled in his throat, then he turned his head to the wall. The girl paled at the significance of the gesture.
"My dear," said the suave Boris, his gaze devouring her, "what you ask I can not do. For you I would do much, but these men have spied upon us. Our lookout upstairs captured them by cutting off the power from the energy barrier and dropping them through. They have learned too much. They must die."
"Oh no!" The girl caught at her throat, then let her hand creep up Boris' arm to his shoulder. "Please not, for Marian."
Amazed at this evidence of a close bond between the two, Bert coughed noisily to cover Pete's contemptuous sniff. Boris' hard eyes softened, looking into the girl's pleading blue ones. "Marian," he capitulated, "for you I spare their lives. But you must realize I can not free them; instead they shall be imprisoneed in the cellar until the thing is finished. Am I not magnanimous?"
The girl pouted a bit but accepted his dictum. She flashed a look at Bert he could not fathom, and at the same time was hugging Boris' arm with a great show of affection and gratitude. It was well that Pete Canfield kept his eyes averted.
Boris jabbered some orders to his men in an unknown tongue, then swaggered from the room with the girl on his arm. She clung to him as if he were lord of the universe.
Bert and Pete were locked in an empty, basement room which obviously had been a storeroom at one time. The door was of heavy oak, bound with iron straps. The place smelled of dry rot. It was as secure as a cell in Sing Sing. By good fortune they had been untied and their jailers had not cut off the power from the single electric bulb that lighted the room.
Pete was morose, and out of respect for his feelings Bert kept silence.
After staring long and unseeingly at his friend, Pete let loose: "Can you imagine a girl like Marian falling for the smooth talk of this duke or whatever he is? Within a few weeks after her promise to me, too! What a sap I've been!"
"A duke?" Bert could think of nothing else to say; he knew his friend was deeply hurt.
"That's what he claims. Marian and I met him in Miami during the summer, and he hung around her a lot. He's supposed to be an Istrian -- old Slavonic nobility -- but I have my doubts."
"Even so, what could be his game here?" Bert wrinkled his brow in increased puzzlement. "And where do you suppose Daniels is?"
"It's queer -- the whole thing. If Marian --"
"Martians!" The inspiration striking him, Bert interrupted.
"Eh?" Pete stared; his eyes brightened suddenly, then narrowed with determination. He had forgotten the girl temporarily.
"That's what they are, Boris and his men. Notice the coppery glint to their skin?"
"You're right. There have been rumors of a possible war with Mars, too. That explains it. The World Federation has had Daniels working on offensive and defensive armament. Boris is a spy."
Bert's jaw dropped. "The barrier, and the sudden darkness -- Daniels' secrets. They'll get them all."
"It's up to us to stop them." Pete was grim now. "We can't let them get away with anything of value."
Bert took stock of their chances. There was not a loose piece of anything in that bare room, not a scrap of metal or even lumber that might be used in an effort to force the massive door. They were helpless here. Besides, they knew Boris had at least two men at his command; quite likely there were others. If they could escape from the cell the odds would still be against them. Bert voiced his thoughts.
"Let's sit down and think it out between us." Pete was more cheerful; all thoughts of Marian Persons seemed to have left his mind.
For many hours they talked without reaching a solution. Through it all they were conscious of a droning sound that told of the operation of a large motor or generator somewhere in the house. Eventually the monotonous sound had its effect; Pete dozed off, and Bert was not long in following suit.
* * *
There were ghastly dreams, a genuine nightmare, from which Bert wakened and sprang to his feet. In the first flash of returning consciousness he saw that the Martian with the scarred face was in the room. That was no dream; the fellow was stripped to the waist, and his smooth, bronze body gave unmistakable proof of his nativity.
Pete was already crouched, as if for a spring at the brute, fully awake and itching to mix things with him. But an ugly atomite pistol in the Martian's hand was waving him down. In his other hand, he of the scarred face held a small tray on which was a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. Their dinner.
Mechanically, Bert reached for the tray. Then, reckless of consequences, he grasped the handle of the pitcher and swung the heavy container against the Martian's wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor and in that instant Pete was upon their jailer. Bert closed the door to muffle the sounds of combat and sprang to the assistance of his friend.
But Pete Canfield needed no aid. With his terrific short-arm punches he already had his opponent gasping for breath. That awful scar purpled and swelled as the brute tried savagely to get in past Pete's flailing arms. Finally losing all caution, the Martian dived in with lowered head.
That was all Pete needed. A long punch that started near the floor brought up with a crunch on the point of the scarred one's jaw. He went down like a sack of meal and lay there in a twisted heap.
Bert cheered excitedly. Then, remembering the danger, lowered his voice. "We're in for it now, big boy," he whispered.
Pete examined his knuckles ruefully, then chortled with glee as he picked up the Martian's atomite pistol. "This'll help though," he gloated.
It gave Bert a feeling of comfort to see the weapon in Pete's capable hand.
"What to do now?" he asked.
Pete had started for the door but turned with a sudden thought. "Get his keys, Bert. May need them."
The Martian groaned.
"We're boneheads," muttered Bert. "We should have gagged him."
Strips torn from the Martian's trousers provided an effectual gag; a coil of wire they found in his pockets secured wrists and ankles. A bunch of keys clipped to his belt found their way into Bert's hands.
Opening the door cautiously, Pete peered through the crack and pronounced the coast clear. They went out into the main basement and Bert locked up their erstwhile jailer. Pete had the atomite pistol in readiness for use.
"Sh-h!" he whispered, cocking his ear. "What's that?"
Bert heard a faint moan from somewhere near at hand.
Pete muttered huskily, "It's old Daniels!"
The scientist, in a state of near-collapse, was chained by his wrists to an iron ring set high in a massive pillar.
(continue to part 3)
As we join our story, Albert Peyton has joined his friend Peter Canfield for a visit to the Long Island laboratory of the mysterious Dr. Daniels. Canfield's girlfriend Marian Persons works at the lab, and he became concerned when he suddenly lost contact with her. Upon arrival, they find their aircab's way blocked by an invisible barrier. The aircab crashes, and the two men find themselves in complete darkness. They soon hear the ominous rustle of things creeping up on them in the dark . . .
* * *
Then they were fighting these assailants in their blindness. Back to back with his friend, Bert struck out ineffectually, weakly. A man can't fight an enemy he can't see. Fingers of steel closed on Bert's wrists; a sweet odor assailed his nostrils.
It did not render him unconscious, that gas, but bereft him of the use of his muscles as completely as if he were paralyzed. He was helpless in the strong arms that lifted him and bore him away. Sounds in the blackness apprised him of Pete's similar treatment.
The distance to the house must have been short, but in Bert's condition of mortal funk brought on by the uncanny happenings, it seemed as age until their captors halted. There were snarled, unintelligible conversations and Bert was gripped the tighter as the one who held him waited.
A door opened. Light streamed forth from behind that door. Light, blessed light! Dazzling; the most welcome sight of Bert's lifetime. He laughed then, loudly and crazily; he was not blind. His captor shook him with violence.
Bert commenced to take notice of his surroundings.
They had been taken into the drawing room of the old house by their captors. With the effects of the gas still lingering, both remained docile and silent.
A powerfully built stranger was tying Pete hand and foot. Bert's captor, equally powerful of physique, was doing the same to him. His was the most repellent face Bert had ever seen. Close-set, yellowish eyes stared from it ferociously, and a livid scar extended from below the right eye to his chin, deforming both lips as it crossed the hard mouth -- a face never to be forgotten.
The one who had Pete in hand was as bad. They were a tough pair, strangely unhuman in appearance. What they were doing in Daniels' hideaway was as much a mystery as were the happenings outside.
An oily voice from the doorway broke in on them. "What is this?" it demanded in perfect English but with an accent Bert could not identify. "Whom have I the honor of welcoming as guests?"
The speaker was taller and of more aristocratic bearing than their captors but was obviously of the same nationality. He was a handsome chap and polished, like the titled sort so attractive to some of our more impressionable debutantes.
Pete growled in his throat.
"Will you be so kind as to answer my question?" the newcomer asked in measured, silky tones.
The captives were not deceived; sinister warning was in those glass-hard eyes.
Pete broke loose. "Who wants to know? I'd like to know who you are, what you're doing here. What in --"
His tirade ceased abruptly as the tall foreigner sprang catlike and struck him full on the mouth with his open hand. Bert saw the blood spurt from Pete's lips, saw him tug furiously at his bonds.
"Boris! Peter!" A feminine voice, shocked and imperious, cut through the tense silence.
Marian Persons! Attired in an incongruously luxurious peignoir, flushed with excitement, with wide open eyes, she faced the man.
* * *
"Why Boris," she quavered, "these are my friends; they can have done no harm. Release them at once."
She made as if to kneel at Pete's side, then thought better of it and laid a caressing hand on Boris' arm instead. Once more Pete Canfield growled in his throat, then he turned his head to the wall. The girl paled at the significance of the gesture.
"My dear," said the suave Boris, his gaze devouring her, "what you ask I can not do. For you I would do much, but these men have spied upon us. Our lookout upstairs captured them by cutting off the power from the energy barrier and dropping them through. They have learned too much. They must die."
"Oh no!" The girl caught at her throat, then let her hand creep up Boris' arm to his shoulder. "Please not, for Marian."
Amazed at this evidence of a close bond between the two, Bert coughed noisily to cover Pete's contemptuous sniff. Boris' hard eyes softened, looking into the girl's pleading blue ones. "Marian," he capitulated, "for you I spare their lives. But you must realize I can not free them; instead they shall be imprisoneed in the cellar until the thing is finished. Am I not magnanimous?"
The girl pouted a bit but accepted his dictum. She flashed a look at Bert he could not fathom, and at the same time was hugging Boris' arm with a great show of affection and gratitude. It was well that Pete Canfield kept his eyes averted.
Boris jabbered some orders to his men in an unknown tongue, then swaggered from the room with the girl on his arm. She clung to him as if he were lord of the universe.
Bert and Pete were locked in an empty, basement room which obviously had been a storeroom at one time. The door was of heavy oak, bound with iron straps. The place smelled of dry rot. It was as secure as a cell in Sing Sing. By good fortune they had been untied and their jailers had not cut off the power from the single electric bulb that lighted the room.
Pete was morose, and out of respect for his feelings Bert kept silence.
After staring long and unseeingly at his friend, Pete let loose: "Can you imagine a girl like Marian falling for the smooth talk of this duke or whatever he is? Within a few weeks after her promise to me, too! What a sap I've been!"
"A duke?" Bert could think of nothing else to say; he knew his friend was deeply hurt.
"That's what he claims. Marian and I met him in Miami during the summer, and he hung around her a lot. He's supposed to be an Istrian -- old Slavonic nobility -- but I have my doubts."
"Even so, what could be his game here?" Bert wrinkled his brow in increased puzzlement. "And where do you suppose Daniels is?"
"It's queer -- the whole thing. If Marian --"
"Martians!" The inspiration striking him, Bert interrupted.
"Eh?" Pete stared; his eyes brightened suddenly, then narrowed with determination. He had forgotten the girl temporarily.
"That's what they are, Boris and his men. Notice the coppery glint to their skin?"
"You're right. There have been rumors of a possible war with Mars, too. That explains it. The World Federation has had Daniels working on offensive and defensive armament. Boris is a spy."
Bert's jaw dropped. "The barrier, and the sudden darkness -- Daniels' secrets. They'll get them all."
"It's up to us to stop them." Pete was grim now. "We can't let them get away with anything of value."
Bert took stock of their chances. There was not a loose piece of anything in that bare room, not a scrap of metal or even lumber that might be used in an effort to force the massive door. They were helpless here. Besides, they knew Boris had at least two men at his command; quite likely there were others. If they could escape from the cell the odds would still be against them. Bert voiced his thoughts.
"Let's sit down and think it out between us." Pete was more cheerful; all thoughts of Marian Persons seemed to have left his mind.
For many hours they talked without reaching a solution. Through it all they were conscious of a droning sound that told of the operation of a large motor or generator somewhere in the house. Eventually the monotonous sound had its effect; Pete dozed off, and Bert was not long in following suit.
* * *
There were ghastly dreams, a genuine nightmare, from which Bert wakened and sprang to his feet. In the first flash of returning consciousness he saw that the Martian with the scarred face was in the room. That was no dream; the fellow was stripped to the waist, and his smooth, bronze body gave unmistakable proof of his nativity.
Pete was already crouched, as if for a spring at the brute, fully awake and itching to mix things with him. But an ugly atomite pistol in the Martian's hand was waving him down. In his other hand, he of the scarred face held a small tray on which was a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. Their dinner.
Mechanically, Bert reached for the tray. Then, reckless of consequences, he grasped the handle of the pitcher and swung the heavy container against the Martian's wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor and in that instant Pete was upon their jailer. Bert closed the door to muffle the sounds of combat and sprang to the assistance of his friend.
But Pete Canfield needed no aid. With his terrific short-arm punches he already had his opponent gasping for breath. That awful scar purpled and swelled as the brute tried savagely to get in past Pete's flailing arms. Finally losing all caution, the Martian dived in with lowered head.
That was all Pete needed. A long punch that started near the floor brought up with a crunch on the point of the scarred one's jaw. He went down like a sack of meal and lay there in a twisted heap.
Bert cheered excitedly. Then, remembering the danger, lowered his voice. "We're in for it now, big boy," he whispered.
Pete examined his knuckles ruefully, then chortled with glee as he picked up the Martian's atomite pistol. "This'll help though," he gloated.
It gave Bert a feeling of comfort to see the weapon in Pete's capable hand.
"What to do now?" he asked.
Pete had started for the door but turned with a sudden thought. "Get his keys, Bert. May need them."
The Martian groaned.
"We're boneheads," muttered Bert. "We should have gagged him."
Strips torn from the Martian's trousers provided an effectual gag; a coil of wire they found in his pockets secured wrists and ankles. A bunch of keys clipped to his belt found their way into Bert's hands.
Opening the door cautiously, Pete peered through the crack and pronounced the coast clear. They went out into the main basement and Bert locked up their erstwhile jailer. Pete had the atomite pistol in readiness for use.
"Sh-h!" he whispered, cocking his ear. "What's that?"
Bert heard a faint moan from somewhere near at hand.
Pete muttered huskily, "It's old Daniels!"
The scientist, in a state of near-collapse, was chained by his wrists to an iron ring set high in a massive pillar.
(continue to part 3)
Happy birthday, Mr. President
Today marks the forty-eighth birthday of the President of the United States of America, Barack Hussein Obama II. The best birthday present our president could receive today would be if Orly Taitz, Queen Bee of Birferstan, were to appear at the White House and announce that her entire months-long legal crusade against him was simply an elaborate piece of Kaufmanesque performance art, followed by a Marilyn Monroe-style rendition of "Happy Birthday, Mr. President."
The second-best birthday present would be if the "Kenyan birth certificate" at the center of Gospazha Taitz' latest lawsuit were proved conclusively to be a forgery.
Happy birthday, Mr. President.
The second-best birthday present would be if the "Kenyan birth certificate" at the center of Gospazha Taitz' latest lawsuit were proved conclusively to be a forgery.
Happy birthday, Mr. President.
Monday, August 3, 2009
"The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, part 1
Seventy-five years ago this month, the September 1934 issue of Amazing Stories magazine rolled off the presses. Amazing had originally been bedsheet size when it first appeared in 1926, but circulation began to fall after the Great Depression began in 1929, and the publishers switched to the smaller, less prestigious pulp size with the October 1933 issue. The following month saw rival Wonder Stories switch from bedsheet to pulp size, and the upstart Astounding Stories had always been a pulp magazine.
The September 1934 issue of Amazing included a story called "The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, the pen name of mechanical engineer Harold Vincent Schoepflin. By 1934 Vincent was one of the grand old men of the field, having published close to fifty stories since his initial appearance in the June 1928 issue of Amazing. He would ultimately publish over seventy stories before ending his writing career in the 1940s.
"The Barrier" is the fifth Vincent story to be reprinted in full here at the Johnny Pez blog (in the usual blog-friendly multi-part format), part of our lonely effort to revive interest in this forgotten pioneer of the Gernsback Era of science fiction. Together with the six stories that can be found at Project Gutenberg, this brings to eleven the number of Vincent's public-domain stories available online, a far cry from the single story that was available a mere two years ago.
And now, without further ado, we present
The Barrier
by Harl Vincent
Dropping his aircab from the night traffic level and hovering over the place at dawn, Peyton could see nothing to justify the fears of his companion. It was just an ancient landmark, a rambling, frame mansion of the past century, hidden away and forgotten in the scrub oak woods, now covering this deserted section of Long Island.
"Sure this is it, Pete?" he asked his companion.
"Positive." Peter Canfield gripped the arms of his seat and peered anxiously through the floor port.
"Looks harmless enough. I think you've been dreaming."
"Would I waken you in the middle of the night to bring me out here if I wasn't sure? I tell you there's something wrong, Bert."
"Marian is down there?"
"Just as I told you. The government planted her boss here for some special research. Daniels, you know. Of course he brought her along."
Albert Peyton, prosaic advertising man and confirmed bachelor, could hardly work himself up over his friend's worries. Nor could he bring himself to believe the incredible tale Pete had brought to him in the small hours. "This wall of yours," he drawled. "I don't see it. How'd you say you came to find it?"
"I told you it's invisible," returned Pete wearily. "I didn't hear from Marian for a few days so tried to radiophone. There was no reply. Anxious about her, I came out in the speed boat -- my aircab's laid up, you know. Had a devil of a time getting inland on foot too. Then the wall held me back, so I went after you."
"What's it like, glass?"
"No-o. It's yielding, rubbery -- seems to be alive if you get what I mean. Pulsating, sort of. As invisible as the air."
"No surface reflections?"
"No, just nothing. I heaved a rock at the stuff and it bounced off without a sound. Was flung upward too."
* * *
"Hm-m." Bert strained his eyes but still could see no sign of unusual purport below. "It surrounds grounds and all, you say?"
"Positively. I'm scared stiff about it."
Pete looked scared. His usually bright gray eyes were dull and shadowed. His hands trembled and bleak lines were around his tight-lipped mouth. Bert knew of his feelings toward Marian Persons.
"What's your plan?" asked Bert. "We're here now."
"Drop inside this barrier. See? -- it's a wall and we'll land inside. Find out what's what."
"No one will be up yet. It's too early."
"So much the better. We'll surprise them."
Bert nosed the aircab down and headed in toward the clearing in back of the house. "This all right?" he asked. "Think we'll be within the limits of your wall?"
"You're okay; bring her down."
Try as Bert would he could see no evidence of the existence of a transparent wall; there was no slightest clouding of his vision. He still doubted.
Easing off the gravity repulsion energy he allowed the aircab to settle slowly. When a hundred feet from the clearing they were brought up short with a bump no heavier than an ordinary landing on solid ground. But the little cab bounded high, settled and bumped again, bouncing and careening as if on the surface of some yielding solid.
"Good Lord!" Pete groaned. "There's a roof, too."
It was true. The ship had come to rest; this roof supported it, though both of the men would have sworn that nothing but the fresh morning air separated them from the ground. The atomic motor died. They were helpless to rise from this incredible unseen support.
Then, without warning, they were falling. Whatever had stopped the aircab and held them from the ground had given way, or had been removed by unseen hands, and they were left to crash earthward. The little craft turned partly on its side and struck with terrible force.
Abruptly there was darkness, not the ordinary darkness of the night but absolute Stygian inkiness.
Dazed by the shock, Bert knew only hazily that Pete had crawled from the cab and was dragging himself out, asking if he was hurt, feeling his body in search of broken bones or other injuries.
"I'm blind! I'm blind!" Bert gasped, the conviction coming horribly to his returning senses.
Peter Canfield laughed crazily.
"Blind, hell!" he chattered. "The sun went out. I saw it through the trees, then it just faded away and died. A little after-glow, then . . . nothing."
Bert was sure Pete's mind had been unbalanced by the crash. Both of them were blind. Whoever or whatever had dropped them through that invisible roof had also blinded them by equally mysterious means. Of course the sun would go out, just as Pete had described it.
There was nothing before nor since like that awful darkness. It was utter absence of light; thick and stifling. At first the silence was as awful as the darkness. Eerie; a complete absence of sound. Were they deafened as well as blinded? A distinct gasp from Pete reassured Bert on that score; and they heard the ominous rustle of things creeping in the dark -- live creatures closing in on them stealthily.
(continue to part 2)
The September 1934 issue of Amazing included a story called "The Barrier" by Harl Vincent, the pen name of mechanical engineer Harold Vincent Schoepflin. By 1934 Vincent was one of the grand old men of the field, having published close to fifty stories since his initial appearance in the June 1928 issue of Amazing. He would ultimately publish over seventy stories before ending his writing career in the 1940s.
"The Barrier" is the fifth Vincent story to be reprinted in full here at the Johnny Pez blog (in the usual blog-friendly multi-part format), part of our lonely effort to revive interest in this forgotten pioneer of the Gernsback Era of science fiction. Together with the six stories that can be found at Project Gutenberg, this brings to eleven the number of Vincent's public-domain stories available online, a far cry from the single story that was available a mere two years ago.
And now, without further ado, we present
The Barrier
by Harl Vincent
Dropping his aircab from the night traffic level and hovering over the place at dawn, Peyton could see nothing to justify the fears of his companion. It was just an ancient landmark, a rambling, frame mansion of the past century, hidden away and forgotten in the scrub oak woods, now covering this deserted section of Long Island.
"Sure this is it, Pete?" he asked his companion.
"Positive." Peter Canfield gripped the arms of his seat and peered anxiously through the floor port.
"Looks harmless enough. I think you've been dreaming."
"Would I waken you in the middle of the night to bring me out here if I wasn't sure? I tell you there's something wrong, Bert."
"Marian is down there?"
"Just as I told you. The government planted her boss here for some special research. Daniels, you know. Of course he brought her along."
Albert Peyton, prosaic advertising man and confirmed bachelor, could hardly work himself up over his friend's worries. Nor could he bring himself to believe the incredible tale Pete had brought to him in the small hours. "This wall of yours," he drawled. "I don't see it. How'd you say you came to find it?"
"I told you it's invisible," returned Pete wearily. "I didn't hear from Marian for a few days so tried to radiophone. There was no reply. Anxious about her, I came out in the speed boat -- my aircab's laid up, you know. Had a devil of a time getting inland on foot too. Then the wall held me back, so I went after you."
"What's it like, glass?"
"No-o. It's yielding, rubbery -- seems to be alive if you get what I mean. Pulsating, sort of. As invisible as the air."
"No surface reflections?"
"No, just nothing. I heaved a rock at the stuff and it bounced off without a sound. Was flung upward too."
* * *
"Hm-m." Bert strained his eyes but still could see no sign of unusual purport below. "It surrounds grounds and all, you say?"
"Positively. I'm scared stiff about it."
Pete looked scared. His usually bright gray eyes were dull and shadowed. His hands trembled and bleak lines were around his tight-lipped mouth. Bert knew of his feelings toward Marian Persons.
"What's your plan?" asked Bert. "We're here now."
"Drop inside this barrier. See? -- it's a wall and we'll land inside. Find out what's what."
"No one will be up yet. It's too early."
"So much the better. We'll surprise them."
Bert nosed the aircab down and headed in toward the clearing in back of the house. "This all right?" he asked. "Think we'll be within the limits of your wall?"
"You're okay; bring her down."
Try as Bert would he could see no evidence of the existence of a transparent wall; there was no slightest clouding of his vision. He still doubted.
Easing off the gravity repulsion energy he allowed the aircab to settle slowly. When a hundred feet from the clearing they were brought up short with a bump no heavier than an ordinary landing on solid ground. But the little cab bounded high, settled and bumped again, bouncing and careening as if on the surface of some yielding solid.
"Good Lord!" Pete groaned. "There's a roof, too."
It was true. The ship had come to rest; this roof supported it, though both of the men would have sworn that nothing but the fresh morning air separated them from the ground. The atomic motor died. They were helpless to rise from this incredible unseen support.
Then, without warning, they were falling. Whatever had stopped the aircab and held them from the ground had given way, or had been removed by unseen hands, and they were left to crash earthward. The little craft turned partly on its side and struck with terrible force.
Abruptly there was darkness, not the ordinary darkness of the night but absolute Stygian inkiness.
Dazed by the shock, Bert knew only hazily that Pete had crawled from the cab and was dragging himself out, asking if he was hurt, feeling his body in search of broken bones or other injuries.
"I'm blind! I'm blind!" Bert gasped, the conviction coming horribly to his returning senses.
Peter Canfield laughed crazily.
"Blind, hell!" he chattered. "The sun went out. I saw it through the trees, then it just faded away and died. A little after-glow, then . . . nothing."
Bert was sure Pete's mind had been unbalanced by the crash. Both of them were blind. Whoever or whatever had dropped them through that invisible roof had also blinded them by equally mysterious means. Of course the sun would go out, just as Pete had described it.
There was nothing before nor since like that awful darkness. It was utter absence of light; thick and stifling. At first the silence was as awful as the darkness. Eerie; a complete absence of sound. Were they deafened as well as blinded? A distinct gasp from Pete reassured Bert on that score; and they heard the ominous rustle of things creeping in the dark -- live creatures closing in on them stealthily.
(continue to part 2)
Sunday, August 2, 2009
DBTL 24: Equal and Opposite
Rome, Italy
4 September 1945
General Galeazzo Ciano, Conte di Cortellazzo and son-in-law of Benito Mussolini, was rather alarmed by Ambassador Potocki's invitation. Although his role as Director of the Prometheus Project was not generally known (reasonably enough, given that the Project was the most closely guarded secret in Italy), Ciano had no doubt that the intelligence services of Europe's other great powers were aware of both the Project and his role in it. Ever since the Duce had used Italy's atomic bomb to convince the Yugoslavs to cede control of Slovenia, word must inevitably have traveled from Belgrade to the other capitals of Europe.
So: given that the other European governments knew of the existence of the Italian Bomb, and hence of the Project, and hence of his leadership thereof, it stood to reason that any foreign diplomat who wished to speak with him intended to discuss some aspect of Italy's new atomic-powered foreign policy.
Although he was no diplomat, General Ciano was well aware of the stir Italy's recent move into Slovenia had caused throughout Europe. Ciano could now understand his father-in-law's uncharacteristic caution in waiting five whole months after the Bomb's completion before making use of it.
And of course, an invitation from Count Jerzy Potocki, the Polish ambassador to Italy, was particularly alarming given the presence of Ciano's traitorous predecessor Enrico Fermi among the staff of Berlin's Maria Sklodowska Institute, which held the largest concentration (a critical mass, as Ciano thought of it) of physicists in Europe. Although the Italian government's own international spy network had been unable to find any evidence that the Sklodowska Institute formed the nucleus (as Ciano thought of it) of a Polish counterpart to the Prometheus Project, there was no doubt in the General's mind that Fermi was indeed the head of just such a rival project. The only question was how far the Fermi Project (as Ciano thought of it) had traveled on the road to atomic weapons. Most alarming of all was Ciano's feeling that he was about to find out.
The Polish Embassy was located within a large compound which duplicated the look and layout of a classical Roman villa. A stone wall with an elaborate iron gate surrounded the compound, and Ciano's staff car was obliged to pass through the gate and proceed slowly up a gravel drive to the entrance which graced the main building's otherwise blank exterior.
A hallway embellished with suitably classical statuary led to a large tastefully decorated room whose fourth wall consisted of a set of plate glass windows looking out onto a meticulously maintained garden. A fountain at the garden's center was lit with turquoise spotlights, whose illumination gave the room a submarine aspect.
Count Potocki greeted Ciano in fluent though heavily accented Italian. Ciano responded with appropriate pleasantries, and the conversation moved in due time to the reason for the Ambassador's invitation.
"I would like," Potocki said, "to present you with a demonstration. If you'll be so kind as to follow me?" He led Ciano into a much smaller room holding a conference table surrounded by chairs. A film projector sat at one end of the table, and a portable movie screen took up much of the wall opposite.
Potocki dimmed the lights and switched on the projector. "The tower you see here," he began, "is located within the Pripet Marshes, about a hundred kilometers east of Lublin."
"Lublin!" Ciano exclaimed. Of course! That was how the Poles had managed to conceal the existence of their atom bomb project! They had used their rocket project as a cover! Ciano was willing to wager that the odious Fermi had never come within five hundred kilometers of Lublin. He must have been in constant communication with the bomb project there nevertheless, and the Italians had never even suspected. Ciano looked at Potocki, illuminated by the backwash from the movie screen, with an astonishment that approached awe. "You magnificent bastard!"
Potocki accepted the comment with due modesty. "We try, General. As I was saying..." The Ambassador went on to narrate the rest of the film, which ended with a series of shots of felled trees all pointing away from a vast carbonized depression.
As he brought the lights back up, Potocki handed Ciano a document. "This contains the text of an agreement admitting Yugoslavia to the Warsaw Pact, as well as a request from the Polish government that the Italian troops currently stationed in Slovenia be withdrawn by the tenth of this month, at no later than 9 AM Warsaw time."
Ciano departed the Polish Embassy with a heavy heart. His father-in-law, he knew, would be quite displeased.
Rome, Italy
5 September 1945
"It vexes me," Benito Mussolini muttered. "I'm terribly vexed."
General Galeazzo Ciano remained silent while his father-in-law stared down at the Polish ultimatum which sat so innocuously on his desk. "First Ethiopia," the Duce continued, "and now this. As soon as I start to achieve success, it is snatched away from me." He looked up at Ciano. "Are you certain that this film Potocki showed you was genuine?"
The word set Ciano back. "Genuine?"
"Yes, genuine!" Mussolini barked. "Real! Not faked! Are you certain that what you saw was an actual atomic explosion, and not some trickery?"
Ciano was about to deny that the footage he had seen could possibly be faked, but then he remembered attending the Italian premiere of To Sail Beyond the Sunset the week before. The atomic blasts in that film had been eerily similar to film footage of the test explosions at Murzuq. At the time, Ciano had wondered if Jack Warner had somehow managed to smuggle a print of the Murzuq tests to Hollywood. Now he wondered if the Polish government could somehow duplicate the film's astonishing special effects.
"It looked genuine," Ciano finally answered, "but of course that is no proof that it was genuine."
Mussolini scowled. There were few men who could watch Il Duce scowl at them and not quail, and Ciano was not one of those men. He felt his knees starting to give way, and only the knowledge that such a display would end his career (and possibly his life) allowed him to stiffen himself to attention.
Mussolini finally exploded with an oath as vile and destructive as an atomic blast. "I can't take the risk, damn it to Hell! Of course the Polacks are bluffing! They have to be bluffing! Even with that dog Fermi helping them, they couldn't possibly have built their own atom bomb from nothing in only three years! But I can't take the risk! If I called their bluff and I was wrong, Mary Mother of God, if I was wrong, Rome would be gone, twenty-five centuries of history reduced to a smoking hole in the ground and I CAN'T TAKE THE RISK!" Mussolini was pounding on his desk, tears streaming from his eyes. "Get out! Get out, God damn it! Get out!"
As General Ciano fled from his father-in-law, he knew that neither Italy nor Mussolini would ever be the same again.
Rome, Italy
5 September 1945
As General Galeazzo Ciano stormed into his office, a worried-looking aide shuffled up to him. "Sir," said the aide, "the French ambassador has invited you to a meeting at his embassy tonight." After an awkward pause, he added, "And the British embassy is on line one."
Ciano spoke a single unprintable word and slammed to door to his office behind him.
4 September 1945
General Galeazzo Ciano, Conte di Cortellazzo and son-in-law of Benito Mussolini, was rather alarmed by Ambassador Potocki's invitation. Although his role as Director of the Prometheus Project was not generally known (reasonably enough, given that the Project was the most closely guarded secret in Italy), Ciano had no doubt that the intelligence services of Europe's other great powers were aware of both the Project and his role in it. Ever since the Duce had used Italy's atomic bomb to convince the Yugoslavs to cede control of Slovenia, word must inevitably have traveled from Belgrade to the other capitals of Europe.
So: given that the other European governments knew of the existence of the Italian Bomb, and hence of the Project, and hence of his leadership thereof, it stood to reason that any foreign diplomat who wished to speak with him intended to discuss some aspect of Italy's new atomic-powered foreign policy.
Although he was no diplomat, General Ciano was well aware of the stir Italy's recent move into Slovenia had caused throughout Europe. Ciano could now understand his father-in-law's uncharacteristic caution in waiting five whole months after the Bomb's completion before making use of it.
And of course, an invitation from Count Jerzy Potocki, the Polish ambassador to Italy, was particularly alarming given the presence of Ciano's traitorous predecessor Enrico Fermi among the staff of Berlin's Maria Sklodowska Institute, which held the largest concentration (a critical mass, as Ciano thought of it) of physicists in Europe. Although the Italian government's own international spy network had been unable to find any evidence that the Sklodowska Institute formed the nucleus (as Ciano thought of it) of a Polish counterpart to the Prometheus Project, there was no doubt in the General's mind that Fermi was indeed the head of just such a rival project. The only question was how far the Fermi Project (as Ciano thought of it) had traveled on the road to atomic weapons. Most alarming of all was Ciano's feeling that he was about to find out.
The Polish Embassy was located within a large compound which duplicated the look and layout of a classical Roman villa. A stone wall with an elaborate iron gate surrounded the compound, and Ciano's staff car was obliged to pass through the gate and proceed slowly up a gravel drive to the entrance which graced the main building's otherwise blank exterior.
A hallway embellished with suitably classical statuary led to a large tastefully decorated room whose fourth wall consisted of a set of plate glass windows looking out onto a meticulously maintained garden. A fountain at the garden's center was lit with turquoise spotlights, whose illumination gave the room a submarine aspect.
Count Potocki greeted Ciano in fluent though heavily accented Italian. Ciano responded with appropriate pleasantries, and the conversation moved in due time to the reason for the Ambassador's invitation.
"I would like," Potocki said, "to present you with a demonstration. If you'll be so kind as to follow me?" He led Ciano into a much smaller room holding a conference table surrounded by chairs. A film projector sat at one end of the table, and a portable movie screen took up much of the wall opposite.
Potocki dimmed the lights and switched on the projector. "The tower you see here," he began, "is located within the Pripet Marshes, about a hundred kilometers east of Lublin."
"Lublin!" Ciano exclaimed. Of course! That was how the Poles had managed to conceal the existence of their atom bomb project! They had used their rocket project as a cover! Ciano was willing to wager that the odious Fermi had never come within five hundred kilometers of Lublin. He must have been in constant communication with the bomb project there nevertheless, and the Italians had never even suspected. Ciano looked at Potocki, illuminated by the backwash from the movie screen, with an astonishment that approached awe. "You magnificent bastard!"
Potocki accepted the comment with due modesty. "We try, General. As I was saying..." The Ambassador went on to narrate the rest of the film, which ended with a series of shots of felled trees all pointing away from a vast carbonized depression.
As he brought the lights back up, Potocki handed Ciano a document. "This contains the text of an agreement admitting Yugoslavia to the Warsaw Pact, as well as a request from the Polish government that the Italian troops currently stationed in Slovenia be withdrawn by the tenth of this month, at no later than 9 AM Warsaw time."
Ciano departed the Polish Embassy with a heavy heart. His father-in-law, he knew, would be quite displeased.
Rome, Italy
5 September 1945
"It vexes me," Benito Mussolini muttered. "I'm terribly vexed."
General Galeazzo Ciano remained silent while his father-in-law stared down at the Polish ultimatum which sat so innocuously on his desk. "First Ethiopia," the Duce continued, "and now this. As soon as I start to achieve success, it is snatched away from me." He looked up at Ciano. "Are you certain that this film Potocki showed you was genuine?"
The word set Ciano back. "Genuine?"
"Yes, genuine!" Mussolini barked. "Real! Not faked! Are you certain that what you saw was an actual atomic explosion, and not some trickery?"
Ciano was about to deny that the footage he had seen could possibly be faked, but then he remembered attending the Italian premiere of To Sail Beyond the Sunset the week before. The atomic blasts in that film had been eerily similar to film footage of the test explosions at Murzuq. At the time, Ciano had wondered if Jack Warner had somehow managed to smuggle a print of the Murzuq tests to Hollywood. Now he wondered if the Polish government could somehow duplicate the film's astonishing special effects.
"It looked genuine," Ciano finally answered, "but of course that is no proof that it was genuine."
Mussolini scowled. There were few men who could watch Il Duce scowl at them and not quail, and Ciano was not one of those men. He felt his knees starting to give way, and only the knowledge that such a display would end his career (and possibly his life) allowed him to stiffen himself to attention.
Mussolini finally exploded with an oath as vile and destructive as an atomic blast. "I can't take the risk, damn it to Hell! Of course the Polacks are bluffing! They have to be bluffing! Even with that dog Fermi helping them, they couldn't possibly have built their own atom bomb from nothing in only three years! But I can't take the risk! If I called their bluff and I was wrong, Mary Mother of God, if I was wrong, Rome would be gone, twenty-five centuries of history reduced to a smoking hole in the ground and I CAN'T TAKE THE RISK!" Mussolini was pounding on his desk, tears streaming from his eyes. "Get out! Get out, God damn it! Get out!"
As General Ciano fled from his father-in-law, he knew that neither Italy nor Mussolini would ever be the same again.
Rome, Italy
5 September 1945
As General Galeazzo Ciano stormed into his office, a worried-looking aide shuffled up to him. "Sir," said the aide, "the French ambassador has invited you to a meeting at his embassy tonight." After an awkward pause, he added, "And the British embassy is on line one."
Ciano spoke a single unprintable word and slammed to door to his office behind him.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Putting up with "Too Many Boards"
Harl Vincent's "Too Many Boards," from the April 1931 issue of Amazing Stories magazine, seems at first glance to be your standard cautionary tale about the perils of Big Government. Corporate CEO Larry Conover's troubles with the countless boards in his life sounds superficially like a satire of the New Deal with its alphabet soup of government agencies. Except, of course, that "Too Many Boards" was published two years before the start of the New Deal, when the laissez faire economic policies of the Harding-Coolidge-Hoover triumvirate were still in place.
Furthermore, as the story progresses, we find out that Conover's troubles with the Board of Eugenics are caused, not by the government, but by a private individual: a wealthy investor named John X. Mills who owns a controlling interest in Conover's company. Mills, it turns out, has been manipulating the supposedly incorruptable Board of Eugenics to ensure that his ward, Alta Farrish, marries Conover; meanwhile, Mills has used fraud to convince Farrish that she would remain his ward until she married. Thus, "Too Many Boards" actually proves to be a warning about the corrosive effect of money on the institutions of government. Ambassador Nordstrum, the only character in the story who actually works for the government, proves to be an honest and honorable man. And Larry Conover may fret about the power of the boards, but he admits that the world they regulate is a pleasant one, and when he is given a chance to escape their influence on Mercury, he finally decides he prefers to live in his well-regulated Utopia.
By far the most interesting character in "Too Many Boards" is Chick Davis, the captain of the interplanetary cruise liner Rocket III. Davis, we learn, has evaded the Tri-planetary Alliance's ban on travel to Mercury, has learned the Mercurian language, and has even earned the respect of its ruler. When Conover seeks out Davis's help, the captain is eager to provide it, regardless of the fact that doing so involves breaking countless laws and resorting to subterfuge. Chick Davis, in short, is a distant ancestor of James T. Kirk, Han Solo, and every other daring spaceship captain to be found in science fiction.
Furthermore, as the story progresses, we find out that Conover's troubles with the Board of Eugenics are caused, not by the government, but by a private individual: a wealthy investor named John X. Mills who owns a controlling interest in Conover's company. Mills, it turns out, has been manipulating the supposedly incorruptable Board of Eugenics to ensure that his ward, Alta Farrish, marries Conover; meanwhile, Mills has used fraud to convince Farrish that she would remain his ward until she married. Thus, "Too Many Boards" actually proves to be a warning about the corrosive effect of money on the institutions of government. Ambassador Nordstrum, the only character in the story who actually works for the government, proves to be an honest and honorable man. And Larry Conover may fret about the power of the boards, but he admits that the world they regulate is a pleasant one, and when he is given a chance to escape their influence on Mercury, he finally decides he prefers to live in his well-regulated Utopia.
By far the most interesting character in "Too Many Boards" is Chick Davis, the captain of the interplanetary cruise liner Rocket III. Davis, we learn, has evaded the Tri-planetary Alliance's ban on travel to Mercury, has learned the Mercurian language, and has even earned the respect of its ruler. When Conover seeks out Davis's help, the captain is eager to provide it, regardless of the fact that doing so involves breaking countless laws and resorting to subterfuge. Chick Davis, in short, is a distant ancestor of James T. Kirk, Han Solo, and every other daring spaceship captain to be found in science fiction.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
DBTL 23: Show and Tell
Belgrade, Serbian Devo, Kingdom of Yugoslavia
16 August 1945
Ivan Mestrovic, sometime sculptor and current Prime Minister of Yugoslavia, was rather puzzled by Benito Mussolini's invitation. For one thing, Mussolini and his delegation had been given quarters in the royal palace, yet the invitation had been issued by the Italian Embassy. For another, since Mussolini was a guest of the Yugoslav government, he ought to be receiving invitations rather than giving them. For a third, the invitation was quite vague, stating only that Mussolini wished to discuss "matters of mutual interest".
So it was that Mestrovic found himself transported to the Italian Embassy to meet a man who should have been at the royal palace, but wasn't. As he walked through the iron gate into the grounds of the Embassy, Mestrovic's unease was profound. There was something going on, and Mestrovic was already certain that when he found out what it was, he wasn't going to like it. When an iron gate slams shut behind you, it's natural to feel a bit spooked. Mestrovic felt like he was entering a prison to serve a capital sentence.
Mestrovic's first sight of Mussolini was even more disquieting. Ever since the Ethiopian fiasco of five years before, Mussolini had taken to wearing civilian clothing in public. He had in fact been wearing a smartly tailored suit and a bowler hat (which had been removed and passed to an aide of course) during his reception with King Alexander the day before.
Here in the sanctum of the Italian Embassy, Mussolini was decked out in his Fascist uniform. The Duce was smiling, but it was not the sort of smile to inspire confidence.
"Signore Mestovic," Mussolini said effusively, "it pleases me beyond measure to meet with you tonight. This will be an evening, I am sure, which will be long remembered by both our nations."
"If I may be so bold, Signore Mussolini," Mestrovic replied in fluent Italian, "what is it that you wish to discuss with me? Your invitation was, if you will pardon my saying so, most unspecific."
"The time for discussions will come soon enough," said Mussolini. "First, I would like to present you with a demonstration. The Kingdom of Italy has recently succeeded in advancing the frontiers of science, and I wish for you to be the first to learn of our new triumph." So saying, the Duce led Mestrovic into an otherwise empty room containing several chairs, a portable movie screen, and a film projector. After dimming the lights, Mussolini pushed a switch on the projector, and a beam of light sprang up to project images on the screen.
"What you see before you," Mussolini narrated, "is a thirty-meter tower which was constructed near the Murzuq oasis in Tripolitania last March. That object you see being hoisted to the top contains several kilograms of a mineral known to scientists as uranium two-thirty-five. Now, this next scene was filmed several hours later, after night had fallen. The camera which filmed it was located two miles distant, behind a thick sheet of leaded glass." Mussolini fell silent while the film continued to roll. The projection room had become dark after the film switched to the evening scene. Now it quickly grew light again.
Mussolini resumed his narration. "I remind you that the camera was two miles distant. The scientists who monitored this . . . event . . . tell me that an amount of energy equal to the ignition of twenty thousand tons of TNT was released in less than a second. Now we move ahead to the following morning. As you can see, the hill upon which the tower was built is now a large depression. You can't tell from the black-and-white film, but that glass is said to have a distinctly greenish tinge to it." The screen became white as the film ran out. Mestrovic watched the film spin around and around on the takeup reel while Mussolini walked over to the wall and brought the lights back up.
Returning to the projector, Mussolini began to fiddle with the film. The projector was soon whirring as the film was rewound, and Mussolini was saying, "For some time now, I have been concerned about the growing chaos within Yugoslavia's Slovenian Devo." Mestrovic was about to ask, what chaos?, but the Duce continued. "It is naturally a matter of great interest to the Kingdom of Italy to have such instability taking place within a region with which we share a border. King Victor Emmanuel and I feel that it would be in the best interests of both our nations if these disturbances were put down, and to that end, I am here to offer the services of the Italian Army to aid you in your efforts to restore order in Slovenia."
The whirring ended as the film was restored to its original reel. Mussolini continued to speak in a distracted way as he rethreaded the film through the projector. "I believe that two divisions of Italian troops stationed in Ljubljana ought, for the time being, to be sufficient to help you to maintain control in Slovenia. Though of course, that could change depending on the course of events there."
Straightening up, Mussolini said, "Now then, do we have an agreement? Or would you like me to show you the film again?"
16 August 1945
Ivan Mestrovic, sometime sculptor and current Prime Minister of Yugoslavia, was rather puzzled by Benito Mussolini's invitation. For one thing, Mussolini and his delegation had been given quarters in the royal palace, yet the invitation had been issued by the Italian Embassy. For another, since Mussolini was a guest of the Yugoslav government, he ought to be receiving invitations rather than giving them. For a third, the invitation was quite vague, stating only that Mussolini wished to discuss "matters of mutual interest".
So it was that Mestrovic found himself transported to the Italian Embassy to meet a man who should have been at the royal palace, but wasn't. As he walked through the iron gate into the grounds of the Embassy, Mestrovic's unease was profound. There was something going on, and Mestrovic was already certain that when he found out what it was, he wasn't going to like it. When an iron gate slams shut behind you, it's natural to feel a bit spooked. Mestrovic felt like he was entering a prison to serve a capital sentence.
Mestrovic's first sight of Mussolini was even more disquieting. Ever since the Ethiopian fiasco of five years before, Mussolini had taken to wearing civilian clothing in public. He had in fact been wearing a smartly tailored suit and a bowler hat (which had been removed and passed to an aide of course) during his reception with King Alexander the day before.
Here in the sanctum of the Italian Embassy, Mussolini was decked out in his Fascist uniform. The Duce was smiling, but it was not the sort of smile to inspire confidence.
"Signore Mestovic," Mussolini said effusively, "it pleases me beyond measure to meet with you tonight. This will be an evening, I am sure, which will be long remembered by both our nations."
"If I may be so bold, Signore Mussolini," Mestrovic replied in fluent Italian, "what is it that you wish to discuss with me? Your invitation was, if you will pardon my saying so, most unspecific."
"The time for discussions will come soon enough," said Mussolini. "First, I would like to present you with a demonstration. The Kingdom of Italy has recently succeeded in advancing the frontiers of science, and I wish for you to be the first to learn of our new triumph." So saying, the Duce led Mestrovic into an otherwise empty room containing several chairs, a portable movie screen, and a film projector. After dimming the lights, Mussolini pushed a switch on the projector, and a beam of light sprang up to project images on the screen.
"What you see before you," Mussolini narrated, "is a thirty-meter tower which was constructed near the Murzuq oasis in Tripolitania last March. That object you see being hoisted to the top contains several kilograms of a mineral known to scientists as uranium two-thirty-five. Now, this next scene was filmed several hours later, after night had fallen. The camera which filmed it was located two miles distant, behind a thick sheet of leaded glass." Mussolini fell silent while the film continued to roll. The projection room had become dark after the film switched to the evening scene. Now it quickly grew light again.
Mussolini resumed his narration. "I remind you that the camera was two miles distant. The scientists who monitored this . . . event . . . tell me that an amount of energy equal to the ignition of twenty thousand tons of TNT was released in less than a second. Now we move ahead to the following morning. As you can see, the hill upon which the tower was built is now a large depression. You can't tell from the black-and-white film, but that glass is said to have a distinctly greenish tinge to it." The screen became white as the film ran out. Mestrovic watched the film spin around and around on the takeup reel while Mussolini walked over to the wall and brought the lights back up.
Returning to the projector, Mussolini began to fiddle with the film. The projector was soon whirring as the film was rewound, and Mussolini was saying, "For some time now, I have been concerned about the growing chaos within Yugoslavia's Slovenian Devo." Mestrovic was about to ask, what chaos?, but the Duce continued. "It is naturally a matter of great interest to the Kingdom of Italy to have such instability taking place within a region with which we share a border. King Victor Emmanuel and I feel that it would be in the best interests of both our nations if these disturbances were put down, and to that end, I am here to offer the services of the Italian Army to aid you in your efforts to restore order in Slovenia."
The whirring ended as the film was restored to its original reel. Mussolini continued to speak in a distracted way as he rethreaded the film through the projector. "I believe that two divisions of Italian troops stationed in Ljubljana ought, for the time being, to be sufficient to help you to maintain control in Slovenia. Though of course, that could change depending on the course of events there."
Straightening up, Mussolini said, "Now then, do we have an agreement? Or would you like me to show you the film again?"
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Writings of Charles R. Tanner
Charles R. Tanner (1896 - 1974) is one of the forgotten pioneers of the Gernsback Era of science fiction. His first published story, "The Color of Space", appeared in the March 1930 issue of Hugo Gernsback's Science Wonder Stories, and he went on to publish 15 more stories over the next 23 years. He is, however, not quite as forgotten as his contemporary Harl Vincent. "The Color of Space", for instance, was reprinted in Perry Rhodan #21: The Cosmic Decoy, and the first two stories of his hero Tumithak of the Corridors were reprinted in Isaac Asimov's anthology Before the Golden Age.
Furthermore, a website dedicated to Tanner, The Writings of Charles R. Tanner, can be found at http://www.charlesrtanner.com/. Here one can find complete online versions of the sixteen stories that appeared in his lifetime, as well as a seventeenth story, "Tumithak and the Ancient Word", that finally appeared in the collection Tumithak of the Corridors in 2005. There is also an online version of Tanner's 1968 poetic tribute to Edgar Rice Burroughs' The Princess of Mars, and an autobiographical sketch that accompanied his story "The Stillwell Degravitator" in the February 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.
One day, I believe, a Google search of the internet will turn up a similar website dedicated to Harl Vincent. There may even come a day when Vincent's stories will appear in a collection, or even a series of collections, and so be preserved between the covers of one or more books. When I type out one of Vincent's stories on this blog, it's with the aim of bringing those days closer.
Furthermore, a website dedicated to Tanner, The Writings of Charles R. Tanner, can be found at http://www.charlesrtanner.com/. Here one can find complete online versions of the sixteen stories that appeared in his lifetime, as well as a seventeenth story, "Tumithak and the Ancient Word", that finally appeared in the collection Tumithak of the Corridors in 2005. There is also an online version of Tanner's 1968 poetic tribute to Edgar Rice Burroughs' The Princess of Mars, and an autobiographical sketch that accompanied his story "The Stillwell Degravitator" in the February 1941 issue of Amazing Stories.
One day, I believe, a Google search of the internet will turn up a similar website dedicated to Harl Vincent. There may even come a day when Vincent's stories will appear in a collection, or even a series of collections, and so be preserved between the covers of one or more books. When I type out one of Vincent's stories on this blog, it's with the aim of bringing those days closer.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The song remains the same
From TMP comes word that Arkansas Republican senate candidate Curtis Reynolds is worried about Barack Obama. "We need someone to stand up to Barack Obama and his policies," says Reynolds. "We must protect our culture, our Christian identity."
Christian identity. Now there's a phrase that rings a bell. Where have I heard it before?
Oh yeah, that's where.
Christian identity. Now there's a phrase that rings a bell. Where have I heard it before?
Oh yeah, that's where.
Too big II: Electric Boogaloo
Radley Balko responds to my response:
At any rate, your original post didn't deal with the question of which functions of government were legitimate -- it dealt, very simply, with how big and expensive government was. Which leads us to the point I was making: if you think that an arbitrarily large government is too large, that means that small government is better than big government, which means that less government is better than more government, which means that government is bad.
So that, in short, is my response: you're asking the wrong question. The question you should be asking liberals is "What functions of government do you define as illegitimate?"
...and another unserious one.Unserious would be me making fun of your name. You'll notice I didn't do that.
First, I’m not part of “The Right.”And yet, you share the Right's obsession with Big Government.
Second, I do believe in a basic set of night watchman and public goods responsibilities to be legitimate functions of government.But only those functions are legitimate. Why only those functions? Is there a libertarian Grand Unified Theory of Legitimate Functions of Government? Am I correct in assuming that government becomes bad when it steps outside of those specific functions?
At any rate, your original post didn't deal with the question of which functions of government were legitimate -- it dealt, very simply, with how big and expensive government was. Which leads us to the point I was making: if you think that an arbitrarily large government is too large, that means that small government is better than big government, which means that less government is better than more government, which means that government is bad.
Third, I didn’t argue that all government is inherently bad.But that's the fundamental assumption underlying libertarianism. See above.
I asked for liberals to define an upper limit on how much government is too much, using some fairly common metrics. Presumably, most leftists want more government than we have now. And presumably, most leftists would stop well short of advocating a totalitarian or Soviet-style communist state. I’m asking them to give a rough estimate of where they’d place their boundaries.Which brings us to the core of my response: you can't use numbers to arbitrarily define how much government is too much. You state that some functions of government are legitimate and some are not, but then you ask liberals to define "too much government" in terms of numbers rather than functions.
So that, in short, is my response: you're asking the wrong question. The question you should be asking liberals is "What functions of government do you define as illegitimate?"
Finally, what exactly does “all the things people want to pay for” mean? Anything anyone wants at any time, government should pay for? Anything a majority of voters want? Anything a majority of the Congress wants?Functionally, it means anything a majority of Congress plus the president wants, or else anything a two-thirds supermajority of Congress wants. Subject to a later determination of constitutionality by a majority of the Supreme Court.
If a majority of Congress or a majority of voters decided tomorrow that the federal government should buy everyone in the country a free ice cream cone each Tuesday, would that be an appropriate reason to raise taxes?Sure. The function of government is to allocate scarce resources. If, to use your deliberately silly example, the elected representatives of the people decide that our precious national ice cream reserves ought to be allocated via weekly free ice cream cones, then taxes are the logical way to to fund that allocation (unless you're a Republican, in which case borrowing money from Red China is the logical way to fund it).
Thursday, July 23, 2009
How big is too big?
Radley Balko asks "lefty" bloggers ("lefty" being a term that includes everyone from Max Baucus to Che Guevara) how much government is too much.
The problem with Balko's question is that the underlying premise is false. As a libertarian, Balko accepts the idea expressed by Ronald Reagan that "government is the problem". Therefore, all government is bad, and therefore, government is always too big, and too expensive.
The Right's obsession with "big government" is a red herring, and always has been. The choice is, and always has been, between good government and bad government. As a libertarian, Balko believes that "good government" is a contradiction in terms, so he's reduced to arguing that since government is inherently bad, less government is better than more government.
If you reject Balko's unstated premise that government is always bad, then the answer to his question is pretty simple. Government should be big enough to do all the things the people want it to do, but no bigger. Taxes should be high enough to pay for all the things people want to pay for, but no higher.
Next question, please?
The problem with Balko's question is that the underlying premise is false. As a libertarian, Balko accepts the idea expressed by Ronald Reagan that "government is the problem". Therefore, all government is bad, and therefore, government is always too big, and too expensive.
The Right's obsession with "big government" is a red herring, and always has been. The choice is, and always has been, between good government and bad government. As a libertarian, Balko believes that "good government" is a contradiction in terms, so he's reduced to arguing that since government is inherently bad, less government is better than more government.
If you reject Balko's unstated premise that government is always bad, then the answer to his question is pretty simple. Government should be big enough to do all the things the people want it to do, but no bigger. Taxes should be high enough to pay for all the things people want to pay for, but no higher.
Next question, please?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
"Wanderer of Infinity" by Harl Vincent
We here at the Johnny Pez blog continue our lonely but determined effort to revive interest in Harl Vincent, one of the forgotten pioneers of the Gernsback Era of science fiction. Vincent, the pen name of mechanical engineer Harold Vincent Schoepflin (1893 - 1968), published over seventy science fiction stories in the pulp magazines between 1928 and 1942. Only a handful have ever been reprinted in anthologies.
One of that handful was "Wanderer of Infinity", first published in the March 1933 issue Astounding Stories magazine. The story reappeared eight years after Vincent's death in an anthology of pulp fiction called The Pulps: Fifty Years of American Pop Culture, edited by Tony Goodstone. Now, thanks to the good people at Project Gutenberg, "Wanderer of Infinity" can be found online here.
"Wanderer of Infinity" bears an uncanny resemblance to the British science fiction series Doctor Who. The Wanderer is an alien who travels between the dimensions alone in his interdimensional timeship. The last of his race, the Wanderer has dedicated his life to helping preserve other races threatened by interdimensional conquest. When Earth is threatened by a spider-like race called the Bardeks, the Wanderer recruits a human named Bert Redmond to help him save the world.
Published 30 years before Doctor Who premiered on the BBC, "Wanderer of Infinity" is proof that any science fictional idea you care to mention can be found in the pulps of the Gernsback Era.
One of that handful was "Wanderer of Infinity", first published in the March 1933 issue Astounding Stories magazine. The story reappeared eight years after Vincent's death in an anthology of pulp fiction called The Pulps: Fifty Years of American Pop Culture, edited by Tony Goodstone. Now, thanks to the good people at Project Gutenberg, "Wanderer of Infinity" can be found online here.
"Wanderer of Infinity" bears an uncanny resemblance to the British science fiction series Doctor Who. The Wanderer is an alien who travels between the dimensions alone in his interdimensional timeship. The last of his race, the Wanderer has dedicated his life to helping preserve other races threatened by interdimensional conquest. When Earth is threatened by a spider-like race called the Bardeks, the Wanderer recruits a human named Bert Redmond to help him save the world.
Published 30 years before Doctor Who premiered on the BBC, "Wanderer of Infinity" is proof that any science fictional idea you care to mention can be found in the pulps of the Gernsback Era.
Monday, July 20, 2009
"Vulcan's Workshop" by Harl Vincent
From Project Gutenberg comes another story by Harl Vincent, a forgotten pioneer of science fiction. "Vulcan's Workshop" appeared in the June 1932 issue of Astounding Stories magazine, and it has never been reprinted until being uploaded to Project Gutenberg on July 5, 2009.
The Vulcan of "Vulcan's Workshop" is a planet, but not Gene Roddenberry's planet Vulcan. Its origins date back to the mid-nineteenth century, and the orbital calculations of a French mathematical astronomer. Urbain Jean Jospeh Le Verrier (1811 - 1877) specialized in the tedious calculations involved in celestial mechanics -- working out the orbits of bodies in space. In 1846, his calculations of the orbit of Uranus, which was the outermost planet known at the time, showed certain periodic anomolies, which he interpreted as evidence that Uranus' orbit was being affected by a more distant, undiscovered planet. Within a month of Le Verrier's announcement, his calculations led to the discovery of this more distant planet, which was named Neptune. This discovery led to Le Verrier becoming the Big Scientist of his era, with all the intellectual heft that comes with such a position.
By 1859, Le Verrier had completed his calculations of the orbit of Mercury, and again they showed certain periodic anomolies. Again, Le Verrier decided that these anomolies were due to an undiscovered planet, this time one that orbited closer to the sun than Mercury. Le Verrier tentatively named this undiscovered planet Vulcan, and his standing as the Big Scientist of his time meant that other astronomers immediately began searching the skies near the sun for it. An amateur astronomer named Edmond Modeste Lescarbault announced that he had seen Le Verrier's Vulcan transiting the sun earlier that year, and Le Verrier used Lescarbault's data to calculate Vulcan's orbit. However, none of Le Verrier's predicted future transits of the sun by Vulcan were ever observed, and belief in Le Verrier's Vulcan waned. The final blow to the Vulcan hypothesis was delivered by Albert Einstein in 1915, when his General Theory of Relativity was able to explain Mercury's observed orbit without recourse to any undiscovered planets.
Old scientific ideas tend to persist, though, and some science fiction writers continued to set stories on Le Verrier's Vulcan. Vincent's "Vulcan's Workshop" specifically mentions Lescarbault's observation, and in the story, the planet Vulcan is finally discovered in the twenty-first century after interplanetary travel is established. Vincent's Vulcan orbits the sun at a distance of twenty million miles, and is tidally locked to the sun. Although its diameter is a little over 200 miles, Vulcan has a core of solid neutronium which gives it a surface gravity six times that of Earth. "Vulcan's Workshop" tells the story of Luke Fenton, a tough brawler from Earth who gets in trouble with the law on Mars, and who is sentenced by the Martian government to do hard time in a penal colony on Vulcan called Vulcan's Workshop. It's said that no man can escape from Vulcan's Workshop, but Luke Fenton is determined to try.
The Vulcan of "Vulcan's Workshop" is a planet, but not Gene Roddenberry's planet Vulcan. Its origins date back to the mid-nineteenth century, and the orbital calculations of a French mathematical astronomer. Urbain Jean Jospeh Le Verrier (1811 - 1877) specialized in the tedious calculations involved in celestial mechanics -- working out the orbits of bodies in space. In 1846, his calculations of the orbit of Uranus, which was the outermost planet known at the time, showed certain periodic anomolies, which he interpreted as evidence that Uranus' orbit was being affected by a more distant, undiscovered planet. Within a month of Le Verrier's announcement, his calculations led to the discovery of this more distant planet, which was named Neptune. This discovery led to Le Verrier becoming the Big Scientist of his era, with all the intellectual heft that comes with such a position.
By 1859, Le Verrier had completed his calculations of the orbit of Mercury, and again they showed certain periodic anomolies. Again, Le Verrier decided that these anomolies were due to an undiscovered planet, this time one that orbited closer to the sun than Mercury. Le Verrier tentatively named this undiscovered planet Vulcan, and his standing as the Big Scientist of his time meant that other astronomers immediately began searching the skies near the sun for it. An amateur astronomer named Edmond Modeste Lescarbault announced that he had seen Le Verrier's Vulcan transiting the sun earlier that year, and Le Verrier used Lescarbault's data to calculate Vulcan's orbit. However, none of Le Verrier's predicted future transits of the sun by Vulcan were ever observed, and belief in Le Verrier's Vulcan waned. The final blow to the Vulcan hypothesis was delivered by Albert Einstein in 1915, when his General Theory of Relativity was able to explain Mercury's observed orbit without recourse to any undiscovered planets.
Old scientific ideas tend to persist, though, and some science fiction writers continued to set stories on Le Verrier's Vulcan. Vincent's "Vulcan's Workshop" specifically mentions Lescarbault's observation, and in the story, the planet Vulcan is finally discovered in the twenty-first century after interplanetary travel is established. Vincent's Vulcan orbits the sun at a distance of twenty million miles, and is tidally locked to the sun. Although its diameter is a little over 200 miles, Vulcan has a core of solid neutronium which gives it a surface gravity six times that of Earth. "Vulcan's Workshop" tells the story of Luke Fenton, a tough brawler from Earth who gets in trouble with the law on Mars, and who is sentenced by the Martian government to do hard time in a penal colony on Vulcan called Vulcan's Workshop. It's said that no man can escape from Vulcan's Workshop, but Luke Fenton is determined to try.
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