Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (41 page)

Only after two hours of sweating toil had brought exhaustion did they stop, in the shelter of a cove where black waters circled, foam-flecked. There they found the Professor’s wife was dead.

Nothing remained to do but bury her. At first Thorburn would not hear of it. Like a madman he insisted that through all hazards he would fetch the body out. But no—impossible. So, after a terrible time, he yielded.

In spite of her grief, Vivian was admirable. She understood what must be done. It was her voice that said the prayers; her hand that—lacking flowers—laid the fir boughs on the cairn. The Professor was dazed past doing anything, saying anything.

Toward mid-afternoon, the party landed again, many miles up-river. Necessity forced them to eat. Fire would not burn. Every time they lighted it, it smouldered and went out with a heavy, greasy smoke. The fugitives ,:ate cold food and drank water, then shoved off in two canoes and once more fled.

In the third canoe, hauled to the edge of the forest, lay all the rock-specimens, data and curios, scientific instruments. The party kept only Marr’s diary, a compass, supplies, fire-arms and medicine-kit.

“We can find the things we’ve left—sometime,” said Jandron, noting the place well. “Sometime—after
It
has gone.”

“And bring the body out,” added Thorburn. Tears, for the first time, wet his eyes. Vivian said nothing. Marr tried to light his pipe. He seemed to forget that nothing, not even tobacco, would burn now.

Vivian and Jandron occupied one canoe. The other carried the Professor and Marr. Thus the power of the two canoes was about the same. They kept well together, up-stream.

The fugitives paddled and portaged with a dumb, desperate energy. Toward evening they struck into what they believed to be the Mamattawan. A mile up this, as the blurred sun faded beyond a wilderness of ominous silence, they camped. Here they made determined efforts to kindle fire. Not even alcohol from the drug-kit would start it. Cold, they mumbled a little food; cold, they huddled into their sleeping-bags, there to lie with darkness leaden on their fear. After a long time, up over a world void of all sound save the river-flow, slid an amber moon notched by the ragged tops of the conifers. Even the wail of a titnberwolf would have come as a welcome relief; but no wolf howled.

Silence and night enfolded them. And everywhere they felt that
It was
watching.

Foolishly enough, as a man will do foolish things in a crisis, Jandron laid his revolver outside his sleeping-bag, in easy reach. His thought—blurred by a strange, drawing headache—was:

“If
It
touches Vivian, I’ll shoot!”

He realized the complete absurdity of trying to shoot a visitant from interstellar space; from the Fourth Dimension, maybe. But Jandron’s ideas seemed tangled. Nothing would come right. He lay there, absorbed in a kind of waking nightmare. Now and then, rising on an elbow, he hearkened; all in vain. Nothing so much as stirred.

His thought drifted to better days, when all had been health, sanity, optimism; when nothing except jealousy of Marr, as concerned Vivian, had troubled him. Days when the sizzle of the frying-pan over friendly coals had made friendly wilderness music; when the wind and the northern stars, the whirr of the reel, the whispering vortex of the paddle in clear water had all been things of joy. Yes, and when a certain happy moment had, through some word or look of the girl, seemed to promise his heart’s desire. But now—

“Damn it, I’ll save
her,
anyhow!” he swore with savage intensity, knowing all the while that what was to be, would be, unmitigatedly. Do ants, by any waving of antennae, stay the down-crushing foot of man?

Next morning, and the next, no sign of the Thing appeared. Hope revived that possibly It might have flitted eslewhere; back, perhaps, to outer space. Many were the miles the urging paddles spurned behind. The fugitives calculated that a week more would bring them to the railroad. Fire burned again. Hot food and drink helped, wonderfully. But where were the fish?

“Most extraordinary,” all at once said the Professor, at noonday camp. He had become quite rational again. “Do you realize, Jandron, we’ve seen no traces of life in some time?”

The geologist nodded. Only too clearly he had noted just that, but he had been keeping still about it.

“That’s so, too!” chimed in Marr, enjoying the smoke that some incomprehensible turn of events was letting him have. “Not a muskrat or beaver. Not even a squirrel or bird.”

“Not so much as a gnat or black fly!” the Professor added. Jandron suddenly realized that he would have welcomed even those.

That afternoon, Marr fell into a suddenly vile temper. He mumbled curses against the guides, the current, the portages, everything. The Professor seemed more cheerful. Vivian complained of an oppressive headache. Jandron gave her the last of the aspirin tablets; and as he gave them, took her hand in his.

“I’ll see
you
through, anyhow,” said he. “I don’t count, now. Nobody counts, only you!”

She gave him a long, silent look. He saw the sudden glint of tears in her eyes; felt the pressure of her hand, and knew they two had never been so near each other as in that moment under the shadow of the Unknown.

Next
day—or it may have been two days later, for none of them could be quite sure about the passage of time—they came to a deserted lumbercamp. Even more than two days might have passed; because now their bacon was all gone, and only coffee, tobacco, beef-cubes and pilot-bread remained. The lack of fish and game had cut alarmingly into the duffel-bag. That day—whatever day it may have been—all four of them suffered terribly from headache of an odd, ring-shaped kind, as if something circular were being pressed down about their heads. The Professor said it was the sun that made his head ache. Vivian laid it to the wind and the gleam of the swift water, while Marr claimed it was the heat. Jandron wondered at all this, inasmuch as he plainly saw that the river had almost stopped flowing, and the day had become still and overcast.

They dragged their canoes upon a rotting stage of fir-poles and explored the lumbercamp; a mournful place set back in an old “slash,” now partly overgrown with scrub poplar, maple and birch. The log buildings, covered with tar-paper partly torn from the pole roofs, were of the usual North Country type. Obviously the place had not been used for years. Even the landing stage where once logs had been rolled into the stream had sagged to decay.

“I don’t quite get the idea of this,” Marr exclaimed, “Where did the logs go to? Downstream, of course. But
that
would take ’em to Hudson Bay,” He pointed down the current.

“You’re entirely mistaken,” put in the Professor. “Any fool could see this river runs the other way. A log thrown in here would go down toward the St. Lawrence!”

“But then,” asked the girl, “why can’t we drift back to civilization?” The Professor retorted:

“Just what we
have
been doing, all along! Extraordinary, that I have to explain the obvious!” He walked away in a huff.

“I don’t know but he’s right, at that,” half admitted the journalist. “I’ve been thinking almost the same thing, myself, the past day or two—that is, ever since the sun shifted.”

“What do you mean, shifted?” from Jandron.

“You haven’t noticed it?”

“But there’s been no sun at all, for at least two days!”

“Hanged if I’ll waste time arguing with a lunatic!” Marr growled. He vouchsafed no explanation of what he meant by the sun’s having “shifted,” but wandered off, grumbling.

“What
are
we going to do?” the girl appealed to Jandron. The sight of her solemn, frightened eyes, of her palm-outward hands and (at last) her very feminine fear, constricted Jandron’s heart.

“We’re going through, you and I,” he answered simply. “We’ve got to save them from themselves, you and I have.”

Their hands met again, and for a moment held. Despite the dead calm, a fir-tip at the edge of the clearing suddenly flicked aside, shrivelled as if frozen. But neither of them saw it.

The fugitives, badly spent, established themselves in the “bar-room” or sleeping-shack of the camp. They wanted to feel a roof over them again, if only a broken one. The traces of men comforted them; a couple of broken peavies, a pair of snowshoes with the thongs all gnawed off, a cracked bit of mirror, a yellowed almanac dated 1899.

Jandron called the Professor’s attention to this almanac, but the Professor thrust it aside.

“What do I want of a Canadian census-report?” he demanded, and fell to counting the bunks, over and over again. The big bulge of his forehead, that housed the massive brain of him, was oozing sweat. Marr cursed what he claimed was sunshine through the holes in the roof, though Jandron could see none; claimed the sunshine made his head ache.

“But it’s not a bad place,” he added. “We can make a blaze in that fireplace and be comfy. I don’t like that window, though.”

“What window?” asked Jandron, “Where?”

Marr laughed, and ignored him. Jandron turned to Vivian, who had sunk down on the “deacon-seat” and was staring at the stove.

“Is
there a window here?” he demanded.

“Don’t ask me,” she whispered. “I—I don’t know.”

With a very thriving fear in his heart, Jandron peered at her a moment. He fell to muttering:

“I’m Wallace Jandron. Wallace Jandron, 37 Ware Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. I’m quite sane. And I’m going to stay so. I’m going to save her! I know perfectly well what I’m doing. And I’m sane. Quite, quite sane!”

After a time of confused and purposeless wrangling, they got a fire going and made coffee. This, and cube bouillon with hard-tack, helped considerably. The camp helped, too. A house, even a poor and broken one, is a wonderful barrier against a Thing from—Outside.

Presently darkness folded down. The men smoked, thankful that tobacco still held out. Vivian lay in a bunk that Jandron had piled with spruce-boughs for her, and seemed to sleep. The Professor fretted like a child, over the blisters his paddle had made upon his hands. Marr laughed, now and then; though what he may be laughing at was not apparent. Suddenly he broke out:

“After all, what should
It
want of us?”

“Our brains, of course,” the Professor answered, sharply.

“That lets Jandron out,” the journalist mocked.

“But,” added the professor, “I can’t imagine a Thing callously destroying human beings. And yet—”

He stopped short, with surging memories of his dead wife.

“What was it,” Jandron asked, “that destroyed all those people in Valladolid, Spain, that time so many of ’em died in a few minutes after having been touched by an invisible Something that left a slight red mark on each? The newspapers were full of it.”

“Piffle!” yawned Marr.

“I tell you,” insisted Jandron, “there are forms of life as superior to us as we are to ants. We can’t see ’em. No ant ever saw a man. And did any ant ever form the least conception of a man? These Things have left thousands of traces, all over the world. If I had my reference-books—

“Tell that to the marines!”

“Charles Fort, the greatest authority in the world on unexplained phenomena,” persisted Jandron, “gives innumerable cases of happenings that science can’t explain, in his
Book of the Damned.
He claims this earth was once a No-Man’s Land where all kinds of Things explored and colonized and fought for possession. And he says that now everybody’s warned off, except the Owners. I happen to remember a few sentences of his: ‘In the past, inhabitants of a host of worlds have dropped here, hopped here, wafted, sailed, flown, motored, walked here; have come singly, have come in enormous numbers; have visited for hunting, trading, mining. They have been unable to stay here, have made colonies here, have been lost here.’

“Poor fish, to believe that!” mocked the journalist, while the Professor blinked and rubbed his bulging forehead.

“I
do
believe it!” insisted Jandron. “The world is covered with relics of dead civilizations, that have mysteriously vanished, leaving nothing but their temples and monuments.”

“Rubbish!”

“How about Easter Island? How about all the gigantic works there and in a thousand other places—Peru, Yucatan and so on—Which certainly no primitive race ever built?”

“That’s thousands of years ago,” said Marr, “and I’m sleepy. For heaven’s sake, can it!”

“Oh, all right. But
how
explain things, then!”

“What the devil could one of those Things want of our brains?” suddenly put in the Professor, “After all, what?”

“Well, what do we want of lower forms of life? Sometimes food. Again, some product or other. Or just information. Maybe
It
is just experimenting with us, the way we poke an ant-hill. There’s always this to remember, that the human brain-tissue is the most highly organized form of matter in this world.”

“Yes,” admitted the Professor, “but what—?”

“It
might want brain-tissue for food, for experimental purposes, for lubricant—how do
I
know?”

Jandron fancied he was still explaining things; but all at once he found himself waking up in one of the bunks. He felt terribly cold, stiff, sore. A sift of snow lay here and there on the camp floor, where it had fallen through holes in the roof.

“Vivian!” he croaked hoarsely. “Thorburn! Marr!”

Nobody answered. There was nobody to answer, Jandron crawled with immense pain out of his bunk, and blinked round with bleary eyes. All of a sudden he saw the Professor, and gulped.

The Professor was lying stiff and straight in another bunk, on his back. His waxen face made a mask of horror. The open, staring eyes, with pupils immensely dilated, sent Jandron shuddering back. A livid ring marked the forehead, that now sagged inward as if empty.